Category: Volume 8 – Number 1 – September 1997

  • Selected Letters from Readers

     

     

    The following responses were submitted by PMC readers using regular e-mail or the PMC Reader’s Report form. Not all letters received are published, and published letters may have been edited.

     


    Editors’ Note

    As promised in the last issue, this instalment of Letters contains a selection from the electronic mail we received in response to our decision to begin publishing by subscription in Project Muse. A complete archive of these exchanges can be found at:

     

    http://www.iath.virginia.edu/lists_archive/pmc-jhup

     

    Because of the length and number of these messages we have grouped them into a separate section.

    Letters on other topics begin immediately below.

     


     

    PMC Reader’s Report on Michael Joyce’s “Twelve Blue” (PMC 7.3)

     

    What a happy, disturbing, confusing, challenging, delightful joy to discover Michael Joyce’s simply breathtaking story(ies) “Twelve Blue.” I’ve been drowning in his words for the last two days, gasping for breath.

     

    The potential and not the realization…the process and not the product. I am reminded of Michael Ondaatje’s astonishing poetry and poetic prose. This is bleeding edge writing, exciting and disconcerting.

     

    Where can I find more?!?

     

    These comments are from: Linda Wallace
    wallacel@is.dal.ca

     


     

    The Editors reply

     

    “Twelve Blue” was co-published by Postmodern Culture and Eastgate Systems. Both “Twelve Blue” and further information about Joyce’s work are available at Eastgate’s Web site.

     


     

    PMC Reader’s Report on Fredman, “How to Get Out of the Room That is the Book?” (PMC 6.3)

     

    I’m currently working on a PhD thesis on the novels of Paul Auster and always interested in collecting material in the shape of articles and intelligent criticism. Vol 6, no 3 of Postmodern Culturehad an article by Stephen Fredman entitled “How to Get Out of the Room That Is the Book?” I’ve been able to secure an abstract of this (a student of mine gave it to me); do I have any chance of getting the whole article? Thanks.

     

    These comments are from: Carl Springer
    fs5y246@public.uni-hamburg.de

     


     

    The Editors reply

     

    Text-only versions of all conventional articles, including Professor Fredman’s, are available at http://www.iath.virginia.edu/pmc/text-only/. This archive excludes hypertextual articles and media pieces that cannot be presented as plain text.

     


     

    PMC Reader’s Report: cyberspatial hypereality is a capitalist plot

     

    So I see the only remedy to this centuries-old disease to be the total sharing of information for free by those of us who see the light at the end of the tunnel as that belonging to the oncoming train called cyber-capitalism. This will keep the culture of the net pure for long enough until there are so many of us “doing it for free” that the snakey train of consumerism will derail. So will you please send me enough money for room and board while I dedicate my life to this setting-the-world-righteous cause? I will appreciate email with the details of where and when I can collect my share ASAP, as my rent is again due.

     

    Thank you,
    RIC ALLAN

     

    These comments are from: ric allan ricallan@loop.com

     


    Special Section: PMC and Project Muse


     

    Russell Potter, 3-25-97

     

    I wanted to comment on some of the issues in John Unsworth’s informative posting, and thank him for taking the time to lay out all these histories, and set up this list.

     

    The vagaries of academic journal publishing certainly exert their pressures in all kinds of frustrating ways, and the transition into on-line incarnations has not radically altered them. But I always thought of PMC as fundamentally different from other journals, in that its functional ephemerality (back in the days, at least, when it was retrieved by e-mail or ftp) represented at least a partial exception to the old habits of thinking of texts as things, as commodities, texts as substantial material entities.

     

    Now, marketed as “America’s oldest electronic journal” (a rather ghastly moniker, I think), PMC is a little commodity package much like other little commodity packages; it has, as it were, materialized. Access to it, like access to many other electronic scholarly resources, is a commodity restricted to paid users or institutions. The Aedificium, to echo a page from Eco, is once more locked, and with Benedictine conviction we are supposed to admit that, alas, it was written that it should be so.

     

    Ironies abound–among them the fact that I and other PMC contributors cannot access our own writings, to which we ostensibly retain copyright. We have lost the ability to control the dissemination even of our own work, lost the ability in fact to give it away for free, which was part of why I was always glad to have written for PMC. Those who search the web will no longer come up with our fish in their nets, unless they are fortunate enough to be in an institution that subscribes to Project MUSE. In a time when library budgets, and university budgets generally, are in a downward spiral, this simply means that PMC has gone from being available to almost any networked computer user to being available to a few thousand persons affiliated with well-heeled educational institutions.

     

    With regard to the half of PMC’s traffic that John notes come from the .com domain, I wonder how many of these users would really want to pay for individual access. And certainly the many students at public institutions, or at poorer institutions abroad, will not be able to pay up if their institutions themselves cannot.

     

    It’s certainly a sea-change from the ostenisbly “non-commercial” internet of pre-WWW days, and maybe harder to take for old sailors who remember when the information superhighway looked more like Route 66 with potholes than the freeway offramp at LAX.

     

    And, I think, there is a disturbing trend, where the vaunted techno-demotics of the information age (and yes, yes, it was problematic from the start) is rapidly being recolonized, where public electronic materials are being sealed off, pubic-domain e-texts are being scanned, marked, and then locked away behind commercial firewalls, and such things as are still “free” are largely demos and teasers for what is not.

     

    In terms of how these concerns could really have been met with regard to PMC, I’m not sure I have an answer. If institutional support could have come from other, less-readily un-earmarked resources (faculty course-relief, or via a modest graduate editorial assistantship), or perhaps taking advantage of the net’s polylocality by farming out editorial tasks to a rotating team of editors at a number of sites, each one of which would have had only modest demands made on their time, I certainly would have preferred it.

     

    As for what is possible now, though, I wonder: would it not be far better to make the new issue the one that costs money, and make the archive free? This, at least, by adopting a sort of term-of-patent approach to the textual property of the journal, does not close up the conduit, or make what was formerly accessible inaccessible. Since PMC has been web hypertext for a while, the more recent issues would offer sufficient indication of PMC’s persona to entice those who were interested to subscribe. If 50% of the traffic goes to the archive as compared with the new issue, there would be no loss in “traffic” as such.

     

    I also would like to know if I or other PMC authors can, without violating some contract, post our own PMC articles on our own web sites, restoring them to public access. But I’d rather see the whole archive “freed” up, and let the old-fashioned notion that what a subscriber pays for is the sequential access to new issues of a journal or magazine. Most of all, I’m curious to know what other PMC people think about these issues.

     

    Russell A. Potter
    rpklc@uriacc.uri.edu

     


     

    Victor Grauer, 3-25-97

     

    Thank you, Russell Potter, for an excellent post that just about says it all for me. Before getting down to some very nitty gritty practical stuff, I just want to add that the Internet has become something like what the sun was for the Aztecs according to Bataille, an “expenditure without reserve.” And I like it that way. I myself expend a Hell of a lot without reserve, or recompense either, for that matter. And I like it a lot when institutions do the same. PMC has been very special because of its expenditure without reserve and now it will no longer be special as it seeks to enter the restrictive (and competitive) arena of restricted economy.

     

    Now let’s get down to it. How much money, exactly, are we talking about here?…A measly $5000 a year plus change? If I were making $100,000 a year, as is, apparently, many a full professor, instead of the far smaller sum I actually earn (that I will not even mention what it is) I’d be happy to subsidize the whole operation myself. You could call it Victor Grauer’s Postmodern Culture….Anyhow, as little as I make, if you asked me to contribute in order to keep it free, I’d probably plump for more than the price of a subscription, whereas now I refuse to subscribe at all on principle. Haven’t you guys ever seen It’s A Wonderful Life?

     

    As far as advertising is concerned, to be perfectly postmodern about it all, why are you turning up your nose? According to Marshall McLuhan advertising is good news and I’m sure Baudrillard would agree. It has enabled TV to shine like the sun, so why not PMC? You have a lot of readers and they must love to read so they must love to buy books. I doubt if amazon.com or Borders would lose any money if they paid PMC to add some links to its site. And there are probably a lot of those pay-per-view journals that might also like to post an ad and a link.

     

    Victor Grauer
    grauer@pps.pgh.pa.us

     


     

    John Unsworth, 3-26-97

     

    The costs of producing PMC are not large, it’s true, but they total more than that $5K–the Managing Ed. (esp. during the weeks leading up to an issue) puts in more than 10 hrs. a week, and we usually lay on some additional people, etc. etc.. With office expenses of the sort I mentioned before, extra people, and so on the total is between $10,000-15,000. And if you’d like to kick in for that, I could get used to Victor Grauer’s PMC. Capra economics, on the other hand, really don’t seem like a realistic way to go–would you want to be depending on the kindness of strangers if it were your hourly wage that was at issue? Bear in mind, the Managing Editor (Sarah Wells, now) has usually been a grad student or other part-time person, doing a lot of the grunt work of producing the issue and managing the communications flow: the editors, editorial board, authors, etc. contribute their time and effort as expenditure without recompense–this $10-$15,000, then, is a small part of the expenditure that actually goes into producing the journal, most of which already fits your Bataillian model. It just happens that this last part is the nub that has to involve cash (Fed Ex doesn’t do barter; the ME has rent to pay, the phone company etc.), and I’d like to see a sustainable way of producing that cash. Contributions doesn’t strike me, at least, as it.

     

    >As far as advertising is concerned, to be perfectly postmodern about
    >it all, why are you turning up your nose?

     

    Advertising might be it, and nobody’s turning up a nose–it may be that our needs are small enough that even the imploding Web advertising market could support them. Michael, do you have any comment on that?

     

    John Unsworth
    http://jefferson.village.virginia.edu/~jmu2m/

     


     

    Michael Jensen, 3-26-97

     

    Unfortunately, advertising is hardly a funding panacea for a journal like PMC. Some costs can be somewhat subvened by advertising revenue, but the audience of PMC is sufficiently broad yet small that it makes revenue-generating by advertising hard–especially if it’s not being organized by a professional marketing staff. That is, the time cost involved in soliciting, communicating, processing, designing, and/or emplacing advertising is also substantial, and would be unlikely to pay for itself for an individual journal, were PMC still a “free” journal.

     

    At least $5,000 per issue would need to be generated (even independent of the costs of solicitation, etc.), and scholarly journals–even one with a relatively broad readership–just don’t command huge ad-placement sums, particularly in an uncertain marketing domain like the Internet. Something like 25 ads per journal at $200/ad would be required–more than one per article. Or, if one was really lucky, 20 ads at $250 apiece. Either of those numbers is unlikely. That’s a lot of hustling–phone calls, handling of queries, etc. With forty journals and 4 million potential readers of Muse, we’ve been approached by two–count ’em–potential advertisers. That will change, but it’s not a simple matter.

     

    Scholarly publication–regardless of the medium–is of small market interest, regardless of the high value of the material to the readers. The Project Muse model–in which subscribing campuses are provided with campus-wide free access–is an attempt to do a bunch of things: keep libraries at the nexus point between scholarly publication and scholars/readers, keep costs low by keeping overhead/trouble costs low, provide broad access to high quality material to interested readers, maintain a nonprofit model of scholarly communication in an increasingly capitalist Internet, fight the trend toward cryptolopes and similar unit-based “ownership” models, and more. The Capra/Wonderful Life approach that would seem most apt would be for one scholar at each institution to buy, for $50, an institutional sub to PMC–obviating the need for anyone else (including the library) to purchase it on campus.

     

    I’m the representative of the Press in this discussion, and it’s worth knowing that I discriminate firmly between commercial and nonprofit publishers (their goals are utterly different), and between scientific and humanities/social sciences publishing (their processes and product are quite different). I’ve also gone, over the last seven years, from true believer to reluctant pragmatist as far as the Internet is concerned. It takes time to do any kind of publication well, and people’s time has costs. Somehow those costs need to be recovered. I’m quite comfortable with the hybrid of broad access and a charging model as Muse is currently structured, though if other workable cost recovery mechanisms can be suggested, I’m all ears.

     

    Michael Jensen
    Michael.Jensen@jhu.edu

     


     

    David Golumbia, 3-27-97

     

    We all agree that PMC needs to recover its costs, and that the IATH project was unable to provide adequate funds to do so.

     

    Whether or not MUSE was the only available route through which to provide these funds is, I suspect, more the province of PMC’s editors than of the other participants on this list. For the time being, it appears that PMC will remain on MUSE.

     

    What I’m not sure is clear is the degree to which the goals of the MUSE project–which are to provide alternate access to scholarly journals–dovetail well with the goals of PMC, which is to make dynamic scholarly writing available exclusively on the web.

     

    In principle, most of the journals on MUSE are available to anyone, free of charge–most public libraries can get access to them, either through their own collections or via intralibrary loan. (not that many people take advantage of this, but we’re talking principle).

     

    In principle, very few peole have access to PMC on MUSE. As other writers have pointed out, web crawlers will now be unable to index the contents of PMC (once the current issue is archived). Unless one has access to a library that 1) has a fair number of web-ready computers for public use and that 2) subscribes to MUSE, one can’t get PMC. And here I agree with other writers that individual subscriptions aren’t the solution.

     

    So the question that I think has been left hanging is: has MUSE considered radically altering its paradigm for PMC–perhaps allowing its total contents to be free as a kind of “loss leader,” or allowing the IATH site to remain up for non-academic users while “requiring,” on an “honor principle,” univerisities to access it only via MUSE? Or, as some have suggested, requiring payment for only the current issue, and allowing all the archives to be free (and thus indexable)?

     

    To summarize: the radical restriction that has now been placed on access to PMC cannot, by any argument I can think of, be suggested as a promising event for the continuing health of the journal. I would hope that something could be done to loosen this restriction, while keeping the journal’s goals consonant with those of MUSE.

     

    David Golumbia
    dgolumbi@sas.upenn.edu

     


     

    Michael Jensen, 3-28-97

     

    …Muse makes all tables of contents freely available (including the Library of Congress subject headings, etc.), as well as its search engine; the AltaVistas of the world have no trouble indexing that part of the site. We try to be as open as possible. We’re also working out arrangements with abstracting & indexing services for easy access and A&I of electronic-only journals, which many are wary of, but are more likely to pursue A&Iing when an e-journal is demonstrably stable.

     

    …Currently, 260 institutions and 80 public libraries are Muse subscribers; that represents something like 2.4 million university students, faculty, and staff who have unencumbered access to PMC, and another 3 million by way of the public libraries of Cleveland and Pittsburgh. We hope that more institutions hop on, of course, and they are (we’re in discussions with large–even massive–consortia which will affect these numbers dramatically); individual libraries can subscribe to PMC only, enabling the entire campus for $50.

     

    PMC is reaching entirely new audiences through Muse–community colleges, even high schools, public libraries, etc.–and there are lots of people performing searches on Muse-the-mass which turn up PMC articles, leading to those works being read by people interested in topics far afield from PMC’s domain. This could be exceedingly good for the journal, for the authors, and for the ideas underlying the articles themselves.

     

    …JHUP is granted nonexclusive rights to publish–authors can do with something what they will. PMC’s rights model is very appealing in spite of its “threat” to the traditional “rights” of publishers. It fits with our overall mission as a nonprofit scholarly publisher, and we’re beginning to adopt it for many of our other journals.

     

    Michael Jensen
    Michael.Jensen@jhu.edu

     


     

    Sarah Parsons Wells, 3-28-97

     

    My paycheck has been a subject of some debate here. I can certainly testify to the demands of running a journal, and the unrecompensed hours that the editors, board members, and peer reviewers put in to PMC. I have been reading the postings with great interest.

     

    The Managing Editor’s position is not one that will bring academic laurels, or even employment. As John noted, there is not much professional benefit in the scut work of managing an academic journal. I find great pleasure and great frustration in it, but I wouldn’t consider it a sound investment of time for a scholar.

     

    Some have talked about a rotating staff of editors, who can share the work and drop out after a few issues. I can imagine such a situation, but it’s not a pretty picture, frankly. The work is not rocket science, and it’s not difficult to answer correspondence and track submissions. But, many of the submissions take months to get through the review process and unless all of the editors were equally good at record keeping we would soon have chaos. Authors are sometimes hard to reach, unsure of our requirements, and confused by the technology. We already switch editorial duties between the two editors, and we bring in guest editors who take on special issues. But there is a constant flow of small tasks that need to be handled, routine letters to be answered, and communications lines to be maintained. The editors rarely lay eyes on each other or me, since they are spread out all over the country (Lisa is in Chicago, Paula in Illinois, Stuart in Baltimore, Eyal in Raleigh, and John here in Charlottesville), and they are occupied by other work, such as conferences, teaching, and research. The Managing Editor acts as traffic coordinator, data base, and, hopefully, trouble-shooter.

     

    The Managing Editor is also a reference for authors. Many authors are well-informed and experienced in electronic publishing, and they are entirely capable of formatting their articles. However, some don’t even use their e-mail accounts and have no idea what HTML is. It takes far more time to tag a 20 page essay then one might think, and it can take hours to pull it out of a word processing program, especially if the disk is corrupted, or there’s a problem with an attachement, or if the internet is overloaded. It is simply a question of paying someone to take the time to work out the details and fuss over the little questions. I am paid as much for my willingness to do these tasks as for my ability to do them. And, practically speaking, it is cheaper to pay me to do it then to ask a highly trained scholar to take time away from research and teaching to acknowledge submissions and clean out files.

     

    I am sympathetic of struggling universities and scholars who consider each penny, believe me. And I understand the importance of free access and the impact of cutting off the supply of free knowledge. But I think that the Managing Editor’s salary is necessary, at least in the current structure of the journal.

     

    Sarah Wells
    Managing Editor, PMC

     


     

    Russell Potter, 3-28-97

     

    I very much appreciated hearing from Sarah Wells, who I think has done a superlative job as Managing Editor. I agree that there are numerous small and, in themselves, rather unrewarding tasks associated with editing and assembling a peer-refereed journal. With some of the non-academic e-zines I’ve edited, I was handed the editorship as a kind of hot potato that no one wanted to hold on to.

     

    But although I suppose I am myself a “highly trained scholar,” I don’t think that ought to make me immune to or “above” scut-work. If I, or anyone, wants the prestige or recognition of editing a journal, seems to me they should be willing to sweat some. And if contributors don’t use e-mail or understand HTML, I’m not sure what attracted them to PMC in the first instance, or even how they knew about it. Careful editing may be painful and frustrating, but it’s never a waste of time.

     

    There is, inevitably, a lot of time and energy taken up in editing a journal. But the more collective it could be, the more dispersed that energy, the less of an individual burden it would become. Certainly, you still need a traffic director to make sure that evrything goes where it need to go and happens when it needs to happen–but I think that such a traffic director could be an academic, and that s/he oughtn’t to feel it beneath him/herself to take care of the numerous details such a task would entail.

     

    Another thing that e-journals can do that would break up the logjam somewhat is to discard the idea of “issues” or “numbers.” If, like the journal SURFACES, one simply adds articles to a web or ftp site at whatever point their editorial content has been resolved, one frees up a tremendous amount of time spent worrying over deadlines.

     

    I’m not saying that any of these things–editorial collectivizing, more personal responsibility on the part of e-authors, dynamic rather than static postings to the site, and on-line correction and revision–would eliminate the costs of running a refereed e-journal. But they could keep costs minimal, and by spreading them around a larger number of scholars and institutions, keep the time-budget fying ‘under the radar’ of an increasingly cost-cutting-minded academia.

     

    What disturbs me most is that this PMC thing seems to be part of a larger trend–proprietary scanned texts, proprietary journals, proprietary information–which in effect will colonize the internet. I think there is something vital in the ability to search millions of pages of data, and retrieve the needed or the unexpected–be that a painting by Frederic Church, a philosophical treatise by Kant, a bibliographical reference to a hitherto unknown writer, or a theoretical essay that fits in perfectly with a course one is designing. To the extent that scholarly information is privatized, it will not be a part of such searches, not be a participant in what had been, until recently, a stunningly heteroglot yet idiolectic internet, burning, as it was put by an earlier contributor to this list, like a Bataillean sun.

     

    What we have now is not a sun, but a light-bulb. And if that’s what we have, no doubt we must pay the power company.

     

    At any rate, I’m going to switch over to simply lurking on this list, as I feel that I’ve said what I wanted to say, but am still very curious about what others, especially past PMC contributors, have to say.

     

    Russell A. Potter
    rpklc@URIACC.URI.EDU

     


     

    Matthew Kirschenbaum, 3-28-97

     

    Rather than having only the current issue freely available at the IATH site, what about keeping all three of the year’s issues that go to make up the current volumeonline and freely available at IATH? Or alternately, adopt a rolling year-long period for hosting individual issues of PMC at IATH?

     

    Obviously this would only be prolonging the inevitable, and would not address the concerns that Russell Potter and others have articulated about maintaining long-term access to their own work. But it seems like this would at least take some of the edge off of the new distribution system. I suppose what I’m really thinking of is the way the library here keeps current issues of print journals in its periodicals room until a complete volume has accumulated before shipping the whole set off to the bindery. Those authors who published with PMC from here on out would be doing so with the understanding that their work would remain in the publically accessible IATH reading room for one year, followed by archiving on the Muse server.

     

    I’m sure that such an arrangement would fully satisfy no one who’s spoken here, but it also seems to me that it could be undertaken with minimal adjustments to the current PMC-JHUP relationship.

     

    Matthew Kirschenbaum
    mgk3k@faraday.clas.virginia.edu

     


     

    Eyal Amiran, 3-28-97

     

    This discussion itself reflects (and performs!) the dis-ease of the editors of Postmodern Culture with the decisions we’ve made about the immediate future of the journal. They’re complicated decisions, partly for the reasons already mentioned. We didn’t want to charge for the journal, and wanted as wide a distribution for the journal as possible. That was the reason we chose ascii in the beginning. But free publication isn’t possible now if we’re to continue to publish the journal as we now see it, as a professional and scholarly publication in hypermedia on the Web. Publishing on the web has made it yet more difficult to process and format and publish essays three times a year. Also, as John already noted, doing the work of the ME and of publicity and other development proved very taxing for the editors in the long run, particularly now that the editors work in different places.

     

    That said, it’s worth considering a number of other issues. It is possible that we (or someone else) publish a journal without the kind of editorial process that now defines the journal (including copy-editing, proofreading, and formatting–and even the intellectual exchange involved in the review process). Clearly there is room for such publications, and they would surely cost less time and money to produce so that they might well be published free of charge. But much would be lost if PMC went that route. PMC is not a distribution site. Like any peer-reviewed journal, it is an interactive process and not simply a set of links. To publish as we do we need some financial support (though still much less than the $30,000 normally considered a journal’s yearly budget, apart from release time and institutional support). Hypermedia is a big issue here–it makes little sense for PMC to publish in any other form, today.

     

    Given these decisions, we hope to find new and better ways to publish that would genuinely help our authors and readers. One question here is the role of the press. It’s clear to me that journal publishers will not be able to continue to use their print paradigms in the emerging environments of hypermedia. Publishers are fighting this realization tooth and nail. They categorically oppose the idea of giving anything away for free. And they have no compunction about driving the toughest bargain they think they can, whatever fairness might say. This doesn’t mean that publishers do not do the right thing, or mean well, but even not-for-profit publishers like JHUP (whose journal division makes money and subsidizes its book publishing) are having a hard time figuring out what their role can be in the new environment, and adjusting to their own new expectations from themselves. So far, for example, Hopkins has been slow to state explicitly and clearly in its promotional materials, ads, and on its web site just what is available for free and where, how individuals might access the journal, and what author and redistribution rights are. I am optimistic that academic presses will change rapidly in the next few years.

     

    So what can the press do? That’s an issue we haven’t discussed yet here. Part of our idea in signing with JHUP is that it will develop new tools–for searching, inter alia–that will add value to our articles. We expect the press to develop other, for now unknown ways of improving the electronic environment. The press is also in principle in good position to do the kinds of managerial tasks we have done in the past, like advertising and ad-exchange, better than we amateurs can, and that would benefit our authors and the journal. I hope this proves true. In addition, it should be added that our authors benefit from an association with a reputable press, such as Hopkins, though of course the press is not involved with the journal’s content and processes. But there is a value to academic prestige for most of our authors.

     

    We have signed with the press for five years, which we expect will be good ones. If they prove lean, or if our experiment fails (as Victor and Russell suggest), then we’ll have to think what is in the best interest of the journal and its readers. Considering what costs for whom and how much is part of that. But we also need to take a longer view of our readers’ and authors’ interests. It’s clear that we lose some valuable things by charging for access, and I think it’s important to say that. This is regrettable, whatever its benefits. It’s not as clear to me that, on balance, we’re giving up more than we gain. Life is short and brutish, but consider the alternative.

     

    Eyal Amiran
    eaeg@unity.ncsu.edu

     


     

    John Unsworth, 3-30-97

     

    To put the discussion of advertising in perspective, I thought I’d forward to you all our most recent request for ad placement:

     

    >Hello, my name is Guy W. Rochefort, President
    >of Dino Jump International. I found your address
    >through YAHOO. Dino Jump International are
    >specialists in manufacturing and distribution
    >of Interactive Inflatables worldwide. My lines
    >have been featured in Walt Disney productions,
    >NFL shows, and NBA events. Our product lines
    >include moonwalkers, bouncehouses, and castles.
    >
    >I am interested in mutual links on our
    >respective webpages beneficial to both our
    >businesses.  Additionally, I am interested in
    >opening dialog on mutual beneficial business
    >dealings as far as wholesale/retail efforts for
    >manufactured products from my factory and/or
    >resale distribution at competitive pricing....
    >
    >If this email is intrusive I apologize and you
    >will not hear further from me. Thank you again
    >and I am looking forward to doing business with
    >you.
    
    

    Interactive inflatables: the phrase is so… suggestive.

     

    John Unsworth
    jmu2m@jefferson.village.virginia.edu

     


     

    Lisa Brawley, 4-3-97

     

    Several key issues have been raised here about the ultimate compatibility of MUSE and of PMC as models and modes of scholarly electronic publishing, and this note is in no way meant to foreclose that larger discussion. I would say from the outset that it’s clear to me and I hope to those in this discussion that JHUP has not forced PMC into a generic MUSE model; Michael and others at JHUP clearly appreciate the specificity of PMC as an all-electronic journal with an established readership and an open access policy and they have done much to accommodate that specificity within the parameters of the MUSE project. I’m fully confident that we can continue to refine the journal’s place within project MUSE such that (to adapt David Golumbia’s phrase) our move to JHUP will indeed prove a promising event for the continuing health of the journal.

     

    That said, this much is also clear: any responsible, workable model of electronic publishing will need to provide its authors meaningful access to their own work–our current model doesn’t.

     

    The problem of author access is a central and symptomatic issue, one that those of us on the editing/publishing side of this discussion have not adequately addressed. The problem of author access is not limited to authors who published with PMC before the move to JHUP. Under the current plan, we have nothing to offer contributors other than the free current issue (i.e. nothing more or less than any web user receives). What’s more, contributing authors lose access to their own work once the issue in which it appears is no longer current, as several PMC authors have pointed out here with dismay. I share their view that this is unacceptable.

     

    So: 1). I’d be very interested to hear additional suggestions for ways to provide–not just allow–authors meaningful and ongoing access to work published in PMC. I’d add that citing the non-exclusive copyright clause and reluctantly acknowledging that authors can republish their own work elsewhere on the Internet is not an adequate solution to this problem.

     

    2). I’d like to hear what the other editors and Michael Jensen would have to say to the important and troubling point that Russell Potter and others raise that in granting JHUP the rights to restrict the PMC archive we have violated a primary prior understanding with our contributing authors. It seems to me that in many ways we have, although it’s not at all clear to me what we can do about that under the terms of the current contract (about which more directly). As Russell Potter recently made plain: “I wrote with the understanding that my writing could be disseminated without cost, and I think this bargain with JHUP is a fundamental violation of that understanding.” David Golumbia also notes that he chose to publish in PMC “precisely because of its universal availability to Internet users.”

     

    3). Several people here have argued persuasively that we might solve both the problem of author access and the problem of violating prior understanding by moving to a less restrictive subscription-based model, one that would reverse our current archive/free issue system: we would charge for access to the current issue or volume and provide free access to the archive of past issues. I, for one, find many of their arguments compelling (and I recall that John Unsworth briefly wondered whether “Maybe we did get it backward”). I’d be interested to hear what Michael and the other editors would have to say about reversing the current access model. And I’d think we would want to move our consideration of these access questions beyond simply citing the impressive access figures of project MUSE–those figures, it seems to me, lend equal support to either model.

     

    Finally, I would like to address David Golumbia’s concern that we not merely answer the questions raised here with a “plain assertion that things must be done the way they have been done.” I fully agree. If there has been any plain asserting it may have been out of a sense that we have already signed a contract that grants JHUP the rights to restrict access to the PMC archive. It’s worth pointing out, however, that that same contract also enables and obliges us to re-visit the terms of the contract every year–especially in regard to the question of what is freely available and what is restricted to subscribers. It’s my hope that our discussion here will not only help us identify problems with the current model, but will also help us find innovative ways to solve them….

     

    Lisa Brawley
    Co-editor, Postmodern Culture
    lbrawley@kent.edu

     


     

    Michael Corbin, 4-16-97

     

    There is a feel of inexorability, a ring of elegy to the discussion. I mean the contract is signed after all; and while the terms of that contract may be ‘revisited,’ it’s easy to see the physics lesson on the properties of inertia or gravity becoming the mass around which that ostensible revisitation will orbit. I mean also that I’m here because I was booted from the PMC archive for not having my affiliations in order. In fact I had no affiliation. What made my relationship (heretofore an engaging one) to PMC, its texts, its authors, it experiences, its pretensions, its hopes, is, well, over. Someone changed the locks.

     

    Be that as it may, trampled by the running-dog once again, maybe a couple of observations by way of benediction:

     

    I would agree with R. Potter (whose posts herein should be noted for tilting admirably against many of the obvious windmills that are proffered as the realpolitik-speak of the ‘necessary’) that the archive is the field to romp in. That if it could be accessible, maybe by secret passage, or by fugitive re-constitution, all to the good. I mean, in that romp, it’s not the purchase on the ‘new,’ but the purchase on that which matters that produces pleasure.

     

    In that line of thinking, I read the desire of contributors to retain ‘rights’ here as a discussion of ‘retaining’ or rather producing ‘rights’ for readers. Perhaps this is obvious but it is a distinction perhaps clouded by too narrow a look at authorial use-value of the ‘journal’ rather than the more pedestrian hopes of its exchange-value. Something the language of ‘contract’ often clouds.

     

    For me, from my limited vantage, I would, ex post facto, want PMC to be a kind of a fly in the ointment of the MUSE. Struggle against its too ready desire of the very ‘replicability’ that ostensibly is sought. While I appreciate the distinction between JHUP’s ‘non-profit’ protestations and publishing’s evil profit-mongering other, such a distinction too easily absolves a kind of will-to-monopoly of cultural capital that, I feel, a scheme like Project Muse represents. This is not just the apostasy of Net/Web anarcho-utopians, but rather the sequestering of more and more intellectual labor everywhere; not just an affront to a democratic thinking, but an affront to thinking itself. I mean, who do you want reading PMC and why?

     

    Regarding scut-work, it seems to me that it is precisely here that some responsible, more modest intervening might be done. The institutions under whose auspices PMC exist, as has been noted, assign no, or very little, status to said scut work. A longer term project no doubt, but it seems incumbent that cultural capital must be demanded from these institutions for intellectual labors of the sort the web/electronic publishing represent. If such recognition is not forthcoming then indeed it seems inexorable that the JHUP’s and the Project Muse’s will bundle together the de-valued labors of the divided many for the inflated value of the collated few. And do so speaking a magnanimous tongue.

     

    So lets be honest. The bargin stuck with the MUSE makes PMC a different thing. Different from what it formerly was. Perhaps it aspires to a difference from what it elegiacally, perhaps tragically, might become. Not to be melodramatic…so we’ll see. And, well, if anybody wants to let me in the back door when the guards aren’t looking, you got my number on the top.

     

    Michael Corbin
    evadog@bitstream.net

     


     

    Marjorie Perloff, 5-2-97

     

    [In reply to a previous message by Michael Jensen, not included here.]

     

    Your arguments are cogent but the big question that remains in my mind is this: once PMC gets to be more or less like all journals (those not on-line) what makes it special? Different? My own feeling is that once one has to subscribe and the journal comes out in its current format, I’d much rather sit in an armchair (or out in the sun!) and read it between two covers than bother to scroll down the screen. I think electronic journals have a different mission. I like EBR [Electronic Book Review], edited by Joe Tabbi at Illinois very much because of its speed in turn-around and high quality of argumentation. When I reviewed Franco Moretti’s book for EBR, I had the pleasure of seeing my review on line within a month or less and then his response and my response–ditto. That creates dialogue. This is what electronic publication can do. But PMC has increasingly followed the “normal” model–a bunch of essays, a bunch of reviews–and now the need to subscribe, so what is the ADVANTAGE of this over any normal print journal?

     

    Marjorie Perloff
    perloff@leland.Stanford.EDU

     


     

    David Porush, 5-3-97

     

    I was waiting for an argument like Marjorie’s to arise to put in my two cents.

     

    There must be a virtue to an on-line journal beyond the speed, ease and convenience of shuttling the raw data among reviewers, authors and editors. To constrict this new potential into the rut already carved by an older medium (i.e. print) seems an ostrich-like way to proceed.

     

    So shouldn’t we be spending a good deal of our time in this discussion wondering how to unleash the potential for academic discourse provided by this new medium rather than worrying over how to make it legitimate by squeezing it into the old boxes?

     

    For instance: what is the power provided not by a totally closed subscription model but by a gateway or access-provider model? What about a semi-permeable membrane model, which gives the reader-user access, in part, to dialogues with authors and editors through the on-line text? What about a journal that included hyperlinks to other resources, sites, databases, archives, people? What about a journal that was partly “graffitable” (as my grad students have been calling it) so that readers could in limited fashion “write over” or “on” the e-space provided by the journal, leaving traces of their travel through the site? I think it is tragic if PMC, which has already established its credentials in the old, fussy legitimate print fashion (to a certain degree) now turns backward rather than forward. It would be like including banisters in elevators. Indeed, embracing some of the new electronic forms invited by the medium might help PMC define what is distinct about it not only in terms of how its delivered, but in some fundamental epistemological terms.

     

    David Porush
    dporush@widomaker.com

     


     

    Adrian Miles, 5-7-97

     

    As someone who has published via PMC, and is considering doing so in the future, I would like to add my voice to this (and also Russell Potter’s comments). The strength of PMC was that

     

    1.      it was scholary (peer reviewed, etc) 
    2.      it was hypertextual (new forms of academic publication and writing) 
    3.      anyone with net access could read it (from my local library to where ever)

     

    While points a and b remain, all of a sudden no one at my campus (RMIT, Melbourne Australia) can read my work, and the only way I seem to be able to allow people to read it where they don’t have subscription rights is to make a copy avaialble.

     

    However, where the work may be explicity hypertextual (for example incorporates multimedia elements and relies on a web server) all of a sudden it is no longer a case of just sending someone some text, but of needing to send or even self publish a web based version, and in numerous cases this might not be possible, and is probably in breach of the terms of publication in PMC (I’m not sure about this last point).

     

    And that leads to the question of mirrored pages/sites. A piece of mine is mirrored on my server since it is bandwidth intensive, so it made sense to keep a copy in Australia for Pacific users. Am I supposed to remove this? or do the links from the original PMC edition still point to the mirrored copy? And what in the future, would this still be an option or only while the current issue is available? (I suppose if it moves to a subscription model then the entire site could also be hosted, say in Australia, Europe, and Japan…)

     

    Adrian Miles
    amiles@rmit.edu.au

     

  • Who’s Zoomin’ Who?: The Poetics of www.poets.org and wings.buffalo.edu/epc

    David Caplan

    Department of English
    University of Virginia

    dmc8u@virginia.edu

     

    The Academy of American Poets’ Web site and the Electronic Poetry Center
     

    “Friends?”

     
    If, as Blake would have us believe, opposition is true friendship, then some antagonists certainly hide their affection better than others. Consider how the Academy of American Poets introduces itself on its new Web site:

     

    The Academy of American Poets was founded in 1934 to support American poets at all stages of their careers and to foster the appreciation of contemporary poetry. The largest organization in the country dedicated specifically to the art of poetry, the Academy sponsors programs nationally. These include National Poetry Month; the most important collection of awards for poetry in the United States; a national series of public poetry readings and residencies; and other programs that provide essential support to American poets, poetry publishers, and readers of poetry.

     

    Now consider how Charles Bernstein, the poet and Executive Editor and co-founder of SUNY Buffalo’s Electronic Poetry Center, describes the same organization (which he mistakenly refers to as the “American Academy of Poetry”):

     

    Finally, there are the self-appointed keepers of the gate who actively put forward biased, narrowly focused and frequently shrill and contentious accounts of American poetry, while claiming, like all disinformation propaganda, to be giving historical or nonpartisan views. In this category, the American Academy of Poetry and such books as The Harvard Guide to Contemporary American Writing stand out. (248)

     

    Since Bernstein’s memorable attack, his poetry and criticism have gone, to use Alan Golding’s phrase, “from outlaw to classic.” Appointed the David Gray Professor of Poetry and Letters at SUNY Buffalo, Bernstein faces the obvious charge that he has been co-opted by “the official verse culture” he condemns. In an ironic contrast, the sexagenarian Academy of American Poets finds itself a mere babe on the Internet. Opened in April to coincide with the second Annual National Poetry Month, the organization’s Web site faces comparisons and, to a certain degree, competition with the much better established Electronic Poetry Center. As if according to some New Age prophecy, the old have been made young, and the outcast reborn as Executive Editor.

     

    Given such a background, the two sites might be said to offer an old fashioned war-of-words writ electronic, a continuation of poems and poetics by other means. Like the groups and figures behind them, both sites also must face the larger challenge of trying to find a place for poetry in the American public sphere. A skeptic might quip that the art can claim a National Poetry Month but not a national audience, while others offer anecdotal evidence in support of their hope that reports of poetry’s death have been greatly exaggerated. Regardless of which view is more accurate–and, frankly, who knows?–the Electronic Poetry Center and the Academy of American Poets’ Web site offer noteworthy models of how technology might allow what are often called “mainstream” and “oppositional” or “outsider” poetries to sustain themselves in an age of such insistent pulse checking. Among the questions, then, that I will consider are: what kind of poetries do the Web sites promote, and to what extent do they exploit or fail to appreciate the new interpretive, archival, and critical possibilities that the electronic age offers?

     

    “Not Here For Years”

     

    As a man said to me, we were buying
    fruit on Seventh Avenue, I know you by
    your picture, you are the lady who has
    not been here for thirty one years.
    	    --Gertrude Stein
    	      How Writing is Written (67)

     

    In late March the Academy of American Poets released a press statement announcing it would establish a Web site. Run on the wire services, the story made several newspapers’ gossip pages, along with the news that Steven Spielberg had cast a former Supreme Court Justice to play the role of a Supreme Court Justice and Barbara Streisand had missed Celine Dion’s performance of Streisand’s academy-nominated song, “I Finally Found Someone,” because of “an ill-timed trip to the restroom.” Awarding the Academy’s efforts equal respect as Babs’ faux pas and the Jurist’s well-rehearsed cameo, the Boston Globe reported:

     

    Quoting T.S. Eliot and Robert Frost, the Academy of American Poets has announced it's going on line. Academy executive director Bill Wadsworth said this week that the academy will launch "the most comprehensive and lively poetry site on the World Wide Web" April 1, the first day of National Poetry Month. Browsers who key in www.poets.org will find "an oasis for wisdom in an age of information...a place to read, learn, and discover," Wadsworth said.

     

    To have good press releases, you need unblushing self-promotion. However, Wadsworth’s superlatives interest me less than the first boast it qualifies: his claim that the Academy’s Web site will be “comprehensive”–and, by implication, certainly not “biased, narrowly focused” as Bernstein characterizes the Academy’s previous accounts of American poetry. And why not? After all, greater comprehensiveness is one of the chief virtues ascribed to the Internet. While print-based discussions of poetry are literally bound by the technological and cultural limits of how much material can be held together in a marketable package, the electronic form, at least in theory, promises to expand radically these parameters. A future when The Best American Poetry has been supplanted by on-line anthologies of all poems published or just submitted that year–such is the stuff hypertext dreams are made of.

     

    So is the Academy’s Web site “comprehensive?” In one important respect, a qualified yes. Like many poetry Web sites, this one runs a discussion forum. What’s admirable about this discussion is not what’s being said but who is saying it. Although most contributors to the list did not identify their professions, among those who did were a technical editor in the aerospace industry, a NASA employee, and an elementary school librarian. It is a national and cultural disgrace that so few public forums exist in America for those who live outside of urban centers and university towns and want to discuss poetry. As one of the select poetry organizations capable of getting a press release onto the wire services, the Academy performs a valuable service by helping these people–and interested others–come together to talk about poetry.

     

    Sadly, though, there doesn’t seem much to talk about, at least not yet. By mid-June, the two most popular topics for general discussion drew only nine e-mails apiece, most brief and tentative. As newcomers to the already crowded Internet, the group might just need a little more time to attract new participants. However, the awkward trickle of replies suggests the larger challenge of launching an electronic discussion group, even a well-publicized one. The Academy admirably invites “anyone with an interest in literature” to participate; but poetry as a whole, let alone literature, offers an impossibly wide topic for conversation. Although poetry might be what the neighbors don’t want to talk about, interested parties need a more manageable set of shared interests and texts–a canon, one might say, if that term were not too busy doing penance for New Critical sins. Put simply, the strangers who make up the discussion group share a desire to talk but not yet a subject.

     

    In addition to the discussion group, the Web site currently features recordings of poets reading their work, three historical exhibits–on Modernism, the Harlem Renaissance, and British poetry–and four thematic exhibits on poems about ancestry, love, grief, and work.

     

    While the discussion group is, at least so far, a noble failure, the historical poetry exhibits are reprehensibly, perhaps even defiantly, inadequate. Here is “The Modernist Revolution” on Marianne Moore, e.e. cummings, and William Carlos Williams (with links to biographical sketches):

     

    What was new in Marianne Moore was her brilliant and utterly original use of quotations in her poetry, and her surpassing attention to the poetic image. What was new in E.E. Cummings was right on the surface, where all the words in lower-case letters and a parenthesis "(a leaf falls)" may separate "l" from "oneliness." William Carlos Williams wrote in "plain American which cats and dogs can read," to use a phrase of Marianne Moore. "No ideas but in things," he proclaimed. In succinct, often witty poems he presents common objects or events--a red wheelbarrow, a woman eating plums--with freshness and immediacy, enlarging our understanding of what a poem's subject matter might be.

     

    As the saying goes, you could write a book about what the Academy has left out–indeed, the many authors of books on these three poets and Modernism in general have done exactly that. Given such rich resources, the editorial choices behind “The Modernist Revolution” leave me baffled. Why does the Web site never cite a single critical study, prose appreciation, interview, or biography? Why does it not offer an annotated bibliography and some essays for those who want more than a brief half paragraph on Williams and a single sentence on Moore and on cummings? In short, why doesn’t it take advantage of the Internet’s capabilities for expansiveness? Poetry without literary criticism except in baby-sized bites–is this what “comprehensive” means?

     

    By limiting itself to one-page synopses of major historical movements, the Academy perhaps invites scorn from pointy heads like me who don’t like to see their favorite poets reduced to caricatures. However, to say the Web site presents a dumbed-down version of Modernism does not do justice to the consistency of its editorial choices. Instead, it is more accurate to say that “The Modernist Revolution” offers Modernism Without Too Much Revolution. I return to the last sentence of the passage I just quoted because it is so frustratingly representative: “In succinct, often witty poems he [Williams] presents common objects or events–a red wheelbarrow, a woman eating plums–with freshness and immediacy, enlarging our understanding of what a poem’s subject matter might be.” If Williams could log in, he would be less than thrilled to read that his main contribution to literature is to make the world safe for the late confessional short lyric–or, as it is more often called, the workshop poem. According to Academy, Williams should be celebrated for “common objects or events” vividly presented. But didn’t Williams more crucially enlarge our understanding of what a poem’s form might be? To borrow a phrase from another Modernist, the Academy seems to have had the experience but missed the meaning. Take the example of one of Williams’ two poems that “The Modernist Revolution” cites, “To a Poor Old Woman.” The poem famously declares:

     

    They taste good to her
    They taste good
    to her. They taste
    good to her. (383)

     

    If the main point of these lines is their subject matter, then they are overly repetitious and poorly punctuated. Instead, this stanza can be more accurately called a demonstration of what poetic form can do. Line breaks suggest inflection which, in turn, act far more ambitiously than as the mere exposition of subject matter. In particular, the slow, extended consideration of the statement, “They taste good to her,” proceeds with the hesitant, sensuous pleasure of the imagination at work. The poem may be titled “To an Old Woman” but it is less about her than the formal pleasures the imagination allows the poet to experience, or, as Williams wrote in Spring and All,

     

    The only realism in art is of the imagination. It is thus that the work escapes plagiarism after nature and becomes a creation. Invention of new forms to embody this reality of art, the one thing which is, must occupy all serious minds concerned. (198)

     

    “The Modernist Revolution,” however, does not mention Spring and All, Williams’ most important book, nor Kora in Hell, his most influential book for writers of prose poems, nor any of Williams’ crucial essays; his most important poem, the five volume “Paterson,” is wildly pruned to the single familiar motto that has become, as Ron Silliman notes, “the battle cry of anti-intellectualism in verse” (660). (Fittingly, the version of “The Red Wheelbarrow” that the Academy refers to is the anthology piece of Selected Poems, not the untitled prose and verse meditations of Spring and All.)

     

    What’s excluded is the “other” Williams that, among others, Bernstein, Silliman, Marjorie Perloff, Hank Lazer, and Eliot Weinberger have written about. While it is undeniable that Williams’ “succinct, often witty poems” form part of his work’s legacy, the Academy’s sin is that of the funhouse mirror which distorts one arm into an entire body. Captured in such unforgiving glass, Williams becomes, like Moore, less a groundbreaking experimenter than a rather unambitious Imagist.

     

    Although no single figure can sum up what’s missing from “The Modernist Revolution,” one comes close: Gertrude Stein. Her name appears once, without any elaboration, in a list of several early twentieth-century artists in painting, music, architecture, and literature. Again, the Academy remains true to its prejudices. Stein is not an Imagist; her work is not “conventional”; it may be wildly influential, but not, evidently, to those poets whom the Academy considers to be important.

     

    With characteristic shrewdness Stein once wrote, “A very bad painter once said to a very great painter, ‘Do what you like, you cannot get rid of the fact that we are contemporaries.’ That is what goes on in writing” (151). A historical exhibit should remind us of exactly whom history cast as contemporaries: Gertrude Stein and Robert Frost, born during the same year, William Rose Benét, Mina Loy, and William Carlos Williams, together for a wildly anticipated joint poetry reading, and the young Yvor Winters, who hailed Loy as one of the greatest poets of her generation and Williams as a potential prophet. Although Modernist poetry contains multitudes, the Academy, failing to exploit the Internet’s archival resources, presents it as the work of seven men and two women.

