Shorter Views: Queer Thoughts & the Politics of the Paraliterary

Samuel R. Delany

jiorier v lews 4er Vi Qw££r Thoughts àf The Politics of the Par aliterary

Samuel R. Delany

Wesleyan University

Press

Published by University Press of New England

•

Hanover and London

Wesleyan University Press Published by University Press of New England, Hanover, NH 03755 © 1999 by Samuel R. Delany All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America 5 4 3 2

1

CIP data appear at the end of the book For Patrick Merla & Marc Shell The following works in this collection were previously published: "The Rhetoric of S e x / T h e Discourse of Desire" was initially delivered as a lec­ ture at MIT; it first appeared in print in Heterotopias: The Body Politic, ed. Tobin Siebers, Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1995. "Street Talk/Straight Talk" appeared in Difference, eds. Naomi Shor & Elizabeth Weed, special issue on Queer Theory: Lesbian and Gay Sexualities, guest edited by Teresa de Lauretis, vol. 3, summer 1991, Providence. "On the Unspeakable" first appeared in Everyday Life, eds. George and Chris Tysh, Detroit, 1987; subsequendy it appeared in Avant Pop: Fiction for a Daydream­ ing Nation, ed. Larry McCaffery, Fiction Collective-2, Boulder, Colorado, 1993. " C o m i n g / O u t " appeared first, in slightly different form, in Boys Like Us, edited by Patrick Merla, New York: Avon Books, 1997. "A Bend in the Road" first appeared in the YaleJournal of Criticism, eds. Esther da Costa et al, vol. 7, no. 1, spring 1994; New Haven. "The 'Gay' Writer/ 'Gay Writing' . . . ?" first appeared in the AWPJournal,

1993.

"The Black Leather in Color Interview" first appeared in Black Leather in Color, ed­ ited by Antoinette, Lidell Jackson, and S. Guy Giumento, no. 3, fall 1994, New York City. continued on page 458

Contents

Preface: On Creativity and Academic Writing

vii

Part One: Some Queer Thoughts 1

T h e Rhetoric o f S e x / T h e Discourse o f Desire

3

2

Street Talk / Straight Talk

41

3

O n the U n s p e a k a b l e

58

4

Coming/Out

67

5

A B e n d in the R o a d

98

6

T h e "Gay" Writer / "Gay Writing" . . . ?

111

7

T h e Black Leather in Color Interview

115

8

T h e T h o m a s L. L o n g Interview

123

Part Two: The Politics of the Paraliterary 9

Neither the First W o r d nor the Last o n D e c o n s t r u c t i o n , Structuralism, Poststructuralism, and Semiotics for SF Readers

141

10

T h e Para*doxa Interview: Inside a n d O u t s i d e the C a n o n

186

11

T h e Politics o f Paraliterary Criticism

218

12

Z e l a z n y / V a r l e y / G i b s o n — a n d Quality

271

13

Pornography and Censorship

292

14

T h e M a k i n g o f Hogg

298

15

T h e Phil L e g g i e r e Interview: R e a d i n g The Mad Man

311

16

T h e S e c o n d Science-Fiction Studies Interview: O f Trouble on Triton a n d O t h e r Matters

315

Part Three: Some Writing/Some Writers 17

A n t o n i a Byatt's Possession: A Romance

353

18

Neil G a i m a n , I, II, a n d III

359

19

A Tribute to Judith Merril

373

20

Michael Perkins's Evil Companions

377

21

N o w It's T i m e for Dale Peck

384

22

Othello in B r o o k l y n

388

23

A Prefatory N o t i c e to V i n c e n t Czyz's Adrift in a Vanishing City

396

24

U n d e r the V o l c a n o with Susan Sontag

39g

25

S o m e Remarks o n Narrative a n d T e c h n o l o g y or: Poetry a n d Truth

408

Appendix: S o m e Notes for the Intermediate and A d v a n c e d Creative Writing Student

433

Index

461

Preface On Creativity and Academic Writing

For twenty-five years I've taught m o r e creative writing classes than any other sort—I've b e e n asked to teach m o r e creative writing classes than any other sort. Creative writing is also the class that has given m e the most pause. W h e n I arrive at a n e w university, s o m e form o f the follow­ ing conversation almost always occurs: T h e m : " O h , y o u will teach a creative writing class, w o n ' t y o u ? " Me: "I'd rather not." T h e m : "But y o u s e e m so eminently qualified to teach creative writing. You've written so many novels a n d short stories." Me: "Novels, yes. Stories, n o . B u t I really d o n ' t k n o w if I have anything to teach in terms o f creative writing." T h e m : " O h , but I ' m sure y o u d o . . ." I'm b e i n g s o m e w h a t disingenuous. A s I said, creative writing is the class I have taught the most, a n d I suspect it will b e the class I shall g o o n teaching the most. (I a m s c h e d u l e d to teach o n e such w o r k s h o p this c o m i n g summer.) Certainly it's an easy class to fill with pleasant c o m ­ ments, pleasing pastimes, a n d passably interesting exercises. T h e prob­ lem is, however, philosophical—specifically, o n t o l o g i c a l . I ' m j u s t n o t sure if "creativity"—as it is presupposed, as it is hypostatized, as it is cornmodified a n d reified in endless writing w o r k s h o p s a n d the b r o c h u r e s they send out to attract writing students—exists. A n d I feel the same dis­ comfort teaching a class in "creative" writing as I w o u l d were I a physicist assigned to teach a class in "phlogiston" physics—assigned to teach it n o t as a historical reaction o f a vanished a n d discredited theory, b u t as a m o d e r n enterprise all my e a g e r students b e l i e v e d was the latest scientific d o p e o n the realest o f real worlds. In his various notes o n nineteenth-century Paris, B a u d e l a i r e , a n d the Arcades, Walter B e n j a m i n m a k e s a most intricately suggestive observa-

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tion: W h e n , in the ninteenth-century m a r k e t p l a c e , industrial products passed a certain number, it b e c a m e a practical impossibility to k n o w all the relevant facts a b o u t e a c h p r o d u c t ' s manufacture, the quality o f the materials that w e n t into it, the care a n d craft with w h i c h it had b e e n m a d e , a n d thus its durability a n d functionality. T o c o m p e n s a t e for this g e n e r a l loss o f empirical k n o w l e d g e , the m o r e g e n e r a l i z e d n o t i o n o f " g o o d taste" arose to o c c u p y the interstices, override the positivities, and finally sublate the material interplay o f the k n o w n and the u n k n o w n — all that was left o f the empirical k n o w l e d g e about care, quality, manufac­ ture, a n d efficiency that h a d g o n e by the n a m e o f quality. It is, then, in the same sense that I m i g h t say that g o o d taste has n o on­ tological status that I suggest a similar denial o f o n t o l o g i c a l status to creativity. T h a t is, while it is a social reality, it is r e d u c i b l e — l i k e a chemi­ cal c o m p o u n d — t o its constitutive elements. But, unlike a c o m p o u n d , its f u n d a m e n t a l properties are also r e d u c i b l e (as in a c h e m i c a l mixture) to the properties o f its constitutive elements. H a v i n g l o c a t e d this so i m p o r t a n t relationship b e t w e e n empirical k n o w l e d g e a n d g o o d taste, we can fix a n u m b e r o f other c o n c e p t s that b e a r the same necessarily mystified relation o n e to the other. Most im­ portant for us today is, I suspect, the relation between individual strength a n d institutional power; for I w o u l d maintain that it is interesting, even necessary if w e wish to be effective political citizens, to consider that strength bears the relationship to p o w e r that empirical k n o w l e d g e bears to g o o d taste. U s e value a n d e x c h a n g e value are another, m o r e classical pair that b e a r a like relation (and the c o m p l e x i t i e s o f their mutual and forever i n t e r d e p e n d e n t analyses suggest j u s t h o w c o m p l e x this relation­ s h i p — h o w e v e r simple it may l o o k at first—actually is). T h e relationship o f t e c h n o l o g y to science is o n e m o r e such relationship. A n d the relation­ ship o f craft to art is still a n o t h e r and—in this discussion—the o n e that most c o n c e r n s us. W h a t is p r o b l e m a t i c a b o u t these relationships is that in the second, re­ ified, mystified t e r m from all these pairs—from g o o d taste to e x c h a n g e value to p o w e r to science to art—lies all possibility for b o t h g u i d e d and u n g u i d e d growth, for u n c o n s c i o u s response, for b o t h evolutionary and entropie c h a n g e . T h a t such c h a n g e a n d growth have b e e n present in the h u m a n universe since caves a n d c h i p p e d flints is the reason that the ear­ lier, positive, a n d seemingly p u r e t e r m s — k n o w l e d g e , strength, use value, craft, t e c h n o l o g y — a r e never really pure. T h e mystified n i m b u s always in­ h e r e s in t h e m , g l i m m e r s like an aura a b o u t t h e m , flickers as their after­ i m a g e , h o w e v e r b r i e f or restricted, waiting only till material forces con­ spire to m a k e it theoretically necessary to n a m e these later a n d m o r e problematic developments.

Preface

ix

Craft is s o m e t h i n g p r o d u c e d by skill. A r t is s o m e t h i n g p r o d u c e d by creativity. I d o n ' t think the suggestion is terribly p r o f o u n d that the "creativity ef­ fect" in art is an indeterminate interplay o f skill a n d originality in a field in w h i c h it is empirically impossible to k n o w in s o m e exhaustive m a n n e r which is w h i c h . It is impossible for the a u d i e n c e o f the art w o r k to know. A n d while the artist may b e a bit m o r e o n top o f certain aspects o f the p r o b l e m than s o m e m e m b e r s o f the a u d i e n c e , finally a n d for the same reasons it is also impossible for the artist to know. W h a t m a k e s it impos­ sible to k n o w is the virtually infinite n u m b e r o f repetitions that must sed­ i m e n t implicitly—and the extraordinary effect small perturbations m a k e o n the overall p e r c e p t i o n o f the results. T h i s is also, o f course, w h a t m a k e s the t e a c h i n g o f a n y t h i n g w h e r e creativity (rather than skill) is involved p r o b l e m a t i c : for the m o d e r n no­ tion o f creativity, t h r o u g h its reliance o n the ideas o f skill a n d original­ ity, c o m e s to m a r k out, j u s t like B e n j a m i n ' s n o t i o n o f " g o o d taste," an area o f h u m a n e n d e a v o r a n d everyday semiosis b a s e d largely, as it w e r e , on ignorance. In practical terms: I have h a d the rather d i s c o n c e r t i n g e x p e r i e n c e o f h a v i n g taught a creative writing w o r k s h o p from w h i c h five o f the twenty students w e n t o n to b e c o m e respected a n d regularly publishing writers. After w i n n i n g a H u g o Award for her first novel a n d basing a n o t h e r o n a passing exercise I'd given in class (and t h e n g o i n g o n to set u p a successful w o r k s h o p o f her own at her own university based o n the o n e I h a d g i v e n ) , o n e told m e s h e ' d f o u n d the w o r k s h o p I'd taught e x t r e m e l y helpful a n d liberating for her. A n o t h e r y o u n g m a n at the same session w h o w e n t o n to publish three novels that I personally respect greatly e x p l a i n e d to m e that, for him, the same w o r k s h o p was o n e o f the most destructive a n d painful ex­ periences o f his life a n d that, if anything, it a c c o u n t e d for his delay in writing his books. A n d the three others w h o w e n t o n to write a n d publish their novels c l a i m e d that they f o u n d the same w o r k s h o p m o d e r a t e l y helpful but helpful in the way that—they suggested—all their life experi­ ences m o r e or less contributed to their writing. While it is the statistics—the five out o f twenty w h o w e n t o n to b e c o m e professional (and in o n e case, award-winning) writers—that justify to the administration, h o w e v e r l o n g after the fact, the w o r k s h o p ' s existence, it is the same writers' individual responses that m a k e m e question the effi­ cacy and, i n d e e d , the o n t o l o g i c a l status o f what, after all, it is that's sup­ posed to be taught. T h e assumption has always b e e n that creativity, like g o o d taste, can b e acquired by g u i d e d e x p o s u r e . But, as with l a n g u a g e learning, the e x p o -

x

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sure is far m o r e i m p o r t a n t than the g u i d a n c e . Doubtless this is why, for myself, I've always felt that I d o far m o r e to foster creativity (of the crea­ tive writing variety) in the courses I've taught in the reading o f novels, p o e m s , a n d short stories, than I have w h e n I was actually assigned to "teach creative writing." Certainly there is the habit o f writing; and it is a habit. B u t what I have b e e n saying u p until n o w is simply a n o t h e r way o f saying that, for all the i g n o r a n c e o n w h i c h it is f o u n d e d , for all its minus­ c u l e e n e r g y a n d paltry glow, w h a t creativity I have seems to m e to be far m o r e c o n t o u r e d , fueled, a n d even constituted by r e a d i n g in a political a n d material w o r l d than it d o e s by the actual practice—whether o n e reads practice in the sense o f tradition or r e p e t i t i o n — o f writing, as hard a n d as energy- a n d time-consuming as it is. Perhaps the c o n s c i o u s m i n d a n d the u n c o n s c i o u s m i n d are a n o t h e r pair to w h i c h o u r e x e m p l a r y Benjaminian relationship obtains. It cer­ tainly w o u l d explain why so m a n y o f us feel so right before Lacan 's asser­ tion that the u n c o n s c i o u s is structured (as are g o o d taste, power, ex­ c h a n g e value, science, a n d art) as a l a n g u a g e . B u t h e r e we are at the verge o f o u r titular topics: creativity and academic writing. T h e theoretical p r o b l e m o f creativity in a c a d e m i c writing—if there is one—is finally a rhetorical o n e . As in the other paraliterary writing prac­ tices (comics, science fiction, pornography, mysteries . . . ) , in academic writing s o m e p e o p l e are far m o r e comfortable with what they assume to be a purified rhetoric: "Let's speak h e r e only o f writing skills and schol­ arly crafts," they often say. "In terms o f academic writing, art and creativ­ ity m a k e m e u n c o m f o r t a b l e , thanks to a host o f p r o b l e m s that run the g a m u t from institutional to i d e o l o g i c a l . " B u t that particular rhetorical e l e m e n t o f the p r o b l e m is solved t h r o u g h r e m i n d i n g ourselves that, as I said before, the terms are never p u r e . T h e a u r a o f creativity a n d art inheres in the very notion o f skill a n d craft w h e t h e r we w a n t it to or not. T h e difference is o n e o f connotative emphasis, n o t denotative ontology. Semantic purity is not ours for the having. B u t I d o n ' t think it s h o u l d c o m e as any surprise that for m e the most comfortable way to p r o m o t e creativity—or skill, if y o u are m o r e comfort­ able with the false purity o f the term—in a c a d e m i c writing is the same way I feel most c o m f o r t a b l e p r o m o t i n g it a m o n g creative writing stu­ dents: g u i d e d e x p o s u r e . In the field o f a c a d e m i c writing, I w a n t to see creative writing (for ex­ a m p l e ) students r e a d i n g J o h n Livingston L o w e , Erich A u e r b a c h , and Ian Watt; I w a n t to see t h e m r e a d i n g Barbara J o h n s o n , S t e p h e n G r e e n blatt, Chris Baldick, Francis Barker, a n d William Gass; they should read

Preface

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S h o s h a n a F e l m a n o n J a m e s a n d Freud; they s h o u l d read J a n e G a l l o p on Sade a n d L a c a n . T h e y s h o u l d read A r n o l d R a m p e r s a d o n H u g h e s a n d H a y d e n . T h e y s h o u l d read E.J. Dijkterhuis o n the history o f science a n d O w e n Barfield o n C o l e r i d g e a n d Peter H u l m e o n the C a r i b b e a n . T h e y should read Pater a n d P o p p e r a n d Ryle o n Plato a n d A r t h u r O . Lovejoy o n the G r e a t C h a i n o f B e i n g . T h e y s h o u l d read Marc Shell o n m o n e y and art. T h e y s h o u l d read J. Dover-Wilson a n d B e r n a r d G r e b a n i e r a n d A. C. Bradley and G. Wilson K n i g h t a n d L e o n a r d Knights a n d S t e p h e n O r g e l o n Shakespeare. T h e y s h o u l d r e a d Pears o n Wittgenstein a n d G o l d m a n n o n the intellectual ferment in the seventeenth century at Port Royal and Philippe Aries o n c h i l d h o o d a n d F e r n a n d B r a u d e l o n history. T h e y should read W. E. B . D u B o i s o n black reconstruction in A m e r i c a and David Levering Lewis o n D u B o i s . ( A n d certainly I have my writerly al­ legiances to Foucault, Derrida, and Barthes.) T h e y s h o u l d read C h a r l e s Rosen o n S c h o e n b e r g and classical style a n d M o l d e n h a u e r o n W e b e r n and Paul R o b i n s o n o n o p e r a . T h e y s h o u l d read K e n n e r o n P o u n d a n d E l l i n g h a m a n d Killian o n Jack Spicer a n d E d n a K r a m e r o n the n a t u r e and growth o f m o d e r n mathematics a n d Mary-Claire van L e u n e n o n how to write scholarly writing. B u t g o o d criticism (however y o u define it; and, as an insistently paraliterary field, a c a d e m i c criticism remains an idiosyncratic r h i z o m e o f m u l t i c a n o n i c a l discourses) — g o o d criticism as it is read—will d o a great deal m o r e to further creativity in a c a d e m i c writ­ ing than all the exhortations to "be creative" any d e p a r t m e n t or univer­ sity or w o r k s h o p can proffer. Limit cases are always problematic, but I will w i n d u p with a n o t h e r anecdote. W h e n I was first a visiting professor in the English d e p a r t m e n t of the State University o f N e w York at Buffalo ( 1 9 7 5 ) , I f o u n d myself with three graduate students to advise w h o w e r e in the process o f prepar­ ing thesis proposals. F a c e d with the m é l a n g e o f early o u d i n e s a n d their sprawling non-limited topics l e a p i n g a b o u t b e t w e e n g e n r e s a n d centu­ ries, I asked if any o f t h e m h a d ever reads. P h . D . thesis in English. B l a n k stares. T h e n o t i o n that, in o r d e r to write o n e (not to m e n t i o n write a g o o d one—or, h e a v e n h e l p us, write a creative o n e ) , they m i g h t actually read o n e (or possibly even read five o r six, if n o t a few d o z e n ) h a d n e v e r entered their very creative minds. B u t I can assure y o u that these same b r i g h t a n d enthusiastic y o u n g p e o p l e , if I h a d described to t h e m s o m e o n e w h o tried to write a sonnet, w h o h a d never read o n e but h a d only the rhyme s c h e m e to g o o n , w o u l d have c h u c k l e d as m u c h as y o u j u s t did. For both creative writing and academic writing, I believe that if the reading takes place, the writing—given any c h a n c e at all—will take care o f itself. (I also believe that the most meaningful c h a n g e , w h e r e individuals

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can t r i u m p h over b o t h entropy a n d evolution as it w e r e , c o m e s w h e n p e o p l e use empirical k n o w l e d g e against g o o d taste, use strength against power, skill against art, a n d t e c h n o l o g y against science in their easiest and u n t h i n k i n g m o d e s . Invariably this m e a n s allying t h e m to those same fields in their broader, theoretical m o d e s , in terms o f intelligence, tradi­ tion, a n d those questions o f taste that are not immediately exhausted by s i m p l e m i n d e d notions o f g o o d a n d bad—within the largely u n k n o w n fields the s e c o n d terms constitute.) B u t this m e a n s reading widely in the best (and, alas, in the worst) that is currently b e i n g written. It means r e a d i n g widely in the tradition. T h e w o r k s h o p s a n d the courses in aca­ d e m i c writing—or e v e n G o d h e l p us—in "How to Be M o r e Creative in O u r A c a d e m i c Writing" are exhortatory, supplementary, even, on occa­ sion, a w o n d e r f u l h e l p . Like all supplements, i n h e r e n t within t h e m is the possibility for any n u m b e r o f p o w e r reversals. D o n o t slight them. But w i t h o u t the r e a d i n g , there is n o possibility o f writing worth the name, skillful, creative, o r otherwise. —Amherst May iç)8ç

art

v / n e

S o m e Q u e e r Tliougl

F

L

1

T h e Rhetoric of S e x / T h e Discourse of Desire

1. Apples and Pears. In the two d o z e n years b e t w e e n 1488 a n d 1 5 1 2 , L e ­ o n a r d o d a V i n c i p r o d u c e d a series o f fascinating anatomical drawings that strike the m o d e r n viewer as highly realistic a n d rich with the texture and l o o k o f the b o d i e s w h o s e dissections h e o b s e r v e d or, n o d o u b t , took part in, as he drew from life—or m o r e accurately, from death—his sché­ mas o f the b l o o d vessels, the workings o f the heart, the b l a d d e r a n d uri­ nary system, the w o m b a n d the fetus inside it. T h e s e drawings are clearly and carefully observed, detailed, a n d rich in layerings a n d representa­ tions o f tissue t e x t u r e — a n d practically useless to a m o d e r n anatomist. 1