     

    As the Academy’s Web site makes perfectly clear, the argument over Modernism neither stops nor starts with Williams, Stein, Pound, Eliot, et al. Rather, where we think we have been tells us where we need to go. As if to prove this point, the Web site lists the poets its exhibits feature or will feature. Not one of these poets is associated with either Language Poetry or New Formalism, the two movements which, during the last two decades, have posed the noisiest challenges to late confessional poetics. Although individual readers may prefer the work of one group to the other, no literary history of contemporary American poetry is complete without at least considering these movements and their implications. The Academy does not. The omissions of the past become the omissions of the present and, it seems safe to predict, of the future.

     

    “a group poem/renga/range of affection”

     

    It all depends on what you call profound.
    	    --William Carlos Williams
    	      The Autobiography (390)

     

    Soon after Allen Ginsberg’s death on April fifth of this year, the Electronic Poetry Center began to memorialize him with an exhibit, “Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997),” a collection of e-mail exchanges from Poetics, the poetry discussion linked to the Electronic Poetry Center. Written on April 4, the first post came from Charles Bernstein:

     

    Allen Ginsberg has been diagnosed with liver cancer and is not given much more time to live. There are articles about his illness in today's New York Post and Philadelphia Inquirer. I would imagine everyone reading this will have the same intense reaction I am having. It seems like Allen Ginsberg has been with me all my life.

     

    What follows is extraordinary. In forty-four postings over the period of two days, the respondents offer sometimes painfully intimate tributes to Ginsberg’s profound influence on their lives. After one contributor asks, “shall we write a group poem/renga/range of affection for allen ginsberg?” a group poem begins, with each line composed by a different writer. At one point the poem reads:

     

    pull my daisy, poet
    Happening to notice the willow leaves in the garden, a
    		braille page of words
    the wind a simultaneous translation
    the sorority girls sing of fucking in a plaintive way
    nothing has happened, no one has died

     

    “nothing has happened, no one has died”: if this line were to appear without any further explanation in the pages of, say, The Paris Review, the best adjectives to apply to it might be “artful,” “elegiac,” and “nicely understated.” Read in the context of “Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997),” it is a wish poignantly pretending to be a fact. As the heading attests, the e-mail was written on Friday, April fourth, at eleven eighteen p.m. By then, although Ginsberg was still alive, the something that had happened was the certainty that he soon would die.

     

    The closest analogy I can think of for “Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997)” is a condolence book at a funeral, another written record of a social mourning. However, the Poetics’ exchanges take place in the notoriously cool medium of electronic mail; the mourners are not gathered in some funeral home parlor but seated before their terminals, in some cases separated by thousands of miles. A few months later, what they wrote while waiting for a poet they loved to die forms a precisely dated chronology–equal parts consolation, catharsis, and homage: an oddly pre-Modernist elegy written according to e-mail conventions.

     

    “Allen Ginsberg: 1926-1997” displays the Poetics List and perhaps even the electronic discussion format itself at its best. While technological efficiency allows discussion to proceed almost in real time, this conversation never would have taken place at all without cultural and human necessity: the absence of equally attractive venues coupled with the knowledge that the other contributors would share, as Bernstein wrote, “the same intense reaction I am having.” To lament that such social mourning can take place only through e-mail is to miss the larger point of what was accomplished. Instead, it seems more accurate to say that “Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997)” presents a hopeful vision of the kind of public spaces technology can help create, even within a culture that often frowns upon or trivializes such displays of grief. More particularly, the ensuing conversation’s tone, so intimate that, at times, it almost verges on the exhibitionistic, seems wholly appropriate for eulogizing Ginsberg. The author of “Kaddish” and “White Shroud” would appreciate, I believe, the emotional paradoxes inherent in declaring over the Internet, as several contributors did, that they have broken down in tears.

     

    “Our aim is simple,” the Electronic Poetry Center’s welcome cheerfully declares, “to make a wide range of resources centered on contemporary experimental and formally innovative poetries an immediate actuality.” While this clearly defined sense of purpose makes possible discussions such as “Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997),” it also fuels more common and less productive exchanges. De rigueur for discussion are quick dismissals of poems that do not neatly fulfill the group’s definitions of “experimentally and formally innovative,” as if nothing can be learned from writing that differs from your favorites. Conspiracy theories also abound–but just because you’re paranoid, that doesn’t mean someone is after you.

     

    A few months after Ginsberg’s death, the Electronic Poetry Center moved “Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997)” to a permanent exhibit of what it calls obituaries. The introductory link’s new displays include a letter from Jackson Mac Low, in which he discusses the differences between his work and John Cage’s. The reader whom the Academy’s Web site would envision might reasonably ask, “John Cage–do you mean the composer? And who is this Jackson Mac Low?” Indeed, to go from the Academy’s Web site to the Electronic Poetry Center is akin to taking a winter flight from Bangor to Key West. The fact that no passports are checked confirms that we have not left the country, but everything else–the climate, landscape, culture, even the air itself–seems wholly different.

     

    As I mentioned before, the Academy’s Web site conspicuously ignores poets associated with Language Poetry. In turn the Center unkindly repays the favor. Only a half-dozen poets make both the Academy’s and the Center’s lists of featured authors, while nearly two hundred names appear only on one. The Center offers Rae Armantrout to the Academy’s W.H. Auden, Samuel Beckett to John Berryman, Robert Creeley to Lucille Clifton, and so on.

     

    “Is anything central?” John Ashbery, the one living author whom both lists share, famously asks in “The One Thing That Can Save America.” After several reformulations of the question, the poem ends with a vision of a suburban present morphing into the future:

     

    Now and in the future, in cool yards,
    In quiet small houses in the country,
    Our country, in fenced areas, in cool shady
    streets. (45)

     

    Twenty years later, these households are still fenced (now electronically); they also have bought satellite dishes and gone on-line. What, if anything, is central to this later version of the culture Ashbery depicts–the town or university library, or its Barnes & Noble? The M.T.V. its teenagers watch obsessively, Martha Stewart’s latest cookbook, or the web its college students spend their nights surfing, home for a long weekend and already bored?

     

    Out-doing Yeats, Ashbery turns his and my questions into rhetorical ones. For him, the idea of the center cannot hold because there can be no one center but various centralities. This, I believe, is the best way to understand both the Electronic Poetry Center and its relation to the larger poetic community. The Center’s Mission Statement declares its role to be compensatory, offering alternative routes of distribution to what the “mainstream” ignores: “Our aim is to provide access to [the] generous range of writing which mainstream bookstores, publishers, and, increasingly, libraries are unable or unwilling to make available.” To this end, the Center offers fairly extensive information about small presses and publishers, and the kind of experimental poetry you cannot find in The Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry.

     

    To call the Center out of the “mainstream,” however, is to overlook the issue of which stream we are talking about. Such monolithic distinctions are not very helpful, even when applied only to the limited topic of elite, print-based discussions of poetry. Is The New York Times central–or PMLA? For example, any reasonable account would place in the poetry mainstream Anthony Hecht, the much honored Academy Chancellor Emeritus. Published by Knopf, Harvard University Press, and Princeton University Press, the four new books of poetry and criticism that Hecht produced during the nineties benefitted not only from his reputation but from the impressive publicity and distribution resources of these prestigious publishing houses. Predictably, all five books were reviewed in the literary journals and newspapers that assiduously ignored the work of poets such as Charles Bernstein. Yet a few minutes with the Arts and Humanities Citation Index confirms that, during 1994-1997, the number of academic citations for Bernstein’s work doubled those for Hecht’s. As this statistic suggests, the poetry that university poetry presses and book reviews chart as “mainstream” looks more like a mudflat to many literary critics–and, as The Washington Post‘s Jonathan Yardley reminds his readers almost weekly, vice versa.

     

    More to the point of this review, the Electronic Poetry Center dramatizes the differences between the kinds of poems and poetics central to the web and print-based cultures. While scholarly citation marks academic respect, the number of hits a Web site receives suggests the electronic community’s view of whether or not that site is literally worth looking at. In April, 1997, the month Allen Ginsberg died and the Academy’s site opened its electronic doors, the Center’s root directory recorded 151,200 transactions. Including both the multiple hits of a single user roaming through the Center and the use of background graphic files, this imprecise figure of course can be analyzed in innumerable ways. Its import, however, is rather self-evident: to many, many poetry enthusiasts, the Center seems the place to be. No matter how you crunch them, 151,200 hits can’t be wrong.

     

    Why? What these raw numbers hint at is an unquantifiable sense that, while the Academy gives the appearance of going on-line because everyone else has, the Center addresses an otherwise unsatisfied need. Reading the poems that the Academy’s Web site feature is often a depressing aesthetic experience because the poems lose the immediacy of a book held in your hands yet gain so very little. An Auden poem converted into HTML mark-up and typed onto the screen looks like, well, an Auden poem converted into HTML mark-up and typed onto the screen. Even if the Academy’s Web site were to focus on typographical poems such as Hecht’s “The Gardens of the Villa d’Este,” John Hollander’s heart-shaped “Crise de Coeur” or star-shaped “Graven Image,” the resulting exhibit would just emphasize that, to its credit, such verse works best on the page, the canvas for which it was originally painted. However, to look at the Center’s visually stunning gallery of poems is to appreciate the affinities between a kind of hypertext and what the Center calls “experimental and formally innovative” poetics. Bernstein’s on-line visual work, “Veil,” sends a reader back to his earlier book of the same name. Published in 1986 by Xexoxial Editions, a small press in Madison, Wisconsin, Veil, the book, overlays typescript lines of sometimes grainy, indecipherable words upon each other. Constructed in the nineties, “Veil,” the hypertext poem, offers digital words, shapes and colors similarly overlaid over each other. In short, while both works profoundly engage the resources of their chosen medium, it is easy to see how the experiments of one would lead to the other. This likeness does not stop with the poetry the Center has put on-line. Instead, to re-read Cage’s and Mac Low’s “reading through” and “writing through” of source texts, Johanna Drucker’s visual poetry, or any of a number of other print-based works written before the Internet boom is to see how they were–and, in most cases, still are–hypertexts waiting to happen.

     

    Recognizing these similarities between hypertext and verse poetics, the Center does not segregate poetry from literary theory, criticism, and hypertext scholarship, as the Academy’s Web site does. As a consequence, a viewer can go from an on-line version of “Tender Buttons,” to bibliographies of Mina Loy’s works and criticism on them, to Marjorie Perloff’s home page, then end with Christopher Funkhouser’s provocative essay, “Hypertext and Poetry,” in which he claims, “Technology is just catching up to what progressive minds have been doing across atomic-atomicized decades.”

     

    At moments like these, the Center swaggers a bit with the self-assurance of someone doing something important. “The future is watching,” it all but crows to anyone who’ll listen. Acting on this hope, the Poetics List archives all of its e-mails, not just those from the last ninety-nine days, as the Academy does. Such confidence belies the Center’s claim that its role is secondary, providing an alternative to the more powerful “official verse culture.” Instead, the aptly named Electronic Poetry Center gives every indication of believing that the poetics it promotes are, and will continue to be, central to any understanding of late twentieth-century poetry and poetic theory.

     

    Word processors are to postmodernism what the typewriter was to modernism, Fredric Jameson once declared, neatly conjuring a wide range of familiar assumptions (quoted in Public Access 125). Yet whole shelves of learned books remind us how recently equally heady claims were made for psychoanalysis, LSD, even the Ouija board. However, if Jameson’s prediction turns out to be right, or at least more right than wrong, then the next generation of literary scholars are likely to see much of the Center’s cockiness as rather charming self-assurance and remember the Academy in the same vein as Lascelles Abercrombie, the Georgian poet best known for provoking Ezra Pound into challenging him to a duel.

     

    “You Can Get There from Here”

     

    “The possibilities for poetry’s writing in electronic space are to be reckoned,” Loss Pequeño Glazier, the director of the Center, wrote in a recent issue of Postmodern Culture. “What will happen? Will it be milk and honey or virtual Balkans?”

     

    So far I have proposed the latter possibility, with imagery that stresses opposition, competition, even dueling. “Both,” however, is the better answer to Glazer’s second question. The literary histories that the Web sites present are mutually exclusive; the Web sites themselves are not. Significantly, each offers links to the other. Like the group poem at the heart of “Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997),” this cooperation is less the taste of milk and honey than a reminder that the electronic landscape is, at least so far, neither essentially cooperative or competitive but a little of both. Instead, the poetics that the two sites represent draw what Ashbery would call “juice” from their dance through several mediums; in the electronic landscape, the Center leads and the Academy follows, while, elsewhere, their roles dramatically reverse.

     

    Ultimately, what the two sites share is their desire for technology to help poetry not be merely “academic.” To this end, the Academy’s site seeks to bring poetry to readers outside the universities. In this utopia, however, Homer banishes Plato and most other poets, as the Academy deems literary criticism, theory, and a great deal of poetry not worth its consideration. In contrast, the Center, sponsored by a university and peopled by many card-carrying members of the MLA, brings together writers not only of poetry, literary criticism, and theory, but also of hypertext scholarship. Fed with such abundant information, many of the resulting conversations are driven by name-recognition value and clannish attitudes. Even on an afternoon where forty messages deluge each subscriber’s account, a topic suggested by, say, Ron Silliman will not go undiscussed.

     

    In this paradoxical, competitively cooperative, and cooperatively competitive electronic landscape, any claim to comprehensiveness is quixotic. However, while the study of poetry suffers from so many professional categories and sub-categories that have little to do with the actual practice of writing and reading, hyperspace’s eternal delight is the energy of feuding poets, critics, flame wars, and scholarship gathered together, sometimes despite themselves, into a dream of what comprehensiveness might be.

     


    *I’d like to thank Matt Kirschenbaum and Gena McKinley for conversations about poetry and the Internet, and Charles Bernstein for answering my questions about the Center.


    Works Cited

     

    • The Academy of American Poets. “The Modernist Revolution.” April 1 1997. www.poets.org.
    • Ashbery, John. Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror. New York: Penguin Books, 1972.
    • Bernstein, Charles.Content’s Dream: Essays, 1975-1984. Los Angeles: Sun and Moon, 1986.
    • Bérubé, Michael. Public Access: Literary Theory and American Cultural Politics. New York: Verso, 1994.
    • Dezell, Maureen. “Poets Spin a Web.” The Boston Globe. 28 March 1997: F2.
    • The Electronic Poetry Center. “Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997).” 1994. wings.buffalo.edu/epc.
    • Funkhouser, Chris. “Hypertext and Poetry.” The Electronic Poetry Center. wings.buffalo.edu/epc.
    • Glazier, Loss Pequeño, “Jumping to Occlusions.” Postmodern Culture. 7.3 (May, 1997).
    • Silliman, Ron. “Of Theory, To Practice.” Postmodern American Poetry: A Norton Anthology. Ed. Paul Hoover. New York: Norton, 1994.
    • Stein, Gertrude. How Writing is Written: Volume II of the Previously Uncollected Writings of Gertrude Stein. Ed. Robert Bartlet Haas. Los Angeles: Black Sparrow Press, 1974.
    • Williams, William Carlos. The Autobiography of William Carlos Williams. New York: New Directions, 1948.
    • —. The Collected Poems of William Carlos Williams: Volume I 1909-1039. Eds. A. Walton Litz and Christopher MacGowan. New York: Directions, 1986.

     

  • CrossConnections: Literary Cultures in Cyberspace

    Rena Potok

    English Department
    University of Pennsylvania

    rnpotok@sas.upenn.edu

     

    On-line literary and university reviews.

     
    Search the Web for on-line creative writing, and you will find a burgeoning number of electronic literary reviews, or literary zines, ranging from the downright tacky and macabre to high quality poetry and fiction. Whatever their level of literary merit, one thing is clear: the Web is rapidly becoming a new medium for the production of literary culture. Indeed, we are witnessing the emergence of a new literary era, in which narrative and poetics interconnect with the world of artificial intelligence and computer-generated graphics to redefine our notions of how and where literature is produced.

     

    Yet, this literary-electronic interconnection produces a curious irony: the best of the literary zines are the most traditional, and the least experimental. While they offer high quality fiction, poetry, art and criticism, they do not explore the possibilities of the Web–hypertext is the first example that comes to mind–in the manner that might be expected. And those zines that do attempt to make use of the world of the Web tend to do so poorly, boasting experimental writing and hypertext links, but in fact presenting amateurish poetry and prose, and links that lead nowhere.

     

    One might think that an electronic narrative experiment like on-line zines would be an excellent way to explore the idea of crossing boundaries between literature and cyber culture, and of breaking down barriers between author and reader. Hypertext can afford a reader a large element of narrative authority, and can produce a collaborative experiment between reader and author–a collaboration that seems in keeping with the notion of synthesizing digital technology and established literature. The editors of these literary zines might expand their horizons and take advantage of the imaginative possibilities presented by the electronic medium they use. Furthermore, it would be interesting to see how they might respond to the challenges that would be presented by trying to translate hypertext from the zine forum to print media.

     

    Literary zines may be divided into two broad categories: high-caliber, traditional literary reviews that happen to be produced electronically, and low-caliber experimental zines that often try but more often fail to explore the potentially exciting possibilities of electronic literary writing. Put otherwise, these zines may be classified as the good, the bad, the ugly, and the university reviews.

     

    Among the better literary zines is Oyster Boy Review, published in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, which offers a combination of fiction, poetry and essays. The writing is strong, traditional and complex. Oyster Boy presents good quality writing, with the feel of a seasoned literary review. Other top-tier zines are The Abraxus Reader, The Richmond Review, The Mississippi Review , and The Paris Review (the latter two are electronic versions of the long-standing print reviews).

     

    In a category almost unto itself is The Jolly Roger, originating at Princeton University, and calling itself the “Flagship of the WWW literary revolution,” and “The World’s Largest, Most-Feared Literary Journal Ferrying over 12,000 to Greatness, While the Rest of the World Waits.” One could pause here, and say no more, but this unusual zine is worth characterizing, if only for its quirky qualities. The Jolly Roger has been described as prose and poetry for Generation X, and indeed has sections devoted to X-ers and their (presumed) interests and desires. The home page of the latest issue boasts many offerings, among them the warning: “Anyone trying to deconstruct anything aboard the Good Ship will be keelhauled.” Among other offerings are ghost stories, pirate tales, pseudo-literary criticism, “conservative environmentalism” (articles on “conserving Great Books and the Great Outdoors”), and an essay titled, “What I Learned in Toni Morrison’s Long Fiction Writing Class.” The visual presentation and text bullets are designed on a pirate-ship theme. While this zine cannot boast the best literary writing on the Web, it deserves points for originality and personality. It is a smart-alecky, skillfully written and provocative on-line magazine lampooning literary, academic, generational and traditional politics.

     

    Along other lines entirely is 256 Shades of Grey, which calls itself a “progressive” literary magazine, and features new writers’ works of poetry, art and fiction. Our first introduction to this zine is the home page, depicting a graphic of an alien creature literally ripping itself apart….One wonders if that is the editors’ expected response from readers accessing its offerings. From there we can link to poetry that is mixed in quality–some is strong, but overall, there is not much sense of poetics in the verse. The fiction, on the other hand, is awful, consisting mostly of vignettes with no plot and no narrative structure.

     

    5ive Candles “seeks to exploit the non-linear qualities of Hypertext.” Unfortunately (and, perhaps, ironically), all efforts to call up this zine went unanswered. Also inaccessible were Swiftsure Magazine, publishing reviews, poetry and fiction, and In Vivo, a Florida State University literary magazine rumored to publish choice poetry. blood + aphorisms is a journal of literary fiction from Canada. Its table of contents is set up with only a few links to the actual contents of the zine, and the fiction that is accessible is only of fair quality.

     

    Among the university reviews is The Trincoll Journal, a student magazine from Trinity College in Hartford, Connecticut. An award-winning zine recognized as a Magellan 3-star site and a Top 5% Web site, Trincoll Journal claims to be “the Internet’s first Web ‘Zine.” The journal publishes no poetry or fiction, but presents articles on life, culture, and the arts, skewed to a college-level perspective–articles address graduation, job-hunting, and semi-arty, semi-juvenile ruminations on love and life after college. Other university zines are Deep South Journal, a publication of literary criticism and poetry by graduate students in New Zealand; Harvard Advocate, now on-line, is the oldest of the college magazines in the US, publishing collegiate poetry and fiction; Qui Parle is an on-line companion to a UC Berkeley journal that publishes literature, philosophy, visual arts and history; Threshold is an award winning zine containing, interestingly enough, only high school work–but from the Thomas Jefferson High School for Science and Technology in Alexandria, Virginia; Cyberkind: Prosaics and Poetry for a Wired World publishes fiction, non-fiction, and poetry–all on the theme of cyberspace, and comes out of Chapel Hill, North Carolina; and Enormous Sky is the literary publication of Temple University.

     

    One of the best university literary zines is CrossConnect: Webzine of the Arts, produced at (but not under the official auspices of) the University of Pennsylvania. It deserves special attention not only because of its high quality, but because it has done what no other on-line literary review has done to date: in the spirit of crossing over between media, the editors of CrossConnect have published a print anthology, reflecting the “best of” the six issues now available on the CrossConnect Web site. In so doing, CrossConnect, in a quintessentially postmodernist trope, disrupts the barriers between printed and electronic narrative and attempts to create a kind of hybrid literary experiment.

     

    While the stated mission of this zine is to connect the art of electronic communication with that of literary and artistic production, the attractive logo–visible on a computer terminal but not always on a print-out–reminds us that while CrossConnect has crossed over into print media, its primary form (and forum) is electronic. And though the print anthology does contain some dynamic and well-crafted poems, it does not yet compare to top-tier literary reviews, such as Granta or The Kenyon Review. The /~Xconnect (the print anthology’s title renders CrossConnect in this glyphic form) anthology purports to reverse the more common trend of turning print literary reviews into literary Web sites by printing a selection of the best Web site publications. Interestingly, the best work remains on the zine, an award-winning trail-blazer of electronic literature.

     

    The CrossConnect Web site note on the print anthology claims that the stories and poems contained within it “collectively grapple with the questions and issues of our society, as well as the very function of art itself in this new age of technology,” but other than its name and stated mission, the anthology contains little to identify it as the product of cyber culture, or as an attempt to explore the challenges and functions of technology. (Hypertext links would provide an excellent opportunity for narrative experimentation.) An exception is Nathalie Anderson’s poem “Clinophobia,” whose quick, clipped pace seems apt for the rapid pace of exchange characteristic of electronic communication:

     

    Here's the toad. Here's the edge of the well.
    			      Steeped
    leaves, steep water. Still noctambulist.
    Bolt hole. Bed rock. Never see, never go
    under. Yes you will. Shut eye. Drowse. Drown.
    
    Cock light. Burrow. What's quick? What's mired?
    				    Quilt
    crawls. Flicks. Licks the dust. Gulch. Gully.
    Bed fast. Bed fellow. Never stir, never
    stare. Yes you will. Twitch toad. Rattle bones.
    
    Oh toad. No kiss, no golden ball. No one
    loves you. Yes it will. Quilt's rucked, rumpled.
    Something seethes. Something shivers. Jaws unhinge.
    Yes you will. Like stone. Kick toad. Leap frog. (2)

     

    The collection overall is strong, although the quality of work is uneven, ranging from complex, well-crafted writing by recognized poets and novelists (such as Nathalie Anderson, Sharon Ann Jaeger, and Helen Norris), to less refined musings on the level of an introductory college writing workshop. As in the on-line journal here, too, the poetry is stronger and more interesting than the fiction. Among the best work in both the print journal and the zine is Linh Dinh’s poetic translations and refigurings of Vietnamese aphorisms and poems, especially his translation of Bao Linh’s “A Marker on the Side of the Boat” (Vol. II, Issue II). These texts are alternatingly humorous and deeply touching, and always hauntingly evocative of a place and time no longer existing except in memory and nostalgia. Dinh’s “Translations of Vietnamese Aphorisms,” appearing in the print journal, is quirky and playful, amusing and touching at once. Organized in thematic form, it builds to a crescendo in its final arrangement of aphorisms:

     

    Rich at dawn
    Poor at dusk
    
    The rich eat
    The poor smoke
    
    His eyes are rich
    His hands are poor
    
    The rich have easy manners
    The poor lie
    
    Man not quite
    Monkey not quite
    
    Old hair old teeth
    Old gums old ears
    Old penis
    Young testicles (14)

     

    Among other strong poems is David Bolduc’s emotionally complicated “Other Side,” a stark, plain, and honest look at the secret gay street life of a married (presumably) heterosexual man (3). And Sharon Ann Jaeger’s “Faring Well” is poignant, with strong images–as in the line, “it haunts you like a fog that fades to touch”–and nice alliteration:

     

    There are filaments of affinity--
    fragile, but they hold: with dawn the new sun sends
    shadows through their constant Web like lace. (56)

     

    Also of note are Helen Norris’ “Consider” (136), a finely-formed pearl of a poem; Meredyth Smith’s “This Little Girl” and “Eleven Times Twelve Times Two” (150-3); and Barry Spacks’ “What Breathes Us” (155). Judith Schaechter’s stained-glass art works are unexpected, vibrant, and disturbing (and they are reproduced well in print), especially “Voice of a Sinking Ship,” which served as the cover of CrossConnect Vol. I, Issue I.

     

    The Webmag phenomenon may be a peculiarly postmodern one, in that it pushes back the boundaries of traditional literary expression and regularly crosses the boundaries between electronic and print media. Yet if it is to survive as more than a digital trend, this literary genre will need to explore more fully the wealth of opportunities provided by its medium; on-line literary reviews will need to become more than merely electronically produced companion volumes to print reviews. Perhaps, now that the trend has been set, and the forum of electronic literature has been established, editors of literary zines will become more creative and daring, and will truly show us what can happen to literary culture in cyberspace.

     

    Top-tier On-line Literary Reviews:

     

     

    University Reviews:

     

     

    Other Web Sites of Interest:

     

    • 256 Shades of Grey
    • blood + aphorisms
    • InterText
    • The Jolly Roger
    • Swiftsure Magazine
    • Excite! Review This useful site offers a directory of other on-line literary magazines, but it is not always up and running.
    • Virtual Reading Group This site has a short list of links to on-line literary zines as well as an “Internet Book Information Center,” featuring booksites, links to literary magazines, book resource guides and reviews.
    • Also of interest is The Book of Zines. Ed. Chip Rowe. New York: Henry Holt, 1997. A guide to a broad range of zines (mostly non-literary), from the vaguely interesting to the downright bizarre.

     

  • Telluric Texts, Implicate Spaces

    Stefan Mattessich

    University of San Francisco
    hamglik@sirius.com

     

    Thomas Pynchon, Mason & Dixon. New York: Henry Holt & Company, 1997.

     

    We ought to have topographers…

    –Montaigne I, 31

     

    If we are to believe Montaigne, what is near masks a foreignness.

    –Michel de Certeau1

     

    Where am I?

    –Thomas Pynchon, Mason & Dixon

     

    The publication of Gravity’s Rainbow in 1973 has proved an object lesson for many in the deferring and repetitious temporal structure of trauma or, put a little less psychoanalytically, catastrophe. Gravity’s Rainbow was catastrophic in the sense that it jammed in advance the hermeneutic apparatuses that might read it, flooded the system Cs of interpretation to such a degree that it could not synthesize its object in time and space–that is, the novel could not properly be an object of interpretation.2 Gravity’s Rainbow, in a sense that is not altogether metaphoric, did not happen; a non-event in a non-place, its effect in literary and social circles has been much like the auto-detonation with which it ends. The novel exploded and disappeared: it cleared a space in which its canonization would be instantly assured and, like the flowers that bloomed in the Ota estuary after the atomic blast incinerated Hiroshima on August 6, 1945, left us wondering just what it meant.

     

    The metonymic relation between the (non)event of Gravity’s Rainbow and the post-World War II period (non-period? post-period?) to which it belongs can be identified in the novel’s subsequent reception. It is a commonplace by now that many people “know” Pynchon but hardly anyone “reads” him (or, a variant on this theme, no one reads him “anymore,” as if some historical transformation has occurred which renders his brand of ironic fiction obsolete–a sentiment recently echoed by novelist David Foster Wallace in an interview on the Charlie Rose Show). The dissymmetry this implies verges on the bi-polar. Gravity’s Rainbow has generated, on the one hand, a plethora of more or less “bad” readings clustered around the academic banner of “Pynchon studies” and, on the other, a throng of fans who substitute for reading an exercise of nominalist decryption, asking who, what or where the “real” Pynchon might be, either in his books or out.3 The symptom under consideration here is this: a failure to read brought on by an unreadable flash, a vacuum into which readings that are non-readings (and readers who cannot or will not read) rush with all the resistless pressure of air or gas. Gravity’s Rainbow presides, from its 24-year-old vantage point, over a spectacle to which in fact it gave its best metaphors: equilibrium, inertia, entropy, a discursive practice (of writing and reading) implicated in the non-discursive field it modifies, a crisis of meaning indexed in the force with which the vacuum is filled or the “message” heard in a distinctly cybernetic society. In this society, systems of control, be they political, economic, technological or otherwise, take on a life of their own (become self-moving) and transform the subjects who manipulate them into manipulated “operators” in a fully functional technocratic order. The genius of Gravity’s Rainbow was that it grasped this transformation in “scriptural” terms, as a social inscription of inscription itself, a writing of the writer/reader that immobilizes us in the “text” of technical reason. Reading Gravity’s Rainbow is traumatic because it cannot be read without reference to this double writing that “frames” its reception and condemns us to a reflexive textual practice bent on discovering within itself the mark of its own historical location, its “place” within a period inaugurated by the traumas of the Second World War (Gravity’s Rainbow, it will be recalled, takes place nominally in the years 1944 and 1945).

     

    To judge by the early reviews of Pynchon’s new novel, Mason & Dixon, not much headway has been made in resolving the antinomies of this peculiar catastrophe, and Pynchon has once again managed to drop a literary bomb on America, even if this time it’s not exactly thermonuclear in scope. The rhetoric in these reviews is characterized by a relief at the apparent retreat in Mason & Dixon from the excesses that made Pynchon’s earlier, pre-Vineland work so notoriously difficult to understand. Anthony Lane is gratified to report in the New Yorker that “Mason & Dixon really is about Mason and Dixon,” that its characters are “heroic” and “substantial,” and that Pynchon has at last managed to write a “real, honest-to-God story.” T. Coraghessan Boyle, on his authority as a practicing novelist, relates in the New York Times Book Review how well Pynchon’s “sublime” method “works,” delivering complete, well-rounded and sympathetic characters in a “time and place” that the novel, “for all [its] profuse detail, its jokes and songs and absurdities…nonetheless evokes better than any historical novel I can recall.” John Leonard, in the Nation, imitates Pynchon’s accumulative prose style and constructs a little linguistic bomb of his own by way of impressing his readers with Mason & Dixon‘s complexity, only to end by telling us how great a “buddy-bonding” story it is–a dud of a conclusion if ever there was one, at least where Pynchon’s complexity is concerned. What these reviews have in common is an enthusiasm for realist conventions of fiction as they peek through Pynchon’s “absurdities,” reducing these to stylistic traits that function to confirm the very substances they seem to traduce. At the same time that Pynchon’s deployment of essentially comic and parodic techniques is praised as “sublime,” the novel’s human nature comes to be attested by the skillful use to which these techniques are put. Unlike in Gravity’s Rainbow, it is implied, where manipulation by technocratic forces dehumanizes author, text and reader alike, Pynchon in Mason & Dixon manages to be a humanized and humanizing producer, one whose agency the reader can discern and identify with in the product itself.4

     

    There seems to be little patience nowadays for reflexive textual practices, for double and ironic anti-realist fabulations of the kind associated with Pynchon’s early work. A distinctly post-structuralist sensibility has failed to make its case for the value or utility of “writing about writing.” The essentially political point implied in this sensibility–about the effects of a functionalist rationality on the social field it now dominates to an unprecedented degree–is lost as much on the right-wing pundit content to see in it the elitism of an ivory tower invaded by multiculturalists, as by left-wing writers like Katha Pollitt and Barbara Ehrenreich, who diagnose it as a cause of the political inertia afflicting the left today. In both cases, what remains unanalyzed is a rationality that seizes us at the moment a position is staked out, and thus the usefulness for political thought and practice of an implicate or implicated metaphorics that frames politics itself within a larger inquiry into the nature of modernity. The predicament of non-reading evident in responses to Pynchon’s work finds its origin point in this inability to grasp implication as a social and political term. Efforts by critics to humanize Pynchon in Mason & Dixon, along with the re-humanization of American politics implicit in the contemporary critique of “postmodern” theory (clearly marked, for instance, in the recent Sokal affair in Social Text and Lingua Franca), and even the bad “postmodern” non-readings that inspire this critique (many of which can be found under the rubric of “Pynchon studies”) are all symptoms of this inability, imperfect attempts at grasping a social logic predicated on a principle of concentric reverberations around a fundamental displacement, a “hole” in space and time.

     

    Pynchon’s work can be situated in this shift toward disjunction, toward the question of rationality itself as it determines how one writes or expresses oneself. The best review to date of Mason & Dixon, Louis Menand’s “Entropology” in the New York Review of Books, makes this shift clear by reminding his readers of the significance “entropy” as a concept has had for Pynchon, from his early short story of that name all the way to Mason & Dixon. Entropy in information theory, Menand reminds us, refers to the process by which “clarity and mutual understanding” are “purchased by a loss of diversity of opinion” (24). The more senders and receivers of messages approach certitude (or find themselves, like Mucho Maas with the world when he takes LSD in The Crying of Lot 49, “on the same wavelength”), the more transparent meaning becomes. The result is a homogenization of the field in which these exchanges occur, a levelling of differences catalyzed by a compulsion to “come together.”[5] Menand, quoting the Lévi-Strauss of Triste Tropiques, sees in this entropic compulsion the dynamic of imperialism that amounts almost to an obsession in Pynchon’s work; it is what “modernity” means, the stake in maintaining a relation to the history and assumptions of “enlightenment” at the level of practice or within one’s own mode of self-placement and identification. This is why Pynchon does not employ the reflexive techniques of comic or parodic fiction in order expertly to sustain a moment of humanist adequation to the truths we all share (the gist of most reviews of Mason & Dixon). On the contrary, he employs them to foreground an inadequation, an inexpert or even incompetent discursive operation that, for all its virtuousity, founds itself upon an apprehension of its own historicity, its own authorizing and authorized pretensions. Only to the extent that this apprehension is acknowledged in our readings does Pynchon’s text succeed in being a discourse without its own discourse, a meditation upon its own lawfulness as a literary artifact.6

     

    Unfortunately this folding back of discourse upon itself is precisely what arouses ire on the part of those critics who see in it no politically efficacious outcome. The price of communication today is more and more the displacement of questions about the form of communication, the bizarre presumption that the positivity or intense visibility of meaning constitutes a state of low social entropy, when in fact what we are witnessing is a profound vitiation of sense, an emptying of content, the contraction of depth into the various surfaces of social, political and economic inscription. This can be observed in the reviews of Mason & Dixon, the majority of which are in effect non-reviews, saying nothing clearly (or rather clearly saying nothing), beyond assuring the reader of the presence in Pynchon’s work of universal human values like “heroism” (Anthony Lane), sympathy and inspiration from the “breath of life” (T. C. Boyle). Partly this is due to the limitations of the review genre, partly to its subordination to the functions of advertising and markets. But either way, what results is transparent meaning indeed, a language of impressionistic escapism (“Awash with light and charm,” Paul Skenazy writes of Mason & Dixon in the San Francisco Chronicle, “rich with suggestion and idea, stuffed with all the minutiae of another time and world”) or triumphalist affirmation (Mason & Dixon is for Paul Gray of Time a “unique and miraculous experience….A tale of scientific triumph and an epic of loss”) that is conspicuous for the deftness with which it sidesteps any engagement with the “modernity” of the text.

     

    Louis Menand does engage Mason & Dixon, curiously enough through a detour to anthropology, or rather to what Lévi-Strauss proposes as “entropology,” the study of cultural production as a stimulus to greater and greater disintegration (with colonialist expansion its most destructive feature). By this detour, Menand opens a space for reading the novel’s strategy of resistance to the rationalization of modern society, a strategy of defection and detachment that centers on the act of marking an earth coded as a writing surface or Numen. Pynchon’s move to the 1760s, the decade before the advent of democracy in America (mediated through the year 1786, one decade after the Revolution, when the story is narrated), alerts his readers in a stroke to his interest in founding acts and what they necessarily have to displace in order to take place. The long sojourn of Mason and Dixon at the beginning of the novel in South Africa, and later their proximity in the wilds of western Pennsylvania to the frontiers where the Indian wars of the 17th and 18th centuries were fought, further indicate in rough what Pynchon’s reading of his (and our) foundation will be: the American republic, and American capitalism–the American techno-political order in the broadest sense–could only come into being after the racist suppression of the Native Americans and with the institution of slavery. Americans could only establish democracy by losing the ability to confront colonialism (a legacy we still see today in the difficulty with which the issue of racism is entered into fields of discourse), and this sacrifice at the heart of what democracy “is” becomes the subject of Pynchon’s novel, what it elaborates in the dream-work of Mason and Dixon’s straight-line labyrinth through America.

     

    The terrain here is, as Menand intuits, anthropological in nature. The America into which Mason and Dixon penetrate by way of marking a boundary and defining an orientation (a westward “Vector of Desire,” as narrator Wicks Cherrycoke puts it) is no ordinary “place” in the sense that this means delimited or enclosed, ordered according to principles of extension, causality and isotropy–in a word, Newtonian space. Pynchon proceeds not from a notion of coexistence (where each object, point or locus in space is externalized with respect to every other) but rather of palimpsests and Moebius strips, invisible Ley-lines and parallel universes. Pynchon offers perhaps his most ingenious metaphor for this America in the quartz prisms that Mason and Dixon place on the marker stones along the Line. These crystals disclose under a microscope “a fine structure of tiny cells, each a Sphere with another nested concentrickally within, much like Fish Roe in appearance” (547). Nested inside such nested structures is what the expedition’s “Quartz-scryer” Mr. Everybeet calls a “‘Ghost,’ another Crystal inside the ostensible one, more or less clearly form’d” (547). Mr. Everybeet explains:

     

    “‘Tis there the Pictures appear . . . tho’ it varies from one Operator to the next,–some need a perfect deep Blank, and cannot scry in Ghost-Quartz. Others, before too much Clarity, become blind to the other World . . . my own Crystal,”–he searches his Pockets and produces a Hand-siz’d Specimen with a faint Violet tinge,–“the Symmetries are not always easy to see . . . here, these twin Heptagons . . . centering your Vision upon their Common side, gaze straight in,–” “Aahhrrhh!” Mason recoiling and nearly casting away the crystal.

     

    “Huge, dark Eyes?” the Scryer wishes to know.

     

    "Aye.--Who is it?" Mason knows. (442)

     

    The face that Mason sees in the crystal inside the crystal “varies from one Operator to the next” according to who it is he or she wishes to see or is haunted by (in Mason’s case, this will be his dead wife Rebekah, whose eyes in fact he does “know” in the crystal). The doubly crystalline prisms that mark the Mason and Dixon Line, that mark the mark of boundary and location in Mason & Dixon, contain representations of “other Worlds” than the “ostensible one.” This spectral investiture of desire in the objects by which “place” is established clearly indicates a fundamental strategy of the novel to fold desire and the object, the time that desire actualizes and the space that the object defines, into one textual (but also telluric) surface. “Time is the Space that may not be seen,” says Dixon’s childhood teacher Emerson, and for Pynchon it is the invisible world that dwells in matter (quite literally, it turns out later in the novel, invaginated into the earth) and that canbe seen after all (for Mason in fact sees it), so long as perception finds the right balance between opacity (the “deep Blank”) and transparency (“too much Clarity”), the variable point of visual acuity that can never be fixed.

     

    Pynchon is conceptually close in anecdotal narrative details like these to what Merleau-Ponty calls a “human” or “anthropological space.” Distinguished from a “geometrical” system of objective relationships between determined points that is experienced as perspective, convergence, depth and position by a synthesizing eye/I, “anthropological space” designates that spatial condition or frame that cannot be “put into perspective by consciousness” (256). Unlocatable and ungraspable, this “more primordial” dimension forms a kind of infinite set around the objective world which is not itself objectivizable, an “outside” in which Merleau-Ponty finds the “essential structure of our being [as a] being situated in relation to an environment” (284). This “relation” is one of implication in a totality, an envelopment of the subject in a pre-personal “depth” that, beneath or coterminous with geometric space, commits that subject to an existential immediacy irreducible to acts of comprehension. Anthropological space has the “thickness of a medium devoid of any thing” and indicates a “depth which does not yet operate between objects, which…does not yet assess the distance between them, and which is simply the opening of perception upon some ghost thing as yet scarcely qualified” (266). Such an experience of ghosts (and such a ghostly experience) precedes the differentiation of perception and dream, and as such it constitutes what Merleau-Ponty calls a “direction of existence,” an intention immanent to the world in which it orients itself, a desire which is not the property of a constituted subject but a direction taken, a velocity or rate of change in a fluctuating and multiple space. The way Mason looks into the piece of quartz and sees the “huge, dark Eyes” of a ghost (Rebekah) is a pure perception which does not presuppose an act of consciousness within an objective or even an ontological order.7 It cannot be that Mason sees a ghost in the crystal anymore than he can see the crystal without the ghost orienting his gaze or quickening his desire in it. This gyre-like implication of Mason in his world comes through most distinctly in the “recoil” which it produces in him, the terror that almost causes him to drop the crystal and which signifies that death, that nothingness, that infinite regress at the heart of time as it reduces “Mason” to no one and his world to a “non-place” of ghostly “pictures.” This is why Wicks Cherrycoke, commenting on Emerson’s homily about time as invisible space, adds “that out of Mercy, we are blind as to Time,–for we could not bear to contemplate what lies at its heart” (326).

     

    But Mason & Dixon does contemplate what lies at the heart of time, albeit in modes of attenuated catastrophe, and its conjurations of that “non-place” unfold in the way that Emerson, his student Dixon, Mason and the narrator Wicks Cherrycoke all cease to be “characters” in a realist novel. They are “selves entirely word-made” as the foppish Son of Liberty Philip Dimdown puts it, woven into the texture of a massive pastiche that performs the spatial laminations it also thematizes in sly metaphysical exchanges like this one:

     

    "Lo, Lamination abounding," contributes Squire Haligast, momentarily visible, "its purposes how dark, yet have we ever sought to produce these thin Sheets innumerable, to spread a given Volume as close to pure Surface as possible, whilst on route discovering various new forms, the Leyden Pile, decks of Playing-Cards, contrivances which, like the Lever or Pulley, quite multiply the apparent forces, often unto disproportionate results...." "The printed Book," suggest the Rev'd [Cherrycoke], "--thin layers of pattern'd Ink, alternating with other thin layers of compress'd Paper, stack'd often by the Hundreds..." (389-90)

     

    The Pynchon whose “dark” tactics stand revealed here at the “pure Surface” of writing opens the “space” of encounter with the American wilderness by locating it at the level of a language that is flush with its own specifically temporal ground. At stake is a kind of duration that refers “America” to an anterior plane of undifferentiated “pictures” or images on which perception becomes a function of pure transition, of a “lived present” defined always in terms of its own disappearance.8 Mason & Dixon is a “travel” story in the sense that Michel de Certeau maintains “all stories are travel stories” (Practice, 115), tissues of metaphors that move, metaphorai, “spatial trajectories” that make the “places” they traverse textual non-places in which the act of delimitation meets its own internal limit, the “ghost” of a figural or semiotic motility that haunts the geometrical structures it founds. (For an interesting visual representation of this ghostly investiture of objectivized (non)space, see William Blake’s painting Newton.)

     

    De Certeau, building upon Merleau-Ponty’s ideas on spatiality in The Practice of Everyday Life, constructs an opposition between place (lieu) and a space (espace) linked to narrative tactics of inversion, quotation or doubling, ellipsis, metaphor, and metonymy. The ruses of rhetoric “describe” (“as a mobile point ‘describes’ a curve” [116], he writes) an element of almost Brownian motion that depends upon its “operation” in a multi-dimensional present that is always other to itself, furrowed internally by the specters of its own singularity. Space for De Certeau is “like the word when it is spoken, that is, when it is caught in the ambiguity of an actualization, transformed into a term dependent upon many different conventions, situated as the act of a present (or a time), and modified by the transformations caused by successive contexts” (117). Space is a practice of place, a putting into motion of one’s own time and contingency. Only in the grip of a such a practice, in fact, does “time” come to quicken in us a historical sense, a feeling for the historicity of our own actions as they play out symptomatically the displacement of time (or, to be more precise, the displacement of this sense for the displacement of time, usually in the name of history or of some more objective relation to the past, to a tradition, to a place). De Certeau makes this co-implication of time and practice explicit by asserting a certain non-distinction between spaces and places. The former (spaces) is the play in structures (places) that marks not an external but an internal difference, a non-self-identical “labor” at the heart of place (placement, position, positionality) that constantly transforms it into its opposite and vice versa.

     

    This is why the turn to language and narrative is important to De Certeau: the “story,” he writes, incisively highlights the overlapping of space and place, their coextension in a practice of “moving” or ever-shifting signification. Under the pressure of a history consisting in the progressive technicization of space (and the strict regulation of time), “spatial practices”–those concerned with the remainders of a process of rationalization and colonization undergone since the Enlightenment–pass into the domain of literature, where they take the form of “everyday virtuousities that science doesn’t know what to do with and which become the signatures, easily recognized by readers, of everyone’s micro-stories” (70). The story, in other words, dissimulates the “invisible Space” or temporal nun that paradoxically dies beneath the instruments of its own delimitation and designation. This sacrifice underlies the “primary function” of the story to “authorize the establishment, displacement or transcendence of limits, and as a consequence, to set in opposition, within the closed field of discourse, two movements that intersect (setting and transgressing limits) in such a way as to make the story a sort of ‘crossword’ decoding stencil…[or] dynamic partitioning of space…” (123). Only through this “stencilization” does space come into being at all, and this is why it remains constitutively tied to a practice (of writing) that “nests” another practice “Concentrickally within” its own demarcative procedures.

     

    With this we are clearly in the topography of Mason & Dixon, a novel about its own narrativity and, precisely through this reflexive turning around upon itself, about America too, about its delimitation and colonization, about the enclosure of space in proper places (or properties), and about its own (and our) complicity in that enclosure–a complicity that in turn conditions the possibility of seeing the imperialist history it reproduces within the ever-shifting boundaries of “anthropological space.” Pynchon hints at this textual overdetermination in the previously quoted passage on lamination, where the printed book becomes one more device (like the lever or the pulley) to extend our powers of control. Mason & Dixon is about a technological society only by first being technological, sustaining its own narrative desire to found, to originate, to be a world in its “disproportionate” multiplication of forces and effects. To use and be used is one obvious subtext of a literary practice as wedded to citation, parody, and encyclopedic “overstuffing” farce as Pynchon’s, and his novel clearly reflects this problem back upon its readers. The ingenuity of Mason & Dixon is that to read it well is almost necessarily to provoke the “ghost” of a spatiality that disappears beneath our interpretive tools, to involve us in a “Destiny…to inscribe the Earth” (221). But such an involvement in the story of Mason and Dixon must also entail an involvement in Mason & Dixon, its linguistic involutions, its opacities and transparences, its reflexivity defined not as abstraction but as the carefully constructed limit to the abstraction that governs the resistance to reading. What gets lost in this resistance is a time deeper than memory and thus an immemorial space (Pynchon calls it “America”) that does not ever appear except insofar as it alters reading toward a commitment to the polyvalences of language.

     

    This “space” is the stake in Pynchon’s mode of writing and in any reading of it, a history, a continuing legacy, a haunting, a repetition upon which no reflection is possible except by way of acknowledging its precessionary grip upon every act of writing and reading. Pynchon understands this as a logic of implication, of texts that are “general” in a Derridean sense and that form vortexes into which the reader is plunged. Mason & Dixon is an attempt to bring this logic into a clear literary focus, to tell a story about founding acts that takes as its own foundation a kind of textual vortex. Pynchon affords a glimpse of this vortical structure in passages like this one, an extended riff on the specific inscriptive desire that both Mason and Dixon and Mason & Dixon act out:

     

    Does Brittania, when she sleeps, dream? Is America her dream?--in which all that cannot pass in the metropolitan Wakefulness is allow'd Expression away in the restless Slumber of these Provinces, and on West-ward, wherever 'tis not yet mapp'd, nor written down, nor ever, by the majority of Mankind, seen,--serving as a very Rubbish-Tip for subjunctive Hopes, for all that may yet be true,--Earthly Paradise, Fountain of Youth, Realms of Prester John, Christ's Kingdom, ever behind the sunset, safe till the next Territory to the West be seen and recorded, measur'd and tied in, back into the Net-Work of Points already known, that slowly triangulates its Way into the Continent, changing all from subjunctive to declarative, reducing Possibilities to Simplicities that serve the ends of Government,--winning away from the realm of the Sacred, its Borderlands one by one, and assuming them unto the bare mortal World that is our home, and our Despair. (345)

     

    This long sentence is destined to become a signature piece for the whole novel, and indeed many of its reviewers have quoted from it, although not often in its entirety. What gets excluded from the various attempts to highlight in selected parts its exemplary force is the way its convoluted syntax is its exemplarity. The almost vertiginous experience of this sentence suggests (phenomenologically, as it were) the movement of the text as a whole, orthogonal and yet at the same time devious, drifting through qualifications, meandering to its final resting place in the word “Despair.” Pynchon, that is, works here at two levels: semantic, where Mason and Dixon’s “West-ward” momentum is glossed in terms of a “declarative” desire for the “subjunctive” space of America; and syntactic, where that desire is made to circulate through an essentially sinuous writing. The transformation of the subjunctive into the declarative on the first level is inverted on the second level: Pynchon’s diction takes the reader back to a state of “unmapped” disorientation and ambiguity, back to the overdetermined realm of dream. The dreamer, Brittania, moves toward the dream of America as the dream itself returns to the dreamer, agitating at the center of the latter’s intention to “see,” “record,” and “measure.” This double and deviating movement in fact organizes the entire novel: Mason and Dixon penetrate the wilderness and then withdraw back into already penetrated zones of civilization (they construct the Line in spring and summer, then wait out the winter back in Philadelphia), and in addition they make brief excursions above and below the Line (north to New York, south to Maryland and Virginia). Mason & Dixon “triangulates its Way into the Continent” in spider-like fashion, assimilating invisible spaces into the ordered places of empire in order to evoke the space of rationality itself, the scene of empire as it materializes in the practice of language.

     

    Michel de Certeau has written elegantly on this rhythm of departure and return in discourse. The sleight-of-hand by which discourse about the other becomes a discourse authorized by the other has for its basic structure the travel story: narrative’s constituent relation to limits, to what de Certeau calls “frontiers” and the “bridges” that mark their cooptation (127), underscores its function in the process of legitimating a disciplinarian organization of knowledge. The urge to delimit is also an urge to narrate; the urge to narrate, in turn, cannot be differentiated from a de-temporalizing rationalization of space. This is why Pynchon writes as he does, creating “Net-works” of complex association, rhizomatic surfaces into which he flattens the depth-effect of meaning. That the above-quoted passage is in fact elaborate parody, not meant to be taken as exemplary of any hidden intent except insofar as it exemplifies precisely the nothingness that adheres in levity, indicates the method of the text’s meta-commentary upon American colonialism. The latter envelops the text and the text of its reception (our reading) as well. It happens in the most basic assumptions of representation and truth, transforming “Borderlands one by one” into interiorized limits, internal differences that open the inside to its “Sacred” other.9

     

    Mason & Dixon is thus a profoundly heterological novel, concerned with the strangeness of its own authority in a world founded upon the displacement of limits. Pynchon’s is a discourse without its own discourse because even this registration of the arbitrariness of authority resonates with the violence it finds so strange. America (both as democratic critique of power and as its extension in the form of a technologically advanced capitalism) is synonymous with this violence, and the “strangeness” of this overlap conditions another kind of critique, one focussed less on asserting the “entropological” values of pluralism and communication than on exposing, at their heart, the sacrifice that drives them. Mason & Dixon‘s singularity–its parodies and pastiches, its unstable ironies, its puns and jokes, all the elements that a more humanist reading can see only as techniques for the transmission of messages in a shared social context–consists in recognizing the peculiar immediacy with which the history of colonialism in America is always experienced, and the impossibility of reflecting upon that history without perceiving it in our own practices. Far from merely celebrating parody, pastiche or irony as transgressive ends in themselves, Pynchon in Mason & Dixon makes them the vehicle of an implicated relation to the past and to place, a duration exactly calibrated to the time of reading which then raises the stakes of interpretation immeasurably.

     

    Notes

     

    1. The quote from Montaigne’s essay “Of Cannibals” occurs at the opening of De Certeau’s essay, “Montaigne’s ‘Of Cannibals’,” which begins with the sentence quoted subsequently here. De Certeau’s essay is collected in the volume entitled Heterologies.

     

    2. I am echoing here the language of Freud’s speculations in Beyond the Pleasure Principle on traumatic repetition and the liminal structure of consciousness. By the term system Cs Freud designates in living organisms the ectodermic or cortical surface where consciousness resides and which is susceptible of rupture either by internal or external excitation. When such a rupture effectively floods the organism’s capacity to make sense of its own experience, a repression occurs which paralyzes any affective response and generates the attempt to master the stimulus symptomatically through repetition. See in particular Chapter 4 (pp. 26-39) of Beyond the Pleasure Principle.

     

    3. Time magazine, in its review of Mason & Dixon, exploits this nominalist desire by including a photograph of Thomas Pynchon as a young man over a text box that reads Where is he now? This question is followed by a series of phrases detailing his current whereabouts and situation.

     

    4. The humanist slant present in these reviews suggests a transformation in the concept of production brought on by technological development since the 18th century. I follow here a discussion of this history by Michel de Certeau in The Practice of Everyday Life. As artistic or artisanal techniques became detached from art itself in the form of machines that “do the work for you,” producers lost the objective determination of a practice and withdrew into a purely subjective knowledge or “savoir-faire.” This intuitive know-how became the domain of a new kind of producer to whom practice reverted in newly technologized forms. The subject became an “engineer” equipped with a “taste,” “tact” or “genius” that was simultaneously unconscious and “logical,” original and automatic.

     

    Judgement in the Kantian sense (mediating a practical art that knows but does not reflect upon what it does and a theoretical science that provides this obscure knowledge with a reflective language, however supplemental it might be) was the skill this new “engineer” had to offer, but at the cost of internalizing a technological relation to the means of production. “Genius” as a concept presupposes this technicization even (perhaps especially) when it implies a denigration of knowledge that is self-conscious. This denigration paradoxically indexes the privilege of consciousness by founding the modern distinction between practice (art) and theory (science). De Certeau sees this practice/theory distinction as heterological in nature: know-how signifies the incorporated (and idealized) “other” of theory, that object of the “engineer’s” theoretical knowledge that supports and authorizes it. Pynchon, to the extent that he is a “genius” who operates the machinery of fiction toward the end of securing a “human” value, is thus only an avatar of this “engineer,” so long as he is not also read as undoing the practice/theory distinction and exposing the heterological relation at its heart. It is indeed a testament to Mason & Dixon‘s self-reflexive brilliance that it more or less tackles this problem head on, as I hope to show in the reading that follows here. See The Practice of Everyday Life, pp. 61-76, for a fuller discussion of the relation between technology and practice since the 18th century.

     

    5. This reading of entropy, suggestive in its qualification of the value modern societies place upon communication, nonetheless leaves untroubled its own assumption about the value of “diversity of opinion,” as if pluralism were in fact the value that Pynchon does assert in Mason & Dixon. Menand, that is, does not graft onto his reading a clear account of the role a rhetoric of pluralism plays in the very process of homogenization he calls entropic and that involves a proliferation of perspectives within well-defined social spaces.

     

    6. In fact only in the reading of the text does it live out this extra-legality, this discursive eccentricity to the literary power structure through which its dissemination is assured. Mason & Dixon, for instance, clearly bears in the manner of its publication all the marks of literature as a center of power, and only its readers can rescue it (or not) from this determination. Even when ironic or parodic fabulation can be seen as ideologically neutral with respect to the institution of literature, its politicization consists not in locating in a given text some specific ideological content so much as grasping clearly the reflexive dimension of its language and asking whether it raises the question of discursive rationality.

     

    7. By pure perception I mean to echo Merleau-Ponty’s emphasis upon a non-thetic or “pure description of phenomena prior to the objective world…giving us a glimpse of ‘lived’ depth, independently of any kind of geometry” (258). The anterior “depth” at which neither objects nor the I/eye have been posited becomes the enveloping or engrossing “situation” of the existential subject, who is grasped in terms of implication and motivation rather than production or causality. Phenomenal space for this subject “is neither an object, nor an act of unification on the subject’s part; it can neither be observed, since it is presupposed in every observation, nor seen to emerge from a constituting operation, since it is of its essence that it already be constituted…” (254). Even though phenomenal space, pre-objective and pre-logical, is distinguished for Merleau-Ponty from being (nothing in it is or exists as determined), phenomena do have a “significance” that can be “recognized” if not “thematized.” This non-thematic recognition–or a version of it linking its independence from a thetic order to the “being” of language–is what the designation “pure” perception is meant to convey here.

     

    8. When Merleau-Ponty maintains that “geometrical space” is “temporal before being spatial,” he means that its necessary pre-condition is the (no)thingness of an always passing present (or nun). “Things coexist in space because they are present to the same perceiving subject and enveloped in one and the same temporal wave. But the unity and individuality of each temporal wave is possible only if it is wedged in between the preceding and the following one, and if the same temporal pulsation which produces it still retains its predecessor and anticipates its successor. It is objective time which is made up of successive moments. The lived present holds a past and a future within its thickness….We know of movement and a moving entity without being in any way aware of objective positions, as we know of an object at a distance and of its true size without any interpretation, and as we know every moment the place of an event in the thickness of our past without any express recollection” (275). What Merleau-Ponty calls a “lived present” in which knowledge happens without a rational knower (i.e., “only with the help of time,” he writes) is understood here in a distinctly catastrophic or “catastropic” register: the lived present is never self-present or proper to itself and cannot secure even a phenomenological description from the slippages of meaning that index themselves in the language of its expression.

     

    9. Apropos of the functions of the “frontier” and the “bridge” in the “story,” De Certeau maintains that the “bewildering exteriority” accessed via the “bridging” of the frontier causes its conversion into an “alien element” previously arraigned (by this very process) in the interior. By virtue of a coming into contact with the outside, that is, the subject of narrative (the “traveller”) “gives ob-jectivity…expression and re-presentation…to the alterity which was hidden inside the limits.” As a result, his or her departure from the fold of the familiar ends with a return experienced as a discovery, in objectivized form, of the very exteriority sought beyond the frontier. “Within the frontiers, the alien is already there, an exoticism or sabbath of the memory, a disquieting familiarity. It is as though delimitation itself were the bridge that opens the inside to its other” (128-29). By internal difference, then, I mean the incorporated “other” or limit that conditions this repetitition and that constitutes the text’s implicated relation to a colonialist history.

     

    Works Cited

     

    • Boyle, T. Coraghessan. “Mason & Dixon.” New York Times Book Review 18 May 1997: 9.
    • De Certeau, Michel. Heterologies. Trans. Brian Massumi. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1986.
    • —. The Practice of Everyday Life. Trans. Steven Rendall. Berkeley: U of California P, 1984.
    • Freud, Sigmund. Beyond the Pleasure Principle. Trans. James Strachey. New York: W.W. Norton, 1961.
    • Gray, Paul. “Drawing the Line.” Time 5 May 1997: 98.
    • Lane, Anthony. “Then, Voyager.” The New Yorker 12 May 1997: 97-100.
    • Leonard, John. “Crazy Age of Reason.” The Nation 12 May 1997: 65-68.
    • Menand, Louis. “Entropology.” The New York Review of Books 12 June 1997: 22-25.
    • Merleau-Ponty, Maurice. The Phenomenology of Perception. Trans. Colin Smith. New York: Routledge, 1962.
    • Skenazy, Paul. “Pynchon Draws the Line.” The San Francisco Chronicle 27 April 1997: 1, 8.

     

  • From Freaks to Goddesses

    Charles D. Martin

    Department of English
    Florida State University

    cmartin@mailer.fsu.edu

     

    Rosemarie Garland Thomson, Extraordinary Bodies: Figuring Physical Disability in American Culture and Literature. New York: Columbia University Press, 1997.

     
    In the last two decades, much critical attention has been focused upon the cultural importance of the sideshow freak, emphasizing the effect of the exhibit on the audience. In his book Freaks: Myths and Images of the Secret Self, Leslie Fiedler, reaching back initially to his own childhood experiences, uses a Freudian lens to demonstrate that the exaggerated corporeal difference of the sideshow attraction embodied childhood nightmares and anxieties over scale, the limits of the body, individuality, even the primal scene of the child’s creation. In exhibition, the freak helps constitute the “normality” of the audience. The advent of modern medical science, in Fiedler’s eyes, has “desacralized human monsters forever,” and has replaced the audience’s awe with a quotidian curiosity that diminishes the once-exalted status of the freak as a wonder and a miracle (19). Robert Bogdan also confesses a childhood experience with the freak show in the prefatory statement of his study Freak Show: Presenting Human Oddities for Amusement and Profit, as he was hurried away from the tent by his parents, leaving him with shame and a sense that he somehow had transgressed into a domain cordoned off by taboo. Bogdan advances the study of sideshow exhibitions by perceiving the construction of the freak in the hierarchical relationship between the attraction and the audience. “A ‘freak,’” according to Bogdan, “is a way of thinking, of presenting, a set of practices, an institution–not a characteristic of an individual” (10). Bogdan turns away from the use of the term “freak,” offering instead the seemingly more humanizing one of the “disabled” for those attractions with real, not manufactured, physical anomalies. Susan Stewart, in her book On Longing, extends the idea of social construction by succinctly declaring the lusus naturae, or freak of nature, instead a “freak of culture” (109). The exhibit of this social construction domesticates and naturalizes those bodies determined to be congenitally or ethnically different in a spectacle of colonialization. “On display,” Stewart writes, “the freak represents the naming of the frontier and the assurance that the wilderness, the outside, is now territory” (110). In the freak is evidence of the colonial impulse to know and to dominate the unknown, the exotic. Common to all three of these critical works is the emphasis placed upon the relationship between the exhibit–the spectacle of the anomalous body–and the audience, which places the burden of meaning upon the exhibit.

     

    In her book Extraordinary Bodies: Figuring Physical Disability in American Culture and Literature, Rosemarie Garland Thomson envisions her mission as one of denaturalizing the disabled figure, and consequently that of the freak, by resacralizing it and giving it agency. Late in her introductory chapter, in a section which she calls a manifesto, she expresses her desire to rescue the disabled figure and to establish it as a political category alongside class, ethnicity, sexuality, and gender, among others. For Thomson, extending the arguments of Bogdan and Stewart, the figure of the disabled is as much a social construction as the freak. She also incorporates into those constructions the figure of the “normate,” a term she coins to define “the social figure through which people can represent themselves as definitive human beings,” a subject position which requires its antithesis–the figures, among others, of the disabled and the freak–in order to constitute itself (8). The exhibition of the “extraordinary body,” the term she prefers for the figure of the disabled and the freak, relies, as with most exhibitions, on the visibility of the body. At this point, a reader might expect a gloss on the Enlightenment shift to the institutional reliance on the visible that fueled the delineations of the natural world into rigid, authoritarian, easily discernable categories. But, unlike some of her predecessors–Bakhtin and Fiedler, for instance–she finds little difference in effect between the display of the extraordinary body as an anti-authoritarian exhibition of a world turned topsy turvy (a prelapsarian vision of folk culture before the Age of Reason); the Barnum presentation of the sideshow freak as prodigy and potential humbug, a spectacle to be deciphered; and the rational rhetoric of medical case history that diminishes the extraordinary body to an anomalous specimen of a malady in need of treatment. In each case, the exhibition reduces the body to one feature, a synecdoche that erases the rest of the whole that it represents.

     

    In her second chapter, “Theorizing Disability,” Thomson demonstrates a correspondence between feminist theory’s emphasis on the politics of the body and her analysis of disability discourse. Feminist theory, though, serves more as a guiding spirit for her study than as a critical foundation, influencing her to select in particular the disabled female body as her primary subject. Even though she refuses to conflate the female body and the disabled body, she uncovers conflation in works by Aristotle, Freud, and Veblen, who each envision the female body as disabled or mutilated in comparison to the culturally normalized male body. This conflation provides the occasion for the introduction of feminist theory. Thomson finds an analogue between the spectacle of the female body and that of the disabled body in the relationship each spectacle has with its spectator, a relationship in which the spectator–the normate, who is by cultural definition white, male, and physically abled–constructs his spectacle. “If the male gaze makes the normative female a sexual spectacle,” Thomson writes, “then the stare sculpts the disabled subject into a grotesque spectacle” (26). Thomson, though, is not a pure constructionist; she does not deny bodily difference. The disabled body is different from the abled. She maintains the flexibility of the constructionist view while refusing to erase the physical reality of difference, the materials from which the spectator constructs the category.

     

    For her critical foundation, Thomson incorporates theories from three different sources: Erving Goffman’s theory of stigmatization as a cultural process, Mary Douglas’s theory of dirt as a cultural contaminant, and Michel Foucault’s docile bodies. The result of this hybridization illuminates the forces at work that identify, isolate, and ostracize the extraordinary body. According to Thomson, Goffman’s theory “untangles the processes that construct both the normative as well as the deviant and…reveals the parallels among all forms of cultural oppression while still allowing specific devalued identities to remain in view” (32). In order to establish and cultivate a definition of normality, a society needs to identify and stigmatize normality’s antithesis, creating and naturalizing categories of superiority and inferiority. Society maintains order by distinguishing the anomalous. In Thomson’s reading of Douglas’s theory, “[d]irt is an anomaly, a discordant element rejected from the schema that individuals and societies use in order to construct a stable, recognizable, and predictable world” (33). The anomalous, or the extraordinary as Thomson prefers, threatens the treasured uniformity of society. Thomson aptly fuses these two theories, asserting succinctly that “human stigmata function as social dirt” (33). Choosing to historicize at this point, Thomson introduces Foucault’s theories on the construction of the modern subject and the institutional processes set up to regulate the body, through measurement and classification, and to root out those anomalous bodies that violate the norm of the Cartesian solitary, autonomous, productive individual–in particular, the disabled bodies. As Thomson makes clear, “[d]isability is the unorthodox made flesh, refusing to be normalized, neutralized, or homogenized” (24). Since the disabled figure exceeds the rigid taxonomy of the modern subject and cannot be normalized, it must be institutionally identified and contained. Once again, in her too-brief discussion of the applicability of Foucault’s theories, Thomson neglects to note the importance of visibility to enforce this containment. One of the primary panoptical institutions of the late-eighteenth and nineteenth centuries was the nascent natural history museum, designed not only to display the natural world in a rigid and highly visible hierarchical taxonomy, but also to influence and contain as well the behavior of its patrons. The freak show, a related institution of containment, developed out of the American Museum of Charles Willson Peale and its later proprietor, P. T. Barnum.

     

    Thomson devotes her last three chapters to a limited, but distinctive, list of cultural and literary sites where the extraordinary body receives representation: the freak show, the sentimental novel of reform, and the African-American liberatory novel. Unlike her presentation of the history of the exhibition of the extraordinary body up to this point as unvarying objectification, she arranges these sites as gradual, if at times incremental, improvements in the cultural representation of the extraordinary body, a freak’s progress, if you will. Each of these sites performs specific cultural work, improving the lot of the extraordinary body as it climbs its way up what might be called a Great Chain of Representation and offering initially endorsement, then criticism of liberal individualism and the ideal American self promoted by Ralph Waldo Emerson in that bible of liberal individualism, “Self-Reliance.” Emerson’s ideal of broad-chested masculinity, fully naturalized as a self-governing, atomized individual, requires the opposition of the figure of the disabled, the invalid, the body ungovernable, unconforming, dependent.

     

    In her third chapter, Thomson embraces Fiedler’s assumption that freaks help establish the normality of those who witness the spectacle and adds to the achievement of the cultural work of the American freak show the constitution of Emerson’s ideal American self. Simply put, the extraordinary body of the freak helps constitute Emerson’s ideal American self by displaying its antithesis, of which, to Thomson, Joice Heth was the best example. Presented by Barnum as his first major attraction and humbug, Heth was billed as the impossibly ancient nurse of the young George Washington. Thomson describes Heth as “[a] black, old, toothless, blind, crippled slave woman, she fuses a combination of characteristics the ideal American self rejects” (59). In presenting the body of Joice Heth to the reader, Thomson effaces the narrative of the exhibit, the humbug romance of the founding father Barnum uses to frame the extraordinary body, in order to offer an unalloyed narrative of her own. Thomson complicates the simple economy between spectacle and spectator with the examples of Sartje Baartman (the Venus Hottentot) and Julia Pastrana (the Ugliest Woman in the World), who, according to the author, disrupt rigid, naturalized categories “that underpin Western rationality,” those of race, gender, and sexuality (74). Thomson limits the liminality of the extraordinary body to binary constructions that do not apparently threaten the spectator’s ability to constitute himself.

     

    In order to satisfy her mission, Thomson necessarily views the exhibition of the extraordinary body as unmitigated containment and objectification. Although she gives a brief nod to the carnivalesque properties of the extraordinary body, she does not linger long on the disruption the figure causes to the exhibition space in the attempts to contain it. She assumes that all disruptions are contained, all threats neutralized by the apparent hierarchy of the space. Thomson also erases distinctions between audience members, lumping them all into the construction of the ideal American self. Yet most patrons must have realized as they witnessed Barnum’s exhibitions of the extraordinary and the exotic that the same fate could await them. Beneath the glee that urban working class, rural poor, and immigrant populations experienced in being potentially normalized by the display of difference lay the anxiety that if they did not conform to expectations, they too could be exhibited as anomalous bodies, exiled from membership in Emerson’s ideal. Contemporary literary representations of Barnum disclose an anxiety concerning exhibition. In George Washington Harris’s Southwestern humor tale, “Sut Escapes Assassination,” Sut Lovingood meets up with P. T. Barnum, who threatens to stuff and display the gangly, rural poor youth as a nondescript (130). The presence of Barnum not only jeopardizes Sut’s status as an autonomous American self, it endangers his life, underscoring the anxiety experienced among audience members at the margins.

     

    Thomson is more concerned with the theoretical demands of her mission than with the historical minutiae of the era she portrays, consequently (and ironically) homogenizing the concept of the freak show and its presentation. All exhibitions and exhibition spaces for the anomalous body are alike in her eyes, denying the changes in context and the complex set of relationships that arise from those changes. Around the name Barnum gave for his exhibition space (the Lecture Room), Thomson places quotation marks, an attempt, I imagine, to indicate a euphemism for a freak show stage, yet Barnum did use the space for lectures and temperance melodramas, as well for the display of the extraordinary body. Barnum, as Bluford Adams has recently demonstrated in his book E Pluribus Barnum, used his freak show exhibits between acts of his moral dramas, often to interesting effect. He added a General Tom Thumb in blackface to the cast of a dramatization of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Dred, which consequently mitigated the anti-slavery message of the play and disrupted the high seriousness of the melodrama at the same time as it helped constitute the normality of his audience (142). Thomson also oversimplifies the hierarchy between Barnum’s displays and his patrons. Not only did the audience have to resolve what Thomson calls an “affront” to the categories, the audience had to discern what kind of operation was at work (N. Harris 57). Those who could not discern the operation became, in a sense, part of the show, reduced in status in the hierarchy of Barnum’s exhibition space.

     

    Thomson fares better with the literary materials of the sentimental novel of reform and the African-American liberatory novel. She capably calls attention to the disabled figures in each of these novels and demonstrates how integral they are to each novel’s purpose and structure. In her fourth chapter, “Benevolent Maternalism and the Disabled Women in Stowe, Davis, and Phelps,” Thomson seeks an analogue between the hierarchical relationship of the spectacle and the spectator in the American freak show, and that of the sentimental novel’s disabled women and the “maternal benefactress heroines,” as the author terms them. Even in the economy of sympathy generated by these two figures, the relationship remains largely parasitic. Like the sideshow freak, the figure of the disabled woman remains passive and objectified before the gaze of the benefactress, who benefits from the misery of the spectacle through the offer of compassion, a culturally approved response. The disabled woman, generating maternal affection in her audience, helps constitute a benefactress otherwise refused membership as an American self and gives her an opportunity at a public life. The benefactress can only achieve agency by witnessing the display of the extraordinary body: “The disabled figures thus legitimated the middle-class woman’s move out of the sequestered home while remaining within the maternal role” (89). Thomson successfully reveals the freak show template at work in the sentimental novel of reform, but she could have extended the analogue further concentrically to the relationship between the staged drama of the book–not unlike the melodramas on Barnum’s Lecture Room stage–and its readership.

     

    In her fifth chapter, “Disabled Women as Powerful Women in Petry, Morrison, and Lorde,” Thomson sees the extraordinary body as a vehicle for empowerment and agency. The obese, heavily scarred Mrs. Hedges in Ann Petry’s The Street presents a transitional figure in the recovery of the extraordinary body. Generating sympathy, she still represents the misery and abjection of the sentimental novel’s disabled figures, yet she achieves empowerment through her body, an empowerment that Lutie, the character who attempts to normalize herself, cannot accomplish in the racist, sexist society of the book. The culmination of Thomson’s critical achievement is her extended discussion of the disabled figures in Toni Morrison’s novels, in which she deftly shows the ubiquity of these extraordinary bodies and their importance to Morrison’s work. The marked bodies of Morrison’s novels–the amputee Eva and her birthmark-afflicted daughter in Sula, the blind Therese in Tar Baby, Sethe and her scarred back in Beloved, among others–give testimony to the hardships inflicted by the dominant society. These afflictions, though, as they mark a physical deviation from the norm, also indicate “the markings of history,” a history that each character needs to embrace in order to achieve empowerment (122). The extraordinary bodies of Morrison’s novels indicate “a transformed social order, one that reconfigures value hierarchies, norms, and authority structures” (123). Thomson, in this chapter, abandons the idea that the disabled body still serves to constitute Emerson’s ideal, even though the process is still much in evidence. Morrison denaturalizes the Emersonian ideal American self and renders it perverse and evil. Reducing African-American slaves to the status of natural history exhibit, the schoolteacher in Beloved obsessively enters inconsequential measurements into his notebook. Even though Morrison’s characters repudiate the ideal American self as Emerson constructed him and struggle with the social order that embraces the figure, they still embody the spirit of self-reliance; by Thomson’s admission, “they literally constitute themselves with a free-ranging agency whose terms are tragically circumscribed by an adversarial social order” (116). The newly empowered extraordinary body still bears the residue of the ideal American self.

     

    To counter the hegemony of Emerson’s ideal, Thomson proposes the constitution of a postmodern self, a politicized recovery of the pre-Enlightenment grotesque body as a celebration of difference and the transgression of boundaries that dismisses the authoritarian construction of the ideal American self as mundane and undistinguished. The authors of the African-American liberatory novel–Morrison and Lorde, in particular–renounce the objectification of the freak show, imbue the extraordinary body with a mythic glow, and imagine their disabled figures as metaphoric goddesses and priestesses.

     

    The mythic becomes critical to Thomson’s mission to lift the disabled body from the objectification of the freak show. She embraces the spiritual subtext of Morrison’s and Lorde’s works as a vehicle of the disabled figure’s redemption and applies the same terminology to achieve her goal, a critical laying on of hands, as it were, to cast a nearly divine light on the disabled figure and invest it, it appears, with the goddess myth from popular psychology. The effect, even if unintentional, is unfortunate.

     

    The shortcomings of Extraordinary Bodies do not diminish the achievement of its mission. Thomson accomplishes her goal of rescuing the figure of the extraordinary body, denaturalizing the categories of freak and normate in the process, and adding to the ongoing literature of the freakshow and its cultural work in the nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries. Most important to future work on freakshow exhibitions, Extraordinary Bodies testifies to the role the freakshow played in the institutions of liberal individualism and in constituting the Emersonian ideal of the masculine, autonomous self.

     

    Works Cited

     

    • Adams, Bluford. E Pluribus Barnum: The Great Showman and U. S. Popular Culture. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1997.
    • Bogdan, Robert. Freak Show: Presenting Human Oddities for Amusement and Profit. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1988.
    • Fiedler, Leslie. Freaks: Myths and Images of the Secret Self. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1978.
    • Harris, George Washington. “Sut Escapes Assassination.” High Times and Hard Times. Ed. M. Thomas Inge. Nashville: Vanderbilt UP, 1967.
    • Harris, Neil. Humbug: The Art of P. T. Barnum. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1973.
    • Stewart, Susan. On Longing: Narratives of the Miniature, the Gigantic, the Souvenir, the Collection. Durham, N. C.: Duke UP, 1993.

     

  • Tuned In

    Matthew Roberson

    Department of English
    University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee

    matthewr@csd.uwm.edu

     

    Larry McCaffery, Some Other Frequency: Interviews with Innovative American Authors. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1996.

     
    For two decades few critics have done more than Larry McCaffery to map the terrain of contemporary American fiction. His book The Metafictional Muse (1982) was one of the first in-depth studies of 1960s and 1970s American metafiction. His edition of essays on contemporary science-fiction, Storming the Reality Studio: A Casebook of Cyberpunk and Postmodern Science Fiction (1991), is a seminal collection of some of the most interesting and genuinely serious essays about the current SF scene. Editor of the journals Fiction International and Critique, McCaffery has also in the recent past been in charge of an issue of Postmodern Culture devoted to postmodern fiction. Add to these things his more recent work as an editor–his massive Postmodern Fiction: A Bio-Bibliographic Guide (1986); his editions of Avant-Pop fiction, Avant-Pop: Fiction for a Daydream Nation (1993) and After Yesterday’s Crash: The Avant-Pop Anthology (1995); as well as a forthcoming edition of essays on one of America’s first postmodern fictioneers, Raymond Federman: From A to X-X-X-X–and it becomes clear just how extensive and expansive is his contribution to the study of the diverse field of contemporary writing.

     

    This bibliography, however, does not cover what is perhaps McCaffery’s most significant contribution to the study of contemporary fiction: his continuing series of interviews with cutting-edge experimental American writers. Beginning in 1983 with Anything Can Happen: Interviews with Contemporary American Novelists, which he co-edited with Tom LeClair, McCaffery went on to produce Alive and Writing: Interviews with American Authors of the 1980s (1987), which he co-edited with Sinda Gregory, and Across the Wounded Galaxies: Interviews with Innovative Science Fiction Writers (1990). These collections have now been joined by a fourth, Some Other Frequency: Interviews with Innovative American Authors.

     

    While McCaffery is careful to avoid broadly labeling as “postmodern” the contemporary writers he interviews, the ideas that the first three collections trace, in one shape or another, are ones most readers will recognize as postmodern. Anything Can Happen, a collection of 1970s writers, focuses on artists in particular with a “common sense that crisis was [in the 1960s and 1970s] at hand, for literature and society at large–and that extreme measures were needed to rescue the novel and the community from the grips of outmoded assumptions” (AW 1). Alive and Writing is primarily interested in seeing how this crisis comes out; its galvanizing question asks how 1980s writers take advantage of the battles won by the writers included in ACH. The writers included “in this volume simply take it for granted that many of the features of postmodernism that once seemed extreme…are perfectly valid ways for approaching the creation of fiction” (AW 2). Across the Wounded Galaxies takes as its premise that the study of SF has by 1990 become a serious institution; this is because SF itself is not only a central influence upon the styles of our times, but because it has been influenced by some of our time’s major ideas. These ideas, one of which is that in this quantum age we cannot divorce science from the arts, is for better or worse recognizably postmodern.

     

    Although continuing the earlier collections’ interests in innovative (or fringe or experimental)1 American authors, Some Other Frequency seems at first glance unwilling to commit to McCaffery’s overarching interest in postmodernism. In terms of the authors that McCaffery includes, there is no postmodern party line, or at least certainly not the kind of party line shared by some of the breakthrough postmodern innovators–Coover, Barthelme, Sukenick, Federman, Katz.2 In fact, it seems at times as if the only party line ascribed to by the writers included in Some Other Frequency is that they are not postmodern, or even necessarily avant-garde. As McCaffery sums up this point in his introduction, not only do “very few of the authors interviewed [in the collection] feel any sense of kinship to the concept of ‘postmodernism’ however that term is defined,” but it is also difficult for these authors to be avant-garde when the avant-garde’s “relevance as an artistic movement may have permanently ended during the 1960s, when artists like Andy Warhol helped dismantle the distinction between an aesthetically radical, adversarial ‘underground’ and the ‘mainstream’” (SOF 3).

     

    The authors included, to be sure, make up a disparate group with diverse backgrounds and aesthetic goals, and a group that on the largest scale McCaffery justifies pulling together only because they are part of a community of American writers who publish “formally daring and thematically rich works of fiction, mostly outside the ‘official channels’ of our commercial presses” and the strictures of traditional realism (SOF 2).[3] The end result here, then, is that although some of the included authors–Kathy Acker, Clarence Major, Kenneth Gangemi, and Harold Jaffe–are, and have been for some time, considered postmodern, these four in particular have all always been in one way or another on the fringes of postmodern fiction, not strictly postmodern or not always postmodern.4

     

    Mark Leyner and William T. Vollmann belong to a post-postmodern generation less interested in fighting postmodern battles than in absorbing the aftereffects of those battles and in searching for new struggles with which to engage and new subjects to plumb. A good number of authors who have done some work that must be considered postmodern “fiction,” but who are not typically considered postmodern writers (and certainly not postmodern novelists) are also included: Gerald Vizenor, Richard Kostelanetz, David Antin, Lydia Davis, Lyn Heijinian, Derek Pell. They are poets, visual artists, multimedia artists, and translators. McCaffery also includes two authors who for all intents and purposes seem to have very high-modernist sensibilities: Marianne Hauser and Robert Kelly.

     

    When all is said and done, though, it becomes clear that certain concepts and tropes can best and perhaps must be employed in order to discuss the innovations of this varied group. The concepts and tropes that pervade the interviews are as McCaffery himself lists them: textuality, defamiliarization, narrative, the “I” narrator, realism, history, reality, originality, invention, appropriation, authority, representation, and collaboration. These terms refer, noticeably, to issues bound up in the postmodern moment. Considering this, it is clear that even if postmodernism does not seem to be an immediate concern of or influence upon these innovative writers, and even if the writers in SOF in many ways disavow a connection to postmodernism and postmodern fiction, the ideas involved in postmodernism do in many ways seem to subtend their work.5

     

    What is unique to the postmodernism that emerges in this collection of interviews, however, is a valuable new understanding of “the real.” Like the writers included in Alive and Writing, the writers in Some Other Frequency have no static tradition of realism against which to rebel, unlike the breakthrough postmodernists. What they have instead is a primary understanding of the fluidity of reality, “a casual acceptance of the view that both reality and the self are in fact discontinuous entities” (SOF 9). As McCaffery sees it, their texts are distinguished by an immanence to this fluidity, and he is particularly interested in the ways that they “reconfigure assumptions concerning relationships between author and story, inner and outer, self and other, history and imagination, and truth and reality” (SOF 10).

     

    The notion that the interviews frequently pursue, then, is that contemporary innovative writers do not abandon realism’s need to “tell it like it is,” but instead they do their telling with an awareness that “the real…is not some discrete, isolable identity that can be represented objectively but is in actuality a network of relationships that can be rendered ‘realistically’ only via formal methods that emphasize rather than deny the fundamentally fluid, interactive nature of this network” (SOF 10).6 They are motivated by, as McCaffery puts it, an interest in exploring this new kind of “reality,” and writing in order to enlarge “readers’ perceptions” and inject “meaningful choices, diversity, and unprogrammable possibilities into lives and imaginations that seem to be increasingly drained not only of originality but of the ‘real’ itself” (SOF 6).

     

    One consistently notable quality of McCaffery’s interviews is that they are, in a way, postmodern artifacts themselves. As collaborative pieces aimed at opening up a dialogue between interviewer and interviewee, they often seem to be freefloating; they are obviously conducted only after the most careful preparation, but they also always operate with a feel for improvisation. Ideas in these interviews are taken up without undue anxiety over a preset plan or structure into which they should fit. There is due insistence, too, that although the interviews will eventually be presented in written form, they are not simply transcripts of some “real” event. McCaffery makes very clear in his foreword to the interviews that each is left open to extensive, communal revisions between McCaffery and the interviewees.

     

    That is, although the question and answer format is retained in the interviews in Some Other Frequency, the pieces are in many ways “collaborative texts based on actual conversation rather than as a direct rendering of that conversation” (SOF 12). To interviews, then, McCaffery brings a clear sense of poststructuralism’s insistence that we be aware of the complexities involved whenever “reality” is transformed into words. He also insists on making evident the interplay that occurs when throughout the interview process spoken words are in many ways translated to written, revealing how the entire process is a slippery, and, where he is concerned, a self-conscious game.

     

    McCaffery claims that there are four things crucial to successful interviewing:

     

    You've got to flat out know your material, be able to think on your feet (because an interview is a kind of live performance involving the improvisation of ideas and structures), to be able to read people, and have the ability to communicate at both the intellectual and human levels, so that people are willing to answer questions about their intimate feelings, about their work or failed marriages fifteen minutes after you've first met them. ("Interview with LM" 157)7

     

    Where the first of these things is concerned, what flat out knowing your material equals for McCaffery in Some Other Frequency is an enormous familiarity with not only all of the works of all of the authors in question, but all of the secondary work relating to these authors, as well as the various traditions leading to and surrounding each novelist. (An extensive and tremendously helpful bibliography of every writer precedes his/her interview.) With Kathy Acker, for example, conversation can range freely from Baudelaire, to John Cage, to Deleuze and Guattari, to Sade, to Bukowski. In the very next interview, though, with David Antin, conversation can switch with seeming effortlessness to discussions of Kafka, Dostoyevsky, Gogol, and Tolstoy. Not only are there fluid switches between traditions and authors, but genres as well, and McCaffery throughout seems as comfortable discussing translations with Lydia Davis as he does discussing language poetry with Lyn Heijinian, or performance art with Richard Kostelanetz.

     

    In a way, the other interviewing skills mentioned by McCaffery are intertwined; they all involve being sharp in a swift and frequently personal way. This translates in Some Other Frequency into knowing who will receive and actively engage highly theoretical questions (Acker), and who is not going to be particularly interested in discussing postmodernism, at least in the language of postmodernism (Kelly). It involves a tremendously fast dance when the overarching concepts and tropes of Some Other Frequency are met with clear resistance, and a turn to a discussion of craft and personal background is clearly the preferred avenue of conversation (Davis). It also involves a full-throttle engagement with questions postmodern and avant-poppish when the writers are game (Leyner, Vollmann). At times McCaffery can seem a bit indulgent, letting writers strike what (dare-devil) poses they will (Kostelanetz), but this also bears fruit in a kind of high-energy, larger than life, extremely animated sort of way.

     

    McCaffery’s comments about the interview form also point to perhaps its most appealing quality–its unique entrance onto the personal. For readers, one imagines that this “personal” view of a subject is at times the interview’s greatest draw; it can tap into a writer’s immediate insights, for example, about his or her work; it can also offer, in many ways, interesting voyeuristic moments, glances at the “real,” behind-the-scenes workings of an interviewee’s life. In any case, the interview does often, more than many other discourses, offer a more direct, one-on-one connection with a life, a mind, a personality. For the person interviewed, this personal side to interviews often seems to offer itself as a form through which to “write” autobiographically. In Some Other Frequency, Marianne Hauser is able to deliver not only ideas about contemporary fiction, but stories of a life that has spanned the whole of the twentieth century. Kenneth Gangemi supplements a discussion of his work with a revealing look at the charged (night)life of a New York City bartender. And it is also possible to see in Some Other Frequency the details of Harold Jaffe’s life as Buddhist (as well as “hear,” I must note, that virtually everything that comes out of this man’s mouth is remarkably insightful).

     

    In all, probably the greatest strength of McCaffery’s collection of interviews is its diversity of authors, ideas, angles of approach, and insights both into the life of writing and writer’s lives. At times this diversity of authors, in particular, seems to be had at the cost of hearing from many other talented contemporary writers for whom there did not seem to be space in Some Other Frequency: Carole Maso, David Foster Wallace, Steve Erickson, Eurudice, Richard Powers. On the other hand, one can hope that the desire to interview some or all of these writers (and certainly others as well) will motivate McCaffery to generate his next important collection.

     

    Notes

     

    1. Obviously, one can find a host of terms used to describe the contemporary avant-garde. Settling upon a label for these writers is certainly no easier now than it was in the seventies, when critics trumped one another almost daily with new terms: surfictionists, superfictionists, metafictionists, fabulationists, and so on. The way the subtitles of McCaffery’s interview collections sample from this grab-bag of terms shows that he is not unaware of, and possibly not (a bit) unamused by this situation.

     

    2. As Steve Katz says in an interview with McCaffery, for this group of writers, certain shared things were “in the air,” in a manner of speaking: “…all of us found ourselves at the same stoplights in different cities at the same time. When the lights changed, we all crossed the streets” (ACH 227).

     

    3. McCaffery finds that this community of writers is in some ways like the Tristero of Pynchon’s Crying of Lot 49, existing on some other frequency of American life (and it is from a scene in Lot 49 that McCaffery draws his title).

     

    4. They are considered postmodern in as much as they have shared “streetlights” with the breakthrough innovators mentioned earlier; they are frequently interested in exploring unusual typography, discontinuous and nonlinear narratives, and self-consciousness. They are not strictly or always postmodern in as much as they can also, variously, be categorized as feminist-postmodern, African-American postmodern, and so on.

     

    5. As McCaffery notes, postmodernism, “like Melville’s white whale, is forever destined to elude all human efforts to categorize and define it” (SOF 3).

     

    6. This new realism is in many ways tied to the “avant-pop” fiction that McCaffery discusses in a number of essays, and in the forewords to his recent editions of avant-pop fiction. Avant-pop fiction wants to “tell it like it is” in a late 20th-century world colonized everywhere by consumer and pop culture. That is, it wants to survive somehow as “serious” art in a world that is less a “literal territory than a multidimensional hyperreality of television lands, media ‘jungles,’ and information ‘highways,’ a place where the real is now a desert that is rained on by a ceaseless downpour of information and data; flooded by a torrent of disposable consumer goods, narratives, images, ads, signs, and electronically generated stimuli; and peopled by media figures whose lives and stories seem at once more vivid, more familiar, and more real than anything the artist might create” (AYC xiv).

     

    7. It strikes me, too, that these are qualities that one finds in the very best of teachers, and it’s not hard when reading through the interviews in Some Other Frequency to imagine that in them McCaffery is (superbly) leading a seminar peopled by some of America’s most precocious and talented and contentious students.

     

    Works Cited

     

    • McCaffery, Larry. Across the Wounded Galaxies: Interviews with Innovative Science Fiction Writers. Urbana: U of Illinois P, 1990.
    • —, ed. After Yesterday’s Crash: The Avant-Pop Anthology. New York: Penguin, 1995.
    • —. Alive and Writing: Interviews with American Authors of the 1980s. Urbana: U of Illinois P, 1987.
    • —. Anything Can Happen: Interviews with Contemporary American Novelists. Urbana: U of Illinois P, 1983.
    • —, ed. Avant-Pop: Fiction for a Daydream Nation. Normal: Fiction Collective Two, 1993.
    • —. The Metafictional Muse: The Works of Robert Coover, Donald Barthelme, and William H. Gass. Pittsburgh: U of Pittsburgh P, 1982.
    • –, ed. Postmodern Culture (Special Fiction Issue Devoted to Postmodern Fiction) 3:1 (1992).
    • —, ed. Postmodern Fiction: A Bio-Bibliographic Guide. New York: Greenwood Press, 1986.
    • —. Some Other Frequency: Interviews with Innovative American Authors. Philadelphia: U of Pennsylvania P, 1996.
    • —. Storming the Reality Studio: A Casebook of Cyberpunk and Postmodern Science Fiction. Durham: Duke UP, 1991.
    • Shiner, Lewis. “An Interview With Larry McCaffery,” Mississippi Review 20:1-2 (1991): 155-167.

     

  • Renegotiating Culture and Society in a Global Context

    Stacy Takacs

    Department of English
    Indiana University

    stakacs@indiana.edu

     

    Anthony King, ed. Culture, Globalization and the World-System: Contemporary Conditions for the Representation of Identity. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1997.

     
    Marxist theorist Antonio Gramsci is credited with offering the first full-fledged analysis of Fordism as both an economic and a cultural system. His major insight was to recognize that the “rationalization of work” entailed by the reorganization of the productive processes under Fordism necessitated a certain reorganization of social behavior as well. For Gramsci, Fordism was more than a technological paradigm; it was “the biggest collective effort to date to create, with unprecedented speed, and with a consciousness of purpose unmatched in history, a new type of worker and of man” (302).

     

    One cannot help but hear the echo of Gramsci in the recent plethora of Marxist accounts of the contemporary transition to a so-called post-Fordist regime of accumulation.[1] Clearly, contemporary cultural critics have learned from Gramsci which questions about culture and society are worth posing. Gramsci’s analysis of Fordism asks not whether, but how social transformation occurs. In linking the rationalization of work to the regulation of social bodies, he focuses less on the nature of productive relations than on how those relations are reproduced over time and across space. This means introducing into the science of political economy questions about the role of politics, culture, ideology, and identity in the regulation of a given set of capitalist relations. Finally, Gramsci seeks to understand the relationship between the economic base of capitalist society and these airy superstructures without reducing the latter to mere expressions of the former. In this sense, he should be seen as an intellectual forefather of the interdisciplinary field of Cultural Studies, which takes this task as its guiding problematic.

     

    Culture, Globalization and the World-System: Contemporary Conditions for the Representation of Identity, edited by Anthony King, fits squarely within this growing body of material designed to apply Gramsci’s insights to the emerging post-Fordist[2] socio-cultural complex. As the serial form of the title indicates, the text attempts to cover a lot of ground in a short period of time. The first part of the title offers a broad outline of the terms of engagement, so broad as to be disorienting, I would argue. The second part seems designed to temper the excesses of the first by establishing identity as the primary vehicle through which to pursue the study of culture, globalization, and the world-system. The implicit question it poses is: how do structural changes in the organization of society impact the ability to locate oneself vis-à-vis others in the world? This is a provocative question. Unfortunately, as I will demonstrate, the text fails to fulfill the promise of its subtitle. Instead of charting a course through the maze of the global via an examination of lived identity, Culture, Globalization and the World-System ends up reinscribing disciplinary boundaries in a defensive attempt to ward off the cognitive disorientation unleashed by the widespread social transformations it describes.