For as we l o o k closer, w e find there are n o atriums o r auricles in his de­ piction o f the h u m a n heart; rather, h e shows a two-chambered affair with only ventricles; and while h e r e a n d there we can r e c o g n i z e the aorta a n d the esophagus, as well as the larger organs, the circulatory system and the alimentary system are d e p i c t e d in gross form; there are n o articulations shown between the stomach and the intestines (mostly absent from his drawings, t h o u g h n o t his writings). A n d in an early anatomic depiction o f heterosexual copulation, a "wholly fictitious p i e c e o f p l u m b i n g " (to use the commentator's term from the 1 9 8 9 catalogue o f the H a y w o o d Gal­ lery da Vinci exhibition in L o n d o n ) runs from the man's penis, bypass­ ing the testicles, to the small o f the back, w h e r e many d u r i n g the Italian Renaissance believed "the seed o f life" was manufactured. I n d e e d , hardly any vessel shown in any o f L e o n a r d o ' s anatomic interiors c o n n e c t s u p to what, today, w e are fairly certain that it does. 2

A n d what are we to m a k e o f L e o n a r d o ' s d e p i c t i o n o f the w o m b ? For the m o d e r n anatomist, the uterus is traditionally d e s c r i b e d as pearshaped, small e n d d o w n , a n d c o n n e c t e d by m e a n s o f the cervix to the vaginal cavity. T h e pear-shaped b u l g e at the u p p e r e n d is largely a prod­ uct o f the entrance into the uterus o f the fallopian tubes, w h i c h , left and

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Shorter Views

right, lead b a c k from the o u t e r ends o f the ovaries to c o n d u c t the e g g to the wall o f the uterine cavity. L e o n a r d o ' s w o m b , however, w h e t h e r it is e n g o r g e d with a "four m o n t h old fetus" as in the p e n a n d ink drawing with wash over traces o f black a n d r e d chalk from 1 5 1 0 - 1 2 , "The Fetus in the W o m b , " o r w h e t h e r it is w i t h o u t child, as it is in the 1 5 0 7 drawing o f p e n and ink and wash on w a s h e d paper, " T h e Principal O r g a n s a n d Vascular a n d Urino-Genital System o f a W o m a n , " is as r o u n d as an apple. In " T h e Fetus in the W o m b , " while an ovary is i n d e e d shown, only the vascular c o n n e c t i o n a b o u t the base is drawn; there is n o c o n n e c t i o n at all from the business e n d o f the ovaries to the w o m b proper. T h e fallopian tubes and all the muscular p r o t u b e r a n c e s o f the u p p e r e n d are omitted as tissuey irrelevancies to the w o m b ' s p r e s u m e d perfect, Renaissance sphericality. N o r is this surprising. T h e assumption o f the times was that the material relation obtaining between a m a n and his offspring was that between seed and plant. T h e re­ lation b e t w e e n a w o m a n and her offspring, however, was that of contigu­ ity, sympathy, r e s e m b l a n c e t h r o u g h i m p o s e d distortion—of environment to plant. Certainly, p e o p l e h a d noticed that a child was as likely to resem­ ble its m o t h e r or p e o p l e in its mother's family as it was to resemble its father or p e o p l e in its father's family. B u t the assumption was that pater­ nal resemblances a n d maternal resemblances were o f two different or­ ders. You r e s e m b l e d your father because y o u were g r o w n from his seed. You r e s e m b l e d your mother, however, because y o u spent so m u c h time in her w o m b that y o u p i c k e d u p her traits—because her food had b e e n your food, h e r pains your pains, h e r sorrows y o u r sorrows, h e r soul your soul. In o n e o f the notes o n the drawing " T h e Fetus in the W o m b , " in da Vinci's famous m i r r o r writing, we find L e o n a r d o ' s clear expression o f the maternal sympathy b e t w e e n the body o f the m o t h e r a n d the body o f the child: In the case of the child the heart does not beat and . . . breathing is not necessary to it because it receives life and is nourished from the life and food of the mother. And this food nourishes such creatures in just the same way as it does the other parts of the mother, namely the hands feet and other mem­ bers. And a single soul governs these two bodies, and the desires and fears and pains are common to this creature as to all the other animated members. And from this it proceeds that a thing desired by the mother is often found en­ graved upon those parts of the child which the mother keeps in herself at the time of such desire and sudden fear kills both mother and child. We conclude therefore that a single soul governs the two bodies and nour­ ishes the two. (McCurdy 173)

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O n the same drawing, fascinatingly e n o u g h , there is talk o f a female seed: The black races of Ethiopia are not the product of the sun; for if black gets black with child in Scythia, the offspring is black; but if a black gets a white woman with child the offspring is gray. And this shows that the seed of the mother has power in the embryo equally with that of the father. (McCurdy 173) B u t from what o n e knows o f the r a n g e o f Renaissance writings, the ma­ ternal seed, for all its p r e s u m e d equality with the male, was a highly metaphorical one—just as the male "seed" was to b e c o m e m e r e meta­ p h o r u p o n discovery o f sperm a n d e g g r e p r o d u c t i o n . B u t in the c o m ­ m o n course o f things, it was generally n o t given m u c h c r e d e n c e as l o n g as o n e was within the country, the family, the race. L e o n a r d o died in France d u r i n g the late spring o f 1 5 1 9 . Four years later in 1 5 2 3 at the tiny town o f M o d e n a , Italy, G a b r i e l l o Fallopio was b o r n . S o o n Fallopio b e c a m e c a n o n o f the M o d e n a cathe­ dral. H e studied m e d i c i n e at Ferrara, t h e n e m b a r k e d o n a w o r l d tour, during which h e spent a while w o r k i n g with the great B e l g i a n anatomist, Andreis Vesalius. H e r e t u r n e d to Ferrara, w h e r e h e n o w taught anatomy, having l o n g since switched his n a m e to the Latin f o r m that befit a Re­ naissance scholar a n d u n d e r w h i c h he is m o r e widely k n o w n today: Fallopius. T h e n c e h e r e m o v e d to Pisa, a n d from Pisa, o n the installation o f the new g r a n d d u k e o f Tuscany, C o s i m o I, to Padua, w h e r e , besides the chairs o f anatomy, surgery, a n d botany, h e was also created superinten­ d e n t o f the new botanical g a r d e n . It was Fallopius w h o discovered the o p e n i n g o f the ovarian tubes o f the h u m a n female into the a b d o m i n a l cavity. A s well, h e n a m e d b o t h the vagina (after the Latin for scabbard) and the placenta (after the G r e e k for p a n c a k e ) . H e d i e d in P a d u a in 1 5 6 2 , a year after publishing (in V e n i c e ) his single treatise. T h e fallo­ pian tubes (which retained a capital ^ d e s u l t o r i l y into the 1830s b u t lost it by the 1870s) have b o r n e his n a m e ever since. With Fallopius's anatomy, the spherical w o m b o f L e o n a r d o gave way to the p e a r - s h a p e d w o m b w e are familiar with from the m o d e r n ana­ tomical vision. B u t w h a t I have tried to dramatize in this little narrative is the force s h a p i n g the very sight itself o f a visionary as g r e a t a n d as r e v e r e d as any in o u r c u l t u r e , L e o n a r d o d a V i n c i . It is the till-now-inour-tale u n n a m e d s t r u c t u r i n g a n d structurating f o r c e that c a n g o by n o better n a m e than "discourse." For w h a t has m e t a m o r p h o s e d between L e o n a r d o a n d Fallopius is the discourse o f the b o d y itself— medical discourse, a n a t o m i c a l d i s c o u r s e — a n d that force seems strong e n o u g h to c o n t o u r w h a t is a p p a r e n t to the eye o f s o m e o f the greatest

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direct observers o f o u r world. W e find it at w o r k in L e o n a r d o ' s anatomy, as w e find it at w o r k in Gray's. 2. Interlogue One. I pause h e r e to say that, thanks to my title, I feel s o m e w h a t like the m a n w h o shouts, "Sex," t h e n continues o n to say, "Now that I have y o u r attention . . . " For w e have c o m e to the real, i.e., the political, topics o f my essay, w h i c h are rhetoric a n d discourse. S e x a n d desire—while they may now a n d again provide s o m e o f the m o r e dramatic narratives t h r o u g h w h i c h we shall e n d e a v o r to show h o w discourse can manifest and problematize itself t h r o u g h rhetoric—will in my essay remain largely occasions for the e x p l o r a t i o n o f rhetoric a n d discourse themselves. A n d t h o u g h w e will r e t u r n to sex a n d desire again a n d again, and even try to p l u m b t h e m for the secrets o f the misfiring o f so many relations called "sexual" b e t w e e n m e n a n d w o m e n , m e n a n d m e n , w o m e n and w o m e n , w e shall stray from t h e m again a n d again—to areas as diverse as children's picture b o o k s a n d children's g a m e s a r o u n d a fountain in C e n ­ tral Park, to tales told over a calabash o f b e e r in the rainy season o f the West African Tiv, to very similar-sounding criticisms o f writers as differ­ e n t as Ursula L e G u i n a n d T o n i Morrison, to dimly perceived objects in a h o u s e in A m h e r s t at the e d g e o f dawn, to the lack o f operationalism in A I D S research. B u t n o w w e ask: W h a t is this "discourse" that has for so l o n g p r o t r u d e d its rhetorical stumbling b l o c k into the j a r g o n - h e a v y realms o f literary theory, either since the M i d d l e A g e s or W o r l d War II, d e p e n d i n g o n w h o s e a c c o u n t y o u read? Well, here's a tale o f a tale. 3. Pictures and Books. I have an eighteen-year-old daughter. A n d fifteen years a g o , w h e n she was three a n d j u s t b e g i n n i n g to read (and, even m o r e , enjoying b e i n g read t o ) , like so m a n y parents o f those years I no­ ticed that there w e r e p r e c i o u s few children's picture b o o k s with female protagonists. S o m e h o w , with the e x c e p t i o n o f Frances the H e d g e h o g , the illustrated bestiary in these b o o k s was overwhelmingly male. This struck m e as ridiculous as well as unfair—and even, perhaps, dangerous. W h o k n e w w h a t h a p p e n e d to c h i l d r e n w h o s e only identificatory ob­ j e c t s resided outside their race, their class, their sex, their g e n d e r — n o t to say their kind? I n d e e d , having p r o v e d itself powerful e n o u g h to stabilize the process by w h i c h the nation's schools h a d b e e n d e s e g r e g a t e d , an entire dis­ course from the fifties was already in place with its unpleasant sugges­ tions precisely a b o u t the answers to that seemingly rhetorical question.

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W h a t was a p a r e n t to d o with such b o o k s w h e n little girl animals were simply n o t extant? O n e b o o k that fell into my hands, back then, was a c h a r m i n g a n d welldrawn affair, about a little b e a r called C o r d u r o y . What's m o r e , C o r d u r o y wore a pair o f d e n i m O s h k o s h overalls—as did my three-year-old o n most o f her days at playschool. Certainly, there was a p o i n t o f c o r r e s p o n ­ d e n c e . W h y c o u l d n ' t I simply u p a n d c h a n g e C o r d u r o y ' s sex in the tell­ ing? With white-out a n d felt-tip p e n , I w e n t so far as to r e m o v e the he's and c h a n g e the p r o n o u n s to she's—in case Iva's r e a d i n g had actually pro­ gressed further than I suspected. 3

T h e n I sat d o w n , with my daughter. I b e g a n the story—and at the first p r o n o u n , Iva twisted a r o u n d in my lap to declare: "But Daddy, it's a boy bear! " "I d o n ' t think so," I said. ' T h e b o o k says 'she' right there." "But it's not\ " she insisted. I was sure o f my a r g u m e n t . "How d o y o u k n o w it's a boy bear?" "Because he's g o t pants o n ! " Surely she had fallen into my trap. "But you 're w e a r i n g pants," I ex­ plained. "In fact, y o u ' r e w e a r i n g the same k i n d o f O s h k o s h overalls that C o r d u r o y is wearing. A n d y o u ' r e a little girl, aren't y o u ? " "But Daddy," d e c l a r e d my three-year-old in a v o i c e o f utmost disdain at my failure to r e c o g n i z e the self-evident, "that's a bookl " D u r i n g the same three or four m o n t h s ' r e a d i n g in w h i c h I was learn­ ing o f the rhetorical failure o f the discourse o f c h i l d r e n ' s picture b o o k s to provide an egalitarian array o f m u l t i g e n d e r e d protagonists, my d a u g h ­ ter, o f course, had b e e n learning that discourse itself. A n d the fact was, she was right—I was w r o n g . C o r d u r o y was a boy. N o matter h o w unfair or how p e r n i c i o u s it was or m i g h t prove, the discourse of children's b o o k s made h i m a boy. A n d that discourse was so sedimented that a single instance o f rhetorical variation, in 1 9 7 7 , registered not as a new and w e l c o m e d variant but, rather, as a mistake self-evident to a three-year-old. "Well," I said, "let's make C o r d u r o y a 'she.' We'll p r e t e n d she's a girl, just like you. " Iva had also l e a r n e d the discourse o f "let's pretend"—surely from the same b o o k s that h a d taught h e r pants (in b o o k s ) m e a n t m a l e . S h e set­ tled back in my lap a n d s e e m e d satisfied e n o u g h with the revised story. Today, in the shadow o f its shelf, Corduroy has dust o n its u p p e r e d g e . But days a g o I p h o n e d Iva in the city w h e r e she was getting ready to g o off to college n e x t year, and—in preparation for this essay—I asked h e r whether she h a d any m e m o r y o f the incident. No, she didn't. "But o n c e I was l o o k i n g through some o f my o l d picture

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b o o k s , a n d I r e m e m b e r finding Corduroy a n d realizing s o m e o n e had taken a p e n a n d c h a n g e d all the he's to she's. I r e m e m b e r w o n d e r i n g why t h e y ' d d o n e it." 4. Interlogue Two. Perhaps h e r e is the p l a c e to state s o m e principles, then, o f discourse. Discourses are plural a n d are learned, with language, w h e r e they function as a particular e c o n o m i c level in the linguistic array. T h e y are n o t a set o f criteria that are to b e m e t or missed by a text. Rather, they l o d g e inchoately in the processes by w h i c h w e m a k e a text m a k e sense—by w h i c h we register a text well-formed or ill-formed. T h e y are révisable, often from within themselves. T h e m a i n t e n a n c e o f a dis­ course, like the revision o f a discourse, always involves s o m e violent rhe­ torical shift—though the final effects o f that v i o l e n c e may well be in s o m e wholly u n e x p e c t e d area o f u n d e r s t a n d i n g that the discourse af­ fects. A n d most discourses w o r t h the n a m e have c o m p l e x methods— starting with simple forgetfulness—for regularly h e a l i n g themselves across such rhetorical violences. A n d this is also the place to recall a com­ m e n t by my fellow science-fiction writer, Ursula L e G u i n : O n l y adults confuse fantasy a n d reality; children never d o . F r o m this a n e c d o t e o f a parent, a child, a n d a picture b o o k , it is not too great a l e a p to the suggestion that w h e r e v e r the world appears (in Plato's phrase) "illuminated by the sun o f the intelligible," the light that d o e s the illuminating is discourse. B u t what o u r earlier tale o f Fallopius a n d L e o n a r d o reminds us is just h o w powerful a light that is. For it may m a k e a p e a r l o o k like an apple— or, i n d e e d , an apple l o o k like a pear. 5. Text and Text. H e r e are two texts that I think m i g h t have b e e n m u c h clarified by the n o t i o n o f discourse: For h e r e is a y o u n g w o m a n , w h o signs herself J. R. D u n n , writing a critique o f a r e c e n t article by Ursula L e G u i n in a letter to Monad, an in­ formal critical j o u r n a l d e v o t e d to science fiction: 4

In her opening pages, Le Guin stated that: ". . . in the European tradition the hero who does great deeds is a white man . . . human women were essentially secondary, taking part in the story only as mothers and wives of men, beloved by or the seducers of men, victims of or rescued by men. Women did not in­ itiate action, except passively . . . the great deeds were men's deeds." I don't think I'm mistaken in taking this as the essay's key premise. That being so, it's unnecessary to go on any further: My argument with Le Guin lies right there. That passage represents the standard feminist historical model in action:

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that before the modern era women were victims at best, a mute inglorious mass marked by biology, allowed no contribution to any branch of human en­ deavor, the history of the female sex is a vast boneyard of oppression, suffer­ ing and degradation. This interpretation has been institutionalized for two decades and it's late in the day to pick a fight over it. But I believe that it is in error, and those adhering to it are seriously contradicted by the record. D u n n t h e n g o e s o n to give a catalogue o f great w o m e n o f accomplish­ m e n t in the West, from warrior q u e e n s such as Telesilla o f A r g o s , Z e n o bia o f Palmyra, a n d B o a d i c e a o f G r e a t Britain, o n to w o m e n cultural fig­ ures, such as S a p p h o , A n n a C o m n e n a , Juliana o f N o r w i c h , Christine d e Pisan, Vittoria C o l o n n a , a n d A n n e Bradstreet, p u n c t u a t e d with a list o f the great tragic heroines from G r e e k drama. A n d toward h e r c o n c l u s i o n (I a b r i d g e ) , D u n n writes: I'm not suggesting that Le Guin doesn't know any of this. I'm sure she does. It just doesn't connect. I won't speculate on why except to note that ideology tends to restrict critical thinking. This happens to the best of us. It's hap­ pened to me. . . . I accept the proposition that feminism is divided into egalitarian and vari­ ous radical branches. I strongly support the egalitarian position on grounds of logic and common sense. The other variants, "gender" or "radical" femi­ nism, what have you, I can only reject, seeing the nature of the "facts" they're based on. I object to any contention that the two streams are in any way one and the same. I'll go on to say I can picture few greater social tragedies than egalitarian feminism collapsing in the wreckage of the weirder varieties. I h o p e it will n o t simply b e a j e j u n e exercise to p o i n t o u t that, in h e r pur­ suit o f logic and c o m m o n sense, D u n n has misread L e G u i n a n d a c c o m ­ plished a truly astonishing rewrite o f history—a m i s r e a d i n g a n d a rewrit­ ing that can be pried apart by the careful insertion o f a n o t i o n o f discourse that will, perhaps, yield us its analytical fruit. But before I d o so, I want to offer a n o t h e r text, this time o n racial mat­ ters, that seems ripe for the same sort o f m i s r e a d i n g that L e G u i n ' s text has fallen victim to in D u n n . F r o m T o n i Morrison's r e c e n t b o o k - l e n g t h essay, Playing in the Dark: Whiteness and the Literary Imagination: For some time now I have been thinking a b o u t . . . a certain set of assumptions conventionally accepted among literary historians and critics and circulated as "knowledge." This knowledge holds that traditional, canonical American

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Shorter Views literature is free of, uninformed, and unshaped by the four-hundred-year-old presence of, first, Africans and then African-Americans in the United States. It assumes that this presence—which shaped the body politic, the Constitu­ tion, and the entire history of the culture—has had no significant place or consequence in the origin and development of that culture's literature. . . . There seems to be a more or less tacit agreement among literary scholars that, because American literature has been clearly the white male views, genius, and power, those views, genius, and power are without relationship to and re­ moved from the overwhelming presence of black people in the United States. 5

It is all too easy to see, at s o m e not-so-distant point, such a paragraph from M o r r i s o n taking its p l a c e within a critique o f s o m e fancied radical liberation m o v e m e n t m u c h like D u n n ' s critique o f "radical" feminism; a n d s o m e y o u n g reader, straight from a perusal o f the paperback shelves o f his o r her local c o l l e g e bookstore, b r i n g i n g o u t the currently available p a p e r b a c k editions o f Phillis Wheatley's Poems and the slave narratives from O l a u d a h E q u i a n o a n d Frederick Douglass and Harriet E. Wilson's OurMgand Martin Delany's Blakeanâ the stories o f Charles W. Chesnutt a n d novels o f Iola H a r p e r a n d Z o r a N e a l e Hurston a n d Richard Wright a n d C h e s t e r H i m e s a n d William Demby, a n d citing the National B o o k A w a r d to Ralph Ellison a n d M c P h e r s o n ' s a n d J o h n s o n ' s and even Morrison's own Pulitzer Prize, in o r d e r to declare: "How can y o u say that there's a conspiracy to k e e p centuries o f black A m e r i c a n writers from b e i n g c o n s i d e r e d a literary p r e s e n c e . . . ?" T h e sanest p l a c e to b e g i n to answer e i t h e r D u n n ' s criticism o f L e G u i n o r my h y p o t h e t i c a l critic o f M o r r i s o n is with the historical truism: T h i n g s as they are today are n o t necessarily the same as they were e v e n ten o r fifteen years a g o , m u c h less twenty-five o r thirty, m u c h less fifty o r seventy-five years g o n e . W e c a n only h o p e that p o i n t will h o l d the ar­ g u m e n t s stable l o n g e n o u g h to l o o k in m o r e detail at b o t h L e G u i n ' s a n d M o r r i s o n ' s initial statements. For they share a n u m b e r o f rhetori­ cal features. O n the o n e h a n d , "white males" are the putative villains o f b o t h pas­ sages. (Are they h e t e r o s e x u a l ? B u t o f c o u r s e . W e d o n o t even have to ask—for there is a discourse already in p l a c e that m a k e s that at least as i n a r g u a b l e as the sex o f C o r d u r o y in 1 9 7 7 . ) O n the o t h e r h a n d , the w o r d s "tradition" a n d "traditional" in b o t h take a deceptively en passant role a m o n g the o p e n i n g sentences o f e a c h . A n d it is within the notion o f tradition that w h a t w e call discourse—traditionally—hides. Articulat­ i n g it m i g h t have a v o i d e d s o m e o f these s u b s e q u e n t p r o b l e m s . H a d L e G u i n o r M o r r i s o n b e e n able to f o r e g r o u n d it clearly, instead o f leaving