     

    The text’s production history provides some insight into why the title of the volume appears so expansive as to be virtually meaningless: the organizers of the original symposium were attempting to provide an introduction to the history of study in these areas. As King explains in his introduction, each term in the title is designed to connote an entire body of theory connected, for the sake of convenience, to a single theorist who becomes the representative of this body of theory within the space of the symposium/text. The term “culture” is intended to reference the works of Cultural Studies guru Stuart Hall and anthropologist Ulf Hannerz; “globalization” refers to the work of Roland Robertson; and “the world-system” refers to Immanuel Wallerstein’s ground-breaking work in international political economy. Hall’s two lectures were presented prior to the symposium while Robertson, Wallerstein, and Hannerz’s lectures served as the focal points for the symposium itself. Respondents included Janet Abu-Lughod, Barbara Abou-El-Haj, Maureen Turim, King, John Tagg, and Janet Wolff, who provided the (admirable) summation of the proceedings. As I will show, the respondents were also made to bear the responsibility of representing their disciplines and/or their theoretical orientations, but in a more enabling way.

     

    To my mind, the content of Culture, Globalization and the World-System is less important than its structure as an interdisciplinary conversation about the various economic, political, and cultural processes of globalization. Unfortunately, as I will demonstrate shortly, what it stages is only a pseudo-dialogue that can neither bridge the gap between the social sciences and the humanities, nor think the economic in conjunction with the cultural. Stuart Hall’s two essays are, perhaps, the exceptions to this general rule, and before I embark on a critique of the rest of the text, I want to outline some of his arguments. As the former director of the Birmingham Center for Contemporary Cultural Studies–the institutional hub of British Cultural Studies for over two decades–Hall has the most experience a) crossing disciplinary divides and b) analyzing the relationship between culture and the material basis of capitalist society. Thus, he has a certain advantage over the other presenters. Given his background, it is not surprising that he would be the only one of the primary speakers to take up the challenge posed by the symposium’s subtitle. Like the others, he details the structural transformations wrought by new forms of capitalist organization and new modes of production. Unlike the others, however, he refrains from abstraction and so is able to present a much more complex picture of the contradictory and uneven nature of the processes of globalization.

     

    Hall’s outline of the macro-level transformations follows the basic structure of the “New Times” position, which, in turn, follows the basic outlines of French Regulation theory.[3] The Regulationists conceive of the capitalist system as inherently crisis-prone and seek to explain how the periodic phases of crisis, like the current crisis of Fordism, are managed or controlled so that the system as a whole does not break down. They emphasize the role of social institutions and informal norms in stabilizing, or “regulating,” capital at such moments of crisis. Thus, for them, a phase of capitalism consists of both a “regime of accumulation” and a clearly defined “mode of social regulation.”4 Fordism was characterized by the twin dynamics of mass production and mass consumption. Its key institution of regulation was the Keynesian welfare state, which both mediated between capital and labor to secure the indexing of wages to productivity and stimulated consumer demand by providing money and social services to groups formerly marginalized by the economy. Since the 1970s, declining corporate profits caused by increased international competition, the growing burden of wages indexed to productivity, and a shift in the patterns of consumption (from mass to individualized consumption) have spurred corporations to reorganize their production processes in order to respond more flexibly to changes in labor and consumption markets. The new, flexible paradigm involves the geographic dispersal of production processes and concomitant centralization of command functions, both of which are enabled by new technologies of information, communication, and transportation. It is also characterized by an increase in the production of non-material or “postindustrial” commodities, especially information and entertainment. Of course, Hall does not offer quite this level of detail, but he does define the economic basis of globalization in these terms.

     

    He then proceeds to argue that the reorganization of capitalism has undermined the material basis of personal and national identity. As a result, new habits of thought and modes of resistance are required to combat the worst effects of the structural adjustments. To a certain extent, this is a practical argument: global flows of people, money, machines, images, and ideas[5] transgress the boundaries of the nation-state virtually at will, undermining its geographical and ontological security. As corporations set their sights on the global marketplace, the traditional relationship between industrial enterprise and national identity also erodes. Moreover, flexible production has caused drastic cutbacks in industrial employment as corporations downsize and travel abroad seeking a more favorable wage bargain. The loss of manufacturing jobs as well as the increase in service sector and managerial employment have irrevocably altered the class relations of (Western) societies, weakening labor unions and temporarily paralyzing political response to these social changes. These developments lead Hall to conclude that “[the] logic of identity [as we have known it] is, for good or ill, finished” (43). The contemporary conditions for the representation of identity are not conducive to the types of homogeneous collectivities on which political activity had previously been based (44-45). These material adjustments are compounded by the theoretical decenterings of the Cartesian subject from within the fields of linguistics, psychoanalysis, feminism, and post-colonialism, to name just a few. The connection between the epistemological and material crises of the subject is one of Hall’s key insights, and one that escapes the remainder of the volume’s contributors.

     

    Together, Hall’s two essays complement each other nicely. In “The Local and the Global: Globalization and Ethnicity” (19-40), Hall describes the crisis of Fordism and the decline of the nation-state via the disintegration of a unified sense of national identity. He demonstrates how the concept of “Englishness” was produced and sustained by an earlier moment of globalization, more commonly referred to as imperialism. This identity depended on a certain construction of the “other” against which it could define itself as good and moral. Once firmly grounded in its sense of ethnic homogeneity, this strand of nationalism has given way, under the pressure of contemporary processes of globalization, including the invasion of the colonial center by its formerly peripheralized populations, to a more lethal brand of English nationalism. Because its homogeneity is harder to maintain, this version of nationalism must resort to extreme, sometimes violent measures to produce the ideological closure its seeks. The major insight here is that this virulent brand of ethnic nationalism is not an atavistic or anomalous eruption in an otherwise happily integrated global village. It is a constitutive feature of globalization, and, especially, of transnational corporatism, which fetishizes localities in order to a) commodify them or b) pit them against each other in competition for scarce economic resources (jobs and money).

     

    His second essay, “Old and New Identities, Old and New Ethnicities” (41-68), elaborates on these insights by tracing the emergence of “Black” as a political category of identity positioned to challenge the hegemonic formulation of Englishness as whiteness. The title of this essay offers a succinct outline of his major points: Identity, associated with the older forms of social collectivity (class politics, etc.), has given way to Ethnicity, a more contingent and open-ended process of social location based on the strategic coalescence of the interests and needs of different individuals. Hall argues that, in the face of the homogenizing forces of globalization, resistance must involve a process of “imaginary political re-identification, [a] re-territorialization” designed to reclaim place from space and establish a ground from which to enunciate common demands. As he notes, however, because this is a precarious positioning always open to co-optation by the forces of capitalism or by regressive forces within a given grouping, such an identity politics is necessarily a politics without guarantees. In a world too prone to homogenization, however, this style of politics promises to avoid the tendency to imagine that one’s views are universal.

     

    The only criticism I have to make of Hall’s contributions is a criticism that many have had of the “New Times” position in general. That is, while it is able to hold the global and the local in tension without subsuming one under the sign of the other, it is not as successful at holding the new and the old in tension. The very name “New Times” implies that what is being described is unlike anything that has come before. As a result, habits of thought and modes of action that were characteristic of the previous phase of capitalism are made to seem irrelevant and even useless in the analysis of the emerging dynamic. This is problematic, for as Marx himself notes, capitalism is always unevenly developed. Emergent and residual forms of capitalist organization coexist with the dominant in any given historical context. Therefore, the call to abandon previous habits of thought and forms of action in the contemporary context seems, at best, premature, and, at worst, foolhardy.[6]

     

    I want to turn now to the other essays within Culture, Globalization, and the World-System in order to demonstrate how the structure of dialogue works to reinforce disciplinary divides in ways that are ultimately debilitating for the analysis of culture in general. The text reinforces some of the problems with the organization of the symposium itself. For one thing, the primary essays–by Hall, Robertson, Wallerstein, and Hannerz–are neatly sectioned off from those of the respondents, thereby creating hierarchical distinctions between the participants. Not the least debilitating of these distinctions is the one between the global “stars” (Hall, Wallerstein, Robertson, and Hannerz) and the local “peons” (five of the six respondents were from the New York area, three from the host institution). In the way that generalized discussions of the global tend to subsume the local, this hierarchical organization marginalizes the respondents, according them a certain oppositional status but very limited power. The relative value of each essay/speaker to the symposium is registered quantitatively in the amount of time/space the speaker is allowed to command (respondents rarely merited more than twenty minutes, it would seem). The conspicuous absence of audience participation in the text of the symposium[7] raises most concretely the question of who is authorized to speak about the dynamic of globalization. Finally, the way in which the partitioning of the text is accomplished produces a divisive and often dismissive quality in the essays. Labeling the second section “Interrogating Theories of the Global” prepares both the respondents and the readers to assume an antagonistic role in relation to the primary essays. Many of the respondents take this role too much to heart, neglecting to give credit where it is frequently due. The result is less an inter- or even transdisciplinary conversation about the problems of globalization than a fortification of institutional divides, particularly the one between the humanities and the social sciences.

     

    King, in his introduction, and Wolff, in her concluding essay, both draw attention to this disabling dynamic and recognize the complicity of the organizers in its production. That is, by naming the various methodological divides–“Culture, Globalization and the World-System”–the symposium inadvertently reified them. In addition, it formulated a new divide between these concepts (and the methodologies associated with them) and the problem of identity, which, by virtue of its position in the subtitle, was ultimately subordinated to the “main topics.” As King points out, this was a divide the organizers had hoped the speakers would bridge, but only Stuart Hall “addressed both the title and subtitle of the main theme mapping” (14). An interesting and troubling dynamic resulted: while the three primary speakers (Robertson, Wallerstein, Hannerz) focused their energies on reconciling the terms of the main title, the respondents, especially John Tagg and Maureen Turim, emphasized the issue of identity and the constitutive role played by economic, political, and cultural conditions in the formation of identity. Not surprisingly the different emphases produced different levels of discourse, ranging from the highly abstract and totalizing mappings of Robertson and Wallerstein to the concrete counter-examples offered by Abu-Lughod and Abou-El-Haj to demonstrate the heterogeneity and unevenness of the processes of globalization. Wolff reads this divide as a symptomatic expression of an on-going problem within the (supposedly) interdisciplinary field of Cultural Studies–namely, the failure of the social sciences to take the humanities seriously. Her point is well-taken, though I would argue, based on my experience studying television within an English department, that any disregard or outright enmity is, in fact, mutual.8 Certainly the disregard exists, and it is symptomatic of a general failure to be interdisciplinary enough when it comes to the study of culture, particularly at the supra- and sub-national levels.

     

    Read against the grain, however, the structural divide that the text performs illuminates the inadequacies of our current imaginings of interdisciplinary practice. In other words, as an example of a post-disciplinary practice that might complement the shift toward a post-national conception of culture, the volume is an utter failure; as a lesson for future interdisciplinary approaches to the study of global culture and society, it has its moments. For one thing, the participants are highly self-conscious about the symposium’s failings. Thus, I would disagree with Wolff’s assertion that the theoretical differences between the speakers were submerged during the symposium (163-164). On the contrary, the respondents were quick to call Wallerstein and Robertson out for their “econocentrism” (Turim 146). John Tagg goes so far as to accuse them of offering “totalizing” accounts that are, at worst, complicit in the construction of uneven and coercive power relations–as if theory were of the same order of violence as material deprivation or physical punishment–and, at best, guilty of “[putting] us back, once more, in the primitive architecture of the base and superstructure model of the social whole” (156). Meanwhile, Tagg’s own theoretical excesses–he takes Derrida’s prescription that “there is nothing outside of the text” far too literally, denying the existence of any material reality outside of representation–make his discursive positioning obvious. Indeed, at all times, either directly or indirectly, the reader is made aware of the theoretical and methodological biases of the contributors. They become representative figures for their disciplines, charting a course through the larger institutional and epistemological struggles over how best to know and understand the world. Again, I say, this is a virtue. There can be no better introduction to the cross-disciplinary squabbling that characterizes the study of contemporary culture than to have it staged in the open like this.

     

    As Hall notes, “you have to be positioned somewhere in order to speak. Even if you are positioned in order to unposition yourself…you have to come into language to get out of it” (51). Too often, as King’s introduction makes clear, the theoretical baggage accompanying concepts like “culture,” “globalization” and “the world-system” goes uninterrogated by the people who deploy it. His sophisticated critique of the nationalist bias under which cultural studies operates is a case in point. The study of culture has always proceeded as if the nation somehow defined the essence of culture. Multinational capitalism’s aggressive demystification of this common sense assumption has, therefore, caught cultural studies unaware. A coherent formulation of what a post-national methodology for the study of culture would look like has yet to emerge from within any discipline. Likewise, no one has yet formulated a post-disciplinary praxis that would be capable of addressing the economic and the cultural as an interpenetrated and indistinguishable complex. Adorno and Horkheimer once proposed that what was novel about contemporary culture was not so much the fact that it commodified the aesthetic, but the degree to which the economic base invaded and took over the superstructure, making it impossible to think the one independently of the other. The very existence of a text like Culture, Globalization and the World-System demonstrates that these epistemological conundrums have yet to approach a satisfactory resolution. But it does point the way, if only through its failings.

     

    Notes

     

    1. The literature on the topics of post-Fordism, transnationalism, and globalization is extensive to say the least. Readers interested in pursuing the debates are encouraged to turn to the journals Theory, Culture, and Society and Public Culture. Texts that might be of interest include The Condition of Postmodernity by David Harvey; Global Culture, edited by Mike Featherstone; New Times, edited by Stuart Hall and Jacques Martin, especially Michael Rustin’s contribution “The Politics of Post-Fordism: or, the Trouble with ‘New Times’”; Post-Fordism: A Reader, edited by Ash Amin; Global/Local: Cultural Production and the Transnational Imaginary, edited by Rob Wilson and Wimal Dissanayake.

     

    2. When I use the term “post-Fordism,” I do not mean to imply that the world has entered an entirely new phase of capitalism. Rather, I use it quite literally to connote the time period after the onset of the crisis of Fordism. That is, the time period after the recession of 1973.

     

    3. Most commonly associated with Michael Aglietta and Alain Lipietz.

     

    4. To clarify the terminology a bit, “regime of accumulation” designates all of the macroeconomic conditions that enable a particular type of capital accumulation, including the organization of production, labor relations, conditions of exchange, and patterns of consumption and demand during a given historical moment. Those institutional structures, cultural habits, and social norms responsible for reproducing a particular regime of accumulation are known as the “mode of regulation.”

     

    5. Arjun Appadurai lists several types of global flows: ethnoscapes (flows of people), technoscapes (flows of technology), financescapes (flows of money), ideoscapes (flows of ideas and political ideologies), and mediascapes (cultural flows, especially of images). He emphasizes that these flows are uneven and multidirectional; therefore, power relations are much more difficult to pin down.

     

    6. For an elaboration of these critiques and others, see Rustin.

     

    7. The substance of the question and answer session following Stuart Hall’s second lecture is included, but the names and identities of the questioners are effaced.

     

    8. Having monopolized the study of culture for years, English departments are generally reluctant to surrender their interpretive privileges to “quantoids” in the social sciences who prefer to study “degraded” forms of culture like TV. Likewise, social scientists consider humanities-style approaches to culture to be shoddy because they do not subscribe to the same rules of evidence.

     

    Works Cited

     

    • Aglietta, Michael. A Theory of Capitalist Regulation: The US Experience. London: New Left Books, 1979.
    • Amin, Ash. Post-Fordism: A Reader. Cambridge: Blackwell, 1994.
    • Appadurai, Arjun. “Disjuncture and Difference in the Global Cultural Economy.” Global Culture. Ed. Mike Featherstone. London: Sage Publications, 1990. 295-310.
    • Featherstone, Mike, ed. Global Culture. London: Sage Publications, 1990.
    • Hall, Stuart, and Jacques Martin, eds. New Times: The Changing Face of Politics in the 1990s. London: Lawrence and Wisehart, 1989.
    • Gramsci, Antonio. “Americanism and Fordism.” Selections From the Prison Notebooks. Eds. Quintin Hoare and Geoffrey Nowell Smith. New York: International Publishers, 1971. 279-320.
    • Harvey, David. The Condition of Postmodernity: An Enquiry into the Origins of Cultural Change. Cambridge: Blackwell, 1990.
    • King, Anthony, ed. Culture, Globalization and the World-System: Contemporary Conditions for the Representation of Identity. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1997.
    • Lasch, Scott and John Urry. Economies of Signs and Space. London: Sage Publications, 1994.
    • Lipietz, Alain. Mirages and Miracles: The Crisis of Global Fordism. London: Verso, 1987.
    • Marx, Karl. Capital, Volume One. New York: Vintage Books, 1979.
    • Rustin, Michael. “The Politics of Post-Fordism: Or, The Trouble With ‘New Times.’” New Times: The Changing Face of Politics in the 1990s. Eds. Stuart Hall and Jacques Martin. London: Lawrence and Wisehart, 1989. 303-320.
    • Wilson, Rob and Wimal Dissanayake, eds. Global/Local: Cultural Production and the Transnational Imaginary. Durham, NC: Duke UP, 1996.

     

  • Structuralism’s Fortunate Fall

    David Herman

    Department of English
    North Carolina State University

    dherman@unity.ncsu.edu

     

    François Dosse, History of Structuralism, Vols. I (The Rising Sign, 1945-1966) and II (The Sign Sets, 1967-Present). Translated by Deborah Glassman. Minneapolis: The University of Minnesota Press, 1997.

     

    Believe it or not, this two-volume, 975-page history of French structuralism, originally published in French in 1991-1992 and based on interviews with some 123 French academics and intellectuals, reads like a good novel. Once you pick it up, it is hard to put Dosse’s History down. From the beginning, structuralism makes for an ideal protagonist, fighting against impossible odds and winning our sympathies throughout all its difficulties and vicissitudes. Indeed, in Dosse’s account the early structuralists come across as heroic revolutionaries, underdogs opposed by powerful reactionary forces visibly operative at the Sorbonne, but deeply entrenched in French academe at large (I: 191-201). In these postpoststructuralist times, it is easy to forget that the structuralists were in fact the Young Turks of their day. They were articulate champions of avant-garde literature and art (II: 154-55, 200-206), formidable analysts of specifically sociopolitical structures (I: 142-57, 309-15; II: 247-59), tireless promoters of intellectual revitalization, ingenious methodological innovators (I: 202-22), and fearless breakers-down of accepted disciplinary boundaries. At the same time, Dosse engrossingly emplots the structuralist adventure in France as a particular kind of rise and fall: after revolutionizing philosophy, psychoanalysis, literary theory and the social sciences, structuralism died a spectacular death, and no disciplinary tradition will ever be the same. This overarching plot allows the author to attach localized episodes to his ongoing historical narrative. Thus, whereas the structuralist dissolution of the subject proved untenable and was ultimately abandoned, it forced a rethinking of the kind of subjectivity that underwrote prestructuralist humanism (II: 324-63). The same goes for the banishment of history from the domain of structuralist analysis (I: 181-83; II: 364-375, 427-36); history is back, but it is not the same as it used to be. What is more, Dosse’s character vignettes make such reversals (or perhaps zigzags) of fortune come palpably alive. The two volumes are studded with portraits of major and minor figures who lived the structuralist revolution and its aftermath–from Roman Jakobson, Claude Lévi-Strauss, Georges Dumézil, Algirdas Julien Greimas, Roland Barthes, Gérard Genette, Oswald Ducrot, Julia Kristeva, Michel Foucault, Louis Althusser, Jacques Lacan, Gilles Deleuze and Jacques Derrida, to Gaston Berger, Jean-Marie Auzias, Louis Hay, Joseph Sumpf and Jean-Marie Benoist, among many others.

     

    Here emerges a second assumption at the basis of Dosse’s account: that the history of structuralist thought reduces, at one level of analysis, to a collocation of the biographies of its proponents, fellow-travellers, and detractors. This is therefore a history that takes shape through an encyclopedic assemblage of highly memorable images: Lévi-Strauss being dazzled in the early 1940s by Roman Jakobson’s classes on sound and meaning at the New School for Social Research, while both men were in exile from Europe (I: 12, 21-24); Barthes finding his way to Greimas in Alexandria, Egypt, in 1949 and undergoing his fateful semiological conversion, like a Saint Paul converted on the way to Damascus (I: 68, 74); Lacan implementing his principle of “scansion,” or pointed break, by cutting short his sessions and thus multiplying the number of patients he could see and charge (I: 95-97); Foucault brilliantly defending his thesis on the history of madness in 1961, amazing a thesis committee that included Georges Canguilhem and Jean Hyppolite (I: 150); André Martinet lecturing to classes of six hundred students during the height of linguistics’ popularity as a “pilot science” for structuralist theorizing (I: 192); Nicolas Ruwet reading a text on generative grammar on the train from Liège to Paris and embracing the Chomskyean model by the time he arrived (II: 4); Derrida opposing Lacan’s candidacy to become head of the department of psychoanalysis being founded in the late 1960s at the then-experimental university at Vincennes (II: 148); Tzvetan Todorov being profoundly transformed, shifting from formalist to more broadly socioideological concerns, as a result of his 1981 translation of Bakhtin’s writings (II: 324-326); and the “master thinkers” of structuralism–Barthes, Lacan, Foucault, Althusser–all dying in relatively quick succession in the span of a decade (II: 376-90). Such character profiles help make Dosse’s History of Structuralism a gripping, eminently readable account of a period that has proved foundational for subsequent work in literary and cultural theory. More than that, though, the biographical sketches ensure that the text will be an indispensable reference work for anyone interested in recent intellectual history, particularly the history of philosophy, literary studies, and the social sciences in postwar France.

     

    Yet a catalogue of the experiences of (more or less renowned) structuralist thinkers does not suffice to explain what structuralism was or why it exerted such a tenacious hold on the French imagination during the later 1950s, the 1960s, and the 1970s. Nor is the telling of structuralism’s rise and fall tantamount to an evaluation of its significance, an assessment of what its history might mean for those of us living in its wake. What makes documentation of the structuralist enterprise more than just antiquarianism in Nietzsche’s sense, an inert chronicling divorced from the concerns that define the epoch of the present? At the outset, Dosse points to

     

    the necessity of illuminating the richness and productivity of structuralism before seizing upon its limits. This is the adventure that we will undertake here. Notwithstanding the dead ends into which structuralism has run on occasion, it has changed the way we consider human society so much that it is no longer even possible to think without taking the structuralist revolution into account. (I: xxiii)

     

    Historicizing structuralist thought, then, also involves a reconsideration of the extent to which we can call ourselves “beyond” structuralism. To think today about language, literature, society, identity and their interconnections is to live a certain relationship to structuralism–to its origins, presuppositions, methodologies, and aims. Dosse’s achievement–no small feat–is to help us live that relationship more critically; his History expands the range of contexts in which the structuralist legacy can itself become an object of inquiry.

     

    It is worth recalling that the provenance of the term structuralism is essentially linguistic (I: xxii). Troubetzkoy, Jakobson, and Hjelmslev, extending and refining the model developed in Saussure’s Course in General Linguistics, all referred to a “structural linguistics” in their work during the years preceding WWII. Significantly, although Saussure used the word system 138 times in the Course, not once did he use structuralism, which apparently was Jakobson’s coinage (I: 45). Saussure’s model was distinguished by two major features, which Dosse also detects in structuralist extrapolations from the Course. First, the model emphasized the synchronic relations between the elements constituting the linguistic system, as opposed to the diachronic relations between earlier and later stages of a given system or between earlier and later versions of a particular linguistic variant. There is thus a conscious analytic decision to background the historicity of systems/structures, a decision that inflected the work of the French structuralists. In this light, Dosse describes Ferdnand Braudel’s focus on the longue durée as an effort on the part of the Annales historians to reconcile structure and history, i.e., “to slow down temporality” (II: 229) and frame a “history of inertias” (II: 230). Foucault’s Archaeology of Knowledge (1969) works toward an analogous neutralization of diachrony (II: 234-46). Second, Saussure’s model focused on signifiers (sound-images) and signifieds (concepts) to the exclusion of extralinguistic referents and, more generally, the circumstances of enunciation.1 Hence, from a Saussurean perspective “the linguistic unit…always points to all the other units in a purely endogenous combinatory activity” (I: 48). Structuralists similarly favored the construction and formalization of abstract relational networks, in a way that often set structuralists and Marxists, for example, at odds with one another (II: 88-98: cf. I: 306-308).

     

    Saussure’s approach was the governing paradigm for the linguists affiliated with the Prague and Geneva Schools in the 1920s and 1930s; but it was an article written in 1956 by Greimas, “L’actualité du saussurisme,” that generalized the appeal of Saussure’s ideas and highlighted connections between Saussurean linguistics and the work of Merleau-Ponty, Lévi-Strauss, Barthes, and Lacan (I: 45). An earlier event, already mentioned, was even more crucial in this context. Lévi-Strauss’s discussions with Jakobson at the New School for Social Research resulted in the former’s adoption of structuralist phonology as a model for anthropological research. Thus, in Structural Anthropology (1958) Lévi-Strauss wrote: “Like phonemes, kinship terms are elements of meaning; like phonemes, they acquire meaning only if they are integrated into systems” (quoted at I: 22).2 Dosse identifies 1964, however, as the year of the real “semiological breakthrough” (I: 203-209). Communications published an issue that included articles by Todorov on formal techniques for analyzing literary signification, Bremond on the possibilities and limits of Propp’s groundbreaking Morphology of the Folktale (1928), and Barthes on Saussurean linguistics and Hjelmslev’s glossematics as tools for semiological analysis. In the same year, Barthes published Critical Essays, which included his programmatic statement of “The Structuralist Activity,” defined as an activity that transcends the division between science and art and that aims “to reconstitute an object in such a way as to reveal the rules by which the object functions” (quoted at I: 207). In this sense, Mondrian and Butor, as well as Troubetzkoy and Dumézil, could be brought under the structuralist aegis.

     

    It was during the 1960s, too, that structuralism developed the “ideology of rigor” (I: 219) for which it would later become notorious. In The Elementary Structures of Kinship (1949), Lévi-Strauss had already whetted the French appetite for scientificity. From the start he drew on linguistic and mathematical models in an effort to establish anthropology, and the social sciences more generally, on the same footing as the natural sciences (I: 23-24; cf. I: 259-61 and II: 197-99). Likewise, Lacan framed his “return to Freud” using linguistic and mathematical formalisms; both were part of an attempt to demedicalize the psychoanalytic project and rescientize it on other grounds. “The Agency of the Letter in the Unconscious” (1957) included references to Saussure and Jakobson and diagrammed the operations of the sign to argue that the unconscious is structured like a language (I: 105-10). By 1970, though, Lacan had turned from linguistic to topological demonstrations:

     

    Lacan gave more and more seminars on topological figures, including graphs and tores, and on stage he used string and ribbons of paper, which he snipped into smaller and smaller pieces to demonstrate that there was neither inside nor outside in these Borromean knots. The world was fantasy, and sat beyond intraworldly reality; its unity was accessible only through what is missing in languages. "Mathematization alone achieves a reality, a reality that has nothing to do with what traditional knowledge has sustained...." (II: 196-97)3

     

    Meanwhile, Althusser and his followers (including Pierre Macherey, Michel Pêcheux, and Étienne Balibar) tapped into the “ambient climate of scientism” (I: 290). During what Dosse calls “The Althusserian Explosion” (I: 293-308), the scientificity of a properly Marxist discourse–a mode of theorizing that was to have fully extricated itself from ideology–became an explicit and canonical theme. Indeed, no longer content to measure its progress within specific disciplines, with Althusser structuralism broadened its horizons “to include a structuralist philosophy that presented itself as such, and as the expression of the end of philosophy, the possibility of reaching beyond philosophy in the name of theory” (I: 295-6). Thus Althusser did not hesitate to give lessons in scientificity to practicing scientists (I: 392).

     

    What remains to be explained, however, is why the ideology of rigor, the climate of scientism enabling and pervading the struturalist revolution, became such a dominant force in France during this period. According to Dosse, the problematic status of the social sciences in postwar France created an environment especially–perhaps uniquely–favorable to structuralism. Volume I opens with the claim that the birth of structuralism came at the cost of the death of existentialism. Yet the reaction against Sartre is contextualized as only part of a larger antiacademic revolt (I: 380-93). This was a time when the social sciences were forcing their own institutional recognition, and Sartre’s philosophy of the subject had made no effort to establish a middle ground between the traditional humanities and the hard sciences (I: 4-5; cf. I: 382-83). Indeed, after the war “the weight of the humanities in France blocked the social sciences within the French university, contrary to the situation in the American universities, where they were triumphing” (I: 391). The structuralist revolution thus represented a broad-based attempt by the philosophical avant-garde and the nascent social sciences to make a place for themselves within a recalcitrant French university, notorious for its highly centralized and routinized modus operandi. To those embroiled in debates about how best to reconfigure instructional practice and the organization of the academic disciplines, structuralism appeared as a unifying, transdisciplinary project that could “confederate the human sciences around the study of the sign” (I: 388). Once those sciences established themselves methodologically and secured their institutional footing, disciplinary segregation set in again and weakened the hold of structuralism as a quasi-universal research paradigm (II: 276ff.).4 Domains of inquiry that fell outside structuralist theorizing now started to gain more attention: the dialogic and more broadly intersubjective aspects of communication (II: 325-31); ethical concerns (II: 282-87); biography and autobiography as routes to knowledge of the subject (II: 354-56); the role of events in a history once more viewed as dynamic and irreversible (II: 373-375).

     

    Dosse addresses his main topic in this study–i.e., the philosophical and social-scientific contexts of structuralism’s rise and fall–in a remarkably compelling way, interspersing textual analysis with quotations from interviews, citations from reviews of major structuralist publications, and tabulations of the number of books sold by key structuralist authors from year to year. The two volumes weave a rich tapestry of biography, historico-institutional analysis, critical exegesis, and synoptic commentary on the migration of structuralist concepts and methods from one area of inquiry to another. This is not to say that the History is without flaws, however. For example, when the author turns from the analysis of particular structuralists and structuralist works and begins to make larger claims about precedents for structuralism, his account sometimes loses focus and cogency. Consider this passage from a chapter towards the end of the first volume, “The Postmodern Hour Sounds” (351-63), where careful argumentation sometimes gives way to stylistic exuberance:

     

    Western society underwent a number of changes during the interwar years that...upset the relationship between past, present and future. The future was reduced by computerized programming to little more than a projected reproduction of the present, but it was impossible to think a different future....this atemporal relationship became fragmented into myriad uncorrelated objects, a segmentation of partial and disarticulated knowledge, a disaggregation of the general field of understanding, and the gutting of any real contents. This socioeconomic mulch would particularly nurture a structural logic, symptomatic reading, logicism or formalism that would find its coherence elsewhere than in the world of flat realia. (I: 357)

     

    It would take a lot of work, doubtless, to substantiate these statements. Contrast with such hyperbolic claims problems of the opposite sort: more or less serious omissions, elisions, and foreshortenings.5 For instance, apart from two brief mentions of The Postmodern Condition (I: 354, 360), Dosse omits any discussion of the work of Jean-François Lyotard, whose intellectual biography (tracing a route from phenomenology to psychoanalysis and Marxism to post-Wittgensteinian theories of enunciation) in many ways parallels the history of structuralism. Later, Dosse too quickly assimilates the positions of Barthes and Foucault in their respective essays on “The Death of the Author” and “What Is an Author?” (II: 124). In actual fact, Foucault, far from belonging to the “strict structuralist orthodoxy” on this question, contested Barthes’ claim that authors have simply died off at the hands of modern-day écriture. Instead, Foucault argued for a genealogical approach to the author viewed as a function specifying how discourses can be produced and read in different eras.6

     

    What is more, readers interested in learning about the historical relations between structuralism and feminism–or even about how women as a group responded to structuralist thought–will be disappointed by this text. It is true that, in the unmarked case, structuralism was gendered male. Yet feminists too have oriented themselves around the sciences of the sign and, inversely, the rethinking of structuralism as a dominant research paradigm was bound up with the development of feminism construed as a way of thinking about thinking itself.[7] Nonetheless, the only female figure to make more than a fleeting appearance in this History is Julia Kristeva. Note that she is introduced in a chapter subtitled “Julia Comes to Paris” (I: 343-48): women, it seems, are the only historical personages with whom we can presume to be on a first-name basis. Further, Dosse suggests that it was Kristeva’s marriage to Philippe Sollers that “sealed Kristeva’s intellectual place within Tel Quel” and quotes one of Sollers’ remarks about “‘her grace, her sensuality, [and] this union between grace and physical beauty and her capacity for reflection” (I: 344). In no other case does the author attribute a scholar’s “intellectual place” to marriage, and no other theorist is described in any physical detail, let alone as “sensual.”

     

    Dosse’s overall achievement, however, should not be underestimated. This text contains a wealth of useful information, stylishly and convincingly presented. One of the most interesting chapters is an overview of the new journals founded during the heyday of structuralism (I: 273-83; cf. II: 154-63). Dosse describes the conditions of emergence of journals like La Psychanalyse (founded by Lacan in 1956), Langages (1966), Communications (1961), Tel Quel (1960), La Nouvelle Critique (1967), and Les Cahiers pour l’analyse (1966), reviewing the main editorial mission in each case. Equally illuminating is the author’s account of the radical protests of May 1968 and their effect on structuralism and individual structuralists (II: 112-132). Whereas Greimas was of the opinion that “‘All scientific projects will be set back twenty years’” (II: 114), Lacan boldly proclaimed during an argument with Lucien Goldmann: “‘If the events of May [1968] demonstrated anything at all, they showed…precisely that structures had taken to the streets!’” (II: 122). Lacan proved to be right: the protest movement sided with the structuralist critique of academic traditionalism and, in its dissatisfaction with received educational practices, reinforced the structuralist desire for scientific rigor (II: 128-30). One of the lesser-known episodes in the history of structuralism involves geography, and Dosse provides a fascinating glimpse into the delayed transformation of an “objectless discipline” via structuralism (II: 312-23). This incident confirms that the impact of structuralism on the separate social sciences was nonsynchronous. Even though structuralism prioritized spatial relations at the expense of historical analysis, creating an environment that would seem to favor a reexamination of cartographic techniques, geographers at first failed to structuralize their discipline. But there was a discipline-specific reason for this:

     

    geography in the sixties had continued to be defined as a science of the relationship between nature and culture, between the elements of geomorphology and climatology and those belonging to the human valorization of natural conditions. Consequently, the structuralist ambition of basing the sciences of man solely on culture, modeled by linguistic rules, appeared somewhat foreign to the geographer's concerns for basing disciplinary unity on the correlationship [?] between levels of nature and culture. (II: 312)

     

    Starting in the 1970s, however, geographers such as Yves Lacoste drew on structuralist ideas to distinguish between “space as a real object and as an object of knowledge” (II: 317). Foucault’s work on observation and the logic of spatial organization also came into play. By 1980, Roger Brunet had developed the notion of the “choreme,” the geographical equivalent of the phoneme and “the smallest distinctive unit for describing graphic language around elementary spatial structures” (II: 323). This latecomer to structuralist theorizing had revolutionized itself, even as the structuralist paradigm was on the wane.

     

    What does it mean, though, to talk about the “fall” of structuralism? Arguably, like other falls in other myths, this fall has not been a bounded, discrete event; it remains a fall in progress, one that we continue to live. Granted, developments in the human sciences during the last twenty-five years have enabled us to demystify the structuralists’ idealization–and ideologization–of scientific rigor. As Dosse’s study reveals, a discipline’s valorization of science does not ipso facto make that discipline scientific. Nor, for that matter, was Saussurean linguistics the best candidate for a pilot science, even during the glory days of structuralism. By the 1950s and 1960s, linguistic praxis (outside France at least) had already superseded the theory of language that the structuralists took over from Saussure.8 Judged on the basis of criteria internal to structuralist theory, then, structuralism fell short of the absolute rigor to which it aspired. Its future-looking scientism masked a nostalgia for the Saussurean sign. Paradoxically, however, structuralism’s undoing marked a first step towards the lofty goals that it had envisaged, the tough investigative standards that it had set. A theory can be exact only insofar as it knows where its exactness breaks down. The structuralists, in passing through “The Mirage of Formalization” (II: 191-99), have taught us some of formalization’s limits. At the same time, it is at our own peril that we ignore the richness and fecundity of their efforts to formalize–to frame explicit models for the description and explanation of a wide variety of phenomena, literary, linguistic, anthropological, historical, geographical, socioeconomic. Indeed, the history of structuralist thought is the history of a refusal to view languages and texts, human beings and cultures, as random assemblages of inexplicable elements. That refusal amounts of course to an infinite task. But structuralism’s fall has made it easier to grasp both the impossibility of wholly rigorous explanations and the necessity of attempting them.

     

    Notes

     

    1. In 1939, however, Émile Benveniste argued that despite Saussure’s stated position, his approach presupposed a concept of the referent. For Benveniste, Saussure’s arguments about the arbitrariness of the sign did not prove that concepts and sound-images are only arbitrarily related; indeed, if the signifier-signified relation were truly arbitrary, languages would lack the systematicity that enables communication. (In such a scenario, if I said structuralism you would have no way of knowing whether I meant lukewarm, Montana, postmodernism, or indefinitely many other possible candidates.) What Saussure’s arguments demonstrated, rather, was that different systems of signification–i.e., different languages–relate to referents in a merely conventional way. Thus referring expressions from different languages are inter-translatable precisely because no single language stands in a natural, non-conventional relation to a given domain of referents.

     

    2. For a devastating critique of Lévi-Strauss’s attempt to use phonological notions to build a theory of the combinatory patterns of “mythemes,” see Pavel 18-37.

     

    3. Dosse takes this quotation from Jacques Lacan, Le Séminaire, Livre XX, Encore (1973-1974) (Paris: Seuil, 1975), 118.

     

    4. The author identifies other causes for structuralism’s decline as well. For example, Dosse discusses the shock waves set off by the translation of Solzhenitsyn’s The Gulag Archipelago into French in 1974. This book had an especially powerful effect on those who followed Althusser in propounding a structural Marxism (II: 269-75).

     

    5. A third class of problems must be ascribed not to Dosse but to the translator. Usually supple, lively, and accurate, the translation does have a few glitches, as when Glassman offers nonstandard translations of well-known titles (e.g., Logical Searches for Husserl’s Logische Untersuchungen) and contorts English syntax in sentences like “The avoidance of a certain number of properly philosophical questions, by choosing the social sciences, had led people to think that with structuralism, questions on ethics and metaphysics were made obsolete once and for all” (II: 282).

     

    6. In other places, however, Dosse writes persuasively about Foucault’s complex relationship with structuralism. There is for example an excellent assessment of The Order of Things in Volume I (330-42).

     

    7. The formulation is Myra Jehlen’s (95).

     

    8. Pavel (125-44) discusses ways in which structuralism grew out of the delayed exposure of French linguistics and philosophy of language to ideas developed elsewhere, particularly in the neopositivist tradition associated with the Vienna Circle and in Anglo-American language theory.

     

    Works Cited

     

    • Benveniste, Émile. “The Nature of the Linguistic Sign.” Critical Theory Since 1965. Eds. Hazard Adams and Leroy Searle. Tallahassee: UPs of Florida, 1986. 725-28.
    • Jehlen, Myra. “Archimedes and the Paradox of Feminist Criticism.” Feminisms: An Anthology of Literary Theory and Criticism. Eds. Robyn R. Warhol and Diane Price Herndl. New Brunswick: Rutgers UP, 1991. 75-96.
    • Nietzsche, Friedrich. “On the Uses and Disadvantages of History for Life.” Untimely Meditations. Trans. R. J. Hollingdale. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1983. 59-123.
    • Pavel, Thomas G. The Feud of Language: A History of Structuralist Thought. Trans. Linda Jordan and Thomas G. Pavel. Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1989.

     

  • First Communion, There Was a Time, Summer Questions, and Stars of Desire

    Cory Brown

    Ithaca College
    cbrown@ithaca.edu

    First Communion

     

    Another guest has departed and we are left
    with the backdrop of another day,
    left to carry out the remains of July.
    One or two days strung out before the clouds
    clear and we can begin to see the sun again
    in a new light; cicadas’ buzzes imminent,
    not yet salient to the ear, but expected enough
    for me to hear them in the mind. I raise
    my screen to get a better view of the lake,
    cornflowers and day lilies in the hazy,
    muggy afternoon–as if an unimpeded view
    of the outdoors could offer me
    something I hadn’t seen or heard before.
    All for the purpose of giving me
    that little extra umpf of inspiration
    like a good cup of strong Vienna-roast.
    And here I’ve come again to see if I can
    make that seminal commentary, that communal
    graft which both describes and sets the stage
    for what is to be described later,
    when hummingbirds and helicopter leaves
    are just an image from the past and yet
    a vision of what is to come. Like seeing
    the still lake from far away, such as where I am,
    and recognizing its resemblance to itself
    in the midst of a fierce, mid-winter freeze.
    I suppose I’m still making stabs
    at attaining that transcendent experience,
    ever since my first holy communion,
    a wafer-taste emerging on my tongue
    as I write, mixed now with a straight-forward
    mocha flavor, no cream no sugar, unadulterated
    adulteration, pure as can be. But that’s
    how we always start everything it seems,
    waiting and waiting until we can’t
    see another way out, a few confessions
    and blandishments along the way and then
    it’s all over. The baby wakes up, the phone
    rings, and what with the diaper and all.
    And before you know it the buzzing
    of reality has stopped and your eyelids
    are closing ever so slowly. A black spider
    crawls up one side of the door and then
    the other before it reaches the top,
    where it continues steadily along its path,
    rightside up for now, and you breathe
    a long pleasant sigh of relief in your sleep.

     


     

    Summer Questions

     

    Can I imagine a life without them?
    It is the anger I would miss.
    How wind can come upon you as you
    picture yourself in the fall,
    standing in the middle of an apple orchard
    with your hand outstretched for the
    last time of the day, and suddenly
    the entire summer’s complexion has changed.
    They are the incompletions, lying awake
    at night and picturing the purity
    of an imaginary planet’s skies. They are
    the lies that make up the thin tissue
    we think of as skin and July’s grass
    and purple loosestrife. They are evenings
    in early August, the sun’s last light
    stretching itself pink and reluctant
    over the orchard’s high straggling limbs.
    Trying to make it appear so natural.

     


     

    There Was a Time

     

    1.
    There was a time when what I wanted to say
    came to me unhesitantly, the ease
    not so much in how it was to be phrased
    or what words to use, but in the faith
    I had in the foundation of sayings.
    Like in a dry spell as a boy when I could
    stand at the bottom of what was a small pond
    and look down at all the cracks that marked
    where patches of earth the size of large
    sea turtles had separated but could be
    reunited in a nice common rain. The slightest
    smell of it in the air and I could imagine
    again the catfish scanning the silt,
    my hook down there being dragged around,
    drawing attention to itself as a squirming,
    nourishing morsel. But even the patches
    of earth themselves were refreshing
    in their own way, the way you could leap
    from one shell to the next, large as continents,
    and then pause and look up just in time
    to see a player piano-shaped cloud drop its
    tune trippingly from the sky, the beginning
    of a long, large-dropped, shirt-soaking shower.
    And you could imagine the continents
    growing soggy and you worrying about it
    raining for forty days and forty nights
    and how you were going to fit them all
    two by two in what it was you had no way
    of knowing how to build, let alone
    find the words to tell the others.

     

    2.
    Now, it’s as if the dandelion seeds
    flying in the air, sometimes it seems as fast
    as birds, could be the words themselves.
    As if being here watching the swallows
    weave between powerlines is a way of weaving
    between the lines myself. And to take
    ourselves back to the time before we sat
    down to muse about going back, or to muse
    by going back, would be a way of disingenuously
    seeing ourselves here, of being here,
    as if just being here isn’t enough.
    What I want to say now is in the margins,
    that place where the dandelion seeds in the air
    come from and disappear to, and where
    the goldfinch hides when it’s not within
    the view of my window. And it wouldn’t
    help to get a larger window, for discovery
    is what’s outside the aperture, which dislocates
    and misplaces. And discovery is, after all,
    the only setting worth sitting at, the placemat
    of the greatest meal–even if we do suspect
    when we sit down that there may be an old
    forgotten hook somewhere in one of the dishes,
    the baked sole perhaps, the lightly battered haddock,
    or the deep-fried catfish with its myriad
    meandering bones you have to always be on the lookout
    for with that curious dexterity of tongue
    and roof of the mouth, so you can never
    just relax and taste the taste. Little bones
    like hooks themselves waiting for you
    to swallow hook line and sinker if you are
    so inclined. That is, gullible enough to want
    it all: the dips and subtle hesitations
    of swallows skimming the treetops, as well as
    the slow movements in the darkness of ponds.

     


     

    Stars of Desire

     

    I would like to have written
    about the falling stars for you.
    How one after another streamed
    like tears down the face
    of the night sky,
    the sky shrouded here and there
    by thin clouds appearing from the West.
    And how those clouds would turn
    the night’s face inscrutable
    for a few passing moments,
    as if it were longing,
    or lost in thought.
    But we didn’t see them as we
    would have liked: clear as
    notes in a piano sonata
    tripping down the scale in trill
    or tremolo, or in multitudinous
    burstings like slow, silent fireworks.
    I had known it all along,
    before we sat down outside
    in chairs with our heads back
    in a sort of obverse position
    of homage and prayer. Had known it
    as we hummed old songs
    for our daughter in your lap,
    each of us imagining
    how it might be to be back
    in our mother’s arms–
    listening to a voice as familiar
    as our own pulling us down
    into deep sleep like stars falling
    into earth. That night
    you came to me in the smooth
    skin of a half-dream
    and convinced me in whispers
    that we had seen the stars
    as we had wished. That those flames
    were the source of these
    momentary passions, were ours.

     

  • A Response to Twelve Blue by Michael Joyce

    Greg Ulmer

    Department of English
    University of Florida
    gulmer@english.ufl.edu

     

    Michael Joyce is well known as a theorist, teacher, and creator of hypertext fiction. His most recent composition, authored in StorySpace for presentation on the World Wide Web, may be found at http://www.eastgate.com/TwelveBlue. Twelve Blue thus demonstrates the strengths (but also some of the limitations) of StorySpace as an authoring environment for the Web. Its great evocative power also shows off the craft of Joyce as a creative writer.

     

    The epigraph makes explicit the intertextual relationship between Joyce’s hypertext and On Being Blue by William Gass, a tour de force of poetic prose. I have long admired Gass’s meditative essay, for which Twelve Blue provides a narrative counterpart. Gass’s text demonstrates what I now call writing with the choral word (derived from a strategy often used by Jacques Derrida)–the inventio and dispositio are governed by the principle of blue (every possible usage) rather than by a thesis statement or a story (although the text both argues and narrates). I anticipated then that Joyce would continue this experiment, testing its applicability as a way to design a hypertext (and I was not disappointed). The introduction explains that the hypertext includes 269 links in 96 spaces. The reader is offered a definition that turns out to be a phrase from the work: “12 Blue isn’t anything. Think of lilacs when they are gone.” It so happens that I have never stopped thinking of the lilacs that grew in the backyard of my childhood home, the very scarcity of flowering bushes in Montana making their brief but fragrant appearance all the more impressive. I am hooked.

     

    The layout includes two frames–a narrow column on the left displaying a field of colored threads or yarn, spread horizontally from the top to the bottom of the frame. We are given to understand that these threads, mostly of a dark color except for one line of yellow, represent the StorySpace network. Indeed, each thread is a link to a document in the web; running the cursor over the frame shows the range of URLs available. Clicking on these threads moves the reader through the web in digital jumps. Since the URLs are numbered in sequence the reader might be tempted to move through the hypertext in a linear fashion by entering the document addresses in consecutive order. This effort will not produce a linear path, however, for the work is nonlinear in both conception and execution. The large righthand frame displays the prose segments printed in light blue on a dark blue background. Each cell offers at least one link within the prose, motivated this time by formal or aesthetic motifs derived from the attributes or properties of objects, places, events, persons.

     

    The effect of spending a couple of hours browsing Twelve Blue is the literary equivalent of seeing an interlaced gif assemble itself, passing from an unintelligible array of diffuse shapes into a fully coherent representation. This experience of initial disorientation and confusion that modernist fiction labored so hard to produce is more or less inherent in the nonlinear linking of hypertext. Some of John Cage’s experiments anticipate the potential of a different mode altogether of reading and writing, such as those in which he attempted to produce in prose the effect of working the tuners of numerous radios to pass in and out between noise and speech. Part of the craft of authoring in hypertext masterfully manifested in Twelve Blue is this gradual passage in and out of focus of the diegesis or imaginary space and time of the narrative world. As the reader moves through the cells of prose in a random order of selection, a recognizable world emerges–even a world of verisimilitude reflecting qualities of realist fiction (psychologically deep characters with complex inner lives)–but assembles itself fully only in the reader’s imagination.

     

    The style of the prose is mostly indirect, with the actions, thoughts, and speeches of characters being reported for the most part rather than dramatized. We meet a group of characters entangled in melodramatic domestic stories of sex, fatal accidents, and murder. We are not expected to identify with these characters, as we might do if we encountered them in their original soap operatic genres. We learn who they are, what their relationship is to one another, but, as one of the women explains to her illegitimate daughter, their stories only have beginnings, but no middles or endings. A number of the lives do end, but the point concerns the form of the work more than its themes: its non-Aristotelian quality.

     

    Twelve Blue is a brilliant probe of the direction in which on-line writing must inevitably evolve. The counterparting with Gass calls attention to the qualities of the hybrid writing that takes fullest advantage of the hyperlink effect. On Being Blue and Twelve Blue converge on a lyrical order from the sides respectively of the essay and the story. In the era of print, as Scholes and Kellogg long ago argued, prose writing was divided into two functions associated with two styles: the plain style of the essay was assigned the representation of fact, and the narrative story was assigned the expression of fiction. The making of patterns by means of association fell to lyric poetry, and was subordinated culturally to the report and the novel. Science, meanwhile, abolished style altogether to rely solely on experimental proof. These conventions have been dissolving throughout the new age of media. Long anticipated in the experimental arts, the technology to support a new arrangement among functions and styles is finally reaching the general public in the form of desktop interactive authoring. What remains to be invented (as I keep saying) is the practice that fully exploits the features of the new apparatus (electracy).

     

    In electracy (the practices that are to multimedia computing what literacy is to print) essayistic exposition and narrative story still exist, but they are incorporated into and subordinated under poetic patterning. Twelve Blue is an excellent example of this inversion of the literate hierarchy among the basic modes and styles, in that all the features of the diegetic world are put in service of the figurative creation of an atmosphere, a mood, a feeling, in the manner of a poem. The events, characters, places, and objects have their own interest, of course: incomplete in themselves, they accumulate into an evocation of something beyond themselves–an image, a figure. The various scenes and anecdotes converge around the experience of drowning. The beautiful, athletic wife of a prominent scientist, skin-diving off Malibu, becomes entangled in weeds and drowns. Her daughter, obsessively compelled to reenact the event, is said to have become a strong swimmer out of grief. A deaf boy drowns in a creek. The repetitions signal unmistakably that something more and unstated is motivating these events.

     

    These drownings described as events return as metaphors and analogies for the experience of the characters. A daughter tells her father, who is learning to date again, that women prefer men with a story–stories of blues songs and lost loves, or of shipwreck and drowning. Javier, the scientist, is a man figuratively drowning for having fallen in love too late in life. The assembling pattern triggers in the reader the realization that an allegory is in the making, or at least, in modernist style, an allegorical effect in which the microcosm and macrocosm come into correspondence but without grounding in any particular metaphysical system. The diegetic plane of events evokes parallel worlds at the level of the fluids of the body–especially the secretions and processes of sexual functioning–and the fluids of nature (water within and without, mediated by the human organism). The philosopher Voltaire used the image of a shipwrecked man who realizes that the ocean in which he swims has no shores, to convey the feeling of utter hopelessness. A similar mood is evoked in Twelve Blue.

     

    Roland Barthes’s theory of narrative offers a frame within which to appreciate the implications of Joyce’s example:

     

    The logic to which the narrative refers is nothing other than a logic of the already-read: the stereotype (proceeding from a culture many centuries old) is the veritable ground of the narrative world, built altogether on the traces which experience (much more bookish than practical) has left in the reader's memory and which constitutes it. Hence we can say that the perfect sequence, the one which affords the reader the strongest logical certainty, is the most cultural sequence, in which are immediately recognized a whole summa of readings and conversations. (144)

     

    Twelve Blue shows how the stereotypes of melodrama may become an asset rather than a liability; Joyce relies on the predictability of all that he leaves unsaid in order to elaborate more fully the background details that conventional narrative confines to the function of furthering the action or expanding the character.

     

    The act of reading Twelve Blue then is organized less by the enigma of action or the revelations of character and more by the gradual formation of an image. The readers become their own “Henry James,” receiving from the hypertext the germ of a story, in the manner James described as his creative process in The Spoils of Poynton. Dining with some friends, James heard a fragment of an anecdote during the conversation, something to do with “a good lady in the north, always well looked on, who was at daggers drawn with her only son, ever hitherto exemplary, over the ownership of the valuable furniture of a fine old house just accruing to the young man by his father’s death” (121). The reader of Twelve Blue overhears a number of such germs or seeds; even a garden plot salted with them.

     

    These “germs” of stories James welcomed as “precious particles”:

     

    Such is the interesting truth about the stray suggestion, the wandering word, the vague echo, at touch of which the novelist's imagination winces as at the prick of some sharp point; its virtue is all in its needle-like quality, the power to penetrate as finely as possible. (119)

     

    The needle point might be reduced to one word: blue. James of course developed these germs into what for me now (having paid my dues in graduate school) are unreadable novels, as archaic from the point of view of electracy as Homer was from the point of view of literacy. Joyce, judging the nature of digital art, leaves the narrative seeds largely in their concentrated state. The image James used to convey the effect of hearing such partial situations extracted from reality (reported in the press or distilled from local gossip) may be recognized as the same one Barthes used to name the effect of “third meanings”–the punctum created by the details noticed in photographs that makes them unforgettable. The punctum is to electracy what the eidos is to literacy. If literate thinking organized itself around recognizable shapes or forms that evolved into conceptual classification systems, electrate thinking is coming into existence around felt moods or atmospheres.

     

    The reason for emphasizing this effect in Joyce’s prose may have more to do with my concerns than his, but it is why I consider his work to be exemplary. Reading Joyce in the context of contemporary theory and media, not to mention the context of the World Wide Web, calls attention to the challenge confronting those of us working on the invention of electracy (the practices of both specialized and quotidian reading and writing for a society becoming committed to interactive multimedia), among whom I count Michael Joyce. Information in an electrate civilization is organized fundamentally in the mode of the image: enigma and enthymeme both are now at the service of the figurative. Again it is Barthes who provides an account of how the image functions. In image culture predominance is given to the semic code, organizing the attributes associated with the props and setting that constitute the environment within which the characters perform their actions. The semes, properties, or indices accumulate to create a certain atmosphere or mood. “The signifiers of the object are of course material units, like all the signifiers of any system of signs, i.e., colors, shapes, attributes, accessories” (The Semiotic Challenge 185). In narrative and argument these semes are subordinated to the purposes of proof or story, but in image discourse made possible by photography (the way the conceptual discourse was made possible by the alphabetic recording of sound), they emerge to function autonomously. Patterns of similarity, contiguity, and other aesthetic matches organize the inference path, the logic of hypermedia.

     

    The cumulative effect created by the semes of Twelve Blue is this aesthetic experience of drowning, accompanied by the strong awareness that this image of drowning in its totality is the signifier for some unstated, abstract, perhaps inarticulable signification. Such is the effect a literate person expects from poetry or poetic prose. But what about in electracy? As W. J. T. Mitchell explains in Picture Theory, our moment has absorbed the linguistic turn of modern epistemology, to move now into a pictorial turn. The challenge he poses is that of learning how to think text and picture together, not only as image, a term ambiguous enough to include both pictures and words, but as a hybrid or syncretic practice in which the graphic dimension is liberated from domination by the textual. Barthes himself, one of the great theorists of the linguistic turn, assumed that language mediated the systematicity of every other code. But this assumption may have had more to do with the apparatus of literacy than with any limitation inherent in the pictorial. Indeed, late in his career, in his writings about photography and music, Barthes himself took the pictorial turn. The point is that an electrate practice will use the atmosphere of drowning (or any other atmosphere selected by a user) as a way to classify a great quantity of other kinds of information.

     

    The challenge to the disciplines of Arts and Letters is to invent or design the practice of this syncretic writing. Teachers at many universities and colleges are introducing general education students to writing now in environments that require as much attention to graphic tools as to textual ones. Unfortunately, the limitations of StorySpace (in the examples I have seen) as an authoring tool and Twelve Blue as a model are apparent in relation to this new situation. The basic reality of the pictorial turn is that the site of invention of the next stage in the evolution of writing is taking place within the institution of entertainment, in the form of advertising. The discourse emerging within advertising, whose operating structure has been analyzed and refined within the experimental arts, may be applied to the needs of the other institutions of society, especially including education. Unfortunately the media literacy movement still formulates this moment almost exclusively in terms of literacy, wanting to make citizens more critical of what they consume in the media. This approach could be compared to that of warning students learning a foreign language to be sure to translate it always back into their native language in order to avoid experiencing those mental states different from what is familiar. The movement instead should promote the making of imagetexts in the schools, including learning the basic skills of photography and punning. Mitchell’s point that schools exclude (or enslave) the visual or pictorial could be expanded to note that they also exclude a complete dimension of language that the theorists call the remainder. Schools need to add to their function the forming of electrate citizens.

     

    In short, I am not interested in hypertext fiction as such (no matter how much I might enjoy it) because I need models or relays that show me how to include pictures and nonfiction. O. B. Hardison’s description of an on-line version of The Tempest summarizes the sort of bricolage that comes naturally to hypermedia:

     

    There would certainly be discussion of the date of The Tempest, relating its theme to the beginning of English colonization of the New World. The texts of two narratives of the shipwreck of a boat called the Sea Adventure in 1609 in Bermuda and the letter by William Strachey describing the shipwreck should also be available because one or more of them was a source for the play. A map of the New World showing where the Sea Adventure was wrecked would be useful. Another source that should be included is the essay "Of Cannibals," by Michel de Montaigne, in the English translation published by John Florio in 1603....Magic is important in Tempest, and there is an elaborate masque featuring classical deities. Hypertext should include an explanation of the Renaissance idea of magic, including the distinction between white and black magic, and an explanation of what a masque is....If you imagine a reader using hypertext, you have to imagine a constant movement from text to glossary to grammatical comment to classical dictionary to Bermuda map to textual variants to drawing of Ariel to text to Sea Adventure narrative... (263)

     

    Hardison laments the effect on the experience of reading of the process he describes, and it may be the case that the representation of Shakespeare in hypertext does as much damage to the original experience of theater as the printing of The Iliad did to the singing of the epics. My concern is with the rhetoric, logic, and poetics needed to guide the composition of new works specific to electracy that such tools make possible. The present condition of hypermedia that Hardison, Coover, and others describe is indeed a state of chaos in which the complex organizing forms and practices created to manage the print apparatus have fallen apart into a mass of simple or basic forms–some oral, some literate, some specific to electronic technology. On the internet all these different parts are piled together in a blizzard of clickable items. The division into truth-exposition and fiction-narrative that emerged in literacy with the invention of the essay and the novel is not particularly helpful in this new environment that is perhaps best named by the theoretical term simulacrum. To try to sort out the true from the false prior to acting in a world in which superstructure is base (in which the distance intrinsic to representation has collapsed upon itself) is a luxury of the old rhetoric, a luxury denied to the rhetoric of electracy. Michael Joyce takes me some way toward understanding electracy, and for that I am grateful, beyond my admiration for what he has achieved in his own terms (rather than mine). The invention process we inherited from the creators of literacy must be taken up again in the apparatus of our time. There remains plenty of work to be done.

     

    Works Cited

     

    • Barthes, Roland. The Semiotic Challenge. Trans. Richard Howard. New York: Hill and Wang, 1988.
    • Gass, William. On Being Blue: A Philosophical Inquiry. Boston: David Godine, 1976.
    • Hardison, O.B., Jr. Disappearing Through the Skylight. New York: Penguin, 1989.
    • James, Henry. The Art of the Novel. New York: C. Scribner’s Sons, 1962.
    • Joyce, Michael. Twelve Blue. http://www.eastgate.com/TwelveBlue.

     

  • Reality for Cybernauts

    Sergio Sismondo

    Department of Philosophy
    Queen’s University
    sismondo@post.queensu.ca

     

    Introduction: virtual reality as a metaphysical laboratory

     
    Virtual reality (VR) is a wonderfully successful misnomer. To the extent that VR is reality, there is little virtual about it.

     

    I should qualify those claims right away: virtual reality is virtual in the derivative sense in which “virtual” has come to be a synonym for computer-based, but that sense is a result rather than a precondition of VR’s cultural success. VR has provided a path from an old meaning of “virtual” to a new one. The old meaning, what we could call virtual(1), is: in effect, but not actual. The meaning that is new to the last decades of the 20th century is virtual(2): simulated on or mediated by a computer.

     

    Many cybernauts have realized that VR is not merely virtually(1) real–an oxymoron?–and therefore are arguing that it is virtual(2) reality, real but computer-based. In so doing they have not merely added a new meaning to the term “virtual,” but have revamped talk of reality. At a time when skeptical humanists and others are more and more cautious about reality, VR enthusiasts are giving new life to words like “real” and “reality,” using them constantly, and with a variety of meanings. The best VR is described as “really real” and is contrasted with “real reality,” yet neither phrase fully makes sense without at least some confusion about meanings of “real.” At the same time, some cyberphiles and cybercritics have been proclaiming the death of reality. If we could create environments that have the look and feel that we expect from everyday reality, what is left of the “real” thing? Why should we care about it?

     

    Michael Heim says that “with its virtual environments and simulated worlds, cyberspace is a metaphysical laboratory, a tool for examining our very sense of reality” (83). Heim may be right that cyberspace–or in my case VR–is a metaphysical laboratory, but his laboratory is largely unbuilt. Currently-available VR, for example, is more crude as a metaphysical laboratory than are our imaginations, literature, and thought experiments. For my purposes the limitations of existing VR are unimportant: my intention here is, following Heim, to use VR to examine “our very sense of reality,” but in that I want to look at our use of the term “reality” and the presuppositions of that use. Along the way I take issue with some of the wilder claims about VR’s effects on reality.

     

    Although there is no one consistent picture of reality implicit in talk about VR, there are at least some common images. Some of those images are exactly what are needed to revamp talk of reality, and some are misguided. Some VR talk, for example, reinforces an impoverished sense of reality in its dominating images of levels and degrees; my preferred images are more chaotic and multi-dimensional. In order to show why we should prefer some images of reality, in the second half of this essay I put forward a general account of reality talk. That account makes space for (though does not guarantee) the reality of VR, and much more besides.

     

    For my project here we do not have to be full-fledged cybernauts. That is a good thing, because this essay is written by yet another interloper into VR. I haven’t made the tours of labs where systems like RB2 (“Reality Built for Two”) or gadgets like the DataGlove have been developed. I spend little of my time browsing Mondo 2000, and have tested out only the most publicly available virtual environments, computer games like “Doom,” and high-tech video games like “Dactyl Nightmare.” Donning the latter’s 3-D video helmet and battling its schematic pterodactyls even put me off-balance and made me slightly nauseous. All of that should place me as a text-based critic whose access to VR and cyberculture is largely through the guidance of texts. Therefore my text displays many signs of my interloper status, in the form of references to the canonizers and the canonized agents of the history of VR.

     

    The virtualization of reality?

     

    Our point is thus a very elementary one: true, the computer-generated "virtual reality" is a semblance, it does foreclose the Real; but what we experience as the "true, hard, external reality" is based upon exactly the same exclusion. The ultimate lesson of "virtual reality" is the virtualization of the very "true" reality: by the mirage of "virtual reality," the "true" reality itself is posited as a semblance of itself, as a pure symbolic edifice. (Zizek 44)

     

    For some cybernauts (and their critics) VR promises (or threatens) to limit or even eliminate the claims of the material to its status as reality. At Britain’s first VR conference in 1991, as Benjamin Woolley describes it, speakers such as chair Tony Feldman repeatedly claimed that because of the power of technology to simulate and otherwise artificialize objects, “reality is no longer secure, no longer something we can simply assume to be there” (5).

     

    At their simplest, such arguments have been around since people first asked whether they could be dreaming reality. Descartes’ almost paranoid musings, reconstituted as Meditations, are probably the best known sustained questioning of our evidence for the reality of our everyday world. Descartes asked, could he be dreaming it all? Or, since we all know how to tell the difference between waking and dreaming, could a powerful Deceiver be systematically and consistently creating our experiences, convincing us of the reality of a completely fictional material world? We know the results of Descartes’ questions: although he made valiant efforts to prove the reality of the world around him, most of his readers have been unconvinced. His efforts to vanquish skepticism reinforced it by demonstrating its resilience. Of course while it has been resilient, universal skepticism has rarely had much force. This is not merely because of our naive ordinary faith in the material world: pragmatists have argued that doubts such as might lead to a Cartesian Deceiver themselves require some justification. It might simply be unreasonable to follow Descartes in doubting everything, even if only for a few minutes.

     

    For some of its enthusiasts, VR provides grounds for such a doubt. In the passage above, Slavoj Zizek appears to be taken by a new, or future, capacity to question the reality of non-virtual reality. VR will provide the skeptic’s reinstatement of the Cartesian Deceiver by creating sensations indistinguishable from ordinary, everyday sensations. What we call “real” will become simply one world to live in among many, and a relatively conservative and unimaginative one at that. Timothy Druckrey claims, reading these lines of Zizek, that “what is so fascinating about the issues of immersion and virtual reality is the way in which it substantiates the problem of representation itself” (8).

     

    It is hard to be too impressed by such sophomoric skepticism, even if it is widespread. It is little more than an advertisement for VR technologies and VR as a cultural icon, or, for those who are uncomfortable with the disappearance of a hard “reality,” an anti-advertisement: consider Mark Slouka’s recent War of the Worlds: Cyberspace and the High-Tech Assault on Reality. Certainly commentators like Druckrey and Zizek are not talking about available technologies–the simulators found in corners of the post-industrial world–because those are little more than poor 3-D video games, expensive but crude, and are less capable of sustaining one’s attention than most 2-D video games of a decade ago.

     

    I will return to the question of whether VR will ever be able to deceive its participants completely; however, my main point is not to express pessimism about technologies. Rather, I’m interested in examining our sense of reality. Any thought that VR will be the twenty-first century Deceiver, providing grounds for a universalized skepticism, appears to take reality as the object of possible sensory experiences. Most of the major problems that VR researchers are working on have to do with visual and tactile realism: they are working to create better video displays, faster calculations that will lead to faster responses to users’ actions, and improvements and extensions of the DataGlove that will allow users to feel more of their virtual environment. In this way VR is following in the footsteps of the Cartesian Deceiver–and begins to provide the grounds for a universalized skepticism–because what it aims to deceive us about is material reality, our paradigmatic reality.

     

    VR’s model reality

     

    True virtual reality may not be attainable with any technology we create. (Zeltzer, qtd. in Heim 123)

     

    David Zeltzer, of the MIT Media Lab, doesn’t like to use the term “virtual reality” to refer to his creations, preferring instead “virtual worlds” and “virtual environments.” This stems less from uneasiness with the term “reality” than from an uneasiness about his tools. “The Holodeck [a Star Trek VR system] may forever remain fiction. Nonetheless, virtual reality serves as the Holy Grail of the research” (Zeltzer, qtd. in Heim 123). We may never be able to re-create the full experience of working with and in the material world using computers, video, speakers, data suits, etc. Unlike some VR enthusiasts, Zeltzer recognizes the richness of ordinary sense experiences, and the difficulties with the technology in reproducing this richness.

     

    More importantly for my purposes, Zeltzer makes explicit the goals, even if unattainable, for VR: the technology is supposed to recreate the type of experiences we have of the material world. VR is therefore a virtual material reality, a computerized simulation of mountains, trees, buildings, bodies, and flies. VR aims to create human-centered spaces which users can explore, containing objects to manipulate. These spaces are wrapped around users and adjust to their efforts at motion, so that they always remain at centers or origins. VR is a simulation that takes as its starting point the everyday space that we experience ourselves moving in, and our everyday world of moderately small to moderately large material objects. This is probably so obvious a starting point that it is important to point out some alternatives, such very real things as institutions, ideas, and cultures, none of which is neatly bounded in 3-D space. Some of these things are being re-created in cyberspace more generally, but are not the focus of virtual reality. For the purposes of VR, reality is paradigmatically a spatial and material system.

     

    At this point I want to mark a difference between cyberspace and virtual reality. Cyberspace, as used in, for example, Michael Benedikt’s Cyberspace: First Steps, is the more inclusive category, a label for any computer-generated or computer-mediated environment that is accessible by multiple users, including environments that are in no way imitations of material realities. In fact, many of the contributors to Benedikt’s volume are explicitly attempting to describe novel architectures for such spaces. Some of their work is fascinating for its sophisticated interdisciplinarity, combining readings of science fiction, mathematics, psychology, data management, and architecture. For my purposes it is interesting that these authors generally avoid the term “virtual reality,” suggesting that they recognize constraints and limitations of “realities” that can be more easily evaded by “spaces.”

     

    Reality as a singular closed system

     

    Quadriplegics live, virtually, through the actions of others. Perhaps, life would be more fulfilling if they were also offered the opportunity to directly control their environment through telerobotic tools for independent living. Virtual telerobotic environments for the rest of us could bring reality to these individuals.


    (Leifer et al., qtd. in Rheingold 264)


    When VR becomes widely available, it will not be seen as a medium used within physical reality, but rather as an additional reality. VR opens up a new continent of ideas and possibilities.

     

    (VPL Research product brochure, qtd. in Pimentel & Teixeira 53)

     

    It is an apolitical fantasy of escape. Historical accounts of virtual reality tell us that one of the initial project's slogans was "Reality isn't enough anymore," but psychoanalytic accounts would more likely tell us that the slogan should be read in its inverse form--that is, "Reality is too much right now."

     

    (Sobchack 20)

     

    Whether reality is too much or not enough, most VR enthusiasts and their critics agree in taking the reality/irreality boundary to be a relatively sharp one–even while they are trying to blur it or are claiming that the technology will change that distinction fundamentally. And thus they agree in their image of reality as a closed system and neat package, much like the systems that are being built. The VR designing firm VPL Research is creating not parts of the world or new views of the world, but worlds themselves, alternatives to the world we know as real. Non-virtual reality is singular in the past and present; it is the three-dimensional space that we live in and will continue to live in until VR creates new spaces. The creation of new spaces, though, introduces questions about the geometry of reality.

     

    Consider, for example, the following statements, all taken from Howard Rheingold’s Virtual Reality: “The reality level is rising by the month” (214); “How much reality do you get for all that money?” (166); “Reality has always been too small for human imagination” (Laurel, qtd. in Rheingold 391); “a new plane of reality that will thrill everybody” (Lanier, qtd. in Rheingold 155); “A laser microscanner will paint realities directly on the retina” (Furness, qtd. in Rheingold 194). VR enthusiasts are united in believing that new technologies will increase the quantity of reality available, but they do not agree on how that increase will be measured. Will we be able to buy reality, as if by the kilo or the yard? Will we be enlarging it? Or adding new planes to it? Or creating new realities, plural? Their disagreement stems from the fact that we don’t know much about the current geometry of reality and realities, conceived of as objects, stuff, or measurable quantities. Perhaps “worlds” share the geometry of realities; importantly, we often use “world” in much the same way as we use “reality.” The idea that reality comes in planes, for example, may be descended from a medieval picture of layered worlds, from ours down to Hell and up to Heaven; each has its own rules, logic and inhabitants, though individuals also move or are moved among worlds depending upon their powers and virtues. If a reality is a world, this gives us both the sense of space and the sense of substance.

     

    Reality is an odd substance, though it shouldn’t be surprising that VR researchers can think of it as one. According to the self-image and hype of the VR community, researchers are not merely in the business of creating 3-D video games or creating simulations of environments, but are creating real worlds to work in, play in, and explore. VR researchers are trying to make reality or realities, and to make something is to make some thing. But even though the common perception has it that reality is a singular closed system, and the VR community treats reality as a substance to be manufactured, we don’t know whether it is best pictured in planes, as more amorphous stuff, or as an indivisible unit. A good account of reality should develop and make sense of as many of these metaphors as possible, to allow us to understand how reality is planar, or how the reality level of VR is rising.

     

    The body as foundation and target of VR

     

    With virtual realities upon us, we may find it increasingly difficult to distinguish between our "natural" selves and the electronic extensions.


    (de Kerckhove 177)
    I think one of the striking things about a virtual world system in which you have the pliancy, the ability to change the content of the world easily, is that the distinction between your own body and the rest of the world is slippery.


    (Lanier & Biocca, qtd. in de Kerckhove 203)

     

    VRs are ideally tactile environments, full of sensual experiences. More centrally, the technology makes use of body knowledge, our ability to respond physically to situations, to communicate using more than our vocal chords or the tips of our fingers. VR treats us as fully embodied creatures and then stimulates and trains our bodies in ways that are appropriate to the virtual environment. Until now the most convincing of virtual environments have been the US military’s flight simulators; they place the pilot-in-training in an artificial cockpit, complete with visual displays that respond with subtlety to physical commands. Other activities that involve high levels of risk, skill, and money–medicine is an obvious domain–will probably be similarly simulated over the coming decades. And one other prominent attempt to produce and use body knowledge is the simulation, using VR techniques, of the tinker-toy models chemists use to gain insight into the structure and properties of molecules. VR revalidates, in a high-tech setting, body knowledge, and thus takes us away from a logocentric mode, away from some of our modern ideals of rational control and communication.

     

    Yet cyberculture is the culmination of those same modern ideals in its recognition and attempted erasure of the limitations of bodies. Dominant metaphors make bodies soft and weak compared to silicon-based entities. William Gibson’s futuristic characters are exemplary in this, displaying cybernauts’ contempt for flesh, or “meat,” as it is often called. (I should clarify, however, that Gibson’s “Matrix” is not a VR, even though it has some cultural continuity with VR.) Gibson’s best bodies are largely artificial, enhanced through muscle implants and rigorous physical training; Molly, of Neuromancer and Mona Lisa Overdrive fame, is the favorite, a feminine cyborg for hire, complete with rewired nerves that speed up reaction times and razor-sharp retractable claws that slice through too-slow meat. Gibson’s other freaks abandon their bodies, sometimes for long trips on the net, and other times for good. Molly’s counterpart Case also has a tight, wired body, but because of the neglect that comes from too much drugs and too many hours exploring the Matrix. Lise of Gibson’s short story “The Winter Market” is a down-and-out mindscape artist held together and dragged through life by a polycarbon prosthetic. When she makes it big she can afford to abandon the prosthetic and what is left of her body in favor of a fully electronic simulation of herself. This is not a fascination peculiar to Gibson. In the 1992 film The Lawnmower Man the central character abandons his body for an electronic life. Among cyberspace residents he is an oddity, because he abandons an exemplary body, flawed only in its materiality. Abandoning the body, or at least the flawed bodies we are saddled with, is an ideal built into VR. Meat holds cybernauts back, limiting their informational excursions. The virtualization of the body, then, is a goal in part because the body represents an unfortunate link to a material reality that “isn’t enough anymore.” Virtualizing the body is a special case of the virtualization of reality as a whole.

     

    Margaret Morse’s fascinating paper “What do Cyborgs Eat?” points out that the construction of the cyborg body represents an accommodation of the human to the machine (see also Stone). This accommodation leaks from the pages of cyberpunk novels into everyday culture in the form of an anorexic ethic of not eating. For cyborgs the smart drug–“a kind of lubricant or ‘tune-up’ for wetware” (Morse 161)–or some other goal-specific nourishment replaces food, because human-machine interactions demand a machine-like performance from mind and body. Although Morse’s call for reversing this human-machine relationship suggests a nostalgia for human autonomy, it is rooted in a realization that meat-based systems are not infinitely flexible, that cyborgs need to eat. This is an important limitation of VRs: as long as they are realities designed for humans, they are limited by the needs of our soft bodies. Overcoming these limitations is central to cybernautic fantasies, but before VR can serve as a surrogate Deceiver it will have to deceive the body. Technicians will have to answer Morse’s question, “What do cyborgs eat?,” to allow users to live in VR and not just to visit it. Just as we know the difference between dreams and waking experiences, because we dip in and out of dreamworlds, we are likely to know the difference between VR and less artificial experiences until we no longer have to dip in and out of VR. Fooling the body is perhaps just the hardest case of a more general problem of robustness: it is unlikely that VR technologies in the foreseeable future will deceive us in their realism, and therefore David Zeltzer is almost certainly right that Zizek’s Virtual Deceiver is a Holy Grail, an unreachable goal.

     

    Simulations and artificial realities

     

    Zizek’s observation that VR virtualizes reality is more complicated than Druckrey or I (in paragraphs 7-10 above) gave him credit for. He carefully distinguishes between the “Real” and “reality”: whereas the “Real” is the hard kernel that we must posit as resisting metaphorization, “reality” refers to our experiences. And our experiences, following Lacan, are framed by our fantasies. Zizek is modifying and extending the idea that categories are prior to experiences, where the relevant categories are many, varied, and pliable. In particular, he takes sex as paradigmatic reality and “sex” as a paradigmatic category. Our experience of sex with a flesh-and-blood partner, he claims, is experienced as sex to the extent that it matches our fantasies, sex with imagined partners. Rather than being a poor copy of real sex, masturbation is the model of which sex is the copy. If we take sex as paradigmatic, then our experience of the “true, hard, external reality” can only be based on virtualizations of that reality. Zizek is not claiming, then, that VR will conform itself to experiences so closely as to provide a new Deceiver, but that VR will produce new types of experiences of non-virtual realities. In this respect VR will be like many other aggressive technologies and media, especially film, Zizek’s main focus.

     

    Of course sex is an odd choice for paradigmatic reality, being more obviously responsive to our fantasies than most other things we take to be real. But the argument does not depend in any important way on that choice: a more cautious version of Zizek’s argument could accept our standard paradigms, the material world and its objects. Experiences of some virtual reality might still tend to produce new types of experiences of the paradigm. After long sessions of playing a computer video game, my driving–in my true, hard, external car–changes, and in ways that are easy to detect. I am more inclined to pose challenges, to take advantage of openings in the road. This is one small way in which the artificial changes the boundaries of the real.

     

    Myron Krueger raises a similar point:

     

    But what of a world in which every action is rehearsed in simulation before it is taken, as was the case for pilots during the Gulf war? Will real action lose its immediacy when it is but a recapitulation of simulated activity? (Heim ix)

     

    Krueger’s concern about immediacy is a concern about those boundaries. If we try to make our experiences of “true reality” mimic our experiences of simulated reality, as the US military attempted in the Gulf War, then we may be giving up some of the immediacy of those experiences of “true reality.” In the case of the Gulf War, a lack of immediacy was exactly the object, helping to distance the participants from the objects of their attacks; this may be, as Paul Virilio would suggest, only the most recent and most successful use of representional technologies to mediate and contain experiences of battle (50). As experiences lose their immediacy, whatwe experience loses some of its status as reality–reality seems less real.

     

    Simulations and authenticity

     

    [S]imulation threatens the difference between the "true" and the "false," the "real" and the "imaginary." (Baudrillard, Simulacra 3)

     

    Virtual reality is a simulation of space and objects in space, but, as Jean Baudrillard has pointed out, simulations are odd entities. Whereas a representation, at least since the demise of the picture theory of language, need not resemble the objects or relations it represents: at its core a representation is a coded description, expression, or portrayal; a simulation, by contrast, re-creates some of the characteristics of that which it simulates, even while it is a copy or fake. For this reason simulation threatens the difference between the real and the irreal.

     

    Like Zizek, Baudrillard starts from an interesting and complex set of examples to make his point vivid: religious icons, Disneyland, ethnology protecting the isolation of a society, and illnesses, particularly mental illnesses. “Whoever fakes an illness can simply stay in bed and make everyone believe he is ill. Whoever simulates an illness produces in himself some of the symptoms” (Littré, qtd in Baudrillard, Simulacra 3). Simulations are fakes, but they are fakes made by appropriating qualities of the real. They are thus themselves real–though Baudrillard prefers to say that they are “hyperreal” because he conceives reality in terms of depth, stasis and authenticity. The reality of simulations is a second way in which VR enthusiasts are right in their claims that VR is changing the boundaries of the real. To the extent that VR has qualities of reality it can become a reality.

     

    Just before the beginning of the 1991 Gulf War, Baudrillard wrote a now almost infamous article insisting that the war in the Gulf would not occur (“La guerre du Golfe n’aura pas lieu,” published in the Manchester Guardian as “The Reality Gulf”). In part this insistence reflected his firm belief in deterrence, and in part it reflected his belief that coming out of the standoff there were only many-layered images of war, images which bore no resemblance to actual wars, though they did resemble some Hollywood films. For Baudrillard Saddam Hussein was, through his use of hostages, engaged in a simulation of war. As if to insist that his first article not be read as a simple mistake, during and after the war he wrote and published two more installments–the three were later published together under the title, “La guerre du Golfe n’a pas eu lieu.” Despite the soldiers, the bombs, the deaths, Baudrillard insists that what happened was not a war, but rather a simulation of a war, or a hyperreal war. Unlike past wars, fought primarily for territory or political control, the Gulf War was fought primarily for the sake of images. A war for the sake of images, Baudrillard claims, is not authentic, but a simulacrum.

     

    For Baudrillard, like many others, reality has to be in some way authentic or natural. It is arguable, though, that his concern with authenticity is dated, at least for those of us who have always lived in artificial surroundings. His concern that reality has disappeared depends upon a nostalgic view of reality as profound. Because much of our environment, from the Simpsons to supermarkets, has no pretension to naturalness or authenticity–and we recognize this in part because of the work of commentators like Baudrillard–these criteria can now be disengaged from reality. If we live among simulacra, images which do not pretend to refer, then so be it: reality has ceased to be necessarily authentic. All that is added in calling these simulacra “hyperreal” is attention to their artificiality, the deliberateness of their invention. A modern supermarket is a crafted environment that bears no resemblance to the markets which were its ancestors. A successful television show refers to itself, its counterparts, and its immediate ancestors, not to some external reality. External reality refers to it.

     

    A Platonic critic

     

    Reality is still there, though not in the material realm of the physical universe where the modern era assumed it to be. In my attempt to distinguish between simulation and imitation, the virtual and the artificial, I have tried to provide a glimpse of where that reality may be, in the formal, abstract domain revealed by mathematics and computation. [T]he computer has, through its simulative powers, provided what I regard as reassuring evidence that it is still there. (Woolley 254)

     

    Benjamin Woolley is unimpressed by VR and unimpressed by arguments for the disappearance of reality. In his Virtual Worlds he presents us with a litany of sexy new technologies, mathematical and scientific theories, and postmodernist arguments, though his message is consistently anti-euphoric: as the subtitle to the book advertises, his exploration is a Journey in Hype and Hyperreality. Whereas VR enthusiasts tend to see the technology as breaking new frontiers and re-arranging consciousness, Woolley prefers to draw attention to VR’s more mundane roots in flight simulators. He points to the failures of artificial intelligence research to live up to early promises; he wonders why we should care about chaos theory, why we should have cared about catastrophe theory during its heyday; he argues that the Internet is only the latest network; and he insists that Baudrillard’s Gulf War that did not take place most definitely took place, even if it was shaped by the demands of computers, other high-tech devices, and audiences expecting a Hollywood war.

     

    Woolley is still fascinated by these over-hyped postmodern cultural developments, even if he wants to expose the modernity at their cores. While he doesn’t accept Baudrillard’s conclusions, he is bothered by the same developments that Baudrillard celebrates, in part because the two critics share an image of reality. The material world is becoming increasingly artificial and inauthentic; it imitates–though rarely lives up to–our ideals. And these changes are disturbing not just because of the type of change they are, but because they highlight the instability of the material world. Artificiality and instability are both symptoms of irreality, because for Woolley that which is most real is natural and enduring, not artificial and fleeting.

     

    Umberto Eco, who was disappointed with the real Mississippi, claims that “Disneyland [with its riverboats] tells us that technology can give us more reality than nature can” (44). Woolley is similarly disappointed with his real Mississippis, but doesn’t find their improvement in technology, at least not directly. Rather he looks to mathematical physics and its kin for an authentic world, because mathematical physics is the most revered of sciences, and science is the attempt to uncover reality. The physicists’ world, a world of mathematized laws and snapshots, apparently satisfies Woolley’s requirements of reality, because it is objective, natural and enduring–Woolley would not be too happy with recent discussions in the field of Science & Technology studies (see Sismondo). The physicists’ world is objective both in the sense that it is (assumed to be) external to us, discovered rather than invented, and in the sense that science is our best example of objective knowledge. If the book of nature is written in the language of mathematics, then the physicists’ world is as natural as is possible. And it is enduring because even when laws describe change they are always structural, always identifying what remains the same through time, or through some other variable.

     

    For Woolley, computer simulations spread artificiality, but they also reinforce his position. Along with physics the simulation power of computers tells us that the book of nature is written in mathematics, because simulations are done mathematically: the more that can be simulated the more nature is shown to roughly instantiate a Platonic reality. Woolley’s reality is Platonic because it is an abstraction away from the world as we experience it, an ideal description of the forms and structures that lie behind or underneath our experience. He would be uncomfortable, though, with the Platonic notion that ours is only an imperfect copy of a more real world of forms, because he thinks that that ideal reality is found embedded in the natural world.

     

    This version of reality is quite austere, limited to the structures of the natural world that can be described mathematically. Austerity is a calculated impoverishment, though like most austerity programs Woolley’s follows some traditional paths. As I’ve claimed, the attention of VR enthusiasts and their critics is on the material world, rather than the social world: even though interaction is a goal of VR, the real world of institutions is usually forgotten, or even deliberately excluded. Partly because of that exclusion commentators such as Woolley and Baudrillard see reality as static–this is not to say that material reality is static, but it is often conceived in terms of what remains invariant.

     

    “Real” deflated

     

    I want to take a closer look at this little word "real." I propose, if you like, to discuss the Nature of Reality--a genuinely important topic, though in general I don't much like making this claim. (Austin 62)

     

    Talk of and around VR, then, provides us with a number of characteristics of reality. One option is to dismiss this mess as the product of overzealous enthusiasts and critics, and to retreat to a reductive and monovalent account of reality, such as a materialist account or Woolley’s physicalist one. I think that that is the wrong option to take. Even putting VR aside, reality is too multifaceted, or there are too many types of realities, to be shoehorned into a reductive account. Instead, in the rest of this essay I reorganize and unify characteristics of realities in a flexible deflationary account. I want to understand reality in terms that recognize the insights and temptations of different cybernauts’ images of reality, even those that I criticize, like Baudrillard’s authenticity criterion. My account is deflationary in the sense that it flatly denies an ultimate reality, though not so deflationary as to deny characteristics that realities might have.

     

    A currently fashionable, though not popular, account of what is real in philosophical circles stems from J.L. Austin’s simple and elegant analysis of our concept of “real” in his Sense and Sensibilia (1962). Writing before the language-expanding days of the 1960s, Austin could easily argue that “real” gets its meaning from its use as an adjective: it only makes grammatical sense if it modifies an explicit or implicit object. You might have a real Roy Liechtenstein painting or a fake one, or an imitation or print. You could have seen a real Peregrine Falcon, or have been mistaken, having seen a Pigeon Hawk from a distance. Or I, arriving in the middle of your story, might think that you are talking about a real Peregrine, while you are talking about a striking film of one, or a dreamt one. What is important here is that “real” draws a contrast to one or another form of unreality. A real X is nothing more than an X, though in saying that it is a real X we emphasize that it isn’t merely something that looks like or feels like an X, something that could be confused for or used as if it were an X. Thus Austin could claim that the negative of “real”–the different forms of being unreal–shapes the usage of the positive, not the other way around. What is real depends upon the illusions or artificialities that we want to distinguish, isolate, or avoid in some particular context. Real is therefore context-dependent.

     

    “Reality,” Austin presumes, marks the same or a closely derivative contrast. To my mind one advantage of such an account of reality is that multi-dimensionality jumps out of it immediately, eliminating any possibility of a singular, ultimate reality. Austin uses a number of different examples, but the one that he uses most to show multi-dimensionality is color. The real color of some object can be the color it appears to most observers in ordinary light. But the “real color of her hair” usually refers to its natural color, not the color it appears. The problems for real colors don’t stop there, as Austin asks about, among other things, the real color of the sun, of a chameleon, and of a pointilliste painting which creates a green effect through combinations of blue and yellow dots.

     

    The case of art makes multi-dimensionality particularly clear. One can see a real Liechtenstein painting (or a print of a Liechtenstein, materially real in itself) and still ask, is it real art? For that matter, is it a real frame of a comic strip, or a fake one? Or one could see a fake Liechtenstein that is nonetheless both a real painting and real art; perhaps it is a comment on Liechtenstein, or simply an interesting derivative. The planes of real Liechtensteins, real works of art, real paintings, real comics, and the like intersect, and may have considerable overlap, but they also go off in their own directions. There are multiple realities, and any particular thing both is and is not real, depending on the reality one is concerned about. Like real things, reality is context-sensitive. This casts serious doubt on whether we could ever arrive at a substantive account of reality beyond Austin’s.

     

    We shouldn’t assume, though, that Austin’s discussion of “real” translates unproblematically into an account of “reality”; in fact to assume so would run counter to the spirit of his analysis, in spite of his coy suggestion that he is discussing the “Nature of Reality.” Austin’s focus on uses of “real” rather than “reality” has the advantage that the former is used much more often and in a wider variety of circumstances than the latter. But “reality” is an abstraction from and nominalization of “real,” and as such affords some slightly different characteristics. Whereas Austin could correctly claim that “real” was “substantive-hungry” (primarily an adjective), “reality” is itself substantive. And “reality” is much less dependent upon its negative uses than “real,” though its opposition to such non-reality as fantasy, dreaming, and hallucinating is still quite important. The translation from adjectives (and adverbs, such as “really”) to nouns does not go perfectly smoothly. Talk around VR can help to map out some of the bumps and twists in that translation, through the distinctions that VR researchers are trying to make when they claim that VR is virtual(2) (computer-based) rather than virtual(1) (in effect) reality.

     

    Paradigms and property-clusters

     

    The main lesson of Austin’s analysis is that there is no one concept of the “real,” that the word takes on meaning in relation to context and the ways of being unreal in context. Thus if we want to look for meanings of “real” we should, among other things, look to those negatives of real. Austin’s partial list includes the adjectives artificial, fake, false, bogus, makeshift, dummy, synthetic, and toy, and the nouns dream, illusion, mirage, and hallucination (71). This list is not complete, and could grow longer with the growth of methods of simulation, representation, and reproduction. If we suppose that reality is a systematic set of real things, then reading his list should convince us to give up hope on an ultimate reality. At the same time such a list provides an interesting cluster of properties of the real and the unreal. To a large extent this cluster of properties also applies to reality and unreality.

     

    One way that property clusters hang together is seen in accounts of meaning in terms of paradigms or prototypes, and their extension. The set of paradigmatic games–Wittgenstein used this example to criticize an essentialist conception of meaning–might include a counter game, like backgammon, and a more active game, like tag. Other games have some of the characteristics of the paradigmatic ones: to classify a new activity as a game is to make a, supposedly principled, extension from the paradigm. Such a picture would allow us to make sense of the fact that solitaire and football are both games even though they have little in common. For a large and complicated class like games, paradigms and their extensions might have become quite complicated, as paradigms have shifted, and new extensions have suggested some quite unobvious other ones. If a paradigm story can be told about reality, it is probably simpler than the story one would tell about games, because we have had relatively little occasion to talk about realities. Nonetheless, it would be a story that leaves a flexibility, openness, and pluralism to reality. I have already indicated how my story about reality would go: our most obvious paradigm reality is the three-dimensional space we live in, along with the most natural of the material objects it contains. This is the reality that we most often refer to when we use the phrase, “In reality.”

     

    The phenomenological tradition has a similar understanding of paradigmatic reality. For example:

     

    The world of working as a whole stands out as paramount over against the many other sub-universes of reality. It is the world of physical things, including my body; it is the realm of my locomotions and bodily operations; it offers resistances which require effort to overcome; it places tasks before me, permits me to carry through my plans, and enables me to succeed or to fail in my attempt to obtain my purposes. By my working acts I gear into the outer world, I engage it. (Schutz 226-7)

     

    Phenomenologists such as Alfred Schutz and Edmund Husserl build philosophical systems on the basis of assumptions implicit in the way that we deal with perceptions. Husserl and Schutz pare their available philosophical resources down to the level of perception, and then attempt to rebuild some of the richness of our world, particularly some of our understanding of the objectivity of our world, out of their remaining resources. “Reality” poses a special problem for phenomenologists, because before it is possible to ground objectivity in subjectivity one has to be able to distinguish among perceived worlds, to distinguish between the everyday world that will become the locus for objectivity and a dreamt world. That it is a special problem does not make it a particularly difficult one, because phenomenologists are content to draw on, articulate, and refine the resources that are normally used to distinguish everyday reality and dreams. But their pared-down resources do not allow them to say in advance that dreamed worlds are anything less than fully real, and thus they are easily drawn to talk about multiple realities (Schutz 207-59).

     

    Paradigmatic reality, in combination with other uses of the term and the debate around the status of VR, gives rise to a cluster of properties that a reality might have. These properties give us some touchstones for determining whether something is or is not a reality, or conversely, define normal extensions of the paradigm into new situations. My incomplete list of such properties has it that reality might be material, three-dimensional, immediate, engaging, objective, enduring, robust, natural, manipulable, interactive, and systematic. As the term “reality” is being used today, realities should have some, but not necessarily all, of these properties. The sections that follow briefly describe these properties, and justify them as properties of realities.