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it implicit u n d e r the "traditions" b o t h are citing a n d for w h i c h the "heterosexual white m a l e " m o r e than a n y t h i n g else stands as a marker, a n a m e , an indicator o f a d o m i n a n t c u r r e n t in the i d e o l o g y o f the present century, their passages m i g h t b e less subject to such accusations and misrepresentations. I'd like to think that if, instead of, "In the E u r o p e a n tradition, the h e r o w h o d o e s g r e a t d e e d s is a white m a n " L e G u i n h a d written, "In tra­ ditional E u r o p e a n discourse, the h e r o w h o d o e s g r e a t d e e d s is a white man," D u n n ' s subsequent confusions m i g h t have b e e n less inevitable. O r if Morrison h a d written, "This k n o w l e d g e h o l d s that in the tradi­ tional discourse o f c a n o n i c a l , A m e r i c a n literature, that literature is free of, u n i n f o r m e d , a n d u n s h a p e d by the four-hundred-year-old p r e s e n c e of, first, Africans a n d then African-Americans in the U n i t e d States," t h e n perhaps my hypothetical critic m i g h t have b e e n less confused. O f course, discourse is a strong a n d m e a n i n g f u l c o n c e p t for m e . It represents an e c o n o m i c o r d e r o f l a n g u a g e that is apart f r o m tradition itself as it is apart from d o c t r i n e a n d ideology, t h o u g h it leans o n aspects of all o f t h e m , as all o f t h e m l e a n o n aspects o f discourse. B u t I a m aware that possibly w h a t characterizes D u n n or my o t h e r h y p o t h e t i c a l spoil-sport critic, is that the c o n c e p t o f discourse m a y b e w h a t they themselves lack. For what discourse d o e s above all things is to assign import. Dis­ course, r e m e m b e r , is w h a t allows us to m a k e sense o f what w e see, a n d hear, a n d e x p e r i e n c e . Yes, the Z e n o b i a s a n d the Christine d e Pisans, the Wilsons a n d Chesnutts a n d Hurstons were there. B u t discourse is w h a t tells us what is central a n d w h a t is p e r i p h e r a l — w h a t is a mistake, an anomaly, an accident, a j o k e . It tells us what to pay attention to a n d w h a t to ignore. It tells us what sort o f attention to pay. It tells us what is a n o m ­ alous and therefore nonserious. A n d till very recently " a n o m a l o u s a n d nonserious" is h o w the a c c o m p l i s h m e n t s o f w o m e n , w h e t h e r in the arts or in the world, were j u d g e d . A n d the writings o f blacks in this c o u n t r y were, until very recently, c o n s i d e r e d even m o r e o f an accident. T h e rewriting o f history I've s p o k e n o f is simply that it w o u l d b e h a r d to make a list o f the works that have d o n e m o r e to c h a n g e the discourse of g e n d e r so that, today, D u n n o r I c a n walk into o u r local bookstores and buy a copy o f Christine d e Pisan's City of Ladies, that did n o t i n c l u d e Le G u i n ' s works, such as The Left Hand of Darkness ( 1 9 6 g ) a n d The Dispos­ sessed ( 1 9 7 4 ) . It w o u l d be h a r d to m a k e a list o f those works that h a d h e l p e d c h a n g e the discourse o f race so that w e can n o w walk into the same bookstore a n d buy any o f the p a p e r b a c k v o l u m e s in the S c h o m b e r g Library o f nineteenth-century black w o m e n writers, that did n o t in­ clude Morrison's o w n novels Sula ( 1 9 7 3 ) a n d Song of Solomon ( 1 9 7 7 ) .

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W h a t it is necessary to r e m e m b e r , in o r d e r to m a k e discourse a strong c o n c e p t , is that it is the materialist side o f reason and ratiocination, o f u n d e r s t a n d i n g a n d history. It is all very well to explain that electric lights were simply n o t very c o m m o n seventy or eighty years a g o . O r that, even in my own early c h i l d h o o d in the 1940s, o u r p e r f e c d y comfortable coun­ try h o u s e , w h i c h w e drove to every summer, was lit by k e r o s e n e lanterns. O r that, at the same time, the country h o u s e o f my u n c l e , a fine and up­ standing j u d g e in the B r o o k l y n Domestic Relations C o u r t , h a d n o in­ d o o r toilet facilities but only an o u t h o u s e in the back. It is a n o t h e r thing, however, to explain to p e o p l e today, w h e t h e r they r e m e m b e r k e r o s e n e lamps o r not, that, in a pre-electric light era, the creation o f illumination always m e a n t an e x p e n d i t u r e o f time and physi­ cal e n e r g y at least as great as that o f lighting a match (which is already several times m o r e than turning o n a light switch) — and the vast majority o f times m e a n t an e x p e n d i t u r e o f physical e n e r g y far greater than that, an e x p e n d i t u r e , w h i c h , to b e efficient, was e m b e d d e d in a social schema that involved getting candles, fuels, regularly t r i m m i n g wicks and clean­ i n g the glass chimneys, c h o p p i n g w o o d a n d stoking fires, so that even the casual creation o f light in such an age was an entirely different social op­ eration from w h a t it is today. O n e m i g h t even say that, in such an age, light c o u l d n o t be casually created. L i g h t was at the n e x u s o f a great deal m o r e physical e n e r g y a n d daily p l a n n i n g . T h u s , because o f o u r vastly dif­ ferent relation to it, light itself was a different social object from what it is today. A n d thus, every m e n t i o n o f light, in any text from that period, w h e t h e r it b e in the deadest o f h a c k n e y e d m e t a p h o r s o r in the most vi­ brant a n d vivid poetry, is referring to a different o r d e r o f object. W h a t we have b e g u n to e x p l o r e h e r e , o f course, is the discourse o f light. It is the discourse that, e x p l o r e d in e n o u g h detail, can revivify the evil, distant, flickering lights that h a u n t A m e r i c a n writers from Nathan­ iel H a w t h o r n e to A m b r o s e B i e r c e , even as they turn into clichés in the later writings o f Lovecraft; w e must r e m e m b e r that initially such lights usually m e a n t fires in the distance—forest fires or h o m e s c a u g h t from s o m e light source (got o u t o f c o n t r o l ) , w h i c h , at the time, was always a flame source too. In the discourse o f sexual roles, certainly the greatest material distur­ b e r o f traditional roles was the spread, after World War II, in the late for­ ties a n d early fifties (even m o r e so than the Pill), o f the h o m e washerdryer c o m b i n a t i o n . Until that time, in any family o f m o r e than two p e o p l e , the washing, h a n g i n g o u t by h a n d , a n d i r o n i n g o f clothes took u p a m i n i m u m o f two full days a week; a n d that was what m a d e it a fore­ g o n e c o n c l u s i o n , as self-evident to w o m e n at the time as it was to m e n , that in o r d e r to have any sort o f family, s o m e o n e w o u l d have to have at

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least two days a w e e k in a small family (of four, say), a n d three o r m o r e in a large o n e , to devote to this task. T h e reduction o f the w e e k ' s laundry from two o r three days to two o r three hours was as traumatic to the discourse o f sexual roles as the intro­ duction o f electricity a n d the light switch was to the discourse o f light. We can say, o f course, that things have c h a n g e d — a n d have specifi­ cally c h a n g e d in terms o f race a n d sex. B u t I h o p e w e have s o m e way n o w of perceiving the e x t r e m e l y strong statement w e are m a k i n g w h e n w e say, for e x a m p l e , that the discourse o f sex a n d the discourse o f race have c h a n g e d far more—catastrophically m o r e — s i n c e 1 9 5 6 (to pick as an ar­ bitrary date the year w h e n the nation's schools w e r e , by law, d e s e g r e ­ gated) than has the discourse o f light since W o r l d War II. 6. Interlogue Three. Etymologically, the term "discourse" is a Latin w o r d that refers to an old, oval, R o m a n race track. A t a m o d e r n race track, spectators sit in seats o n the outside o f the track and l o o k in o n the runners. A t a discourse, however, the spectators entered the central section o f the track before the race, took their seats—or m o r e often simply w a l k e d a b o u t from o n e side to the other— while the racers c o u r s e d a r o u n d a n d a r o u n d t h e m . With such an object at its origins, it is h a r d to avoid m e t a p h o r i z i n g . O n e e n t e r e d the discourse a n d left it only at specified positions. T h e dis­ course encircled o n e ; it s u r r o u n d e d the spectator, m o v i n g a r o u n d a n d around him o r her. It is also h a r d n o t to speculate o n the nature o f its initial shift into metaphor. T h o u g h it's a n y o n e ' s guess as to h o w the discourse b e c a m e a metaphor for reason, understanding, a n d ratiocination, since discourses were places o f m u c h betting, it's p r o b a b l e that the kind o f h e a d scratch­ ing, the touting u p o f odds, a n d the endless speculative conversation o n the merits o f the racers characteristic today o f horse-racing tracks w e r e a part o f daily life at the discourse a n d thus p r o m p t e d the m e t a p h o r i c shift. But even that's speculation. N o o n e knows for sure. Today, however, the OED gives us u n d e r "discourse": 1. Onward course; process or succession of time, events, actions, etc. Obs. 2. "The act of the understanding, by which it passes from premises to conse­ quences," (Johnson); reasoning, thought, ratiocination; the faculty of reason­ ing, reason, rationality. 3. Communication of thought by speech; "mutual intercourse of language," (Johnson).

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Shorter Views A n d again: 1. To run, move, travel over a space, region, etc. 2. To reason. (To turn over in the mind; to think over.) 3. To hold discourse, to speak with another or others, talk, converse; to dis­ cuss a matter, confer. 4. To speak or write at length on a subject; to utter or pen a discourse. (To utter, say, speak or write formally.)

B u t we are basically interested h e r e in m e a n i n g n u m b e r two within the c l o u d o f rhetorical c o n n o t a t i o n s m e a n i n g s three and four have set in m o t i o n — a r o u n d a n d a r o u n d it. T h a t arbiter o f seventeenth-century prose, Sir T h o m a s B r o w n e ( 1 6 0 5 - 1 6 8 2 ) , wrote "Hydroitaphia or a discourse o f the sepulchral urns lately f o u n d in N o r f o l k " ( 1 6 5 8 ) — t h a t is to say, a discourse of, n o t a dis­ course o n . T h e forty-seven-page essay represents B r o w n e ' s understand­ ing, his r e a s o n i n g a r o u n d , his c o m p r e h e n s i o n o f the urns; it presents the information from life a n d letters the wise d o c t o r possessed (or that possessed h i m ) to b r i n g to b e a r u p o n t h e m that m a d e the urns make sense—and, in its c o n c l u d i n g thanatopsis, the sense that then soared from t h e m . But, as I h o p e my b r i e f e x a m p l e o f D u n n has already shown, without the n o t i o n o f discourse—or s o m e t h i n g that stands in its stead—there can be n o sophisticated i d e a o f history. 7. Discourse and Desire. T o e x p l o r e a discourse is inevitably to tell a story: A t such a n d such a time, p e o p l e did this and that; thus they t h o u g h t a n d felt o n e thing a n d another. O n e o f my favorite storytellers is a F r e n c h m a n n a m e d R a y m o n d Rous­ sel. T h e m e t h o d h e used to tell a n u m b e r o f extraordinarily far-ranging a n d imaginative stories, as h e outlined it in an essay published shortly after his death in 1 9 3 4 , Comment j'ai écrit certains de mes livres, involved tak­ i n g two phrases, w o r d for w o r d identical or different only by, say, o n e let­ ter o f o n e word, in w h i c h every w o r d had at least two distinct meanings, a n d thus had two distinct m e a n i n g s as phrases. His most famous example is: Les lettres de blanc sur les bandes du vieux billard and Les lettres du blanc sur les bandes du vieux pillard, w h i c h m e a n , respectively, "The white letters in­ scribed o n the cushions o f the old billiard table," a n d ' T h e white man's letters written a b o u t the troops o f the o l d bandit." (Needless to say, the vieux pillard—the old bandit—in Roussel's story is black.) Roussel saw his various tales as attempts to m a n e u v e r logically from o n e phrase, which we w o u l d find in the first sentence o f his tale, to the second, which we would 6

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find in the last. En route, again a n d again, Roussel constructed incidents around phrases that h a d a m o r e or less self-evident m e a n i n g b u t that could be reread to m e a n s o m e t h i n g else ("What d o y o u d o with a stiff neck?" "What d o you d o with a stiff . . . neck?") ; I have always taken the fact that the tales o f this wealthy F r e n c h h o m o s e x u a l e c c e n t r i c — w h e n freed from the constraints o f ordinary narrative discourse by the systematicity of his eccentric m e t h o d — a g a i n a n d again s w o o p e d into the subject o f race, o f blacks, o f Africa (Parmi les noirs, Impression d'Afrique) as a cultural index of just what a pervasive discourse race was for Europe—just as y o u will find, if y o u try the exercise in English, the secondary m e a n i n g s so often have a sexual side. T h e discourse o f race is intimately tied to the discourse o f sex; the term race, until the late e i g h t e e n t h century, m e a n t family—specifically a large, ancient, powerful family, such as the Sforza race, the M e d i c i race. When L e o n a r d o wrote o f the "Ethiopian races" in the notes h e m a d e on "Foetus in the W o m b " sometime b e t w e e n i 5 t o a n d 1 5 1 2 , o n e o f the rea­ sons for the plural, races, is that, within the discourse o f the time, w h a t h e was saying, denotatively, was "the Ethiopian families." T h e n o t i o n o f "race" as we know it w o u l d s e e m to b e g i n in an anxiety to locate a unit, still mediated by heredity, larger than the family yet s o m e h o w within its conceptual economy, but n o t coextensive with the nation. A n d there is no way to have heredity without sex. But even while w e have s p o k e n o f the rhetoric o f sex, and e x p l o r e d some o f the relations o f those rhetorical figures, we have stayed, till now, purposefully away from the idea o f desire. Desire is a very scary a n d uneasy n o t i o n . Its m a r k is a b s e n c e . A c c o r d ­ ingly, a positivistic culture frequently finds itself at a loss to e x p l o r e it or elaborate its workings. T h e two doctrinal principles that most o f us have access to c o m e re­ spectively from Freud a n d his most astute reader, L a c a n : Said Freud: Repetition is desire. Said Lacan: W h a t o n e desires is the desire o f the Other. T h e r e are, o f course, other ways to tell stories besides Roussel's. Rous­ sel e x p e n d e d extraordinary imaginative e n e r g y to m a k e sentences that were phonically all but identical m e a n different things. But suppose we tell two apparently different stories—and try to elab­ orate a discursive structure in w h i c h they can b e seen as o n e . Despite having a daughter, I c o m e to y o u as a gay black m a l e . B u t it is a reasonable assumption that some straight white males linger some­ where in my heredity. I find straight white males interesting—and some­ times, personally, sympathetic. A few years a g o , I wrote a b o o k , The Mo­ tion of Light in Water, an a u t o b i o g r a p h y that tried to delineate for m e 1

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w h a t it m e a n t to g r o w u p in an A m e r i c a n city as a black, gay, male writer o f paraliterary fictions. In the b o o k I talked very o p e n l y about my own particular sexual e x p e r i e n c e s a n d sexual fetishes. I assumed that the b o o k w o u l d b e most interesting to others in margi­ nalized positions, vis-à-vis those straight white males w h o d e m o n i z e so m u c h o f marginal discourse. T h e b o o k received its share o f approbation from black readers (female and m a l e ) , white readers (female and m a l e ) , a n d gay readers (female a n d m a l e ) . Nevertheless, by far the largest num­ b e r o f p e o p l e w h o have c o m e u p to talk to m e a b o u t it or—on m o r e than o n e o c c a s i o n now, after o n e or a n o t h e r lecture such as this—have g r a b b e d m e by the shoulder, d r a g g e d m e into a corner, sat m e down, and b e g u n to tell m e their p r o b l e m s , then asked m e , with great c o n c e r n , what, from my marginal position, I t h o u g h t they o u g h t to d o about t h e m , are straight white males. O n e w o u l d almost think they felt e m p o w e r e d to take anything the so­ ciety p r o d u c e d , n o matter h o w marginal, a n d utilize it for their own e n d s — d a r e we say "exploit it"?—certainly to take advantage o f it as l o n g as it's a r o u n d . A n d c o u l d this possibly be an effect o f discourse? Perhaps it m i g h t e v e n b e o n e we o n the margins m i g h t reasonably appropriate to o u r profit; o r perhaps s o m e o f us already have. Most o f their p r o b l e m s , o f course, involved their relations with fe­ m a l e s — s o m e white, s o m e black, s o m e gay, some straight. I have heard an extraordinary r a n g e o f stories—and w h a t these fellows are attracted to, o h m y w o m e n friends, is a m a z i n g . S o m e want w o m e n o f o n e race, some want t h e m o f another, s o m e want w o m e n with glasses and some want w o m e n w h o are overweight, s o m e want w o m e n with h i g h IQs and some want w o m e n with narrow shoulders set slightly forward—indeed, the range o f tales I have h e a r d from these fellows since 1988 w h e n my b o o k was p u b l i s h e d is e n o u g h to make the variety o f vanilla heterosexual male desire s e e m a seething pit o f perversions quite as interesting as any to be f o u n d in any S & M bar, lesbian, gay, or straight. B u t despite that range, I find myself again and again m a k i n g the same rhetorical intervention. For h e r e w e are centrally sunk in the Discourse o f Desire. W h a t again a n d again I find myself saying to these m e n is: C a n y o u utter the simple statement to the t r o u b l e s o m e object o f y o u r desire: "I like y o u . D o y o u like m e ? " A n d w h a t is this terror o f rejection that is so strong that it almost in­ variably drives o n e half, the other, or b o t h o f these enunciations out o f the realm o f articulation? D o u b t l e s s y o u c a n u n d e r s t a n d why b o t h paired clauses are essential. If y o u c a n n o t say, "I like y o u , " she will simply never know. If y o u c a n n o t

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follow it with, "Do y o u like meP'^owwill never know. M o r e to the point, if you c a n n o t say, "I like y o u , " she will never k n o w y o u have any e m o t i o n s . A n d if y o u can't say "Do y o u like m e ? " she will b e sure, probably rightly, y o u are unable to evince any interest, care, or c o n c e r n with hers. T h i s alone is why, "I like y o u . Let's fuck," d o e s n o t a c c o m p l i s h the same c o m ­ municative ends. In three o u t o f four cases, these fellows will eventually ask: "But why doesn't she say it to me?" To which I answer: "That is not the point. Y o u ' r e the o n e w h o claims to be in pain. W h a t are you g o i n g to d o a b o u t it—for w h a t I tell y o u is as likely to g e t y o u out o f it as anything else y o u c a n d o . It is certainly m o r e effective than waiting in silent agony or c l o w n i n g a b o u t in over-energetic e x u b e r a n c e for h e r to see t h r o u g h y o u r s e d i m e n t e d silences or eruptive vulgarities your central y e a r n i n g self." I say this rather gently, o f course. For o n e thing o n e learns in fifty years is that, t h o u g h most o f us eventually learn to ask, m o r e or less, for what we want, it is always m o r e or less impossible to ask for w h a t w e n e e d . (If we c o u l d ask for it, by definition we w o u l d n ' t need it.) T h a t can only be given us. Finally, we are left to conspire, inarticulately a n d by o u r be­ havior alone, to m a k e sure there is as m u c h o f it available in the land­ scape as is possible, in the h o p e that, eventually, w e will b e fortunate e n o u g h to receive some. But I have known a n u m b e r o f w o m e n w h o , w h e n a m a n b e c a m e inter­ ested in her (when he m a n a g e s to c o m m u n i c a t e the first part o f that o h so important diptych), wait a r o u n d t h r o u g h whatever n u m b e r o f dates and get-togethers they feel are reasonable, for the s e c o n d part—for the other shoe, as it were, to d r o p . A n d , w h e n it doesn't, they break off the re­ lationship secure in the fact that they are leaving a situation w h e r e , for whatever reasons (at this point, the why is n o l o n g e r her c o n c e r n ) , their own feelings will never really be solicited—probably about anything. I recall o n e y o u n g m a n , deeply in love with a w o m a n w h o s e e m e d , cer­ tainly, fond e n o u g h o f h i m to a c c e p t dates with h i m a n d TV viewings with him. H e asked my advice on several occasions. "But d o e s she like m e ? " h e wanted to know. "Why d o n ' t you ask?" I suggested. "I mean, I know she likes me. B u t d o e s she like m e ? " "Again, if y o u d o n ' t ask, y o u may never find out." "I've told h e r that I liked her," he c o m p l a i n e d . "The magic words," I said, "are: T like y o u ; d o y o u like m e ? ' O f course," I a d d e d , "if y o u ask, y o u risk the possibility o f b e i n g told, ' N o . ' But isn't that better than having to wait a n d w o n d e r and n o t k n o w for w h o knows how l o n g ? "

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W h e n , after m u c h rhetoric, h e allowed as h o w it was, I t h o u g h t the p r o b l e m finally r e d u c e d to that never simple matter o f gritting one's teeth a n d i n d u l g i n g in that terrible bravery that has to b e b r e a c h e d in o n e form o r a n o t h e r in every situation o f desire. B u t a few days later, h e was back. "I can't ask her," h e declared. ' Y o u ' r e that frightened o f b e i n g told, ' N o ' , " I asked, "that y o u w o u l d give u p the possibility o f b e i n g told 'Yes'?" "It's n o t that. It's because o f what it w o u l d mean if I asked her." "What would it m e a n ? " I asked. "It w o u l d m e a n , like, w e l l " — a n d h e r e , I h o p e what b e c o m e s clear is the structure o f the discourse in w h i c h w e have b e e n involved all along— "it w o u l d m e a n , somehow, that I was insulting her. T h a t she was the kind o f girl w h o was used to guys asking her, all the time, if she wanted to g o to b e d with t h e m , if she liked them—it w o u l d m e a n like, well, I t h o u g h t she was s o m e k i n d o f w h o r e . A n d I c o u l d n ' t stand that." ' Y o u m e a n , " I said, "that if she h a d any sexual feelings for y o u o f the sort that y o u have b e e n regaling m e with for the past six weeks, that have b e e n destroying y o u r sleep a n d p l a g u i n g y o u r dreams, she w o u l d be a whore." "Well, like, n o . " "What about," I said, "like, yes." "Well, like it," h e said. "But n o t exactly it." "Like it, close e n o u g h , " I said. T h e y o u n g w o m a n b r o k e off the relationship after a n o t h e r week. A n d wisely, I suspect. B u t I h o p e this tale a l o n e is e n o u g h to suggest what a vi­ o l e n t rhetorical intervention in the discourse o f patriarchy, with its saints a n d w h o r e s (for that o f course is the discourse we speak o f h e r e ) , the simple bipartite statement a n d question, "I like y o u . D o y o u like m e ? " represents. T h e discourse o f desire, at w o r k t h r o u g h o u t the discourse o f patriar­ chy, maintains s u c h a situation, with its n e b u l o u s orders—want, n e e d , a n d desire itself—notoriously impossible to pin down. For as soon as o n e systematically relates t h e m (say, in the provisionally brilliant Lacanian schema: W h e n all the e l e m e n t s o f n e e d are satisfied in the situation o f want, the remainder is desire), ordinary l a n g u a g e , with its italics and spe­ cial emphases, m a n a g e s to displace t h e m s o o n e n o u g h so that all we are left is a m e m o r y o f a m o m e n t a r y bit o f rhetorical brilliance. Well, that is the first story I tell. B u t sometimes I tell a s e c o n d story. T h o u g h I assure y o u , for all its radically different s o u n d , it is as close in m e a n i n g to "I like y o u . D o y o u like m e , " as the o p e n i n g a n d closing phrases o f a tale by Roussel are close in sound.

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T h a t tale is the dark k n o w l e d g e my o w n life in the margins provides. Very simply, that s e c o n d story runs: " T h e desire to b e l o v e d is sadism. T h e desire to love is masochism." T o unravel the track from o n e to the o t h e r in the c o m p l e x Discourse of Desire—to show that b o t h inhabit a single discourse—is to e v o k e the Freudian n o t i o n that the realm o f desire is the mirror r e a l m o f ordinary motivations. Freud told us that a perversion was the opposite o f a n e u r o ­ sis: In the c h i l d h o o d m a c h i n a t i o n s o f psychic d e v e l o p m e n t , either w e sexualize s o m e t h i n g w i t b e c o m e s a neurotic character trait. To take pleasure from i m p o s i n g y o u r e m o t i o n s o n a n o t h e r p e r s o n is sadism—a m u c h easier translation to follow. B u t then, w h a t else is the open, pleasurable, sincere, a n d a b o v e b o a r d statement: "I like you"? Isn't that, if it's sincerely stated, a pleasurable imposition o f o n e ' s e m o t i o n s on another, a n d thus, w h e n it is shot t h r o u g h with desire, a terrifyingly difficult enunciation? T o take pleasure from the e m o t i o n s o f others over a n d above y o u r own is m a s o c h i s m — a n equally easy translation. W h a t else t h e n is the o p e n , pleasurable, sincere, a n d a b o v e b o a r d request: " D o y o u like m e ? " Again, w h e n such a question is shot t h r o u g h with desire, isn't its asking equally terrifying? For y o u must have n o t i c e d — b y now, certainly—that while s o m e p e o ­ ple are afraid o f saying o n e , they are terrified o f s p e a k i n g the other—ter­ rified to the p o i n t o f sweating, h e a r t - p o u n d i n g , d r y - t o n g u e d paralysis. A n d the difference b e t w e e n ordinary fear a n d terror is the difference between the social fear o f sexual rejection a n d the totality o f the universe-obliterating failure o f b o t h the self a n d the o t h e r that h o m e s a m o n g desire's a n c i e n t a n d hideously d e e p foundations. Certainly we w o u l d stop o u r interrogations a n d discursive translations with the glib observation that every relation to start pleasurably, then, re­ quires a little healthy sadism, a little healthy m a s o c h i s m — o n e v e r y o n e ' s part. But it is that n o t i o n o f pleasure, a n d its dark relation to desire, that completes the identification o f the tales. For, again, w e all k n o w — a n d know that the assignment has n o necessary relation to w h o has what g e n ­ ital configuration—that there are simply too m a n y p e o p l e w h o , t h o u g h they can m a n a g e to h a n d l e either o n e o f those paired clauses, are abso­ lutely b r o k e n before the other. T h e r e are too many p e o p l e w h o c a n tell y o u w h a t they w a n t b u t w h o are constitutionally incapable o f r e s p o n d i n g to what s o m e o n e else might want. T h e r e are too m a n y p e o p l e w h o are endlessly c o n c e r n e d with what others want b u t s e e m to have the same constitutional inability to articulate their o w n wishes. A g a i n , the m a r k o f desire is l a c k — a n d (and pace F r e u d ) repetition. So that o n c e again, if y o u want to b e loved to the intensity o f desire—

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so that y o u seek that situation o u t again a n d again, so that the love o f s o m e o n e else inflames y o u , so that even another's m i m i n g o f the em­ b l e m s o f such a situation is e n o u g h to excite, so that the form o f a n o t h e r ' s love is a lack in y o u that, n o matter h o w many times it is ful­ filled by whatever act o f love, it can never b e finally a n d wholly sated, be­ cause it is the f o r m o f y o u r desire itself, t h e n y o u r b e h a v i o r in the world to acquire w h a t y o u seek must fall, o n e way o r the other—to the extent that it is in excess o f any real possibility—into the forms o f sadism. A n d if what y o u want is to love another, again to the p o i n t o f desire— so that y o u seek o u t opportunities to d o so again a n d again, so that the possibility o f a n o t h e r to love is what inflames y o u , so that another's mim­ i n g that she o r h e approves, deserves, d e m a n d s that love is e n o u g h to ex­ cite, that the f o r m o f love expressed in y o u is a lack, that, n o matter how m a n y times it is r e p e a t e d by y o u r behavior, can never b e finally and wholly exhausted, b e c a u s e it is the f o r m o f y o u r desire itself, then your b e h a v i o r in the w o r l d to acquire w h a t y o u seek must fall, o n e way or the o t h e r — t o the e x t e n t that it is in excess o f any real possibility—into the forms o f masochism. "I like y o u ; d o y o u like m e ? " B u t the darker a n d m o r e d a n g e r o u s tale revealed b e n e a t h it is a clash o f sadistic a n d masochistic imperatives: " T h e desire to be loved is sadism; the desire to love is masochism." For w h a t are b o t h these tales finally about? Power. P o w e r is w h a t distinguishes the psychic discourse o f desire from the social rhetoric o f sex. T h e rhetoric o f sex c o m m a n d s e n o u g h strength to m a k e a m a n or a w o m a n walk the streets o f the city for hours, to drive a l o n e or in g r o u p s , searching for a p r o p e r g a p in the c o m m u n i ­ cative wall t h r o u g h w h i c h desire may s o m e h o w show. B u t desire, to the e x t e n t that it is a material a n d social discourse, c o m m a n d s p o w e r e n o u g h to f o u n d a n d destroy cities, to reform the very shape o f the city itself, laying d o w n n e w avenues a n d restructuring w h o l e n e i g h b o r h o o d s within it. A n d desire—paradoxically—is what holds erect that barrier to sex that so m u c h o f o u r rhetoric, as well as o u r actions o f w h i c h finally rhetoric is a part, breaks against a n d crumbles. T h e p o w e r involved in desire is so great that w h e n c a u g h t in an actual rhetorical manifestation o f desire—a particular sexual act, say—it is sometimes all b u t impossible to u n t a n g l e the c o m p l e x webs o f p o w e r that shoot t h r o u g h it from various directions, the p o w e r relations that are the act a n d that constitute it: Y o u ' r e having sex with s o m e o n e . Very well. W h o s e scenario is it? W h o is e x e r t i n g the most physical e n e r g y to b r i n g it off?

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W h a t is the social value assigned to e a c h player in the particular act? W h a t sorts o f energy, action, a n d articulation are n e e d e d to transform or reverse any o n e o f these? D u r i n g such p o w e r analyses we find j u s t h o w m u c h the matrix o f de­ sire (the Discourse o f Desire a n d the matrix o f p o w e r it manifests h e r e and masks there) favors the h e t e r o s e x u a l male, e v e n if there is n o such actor involved. W h o e v e r is d o i n g w h a t the h e t e r o s e x u a l m a l e would b e doing usually c o m e s o u t o n top. T h o u g h his 1 9 1 5 f o o t n o t e m a k e s per­ fectly clear that, by the use o f the w o r d "masculine" h e simply m e a n t "ac­ tive," this may nevertheless have b e e n part o f the thrust o f Freud's state­ ment: "that libido is invariably a n d necessarily o f a masculine nature, whether it occurs in m e n o r in w o m e n a n d irrespective o f w h e t h e r its ob­ j e c t is a man or a w o m a n . " It is a statement that, if taken in the biological sense (which the same footnote e x c l u d e s from the r e a d i n g ) , is precisely as ridiculous as "the u r g e to sneeze is invariably and necessarily o f a mas­ culine nature, w h e t h e r it occurs in m e n or w o m e n . " 8

What we o n the margins have b e e n most able to appropriate o f this discourse is the p o w e r analysis that so m u c h o f the discourse o f patriar­ chy is structured precisely to mystify. In many cases, its démystification is precisely w h a t has allowed us to survive. 8. Discourse contra Discourse. Rich with its materiality a n d explicative force, the idea o f discourse that I have b e e n putting forward is an excit­ ing one and a seductive o n e to those first c o m i n g to history. In 1840 the postage stamp was i n t r o d u c e d in E n g l a n d . B e f o r e that date, w h e n a letter was sent, the recipient paid the p o s t m a n o n delivery. After that date, the sender p a i d — a n d suddenly letter writing b e c a m e a species o f vanity p u b l i s h i n g . T o know this is to b e able to m a k e sense o f a range o f sentences f o u n d in d o z e n s o f early nineteenth-century novels that often a p p e a r as s o m e form o f "From t h e n o n , she w o u l d l o n g e r re­ ceive his letters." Specifically what that m e a n s is: she refused to pay the postman for the letters—and they were r e t u r n e d to the sender. A t o n c e , we have an e x p l a n a t i o n for questions r a n g i n g from why so m a n y letters from before that date were preserved (what y o u paid for y o u k e p t ) , to why there was n o j u n k mail before then (who would pay for it?), to why the correspondents themselves were often so witty (if y o u knew y o u h a d to make your letters worth the three or four p e n n i e s y o u r r e c i p i e n t h a d to shell out—eighty or ninety cents at today's p r i c e s — y o u were likely both to write at l e n g t h a n d to try to have s o m e t h i n g to say). W e b e g i n to see such letters fitting into the social matrix very differently from the way our mail does, and w e b e g i n to d e v e l o p a postal discourse. 9

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In 1 8 5 1 , the lead paint tube was i n t r o d u c e d , w h i c h m e a n t that suddenly artists c o u l d k e e p with t h e m a m o u n t s o f paint m u c h smaller than in the pig-bladders full o f h a n d - g r o u n d pigments, traditional since before L e o n a r d o . With the invention o f the metal ferrule in the same few years, w h i c h h e l d the bristles to the brush a n d flattened t h e m , it b e c a m e far easier for artists to travel from their studios and paint nature; the average size o f the canvases suddenly shrank; the possibility o f an amateur painter b e c a m e real. H o r d e s o f painters n o w d e s c e n d e d across the lands c a p e — a n d Impressionism was the result, as d e p e n d e n t on that bit o f soft lead foil as o n any aesthetic considerations. T h e relation o f the artist to society, t h r o u g h all the e c o n o m i c c h a n g e s from that technological dev e l o p m e n t , w h i c h , t h r o u g h that c h a n g e , c h a n g e d the relation o f society to art, resulted in a major reformation o f the discourse o f art. In the early 1870s at Bayreuth, R i c h a r d Wagner, at the o p e n i n g o f that c o n c e r t hall, so as n o t to b r e a k the a t m o s p h e r e created by the music, for the first time in Western concerts initiated the convention that a u d i e n c e s n o t a p p l a u d b e t w e e n m o v e m e n t s o f symphonies or string quartets; now, as the Bayreuth Festspielhaus m o v e d on to the production of operas, h e p u t u p signs in the lobby that n o talking was to o c c u r duri n g the p e r f o r m a n c e ; and, to h e l p the a u d i e n c e concentrate on the music a n d stage action, h e t u r n e d the h o u s e lights off d u r i n g the perform a n c e o f an o p e r a , so that the a u d i e n c e w a t c h e d the p e r f o r m a n c e e n v e l o p e d in the dark, with light only on the s t a g e . Elizabethan theaters h a d p e r f o r m e d u n d e r sunlight at the o p e n - r o o f e d G l o b e and Blackfriars; J a c o b e a n theater, as well as the theater o f Racine a n d Molière, the later theater o f M o z a r t a n d Beaumarchais, were all theaters o f light. B u t w h e n , u n d e r W a g n e r ' s direction, the h o u s e lights were l o w e r e d — a n d the tradition spread from Bayreuth t h r o u g h all the o p e r a houses and finally all the theaters o f the West—a different relation was m a r k e d b e t w e e n art a n d a u d i e n c e , a c h a n g e in the relationship, w h i c h had b e e n g r o w i n g t h r o u g h o u t the rise o f Romanticism, a c h a n g e that we can read in m e t a m o r p h o s e s o f theatrical discourse. 10

T h e initial e x c i t e m e n t from the discovery o f material c h a n g e s controlling discourse (these c h a n g e s are often so total w e d o n o t realize they r e n d e r o n e side or the o t h e r o f a cultural discontinuity set in place by m o n e y a n d t e c h n o l o g y : the n e w a n d m o d e r n gas lamps, say, by which W a g n e r ' s Festspielhaus was lighted and d a r k e n e d , as well as the great steam curtain that p r o d u c e d the billows o f effective stage fog, w h i c h , as G e o r g e B e r n a r d Shaw n o t e d in his recollections o f the R i n g perform a n c e s o f the late 1890s, "made the theater smell like a laundry") at first p r o d u c e s a k i n d o f vertigo in the y o u n g intellectual newly alert to the c o m p l e x i t i e s o f history. 11

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It is perhaps, then, time to cite the e x a m p l e o f the intellectual figure most responsible for the current spread o f the n o t i o n o f discourse as a historical m o d e l i n g tool, M i c h e l Foucault. W h e n we have b e e n considering the problems raised by o u r own studies o f discourse, n o t h i n g is m o r e exciting than the essay he published at the e n d o f his m e t h o d o l o g i c a l study o f the p r o b l e m s o f discursive study ( The Archaeology of Knowledge, where he tears down his own f o r m e r n o t i o n o f "épistèmés" a n d replaces it with a theory o f discourses, utterances, g e n e a l o g i e s , a n d apparatuses), "L'Ordre du discours" ("The F o r m o f Discourse"), rather flightily translated as ' T h e Discourse o n L a n g u a g e . " In the course o f this essay, while he exhorts us to l o o k for c h a n c e , discontinuity, a n d materiality, F o u c a u l t warns us away from the idea o f f o u n d i n g subjects, originating experiences, universal mediation, a n d the tyranny o f the signifier. I think Foucault w o u l d b e the first to r e m i n d us that, in the midst o f that most anxious paragraph o n o u r L e o n a r d o drawing, c o n c e r n i n g the paradox o f Africa as Italy h a d to see it, there is that a n o m a l o u s "female seed." L o o k at it, research it, seek it o u t in a range o f s y n c h r o n o u s a n d diachronous texts, before d e c i d i n g precisely what k i n d o f a n o m a l y it is. A n d the current discourse o f patriarchy and the Discourse o f Desire that suffuses it, a n d — n o w a n d again, h e r e a n d there at its several points—seeks to subvert it, is j u s t as materially g r o u n d e d as any o f the historical ones I have cited. Similarly, a n d p e r h a p s m o r e importantly, none o f the historical ones, w h e n studied in their specificity, their discontinuity, their exteriority, are any less c o m p l e x than w e k n o w from o u r first-hand e x p e r i e n c e the discourse o f desire and patriarchy to be. 12

9. Interlogue Four. F r o m the array o f voices with w h i c h discourse addresses us, o n e insists: "Return a m o m e n t to the homilies with w h i c h , at the e n d o f section seven, you effected your Utopian turn, a n d allow m e to ask: W h y is it necessary for sadism to be about all these emotions} W h y can't it simply b e about pain? D o e s it take an active anticipation o f your a r g u m e n t o n my part to provoke y o u to the cool reason that y o u r text keeps putting forward as your stance? S o o n y o u will b e e x p l a i n i n g that the analogical relation between the sexual a n d the social that is mistaken for causal is, most generously, the structure o f superstition a n d most oppressively the structure of oppression itself. Why, then, must y o u m a k e this spurious analogy between the psychological and the sexual? You yourself have a r g u e d that The Authoritarian Personality by A d o r n o and the Frankfurt G r o u p first validated the notion o f the causal relation b e t w e e n the behavior o f the Nazi bureaucracy o f the thirties a n d forties and sexual sadism, and thus functions on exactly the same level as the discursive origin o f an oppressive