     

    An aside on the social world: Considering how objective and important the social world is, it is perhaps surprising that it is not more central to our paradigm. It is objective because, although it can be affected, it is usually experienced as a given, fixed in place by the actions of innumerable other actors. At most times change comes slowly to institutions like the legal system, gender and class structures, your local bank, and holiday traditions, because they are held in check by people’s expectations and the sanctions that occur when expectations are violated. Their objectivity is a product of their externality, their location outside of particular individuals and their actions. But this is what makes them real, things that we can count on at least as much as we can count on bits of material reality. Less firm are such small institutions as close friendships and other interpersonal relations. We routinely distinguish between real friendships and surface ones, or ones that can’t be found outside of very limited contexts; our criteria have to do with robustness, or their liveliness under pressure.

     

    Material, three-dimensional

     

    I’ve already argued that VR researchers take materiality and three-dimensionality as the core of reality. Reality’s materiality is what makes VR virtual reality, and VR’s three-dimensionality is what makes it virtual reality. But interest in those properties of everyday reality is not restricted to VR researchers: materiality and three-dimensionality are important properties marking a good chunk of everyday reality. For my purposes here I am more interested in focusing attention on other properties of potential realities.

     

    Engaging, immediate

     

    By leaving the world more abstract, versus building in more realism, Mark could draw users deeper in. Abstraction isn't a reason to reject VR worlds as being unrealistic. (Pimentel & Teixeira 151)

     

    Realism can be unrealistic. This conundrum derives from a description of the efforts of Mark Bolas, President of Fake Space Labs, to create engaging spaces, spaces into which people can easily become immersed. Engaging spaces are ones in which people can lose a sense of their normal material and social environments, usually by forgetting or ignoring the mechanisms producing their experiences–something which some well-crafted literature, film, and theatre accomplishes (Laurel, Computers 15-16). Bolas, along with most VR researchers, initially tried to make his environments into copies of material environments; in his case they were copies of offices. But the detail intended to help his virtual offices mimic material ones didn’t help to make them engaging. This suggests that, at least at the level to which Bolas could accomplish it, mimicry was the wrong strategy. Instead Bolas found that people could immerse themselves more easily into environments that were quite different from their accustomed ones. Rather than using space-filling programs to create texture he left the pieces of his virtual offices as unadorned polygons. Mimicry calls material environments into play, while anti-mimicry allows users to leave behind their material settings. Mimicry suggests mediation, because it is a representation. Anti-mimicry can create immediacy, because it is a presentation.

     

    Immediacy and engagement are related goals of all VR inventors, who want to draw users into the worlds that they create; they are even goals for such an anti-euphoric commentator as Brenda Laurel, who wants to encourage computer interface designers to create spaces in which “the representation is all there is” (Laurel, Computers 17). Immediacy and engagement are also criteria for the reality of virtual environments, among the features that make some VR “really real.” Clearly our paradigms of reality meet these criteria. Our experiences of material reality are what define immediacy, and most of us are immersed in and engaged with paradigm realities most of the time. What is interesting about Bolas’s work is that he discovered that these goals are separable from faithful representation–what we normally call realism–and they are separable from the other features of paradigm realities; this separability is something film-makers have often recognized. To make immediate and engaging environments one may be better off making them quite different from ordinary material reality. Therefore Bolas’s research concretely suggests that the qualities of reality are decomposable.

     

    Objective, enduring, robust

     

    Dreaming, fantasizing, hallucinating, and simply being wrong are some of the common ways that people leave reality. Hallmarks of the unreality of these flights are, I would claim, their subjectivity, their lack of materiality, and their transience. Paradigmatic reality is objective because it is felt and seen by many people, or could be, while paradigmatic unrealities like dreams or hallucinations are by definition subjective, being internal to the dreamer or hallucinator. In part the objectivity of reality is caused by its materiality and endurance: reality is hard and lasting while unreality is soft and fleeting. To find out whether you are dreaming you pinch yourself, and test the hardness of the world you are in. Reality bites. Even the social world is hard when real.

     

    As I am using it, robustness is a close kin to endurance and objectivity. Robustness is the ability to persevere through a variety of contexts and circumstances. The distinction between experimental artifact and experimental reality is usually made in terms of robustness. It is also a criterion we might use to discover the reality of various parts of the social world. Peter Berger and Thomas Luckmann create a unitary definition of social reality around robustness when they say that what is real is what cannot be “wished away” (3); a related unitary definition is that what is real is “what resists all attempts to change it” (Taylor 353). Although I would reject all such unitary definitions, they can be put to use in the creation of a more multi-dimensional picture.

     

    Manipulable, interactive

     

    Both manipulability and interaction are characteristics that VR designers have attempted to build into their systems. All VR takes as a central goal the manipulation of the virtual environment, usually through direct bodily contact. In this it corresponds to phenomenologists’ descriptions of everyday reality. Schutz, for example, calls that reality “a world of working” because it is manipulable, even while it offers resistances. And part of working is working with other people, who are treated as actors in their own right. It is clear that VR should ultimately be multi-user: almost from its beginnings VR’s ideals have included the possibility of multiple users interacting–virtual sex, the safest of sex, is at the forefront of the public imagination of VR. The Reality Built for Two system attracted so much attention because it was a step toward multiple user VR, even while it was expensive (originally US$430,000) and limited. Of course, letting human interactions into one’s picture of reality complicates matters, because it simultaneously makes the reality that VR tries to simulate richer, and, following Vivian Sobchak, draws our attention to the escapism implicit in VR euphoria.

     

    Natural

     

    A somewhat more tricky criterion of reality is naturalness. Middle-sized natural objects such as rocks, trees, and flies are paradigmatically real things, and thus Samuel Johnson didn’t kick a wall in his attempt to pragmatically refute skepticism about material reality, but rather a rock. A real friendship is one that is natural, not forced. The real color of one’s hair is its natural color, before dyeing, tinting, and highlighting. When we contrast a real phenomenon with an experimental artifact we are aiming at naturalness, because although in the laboratory everything is artificial some things are taken as standing in for nature. And when Baudrillard and Woolley respectively celebrate and lament the passing of reality it is in part because of the increasing artificiality of our world, the increasing extent to which everything around us is human-made.

     

    Systematic

     

    We speak of different worlds having their own rules. Therefore I want to end my list of characteristics of reality with a Platonic insight, the insight that reality has qualities of coherence and interconnectedness, or systematicity. It is systematicity that allows us to talk of a reality or a world, for otherwise what would hold it together? This may seem odd, because we don’t necessarily experience our everyday reality as systematic. In the context of VR Brenda Laurel says, for example, that “the well-designed world is, in a sense, the antithesis of realism–the antithesis of the chaos of everyday life” (Pimentel and Teixeira 157). Yet despite this, design is precisely what Laurel recommends being incorporated into VR and more mundane computer interfaces, drawing from the lesson of theatre (Laurel, Computers 125-61).

     

    Our paradigms of reality, at least since Darwin, are not designed but rather accrue through the workings of chance and mechanistic laws. Nonetheless, chance and those mechanistic laws lend our paradigms a coherence, if only a postulated coherence. Our world can look unified by accepted understandings and explanations of its current state, plus the understandings that we assume could be available. It is partly for this reason that Woolley is attracted to mathematical physics as picking out and describing what is most real: physics claims to present a coherent picture, giving us a relatively small number of rules or laws under which our universe operates, and claiming that those rules are in some sense fundamental.

     

    Conclusions: So what about VR?

     

    VR promises to have many of these properties of paradigmatic realities. The effort to create three-dimensional worlds is at present what defines VR research. Researchers also hope to make these new environments immediate and engaging. At least some versions are already interactive and manipulable. Most VR will probably be quite systematic, stemming from relatively simple models, conceptions, and programs; the aesthetics of virtual environments also do not encourage contradictions. VR is objective in the sense that one virtual environment can be experienced by many people, though it is questionable that it is objective in the sense of existing in the absence of any perceivers. Yet VR is not natural or material–the point is to create an illusion of materiality–and lacks endurance in its dependence upon equipment which are external to the system. The reality of VR, then, depends upon our emphases, and upon how we are willing to project the notion of reality. For many contexts it will be perfectly reasonable to claim that VR researchers are in the business of making realities, but for some others we will want to deny exactly that.

     

    One of my points here is to take the focus off particular characteristics of reality, such as materiality, three-dimensionality, and authenticity. I want to distribute the burden of reality more evenly. For example, if we focus on immediacy and engagement, three-dimensionality appears as one tool to these ends, though perhaps not a particularly interesting one. A child with Nintendo demonstrates that three-dimensionality is hardly needed for total absorption or capture. Super Mario Brothers can capture you and take you to a fantastic world, with no more than a 2-D screen and a joystick. (As I write this, however, Nintendo is introducing “Virtual Boy,” which extends Mario’s environments to three dimensions. The player’s motions still have to be translated through a joystick and buttons, and therefore to enthusiasts the set would not qualify as a step towards VR; it merely adds a third dimension to a video game.) Quite often, film-makers capture audiences in their fictions, allowing viewers to forget the cameras, sets, and other scaffolding that hold up filmic worlds. But the point can be made without any such sophisticated equipment. A chess player explores a completely irreal, artificial environment–an idiosyncratic, spare, finite, geometric battlefield–and can become completely engrossed in the events. What is fascinating about 3-D in virtual reality is not 3-D itself, but rather the surprise of it; we are amazed by the technological prowess. In this respect it is not the realism of virtual reality that impresses, but its artificiality. Baudrillard makes a similar point, though for very different reasons: “why would the simulacrum with three dimensions be closer to the real than the one with two dimensions? It claims to be, but paradoxically, it has the opposite effect” (Simulacra 107).

     

    If my account is roughly right, then the geometry of reality is complex. If they are planes, for example, realities intersect at multiple points not always on straight lines, although some realities may intersect nowhere even while they are not neatly parallel. The planes are given coherence by some combination of characteristics, which may not be put together in exactly the same way as those of any other plane. We can extend the scope of these planes simply by manufacturing more of the stuff that makes them up, a new bit of culture, a new gadget, a new plot twist, and so on. But we are not confined to old realities, because we can make new ones by analogy–perhaps VR is one.

     

    VR does not in itself threaten more standard realities, contrary to claims made by Druckrey and others. There have always been multiple realms that could be realities, including social realities, mathematical realities, and other structures that are robust and systematic. Such realities can coexist. At the same time, they are not entirely separable, because work in one or another of these often will have substantial effects on others: our physical landscape, for example, is shaped by its being also a terrain of social interactions. Realities and the structures that make them up can leak into one another. Thus VR, and cyberspace more generally, may have concrete and profound effects on other realities, as Zizek claims. But it does so as a virtual(2) reality, not as a virtual(1) reality.

     

    I should now correct my opening claim. Right now virtual reality is a wonderfully successful misnomer. To the extent that VR is reality, there is little virtual(1) about it. Given enough time we might create environments that would be correctly called virtual(1) reality–environments that are in effect real but in some way unreal, environments that are deceiving simulations of pre-existing realities–but for the moment that seems both unlikely and relatively uninteresting. More fruitful, it seems, is to use computers and VR technologies to create new realities (virtual(2) realities), not to simulate old ones.

     


    *Thanks for commentary go to Laura Murray and three anonymous reviewers for this journal. Thanks for generous support goes to the Social Science and Humanities Research Council of Canada.


     

    Works Cited

     

    • Austin, J. L. Sense and Sensibilia, Ed. G. J. Warnock. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1962.
    • Baudrillard, Jean. La guerre du Golfe n’a pas eu lieu. Paris: Galilée, 1991.
    • —. Simulacra and Simulation. Trans. Sheila Faria Glaser. Ann Arbor: U of Michigan P, 1994.
    • Benedikt, Michael, ed. Cyberspace: First Steps. Cambridge: MIT Press, 1991.
    • Berger, Peter L. and Thomas Luckmann. The Social Construction of Reality: A Treatise in the Sociology of Knowledge. New York: Doubleday & Company, 1966.
    • De Kerckhove, Derrick. The Skin of Culture: Investigating the New Electronic Reality. Ed. Christopher Dewdney. Toronto: Somerville House Publishing, 1995.
    • Druckrey, Timothy. Introduction. Culture on the Brink: Ideologies of Technology. Eds. Gretchen Bender and Timothy Druckrey. Seattle: Bay Press, 1994. 1-12.
    • Eco, Umberto. Travels in Hyper Reality. London: Picador, 1987.
    • Furness, Thomas A., III. “Fantastic Voyage.” Popular Mechanics December 1986: 63-65.
    • Gibson, William. Neuromancer. New York: Ace Books, 1984.
    • —. “The Winter Market.” Burning Chrome. New York: Ace Books, 1986. 117-141.
    • Heim, Michael. The Metaphysics of Virtual Reality. New York: Oxford UP, 1993.
    • Lanier, Jaron, and Frank Biocca. “An Insider’s View of the Future of Virtual Reality.” Journal of Communication 42 (1992): 150-72.
    • Laurel, Brenda. Computers as Theatre. Reading, MA: Addison-Wesley Publishing Company, 1991.
    • —. “Toward the Design of a Computer-Based Interactive Fantasy System.” Diss. Ohio State University, 1986.
    • Leifer, Larry, Machiel Van der Loos, and Stefan Michalowski. “Telerobotics in Rehabilitation: Barriers to a Virtual Existence.” Presented at the Conference on Human-machine Interfaces for Teleoperators and Virtual Environments, Santa Barbara, CA, 1990.
    • Morse, Margaret. “What Do Cyborgs Eat? Oral Logic in an Information Society.” Culture on the Brink: Ideologies of Technology. Eds. Gretchen Bender and Timothy Druckery. Seattle: Bay Press, 1994. 157-89.
    • Pimentel, Ken, and Kevin Teixeira. Virtual Reality: Through the New Looking Glass. New York: McGraw-Hill, 1993.
    • Rheingold, Howard. Virtual Reality. New York: Summit Books, 1991.
    • Schutz, Alfred. The Problem of Social Reality. The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1962. Vol. 1 of Collected Papers.
    • Sismondo, Sergio. Science without Myth: On Constructions, Reality, and Social Knowledge. Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 1996.
    • Slouka, Mark. War of the Worlds: Cyberspace and the High-Tech Assault on Reality. New York: Basic Books, 1995.
    • Sobchack, Vivian. “New Age Mutant Ninja Hackers: Reading Mondo 2000.” Flame Wars: The Discourse of Cyberculture. Ed. Mark Dery. Durham: Duke UP, 1994. 11-28.
    • Stone, Allucquere Rosanne. “Will the Real Body Please Stand Up?: Boundary Stories about Virtual Cultures.” Cyberspace: First Steps. Ed. Michael Benedikt. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1991. 81-118.
    • Taylor, Peter. “Co-construction and Process: A Response to Sismondo’s Classification of Constructivisms.” Social Studies of Science 25 (1995): 348-59.
    • Virilio, Paul. War and Cinema: The Logistics of Perception. Trans. Patrick Camiller. London: Verso, 1989.
    • Woolley, Benjamin. Virtual Worlds: A Journey in Hype and Hyperreality. Oxford: Blackwell, 1992.
    • Zizek, Slavoj. Tarrying with the Negative: Kant, Hegel, and the Critique of Ideology. Durham: Duke UP, 1993.

     

  • Cyberbeing and ~space

    Alec McHoul

    School of Humanities
    Murdoch University
    mchoul@central.murdoch.edu.au

     

    Shipwreck in Cyberspace © 1997 John Richardson & Peter Stuart, used by permission

     


     

    Does cyberculture–along with its new forms of equipment and, consequently, its new modes of relating to equipment–constitute a distinct and different way of being in the world from ordinary everydayness? In other words, is there a distinct mode of being peculiar to the “cyber”? Is there cyberbeing? This paper sets out to investigate this possibility, beginning with an outline of Heidegger’s concept of Dasein and moving on to look at the changes and modifications to his account that might need to be made in order to distinguish something like cyberbeing.

     

    For Heidegger (Being), what is fundamental to being-in-the-world is that we understand as. But this does not mean: objects exist primordially in themselves as pure presence and we, subsequent to that sheer presence, come along and, as it were, throw an understanding over them. Presence and understanding are not like this. What are they like?

     

    The first given of what-is is that it is part of, roughly, human socio-cultural being (or Dasein). What can be in this respect is, initially, of two kinds. The first is what is ready-to-hand (Zuhanden) as opposed to the second, what is present-at-hand (Vorhanden). What is ready to hand is part of the everyday world of practical activity and consists of equipment (hammers and promises, for example–but also the familiar means of using them). It consists of tools and methods. These come first. What is present-at-hand comes later and is only one particular way of using what is ready-to-hand: it is what comes to count as natural, objective and beyond the field of human concerted actions. In fact it is what the picture in the paragraph above mistakenly thinks of as coming first: natural, primordial, independent entities subject to such things as scientific inquiry.

     

    Two ways of being then: the ready-to-hand (cf. “culture”) and the present-at-hand (cf. “nature”). But prior to this, as we have seen, is another which Heidegger calls Dasein. Dasein is, loosely, human (as opposed to natural or equipmental) being. More precisely, it is “a being of the same ontological sort that we are” (Okrent 3). And it is ontologically prior to either Zuhandenheit or, naturally, Vorhandenheit. However, Dasein’s unique capacity is that it is the only kind of thing which is ontologically constituted such that it can work with what is ready-to-hand (in order to produce, for example, what counts as “natural” and apparently, therefore, primordial). The mistake in philosophy, or indeed in any kind of inquiry, is to begin with independent entities present-at-hand–with what might be called the merely “occurrent.” Adopting Dreyfus’s terms then, we can think of Dasein’s primordial concern with what is ready-to-hand as “availableness,” and its subsequent concern (on top of this primary layer) with what is present-at-hand as “occurrentness” (Dreyfus xi). According to this vocabulary, what is available (tools and methods) must always precede what is occurrent (apparently natural facts).

     

    These then are the main categories of being (cf. Brandom). But we have already said that the involvement of Dasein in availableness is understanding and that understanding is always understanding as. Obviously, if availableness precedes occurrentness (and can perhaps be said to produce it), then understanding, as the first involvement of Dasein in the world, cannot be something, as it were, “naturally given” to it. It cannot have to do with a mind or a consciousness, or with subjective mental states. It must have to do with Dasein’s dealings with availableness: equipment.

     

    To understand, then, is to have appropriate dealings with equipment, with tools and the methods of their use. These tools are part of the ordinary organized social fabric in which Dasein finds itself. Dasein always already finds itself amidst tools: communally sanctioned things for doing things, and ways of doing those things. When it uses equipment in the way that we all do and in the way that we all recognize as appropriate for the task in hand, and in a way which is competent for that task in hand, we say that Dasein understands.

     

    So in this account of being in the world, there is intention to be sure. But to be an intentional agent, as Dasein, is not to have a certain mental orientation towards the world and its ways. Rather it is to be a certain kind of ordinary and organized practice. Therefore Dasein does not have to do with any individual or independent actor and his internal mental states. That idea comes out of the wrong view of things that is sometimes called “representationalist” or “Cartesian.” On that wrong view there are, on the one hand, non-human objects in the world (“reality”) and, on the other, an ego or consciousness that has to apprehend them in some way: hence intention is the state of consciousness that one of these beings (the human/subjective) has towards the other (the natural/objective). On the Cartesian-representationalist view, intention bonds the subject-thinker to the object-existent.

     

    Against the Cartesian picture, we can say that understanding is a question of knowing how to do something or bring something about rather than a question of knowing that something exists or has such-and-such properties. Dasein can do this latter: it can make interpretations of what is occurrent–but it can only do so as a function of its operations with (its understanding of) what it has available. So understanding is, effectively, a kind of mastery. As Heidegger puts it: “In German we say that someone can vorstehen something–literally stand in front or ahead of it, that is, stand at its head, administer, manage, preside over it. This is equivalent to saying that he versteht sich darauf, understands in the sense of being skilled or expert at it, has the know how of it. The meaning of the term ‘understanding’…is intended to go back to this usage in ordinary language” (Basic Problems 276).

     

    Now implicit in all of this is that Dasein is always already social. It is in fact something more like “membership” than it is a “person” (who happens, after the fact of his personhood, to be included as a member). Dasein begins as membership and any particular Dasein-like thing is never not a member. In this sense Dasein cannot be separated from being-with (Mitdasein). Being-with is the social and there is no prior form of being that being-with is made up of. It begins (and may indeed end) that way. In this sense understanding is no more than how it is that any particular Dasein displays (or, for example, accounts for) its being-with.

     

    How does this practical understanding operate? In any practical activity, what is done is done for something. It is done for and goes forth or forward into some further practical activity. Hence I cut down a tree in order to get wood for the fire. The first activity produces the effect of the second. But the second activity (making the fire with the chopped wood), insofar as this is what my Mitdasein routinely does in order to warm itself, makes the first intelligible. In this sense, practices are articulated with one another and cannot be separated and inspected for their competent understandings as stand-alone affairs. I have shown one kind of competence when I select an axe for the chopping, another when I swing it in the right way so as to fell the tree, another when I cut the tree up appropriately for use in a domestic fire (which might involve leaving it to cure, for example), another when I use the wood for making a fire (rather than building a roof), another when I lay the fire properly so that the house is heated, and so on. There is a relational totality here which has nothing to do with my individual actions alone. This totality is a whole that precedes the sum of any actual empirical practices. It might be called the “plenum” or “gestalt” of practical competence. Insofar as I orient myself in the course of that plenum or, as Heidegger calls it, a “functionality contexture” (Bewandtniszusammenhang), I can be said to have understood. So understanding is always subject to a practical “as” structure, where the “as” marks an actual orientation to the ready-to-hand.

     

    In one sense, then, we might talk about the production and the recognition of social practices as constituting understanding–providing we don’t assume that either of these terms requires a primary capacity for mental acts on the part of anything that happens to be Dasein. Production means practical activities with equipment and their recognizably competent use. And this recognizing is, as it turns out, understanding as. The recognition can be done by any particular Dasein itself or by another or others. Recognition, in this sense, is the property of the Mitdasein. It doesn’t involve seeing somebody doing something and, then, after the fact, turning inwards to see that the “mind” has registered it as in accord with some axiomatic rules for so-doing. Rather it is more-than-immediate. It consists in the very production itself as having been, all along, “how we do it.” So one understands a practical activity as what is recognizably competent “for us all.” The social world (the being-with) makes sense because (a) its actions are part of the plenum of competent actions and, which is the same thing, because (b) the methods for the production and the methods for the recognition of practical actions are identical. And those methods too are shared equipment.

     

    In some fields of the study of everydayness, the identity between production and recognition methods is called “reflexivity” or “incarnateness” (Garfinkel 1). What it suggests is that this is the bottom line for anything and everything about which ontological claims (claims that they have being of some kind) can be made. We might refer to it as the “self-sustaining” property of Dasein in its direct and reciprocal relation to availableness. Brandom refers, instead, to the fact that “anthropological categories” are “self-adjudicating” (387); Rorty refers to the fact that “social practice is determinative of what is and is not up to social practice” (356). These phrases suggest that whatever else might be a candidate ground for “what is social” (things such as “nature,” “topography,” “cultural attitudes,” “psychological dispositions,” “the economy” and so on) will in fact be effects of this primordial ontological (and not “merely” or secondarily social) condition of being in the world.

     

    But what about one such obvious candidate: the occurrent, the “natural,” the realm of things apparently beyond and outside the control of “man”–what Brandom calls “the objective, person-independent, causally interacting subjects of natural scientific inquiry” (387)? As he goes on to show, even this “noumenal” domain arises out of Dasein. It does so, he claims, by virtue of a fairly special (“theoretical”) kind of practical orientation to equipment. As we saw above, the appropriate use (appropriation) of equipment constitutes a practical understanding. In taking something as something, we produce-recognize it as the particular thing it is for ourselves (for everyone in the being-with). But what happens if, instead of appropriating the tool or method, we appropriate the understanding of it? Surely this understanding is just another set of practical affairs–in fact we said as much above. But in another sense, to appropriate the understanding itself is another order of affairs. In the first instance, Heidegger calls this “deliberation,” as a particular variety of interpretation (rather than as “understanding” as such; though, as we have seen, it is ultimately no more than a variety of understanding-as-practice). As Brandom puts it, “Interpretation at the level of deliberation adds to [the] use and appropriation of equipment, the use and appropriation of equipmental understanding of particular involvements” (400). In this case, where interpretation emerges from practical understanding, we have a means of dealing with what is occurrent (“present-at-hand”).

     

    This secondary relation is a particular kind of worldly operation and involves assertion. With the equipment of assertions (and eventually inferences from assertions) we do not simply do something with what is available, we are also able to say or state things about the occurrent. This is the kind of position we take when, for example, we don’t cut down the tree for the fire but, again for example, consider the general category of trees and make taxonomies; or when we begin a biological investigation of trees; or when we count how many there are in order to study an eco-system. In fact this kind of interpretation arises whenever our interests in something are no longer practical in the direct sense. Nevertheless, since this particular “tension” of equipmental use (the use of assertions and inferences) has its root in quite ordinary practice (such that it could not exist if there were no prior ordinary understandings to take as its own particular equipment), it is still a matter grounded in the self-sustaining, reflexive, or self-adjudicating common ground of all being in the world. While there may be a “practical indifference” (Brandom 406) towards such “theoretic” matters, their ultimate grounding in practice does not, thereby, disappear. The occurrent is, as we have noted, ontologically dependent on the available. This is why, when we forget that dependence, we can be misled into the strange game of thinking that the occurrent is the first of all there is. This is the mistake of “the doctrine of pure presence-at-hand (or, sometimes, ‘Reality’),” according to Brandom, who goes on to quote Heidegger as follows:

     

    ['Reality'] in its traditional signification stands for Being in the sense of pure presence-at-hand of Things....[But] all the modes of Being of entities within-the-world are founded ontologically upon the worldhood of the world and accordingly the phenomenon of Being-in-the-world. From this arises the insight that among the modes of Being of entities within-the-world, Reality has no priority, and that Reality is a kind of Being which cannot even characterize anything like the world or Dasein in a way which is ontologically appropriate. (Being 211, qtd. in Brandom 406)

     

    Theoretical inquiry is a routine property of social existence, in this sense–but it becomes problematic when what it discovers (the occurrent) is thought to be prior to what, ultimately, allows it to be discovered, namely, ordinary practical understanding. Hence “Discovery of the present-at-hand [the occurrent] is an authentic possibility of Dasein’sBeing, instantiated by all communities ever discovered. Pure presence-at-hand [occurrence] is a philosophers’ misunderstanding of the significance of the category of presence-at-hand, and a Bad Idea” (Brandom 407).

     

    This is a unique way of handling the variety of what is. It prioritizes the social (as Dasein and availability) over the supposed primacy of the natural (the occurrent). But it does not, for all that–and even though it denies “reality” a prior ontological foothold–lapse into relativism. This is not the thesis of the “social construction of reality” by any means. But what it does begin with, and what sustains it throughout, is understanding (and later interpreting) as. The “purity” of pure occurrence is, as it were, always “contaminated” by the “as” of ordinary practice. So the question that lies before us is no more and no less than this: is there, now, today, the possibility of an alternative to that “as”? I don’t mean, naturally enough, a reassertion of, or an insistence on, pure presence (primordial reality)–for as we have learned, that would only be another effect of the game with assertions, ultimately returnable to the “as” itself. What I mean is an alternative to understanding as, as a way of being in the world–perhaps some technological supplementation of the “as” structure?

     

    Let me propose, as an initial approximation, that there is now a determinate, viable and practical way of being with equipment predicated on something akin to–but, importantly, not quite the same as–understanding “as if.” “As if” would indeed be appropriate were it not for the fact that this tension of the “as”-structure marks the space of the virtual (as opposed to the sheer “as”-structure of the actual). In this case, something between “as” and “as if” marks an indeterminate space of the possibility of being. This is the space of cyberbeing: cyberspace. But this is not necessarily a fourth category of being over and above Heidegger’s three (Dasein, availability and occurrentness). Instead, what I want to propose is that cyberbeing is a new possibility of relations between these categories–or, more strictly, between Dasein and availability, with the effect that the occurrent takes on a slightly different ontological configuration (different, that is, from its grounding in the practice of assertion).

     

    Cyberbeing, that is, would constitute a new relation between human being and equipment, to the point where the two cease to be distinct ontological categories in the strictest sense. Dasein does not use cyberequipment in the way that it uses fishing hooks and aeroplanes. Rather the two engage in a mutuality of using and being used. This can be seen from the first moment of cyberequipmental engagement. Power has to reach a computer’s motherboard and its CPU in millivolts. Standard power outlets, however, range between 100v and 260v. In order to reduce the voltage, the computer contains a power supply device. This consists of, among other things, a board with its own chips. What if this circuit is damaged in some way? Strictly, the full force of the standard voltage should hit the motherboard and the CPU and “fry” it. But there is a fail-safe device. On the power supply board is a self-checking chip. It can determine whether or not the supply is ready to receive high voltage and is capable of reducing it to the operating voltage. But how does this part of the circuit perform these tasks prior to the mains voltage reaching it? What powers this part of the circuit? In fact, it requires so little power that it is able to power on from the current generated by the change in quantum state caused by the operator’s finger turning the power switch. In this way, the user’s body provides the power for the computer’s power supply to anticipate the upcoming mains voltage. There is, from the start (perhaps even before it) a mutuality between person and computer. It is this mutuality that is cyberbeing, and it is encapsulated in this metaphor of mutual switching, turning, relaying or flick(er)ing.

     

    In Heidegger, standard availability, readiness-to-hand or the Zuhanden involves Dasein in an actual relation to equipment: the “as”-structure. The Zuhanden is actual equipment and Dasein establishes itself in community-appropriate modes of articulation with that equipment. This is coping. Coping is actual-equipmentality in its everydayness. Against this actual we might pose the virtual. Here, equipment becomes intangible and its characteristic manifestations would be in art, fiction, poetry, and all the technologies of the imaginary whose mode of understanding is understanding “as if.” And, parenthetically, this is perhaps why Heidegger’s thought undergoes significant alterations when he considers this field in “The Origin of the Work of Art.” But we must pause here. For the cyber is not identical with the virtual or the equipmentality of the imaginary–despite current usage in such terms as “virtual reality” (VR) and so on. Rather the cyber’s unique equipmentality flick(er)s or hovers between the actual and the virtual, between the “as” and the “as if.” When I use VR equipment such as a headset and an electronic “glove” to play golf, my actual arm moves as it would when addressing an actual golfball on an actual course. However, in this case, there is no actual ball or golf links. Rather the sense of their immediate existence is generated electronically, virtually. That is, I address the ball as a ball but it has its being “as if.” The ensemble or gestalt that is the game of “virtual” golf actually circulates at rapid speed between the actual and virtual. The two are brought into a single equipmental space that is cyberspace. So, the cyber is neither actual nor virtual alone; rather it resides in the ranges of space between–spaces that are neither here nor there, present nor absent, material nor immaterial, “as” nor “as if.” To understand cyberbeing “as” would be to over-normalize it; to understand it purely “as if” would be to over-virtualize it. Instead, because cyberbeings rapidly fluctuate between these actual and virtual understandings, they may be said to have the characteristics once ascribed to ghosts. And here we might be reminded that today’s dominant computer interface, the graphical user interface, is usually abbreviated to GUI, which is roughly the equivalent of the Chinese word for ghost (Koh). Cyberbeing is gui, ghostly, or, to use Derrida’s term, “spectral” (Specters).

     

    To summarize: Dasein’s everydayness addresses equipment as actual. This provides the very conditions of possibility for the imaginary/virtual that is the space of artistic play. Between the two is an unbounded space that can be called the gui or the spectral. This is cyberspace, where cyberbeing resides–and cyberbeing is defined as whatever resides in this space. Accordingly, it is composed of a family of “games” or practices in Wittgenstein’s sense. There is not just one cyberpractice but many, though each is held together by a loose kind of family resemblance–and that resemblance is the unbounded or fuzzy space between virtual and actual. Cyberbeing’s characteristic is, then, indeterminate. It has no determinate characteristic (just as, for Wittgenstein, a family is not defined by each member’s possession of a single feature–eyes, nose, gait, and so forth). Rather the resemblance of cyberpractices is identical with the inclusion of whatsoever practices in the space of cyberbeing, between the actual and the virtual. This “between” means that cyberspace is not a set, a category or a genre. Rather it is a disposition of spectral possibilities: neither actual-solid nor virtual-spirituous, but gui (gooey?). Some such practices would include:

     

    •      Cyber environments or spectral architectures where actual building materials combine with virtual surfaces to create possibilities of bodily and disembodied movements through a mutually doubled space.
    •      Cyber performances such as those of the artist Stelarc, who augments his body with invasive electronic prostheses–or, rather, augments electronic devices with the prosthesis he calls his “body”–and who occasionally connects those devices to the Internet so that remote users can make the body-machine move. {Go to Stelarc’s site}
    •      Dildonics: couplings of devices and human-body movements and reactions that might be said to “simulate” sexual activity, were it not for the fact that this is not so much a simple simulation with inert equipment (such as sex toys) as it is a relation between different bodies’ erotic capacities and the possibilities opened for them by the limitless space of the spectral.
    •      Electro-luminescent fibres (ELFs), which are used to cover the body somewhat like clothing. However, unlike the standard equipment of clothing, ELFs alter unpredictably on the basis of small charges given out by the body itself. The ELF then is more a SELF (spectro-electro-luminescent-fibre) than an inert addition to a body from which it is separate.
    •      Haptics: This includes devices such as the Phantom, invented by Massie and Salisbury at MIT. By rapidly generating and receiving up to 1000 messages per second in a feedback loop, the Phantom is able to simulate events beyond the two-dimensional visual range that is common to ordinary graphics. This allows its operators to effectively see in three dimensions and indeed to “touch” computer generated objects.
    •      Games: sometimes called “electronic” games or “computer” games, though the term is misleading and a hangover from pre-spectral thinking. Whether combined with VR technologies or not, games in cyberspace are more like interconnections and passages between humo-machinic “players.” They exist in and as these interconnections and passages rather than in the “liveware,” “hardware” and “software” that they bring together. And this is because their “rules” reside in these hovering interstices: rules that have the peculiar property of being able to alter according to the unpredictable course of play.
    •      Hyperlinks, hypertext, hypermedia: The “hyper” is only one, and perhaps a relatively unimportant, member of the family of cyberpractices. Although it was early on the scene, it maintained close links with pre-spectral forms of equipmental engagement (such as the book and, in particular, the dictionary and the encyclopedia). It was in fact a prosthetic look-up device which differed from pre-spectral look-up devices only by virtue of its ultimately digital makeup. It, in fact, provides a good demonstration of how the cyber is not coterminous with the silicon-digital (any more than Dasein is coterminous with the carbon-analogue).
    •      The Internet: here the merely hyper becomes potentially cyber since, with the indefinite nodal linking of hyper-media phenomena, truly spectral possibilities can arise. A hyper-link is merely digital. But a web of hyper-links is one constituent of the spectral–at least in potentia. That is, certain features of the Internet retain pre-spectral forms of equipmentality, e-mail being a case in point. With e-mail, we have all the familiar territory of senders and addressees, letters, mailboxes, forwarded copies, enclosures and attachments. E-mail, like ordinary mail, operates in a plane and merely substitutes, electronically, for movements that would occur on that plane anyway. As e-mail documents come to contain relative and absolute hyper-links, however, they move away from their position as a minor supplementation of the plane of written linguistic communication. They leave open, as do all webbed entities, the possibility of unforseeable coming-and-going, being-here-and-being-there, travelling without given destinations, virtual-actual transitions and the rest of the manifold ways of describing cyberbeing and ~space. What moves is no longer “information” along a “highway” (these terms are inadequate metaphors drawn from the forms of actual being which cyberbeing prosthetises). What moves on the web is the movement of the web itself. Its motion creates the sites that it is possible to move to. This deletes the distinction between space and matter that is so crucial to everyday thinking. On the web, space “informs” matter how to move and matter “informs” space how to shape itself.
    •      MUDs and MOOs–“Multiple User Dungeons/Dimensions” and “MUD: Object-Oriented”–are spectral environments where constructed identities can meet and interact. The features of the identities are not determined by those of the persons who are said to “interact” or “communicate” “via” MOOs. Rather they are doubly actual-virtual, so that these constructs can operate and cope as a community in spectral space to create further spectral spaces or objects. They might produce only possible conversations, but they might also produce possible works of art, softwares, parties, games, recipes, tools, music and so on.
    •      Norns or “virtual pets” have their origins in the quasi-spectral discipline of artificial life (A-Life) and begin as clusters of digital-genetic code (or “eggs”) that then “grow” according to less than predictable inter-effects between their code and that surrounding them in cyberspace. While their existence in A-life-based games relies on metaphors of “birth,” “development,” “nurture,” “death” and so on, the important characteristic of this member of the family of cyberpractices is that it actualizes cyber-variants of these aspects of biologically-based life, adding to it and taking away from it (in the way that Stelarc adds his body to the Internet so that it is the body that becomes parasitic rather than vice versa). Norns are less artificial life than they are prosthetic life (cf. Wills).
    •      VR equipment, as we have seen, is not strictly virtual. Rather it is virtual-actual. With it, the body supplements both electronic equipment and the imaginary spaces and possibilities it can generate; and at the same time, the equipment and its imaginary supplement the body. It is this mutual relay that, as we have seen, is the space (or spacing) of cyberbeing.

     

    This is only a brief list of possibilities, to be sure, and no doubt many other instances can be found. What we do need at this point, though, is a general understanding of the being of (these instances of) cyberbeing. One way of approaching this would be to see how the Heideggerian notion of equipmentality overlaps with (or is supplemented by) Derrida’s position on supplementation. From there, we can begin to see at least three aspects of cyberbeing itself: its relation to techno-moralities (positive and negative); its status as a highly unique meta-technology; and its particular way of generating or producing occurrence (which seems to be quite distinct from Dasein’s assertional-propositional mode).

     

    Equipmentality in Heidegger is taken up by Derrida (Grammatology 144-157) as the supplement, in the following sense. With Heidegger, Derrida holds that being cannot be simply present to itself. It does not have the characteristics of a “reality” as pure presence. Rather being’s equipmentality is the condition for the real, the present-at-hand, the occurrent. For both thinkers, then, there is no being pure and simple. Rather there is always and necessarily a “contamination”–something impure adding to and taking away from whatever precedes it as a form of being. And this adding and taking is never not in process: so we can only dream of a pure being without supplementation, without the prosthetic, without some form of equipmentality. Being has no “first” supplement, only chains of supplementation, always already in process; and so there is, strictly, no outside to the prosthetic or equipmental character of our being. At each point along these chains of prosthetization, it always only looks as if the prior technology were “more human,” “more authentic.” So, in the famous case, Plato derides the technology of writing for its negative effects on the natural human capacity for memorizing. In the nineteenth century, the streetlight was thought to corrupt the morality of the urban populace, to destroy its natural distinction between day and night, work and rest. Now computers are supposed to be destroying our natural capacities to read books, to be literate. This is one moral axis that appears to be given off as technologies come into historico-supplementational relations with one another. It sees the replace-ative aspect of the supplement and represses its cumulative aspect. At the same time though, another moral axis works in the opposite direction: writing increases the distances over which communication takes place; it opens the space of democracy and reduces the grip of the priesthood on access to knowledge. Streetlighting reduces crime and brings the leisure of the night out into the open, into a new community. Computers make instant connections to anywhere and reduce the home/workplace and work/leisure dichotomies altogether, freeing us in some sense from a long entrenched mode of production. Two moralities, then, at each point when one technology’s “set” and another’s meet in a mobile ellipse of confrontations and agreements, breakings-away and comings-together. No point then in engaging in these as far as the cyber is concerned. The cyber, as a techno-prosthetic, can perfectly well generate its own moralities as part of its being. There is no place for the analyst here. So, accordingly, delete any “approval” or “disapproval” for the cyber you may have read here already or will read below. For the point is not to praise or condemn but to begin to think the ontological status of cyberbeing.

     

    Another characteristic of the elliptical spaces where technological “sets” intersect to produce “lines” of technological flight is that they are affected (perhaps even effected) by adjacent lines. Hence the printing press is affected by the adjacent technologies of the wine press, metallurgy, cloth-making, mercantile practice and education, among others. Likewise, the computer hybridizes the adjacent lines of higher mathematics and the chemistry of silicon, again among others. As these effects pass “vertically” into the transitional technological space, they make possible new forms of equipmentality. But the “revolutionary” instances do more than this. For example, the printing press (in its supplementation of writing and its hybridizing of wine-making, metallurgy, and the rest) is not only a model for all the forms of mechanical reproduction it foreshadows, it is also a means of distributing information about such means. Since it can generate identical copies of technical manuals and schematics, for example, it can ensure that close-to-identical forms of production can exist in spatio-temporally distant locales. The importance of the cyber in this respect–and here the consequences must be enormous–is that it supplements or prosthetizes Dasein’s very capacity to supplement or prosthetize. Printing is a meta-technology in a limited sense. It permits the distribution of the capacity to supplement Dasein. The cyber, by contrast, does not simply permit or facilitate this, it also carries it out. In making the cyber possible, we have made possible an equipmental formation of equipmentality. We have, in effect, made the distinction between “ourselves” and what we have ready-to-hand utterly indistinct. One morality, of course, will see, as ever, only loss of control and authenticity. Another will only see the opening of indefinite and, eventually indispensable, possibilities of being human differently.

     

    It follows from all of the above that Heidegger’s third category of being, the occurrent, the present-at-hand (or that which is mistakenly thought by some philosophers to be pure or primordial reality) cannot, in cyberspace, be a mere effect of the equipment called linguistic assertion. That is: if the “science” that Dasein generates is propositional, then the science peculiar to cyberbeing (its interpretation of the “real”) is anything but. The assertional-propositional stems from Dasein’s localization with and within the space of the actual. The imaginary-virtual had, all along, never operated propositionally. It always interpreted the real aesthetically, via various kinds of feeling and intuition “as if.” Even in Kant, these modes of interpretation were never thought to be properly propositional. But, for the cyber, things are different again. Hyper-links, software code, silicon chips, HTML scripts, digitized images and so on: all of these are subject to a definite logic. They are fathomable and controllable by assertional-propositional techniques. But where links move and go to, cumulatively; how software codes sit alongside potentially multi-millions of others (especially as mini-apps., Java applets and so on); how chips are placed in relation to one another through networked hardwares to form inter- and intra-computers with unpredictable capabilities; what HTML scripts can do and where they can take “information” into new contexts and combinations with unforeseeable consequences; how digitized images are recycled and recombined, distorted and warped, clarified and magnified, combined, overlaid and condensed: all of these are elsewhere than the assertional-propositional. They are not, in the strict sense, virtual; they offer no aesthetic or “intuitive” opening (or production) of the occurrent. Rather they de-assertionalize the present-at-hand. They loosen it from its moorings in logic and logistics; they generate it as more than an effect of pragmata. And if they “assert” at all, they assert between the “as” and the “as if”–so that the supplementational “between” (the supplement of cyberbeing’s meta-supplementation of Dasein) marks the indefiniteness of possibility as opposed to both the definiteness of ordinary, actual assertion and the infinity of virtual “intuition.” What we now–as cyberbeing–make, care for, govern and hold to be “beyond” us (as “presence”) we still make, care for, govern and hold, to be sure. But we now always do this under the aspect of sheer possibility and potential. Presence is neither asserted nor imagined; it is possible presence, presence-to-come. And the space of that possibility and potential is the spectral, gui, cyberbeing and ~space, itself.

     

    Works Cited

     

    • Brandom, Robert. “Heidegger’s Categories in Being and Time.” The Monist 66:3 (1983): 387-409.
    • Derrida, Jacques. Of Grammatology. Trans. Gayatri Chakravort Spivak. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins UP, 1976.
    • —. Specters of Marx : The State of the Debt, the Work of Mourning, and the New International. Trans. Peggy Kamuf. New York: Routledge, 1994.
    • Dreyfus, Hubert L. Being-in-the-World: A Commentary on Heidegger’s Being and Time, Division I. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 1991.
    • Garfinkel, Harold. Studies in Ethnomethodology. Englewood Cliffs: Prentice-Hall, 1967.
    • Heidegger, Martin. The Basic Problems of Phenomenology. Trans. Albert Hofstadter. Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1982.
    • —. Being and Time. Trans. John Macquarrie and Edward Robinson. Oxford: Blackwell, 1962.
    • —. “The Origin of the Work of Art.” Martin Heidegger: Basic Writings. Ed. David Farrell Krell. London: Routledge, 1993. 143-212.
    • Koh, J.F. Personal communication. March 1997.
    • Okrent, Mark. Heidegger’s Pragmatism: Understanding, Being, and the Critique of Metaphysics. Ithaca: Cornell UP, 1988.
    • Rorty, Richard. “Wittgenstein, Heidegger and the Reification of Language.” The Cambridge Companion to Heidegger. Ed. Charles B. Guignon. New York: Cambridge UP, 1993. 337-357.
    • Wills, David. Prosthesis. Stanford: Stanford UP, 1995.
    • Wittgenstein, Ludwig. Philosophical Investigations. Trans. G.E.M. Anscombe. Oxford: Blackwell, 1953.

     

  • Notes on Mutopia

    Istvan Csicsery-Ronay

    Science Fiction Studies
    DePauw University
    icronay@depauw.edu

     

    Mutopia

     

    People move. We become refugees from violence, and exploitation, and poverty, and boredom. This has happened before. But before, we believed we would settle, or resettle, or die trying. Now we go around and around. We no longer believe there is settlement. Painful for the Enlightenment, for the point of the freedom of movement was to arrive at a destination: an ultimate home better than the birth-home. And the Enlightenment was to bring the ultimate home even to the provinces. It worked so well that now, even when folks live in one place for generations, the world migrates under them. The differences that once were ideologized into essences or principles are recognized to be mutable. High-speed computer and communications technologies have linked different peoples so closely that only “irrationally” protected cultural secrets can survive becoming currencies and stories in the information market. Fill in your own CNNtelepoliticsGoldCardtransnationalfrequentflyerhomeshoppingworldbeatprogrammedtrading HungarianhiphopcrackinBenares story. Bet on it: your parody is empirical, prime-time, your high-rez muezzins chant “in the name of Allah, The Compassionate, the Digital.”1 This is the Age of Absolute Oxymoron. Hang ten, this is a big one.

     

    Mutability is no longer about the physical body’s sad corruption, nor about the freshness of the New Thing. Enter Tao, exit Reason. To live in this flux, Zen demands mu, “unasking the question”–for the question invariably asks to preserve the unpreservable, in language of the reified present. What shall we call our culture of coping in this tide of historical samsara? Let us call it: mutopia.

     

    The Mountain of the Night

     

    When wanderings on the smooth spaces become intolerable, survivors seek magic mountains; spaces that become mountains by rising suddenly; or villages that disappear down a dead-end branch.

     

    The central plateau of southern Africa was ravaged for most of the 1820s by vast hordes of displaced peoples wandering from place to place, pillaging and devouring others to survive. The greatest of these groups, Mantatee’s Horde, numbered over 50,000. A small Sutu clan, led by their young leader, Msheshwe, was forced out of its area.