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structure as political as the medical institudon o f homosexuality that al­ lows heterosexuality itself to c o m e into existence. W o u l d y o u actually a r g u e that I am, w h e t h e r with my breasts thrust into black leather or bas­ ket heavy in a studded j o c k , the O n e Always T h e r e , w h o , w h e n everyone else is r e d e e m e d , can b e thrown to the dogs, at the eye o f the patriarchal cyclone y o u ' v e already located as the straight white (need I add?) vanilla male? As y o u m a k e y o u r accusations o f appropriation, surely you've no­ ticed the totality o f the structure y o u excoriate: with Jung, h e steals, in the form o f the anima, whatever from the straight female; with the rhetoric o f 'latent homosexuality,' he appropriates all he c o u l d possibly use from the real thing; in the e m e r g e n t rhetoric o f transsexualism, as the center o f discourse, as he learns that most transsexuals are lesbians anyway, he takes over lesbianism for himself (as h e has had it already in any n u m b e r o f les­ bian scenes in any n u m b e r o f p o r n o g r a p h i c films); and now y o u ' d toss h i m my w h i p a n d chains, a l o n g with that Freudian reduction that claims, in a patriarchally p r o d u c e d scarcity field o f sexually available females, the only way h e can g e t by is with a little 'healthy' sadism. Ha! I'll take the sick kind, thank y o u very m u c h . N o w o n d e r h e c o m e s o u t on top. That's sim­ ply w h e r e y o u ' v e placed him! W o u l d y o u setde for s o m e a r g u m e n t in w h i c h everyone, even your straight white vanilla male, n e e d s his very own O t h e r — a n d claim that is, somehow, s o m e t h i n g new? T h e discourse— y o u r privileged term—has b e e n c o n t o u r e d for generations: Jew, forget the insults that lace its text, and l o o k at The Merchant of Venice. W o m a n , for­ g e t the insults a n d l o o k at Madame Bovary ("sitting like a toadstool on a d u n g h e a p , " writes Flaubert in his n o v e l ) . Sadist, forget the insults, and l o o k at H i t c h c o c k ' s Frenzy. Gay black male, l o o k at Mapplethorpe's Man in Polyester Suit. T h e r e ' s s o m e t h i n g there (haven't we all b e e n told?), universal, transcendent, aesthetic—good for you. Just swallow; and always insist to yourself that what must be swallowed is s o m e t h i n g other than the self-respect that is not, o f course, his. Well, neither my sadism nor my masochism runs in that particular direction. B u t even by talking for m e this m u c h , y o u exile m e to the position o f that dark and eccentric figure lurking at the h o r i z o n o f Romanticism, speaking all y o u dare not resist. Well, y o u r cowardice is n o t masochism. A n d my articulation is not sadism. D o n ' t think because y o u speak, or rather m u m b l e , in my stead, I can s o m e h o w be silent or y o u can silence this rhetorical fusillade. "What w o u l d h a p p e n if y o u really (i.e., politically) extirpated that m e t a p h o r i c idiocy from y o u r p r o p o s e d discourse o f desire—idiot not be­ cause m e t a p h o r s are themselves the idiot things Western philosophers have b e e n c l a i m i n g since Plato, b u t b e c a u s e m e t a p h o r s badly f o r m e d are the discursive e l e m e n t s that mystify a n d stabilize oppressive systems. Describe for m e the picture b o o k a b o u t the little bear w h o discovers the

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pleasures o f pain, o f d e g r a d a t i o n , a n d w h o learns the delights o f giving it, receiving it. (Let's g e t really radical with y o u r white-out a n d y o u r felttip!) You and I m i g h t e v e n suggest, o n e to the other, it teaches that y o u must m a k e sure to exercise such pleasures only with s o m e o n e else w h o appreciates it, c o m p l e t e with 'safe w o r d s ' for e n d i n g sessions a n d 'talking out periods' at the start (you can find such in any reasonable m a n u a l of S & M practices with w h i c h , today, I must vouchsafe my social r e a s o n ) . T h e r e ' s your role m o d e l , y o u ' l l say. T h e r e ' s y o u r certificate d e c l a r i n g you a m e m b e r o f the greater society o f sexual variation. A n d , my friend, when such picture b o o k s are n e i t h e r l a u g h a b l e n o r politically correct, but as c o m m o n as Corduroy, then, rest assured, I shall tell y o u not that I accept your Discourse o f Desire in all its Utopian naïveté; rather, that will be the very m o m e n t I shall at least a n d at last b e able to h o l d u p b o t h a n d d e m a n d why my desires must be p o l i c e d in the o n e , while his are still so untrammeled, u n m a r k e d , a n d free that they n e e d n o t even b e m e n tioned in the o t h e r — t h e reticence creating the m a r g i n across w h i c h h e creates himself by creating m e b u t across w h i c h , yes, I p l u n d e r h i m regularly. ( O h , sing it, honey: ' N o t only is it a b o y bear, Daddy! It's a straight, white, heterosexual, vanilla, boy bear—in case y o u h a d n ' t n o t i c e d . ' ) That will b e the m o m e n t w h e n at last a n d at least I c a n prove to y o u that precisely at the p o i n t I w o u l d seize my desire in its f r e e d o m , there you would n a m e my particular form o f it the core a n d k e r n e l o f all policing: the embarrassing H e g e l i a n wish to rule a n d b e ruled. As F r e u d a n d M a r x gave y o u tools to analyze this o n its own terms, y o u insistently equivocate one set o f causes with the o t h e r a n d leave d e m o c r a c y a c o n s u m e r travesty o f itself t h r o u g h the p e o p l e ' s i g n o r a n c e o f w h a t this r u l i n g a n d being ruled is really a b o u t — t h e n y o u d e m o n i z e it by c l a i m i n g that, whenever it rises into articulation clear e n o u g h to signal conflict, somehow its courting political torture is itself o n e with sexual torture, a n d lay it at my terrifying, cloven foot. "Well, I'll tell y o u . A n y o n e w h o believes y o u r v a u n t e d p o w e r relations in a session o f consensual sexual torture are the same as those in a session of i m p o s e d political torture is simply a n d brutally i g n o r a n t o f both—and deserves (the political discourse o f the time d e m a n d s — a s 'shave and a haircut' d e m a n d s 'two bits') whatever h a p p e n s . . . ? "Him or her, my friend, n o m o r e than I. "No o n e deserves 'whatever h a p p e n s . ' T h a t deserving c a n only b e enforced. "Ruling a n d b e i n g ruled, the very d e p l o y m e n t o f political power, the walls of reality a n d every attempt to scale, b r e a c h , o r reposition them— that is the material g r o u n d and limit o f y o u r discourse. W h o speaks n o w is precisely the devil that discourse has p l a c e d h e r e to frighten y o u off

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the very q u e s t i o n — w h o lied to y o u that ruling a n d b e i n g ruled are causally entailed with my desires, just as y o u lied to h i m that, in his cowardice, he is as strong as I. B u t learn, mon semblable, mon frère, not that I am you; rather that y o u are not m e — e v e n while the organization o f our oppressions may b e the same. L e a r n , too, by so learning, how different what all your patriarchal logic tells y o u is an identity is from the c o r e d out, resonant h o l l o w o f o u r differences. " T h o s e discursive identities are there to kill me, n o t y o u — w h o e v e r y o u , the privileged speaking subject w h o allows m e only to function as y o u r ventriloquized p u p p e t , are." 10. Interpretation and Perception. In the discussion o f discourse a conc e p t eventually must arise. It seems to be a part o f the m o d e r n discourse o f discourse itself. It is given by the phrase, "Interpretation p r e c e d e s perc e p t i o n . " T o u n d e r s t a n d it, w e m i g h t start with an alternate narrative as to h o w h u m a n s perceive things. T h i s alternate narrative o f perceived m e a n i n g c o m m e n c e s s o m e t h i n g like this. We b e g i n by p e r c e i v i n g abstract colors, shapes, sounds; eventually, by relating t h e m to o n e another, to o t h e r sets o f abstract colors, shapes, and sounds b o t h temporally a n d spatially, we build u p a picture o f objects, events, a n d finally o f reality. O n c e w e have an objective m o d e l , we interpret it a n d ask w h a t w e can u n d e r s t a n d o f it. T h e p r o b l e m with this story o f p e r c e p t i o n is that, from b o t h neurological study a n d introspection, it j u s t doesn't seem to b e the way the brain—or the mind—is set u p . Interpretation o f vision begins, for example, as s o o n as light hits the retina. Cats see horizontal lines a n d vertical lines with different n e r v e bundles. A n d s o m e nerve cells in the frog's eye r e s p o n d to small, dark m o v i n g dots, w h i c h m i g h t be any o n e o f the r a n g e o f edible b u g s , while o t h e r nerves r e s p o n d to b r o a d patches o f g e n e r a l color, w h i c h m i g h t b e land, lily pad, or whatever. T h e r e may, ind e e d , b e electrical impulses m o v i n g a r o u n d the brain that are signs for abstract colors o r e v e n shapes. B u t by the time they register in anything like "mind," interpretation o f what they are has well b e g u n . Introspectively, w e h u m a n s can supply o u r own evidence for the priority o f interpretation over p e r c e p t i o n . I recall w a k i n g u p last a u t u m n in my A m h e r s t apartment, in that d i m p e r i o d w h e n the sky b e y o n d the bedr o o m and b a t h r o o m w i n d o w s was still d e e p b l u e . L o o k i n g for my hairbrush, I w o n d e r e d if for s o m e reason I'd left it in the kitchen. A n d so I s t e p p e d in t h r o u g h the kitchen door— A h , there it was, across the r o o m o n the small triangular table by the sink, its black plastic h a n d l e sticking o u t b e h i n d the e d g e o f a colander left there from last night's spaghetti.

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I took a step across the l i n o l e u m floor— But now I saw all this dust o n the h a n d l e ' s e d g e . Gray fluff was visible in three small heaps generally spread from o n e e n d to the other. I took a n o t h e r step, a n d what I'd seen as a black plastic h a n d l e with the long, three-peaked m o u n d o f dust o n it, b e c a m e the h a n d l e o f o n e of my kitchen knives. T h e h a n d l e was black bakélite. W h a t I'd seen as dust was the light glinting off the three steel bolts that, level with the bakélite, h e l d the b l a d e in place . . . T h e p o i n t h e r e is that often w e d o n o t have e n o u g h p e r c e p t u a l infor­ mation to m a k e o u t what s o m e t h i n g is; b u t in such situations, w e d o n o t perceive—at first—that w e have only partial information. W e perceive some thing, then, sometimes only a m o m e n t later, w e perceive s o m e other thing that contradicts the first. Those contradictions are the sign that w e eventually learn to interpret as i n c o m p l e t e p e r c e p t u a l information. Eventually, if the contradictions g o o n l o n g e n o u g h a n d will n o t resolve, we perceive an abstract c o l o r or shape, w h o s e substance o r full f o r m w e cannot know. B u t such a p e r c e p t i o n represents an e v e n higher o r d e r o f interpretive c o m p l e x i t y than the p e r c e p t i o n o f c o n c r e t e objects a n d events—rather than a simple a n d atomic e l e m e n t o n w h i c h p e r c e p t i o n itself is g r o u n d e d . Abstract entities are a discourse. T h e person or the small d o g we catch out of the corner o f o u r eye w h e n w e k n o w n o person or d o g is there be­ comes, w h e n we l o o k at it fully, an o v e r c o a t h a n g i n g from a h o o k o n the inside o f the o p e n closet door, the o v e r t u r n e d shoe b o x fallen from the chair beside the b e d . T h o u g h , faithful to that o t h e r story, w e m i g h t even say, "I saw s o m e t h i n g that, a m o m e n t later, resolved into a coat, or a shoe box," the truth is that, h o w e v e r fleeting, the s o m e t h i n g was p r o b a b l y something fleeting b u t specific—not s o m e t h i n g in g e n e r a l . To b e c o m e aware o f this process is to b e c o m e aware that s o m e , if n o t all, of these mistaken p e r c e p t i o n s relate to, if they are n o t c o n t r o l l e d by, preexisting discourses. (Reason, memory, a n d desire told m e I m i g h t find my hairbrush in the kitchen.) O n c e w e a c c e p t the n o t i o n that w e cannot perceive w i t h o u t already having interpreted w h a t we p e r c e i v e d , however mistakenly, as something, even if o u r interpretation finally settles on the o n e we call the fact that we are s e e i n g d o e s n o t provide e n o u g h in­ formation to draw a solid c o n c l u s i o n a b o u t the object (and thus must re­ main in the realm o f unresolved abstraction), directly w e find ourselves asking such questions as: Did L e o n a r d o really see a r o u n d w o m b ? A n d , by extension, was that r o u n d w o m b o f the order, say, o f my black plastic hairbrush h a n d l e that I t h o u g h t I saw across the r o o m — o r per­ haps o f the dust piled o n the p i e c e o f black plastic that r e p l a c e d it?

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T h i s is certainly the c o m m o n s e n s e place w h e r e o p p o n e n t s o f theories o f discourse find themselves b a n d i n g together to l o o k for c o m m o n s e n s e weaknesses. T h e answer is, I think, that we c a n n o t k n o w for sure—though there are other possibilities that, in this case, seem m o r e p r o b a b l e than this one. You cut o p e n a fresh c h i c k e n to clean it. W h a t is the shape o f the c h i c k e n liver? T h e r e was, o f course, a Renaissance discourse in place that spoke o f the w o m b as the c e n t e r a n d sun o f the body, that talked o f its necessary p e r f e c t i o n in terms o f the p e r f e c t g e o m e t r i c a l form, the sphere. D i d da V i n c i j u s t draw from an uncharacteristically spherical w o m b ? O r did he see the p e a r shape b u t dismiss it as an a n o m a l y o f his particular cadaver a n d silently c o r r e c t it in his picture? O r did h e k n o w the pear shape as well as Fallopius w o u l d c o m e to b u t simply p a n d e r e d to current preju­ dices? O r did the w o m b l o o k round? W e d o n ' t know. T h a t is precisely the k n o w l e d g e that the discourse itself e x c l u d e s . T h a t is w h a t discourse does: it e x c l u d e s — i n f o r m a t i o n , distinctions, differences . . . a n d similarities. T h a t is its precise a n d frightening p o w e r — t h e mark, the trace, o f its one-time p r e s e n c e . T h a t "interpretation p r e c e d e s p e r c e p t i o n " is supported by and sup­ ports a t h e o r y o f discourse is n o t to say that the two notions—discourse a n d the priority o f interpretation—are o n e . B u t that is the equivocation that those w h o raise the objections are finally m a k i n g . 11. Interlogue Five. L a u r a B o h a n n a n ' s a m u s i n g 1 9 6 6 essay, "Shake­ speare in the B u s h , " is a c h a r m i n g parable o f d i s c o u r s e . After an argu­ m e n t with an O x f o r d friend, w h o tells her, ' Y o u A m e r i c a n s . . . often have difficulty with S h a k e s p e a r e . H e was, after all, a very English poet, and o n e can easily misinterpret the universal by misunderstanding the partic­ ular," B o h a n n a n protests "that h u m a n nature is pretty m u c h the same the w h o l e w o r l d over," and, u p h o l d i n g the universality o f such great and classic Western works as Hamlet, she g o e s off, with her friend's copy o f the play as a gift, o n h e r s e c o n d field trip to the West African Tiv and with an e x h o r t a t i o n from h i m to lift h e r m i n d above its primitive surround­ ings: Possibly, by p r o l o n g e d meditation, she m i g h t achieve the grace o f correct interpretation. 13

A n e x t r e m e l y wet rainy season, however, interrupts B o h a n n a n ' s re­ search. T h e e l d e r tribesmen w h o m she h o p e s to observe at their various cultural rituals have n o t h i n g to d o b u t sit a r o u n d in the r e c e p t i o n hut a n d drink calabash after calabash o f beer, b r e w e d by the w o m e n , and tell tales.

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B o h a n n a n s o u g h t solace awhile with Hamlet. B u t finally she f o u n d herself in the r e c e p t i o n h u t as well, faced with the request that she tell a story. A n d so it is the story o f H a m l e t that she d e c i d e s to tell, sure that its universal r e s o n a n c e will s o u n d o u t as clearly in the T i v as it m i g h t in an O x f o r d seminar r o o m . B u t p r o b l e m s o f interpretation, p e r c e p t i o n — a n d discourse—arise immediately. While the tribe has an evolved a n d subtle c o n c e p t o f magic, knowl­ e d g e , madness, a n d the relations a m o n g t h e m all, B o h a n n a n ' s tribe has n o c o n c e p t o f ghosts. In the tribe, there simply were n o stories o f the d e a d returning—either believed or a c c e p t e d as fantasy. T h u s , the very first scene o f H a m l e t ' s father's ghost o h the battlements registers with B o h a n n a n ' s hearers nei­ ther as a frightening event n o r as an e m b l e m o f the supernatural simply to be a c c e p t e d — b u t as a narrative mistake. Obviously what she must m e a n , they explain, is that it is an o m e n sent by a witch. B e c a u s e if y o u see a d e a d person actually walking a r o u n d , y o u can b e pretty sure that's what it is. But as for its b e i n g the soul o f the dead, that's j u s t silly and ob­ viously, then, narrational error. ("But, Daddy, it's a boy b e a r . . . ! " ) T h e tribe's term for "wise m a n " a n d "witch" were the same. T h u s , establishing Horatio's position as a b e n i g n scholar was rather difficult. In that tribe there were strict proscriptions a b o u t what was appropriate to the various generations—proscriptions that served to d e t e r m i n e w h a t j o b s as well as what topics o f c o n c e r n were appropriate to each; as well, those proscrip­ tions served equally to discourage intergenerational v i o l e n c e : Parents did n o t strike children. C h i l d r e n did n o t strike parents. If, in that tribe, s o m e o n e had p r o b l e m s o r complaints a b o u t y o u , from c h i l d h o o d o n they presented them, either u p or d o w n the scale, to your age mates, by w h o m y o u were then j u d g e d and, if necessary, pun­ ished. Intergenerational conflicts there were likely to b e the stuff o f mild irony or appalling vulgarity. B u t the same proscriptive institudons prevented t h e m from b e i n g the c e n t e r o f c o m e d y or tragedy. T h u s , the whole O e d i p a l scenario so m u c h fiction in the West d e p e n d s o n — t h e conflict between g e n e r a t i o n s — h a d for B o h a n n a n ' s hearers a s o m e w h a t sleazy air; and certainly n o tale that a p p e a l e d seriously to t h e m c o u l d res­ onate as the major conflict b e h i n d all cultural progress, s o m e h o w — i n this story—gone awry and g o t t e n terrifyingly a n d tragically o u t o f c o n ­ trol. Rather, it s e e m e d an unnecessary nastiness that ordinary social insti­ tutions o u g h t to have obviated. H a m l e t ' s status as a h e r o was i m m e d i ­ ately in question by all the village auditors. Finally, the b o r d e r l i n e incest C l a u d i u s a n d his sister-in-law G e r t r u d e

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i n d u l g e to Prince Hamlet's consternation was, in this tribe, de rigueur. N o , certainly y o u didn't g o a r o u n d m u r d e r i n g your brothers. B u t if your father died, then simple politeness said his b r o t h e r should marry his sur­ viving wife or wives. A n d if h e was suspected o f such a murder, it's for y o u r father's age mates to d e c i d e — n o t for y o u to d o anything about. Hamlet's m a d n e s s caused e q u a l p r o b l e m s — s i n c e every o n e knows that m a d n e s s is always the result o f a witch at work s o m e w h e r e . What's m o r e , the witch has to b e a m a l e relative o n the victim's father's side. (Everybody knows that.) Since h e was Hamlet's only male relative in the story, obviously C l a u d i u s was to blame— Well, yes, B o h a n n a n h a d to agree. H e was. B u t with that as the expla­ nation for why, did any o f the Western tale really remain at a l l . . . ? Polonius's m u r d e r b e h i n d the arras was also completely revalued in this tribe o f a r d e n t and e x p e r i e n c e d hunters, w h e r e , just before y o u throw y o u r spear, y o u must call out, " G a m e ! " w h e r e u p o n anyone in the vicinity w h o can't see w h e r e y o u ' r e throwing shouts out so that y o u d o n ' t hit them. W h e n h e sees the arras m o v e , H a m l e t calls out: "A rat! " A s o n e o f the hearers c o m m e n t e d to B o h a n n a n : "What child w o u l d not k n o w e n o u g h to shout out, 'It's me!'" As the tale g o e s on, to turn it into a " g o o d story," a logical story, a story w h e r e the actions were believable, w h e r e the motivations m a d e sense to them, B o h a n n a n ' s auditors distort the tale into a c o m i c cascade whose h u m o r for us is only subverted by its endless intricacy: Hamlet's forging o f the letter that gets h i m out o f trouble with the K i n g o f E n g l a n d and gets Rosencrantz a n d Guildenstern b e h e a d e d in his place sounds partic­ ularly suspect from B o h a n n a n , since she, having already acted as the scribe for the tribe in its relations with the outside world, has already had to tell m a n y o f the same listeners, w h e n t h e y ' d c o m e to ask her to c h a n g e various a m o u n t s o n various bride-price d o c u m e n t s , that such forgery is impossible a n d w o u l d immediately be detected. If B o h a n n a n can't forge a letter, h o w c o m e H a m l e t can? B u t it is only by taking over the tale a n d turning it into an unrecogniz­ able c o n c a t e n a t i o n o f u n r e c o g n i z a b l e p e o p l e in u n r e c o g n i z a b l e situa­ tions o p e r a t i n g t h r o u g h u n r e c o g n i z a b l e motivations, a n d finally o f a significance wholly i n c o m p r e h e n s i b l e to us, that B o h a n n a n ' s tribesmen c a n m a k e any sense o f the tale at all. (Laertes must have driven O p h e l i a m a d a n d killed her, o f course, since he's the only m a l e relative o f her g e n e r a t i o n m e n t i o n e d in the tale. His attempt to avenge her death? O b ­ viously a cover-up for deeper, m o r e logical reasons.) A n d w h e n their interpretation d o e s m a n a g e to offer a r e c o g n i z a b l e evaluation, it is for such a different w e b o f reasons that the similarity is really an accident rather than any shared cultural r e s o n a n c e .

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A n old m a n , g a t h e r i n g his r a g g e d toga a r o u n d h i m , finally tells B o ­ hannan: "That was a very g o o d story. Y o u told it with very few mistakes. . . . S o m e t i m e y o u must tell us s o m e m o r e stories. W e w h o are elders will instruct you in their true m e a n i n g , so that w h e n y o u return to y o u r own land your elders will see that y o u have n o t b e e n sitting in the bush, b u t a m o n g those w h o know things a n d have taught y o u wisdom." W h a t B o h a n n a n has learned, o f course, is that the universal is noth­ ing but an intricate relation o f specificities. A n d what's m o r e , the "uni­ versal" is quite different a n d distinct, cultural locale to cultural locale. T h e discursive w i s d o m that B o h a n n a n ' s tale can teach us today c o n c e r n s what Foucault, in "L'Ordre du discours," calls "the tyranny o f the signifier." T h a t is the notion, all too easy to fall into if o n e has not m o v e d a b o u t a m o n g radically different discursive structures, that a single r e c o g n i z ­ able event, a single r e c o g n i z a b l e object, or a given rhetorical feature will have the same m e a n i n g n o matter what discourse it is f o u n d in. T h i s is the notion that impels the so well-intentioned cultural imperialism o f symbol explicators such as J u n g or J o s e p h C a m p b e l l , w h o again a n d again seem to feel that w h e n they find a d r a g o n or a m a n d a l a in two widely separated cultures, s o m e h o w they have discovered the "same" o r a "shared" symbol. For m e this n o t i o n e x p l o d e d o n my first trip to G r e e c e , in 1 9 6 5 , where I quickly l e a r n e d that the p a l m - u p b e c k o n i n g gesture by w h i c h North A m e r i c a n s say, " C o m e here," there meant, "Good-bye." T h e palmdown flapping o f the h a n d by w h i c h w e indicate "So l o n g , " there meant, " C o m e over here." T h e sideways m o v e m e n t o f the h e a d by w h i c h w e in­ dicate negation there meant, "Yes." A n d the single up-and-down m o v e ­ m e n t o f the head, w h i c h h e r e is very close to o u r n o d o f a g r e e m e n t , there meant, " N o . " If the very signifiers for yes, no, come here, a n d good-bye could all reverse between, say, Paris a n d A t h e n s , then the a p p r e h e n s i o n of the "same" signifier in C h i n a a n d M e x i c o , in Texas a n d T h a i l a n d , in India and Guatemala, must mark the existence o f cultural specificity, o f discursive difference, rather than s o m e biculturally obliterating, transcendent "universality"—almost always f u n c t i o n i n g in the service o f some structure o f e c o n o m i c exploitation. B o h a n n a n ' s tale is structured to throw into relief a limit o f discursive disjuncture. A n d that, as w e have n o t e d , is what w e e x p e r i e n c e w h e n w e r e a d Roussel. T h a t both use Africa as their b a c k g r o u n d is, itself, c o n t r o l l e d by the racist discourse o f the West. We must not, for a m o m e n t , ever think, therefore, that o u r e x p l o r a t i o n o f discourse is free, c o m p l e t e ; rather, those explorations are always p o l i c e d by discourses already set in place.

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12. Observation and Articulation. O n e day in a Central Park playground in the s u m m e r o f the same year in w h i c h my d a u g h t e r h a d learned the discourse o f c h i l d r e n ' s b o o k s , a r o u n d the fountain a n d having shed all c l o t h i n g an h o u r back, a handful o f kids in my d a u g h t e r ' s play school g r o u p all clustered a r o u n d a three-and-a-half-year-old girl n a m e d Mischkatel, w h o enthusiastically p r o p o s e d a g a m e to Sascha a n d Iva and N o r d a n d A i e s h a (this was, recall, the seventies): "Let's see w h o can p e e - p e e the farthest!" A n d while I l o o k e d o n — I confess, surprised—the five o f t h e m stood to the ankles in the water at the fountain's e d g e — a n d let whiz. T h e girls, o f course, w i t h o u t e x c e p t i o n , w o n — s i n c e , in general, the urinary track exits from the b o d y p r o p e r horizontally, or even with a slighdy u p w a r d tilt. A n d since every o n e was j u s t standing there, letting fly, the litde boys, w h o d a n g l e d a bit, h a d n o t t h o u g h t to use their hands to g u i d e their stream a n d so generally watered in a downward slant rather than straight out. Mischkatel, Iva, and A i e s h a all m o r e or less tied a n d left the two little boys, N o r d a n d Sascha, frowning d o w n at their selfevident lack a n d symbol o f powerlessness, m a r k i n g the male site o f greatest physical vulnerability. In a society w h e r e c h i l d r e n play regularly n a k e d with o n e another, this can not b e an anomaly. B u t I h a d to ask myself, s o m e t i m e later, if I was e m p o w e r e d — a s it w e r e — t o see this by a situation from n o t a full d e c a d e before, w h e n , in 1 9 6 9 , 1 h a d lived in San Francisco, and a n u d e sunbath­ i n g a n d b e e r fest h a d started o n the tarred-over r o o f o f o u r N a t o m a Street flat. E i g h t o r half a d o z e n o f us were sitting a r o u n d , naked, drink­ i n g bottle after bottle o f beer, w h e n , as several o f the m e n h a d already d o n e , o n e y o u n g w o m a n g o t u p , w e n t to the back o f the tar-paper roof, a n d p r o c e e d e d to urinate off the e d g e with as high-flying an arc as any­ o n e m i g h t want. I r e m e m b e r h o w c o o l w e were all b e i n g — i n what, I suspect for most o f us, was s o m e astonishment. A y o u n g w o m a n was a b o u t to speak, w h e n a y o u n g m a n asked ( a n o t h e r white male appropriation, n o d o u b t ) : "How did y o u do that?" H e r answer was classic: "You aim, stupid." T h e n she p r o c e e d e d to d e m o n s t r a t e how, with two fingers o f o n e h a n d in a V, t u r n e d d o w n over the u p p e r part o f the vaginal crevice, o n e c o u l d control the direction o f o n e ' s stream. I a m a writer. Needless to say, I i n c o r p o r a t e d the scene (or rather o n e based closely o n it) in my n e x t novel. S o m e m o n t h s after the b o o k appeared, I re­ ceived a letter, signed by a g r o u p o f five w o m e n in Vancouver, that said, in brief: "Thanks."

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B u t the tale has its converse. In the late sixties a c h e a p series o f char­ tered buses ran back a n d forth b e t w e e n N e w York a n d San Francisco, generically called "the Gray Rabbit." By the e n d o f its run, the restroom at the back o f the c o a c h had l o n g since lost its door. In g e n e r a l , with the rather free-wheeling y o u n g m e n a n d w o m e n w h o availed themselves o f the $45 one-way fare, this was not a large p r o b l e m in itself. W h a t b e c a m e a p r o b l e m was that, after the first day o f the trip, b e c a u s e o f the lack o f springs and the b a c k roads, thanks to the m e n o n the bus the r e s t r o o m b e c a m e pretty foul. A n d the w o m e n o n the bus didn't like it. T h e p r o b l e m was eventually solved by a w o m a n driver, w h o took a length o f a two-by-four, a h a m m e r , and s o m e nails a n d fixed it into the doorway at litde above chest height; she p u t a n o t h e r o n e b e h i n d it so that there was simply n o way to a p p r o a c h the c o m m o d e in a fully u p r i g h t position. O n the first o f the two-by-fours she h u n g a sign: YOU D O N ' T SIT, YOU

DON'T

PISS!

T h e p r o b l e m was m o r e or less solved. But the point is that w o m e n can, and s o m e d o , urinate standing u p ; and m e n can, a n d s o m e d o , urinate sitting d o w n . A s to arcs a n d dis­ tances, well, in the same conversation in w h i c h I asked my d a u g h t e r about Corduroy, I asked if she r e m e m b e r e d h e r infantile p e e i n g contest. N o , she didn't, any m o r e than she r e m e m b e r e d the female Corduroy. B u t was that exclusion from h e r m e m o r y chance? Was it b e c a u s e that m e m ­ ory had not b e e n stabilized by a pre-extant discourse? M e n and w o m e n d o what they d o — w h a t they're comfortable d o i n g . But the constraints o n that comfort, o n w h o d o e s w h a t a n d w h e n , are material, educational, habitual—feel free to call t h e m social. A n d w h e r e all three—material, e d u c a t i o n , a n d habit—are stabilized in o n e form or a n o t h e r by l a n g u a g e , w e have a discourse. F r o m such m e m o r i e s I turn to others that are so like the e x p e r i e n c e s that p r o m p t e d Freud to his theory o f "penis envy," w h e n my daughter, at age four, a year after h e r forgotten t r i u m p h in the park p e e i n g contest, in imitation o f m e , w o u l d stand at the c o m m o d e with h e r h a n d s o n h e r genital r e g i o n and m a k e hissing sounds. In a n o t h e r series o f stories I wrote about that time, y o u will find the detritus—and pretty m u c h my thinking—on all the incidents above. But is the reason such incidents as this are n o t usually talked of—spec­ ulated over, theorized, i n c l u d e d in o u r traditional elaborations o f the way o u r culture works—because o f s o m e massive discursive exclusion? Are they simply n o t seen by most p e o p l e because they take the form o f the pear-like b u l g e in the u p p e r part o f the uterus—or are they simply

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misperceived as s o m e t h i n g else, like the mistake o f a knife for a brush? A g a i n , that is precisely the information the structure o f the discourse that has prevailed u p till n o w m e a n s that we can never have with any real certainty a b o u t the past. A g a i n , that is w h a t discursive exclusions do. B u t I also asked my adult daughter, n o t too l o n g a g o , if she r e m e m ­ bers ever w a n t i n g a penis. " N o , " she said, with some consideration. "But I certainly r e m e m b e r , w h e n I was four, w a n t i n g to urinate standing up. It s e e m e d so m u c h m o r e convenient." A reasonable t h o u g h t for a four-year-old w h o , at three, c o u l d — a n d h a d w o n a contest by d o i n g so. 13. Interlogue Six. T h e material fact that has m a d e it desperately impor­ tant for p e o p l e , w h e n writing a b o u t sex, to write a b o u t what they have d o n e a n d e x p e r i e n c e d a n d seen themselves, is, o f course A I D S . This dis­ ease, w h i c h by February 1 9 9 3 (this y e a r ) , a c c o r d i n g to the always conser­ vative statistics o f the C D C , has killed m o r e than 135,000 p e o p l e in the U n i t e d States, o u t o f the m o r e than 210,000 r e p o r t e d cases (1,800 o f w h o m are c h i l d r e n u n d e r the a g e o f thirteen and 1 1 , 0 0 0 o f w h o m are w o m e n ) , is certainly the largest material factor in the transformation o f the discourse o f desire a n d that transformation's manifestation in the rhetoric o f sex. It is painfully ironic that Foucault, w h o wrote in his 1 9 7 0 lecture, "L'Ordre du discours," "We are a very l o n g way from having constituted a unitary, regular discourse c o n c e r n i n g sexuality; it may be that we never will, a n d that w e are n o t e v e n traveling in that direction" ( 2 3 3 ) , died o f A I D S in 1 9 8 4 — f o r A I D S has c o m e as close to unifying certain strands o f sexual discourse as it has c o m e to fraying certain others. F o u c a u l t also said, in a 1980 lecture at Stanford on political and pas­ toral power: "We must g e t rid o f the Freudian schema. You know, the s c h e m a o f the interiorization o f the law t h r o u g h the m e d i u m o f sex." H e d i d n o t say w e must g e t rid o f Freud b u t only that w e must g e t rid of a certain r e d u c t i o n — a n d I w o u l d add, distortion—of Freud's critique o f society that is too often justified by citations o f Freud, usually at his most speculative: "the interiorization o f the law t h r o u g h the m e d i u m o f sex. . . . " Well, what d o e s this m e a n ? It m e a n s an intellectual m o v e in w h i c h the thinker notes s o m e a n a l o g y b e t w e e n s o m e aspect o f a given sexual act, usually the tritest a n d most c o m m o n o n e in a given culture (often o u r o w n ) , a n d s o m e f o r m o f the culture itself o r the usual psychology o f those in it. A t that point, the thinker claims the f o r m e r as a cause for the latter, a n d this causal relationship is elevated to a transcendent affirma-

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tion o f the universal and u n c h a n g e a b l e n a t u r e — t h e l a w — o f the social (or the psychological) t h r o u g h the p o w e r o f the sexual. N o r d o e s it mat­ ter w h e t h e r the a r g u m e n t is: "Because m e n lie o n top o f w o m e n d u r i n g sex, m e n will forever d o m i n a t e w o m e n d u r i n g . . . b a d m i n t o n tourna­ ments," or "Because a fatal disease is n o w transmitted sexually, the w h o l e of society itself must s o m e h o w be psychologically sick a n d d o o m e d to destroy itself." S e x has b e c o m e the m e d i u m t h r o u g h w h i c h s o m e o n e de­ clares a form o f the social to be "natural" law rather than c o n s i d e r i n g sex itself simply a n o t h e r social form. A t this point, w e s h o u l d b e able to rec­ ognize the same discursive structure—and the same misapplied logic— in them all. For this is the discourse, the reasoning, o f sympathetic magic, pure and simple; it is as m u c h superstition today as it was w h e n in 1890 Sir J a m e s G e o r g e Frazer described its practice in the initial chap­ ters o f The Golden Bough. A n d it mystifies a n d distorts any study o f the material realities (i.e., the politics) to w h i c h b o t h the sexual a n d social actually respond. But with that e x h o r t a t i o n (a position i m p l i e d in F o u c a u l t ' s work, again and again) F o u c a u l t b e c o m e s easily identifiable as the e n e m y o f all sexual spectators w h o w o u l d take refuge b e h i n d such superstitions, with their ideas entailed by the n o t i o n , as we usually characterize t h e m today, that b i o l o g y equals destiny. ( T h e most r e c e n t a n d v o c i f e r o u s is, perhaps, C a m i l l e Paglia.) Similarly, F o u c a u l t h a d already b e e n iden­ tified as the clear a n d present e n e m y by those w h o claim history is over, and that w e have e n t e r e d s o m e posthistorical p e r i o d (often d e s i g n a t e d p o s t m o d e r n i s m ) , w h e r e all discourses are h o m o g e n i z e d a n d t h e r e are no discursive articulations to b e f o u n d any m o r e , thanks to the c u r r e n t invisibility o f power; I m e a n , o f course, the a u t h o r o f Forget Foucault, Jean B a u d r i l l a r d . 14

Well, Foucault also said: "While w e sit discussing the w o r d , p o w e r works in silence." B u t the idea that there is a n a t u r e — o r a culture—out­ side o f history, before history, o r after history, to w h i c h s o m e h o w we have a clear access, partakes o f a single discursive form. T h e r e seem to be at least two ways to h i g h l i g h t s o m e o f the structures of a given discourse. B o t h may boil d o w n to the same thing. O n e is the critical observation o f what is a r o u n d us, precisely while o n the alert for things that contravene what we e x p e c t . T h e o t h e r way is to suffuse o n e discourse with a systematically different discourse a n d watch the places where strain a n d tensions result. T h i s , in effect, is w h a t B o h a n n a n d o e s with her story of the story o f Hamlet, a n d it is w h a t F o u c a u l t d o e s again and again in the range o f his work, with his insistent systematicity that grids and grills a n d constantly tries to locate objects schematically within them, even while, as m u c h as Derrida, Foucault himself eventually throws

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off his own g r i d d i n g systems as t o o loose, t o o lax, improperly positioned, a n d necessarily displaced. T h i s is what Roussel d o e s in his fiction; his eccentric linguistic m e t h o d , by w h i c h h e arrives at his progression o f preposterous machines, inci­ dents, a n d relations, always gives us the feeling that narrative discourse as we k n o w it is strained, near to the p o i n t o f breaking, a n d thus b e c o m e s a palpable object in o u r e x p e r i e n c e o f his texts. It is n o w o n d e r that Rous­ sel was also a favorite storyteller o f Foucault's a n d that his early study, published in English as Death and the Labyrinth, is certainly—and systemat­ ically—the best single study o f Roussel currently available. 15

14. Conclusion. T h e last thing I want to speak a b o u t is a place where, in­ d e e d , the h o m o g e n i z a t i o n o f discourses has p r o d u c e d an angering, m u r d e r o u s sexual rhetoric that fights the Discourse o f Desire at every p o i n t — a social locus w h e r e two discourses that already suffuse o n e an­ o t h e r must b e separated out. I have already cited the mortality statistics; and, if w e d o n o t separate these discourses, those statistics may b e a long, l o n g time in leveling off their h o r r e n d o u s u p s u r g e . For it was as far b a c k as 1 9 8 7 w h e n I realized that A I D S h a d b e c o m e , a m o n g m y friends a n d acquaintances, the single largest killer, beating o u t cancer, suicide, a n d heart attacks c o m b i n e d . T o m y k n o w l e d g e there have only b e e n two m o n i t o r e d studies to date o n the sexual transmission vectors o f AIDS—certainly n o m o r e than two that have r e c e i v e d anything a p p r o a c h i n g visible coverage. M o r e accu­ rately, there have b e e n only o n e m o n i t o r e d study a n d o n e semimonit o r e d study. T h a t the studies a g r e e as m u c h as they d o in their o u t c o m e is, then, surprising a n d h e a r t e n i n g . B u t in my own informal survey, fewer than o n e o u t o f ten A I D S educators knows either o f the studies, o f their results, or w h e r e to direct p e o p l e to these studies w h o ask about A I D S . W h a t is a m o n i t o r e d study? Well, o t h e r than intentionally e x p e r i m e n t i n g with h u m a n s a n d the A I D S virus (which is illegal), a m o n i t o r e d study is the only way we can ob­ tain information a b o u t A I D S transmission vectors that c a n in any way b e called scientific. In a m o n i t o r e d study o f sexual transmission vectors for HIV, a num­ b e r o f p e o p l e , preferably in the thousands, w h o test sero-negative are t h e n m o n i t o r e d , in writing, at regular intervals, as to their sexual activity: from the n u m b e r o f times, to the n u m b e r a n d sex o f partners, to the specific acts p e r f o r m e d , oral (active a n d passive), anal (insertive or re­ ceptive), vaginal (insertive or r e c e p t i v e ) , anal-oral (active a n d passive), a n d w h a t have y o u . A t the e n d o f a given period, say six m o n t h s or a year, the same p e o p l e are tested for sero-conversion. T h e status o f various

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HIV positive a n d H I V negative p e o p l e is then statistically analyzed against their specific sexual activity. O f the two studies that have b e e n d o n e o f this sort, o n e by Kingsley, Kaslow, Rinaldo, et al., was p u b l i s h e d in The Lancet o f 1 4 February 1 9 8 7 ; it involved 2,507 gay m e n . T h e other, T h e San Francisco M e n ' s H e a l t h Study, involving 1,035 e n p i c k e d at r a n d o m from a n e i g h b o r h o o d hav­ ing the highest A I D S rate in the city, was r e p o r t e d a n d described in a let­ ter to TheJournal of the American Medical Association o f 4 April 1 9 8 6 . 1 call this last a s e m i m o n i t o r e d study because there the m o n i t o r i n g was d o n e only twice, o n c e at the b e g i n n i n g and o n c e at the e n d o f the study, a n d was in the form o f a g e n e r a l survey, asking "What d o y o u d o in b e d a n d what d o y o u n o t d o ? " rather than the specific a n d r e g u l a r tracking o f Kingsley, Kaslow, Rinaldo, et al. m

Both o f these studies report, quite interestingly, a statistical correspon­ dence o f o percent—not 1 percent, n o t 3 percent, n o t % o f 1 p e r c e n t — o percent o f sero-conversions to H I V positive for those gay m e n w h o re­ strict themselves to oral sex, u n p r o t e c t e d , active or passive ( 1 4 7 m e n in Kingsley, Kaslow, Rinaldo, et al.; an unspecified n u m b e r in the JAMA let­ ter describing T h e San Francisco M e n ' s Health Study). T h e statistical cor­ relation between sero-conversions and receptive anal intercourse in b o t h studies was devastating. N o r was there any statistical indication that re­ peated sexual contact had anything whatsoever to d o with transmission. Kingsley, Kaslow, Rinaldo, et al. r e p o r t e d eight sero-conversions to H I V positive a m o n g m e n w h o r e p o r t e d only a single case o f anal-receptive intercourse for the duration o f the study. S h o u l d I have to p o i n t o u t that this r e n d e r s the rhetoric o f "repeated sexual contact," so m u c h a part o f A I D S e d u c a t i o n b o t h b e f o r e the 1 9 8 7 study and since, m u r d e r o u s misinformation? Well, then, I h e a r an a p o l o ­ gist for the status q u o o f (lack of) A I D S information say, maybe it applies to some other areas o f sexual b e h a v i o r besides anal intercourse? T o which I can only say: "Tell m e w h e r e . " N o : M a n y m e n w h o b e l i e v e d such rhetoric applied to anal intercourse a n d b a s e d their sexual b e h a v i o r o n it are now dead. It's that simple. T h e r e has b e e n n o dissemination o f information o f any m o n i t o r e d studies for sexual transmission o f the H I V virus from a n d / o r to w o m e n . I can only assume, after three years' research, that such a study has n o t b e e n d o n e . A n d with an e p i d e m i c that has c a u s e d m o r e than 135,000 deaths in ten years, a n d 1 1 , 0 0 0 cases a m o n g w o m e n , this situation is a crime whose statistics are r e a c h i n g toward the g e n o c i d a l . A m o n i t o r e d study is a powerful discursive m a c h i n e for p r o d u c i n g a set o f highly operationalized rhetorical f i g u r e s — o f the sort w e call evi­ d e n c e in situations such as this. In a m o n i t o r e d study, is there r o o m for