     

    Msheshwe was appalled at the destruction by which he was surrounded, and alone refused to join in the general pillaging. He gathered his clan, perhaps 2,000 people, and led them south, to the foothills of the Drakensberg (his grandfather Peete was eaten by cannibals on the way), and here he found a most unusual mountain. Thasa Bosiu--"The Mountain of the Night"--was a flat-topped hill in a deep, hidden valley with 150 acres of good pasture and a spring on the summit. The plateau was surrounded by a steep scarp with only three access trails. Msheshwe established his clan on top and supplied each trail with enormous mounds of boulders, which could be rolled down to break up attackers. Perched on this stronghold, he formed the only island of sanity in a sea of madness, and over the years was able to build his clan into the Basuto nation. He pieced it together from debris cast up in the general havoc, offering succor to the fragmented groups that eddied and swirled through the foothills. His security was greatly enhanced by a carefully planted rumor that the mountain grew to an immense height at night and subsided to its normal 300 feet during the day.2

    Solvitur ambulando

     

    The past is the natural place to look for the seeds of utopia. The future writes its record into the past. First, idealize pre-industrial agriculture–organicism, closeness to the earth, stewardship, co-operation. When it turns out that agriculture inspires oppressive customs to order settledness, the quest is for hunter-gatherness–even closer to the earth, which h-gs do not try to transform, living in happy communication with the animals, on the borders of faery. But h-gs are inclined to become herders, pastoralists, and the question of turf perpetually incites war over property and grazing privileges. Nay, the very war-machine. Where to next? Neanderthals, perhaps, long maligned, but possibly gentle giants wiped out by aggressive Cro-Magnons (i.e., us). Or even the earliest hominids in the Olduvai Eden.

     

    Bruce Chatwin, in The Songlines, reconstructs the epitome of this mobile paleo-utopia in his account of the songlines of Australian aboriginal peoples. According to Chatwin’s story, these peoples map the whole of the continent in songs that are to be sung while doing walkabouts, solitary treks that simultaneously restore the physical memory of the land to the human mind and insure that the society of spirits is kept alive and in touch with humanity. Each social group has its own songs, marking its territory–but there are peaceable overlaps: to cross another’s territory one must learn that people’s songs, languages. In essence, the aboriginal songlines both describe and contain the earth. They are a form of ambulatory Aleph, existing without cities, walls, farms or war-machines. Scarcity produces plenitude–Chatwin’s is the acme of the idealization of the desert, where each stone and creosote bush has an individuality that also helps the human mind orient itself, locate itself, and by doing so gives the world a definite location. Plums do not drop into our mouths, as in paleo-Sumer or the Abyssinian garden. In the desert, creation and art are not gifts, but work–work with gifts.

     

    My father’s castle

     

    My father’s native village, Zala, lies five kilometers from Tab, in the southwestern Hungarian county of Somogy. To reach it from Budapest, one takes a train to the resort town of Siófok on Lake Balaton, then climbs onto a county local, and passes a dozen villages until reaching the town of Tab. From there one either waits for one of the intermittent buses, takes one of the town’s half dozen taxicabs, or just walks, altogether about eight kilometers from the Tab station to the center of Zala.

     

    On a fine summer day, it is a sweet amble. The region, the valley of Little Koppány river, is a country of high, wooded hills rising out of rolling wheatfields. The road, which runs west out of Tab, is hedged with lombardy poplars. Poppies bloom in the roadside ditches. The sky is dramatic, in a homely way; Adriatic breezes mingle with the easterly winds of Europe. It’s a shady region. Even in hot summers cool, dark woods are never far away.

     

    The road to Zala is a spur off the main road, a long cul de sac ascending gradually up a gentle hill, through the tree-dense village, to the wheatfields at the northern perimeter. The three hundred or so villagers live from farming, hogs, and the vineyards; many commute to Tab for work and school. The quiet is dense, a pleasant pressure, like the cool damp when a hiker suddenly descends into a dale. The sounds don’t vary: yelping dogs, the muffled snarl of motorbikes and tractors on distant hills, the comically rhapsodic song of European robins. Enormous trees cool the air, which is heavy with the scent of boxwoods. There are no stores, no advertisements, few signs of any kind. A bus-stop, a couple traffic icons, an emblem of the national nature conservancy, and a plaque identifying the museum of the 19th Hungarian artist, Mihály Zichy, who was the proprietor of this and surrounding villages for most of the last century.

     

    The museum is Zala’s only worldly attraction. A dozen or so tourists come per week. The Zichy museum occupies about a third of the long, L-shaped, one-story manor house, which the villagers call “The Castle”; it houses Zichy’s studio, many of his paintings and drawings, his library, and objects he collected in his travels. The rest of the building was the family’s living quarters, before it was expropriated by the Communist regime in 1947. Then it was a village-council headquarters, then a cultural center, and finally, it was left alone to house the museum’s caretaker in a benignly neglected rustic hermitage. That caretaker was the artist’s granddaughter, my father’s mother, and so my grandmother. The Castle was my father’s house.

     

    In Turkestan

     

    For Chatwin, the fall is simply the decision to migrate toward the garden, the oasis, the apple orchard. If you do not go way back to the songlines, finding one’s location becomes the model of abstraction. Gurdjieff describes something like this in Meetings with Remarkable Men, in his account of a journey to a secret monastery in Turkestan.

     

    In Turkestan there are many of these monuments, which are very cleverly placed; without them, we travelers would have no possibility of orienting ourselves in this chaotic, roadless region. They are usually erected on some elevated spot so that, if one knows the general plan of their placement, they can be seen a long way off, sometimes even from a score of miles. They are nothing more than single high blocks of stone or simply long poles driven into the ground.Among the mountain folk there exist various beliefs concerning these monuments, such as the following: that at this spot some saint was either buried or taken up to heaven, that he killed the ‘seven-headed dragon’ there, or that something else extraordinary happened to him in that place. Usually the saint in whose name the monument was erected is considered the protector of the entire surrounding countryside, and when a traveler has successfully overcome any difficulty natural to the region–that is, escaped an attack by brigands or wild beasts, or has safely crossed a mountain or river, or surmounted any other danger–it is all attributed to the protection of this saint. And so any merchant, pilgrim or other traveler who has passed through these dangers brings to the monument some kind of offering in gratitude.

     

    It became an established custom to bring as an offering something which, as is believed there, would mechanically remind the saint of the prayers of the person who brought the offering. Accordingly, they bring gifts such as a piece of cloth, the tail of an animal or something else of the kind, so that, with one end tied or fastened to the monument, the other end can flutter freely in the wind.

     

    These things, moving in the wind, make the spot where the monument is placed visible to us travelers from a great distance. Whoever knows approximately the arrangement of these monuments can locate one of them from some elevated spot and make his way in its direction, and from it to the next, and so on. Without knowing the general pattern of their arrangement it is almost impossible to travel through these regions. There are no well-defined roads or footpaths and, if some paths do form themselves, then, owing to the sudden changes of weather and the ensuing snowstorms, they very quickly change or are totally effaced. So if these landmarks were not there, a traveller trying to find suitable paths would become so confused that even the most delicate compass would be of no help to him. It is possible to pass through these regions only by establishing the direction from monument to monument.3

     

    In this remarkable fusion of geography and allegory, Gurdjieff describes what Chatwin might have considered the origin of the fall–attributable less to human sin than to the restive demons of geology who created mountains, the first of the striated spaces; for in the mountains, the subtlety of the desert’s immanence and the precision of the walkabout becomes the drama of quest, transcendence and abstract monumentality. The markers are memorials to beings who have negotiated terrific ordeals and who can be mechanically induced to protect travelers who are essentially aliens wandering in the mountainous void. No singers, no songs, no step-for-step tracing and recreation of the path. Here the path is contingent, no compass can help, only the marker-monuments flapping in the wind on the promontories can guide the traveler. Gurdjieff’s own spiritual journey is congruent with his physical one. The monastery is the reward for an arduous and mysterious journey. The utopian home must be earned, by quest and ordeal.

     

    Home is homelessness

     

    Utopias may depict smiling toothpastes, sex with commodities (commodomy),4 the perfect organization of time and production, Carmelites discussing Powerbooks, radios of enlightenment, solar-powered metropoli–but they are not the same as the idyllic Land of Cocaigne. Utopias are images of home attained through rational agreement, worked-for, not merely found or granted. Post-dysfunctional. The relationship between the laws or customs of utopia and the utopians is an image of the human family, liberated from feudal violence, the Church, capitalism, collectivism, military occupation, Oedipal miseries, the recursive archetypes of mythology played out generation after generation in most families. Utopias are the image of alienation overcome. So said Ernst Bloch:

     

    Humankind still lives in prehistory everywhere, indeed everything awaits the creation of the world as a genuine one. The real genesis is not at the beginning, but at the end, and it only begins when society and existence become radical, that is, grasp themselves at the root. The root of history, however, is the human being, working, producing, reforming, and surpassing the givens around him or her. If human beings have grasped themselves and what is theirs, without depersonalization and alienation, founded in real democracy, then something comes into being in the world that shines into everyone's childhood and where no one has yet been--home.5

     

    This is the vision of bourgeois happiness, the spiritual joy of the rationalist, the terminal of history’s line. Unlike the idyll, where childhood pleasures absolve folks of adulthood, mortality, responsibility, work, self-consciousness, self-discipline, utopia is the home of enlightened division of labor, of happy abnegation of narcissism for the higher joy of collective harmony. It is life under the good father, or the good family council. Work is not only necessary, it is the highest joy of creating one’s own home constantly–redeemed production-lines replace songlines. Bloch inverts the Freudian slander that utopia is merely the sublimation of infantile erotic fantasies; for Bloch, those fantasies are merely inadequately understood messages from the telos of human existence. Nostalgia is but the anticipation of home when found.

     

    The idyll, even if it is the seed of utopia, is an enemy. For the idyll obviates all work but the work to create its conditions; after that, it’s all automatic–nature will nurture us. Even so, without an idyll, utopia is nothing: without a model of nature “redeemed” by care, second nature cannot be imagined.

     

    Jocoserious

     

    The dialectic of Utopia depends on a concrete ambiguity, a double introjection. On the one hand, there is social criticism, the negation of current bad social organization; on the other, an alternative model. The reader/player should feel that both are positive, concrete commentaries on social conditions and social ideals–and so they should be taken seriously, applied to conditions outside the text. On the other hand they are also parts of an aesthetic game, a playful demonstration of the limits of the conception of the real, by showing some limits inscribed in the utopian paradoxes and oxymorons.

     

    Two visions correspond to Utopia: on the one hand, a free play of imagination in its indefinite expansion measured only by the desire, itself infinite, of happiness in a space where the moving frontiers of its philosophical and political fictions would be traced; on the other hand, the exactly opposite closed totality rigorously coded with all the constraints and obligations of the law binding and closing a place with insuperable frontiers that would guarantee its harmonious functioning.6

     

    So social criticism cuts against the aesthetic game, each undermines and complements the other, neutralizing and fusing at rapid intervals. Each of these attitudes vibrates in and out of existence. No utopia appears without it, though their constructors might wish them to.

     

    Utopias allow the aesthetic and political attitudes, which are usually mutually exclusive universes of discourse, to play with each other, to spin around, and spin with each other. (Utopias are partial to circular motions. A new traveler is expected to make a circuit.) They question each other, without resolving things. They do not, even so, freeze into a reified dualism, which would merely trivialize both the aesthetic and the political by showing how pretentious they are as attitudes, each pretending to be complete without the other.

     

    A utopia is extremely serious play. It implies that there is no reduction beyond tension, beyond vibration–and that social-political action (the correction of wrongs in reality, etc.) and aesthetic constructions are both required, and the desirable reality is the one in which both will be possible and inseparable. Utopia, consequently, is only imaginable when social-historical moments converge with artistic-historical ones, when political action and art are considered equally vital.

     

    Utopia is always vanguard literature, but never avant-garde. Vanguard because it uses the most advanced contemporary concepts, aspirations, and vocabularies–cultural, social, scientific-technological, historical. Not avant-garde because is strives for clarity in its concepts; it is impermissible to fog up the intellectual game of carrying ideas to extremes with the anarchy of innovative expressions. It is the monument of times when imagination is thought compatible with political language.

     

    Changing Utopia?

     

    Can utopia change? May utopia change? In that renaissance of utopian discussions of the ’60s and early ’70s, these questions haunted attempts to articulate the goal of social revolution. Many of us would spend days and nights listening to philo-utopians talking about “utopian drive,” “utopian impulse,” “utopian energies.” The idea of a community of reason without force was displaced into the deep inner zone, the good psyche, the good unconscious, where it became a version of the life-principle. This was supposed to be a gain, moving the focus of utopia from mechanical world-historical forces or the social laws that Reason impels us to obey, to the zone of self and desire. Individual agency was restored, and utopias increasingly seemed to be about the fulfillment of the deepest personal longings. Rather than seeking to attain harmony through a rational, disciplined repression of personal desire for the higher social good–secularized caritas and agape–as was characteristic of classical utopias, good was to come of the recognition that one’s personal desires are one with others’. The logic of desire might be mystical, or psychoanalytic or Rousseauian–but from wherever the apparatus was derived, this logic pointed toward some supra-dialectical point where reason and desire meet, and the parallel lines, so long separated by the evil petty lords, would embrace and celebrate their union.

     

    Classical reason was stable, steady-state, immutable. Even if one could not inhabit its steadiness in one’s mutable body, the classical rationalist could be sure that it would not change, by definition. But desire–Dionysus and Eros–is changing and changeable. If Utopia is to be built by the contractors of desire, what is to keep desire from changing instantly to something new, dialectically “other,” unanticipated, leaving the city of accomplished love as dead as Chaco Canyon? What limits could be justified without a police force, and ultimately a police state. When will the contractors ever complete the job and just let us move in?

     

    The ’60s was a period of bona fide utopian energy–hundreds of thousands of people were actively trying to imagine an ideal society–thousands of theories, theologies, housing arrangements, mass movements for social change were created, reflecting the proliferating multiplicities of desire, and not only in advanced capitalist societies. In this milieu, utopian writing became more self-conscious and self-questioning than it had been since More. Utopian themes brought about a renaissance of science fiction (SF); the dystopian tradition that had dominated Western social fantasy for half a century now gave place to moral fantasies that engaged the dystopian critiques, and tried to create images of drastic social progress that were neither naive nor cynical.

     

    The ironic, or meta-utopias tried to imagine how the worst sins of human social life could be redeemed, while simultaneously allowing for the very faculty that inspired utopian longing in the first place: the will to change. Looking back, few of the works described as utopian from this period still strike one as utopian–the usual suspects: Le Guin’s The Dispossessed, Delany’s Triton, Russ’ The Female Man, Piercy’s Woman on the Edge of Time and the others. They seem more stories about the difficulty of conceiving an organized, self-administered ideal society than images of consummated societies. But did they ever claim to do the latter? Where would these writers–women, gays, non-Europeans–turn for such images? The utopian heyday in SF was in fact on the cusp of mutopia, when voices that had previously been excluded and utterly de-differentiated in the classical utopias undertook to write the story from the outside, to demonstrate its limits.

     

    An artist of exile

     

    My father is not an ironic man. He has had two main goals in life: to represent high liberal ideals for his nation, and to preserve his ancestral home. Despite forty years of exile in the United States, he has done well. Though he was the last heir of the ancestral lands, in the mid-40s, he participated in a major land reform, keeping only three villages, two of which, Zics and Zala, were the ancient family seats. After the end of World War II, he joined the government that defeated the Communists in open elections, and he was imprisoned with the leadership when that government was overthrown in 1947. With my mother and sister (I was not born yet) he escaped to Austria, and after wandering through postwar Europe, eventually found asylum in the US.

     

    My father was not an immigrant. For forty years he lived in the US anticipating the political changes that would allow him to return to his home. For most of my adult life, I knew him as an artist of exile. He never adopted US citizenship, preferring to be stateless. He never bought a house. He remained current in Hungarian political matters, and instructed my sister and me in Hungarian language and culture, so that when we returned we would be able to take our “rightful place” in the Hungarian elite without missing a step. He vowed not to set foot in the land until the Russian occupation troops had left. In 1989 he returned after free elections had been held.

     

    He immediately set about realizing his two goals. He became actively involved in rehabilitating the memory of the 1945-47 democratic government, and he set about recovering his house, Zala.

     

    The axis

     

    The first records of Zala’s existence, and the presence of my father’s family, date from the last years of the 13th century, but historians have projected them back at least to the Mongol invasions of 1241 and probably to the Magyar settlement of the Danube basin in 896. One can surmise that the family has owned and lived on the land in this region for about a thousand years, surviving the Mongol, Turkish, Hapsburg, and Russian occupations, and many periods of domestic chaos. The Hungarian historical ideal, which is basically the self-image of the progressive nobles who constructed its dominant narrative, is balanced between pride at outlasting historical catastrophes, and pride at constructing vibrant modernities. Putatively, Zala was a quiet and excellent model that a great artist built against historical catastrophe through his art and his stewardship.

     

    An American homesteader may be absolutely devoted to his land because it represents his personal labor and independence. But to the heir of a thousand-year old property the feeling has little to do with labor, the body, with personal will. The place is a shrine to continuity, to endurance, which with time takes on the character of necessity, even fate. The heir becomes merely a vessel of the experiment in immortality. To break the link is inconceivably shameful. The village, land and house are vertical spaces, they extend through historical time, but their axis is stronger than a backbone. The most striking thing about Zala is its population of towering chestnuts and oaks. But progressives, beyond merely preserving the past, are expected to improve it. Putatively more important than economic innovations in farming techniques was the improvement of the national mentality, and Zichy performed admirably in this respect, turning the family’s endurance into art and worldly fame. For family, nation, and class, Zala is not only a physical location, but a representative one.

     

    Tired of trees

     

    Alternatively, the thousand-year old past is a haunting. To accept it is to be elected among the ghosts.

     

    To be rhizomorphous is to produce stems and filaments that seem to be roots, or better yet connect with them by penetrating the trunk, but put them to strange new uses. We're tired of trees. We should stop believing in trees, roots, and radicles. They've made us suffer too much.7

    Big Flood, Little Flood

     

    This is a story of patrimony and patriarchy. I do have a mother, whom I love, but hers is another story, a very different one from the one I must tell you now. Yet this is less a story of maleness as opposed to femaleness, fathers as opposed to mothers, landlords versus villagers, or the nobility versus the misera contribuens plebs, than it is about the desire to establish and hold onto a place of one’s own on the banks of a world that flows like a great stream, and the suspicion that the banks are merely slower channels of the stream.

     

    But I will tell this much. My mother was born in one of the smooth spaces, the northeastern edge of the Hungarians lowlands, where a tangle of rivers feed into the Tisza. Her father died when she was very young, and she lived with her mother and six siblings in a plain village within sight of the Carpathians. As a girl, she watched the rivers overrun their banks in a great flood, submerging villages, vineyards, orchards and forests for a hundred miles around. These floods were matters of legend. Villages are named for them: Big Flood and Little Flood, for example. Ever since, floods inspire special terror and pity in her.

     

    Taidu

     

    Like nomadology, utopia is also the opposite of history. Let’s be clear, utopia is the nomads’ dream world. Here are excerpts of Polo’s description of the new capital built by Kublai Khan, Taidu, the present-day Beijing.

     

    Taidu is built in the form of a square with all its sides of equal length and a total circumference of twenty-four miles....I assure you that the streets are so broad and straight that from the top of the wall above one gate you can see along the whole length of the road to the gate opposite. The city is full of fine mansions, inns, and dwelling houses. All the way down the sides of every main street there are booths and shops of every sort. All the building sites throughout the city are square and measured by the rule; and on every site stand large and spacious mansions with ample courtyards and gardens....Every site or block is surrounded by good public roads; and in this way the whole interior of the city is laid out in squares like a chess-board with such masterly precision that no description can do justice to it.8

     

    Kublai Khan had Taidu built from scratch, across the river from the old city, from which he had much of the population transferred to the new one. The palace at the center of the imperial city shows similar symmetry. What would possess the Khan of Khans, heir of Genghis Khan and ruler of the vastest, flattest empire in the world, the Nomad chosen by God, to build a city so geometrical, regular, abstract? I have only hypotheses.

     

    We know that the Central Asian nomads organized their armies according to strict symmetries of unit number, and deployed armies in all four directions. The Huns are even said to have color-coded their armies, with whole armies riding horses of the color appropriate to the direction against which they were moving. Like Assyrian cities, Taidu was built in the image of the camp.9 Clearly this is an aspect of the war-machine. At the same time, nomads of the smooth spaces were free to build cities according to whatever design they pleased. Thus they–the Uighurs, the Mongols, others–could construct cities that were already abstractions, perfectly imagined, since very little in the steppes’ topography would force constraints. Unconstrained, the despot-nomads created utopian cities in reality. They lacked only utopian humans.

     

    World Upgrade (was: Cyborg Dreams)

     

    The cyborg is the solidest citizen of Mutopia.

     

    It has been ten years since Donna Haraway published one of the most influential essays on the postmodern condition, “Manifesto for Cyborgs.” Haraway was able, as no one else on the Left was at the time, to make radical feminists and their allies aware that the staid dualistic categories of humanist moral-political analysis were fast becoming completely obsolete. In a world hellbent on universal upgrades and recombinations, it was no longer credible to oppose the natural, the organic, and the female, on the one hand, to the artificial, the scientific-technological, and the male on the other. Politics would have to be rethought to work with machines, and with the demolition of categorical distinctions between genders, between animals and humans, between artifice and nature. Accompanying the utopianism of science into the ash-can of history would be all salvation mythologies, with their mystical plots: from innocent origin (idyll) to Fall (history) to apocalyptic salvation (Utopia or Bust).

     

    The cyborg is a perfect mythology for generations that witness not only the collapse of the corrupt cloudcastle ideologies of the Western tradition, but also all memory of the moral advantages it might once have afforded through its conceptions of equality and empirical judgment. Haraway’s Manifesto does a little bit of warning about the dangers of the cyborg-economy, and a lot of magical encouragement about the way the new technologies will liberate women from the phallogocentric God-story. Fathers and The Father play a major role in Haraway’s deeply psychoanalytic reduction of Western history. She is a forerunner, unable to enter the cyborg Canaan because she remembers her Fathers too well. The cyborg descendants (of all genders, not just female) begin with a blue screen–oppressive patriarchal super-egos are so clearly absurd that the very idea of a legitimate patrimony is farcical to cyborgs and cyperpunks. Haraway did not know how weak the walls of Utopia were. For now self-conscious cyborgs are elected to high office, and the contest for bases on which cyborgs might judge good from bad has begun. There is nothing in the cyborg that pre-programs its judgment–not families, not schools, not nations, not even the desire for survival.

     

    To be at home in Mutopia is to be a cyborg. Haraway is openly ambivalent about the cyborg-persona: it is the agent of the high-tech war-machine (a nomad persona, in Deleuze-Guattari’s terms), but it is also utopian. Its utopia bypasses the wish for the idyll, for Zala, for Taidu:

     

    The cyborg does not dream of community on the model of the organic family, this time without the oedipal project. The cyborg would not recognize the Garden of Eden; it is not made of mud and cannot dream of returning to dust. Perhaps that is why I want to see if cyborgs can subvert the apocalypse of returning to nuclear dust in the manic compulsion to name the Enemy. Cyborgs are not reverent; they do not re-member the cosmos. They are wary of holism, but needy for connection--they seem to have a natural feel for united front politics, but without the vanguard party.10

     

    The cyborg is thus a networker, able to pragmatically interface with whatever port is deemed desirable and practicable at the time. In the continuum of mutations, what god will guarantee that any good choices will be made? No guarantees. So let’s cut the smart and happy talk. Down with the Old Flesh! Long live the New Flesh!

     

    For the past ten years we have been living in an ecstatic celebration of Mutopia, an orgy of initiation. Communications media are naturally inclined to celebrate it, since they are ostensibly its prime beneficiary. Politics, science, art all feel the tidal sway. No matter what fundamentalist jihad makes itself known, in the context of mutations it can only be a test, a thrilling agon in the headlong proliferation of moiré programs, infinitely expanding hypermedia of mutually interpenetrating operational structures. Capitalism obviously thrives, since high-tech permits the doubling and redoubling of the world in the form of electronic, “informational” commodities. Far from the commodomy of adtopia, consumers now can fuse with objects as Milton said angels do with each other.

     

    Three strategies dominate: forgetting utopia, seeking constant upgrades in order to participate in the General Upgrade, and negating the negation. To forget utopia, eliminate parents, teachers, nations, children, mates, villages and mountains, romances, all desire to escape history. Eliminate retarding identity. Upgrade reality with VR; upgrade technology with AI; upgrade the body with prosthetics, vitalizing drugs, and genetic engineering; upgrade sensibilities with Simstim; upgrade choice with the materialization of the imaginary. Upgrade life with the demolition of death.

     

    I am not much of a cyborg, here between the two stools of the bourgeois imaginary and the enchanted village of patriarchy. I do not think I will be able to cross over into the digital glow of the New Flesh. But I do not think I will die out. As the inventors of the future–Freud, Nietzsche, Marx, Darwin–are systematically hyperrealized, I find myself back with Kant the cyborg–who set his life to the Königsberg clock–asking the basic questions: what do we know, what should we do and what can we hope for?

     

    The third strategy in the Age of Absolute Oxymoron: vanish from the hype.

     

    My City Was Gone11

     

    The classical and medieval city was protected from the wilderness by its walls. Outside the fortifications were the wild things: panthers, bandits, demons, weather, witches at the crossroads, Dogheaded Tartars. Inside the walls human beings set up their second nature, an environment made in the human image, a secure system of shelter for production and consumption. Civilization is city life. The Mongols were accustomed to burn down the cities of those settled people who refused to accept Mongol hegemony, usually by firing flaming arrows and projectiles into the wooden edifices. Their success was drastically limited by stone fortresses.

     

    City walls are important for Utopias. Since it is important for them to be articulated from wild cities like New York or William Gibson’s Sprawl, utopias–and dystopias, of course, which are collapsed utopias–require travelers to negotiate high mountain barriers like More’s Utopia, or true walls, like the Green Wall of Zamyatin’s We, or internal walls, as in The Dispossessed, walls of time in The Time Machine or bubble-domes, like Triton. The utopian wall is like the archaic city wall. Ur was said to have walls 40 meters thick, Babylon had walls 25 meters high.12

     

    But notice how feeble the Utopian walls are, to the point that recent utopias seem to be more about the weakness of walls than their power to shelter the great experiment. Someone is always breaking through, transgressing, making an adventure of it. Some wild thing will eventually chase us through. Triton’s walls are breached repeatedly by the dystopian Earth, which is bad news on an airless moon. Shevek exists to breach the walls.

     

    There is no protection against the sky. Hiroshima’s rad-hot desert is the starting point of the mutopian city. The new nomads, they are us, for we prefer the smoothest of all spaces for our war machine–the sky. The nomad’s milieu is the unarticulated sky. What shall we do? Build cities in the plain? Retreat into cyberspace, the Metaverse, and rebuild encryption-walls there? Or will we determine walls are useless, and forget utopia? The walls of Ur had nothing on the television sky.

     

    Work and Net

     

    An important moment in the recent development of the rational deconstruction of “humanism,” i.e., the critical rationality of the Enlightenment, came with the formulation of the difference between a work and a text.13 Work, of course, was characterized by labor and all its historical contingencies, with mythologies of individuality, authorial proprietorship, the authority of origins, the mystery of special knowledge in a particular place–a fictional, quasi-place: the pages and lines of a “work.” Text was the entire symbolic domain seen as if from the perspective of Martian anthropologists with a collective mind, unable to and uninterested in making petty proprietary distinctions. Might as well study the Earth by transcribing all the deeds in all the Halls of Record. Text is the weave of all symbolic aspects, the tapestry, the net. The Net.

     

    When we read works of art and of humanist thought in preference to hypertextual flea-hopping on the Net we act as if we are those toga-clad utopian peasants discussing the categorical imperative while digging sewers of gold. To read a work is to think as a utopian. The utopian ideal of the Enlightenment was that each book should represent the rational-aesthetic design of the universe in the mind, and that all books together would create an even greater model. The closet utopian is the one who believes if she or he can only read enough of the best works, he or she will know the truth, and understand it.

     

    The library of books is the Enlightened Empire. As a graduate student I would sometimes dream of surviving a nuclear war by living with my fellow students in the underground floors of the university’s library, raising blanket-tents in the aisles, eating from vending machines among the like-minded, and with all the time in the world to read the books in my tent.

     

    When the Enlightenment had nothing more to undermine, when church dogma and bigotry, aristocratic and chauvinistic violence, bourgeois exploitation and ideology had withered before its arguments, it turned, as it always did, against the powers-that-be. But bourgeois democratic powers justify themselves through critical reason. So the Enlightenment began to undermine reason; and so, naturally, itself. That’s the breaks. Thus begins the end of legitimacy. What matters now is not the straightness and purity of connection, but how many things something can be connected to. The library of books gives way to the Net.

     

    Textual islands rise up here and there, archipelagoes of quotations, aphorisms, fragments, and we sail from one to another, trying to connect the dots, to get something sweet to eat, to make love in the shade. That is what I am doing here and now: hopping from island to island, lily-pad to lily-pad, oasis to oasis, enclave to enclave. I am anachronistic, but what counts is: I am quick.

     

    In Mutopia it is sometimes hard to justify atavistic “humanism”–code for intellectual conservatism. The “human being,” so clearly now part of a network of mutually intersecting forces, a moiré of rhythms, cannot justifiably hold on to the notion of an integral self, just as it must jettison fantasies of utopian earthly bliss. What then am I doing here, quoting and invoking the dead?

     

    This is good advice:
    watch yourself writ terribly small,
    like beetles climbing in the mowed-through thatch.14

    Heartland Artillery

     

    My father once told me: the only good reason to leave one’s home is artillery.

     

    I am sitting in my yard in Indiana. It is late morning, early summer, unusually temperate. Clear sunlight shines on maples and green-ash trees that rise up like ygdrasails, and filters through the leaves to the grass. The treetops sway against the blue. My back yard is a half-acre, enclosed by hedges of trees and dense shrubs. I have let whatever wants to grow, I just mow it at regular intervals to keep the peace. Violets have taken over a corner–I have been advised to extirpate them; I’m told they’re weeds. But they shimmer like nothing else in nature. Where the soil is exposed to the sun, the grass is long and rich, grazing material studded with wildflowers. Where the shade is heavy, there’s variety: subtle clumping mosses, crewcut grasses, wild onions, intermittent milkweeds. I have left clusters of grasses and flowers around the bases of the trees for the fairies.

     

    The cats are lolling in the dappled light. Redpoll finches tear through space like happily demented bullets. My young son’s baseball glove lies in the grass, palm up. “Homeowners” are mowing their lawns. Children are playing in the park court–American kids, booming dub, loud, coarse, obscene, insecure and confident at the same time, dunking and flirting.

     

    I “own” this micro-Arcadia. I am the first member of my family to have actually bought a family house; my progenitors always inherited them. I am, superficially at least, an American success. I have attained a good portion of the American Dream, the realized utopia. In this tucked away fold of the midwest, in a town of 8000, my academic salary allows me, mirabile dictu, to own this plot. The town is peaceful, white, solidly Republican. It is unlikely to be surrounded by tanks, or shelled. It is unlikely that the militia will occupy the courthouse. Our street is not on the July 4th parade route. It is one-way.

     

    For the denizens of the fold it is a green black hole; the suffering of Sarajevo, Cabrini Green and Chiba City are beyond the event-horizon. For those outside, it is a fortress, an idyll, a utopia, the VR-scenario of materialized delusion. The walls of privilege and exploitation are invisible in the achieved utopia. But in mutopia, all walls are weak.

     

    Aleph in Wonderland

     

    Calvino holds that utopian textuality collapsed, losing its power as a normative organized alternative to reality, falling into SF.

     

    The vision of a universal future has been diverted from political thought, and confined to a minor kind of literature, science fiction, though here, too, it is a negative utopia that dominates, a journey into the infernal regions of the future. Thus this way of writing, which aimed to extend its arrangement of signs even to the arrangement of things, has been taken prisoner by another literary strategy, which is more immediately effective emotionally: a story of distant wanderings and adventure that is capable of giving us rapid glimpses of tomorrow but has no power to change our way of living here in this world. Did utopia ever have this power? Certainly for Campanella it did, and maybe also for the outlandish Saint-Simonians of Enfantin. Actually to see a possible different world that is already made and in operation is to be filled with indignation against a world that is unjust and to reject the idea that it is the only possible one.15

     

    Classical utopia is what Marin calls a game of space. In his Marxian-structuralist mapping of More’s book, Marin describes the way Utopia plays off a certain allegorical imaginary construction of space in the early Explorations period. Later Marin will argue with Certeau that the true modernity of utopia is in the narrative movement across spaces coded to represent an ultimate oxymoron: an infinite horizon of possibility and an abject focal point of control.16 From this perspective utopias are merely logical-mathematical fantasy machines in which infinity is contained in a point. Utopias are Alephs.

     

    No one understood this better than Borges, whose work contains the black box where utopia becomes SF, and vice versa. Katherine Hayles has described his characteristic technique like this:

     

    His strategy is seduction, for he progresses to [a revelation of the essential fictionality of the real] by several seemingly innocuous steps. The first step in his strategy is to transform a continuity into a succession of points, and to suggest that these points form a sequence; there follows the insinuation that the sequence progresses beyond the expected terminus to stretch into infinity; then the sequence is folded back on itself, so that closure becomes impossible because of the endless, paradoxical circling of a self-referential system. This complex strategy (which may not appear in its entirety in any given story) has the effect of dissolving the relation of the story to reality, so that the story becomes an autonomous object existing independently of any reality. The final step is to suggest that our world, like the fiction, is a self-contained entity whose connection with reality is problematic or nonexistent.17

     

    Thus the sequence of history is extrapolated toward infinity: this is the dynamic “future” of SF, which then folds back onto the present, enclosing but also deforming the point of origin. Stanislaw Lem offers a complementary interpretation:

     

    [Borges] never creates a new, freely invented paradigm structure. He confines himself strictly to the initial axioms supplied by the cultural history of mankind. He is a mocking heretic of culture because he never transgresses its syntax. He only extends those structural operations that are, from a logical point of view, "in order," i.e., they have never been seriously "tried out" because of extralogical reasons--but that is of course another matter altogether.18

     

    Thus for Lem Borges cannot be a true writer of SF, because the structures he works his algorithmic transformational strategy on are entirely those of received “cultural-mythical sources.” The Borgesian fantastic is an always already completed library. The SF writer should know, according to Lem, that these structures “are on the decline, dying off as far as their power to interpret and explain a world undergoing further changes is concerned.” Borges cannot offer more than play “with the sacral, the awe-inspiring, the sublime and the mysterious [received] from our grandfathers.”19Lem concludes:

     

    Even this great master of the logically immaculate paradox cannot "alloy" our world's fate with his own work. He has explicated to us paradises and hells that remain forever closed to man. For we are building newer, richer, and more terrible paradises and hells; but in his books Borges knows nothing of them.20

     

    In his cyberspace novels, William Gibson transforms Borges’s Aleph from a subversive imaginary to a diminished, simulated utopia on the threshold of Mutopia. We see in the invention of cyberspace and the cyborg an extreme development of the infinite productivity of “reality” that Baudrillard associated with the second stage of simulation, the one he associates with SF; the sampling, doubling and recombination of real bits continues apace toward the fusion of mechanical and neural reconstructions of the planes of experience. When the algorithms of simulation are part of the phenomena folks experience, when we see them in the noisy treetops or the tatoos of raccoons, then we will have phase 3 in full, reality as virtuality, in which only Buddhists and Taoists, for whom stability was always an illusion, will find their footing.

     

    In Gibson, and in most cyberpunk SF, cyberspace remains an alien world. No matter how thrilling the ride of Neuromancer, Gibson’s protagonists serve alien gods. The console-cowboy Case’s famous rejection of the “meat” is a boy-thing, and it does not last. (We hear in Mona Lisa Overdrive that he has married and has four kids.21) The other rejectors of the meat-world in Gibson’s fiction either come back to the body, recognizing the value of mortality and limits, or they are limbic freaks who offer us no hopes (Dixie Flatline, Finn, Lise of “The Winter Market”). In Count Zero, even the remainders of Neuromancer‘s Meta-AI seek connection with the meat through a “biosoft” that leads to direct interface between humans’ organic brains and the computer-cores of the data-matrix. By the time we reach Mona Lisa Overdrive, such a biosoft offers the possibility of a concretely existing pocket universe, an Aleph, in which the whole of the matrix is reproduced microcosmically in a utopian register. But this Aleph, unlike the utopian imaginary of More and Borges, is a mortal body, powered by a battery pac on the drain.

     

    In Gibson’s cyberspace trilogy we can read a full Deleuzian historical dialectic of SF and utopia, replayed in the matrix. Neuromancer’s smooth space: Case the would-be nomad. Count Zero‘s colonial space: no longer a smooth grid with cities on the plain, the matrix is chunky space, inhabited by nodes of consciousness in a web. Like cyberfarmers the cybervoodoo spirits intentionally manipulate knots of energy, and indeed appear to be beginning a process of colonizing human space, “growing” biosofts and having them “planted” in brains like Angela Mitchell’s. By a not unusual reversal, Gibson has made these diasporan spirits of former enslavement the colonial masters of the new New World.22 The empty grid is gone; in Count Zero, cyberspace is folded and inhabited. The AI empire can collapse and fade from its internal stresses, but it is no longer prey to nomads. By Mona Lisa Overdrive, cyberspace has become a sea in which pocket universes float, with mysterious neural wormholes connecting them. The Aleph that Bobby Newmark steals from 3Jane Tessier-Ashpool is an ideal world created and maintained by technological means, it is neither smooth nor chunky, but involuted and hyperreal. There can be no more nomads, hence no more utopias, since containment is total. So total there is nothing outside the Alephs. But what if the Alephs began to move, what would space be then? At the end of Mona Lisa Overdrive, the protagonists of the three novels (Finn from Neuromancer, Bobby and Angie from Count Zero, the Aleph itself from Mona Lisa Overdrive) inhabiting the Aleph climb into a limo to make an obscure rendez-vous with a like-being, another Aleph perhaps, in the constellation Alpha-Centauri.

     

    Tai-Chi Chuan

     

    It is said that the Chinese martial and meditational art, Tai-Chi Chuan, was founded by the monk Chang San-Feng, who lived during the late Yüan Dynasties and the early Ming. By applying the Taoist principles of yin and yang, Chang created an art that used softness, resiliency and balance to defeat aggression. In one legend,

     

    [t]he Mongolian royal family of the Yüan Dynasty were hunting in the Wu-Tang Mountain as Chang was picking herbs to be used as medicine. He was quite aware of the Mongolians being good archers, but he did not like their pompous attitude. While he stood there watching, the Mongols ordered him to walk away. This made Chang angry, but he spoke to the prince with a smile saying, "Your highness hunts with bow and arrow; I use my bare hands." Suddenly a pair of hawks flew across the woods, and Chang jumped some several feet high and caught them. He dropped to the ground like a falling leaf, without making any noise. The prince was shocked. Chang placed the birds on each of his palms. No matter how hard the birds tried to fly, they could not lift themselves. Chang then said, "I have mercy on living creatures; I do not want to hurt the birds." As soon as he withdrew his palms, the hawks flew into the sky. One of the prince's followers was angry and drew his bow to shoot an arrow at Chang. The master opened his mouth and caught the arrow with his teeth; then holding the arrow with his index and middle fingers, he threw it towards a tree. "I have no need of any violent weapons," said he. The arrow struck and was buried deep in the tree.23

    Autopia

     

    The US is utopia achieved. We should not judge their crisis as we would judge our own, the crisis of the old European countries. Ours is a crisis of historical ideals facing up to the impossibility of their realization. Theirs is the crisis of an achieved utopia, confronted with the problem of its duration and permanence. The Americans are not wrong in their idyllic conviction that they are at the center of their worlds, the supreme power, the absolute model for everyone. And this conviction is not so much founded on natural resources, technologies, and arms, as on the miraculous premise of a utopia made reality, of a society which, with a directness we might judge unbearable, is built on the idea that it is the realization of everything the others have dreamt of--justice, plenty, rule of law, wealth, freedom. It knows this, it believes in it, and in the end, the others have come to believe in it too. In the present crisis of values, everyone ends up turning towards the culture which dared to forge ahead and, by a theatrical masterstroke, turn those values into reality, towards that society which, thanks to the geographical and mental break effected by emigration, allowed itself to believe it could create an ideal world from nothing.24

    Losing and Losing

     

    In my late twenties I lived in New York City. To cope with my suburban anxiety in the big bad city, I studied Tai Chi Chuan with a student of the great Professor Cheng Man-ch’ing. My adulthood began on those days, when I first heard the Taoist notion that my teacher sometimes called “investing in loss” and sometimes “learning by losing and losing.” Lao Tze says: “Yield and overcome.” The rule for thriving in Mutopia: losing and losing.

     

    Nostalgia for the Imaginary

     

    There is no real and no imaginary except at a certain distance. What happens when this distance, even the one separating the real from the imaginary, begins to disappear and to be absorbed by the model alone?It is at its maximum in utopias, where a transcendent world, a radically different universe, is portrayed (in all cases, the separation from the real world is maximal; it is the utopian island in contrast to the continent of the real). It is diminished considerably in SF: SF only being, most often, an extravagant projection of, but qualitatively different from, the real world of production. Extrapolations of mechanics or energy, velocities or powers approaching infinity–SF’s fundamental patterns and scenarios are those of mechanics, of metallurgy, and so forth. Projective hypostasis of the robot. (In the limited universe of the pre-Industrial era, utopias counterposed an ideal alternative world. In the potentially limitless universe of the production era, SF adds by multiplying the world’s own possibilities.)

     

    It is totally reduced in the era of implosive models. Models no longer constitute an imaginary domain with reference to the real; they are, themselves, an apprehension of the real, and thus leave no room for any kind of transcendentalism.25

     

    Utopia is followed by SF, the realistic projection of real conditions; then SF is followed by…what? The realistic production of utopian conditions? But if the utopian imaginary is infinitely removed from reality, what is a realistic utopian imaginary? Surely it is Virtual Reality. For VR is the domain in which the model creates the experience of reality without necessarily referring to, or using, stimuli from the raw real. Utopia has been replaced by the habitable paraspace of quasi-utopian VR.

     

    Like the European Jews of the New Left, and like Calvino, (and myself), Baudrillard is nostalgic for the imaginary. Even this nose-thumber at European culture is shocked by the US, for the transgressions and atrocities Baudrillard allowed himself to imagine in the magic theater of his theoretical works appear all around him there, insistently solid and real. Either one abdicates theory by accepting the hegemony of Realization, or one resists by holding onto the virtue of irony and withdraws to the Carcassonne of the imagination and waits for the sic transit.

     

    We shall remain nostalgic utopians, agonizing over our ideals, but balking, ultimately, at their realization, professing that everything is possible, but never that everything has been achieved. Yet that is what America asserts. Our problem is that our old goals--revolution, progress, freedom--will have evaporated before they were achieved, before they became reality. Everything that has been heroically played out and destroyed in Europe in the name of Revolution and Terror has been realized in its simplest, most empirical form on the other side of the Atlantic (the utopia of wealth, rights, freedom, the social contract, and representation). Similarly, everything we have dreamed in the radical name of anti-culture, the subversion of meaning, the destruction of reason and the end of representation, that whole anti-utopia which unleashed so many theoretical and political, aesthetic and social convulsions in Europe, without ever actually becoming a reality (May '68 is one of the last examples) has all been achieved here in the simplest, most radical way. Utopia has been achieved here and anti-utopia is being achieved: the anti-utopia of unreason, of deterritorialization, of the indeterminacy of language and the subject, the neutralization of all values, of the death of culture. America is turning all this into reality, and it is going about it in an uncontrolled, empirical way. All we do is dream and, occasionally, try and act out our dreams. America, by contrast, draws the logical, pragmatic consequences from everything that can possibly be thought. It does not ironize upon the future or destiny: it gets on with turning things into material realities.26

     

    Once the real has been exhausted, you have to move on, and colonize the imagination. Just do it! Do it yourself! Autopia or Bust!

     

    Goodbye, Labor Theory

     

    I must be clear that I’m not speaking of Blois or the Hofburg, nor of Castle Dracula. The building itself is not a thousand years old, of course. Zichy renovated it in 1880 into its present form. “The castle” is in fact a small manor house built in consonance with the dominant style of peasant architecture. A single raised-story, whitewashed, roofed with red clay shingles, in the shape of an L. Inside are about ten large rooms. Indoor plumbing was introduced only about ten years ago, although power lines were brought in in the ’30s. The property attached to this modest edifice consists now only of two small parks, to the east and the west.

     

    I first saw this ancient place when I was nineteen, on my first visit to the country. For the most part, I perceived it as I have described it, as a child of emigrants might visit his father’s village in the old country, the old people, and sniff some of the ancient air. A very nice place. I have always felt some resistance to my father’s grand plan of returning to his homeland and picking up where he left off. I grew up in the States, came of age in the Sixties, became comfortable with the atmosphere of social movements, Black culture, rejection of class privilege. I used to see Zala from this perspective, allergic to any hereditary patriarchal role. In essence, I viewed my father’s project as quixotic, even if it were attainable in reality. The Restoration.

     

    It is irritating, at the end of the century of democracy and socialism, to have to imagine the archaic subject-position of the landed gentry as a positive thing. When I thought as a utopian, I knew this land and house should go “back to the people,” the ones who built and worked it. But at the end of the century of totalitarian democracy and socialism, the labor-theory of value no longer seems like the voice of God. The villagers themselves say they would like the old owner to return–suitably diminished. They too believe the place has its historical power, and in some situations class matters less than conservation. Those should own the land who care for it. And they don’t mind that someone else is saddled with the burden.

     

    My father writes that I have been named heir of this estate.

     

    In the night

     

    It is 3:30 a.m. The houses on my street have been dark since midnight, every one but ours. In the backyard, my wife is following a family of raccoons back to their tree from the porch where she had dinner ready for them, as she does every night. A ray of light from a flashlight bobs up and down in the darkness. Hoosiers despise coons, and delight in hunting them. But there are no coons in Europe, and my Hungarian wife is now a visitor to another planet, making contact with aliens.

     

    It is a mellow night. Fireflies, which are also unknown in Europe, have floated up to the treetops. It is wonderfully still. Etti (whose name is the female form of Attila) insists that the wild fauna recognize her as a friend. I, independent male, prefer to watch the beasts do their thing without interfering. I think I am an observer, but I am actually reveling. For Etti reveling would never be enough. She is intent on creating a peaceable kingdom in her yard, where the cat will lie down with the squirrel, and the possum with the raccoon.

     

    The raccoons sought us out. One night, the coon mother trundled in the back door and liberated a bag of dry catfood for her brood. Now they stay to be petted, they display distinct personalities, and they have lost their skittishness.

     

    This mild night on the edge of the woods is not much in political terms. It is not a new thing. I am sure many women, and even a few men, try to form peaceable kingdoms in the liminal zone between the wild and the house. We have come to know the raccoons’ tree-hollow and the nest of the stag beetles; sometimes we catch the new beetles, glowing like gems, emerging from the ground and radiating outward from the center.