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mistake, or lying, or distortion? Certainly. But the k n o w l e d g e obtained is still preferable to the alternative. T h e r e is, o f course, a n o t h e r discourse that p r o d u c e s its own rhetori­ cal array. A p e r s o n is d i a g n o s e d H I V positive or with full-blown A I D S , a n d the d o c t o r asks: "Any idea how y o u g o t it?" A n d the patient, possibly trying to think what h e or she was d o i n g sex­ ually six m o n t h s o r so a g o , possibly relying o n what h e or she already "knows," gives an answer. Logically, however, this c a n n o t be evidence in an attempt to find o u t h o w A I D S is transmitted, if only because it pre­ sumes the answer is already k n o w n to the question we are trying to learn the answer to. Is it necessary h e r e to stress that p e o p l e , especially in sex­ ual situations, will lie, will forget, or will m i s r e m e m b e r pears for apples or e v e n hairbrushes for knife handles—for any n u m b e r o f discursive rea­ sons, in a discourse that has u n d e r g o n e catastrophic c h a n g e s without cease over the last ten years? Nevertheless, the information g l e a n e d from this s e c o n d discourse is regularly overlaid, called fact, a n d used to dis­ place information from the first. Otherwise responsible publications reg­ ularly r e p o r t that n o w 8, n o w 1 6 , n o w 12 p e r c e n t o f m e n have gotten A I D S from oral sex, n o w 1, n o w 2, n o w 3 p e r c e n t o f m e n have gotten A I D S from prosdtutes, w h e n the most they can m e a n is that this is what a certain p e r c e n t a g e o f m e n , w h e n d i a g n o s e d with A I D S , have said when asked, in a discursive field w h o s e precise discursive form is that we d o not k n o w a b o u t these v e c t o r possibilities (because they have n o t b e e n ade­ quately r e s e a r c h e d ) and, thus, almost anything may b e said and be be­ lieved. This, then, is the discourse o f p o p u l a r belief. Purposely leaving n e e d l e transmission aside, w e "know" (that is, the studies that have b e e n d o n e strongly suggest) only two facts about the sexual transmission o f A I D S : that it is not transmitted by oral-genital sex b e t w e e n m e n . A n d that it is transmitted easily a n d effectively t h r o u g h anal sex. A n y t h i n g else w e m i g h t say a b o u t its sexual transmission is all in the realm o f superstition. S o m e t i m e s superstitions turn out to b e true. But in a situation o f such mortal c o n c e r n , what can be g a i n e d for the Dis­ course o f Desire t h r o u g h this appalling and institutionally supported ig­ norance? Please: If y o u — h e t e r o s e x u a l or h o m o s e x u a l , m a n or w o m a n — are c o n c e r n e d a b o u t the sexual transmission o f A I D S , d e m a n d with m e that m o n i t o r e d studies b e initiated, b e rigorously overseen, and their re­ sults b e widely disseminated. For the rhetoric o f sex is c o m p l e x ; and the discourse that organizes it, that m a k e s it m a k e sense for o u r culture, is patriarchy. Study it, know it, critique it, cut it u p and a n a t o m i z e it any way y o u w o u l d like. T h e Dis­ course o f Desire in its c o n t e m p o r a r y form, as it h e r e and there subverts

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patriarchy, is a g o o d deal y o u n g e r than the oldest o f my readers. T h e rhetoric o f desire's discourse has only b e g u n to s e d i m e n t in the course of such personal and political intervention. E n c o u r a g e it t h r o u g h y o u r own discussions. Thank you. —Amherst 1993

NOTES

1. Edward McCurdy, ed. and intro., The Notebooks of Leonardo da Vinci, The De­ finitive Edition in One Volume (New York: George Brazillier, 1939). Subsequent page references appear parenthetically in the text. 2. Leonardo da Vinci: Artist, Scientist, Inventor, catalogue of an exhibition held at the Haywood Gallery, by the South Bank Center, London (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1986). 3. Don Freeman, Corduroy (New York: Viking Books, 1968). 4. J. R. Dunn, "Letters," Monad: Essays on Science Fiction 2 (March 1992). 5. Toni Morrison, Playing in the Dark: Whiteness and the Literary Imagination (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1992). 6. Raymond Roussel, How I Wrote Certain of My Books, trans, with notes and a bibliography Trevor Winkfiend (New York: Sun, 1977). 7. Samuel R. Delany, The Motion of Light in Water: Sex and Science Fiction Writing in the East Village (1988; rpt. New York: A Richard Kasak Book, Masquerade Books, 1993). 8. Sigmund Freud, Leonardo da Vinci and a Memory of His Childhood, trans. Alan Tyson (New York: W. W. Norton, 1964), 85. 9. Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Selected Letters, ed. H.J.Jackson (New \brk: Ox­ ford University Press, 1988). From the introduction by the editor: "The intro­ duction of the postage stamp in 1840, six years after Coleridge's death, signifi­ cantly altered the situation of correspondents. Until then, recipients paid postage; the writers themselves were responsible for making letters worth paying for. As objects paid for, letters had a certain status: they were shared with family and friends; in most households they were preserved and periodically reread; and on the death of the letter-writer, they were customarily returned to the fam­ ily as part of the estate." 10. Samuel R. Delany, Wagner/Artaud: A Play of igth and 20th Century Critical Fictions (New York: Ansatz Press, 1988). 11. George Bernard Shaw, The Perfect Wagnerite: A Commentary on the Niblung's Ring (London: G. Richards, 1898).

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12. Michel Foucault, The Archaeology of Knowledge & TheDiscourse on Language, trans. A. H. Sheridan Smith (New York: Pantheon, i g 7 2 ) . Page references ap­ pear parenthetically in the text. 13. Laura Bohannan, "Shakespeare in the Bush," in Ants, Indians, and Little Dinosaurs, ed. Alan Ternes (New York: Scribner, c. 1975). (I would like to thank Margaret Minsky, who is responsible for my having my most recent copy of this delightful piece.) 14. Jean Baudrillard, Forget Foucault (Paris: Editions Galilee, 1977; New York: Semiotext(e), 1987). 15. Michel Foucault, Death and the Labyrinth: The World of Raymond Roussel, trans. Charles Ruas (New York: Doubleday & Company, 1986).

2

Street Talk / Straight Talk

1. Discourse—an o r d e r o f response, a m o d e o f u n d e r s t a n d i n g , for which various rhetorical features may function as symptoms. Yet rhetoric is never wholly c o e x t e n s i v e with discourse. Discourse a n d rhetoric c o n ­ trol o n e another, yes—but precisely because o f that c o n t r o l , n e i t h e r is wholly at o n e with the other. Nevertheless—the relation o f discourse to rhetoric is n o t the arbitrary relation, negotiable by introspection, o f signified to signifier; it is the de­ termined relation, n e g o t i a b l e by analysis, o f the u n c o n s c i o u s to the enunciated. 2. A c c o r d i n g to the discourse o f "Discourse," rhetoric is quantifiable, particular, arrives in delimitable units, while m e a n i n g s , to q u o t e Q u i n e (8), c a n n o t be "individuated." Consider, then, four m o d e s o f rhetoric: Street talk Brutal, repetitious, vulgar, it marks a subdiscourse o f ignor­ ance, rumor, misunderstanding, a n d outright superstition. It is fixated— now on the aggressive, n o w o n the sexual, n o w o n the cupidinously ac­ quisitive. T h e rhetoric o f an u n d e r w o r l d , its raisonis lying; in the pursuit of myriad dishonesties a n d selfishnesses, "getting over," as it most re­ cently characterizes a major factor o f its o w n enterprise. It arises in sexu­ ally high d i m o r p h i c idiolects: B u t w h e t h e r we m o v e in the realm o f gos­ sip or o f b r a g g a d o c i o , whatever its topic, the very banality o f its endlessly repeated circuits m a k e s it the mark o f the limited, the illicit, a m o m e n t away from brute d u m b n e s s in o n e direction, a m o m e n t away from the linguistic zero o f p u r e chatter in another. Straight talk Indicating it with the rhetorical m a r k reserved for it by "street talk," it is mellifluous, precise, sophisticated: T h e subdiscourse it takes for itself is "the learned," the characterization o f itself it employs in the a c k n o w l e d g e m e n t o f its o w n truth. It functions to m e d i a t e b e t w e e n truth and k n o w l e d g e , a n d thus is saturated by b o t h . It functions to re­ solve disorder, to clarify confusion, to calm a n d c o m m i n g l e the diverse

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a n d the disparate, "to inform"—as it often says o f itself—where formal differences a n d divisions have b e c o m e unclear, violently erased, violated. Supposedly it is sexless—though this is the same as saying that it is un­ m a r k e d , male, a n d materially wealthy. It takes all topics to itself and en­ chains t h e m in a limidess legitimacy that everywhere displaces t h e m and replaces them, n o w in the shadow, n o w in the light, o f its articulation. Yet b o t h these rhetorical m o d e s cast shadows. Straight talk: Indicating it with linguistic marks drawn from its own rhetoric, it is awkward, obscurantist, a n d often crashingly irrelevant. It refuses to r e m a i n within the r e c o g n i z a b l e discursive fields o f the hearer and, by so d o i n g , fulfills—more o r less badly—only the function o f in­ timidation. It uses k n o w l e d g e to hide the truth. T h u s it exists as an op­ pressive v i o l e n c e in a field in w h i c h articulation itself forever strives to mystify the very v i o l e n c e o f its own enterprise. In its privileging o f specu­ lation, it e x c l u d e s all action a n d consigns all reference to the exile of the illegitimate. T h u s the very hollowness with which it resonates is o n e with the lies o f a s e r m o n delivered in a c h u r c h without a g o d . Street talk: Indicating it with linguistic marks drawn from its own rheto­ ric, it is clear, c o n c r e t e , a n d honest. If it is often unfair, it is factual and calls a spade a spade. Its specific vulgarity is the stuff o f poetry—in the sense that g o o d taste is the e n e m y o f great art. Within its compass, you k n o w w h e r e y o u stand. U s e d with clarity, its w i s d o m rivals the ancients'. U s e d with e c o n o m y , it b e c o m e s song. T h e local inscription o f its logic ( a m o n g the "streetwise") is far m o r e powerful than the vagaries o f that " c o m m o n sense" that it a n d straight talk b o t h have abjured. A n d the endlessness o f its b l a s p h e m i e s is, finally, b o t h defense against and ac­ k n o w l e d g e m e n t o f the suffering that is the lot o f all, but especially the poor, that straight talk has p u t — a l o n g with action—outside the precinct o f what may be legitimately articulated. 3. I m a g i n e a discourse, f l u n g d o w n o n o u r coordinate system, traversing all four o f the rhetorical quadrants outlined above: T o o n e side o f it rises the axial o f death. A n y utterance within that discourse is on a continuous a n d uninflected curve that shoots across a deadly locus; it is stopped by a n d absorbed by death at that terrifying a n d totalized point o f unity. F r o m there, the curve flows toward the axial o f life—but a life that is wholly a n d ideally secure, rich in pleasure, close to immobile: T h a t is to say that, above all things, this particular biotic axial is "safe." T h e axis o f death cleaves its space, b e a r i n g with it a mythology similar to that with w h i c h the axis o f the real cleaves the plane o f c o m p l e x numbers. T h e axis o f life carries across its space an equally rarefied mythology suggesting n o t h i n g so m u c h as the axis o f the imaginary that transects the c o m p l e x

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plane. T h e discourse a p p r o a c h e s that lively, that i m a g i n a r y axis asymp­ totically, yearningly, steadily, endlessly.. . . 4. A rhetorical m o m e n t abstracted from an u n d e r g r a d u a t e paper, turned in two-and-a-half years a g o by a student at H a m p s h i r e C o l l e g e writing about a prime-time saga o f m o n e y a n d p o w e r that h a d recently introduced a gay male character, m o r e or less visibly, m o r e o r less sympa­ thetically: "A gay male w h o d o e s n o t think a b o u t A I D S is, for most gay males o f this country, an other" (Sean H o l l a n d ) . 5. B u t o f course the gay m a l e character that H o l l a n d ' s rhetorical figure puts so strongly into question lies directly o n the line o f o u r discourse as we have just sketched it out; he is simply far a l o n g the road to an ideal life, to "safety," to the idealized world that television presents u s — m u c h farther a l o n g the road than y o u , than I. I n d e e d , to locate h i m o n that line—"within that discourse," as m a n y o f us have l e a r n e d to say—is to draw H o l l a n d ' s own rhetorical flourish that tries so staunchly, so vio­ lently, to position itself away from that line, ultimately closer to it. H o l ­ land, a n d presumably all the o t h e r gay males in this c o u n t r y with their presumed A I D S anxiety, are simply too far b e h i n d , n o t well e n o u g h ad­ vanced in the endless career toward life, pleasure, a n d safety: T h e y are simply closer to death, a n d their anxiety, e v e n as it m a s q u e r a d e s as cri­ tique, is merely a rhetorical symptom o f their position. 6. Discourses are pervasive, rapacious, h u n g r y — t h e y control, as w e have said, rhetoric: Holland's, mine. . . . 7. It is possible that, for a while, a reasonable a m o u n t o f the theoretical priority o f any field such as gay studies, lesbian a n d gay male, in a social field w h e r e there is simply so m u c h to do, may fall u n d e r that rubric where we traditionally find those theoretical articulations that w o r k in the relation o f theory to practice. B u t that—perhaps—is n o t what this paper is about. 8. A l m o s t precisely a year a g o , in February 1 9 8 9 , the New York Times a n d the Daily News b o t h featured pieces in the same w e e k stating that the New England Journal of Medicine (320.4, 26 Jan. 1989) h a d r e p o r t e d the first "confirmed" case o f the "transmission o f H I V infection from a w o m a n to a man by oral sex." If you pull that issue o f the New England Journal off the back-issues shelf in the periodical r o o m o f y o u r library a n d p a g e through it, c h e c k i n g the table o f contents, y o u will find n o article listed whose title w o u l d suggest such information, discussed, c o n f i r m e d , o r

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otherwise. I n d e e d , it is only w h e n y o u turn to the c o r r e s p o n d e n c e col­ u m n that y o u find any m e n t i o n o f A I D S a n d oral sex at all. L e t m e read y o u the substantive section, paragraphs two a n d three, o f a fourp a r a g r a p h letter to the editor, that is the source o f this "confirmed" case. Our patient, a 60-year-old uncircumcised man with insulin-dependent di­ abetes mellitus, was hospitalized because of fatigue, abnormalities of mental status, and pancytopenia. O n examination, he was found to have subcortical dementia and diabetic peripheral neuropathy. His workup included a lumbar puncture, which revealed no abnormalities, and a normal brain computed tomographic scan, performed with and without iodinated contrast material. The man's evaluation included HIV antibody testing, and serum was reactive for HIV antibody on enzyme immunoassay (EIA) testing and Western blood analysis. O n further questioning, the patient reported no homosexual encounters or intravenous drug use. He had never received a transfusion of blood prod­ ucts. Although he was living with his wife of more than 30 years, he had had no sexual contact of any sort with her for many years. (His wife's serum was nonreactive for HIV antibody EIA testing.) For the previous several years he had experienced erectile impotence, which had been attributed to his di­ abetic neuropathy. The patient's only extramarital affair had occurred over the course of the preceding two years, when he frequented a single female prostitute with whom he engaged in exclusively oral sex (both fellatio and cunnilingus). On one occasion he had seen her use intravenous drugs. He never performed cunnilingus during her menstrual periods and did not re­ member ever coming into contact with any of her blood. He reported that he had not engaged in deep French kissing with her. He did not remember her ever having oral or genital ulcers. The patient himself reported that he had never had oral ulcers. He described an occasional ulcer on his penis in the past, yet said he had never had sexual contact with his partner at a time when such an ulcer was present. Further laboratory testing of the patient resulted in a nonreactive serologic test of syphilis (rapid plasma-reagin) and revealed a peripheral-blood T-lymphocyte helper/suppressor ratio of 0.1, with an ab­ solute Thelper (CD4) cell count of 36 per cubic millimeter. (Spitzler and Weiner) B u t as I too yearn after a life o n that forever inaccessible and wholly "safe" axis, let m e violate my o w n rhetorical declaration a n d h e r e read the first a n d final p a r a g r a p h s o f this letter, in a m o v e that at o n c e sug­ gests a restoration o f totality to the four-paragraph d o c u m e n t u n d e r my g a z e at the same time that it severs it in a m o m e n t o f v i o l e n c e to this dis-

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course w h i c h , I admit, e v e n as I try to characterize it by Cartesian meta­ phors with L a c a n i a n connotations, I d o n o t fully c o m p r e h e n d ; finally, my rhetorical m o v e is vouchsafed only by my c o n t e n t i o n that, as dis­ course controls rhetoric, so rhetoric may, at times, i n f l u e n c e discourse. Transmission of HIV Infection from a Woman to a Man by Oral Sex To the Editor:

In the United States, female-to-male sexual transmission of HIV has been reported infrequently. (Friedland, GH. Klein, RS. Transmission of the human immunodeficiency virus, N EnglJ Med 1987: 3 1 7 : 1 1 2 5 - 3 5 . ) Until now, oral sex alone has not been proved to be a mode of transmission of HIV from women to men. We now report what appears to be a case of HIV transmission from a woman to a man exclusively by oral sex. . . . This case report suggests that oral sex alone can transmit HIV, even when there is no coincident exchange of blood. In the light of this, public health education about safer sexual practices must not only advocate the use of bar­ rier contraceptives such as condoms during vaginal and rectal intercourse, but also caution against the exchange of bodily fluids during oral sexual prac­ tices, such as oral sex. Peter G. Spitzler, MD

Neil J. Weiner, MD

Burlington, MA o 1805

Lahey Clinic Medical Center

I can only say that, to m e , w h a t this suggests is that the p a r a g r a p h s con­ tained b e t w e e n these two, w h i c h I q u o t e d above, s h o u l d b e m o v e d higher, that is n e a r e r to death, o n the line o f discourse—and, by exten­ sion, that their i m p o r t a n c e , i m p l i e d by the entire contextualization o f a medical j o u r n a l , should b e raised, implying a mobility b a c k a n d forth along the discursive slope that we will m e e t with again a n d again in the course o f o u r e x a m i n a t i o n ; t h o u g h I think it is equally i m p o r t a n t to point out that all logic tells us that there is n o t h i n g in the least confirming in this letter (which is j u s t that—a letter to the editor a n d n o t a reviewed study) ; just as all reason tells us that a sixty-year-old m a n , m a r r i e d for thirty years, still living with his wife a n d suffering from diabetes a n d de­ mentia, in Burlington, Massachusetts, w o u l d have every reason to lie about either h o m o s e x u a l e n c o u n t e r s o r intravenous d r u g use—or, to put it m o r e strongly, can w e think o f any reason for such a m a n , c o m e down with A I D S , to tell the truth in today's climate, h o w e v e r m u c h his doctors m i g h t like to confirm it?