     

    Until quite recently, Etti did not know precisely where she was born and to this day she has not seen the place. She knew the name of the town, but for a number of historically complex reasons she was not sure exactly where to look for it. She was born on the retreat, as her father’s Hungarian troops and their families were fleeing the advancing Russian artillery. Delivered while her father held the terrified Austrian obstetrician at gunpoint, she stayed no more than a couple of hours in that particular Krummau or Krumlov; in the wink of an eye she was traveling west on a military wagon, her parents driving themselves to meet up with, and surrender to, the American army.

     

    Etti’s birth town was in Bohemia, then Austria, then Czechoslovakia, then Nazi-occupied Austria, then again Czechoslovakia, and now Czechia. It did not move. Europe moved.

     

    Her migrations have brought her here, for the moment, to this night. Her child is sleeping upstairs in a cozy American house. Her flashlight beams up into the branches. The coon mother calls down.

     

    A utopia of fine dust

     

    Certainly, in recent times, my need to come up with some tangible representation of future society has declined. This is not because of some vitalistic assertion of the unforeseeable, or because I am resigned to the worst, or because I have realized that philosophical abstraction is a better indication of what may be hoped for, but maybe simply because the best that I can still look for is something else, which must be sought in the folds, in the shadowy places, in the countless involuntary effects that the most calculated system creates without being aware that perhaps the truth lies right there. The utopia I am looking for today is less solid than gaseous: it is a utopia of fine dust, corpuscular, and in suspension.27

     

    Mu.

     

    Notes

     

    1. Bruce Sterling, “The Compassionate, the Digital,” Globalhead (New York: Bantam, 1994) 65.

     

    2. Donald Morris, The Washing of the Spears: A History of the Rise of the Zulu Nation under Shakra and Its Fall in the Zulu War of 1879 (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1965) 50.

     

    3. G.I. Gurdjieff, Meetings with Remarkable Men (New York: E.P. Dutton, 1969) 151-52.

     

    4. “…commodomy” used by Richard Simon, “Advertising as Literature: The Utopian Fiction of the American Marketplace,” Texas Studies in Language and Literature, 22.2 (1980): 155-74.

     

    5. Ernst Bloch: from The Principle Hope, quoted in Tom Moylan, “The Locus of Hope: Utopia versus Ideology,” Science-Fiction Studies 27 (1982): 159.

     

    6. Louis Marin, “Frontiers of Utopia: Past and Present,” Critical Inquiry 19 (Winter 1993): 403-04; 410-11.

     

    7. Gilles Deleuze-Felix Guattari, A Thousand Plateuas: Capitalism and Schizophrenia (Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1987) 15.

     

    8. Marco Polo, The Travels of Marco Polo (New York: Abaris Books, 1982) 109.

     

    9. Horst De La Croix, Military Considerations in City Planning: Fortifications (New York: George Braziller, 1972) 16.

     

    10. Donna Haraway, “A Manifesto for Cyborgs,” Simians, Cyborgs, and Women: The Reinvention of Nature (New York: Routledge, 1991): 151.

     

    11. Chrissie Hynde, “My City Was Gone,” Learning to Crawl, Sire Records, 1983.

     

    12. De La Croix, 15.

     

    13. See Roland Barthes, “From Work to Text,” The Rustle of Language, Trans. Richard Howard (New York: Hill and Wang, 1986): 49-55.

     

    14. Istvan Csicsery-Ronay, “The Cool Blades.”

     

    15. Italo Calvino, The Uses of Literature, Trans. Patrick Creagh (San Diego: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1987) 247-48.

     

    16. Louis Marin, Utopiques. Jeux d’Espaces (Paris: Les Editions Minuit, 1973).

     

    17. Katherine Hayles, The Cosmic Web. Scientific Field Models and Literary Strategies in the 20th Century (Ithaca: Cornell, 1984) 143.

     

    18. Stanislaw Lem, Microworlds: Writings on Science Fiction and Fantasy (San Diego: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1984) 237.

     

    19. Lem, 241-42.

     

    20. Lem, 241-42.

     

    21. William Gibson, Mona Lisa Overdrive (New York: Vintage, 1988) 137.

     

    22. See Kathleen Biddick, “Humanist History and the Haunting of Virtual Worlds: Problems of Memory and Rememoration,” Genders 18 (Winter 1993): 47-66.

     

    23. Tsung Hwa, Jou The Tao of Tai Chi Chuan (New York: Charles E. Tuttle Co., 1980) 8.

     

    24. Jean Baudrillard, America (New York: Verso, 1989) 54-55.

     

    25. Jean Baudrillard, “Simulacra and Science Fiction,” Science-Fiction Studies 55 (1991): 309-10.

     

    26. Jean Baudrillard, America 77.

     

    27. Calvino, 254-55.

     

  • Charting the “Black Atlantic”

    Ian Baucom

    Department of English
    Duke University
    ibaucom@acpub.duke.edu

    The Sea is History

     

       Verandahs, where the pages of the sea
    are a book left open by an absent master
    in the middle of another life--
    I begin here again,
    begin until this ocean's
    a shut book....
    			--Derek Walcott

     

    Whatever else it is, this is an age of cartography. An age, perhaps, as Fredric Jameson has it, of cognitive mapping; cognitive because the territories we map (whether they are the territories of the nation, of capital, of hyperspace, or of transnational migration, to name only a few) insist on reshaping themselves, on continuously expanding or contracting, splitting and doubling, defying the abilities of their cartographers to keep pace, to commit to paper something that is not instantly belated. But “cognitive” also because, as the above list implies, the category of the mappable is itself increasingly unstable, because as our epistemologies of the local encounter the shifting ways in which local cultures, local knowledges and local narratives confront the globalizing imperatives of the nation, capital, hyperspace, and migrancy, our sense of what constitutes a cultural locale, of what can be spoken of as a discernible, perhaps even a distinct, space, is also continuously expanding and contracting. I do not presume, in this essay, to unlock the riddle of the local and the global; instead, in the spirit of the times, I want to examine one of our moment’s apparently global cultural locales. I want, that is, to ask whether it is possible to locate the postcolonial, to inquire whether it occupies or implies a discernible order of space, and to ask–if the postcolonial can indeed be located–how that space is inhabited and experienced. My suggestion is that it is both not possible to speak of the space of the postcolonial (for the fairly simple reason that India is not Nigeria which in its turn is not Jamaica which in its turn is not England) and that it is possible to do so (largely because these places are at once structurally distinct and structurally coupled); and that if we are to understand how this can be so we must turn our attention from these national spaces of belonging to the waters that separate and join them.

     

    “Where are your monuments, your battles, martyrs? / Where is your tribal memory?” an anonymous body of inquisitors demands the narrator of one of Derek Walcott’s poems. To which interrogation the poem responds: “Sirs, / in that grey vault. The sea. The sea / has locked them up. The sea is history…. / … / Sir it is locked in them sea-sands / out there past the reef’s moiling shelf, / where the men-o’-war floated down; / strop on these goggles, I’ll guide you there myself. / Its all subtle and submarine” (“The Sea is History” 1-4; 35-7). It is to that reply and that invitation that this essay responds.

     

    Suffering a Sea-change

     

    		       --all the deep
    Is restless change; the waves so swell'd and steep,
    Breaking and sinking, and the sunken swells,
    Nor one, one moment, in its station dwells.
    			 --George Crabbe

     

    Let me start with a photograph and two fragments of text. In the black and white print, a central image in Sutapa Biswas’ 1992 exhibition “Synapse,” an Indian woman and two children are standing in water, immersed to their hips, gazing directly at us.


    © 1997 Sutapa Biswas, used by permission.
    Figure 1.
    Click here to see the full image (20K).
     

    Their bodies are neither perfectly relaxed nor rigidly tense. Rather, they hold themselves as if photographed by surprise, uncertain whether to dip their dangling hands into the water, to delight in the cool shallows, or to formalize themselves, to adopt a pose, to substitute decorum for the forgettable postures of play. Photographed an instant too late and an instant too soon, caught in a moment between abandon and self-collection, the three figures also wade between genres. The image implies a camera operator who is at once anthropologist, artist, and loved one. Either a snapshot for a family album, a study for gallery display, or a document for an ethnographic treatise, the photograph encloses the bathers in a multitude of literal and epistemological frames. If the undeveloped sandy beach and the wooded coastline invoke the anthropological at its primitivizing worst, and the precise cropping of the image alludes to the primness of the gallery, then these innermost and outermost containing devices confront a third way of holding these figures, an intermediate, memorializing frame. For, as we scan the shadowy space between the landscape enclosing these untimely baigneurs and the mounted photograph’s edge, we note the enveloping presence of another female body. This fourth, barely visible figure, hands crossed at her waist, acts as a screen onto which the central image has been projected. Cradling this water scene, Mary to a Pieta in which three bathers replace the incarnation of the Trinity, this anonymous woman forces us to consider the figures broadcast on her unclad body as something more than pieces of fieldwork or aesthetic artifacts, to view them also as the spectral inhabitants of a guardedly intimate, intra-uterine space. Positioned in a multitude of framing spaces, the bathers, like the cultural locations they occupy, also inhabit a shifting series of moments. For if the gallery, the family-album, and the anthropological treatise all too frequently “make their objects” through acts of temporal displacement, through technologies of display which worship the pastness of the past, then the recollection of these three figures in the womb of the fourth discloses our bathers as subjects not only of a then and a now but of a yet-to-be.1 And it is as we attend to the serial temporality of these subjects that the two fragments of text I earlier promised begin to bear on this photograph’s charting of a distinct and uncanny region within the dispersed territories of the post-colonial.

     

    The first passage, from Joseph Conrad’s novel The Nigger of the Narcissus, parades the dispirited musings of the text’s narrator as he contemplates the unnerving presence of James Wait, a dying but not-yet-dead West Indian who has joined the crew of an English merchant ship returning to London from Bombay. “In the confused current of impotent thoughts that set unceasingly this way and that through bodies of men, Jimmy bobbed up upon the surface, compelling attention, like a black buoy chained to the bottom of a muddy stream” (102). Days before James Wait will, at last, have the good grace to die, days before his shipmates will tip his corpse into the Atlantic, Conrad’s narrator finds himself dwelling in a zone of temporal confusion. Mistaking anticipation for recollection, the postponed for the remembered, Conrad’s text here tropes the imperial uncanny not as the return of the repressed, but as the mocking and untimely resurfacing of that black subject which England has yet to submerge. If Conrad’s text, like Biswas’ photograph, casts the submarine as a space in which our senses of a “now,” a “then,” and a “not-yet” deliriously trade places with one another, then the second of those textual passages with which I wish to begin this reading of the postcolonial submarine returns to the dis-synchronicities of imperial water with a mixture of sorrow and delight.

     

    Responding to the suggestion that the Caribbean possesses a “submarine” unity, Edouard Glissant has offered the following observations:

     

    To my mind this expression can only evoke all those Africans weighed down with ball and chain and thrown overboard whenever a slave ship was pursued by enemy vessels and felt too weak to put up a fight. They sowed in the depths the seeds of an invisible presence. And so transversality, and not the universal transcendance of the sublime, has come to light. It took us a long time to learn this. We are the roots of a cross-cultural relationship.

     

    Submarine roots, that is floating free, not fixed in some primordial spot, but extending in all directions in our world through its network of branches.

     

    We thereby live, we have the good fortune of living, this shared process of cultural mutation, this convergence that frees us from uniformity. (66-67)

     

    As he negotiates a passage from the rhetoric of outrage to the dialect of celebration, Glissant models his shifting idiom on the metamorphic waters he navigates. Like Conrad, he confronts a cultural “current” setting “unceasingly this way and that,” but rather than discovering an unrepressable object of dread at the heart of this tidal wandering, he encounters a liberating principle of briny metamorphosis. Reaping the harvest of the Middle Passage’s violent seedings, he returns the time of drowning to our present time not as that which terrifies or outrages but as that which continuously transforms the contemporary. Memory here does not haunt, it translates, it fuses the time of remembrance with the time of the remembered, it joins a “now” to a “then” through the mutating wash of a sea-change which is also, always, a “yet-to-be.” Reclaiming the slave from the waters of this Black Atlantic, Glissant’s comment demands that we free ourselves from those acts of forgetting upon which the constitution of fixed identities so regularly depend, but asks that in joining ourselves to the no-longer forgotten we refuse to fetishize an alternate past and instead cultivate a vulnerability to the mutating ebb-tides of submarine memory.

     

    While this reading of the submarine again invokes a temporally dispersed subject, it equally implies a model of spatially-disseminated identity, a rhizomatic dislocation of the subject, a self which manifests itself not as an essence but as a meandering. But where the Deleuzian metaphors of the rhizome imply some rooting of the subject, Glissant’s comments can be seen to further “radicalize” our conception of the rooting of the self. For if the subject of this post-colonial submarine again manifests itself as a rootwork, and as a route-work, this subject finds itself wanderingly-grounded not “in some primordial spot” but in the uncertainties of imperial water. Where Deleuze enables us to think the self as a reticulated system, Glissant couples that heterotopic self to an equally fluid environment which, as Biswas’ photograph and Conrad’s text reveal, not only encompasses the subject but “passes through” it. Having begun with an image of three women wading between genres, temporalities, and framing spaces, we now discover these bathers standing at the edge of a submarine world in which serial locations merge with disseminated identities, sea-changing subjects occupy multiple moments, and our categories of cultural belonging, like the uncanny waters lapping over the edge of the Narcissus, shift “unceasingly, this way and that” (Conrad 102).

     

    Only Connect: Notes on an Imperial Nervous System

     

    Synapse is a metaphor.	Synapse is a place where
    two people meet.  Synapse is a place where two ideas
    meet.  Synapse is a gap across which two people's
    ideas meet. Synapse is a place.
    			       --Sutapa Biswas

     

    A photograph by a British photographer who was born in India. A snatch of text from a novel published by an author who once described himself as “a Polish gentleman soaked in British tar.”2 A second textual snippet drawn from the American translation of a Martiniquan intellectual’s book of essays. What, we might ask, do these fragments have to do with each other? On what authority can they be read through and against one another? How can they be said to plot a coincident region within the dispersed territories of the “postcolonial?” What, for that matter, is the postcolonial? Is Sutapa Biswas “postcolonial” by virtue of her birth? Are her photographs, regardless of their content, postcolonial artifacts because of their maker’s passport? Is Joseph Conrad, writing in 1897, equally or identically postcolonial, and when does his novel become such? At the moment of its writing? At the moment at which its narrator anticipates James Wait’s drowning? At the moment of our reading? Surely, as Anne McClintock has so cogently argued, we must at the very least speak not of the postcolonial but of postcolonialisms.3 Whatever the critical currency of the term, whatever the value of collecting discrete texts within an integrating theoretical framework, we must either begin to seriously address such questions or watch “postcolonialism” become a brand of critical sloganeering in which the constant injunctions to “celebrate diversity” amount to the dual fetishization and erasure of difference.

     

    If there is an apparently easy answer to such questions, if it seems obvious that we should simply abandon the collectivizing impulse and devote ourselves to the arduous business of reading for the particular, then, as with many obvious solutions, this is an answer which is deceptively simple. For one of the most valuable and most particular lessons that “postcolonialism’s” texts have communicated to us is, in Glissant’s terms, precisely the lesson of the “transversal.” The coral-become bodies of those slaves drowned in the Middle Passage do link the waters washing the coast of Martinique with an eighteenth and nineteenth century history of the Caribbean, with the past and present legacies of the triangular trade, with the Victorian and Edwardian underdevelopment of Africa, Rastafarian and Pan-Africanist narratives of return, the poetry of Aime Cesaire, Afrocentric curricula, and the commodification of Kente cloth. In Derek Walcott’s exploration of the waters of the Caribbean, the submarine further discloses itself as an expanse that is not only littered with “the bones of all [those] drowned in the crossing” (128), and with the “white memory” (129) of English sailors, but as a liquid territory parted by the keels of fishing pirogues, tourist liners, merchant vessels and slavers which, in cross-hatching the Caribbean, connect these watery deeps to the primitivizing economies of the American leisure industry, the Victorian houses of British capital, the English country mansions built off the slave trade, the imperial merchant marines chasing the Union Jack across the surface of the globe, and a Polish writer who began his career aboard one of those English merchant ships. To refuse to read these linkages is not to eschew indiscriminate acts of totalization, it is to refuse to read.

     

    If, following the lead of Fredric Jameson, we choose to conceive of our critical responsibilities not only in terms of reading but in terms of mapping, then it might be worth wondering what a cartography of such linkages might resemble, and upon what theories of knowledge and observation it might model itself. Sutapa Biswas’ photograph, the 1992 “Synapse” exhibition in which it appeared, and the surrounding body of her work with which this exhibit interacts, suggest some answers to these questions. The synaptic metaphor which gave the 1992 show its name is embodied in another of Biswas’ exhibitions from that year, “White Noise,” a multimedia installation in which the black and white image from “Synapse” reappears in a series of back-lit transparencies mounted in light-boxes whose ganglia of connecting cables the artist made no effort to hide.


    © 1997 Sutapa Biswas, used by permission.
    Figure 2
    Click here to see the full image (8K)
     

    If we wish to come to terms with Biswas’ work, while at the same time mapping the cross-currents of that cultural ecology which her exhibits explore, then we would be well served not only by lingering over this resurfacing image, but by considering its interplay with the synaptic metaphor, a metaphor that in the case of “White Noise” was embodied not in the show’s title but in that tangled circuit of video cables so visibly channeling the flow of visual information from one light box to another.

     

    Dictionaries inform us that a synapse is a “junction…between two neurons or nerve cells.” But the definition does scant justice to the marvels of the synapse, a neural complex more fully dissected in the writings of an increasingly influential cellular biologist. In a series of works which have rapidly entered the select canon of systems theory, the Brazilian biologist Humberto Maturana has outlined an “autopoetic” theory of cognition which depends, at crucial moments, on an exploration of the wandering geographies of the synapse.4 Maturana’s epistemological idiom is unabashedly structuralist and consequently, though somewhat less obviously, humanist. And though this is not the thrust of his work, nor the way in which it is generally read, Maturana’s writings can assist us in the task of sketching a map of those exchanges which collectively wire the branching networks of the postcolonial.

     

    Maturana’s darling is the cell; it is the engine of his system. In anatomizing this “second-order unity,” Maturana insists on two things. First, that the cell, or any other compound entity, exhibits a “structural determinism”–by which he means that all unities, including the human, are essentially solipsistic, assuming form not at the whim of their environment but by regulated, auto-referential, and sovereign acts of self-description. To this dictum, however, Maturana adds another which qualifies and almost contradicts the first. While the ontology of all unities depends on an internal structural determinism, each unity is simultaneously “structurally coupled” to its environment. To complicate matters still further, Maturana allows that unities and environments can exchange places as the vantage of their observers shift, i.e. that the human body can be seen as a unity autonomously within, but coupled to, a surrounding environment, or it may be understood as the environment enclosing a multitude of discrete organic unities. This “either/or, and both” epistemology recapitulates the paradox of complementarity that resides at the heart of quantum dynamics and, as Arkady Plotnitsky has recently suggested, much poststructural thinking.5 Without dwelling on the infinite delights of the uncertainty principle, it is this second founding hypothesis of Maturana’s work that I wish to examine. For in turning to those systems which regulate the coupling of unity and environment, the biologist sketches a map of our organic geographies which can help us begin our speculative charting of the synaptic wirings of the postcolonial.

     

    While at first glance Maturana’s map of the world is disconcertingly binary, the logic of the couple demands that to his cartography of the within and the without he must add a chart of the between. In most complex organisms this “between,” this interstice that at once separates and joins unity and environment, is the territory of the nervous system, with its sprawling network of neurons and synapses. If the neurons are the various headquarters of the nervous system, then the synapses are its telephone lines. Or, to adapt the metaphor to the primary concerns of this essay, if the neurons are the scattered islands in the archipelago of the nervous system, then the synapses are its shipping routes: a conceit which, if extended, allows us to identify the Atlantic as the nervous system of empire, and to describe the submarine currents tumbling Glissant’s drowned slaves as the synapses coupling the neural densities of metropole and colony. In this description the submarine emerges as neither European nor Caribbean, neither metropolitan nor colonial, neither within the “West” nor without it. Instead, the submarine locates the system of exchanges which at once acknowledges the distinct character of such “unities” and makes such distinctions meaningless. The submarine, then, is a place once again of the “either/or and both,” but a place, crucially, where such uncertainty principles manifest themselves in certain ways, where we confront not a generalized system of exchanges but a particular network of relays. Of course, as Maturana is at pains to point out, such synaptic networks are not fixed. While some patterns of connection exhibit enduring stability, others change. But they do not change at random. If the nervous system is relentlessly “performative” then its performances always occur with reference to the peculiar ontogenetic histories of the unities and environments it couples.6 Which is no more than another way of saying that ocean currents do not move at random, and that if the “Black Atlantic” houses the empire’s nervous system, then its submarine flows exhibit a synaptic intentionality.7

     

    It will be immediately apparent that there are some similarities between what, with Maturana’s help, I am calling the synaptic and what Deleuze labels the rhizomatic. Indeed, the sketches of synaptic configurations which Maturana provides in his text seem at first glance to be ideal maps of the rhizome’s geography. The illustrations of synaptic networks in his text The Tree of Knowledge depict a sprawling, branching system of lines, a reticulum that like the rhizome “stabilizes around a…parish…a capital…a bulb” (in this case, the neuron) (Deleuze 7). But while the nervous system and its synapses exhibit the topography of the rhizome, they are not rhizomatic in the Deleuzian sense. In Maturana’s description, the nervous system labors in the service of a discernible unity of which, as a border, it is a part–though, to be sure, that trafficked part which simultaneously regulates and disrupts the integrity of the unity.8 The rhizome, by contrast, occupies a purely areferential universe, “it ceases to have any relation to the One as subject or object, natural or spiritual reality…there is no unity to serve as a pivot” (Deleuze 8). While this is no negligible distinction, it is not one whose full implications I can explore here. Rather, I wish to address two additional features of the synaptic which are wholly alien to the Deleuzian coding of multiplicity. The rhizome has neither a history nor an environment. The synapse has both.

     

    On the question of time both Deleuze and Maturana are unequivocal. “The rhizome,” the French philosopher confidently asserts, “is an anti-genealogy” (Deleuze and Guattari 11). Synapses, alternately, configure themselves under the shadow of both a hereditary phylogenetic past and a continuous ontogenetic past; that is, they bear the traces of both a collective and an individual history. The consequences of this difference are immense. If we conceive of culture as a rhizomatic assemblage, then we must construct a philosophy of culture which has no use for memory. We must accomodate ourselves to inhabiting a pure present, to dwelling under the sole sovereignty of the synchronic. If, instead, our cartographies of culture are synaptic, then we must read our coupling routes not only as lines of connection but as the tracework of continuing and inherited histories. There has been much talk recently of spatializing time. The logic of the nervous system demands that we also learn to historicize space, even the performative spaces of the itinerary. But also–because the nervous system has an environment, because the synapse, unlike the rhizome, implies an encompassing territory–a synaptic map of culture depends on our willingness to read not only the sprawling topographies of the link but the coupled territories of the linked. Deleuze invites us to hypostasize the multiple, to adore the schizomorphic lines which wire nothing together, which exist nowhere, which are their own splendidly narcissistic excuse. Maturana’s writings raise the rather greater challenge of reading both a routework and the grounds which it roots, of examining both the circuity of culture and the assemblages which the circuit wires. To revert to Sutapa Biswas’ exhibition “White Noise,” where a Deleuzian analytic might devote itself solely to the electrical cables adorning the gallery’s walls, Maturana’s writings suggest that to comprehend this synaptic display we may also wish to glance at the light boxes. And if we do in fact study those boxes, we will find repeated there images of that imperial water whose currents link Biswas’ Indian bathers not only to the London Gallery in which their images were displayed but to Edouard Glissant’s charting of the transversal and to Conrad’s eternally resurfacing “black buoy.”

     

    In tracing the articulations of this nervous system which wires the colonial to the postcolonial, the Caribbean to Britain, the drowned slave to the modernist prose stylist, we must, however, do more than surrender ourselves to a metonymic order of reasoning or to an unearthing of the rich wisdoms contained in a pun on roots and routes. We must take care to prevent our critical cartographies from producing always the same map of cultural coupling. While the six-degrees-of-separation argument makes it impossible to say that not all points connect, we should nevertheless recall that those points that do join one another connect in specific and differing ways. Frantz Fanon, in a passing comment in Black Skin, White Masks, argues that “the body is surrounded by an atmosphere of certain uncertainty” (110-111). I can think of no better way of responding to those methodological questions I raised earlier than by suggesting that we incline to the insight of this aphoristic comment. Surrounded by an atmosphere of certain uncertainties, we can devote ourselves to the particular without abandoning the transversal if we will diligently map the synaptic currents which network the postcolonial submarine.

     

    Throughout this essay, I have privileged metaphors of liquidity, primarily because, with Edouard Glissant, I want to suggest that we can map the postcolonial by charting its submarine flows, and because, while the metaphors of the nervous system are certainly suggestive, the synapses I wish to trace are constituted less as a sequence of relays within the body than as a series of transatlantic lines. But I have also done so because the works I wish to discuss represent the postcolonial as a marine geography, as a geography of trans-oceanic and submarine passages. In doing so, these works serve not only to locate a postcolonial territoriality, but to generate a vocabulary particular to that global locale, a liquid vocabulary that identifies diaspora cultures and identities as flow dynamics, as processes whose formative and reformative logics can perhaps be understood by borrowing from the lexical sea-chests of oceanographic discourse a submarine metaphorics of “surges,” “meanders,” “slicks,” “spills,” “sprays,” “ripples,” and “currents.” To gaze on the waters of empire, to study the trans-oceanic routes of postcolonial migrancy, or, as Walcott has it, to “strop on” our sea-goggles, is thus not only to extend the reach of our critical cartographies but to expand our pool of key-words, to invigorate a critical discourse, which so frequently wearies its disciples by trotting out the same aging family of metaphors, through a fresh infusion of tropes.

     

    I say this with some whimsy, and much seriousness. For when reading becomes no more than an excuse for carting out the same reigning body of explanatory metaphors, we need not bother to read at all. In a world in which we inevitably discover that everything is “hybrid” we might as well close up shop, or reconcile ourselves to the fact that we really are Bouvard and Pecuchet. I am not, of course, saying that everything isn’t hybrid–I believe that everything is. But we must be able to describe how things are hybrid; imperial, postcolonial, and diaspora hybridities may perhaps best be understood–as Conrad’s, Walcott’s, Glissant’s, and Biswas’ work suggests–as a series of marine procedures. Which returns us to oceanographic discourse, and the more important point I want to make. Simply scanning a standard oceanographic treatise’s table of contents–in the text I consulted there were no fewer than seven sections, containing twenty-six sub-entries, and one hundred and fifty-two sub-subheadings–reminds us that even an object as apparently self-identical and unmappable as an ocean has its own counties, regions, and routes; that this is also a space of certain uncertainties; and that while it might require astonishingly hard work to map the waters, that this is work that can be done.9 So, without further ado, let me close by offering a map of one current within that cultural expanse I have been calling the postcolonial submarine.

     

    Modified in the Guts of the Living

     

    The whole picture dedicated to the most sublime of
    subjects and impressions (completing thus the perfect
    system of all truth we have shown to be formed in
    Turner's works)--the power, majesty, and deathfulness
    of the open, deep, illimitable sea.
    			 --John Ruskin (3: 573)

     

    In the opening chapter of The Black Atlantic, Paul Gilroy draws our attention to J.M.W. Turner’s 1840 painting Slavers Throwing Overboard the Dead and Dying. Actually, Gilroy is less interested in the canvas than in John Ruskin’s failure, in his deeply sympathetic reading of the painting in the first volume of Modern Painters, to discuss this depiction of black bodies thrown like so much surplus cargo into the sea. Gilroy sees this refusal as symptomatic of Victorian and post-Victorian failures to acknowledge that Englishness has “any external referents whatsoever” (14). Ruskin’s unwillingness to direct his reader’s attention to the drowned and drowning slaves is not matched by a disinterest in the watery medium enveloping their bodies. His discussion of the slave ship caps a long and painstaking disquisition on water and water painting which reveals that he has evidently studied rivers, lakes, torrents, waterfalls, and oceans with extraordinary care. Ruskin notices the differing movements of slow river currents, which magisterially overwhelm any source of interruption, and rushing torrents, which, in their haste, bend their shape to the impediments they encounter. He plots the disturbances caused by approaching and rebounding waves as they encounter buoys, rocks, shorelines, and recoiling currents of water. His greatest energies, however, are devoted to a discussion of liquid surfaces and reflections–a discussion which, though it precedes the reading of the slave ship by some thirty pages, helps to explain why Ruskin fails to see what is so evident on the surface of that canvas.

     

    Water surfaces, Ruskin discovers, deceive the eye. In gazing upon them we either see the surface itself, but not what it reflects, or we study the reflection, in which case the actual surface disappears. By no means, he insists, can we see both surface and reflection at once: each exists to annul the other. The task of the water painter is, then, to keep the eye of the observer constantly in play between these two mutually exclusive ways of seeing, to exploit the paradoxes of what Ruskin calls a “philosophy of reflection” (3: 545). In analyzing these two modes of seeing, Ruskin carefully excludes a third. Enjoined to devote ourselves alternately to the surface and the reflected “above,” our eyes are forbidden permission to peer beneath the water, or told that there is no beneath, that what is visible below the surface is merely an inverse image of that which floats above. Turner’s peculiar genius, Ruskin argues, derives from his brilliant exploitation of this optical ballet of surface and reflection, and from his refusal to allow us to delve beneath the water. “We are not,” Ruskin insists, “allowed to tumble into it, and gasp for breath as we go down, we are kept upon the surface” (3: 539). “We,” apparently, are not the jettisoned slaves, who have no choice but to tumble into the water, to gasp for breath as they go down beneath a surface on which a Victorian viewing public, freed from the obligation to wonder what lies beneath these waters, can see itself reflected.

     

    As the narrator of Conrad’s Nigger of the Narcissus discovers, however, the black bodies spilled into the empire’s waters refuse to remain submerged. Like James Wait they continue to bob up, disturbing a narcissistic inspection of those oceans which not only surround the island kingdom but define England as a liquid geography. In the opening pages of Heart of Darkness, Conrad again stages a scene in which his narrator peers into the waters which rim and define the boundaries of Englishness. Here, once more, an inspection of those waters which envelop and tongue the nation amounts to a complex act of remembrance.

     

    The old river in its broad reach rested unruffled at the decline of day, after ages of good service done to the race that peopled its banks, spread out in the tranquil dignity of a waterway leading to the utter ends of the earth. We looked at the venerable stream not in the vivid flush of a short day that comes and departs forevever, but in the august light of abiding memories. And indeed nothing is easier for a man who has, as the phrase goes, "followed the sea" with reverence and affection, than to evoke the great spirit of the past upon the lower reaches of the Thames. The tidal current runs to and fro in its unceasing service of men and ships it had borne to the rest of home or to the battles of sea. It had known and served all the men of whom the nation is proud, from Sir Francis Drake to Sir John Franklin.... (28-9)

     

    In a text so relentlessly and famously obsessed with the cartographic, Conrad here suggests that to map England is not to map its grounds but its waters, that Englishness, apprehended only as an object ever fully present in the past, assumes the form of a “tidal current” which leads “to the utter ends of the earth.” As England here becomes a waterway, or, to borrow Glissant’s term, a “transversality,” it also becomes a mortuary. The waters not only plot England’s liquid shape, they contain the beloved dead who collectively define the nation’s identity. Entombed within imperial waters, these great men specify what England must remember, and thus again be. In the catalogue of names which follows the passage I have cited, James Wait’s names does not, of course, appear. But if in reading England as a waterway this text opens the spaces of Englishness to cultural currents streaming from the uttermost ends of the world, in identifying England’s waters as a liquid cemetery it also reminds us that that mortuary is occupied not only by Sir Francis Drake and Sir John Franklin, but by the eternally resurfacing body of James Wait, and by the slaves drowning beneath the surface of Turner’s canvas and John Ruskin’s prose.

     

    In closing The Nigger of the Narcissus, Conrad completes the labor of forgetting James Wait by suggesting that England not remember the bodies pitched into the colonizing nation’s waters but recollect the ships which have plied the seas in the service of the flag. By the final pages of the text, England itself emerges as a vast floating vessel, “the great flagship of the race; stronger than the storms! and anchored in the open sea” (121). While England here finds itself mirrored in the image of the Narcissus, it also finds itself dying. For the Narcissus has completed her final voyage; docked, she awaits her demolition and the resale of her broken timbers. And the task of preserving English identity becomes, at last, the business of dredging the lost hull of this national allegory from the waters of the historical deep.

     

    In recent years this imaginary redemption of a submerged English ship of state has been literally reenacted. Patrick Wright has discussed the neo-nationalist celebrations which attended the rescue of Henry VIII’s ship the Mary Rose.10 And on July 8, 1995, the National Gallery in London opened an exhibition which once again imagined Englishness as a dredgework. The gallery supplemented its special exhibition of Turner’s 1838 painting The Fighting Temeraire, Tugged to Her Last Berth to be Broken Up with an array of materials designed to ensure that this canvas be viewed, in Thackeray’s words, as “a magnificent national ode.”11 The Temeraire had fought with Nelson at Trafalgar, but in 1838 it was demolished by a London ship-breaker, and its parts resold. And it is the Gallery’s interest in the fate of the vessel’s disseminated timbers, quite apart from its nostalgic reinvention of the painting as a fetish of national identity, that deserves some attention.

     

    The curators of the show reserved a room of the exhibition for a display entitled “The Temeraire Survives,” and filled that room with the collection of souvenirs the ship has become. In an age that identifies its postmodernity in those late capital economies which ensure that fragments of the downed Berlin wall are rapidly available for purchase at Macy’s, we may be tempted to view this dissemination of the ship as a thoroughly contemporary phenomenon. But such dispersals and recollections of a nation’s monuments are not exclusively recent occurences. John Ruskin concluded his lengthiest discussion of Turner’s canvas by predicting precisely such a fate for the Temeraire: imagining a “tired traveller” absently leaning against the “low gate” of “some country cottage,” Ruskin laments the wanderer’s ignorance that the gate has been cut from a beam of the glorious ship. As if in response to Ruskin’s fear that the shards of the scattered vessel might fail to invoke that absent England which the ship has come to symbolize, the National Gallery’s curators diligently gathered and displayed a vast array of the Temeraire’s enduring and identifiable fragments in the “survival” room. An altar table, an altar rail, two sanctuary chairs, and a stand for a bone ship model, all fashioned from the departed vessel’s oak timbers, accompany diverse medallions, and a portrait of a dog framed in Temeraire wood. The most prized relic, however, is a gong stand owned by King George V in which two brooding figures, carved from Temeraire beams, guard a Temeraire gong which hangs above a plaque extolling this “Souvenir of the wooden walls of Old England.” The compensatory message of this collection of knickknacks could not be more clear: acting to affirm Ernest Renan’s famous insistence that a nation is, above all else, a privileged body of collective memories and to dispel John Ruskin’s worries that England might not only forget but utterly fail to recognize that version of itself which the Temeraire had been, this assortment of splendid fragments assures the observer that the National Gallery will neither allow the Temeraire to be forgotten nor permit the wooden walls of this old England to sink, once more, beneath the tide of remembrance.

     

    If this exhibition publicly restages Conrad’s strategy for redeeming England by resurfacing the nation’s marine architectures, then a recent Birmingham exhibition has duplicated this tactic, but has done so in a way which disturbs the National Gallery’s placidly triumphalist narrative of national identity. On January 17, 1991, Keith Piper mounted a show at Birmingham’s Ikon Gallery which he entitled “A Ship Called Jesus.” The title of the exhibition alludes to the “Jesus of Lubeck,” a vessel which Queen Elizabeth gave John Hawkins in 1564 to enable him to embark on England’s first official slave-trading voyage. The irony of the slaver’s name provides the occasion for Piper’s mixed media exploration of four centuries of Black British culture. The exhibition comprises three parts: “The Ghosts of Christendom,” which examines the enslavement of West Africans and their transportation to the Caribbean; “The Rites of Passage,” which plots the post World War II migration of West Indians to Britain; and “The Fire Next Time,” which explores contemporary black urban culture. Piper addresses his Black British, and Black Atlantic, themes through a variety of media: video monitors display alternating images of cross-burnings, American civil rights activists, and immobile West-African statuary; a stained glass installation depicts Queen Elizabeth I flanked by female slaves; framed ethnographic portraits parade the bodies of naked but armed Africans; a photo montage, in the shape of a cross, reveals the outline of two black feet that have been pierced by nails; and a tombstone to the Jesus of Lubeck bears the following inscription: “In 1564 Queen Elizabeth I donated a ship to John Hawkins for the first official English slave trading voyage…the name of the ship was the Jesus of Lubeck…we’ve been sailing in her eversince [sic].”12

     

    © 1997 Keith Piper,
    used by permission.

    Figure 3
    Click here to see the full image
    (128K)
    © 1997 Keith Piper,
    used by permission.

    Figure 4
    Click here to see the full image
    (74K)

     

    Collectively, these objects and images re-create the interior of the gallery as a resonant miniature of the Black Atlantic diaspora.

     

    As it maps the configurations of this diasporic network, the exhibit also plots the transformation of those cultural entities coupled together by the perturbing currents of the slave trade. In particular, the show asks its audience to consider the ways in which black experiences of Christianity have transformed both African and Anglican identities. In his catalogue essay, Piper directs our attention to the African creolizations of Christian worship, mutations of Church experience which point “to the extent to which during this particular leg of its voyage, the slave ship called Jesus has experienced a mutiny of radical proportions. The same Africans for which the ship had been a mechanism of imprisonment had seized control of the helm and were steering the ship in a totally different direction.”13 The exhibition’s examination of this “hi-jacking” of this sacred vessel reminds us that the ship of Englishness has been similarly redirected. The National Gallery’s assured recollection of the nation amid the fragments of the Temeraire, should not, I believe, be read apart from those reconstitutions of British identity manifest in this show. Where John Ruskin instructs the viewing public not to see the black bodies tumbling into the waters of the Atlantic, and Joseph Conrad and the National Gallery substitute an image of the “great flagship of the race” for a sight of those Africans, West-Indians, and Black Britons who have been transported within, thrown from, and who have steered that repeating vessel, Piper’s work will not allow us to forget these black sailors and swimmers of British waters.

     

    Leaky Vessels

     

    I am rather attached to this piece [one of the
    works in "Synapse"], which when installed measures
    approximately forty feet in length.  It should be
    installed at an approximate eye level of five feet
    five inches to six feet, so that in viewing it the
    intention is for the viewer to experience,
    momentarily, a strange feeling of submergence.14
    
    --Sutapa Biswas

     

    At the heart of his exhibition, beneath the photo montage of a crucified, black body, Piper placed a rectangular, water-filled basin. At the bottom of this basin, under the water, he positioned a series of broken mirrors. The obvious allusion to Joyce should not prevent us from recognizing that this cracked looking-glass fragments one of the cannier aesthetic strategies for dismissing Britain’s black subjects from the national portrait gallery. For if we cast a glance at this pool of water we will realize that Piper’s submerged mirrors break the surface of Ruskin’s philosophy of reflection. Looking down into these waters, we see not simply a reflection of the agonized black body which hangs above, we see that bleeding figure as if from beneath, from below the surface of the water. Manipulating a trick of light to reverse our optic of inspection and to reposition our space of observation, Piper’s installation displaces the viewing subject, draws us beneath the water to gaze at the scene of violence played out above. The work forces us, if only for a moment, to occupy the submarine. Tumbled into this space, we see more than that submerged region of British history which Ruskin and his fellows forbid us to acknowledge, we now see from within this current of Britain’s postcoloniality.

     

    The formal achievement of Piper’s exhibit was complemented by an accidental accomplishment. Sometime during the run of the show the waterfilled basin began to leak.15 And though I hesitate to celebrate this spill of waters over the floors of an art gallery, I cannot avoid concluding by registering my delight with this act of liquid disobedience. Trickling out of the artist’s installation, meandering across the floors of the Birmingham gallery, wetting the feet of the exhibit’s visitors, spilling lazily out the door and extending its routework in all directions, this unpoliced current of the postcolonial submarine reminds us that we do indeed have the good fortune of living “a shared process of cultural mutation,” a “convergence that frees us from uniformity” (Glissant 67). To this note of celebration, I must however add a closing note of caution. If in some ways Piper’s exhibit represents not only a space within the postcolonial submarine but a postimperial version of that “fluctuating zone of instability” in which Frantz Fanon and, more recently, Homi Bhabha have begged their readers to immerse themselves, then it realizes these liquidities within a fragile and guarded moment.16 Departing the gallery we must wonder whether we can sustain this submersion. Can we, like Sutapa Biswas’ surprised subjects, wade the submarine? Or will we dry our feet as we wander back to our everyday identities?

     

    Notes

     

    1. See Johannes Fabian, Time and the Other: How Anthropology Makes its Object (New York: Columbia University Press, 1983).

     

    2. See Joseph Conrad, Congo Diary and Other Uncollected Pieces, ed. Z. Najder (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1978).

     

    3. See Anne McClintock, Imperial Leather (New York: Columbia University Press, 1995), especially 11-13.

     

    4. See Humberto Maturana and Francisco Varela, The Tree of Knowledge: The Biological Roots of Human Understanding (Boston: Shambhala Press, 1992).

     

    5. See Arkady Plotnitsky, Complementarity: Anti-Epistemology after Bohr and Derrida (Durham: Duke University Press, 1994).

     

    6. As we move from a cartography of culture to a map of the human, the tropologies of the synapse reveal the self as that which is also simultaneously structurally determinate and structurally coupled to its environment. And as those terms at once imply and eviscerate the concepts of the without and the within, the problems of reading the material constitutions of the human are replaced by the task of plotting the synaptic networks which wire subjects and environments. If the cross-hatched Atlantic functions as the nervous system of empire, then the subject is wrapped by an entirely similar liquid skin, or, to revert to Fanon, by an atmosphere of certain uncertainties. It is this networked space, where the human is manifest alternately as subject or environment, and, simultaneously, as both, that defines the territory of a postidentitarian humanism.

     

    7. In referring to the “Black Atlantic,” I am alluding to the cultural territory sketched in Paul Gilroy’s brilliant study The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1993). Gilroy is, of course, not the first scholar to investigate the cultural economy of this transnational territory. Robert Farris Thompson, Kobena Mercer, Peter Linnebaugh and Marcus Rediker have all made significant contributions to the study of a cultural expanse which did not vanish with the abolition of the “peculiar institution.” Gilory’s work is distinct, however, in the systematicity of his quasi-totalizing cartography. I discuss his work at some slightly greater length later in this essay.

     

    8. To the untrained eye of a reader whose education in the humanities revolved, too frequently, on a flight from the hard sciences, Maturana’s work seems weakest at this point. He tends to assume the self-evident character of the organic “unity” as an uncontestable starting point and fails adequately to address the tension which his readings of structural-coupling place on his doctrine of structural-determinism.

     

    9. The work in question is M.N. Hill’s The Sea: Ideas and Observations on Progress in the Study of the Seas (New York and London: John Wiley and Sons, 1962).

     

    10. See Patrick Wright, On Living in an Old Country: The National Past in Contemporary Britain (London: Verso, 1985).

     

    11. Cited in Judy Edgerton, Making and Meaning: Turner, The Fighting Temeraire (London: National Gallery Publications Limited, 1995), 10.

     

    12. These, and other images, together with Piper’s comments on the exhibition, are reproduced in Keith Piper, A Ship Called Jesus (Birmingham: Ikon Gallery, 1991).

     

    13. The catalogue is not paginated, but by my count this comment appears on page 21 of A Ship Called Jesus.

     

    14. “Frieze,” the work in question, comprises a series of some fifty rectangular panels mounted in an undulating line. The image on each of the panels is a cropped version of the photograph of bathing women I discuss above. Distributed across the walls of a gallery, and through the course of a visitor’s passage through that gallery, this image is thus encountered as an experience of repetition, with difference, across space and time, as, that is, an experience of the synaptic and the submarine.

     

    15. This information is derived from a personal conversation with the artist, July 31, 1996.

     

    16. Fanon calls his readers to this “fluctuating zone of instability” in his celebrated essay “On National Culture” in The Wretched of the Earth. Bhabha, who continues to disclose his debts to Fanon while proving himself one of Fanon’s most original interpreters, offers his reading of this moment in The Wretched of the Earth in his essay “DissemiNation: Time, Narrative and the Margins of the Modern Nation,” in The Location of Culture (London and New York: Routledge, 1994), 139-171.

    Works Cited

     

    • Appadurai, Arjun. “Disjuncture and Difference in the Global Cultural Economy,” Public Culture 2.2 (1990): 1-24.
    • Bhabha, Homi. The Location of Culture. London: Routledge, 1994.
    • Biswas, Sutapa. “Artist’s Statement.” Unpublished, August, 1996.
    • Conrad, Joseph. Congo Diary and Other Uncollected Pieces. Ed. Z. Najde. New York: Doubleday, 1978.
    • —. Heart of Darkness. London: Penguin Books, 1983.
    • —. The Nigger of the Narcissus. London: Penguin Books, 1989.
    • Deleuze, Giles and Felix Guattari. A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. Trans. Brian Massumi. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1987.
    • Edgerton, Judy. Making and Meaning: Turner, The Fighting Temeraire. London: National Gallery Publications Limited, 1995.
    • Fabian, Johannes. Time and the Other: How Anthropology Makes Its Object. New York: Columbia UP, 1983.
    • Fanon, Frantz. Black Skins, White Masks. New York: Grove Press, 1967.
    • —. The Wretched of the Earth. New York: Grove Press, 1965.
    • Gilroy, Paul. The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness. Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1993.
    • Glissant, Edouard. Caribbean Discourse: Selected Essays. Charlottesville: U of Virginia P, 1989.
    • Helland-Hansen, B., with John Murray, John Hjort, A. Appell, and H.H. Gran. The Depths of the Ocean: A General Account of the Modern Science of Oceanography. London: MacMillan and Co, 1912.
    • Hill, M.N. The Sea: Ideas and Observations on Progress in the Study of the Seas. New York and London: John Wiley and Sons, 1962.
    • Maturana, Umberto, and Francisco Varela. The Tree of Knowledge: The Biological Roots of Cognition. Boston and London: Shambhala, 1992.
    • McClintock, Anne. Imperial Leather: Race, Gender and Sexuality in the Colonial Contest. London and New York: Routledge, 1995.
    • Piper, Keith. A Ship Called Jesus. Birmingham: Ikon Gallery, 1991.
    • Plotnitsky, Arkady. Complementarity: Anti-Epistemology after Bohr and Derrida. Durham: Duke UP, 1994.
    • Ruskin, John. The Complete Works of John Ruskin. Eds. E.T. Cook and Alexander Wedderburn. London: George Allen, 1902-1912.
    • Suleri, Sara. The Rhetoric of English India. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1992.
    • Walcott, Derek. Collected Poems: 1948-1984. New York: Farrar, Strauss, Giroux, 1986.
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