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9. S o m e street rhetoric here: A b o u t three years a g o , I p i c k e d u p a tele­ p h o n e r e p a i r m a n n a m e d T o m in a gay bar o n E i g h t h A v e n u e , called Cats, w h o was, frankly, drunk. B u t h e was c o h e r e n t e n o u g h to explain that h e was o u t c e l e b r a d n g the birth o f his first granddaughter. H e was forty-two years old, a n d his nineteen-year-old d a u g h t e r had just given birth to h e r first child. H e had b e e n married three times, and was cur­ rently separated from his third wife, but living with his sixteen-year-old son at his sister's h o u s e , in Brooklyn. T h e n e x t m o r n i n g , after a very satis­ factory n i g h t o f sex, w h e n h e was substantially soberer, T o m told m e that, since his seventeenth year, h e h a d f o u n d that for seven or eight months in a row h e never c o n s i d e r e d sex with m e n , n o t even in passing. But o n c e or twice a year, since that time, h e w o u l d find himself g o i n g out to get d r u n k and, in the course o f it, w o u l d usually g e t fucked by anywhere from three to ten m e n , sometimes m o r e . H e f o u n d the e x p e r i e n c e d e e p l y satisfying; a n d the result was that, again, for the n e x t six m o n t h s o r so he did not even c o n t e m p l a t e sex with m e n — u n t i l the same thing h a p p e n e d . H e used to worry about it; but now, in his own words: "I guess it's j u s t part o f w h o I am." Since it av­ e r a g e d o u t at less than a twice-a-year o c c u r r e n c e , a n d in most places the urge was easily satisfied, h e h a d never m e n t i o n e d this "tendency" to any o f his three wives. I m e n t i o n that I h a d not fucked him, a l t h o u g h at o n e point he had very badly wanted m e to. B u t after I insisted, for about five minutes, that I just was n o t g o i n g to d o that (we had n o c o n d o m s ) , we b o t h e n d e d u p d o i n g just a b o u t everything else two m e n can with o n e another—several times—before w e fell asleep. Taking his quite soberly offered account at face value, I can only n o t e that T o m is a prime target for A I D S . Also, I sus­ p e c t that, should h e contract it, w e can be fairly sure that, for c o n v e n i e n c e ' s sake, h e will likely g o d o w n in the b o o k s as having picked it u p from a female prostitute. R e c a l l i n g T o m p u t m e in m i n d o f a y o u n g m a n o f a b o u t twenty-five or thirty w h o m , for several years, perhaps fifteen years back, I used to run into and have sex with at a b o u t three- to five-month intervals. We m e t in a m o v i e h o u s e o n E i g h t h A v e n u e . T h e first time we did anything—mu­ tual masturbation a n d fellatio—he b e g a n by confessing to me shyly that this was the first time h e had d o n e anything like this. A l l his other sexual e x p e r i e n c e s , h e e x p l a i n e d , h a d b e e n with w o m e n . T h u s I was a little surprised w h e n , three m o n t h s later, I e n c o u n t e r e d h i m again, a n d — a g a i n — h e e x p l a i n e d that this was the first time h e had d o n e anything like this. All o f his o t h e r sexual e x p e r i e n c e s , he ex­ plained, h a d — a g a i n — b e e n with w o m e n . A n d , o n o u r third encounter, t h o u g h clearly h e s e e m e d to r e m e m b e r having m e t m e and talked to m e

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before, he o n c e again e x p l a i n e d that h e h a d never d o n e anything like this before. All o f his o t h e r sexual e x p e r i e n c e s . . . A g a i n , I suspect that, should this y o u n g m a n ever c o m e d o w n with A I D S , it is h i g h l y likely that he will b e o n e o f the p e o p l e w h o have a c q u i r e d the disease "heterosexually." So m u c h for street rhetoric. A little street discourse analysis, however: T h e s e a n d m a n y like experi­ ences, some involving gay activity, s o m e involving intravenous d r u g users, are the only o n e s I have that allow m e to read the a c c o u n t in D o c ­ tors Spitzler and Weiner's letter q u o t e d from the New England Journal of Medicine so that it makes anything like sense to m e , whatsoever. 10. A m o m e n t from a n o v e l I wrote in 1 9 8 4 , The Tale of Plagues and Car­ nivals: . . . while I was on the subway, I decided just to drop in on a public John at the Seventy-ninth Street subway stop—a rather active New York sexual congregat­ ing spot in those days—just to see how all this [the proliferation of AIDS rhet­ oric in 1983] was affecting things. . . . [W]ith all the brouhaha, the scientist in me was curious. Well, would you believe that, between the first and the second day I looked into that shabby hole with its peeling walls and asbestos covered pipes, the blue and ivory paint soiled almost to one hue, the filthy incandes­ cent bulbs in their wire cages from another era, and only metal partitions between the stalls, someone came in and filled both the commodes and the urinals with plaster of paris, which hardened and bulged up over the porce­ lain rims, making the facilities wholly unusable—except for the industrialsized sink in the corner, which, a day later, was fouled with urine, feces and soggy paper by the desperate? Irate straights attempting to render inoperable a well-known cruising spot? Social-minded gays trying to put the place out of operation, assuming they were lowering the chances of AIDS contact? No, there's no way to know for sure. But from the men who still stood around in it, it didn't stop the cruising—nor, from the condition of the floor and the sink, people using it for a toilet. But a few days later, the inoperable bathroom was permanently locked. (45 i) T h e question arises immediately: W h a t status d o I claim for this passage o f declared fiction? Even lifted from its fictive c o n t e x t as I have d o n e , abridged as I have a b r i d g e d it, a n d placed h e r e , I will always a n d forever claim it to have the status o f a j o u r n a i a c c o u n t , a text for w h i c h I m i g h t make the claim o f truth appropriate for that g e n r e : W h a t I described, I saw. (Moreover, in h a l f a d o z e n or m o r e N e w York subway Johns since,

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n o w l o c k e d u p for g o o d , I have seen the same a g a i n — w h e n mainte­ n a n c e workers o p e n e d the doors briefly over the n e x t years to put in a pail, to take o u t a m o p . I n d e e d , the entire public b a t h r o o m system o f N e w York m e n ' s and w o m e n ' s r o o m s , was p u t o u t o f operation over that w e e k or two p e r i o d a n d has n o t b e e n functional since.) W h a t I specu­ lated, I b e l i e v e d to b e t r u e — t h o u g h , certainly, other evidence m i g h t someday conceivably c o n v i n c e m e otherwise. B u t the v i o l e n c e I still feel constrained to p e r f o r m o n my own text (not far from the v i o l e n c e I have p e r f o r m e d o n the medical letter above) is to p o i n t out, i n d e e d to insist, that for y o u it is—presumably—just a text. W h a t is m o r e , it is in the m a r g i n b e t w e e n claims o f truth and the claims o f textuality that all discursive structures (that w h i c h allows us to r e a d rhetoric) are f o r m e d . A n d this is as m u c h a fact for my text as it is for the text o f D o c t o r s Spitzler a n d Weiner's letter. 1 1 . A rhetorical m o m e n t from 1983 that did n o t m a k e it into the same novel: W h i l e I sat in the b a l c o n y o f the Variety Photoplays T h e a t e r in N e w York, a tall, muscular white m a n in his mid-thirties, in c o m b a t boots, A i r Force flight j a c k e t , with a military crew, finished sucking off o n e black guy in a paint-stained j a c k e t , only to climb over the back o f the seats o f the row b e t w e e n us and, steadying himself o n my shoulder, g r i n n e d at m e with the wet-lipped d e l i g h t o f the satisfied. I g r i n n e d back, b u t felt constrained to say, sofdy, to this stranger w h o , until a min­ ute before, h a d only b e e n a h e a d b o b b i n g u p a n d d o w n between the legs of the m a n in the row in front o f m e , "Aren't y o u w o r r i e d about AIDS?" "Naw," h e said. ' Y o u can't g e t it suckin' dick—unless y o u g o t cuts in y o u r m o u t h or s o m e t h i n g like that. " I g r i n n e d back. ' Y o u ' r e probably right—'cause if y o u weren't, w e ' d b o t h have it." A n d , t h o u g h w e e x c h a n g e d n o m o r e words, a minute later, h e was c r o u c h e d d o w n b e t w e e n my k n e e s a n d the back o f the theater seat in front o f m e , his h e a d b e t w e e n my legs. 12. A rhetorical m o m e n t from the same w e e k that c a m e from a letter written m e from California by a c o n c e r n e d a n d sensitive heterosexual w o m a n friend that struck m e e n o u g h so that I f o u n d myself returning to it in t h o u g h t day after day: "AIDS has n o w p u t gay m e n in the position that straight w o m e n have always b e e n in with sex: A n y u n p r o t e c t e d sex­ ual e n c o u n t e r n o w always carries with it the possibility o f life or death." 13. I t h o u g h t , i n d e e d , a b o u t b o t h this street level (balcony level?) ex­ c h a n g e a n d this very powerful epistolary observation a g o o d deal. Was I a n x i o u s a b o u t AIDS? Constantly, continuously. T h e first e x c h a n g e , how-

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ever, was—more or less—the o n e a r o u n d w h i c h I structured m y behav­ ior. T h e s e c o n d was the o n e a r o u n d w h i c h I—more o r less—structured my intellectual analysis o f the situation. W h a t I can say at this distance, however, is that I d o u b t I ever t h o u g h t about t h e m b o t h at the same time. A t least in 1 9 8 3 . T h e y b e l o n g e d to two different discourses, a n d it was probably n o t till the s u m m e r o f 1 9 8 8 , till just after a c o n f e r e n c e o f the Marxist S u m m e r Institute at C a r n e g i e Mellon, not primarily o n A I D S b u t o n theory, w h e n , from o n e o f the most marginal participants, I received an offprint o f a Lancet article by Kingsley, Kaslow, Rinaldo, et al. ( 1 4 Feb. 1 9 8 7 ) , that I was e v e n able to consider the two together. 14. In 1 9 8 4 T h e M i n e Shaft, a gay bar near N e w York's V i l l a g e e x p a n s e of waterfront, s a n d w i c h e d b e t w e e n various m e a t p a c k i n g c o m p a n i e s , was closed d o w n by the city. In the same m o n t h , the St. Mark's Baths, o n St. Mark's Place b e t w e e n the then-Valencia H o t e l (whose l o b b y u p into the early 60s h a d h o u s e d the Five Spot, t h o u g h n o w it was a h o t d o g stand) and the o l d site o f the Strait T h e a t e r (where o n c e , as a teenager, I h a d acted in a N e w Y o r k - b a s e d s u m m e r stock c o m p a n y , a n d w h e r e , a few years later, A l l e n G i n s b e r g a n d the Fugs h a d p e r f o r m e d , t h o u g h more recently it h a d b e c o m e a vintage c l o t h i n g store), was p e r m a n e n t l y shut. I was never a regular at either institution, t h o u g h I h a d b e e n to each m o r e than ten times in s o m e w h a t m o r e than twice that n u m b e r o f years. S e x was j u s t as constant in b o t h places as at the Variety, if n o t m o r e so. T h e r e was, however, this d i f f e r e n c e — a n d the factor was a prime o n e in the closing o f e a c h establishment: T h e m a n a g e m e n t s o f both places, in their last m o n t h s , allowed c o n c e r n e d gay m a l e g r o u p s to institute safe sex demonstrations at b o t h . I n e v e r saw t h e m , b u t I cer­ tainly talked to friends w h o did; a n d there w e r e reports o f t h e m in the Village Voice newspaper. T h e s e d e m o n s t r a t i o n s w e r e h a n d s - o n , explicit, and active—and by report very effective in c h a n g i n g the b e h a v i o r o f the m e n w h o w e n t there. Many p e o p l e w h o have not direcdy e n c o u n t e r e d situations w h e r e sex is public and persistent assume that, because the activity is marginal, it must s o m e h o w take place outside all social constraints a n d cultural order. I w o u l d hazard, however, that the exact opposite is true. In a situation where o n e must deal, publicly a n d repeatedly, with the fear a n d the real­ ity of rejection (and however dionysiac the situation gets, there is still, for almost everyone, m o r e sexual rejection than a c c e p t a n c e involved), such behavior b e c o m e s almost immediately a n d insistently constrained, if n o t ritualized. T h e s e are intricate and multiple patterns o f politeness—and indeed, ritualized rudeness—which I have never yet seen formally given

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the Irving G o f f m a n treatment, b u t w h i c h are nevertheless firmly and formally in p l a c e . B u t y o u must i m a g i n e the effect o f a g r o u p o f p e o p l e in such a highly a n d responsively social field w h e r e sex is actually o c c u r r i n g all a r o u n d t h e m , e x p l a i n i n g a n d demonstrating: If y o u d o this, y o u will die; if y o u d o this, y o u will live. I p o i n t out that it was from this time a n d these dem­ onstrations that we g e t o u r c u r r e n t emphasis o n c o n d o m s and the lack o f e x c h a n g e o f b o d y fluids. T h e demonstrations were murderously effec­ tive, nevertheless. T h e response o f the city was to close b o t h institutions. 15. N e e d I p o i n t o u t that the safe sex demonstrations at the Baths and at T h e M i n e Shaft w e r e not in a g r e e m e n t with the street level o f discourse: T h e y e n c o u r a g e d the use o f c o n d o m s d u r i n g fellatio as well as during anal intercourse. R i m m i n g was out. A l l three practices were viewed and discussed in these demonstrations as if their fibrillating distance from the axis o f death was a real a n d material consideration against which a latex barrier must b e e r e c t e d at all costs. 16. By 1 9 8 6 w e h a d m o v e d into a p e r i o d w h e n anal intercourse had shifted its rhetorical slot a n d was n o w discussed repeatedly as "high risk" behavior, often in a rhetorical c o n t e x t o f "repeated sexual encounters." L e t m e also p o i n t out, in passing, that in 1 9 8 4 , w h e n I was writing my novel, any suggestion at all that o n e m o d e o f bodily sexual behavior was safer than a n o t h e r was c o n s i d e r e d totally irresponsible. It is into this rhetorical field that a letter was published in J A M A (Jour­ nal of the American Medical Association ) o n April 4, 1986: To the Editor:

The San Francisco Men's Health Study is a prospective study of a population-based random sample of single men 25 to 54 years of age residing in the i g census tracts of San Francisco with the highest incident of acquired immunodeficiency syndrome. One thousand thirty-five eligible men were re­ cruited. Participants visit the study clinic at six-month intervals, where they undergo a detailed medical and life-style interview and physical examination and provide specimens for laboratory study. Serological testing for AIDSassociated retrovirus (ARV) is performed on the cohort using the indirect fluorescent antibody technique. . . . Compared with men who had no sexual partners in the prior two-year period, the men who continued to engage in oral-genital contact only did not have an increased rate of infection by ARV. . . . Moreover, we found in a more detailed sexual practices interview at subse­ quent clinic visits that all of the 14 seropositive men had engaged in receptive

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anal intercourse prior to June 1982. In contrast, only 24 of the 50 seronega­ tive men in these two groups had engaged in previous receptive anal inter­ course. . . . These results may not completely exclude the possibility of trans­ mission of ARV infection by oral-genital contact because they are based on a small number of observations. They do, however, show no excess risk of infec­ tion by this route and support the theory that anal-genital exposure is the major mode of infection. An extended report describing the distribution of sexual practices and ARV serology is in preparation. David Lyman,

Univ. of California at Berkeley

MD

Warren Winkelstein, MD

A n d eight m o n t h s later, in February, the a f o r e m e n t i o n e d Kingsley, Kas­ low, Rinaldo, et al. study was p u b l i s h e d in The Lancet. T h e study is too l o n g to quote in full, t h o u g h I r e c o m m e n d anyone interested in the cor­ relation o f sexual behavior to seroconversion to H I V positive read it. If I may summarize a n d c o n d e n s e : Twenty-five h u n d r e d a n d e i g h t h o m o s e x ­ ual m e n , w h o , at the b e g i n n i n g o f the study tested negative for antibod­ ies to HIV, were m o n i t o r e d as to their sexual activity for six m o n t h s . T h e study states: " O n multivariate analysis receptive anal intercourse was the only significant risk factor for seroconversion to H I V . . . " (345) in the ninety-eight m e n w h o , in the course o f the study, d e v e l o p e d H I V anti­ bodies. It also states: The absence of detectable risk for seroconversion due to receptive oralgenital intercourse is striking. That there were no seroconversions detected among 147 men engaging in receptive oral intercourse with at least one part­ ner, but not receptive or insertive anal intercourse, accords with other data suggesting a low risk of infection from oral-genital (receptive semen) expo­ sure. It must be mentioned that we were unable to determine the infection status of the sexual partners to whom these men were exposed. Perhaps these 147 men who practiced receptive oral intercourse were never or rarely ex­ posed to HIV seropositive men. However, this explanation seems improbable. (348) T h e question quickly b e c o m e s why this information has n o t b e e n dis­ seminated with anything like the intensity o f various claims for h e t e r o ­ sexual transmission such as the o n e q u o t e d , o r a n o t h e r one-time re­ port, again from a letter, this time to The Lancet ( 1 5 A u g . 1 9 8 7 ) r a t h e r than to J A M A , a b o u t a one-time case ( t h o u g h nevertheless referred to in several g e n e r a l r e a d e r s h i p newspapers as a "well d o c u m e n t e d case") o f w o m a n - t o - w o m a n transmission t h r o u g h oral sex ( G r e e n h o u s e ) —

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w h i c h s o m e t i m e s seems the only use the m e d i c a l establishment has for the lesbian community, a dismissal w e c a n sadly r e c o g n i z e as typical. N e e d w e p o i n t o u t that one-time cases are not, by definition, well doc­ u m e n t e d ? W e can only talk a b o u t meaningful d o c u m e n t a t i o n in the case w h e r e w e b e g i n with seronegativity a n d t h e n , over a p e r i o d o f time, sex­ ual b e h a v i o r is carefully m o n i t o r e d , until seropositivity occurs; n o r can such cases b e meaningful until they are carried out at a reasonable statis­ tical r a n g e , since there is always the possibility o f error in m o n i t o r i n g even w h e n the establishment o f seronegativity occurs. Last year, in the three m o n t h s b e f o r e the Variety Photoplays T h e a t e r was closed d o w n by the city, I seriously c o n t e m p l a t e d x e r o x i n g u p several h u n d r e d c o p i e s o f the Kingsley, Kaslow, Rinaldo, et al. study and leaving t h e m in a pile in the lobby. T h a t I did not is, I suspect, a procrastination I shall forever feel guilty about. W h e n the Daily News r e p o r t e d the clos­ ing, it c l a i m e d that inspectors, over a two-day period, had observed " 1 5 8 acts o f unsafe sex." I will attest, from personal e x p e r i e n c e , that the only sexual acts occur­ ring in the theater at that time w e r e fellatio a n d the varieties o f mutual a n d solo masturbation. B u t the discursive structure that controls this rhetoric, the Daily News' a n d m i n e , is characterized precisely by its ability to m o v e acts anywhere a n d everywhere a l o n g that uninflected line, s o m e t i m e within days, sometime within hours, or even minutes. . . . 17. A t s o m e point, the mavens o f straight talk must realize that there are two discourses: T h e i r findings can b e expressed in b o t h street talk and straight talk—which are, after all, merely rhetorical expressions, and thus multi-discursive. T h e first is a discourse for w h i c h the individual rhetorical figures that constitute it a n d are m a n i p u l a t e d within it are g e n e r a t e d by a series o f o p e r a t i o n a l i z e d p r o c e d u r e s before they are admitted within its compass as "evidence." T h e s e c o n d is a discourse o f e x p e r i e n c e , w h e r e all is evi­ d e n c e t h o u g h it d o e s n o t d e p e n d o n operationalized rhetorical sifting. A n individual d i a g n o s e d with A I D S , w h o is then asked, "How did y o u get it?" or "What has y o u r sexual behavior b e e n over the last year or year and a half?" is, in his o r h e r answer, speaking from a n d to the s e c o n d dis­ course. O n l y a g r o u p o f seronegative m e n a n d / o r w o m e n w h o are asked to m o n i t o r in writing, daily, their sexual activity, a n d w h o are then tested for seropositivity, a n d w h o s e m o n i t o r e d reports are c o m p a r e d with the results, can contribute e v i d e n c e to the first. Is there r o o m for mistake—or for lying—in the operationalized dis­ course? O f course. B u t the operationalizing o f its rhetoric is neverthe­ less an effective m e a n s o f steering a course closer to what b o t h you and I are probably m o r e willing to stake o u r lives o n , in terms o f its findings.

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If these discourses are n o t k e p t separate, t h e n we m u s t b e forever cursed with the m u r d e r o u s contradiction, in official discourse (or straight talk) so far, that all the m o n i t o r e d studies strongly suggest that it is difficult or impossible to transmit A I D S orally, while perfectly l e a r n e d statements flood society, all stating, equally unequivocally, that A I D S can be transmitted by any and every sexual act involving an i n t e r c h a n g e o f bodily fluids—all o f t h e m based on individual, after-diagnosis requests for origins, even t h o u g h street rhetoric ("You can't g e t A I D S from suck­ ing dick") has already p o l l u t e d the c o n c e p t s o f all "high risk" b e h a v i o r (i.e., anal sex a n d n e e d l e sharing), so that practically n o o n e o n the street will admit to any interest in either at all a n y m o r e , with or w i t h o u t a c o n d o m , with or without sterilization. To the official question, "What has y o u r sexual activity b e e n for the past few years?" straight talk takes the myriad answers given by persons with AIDS, in all their discomfort or certainty— "Mostly sucking, I guess." "I only suck. Why do I have it?" "Let's see—all I remember is sucking dick." "No, I'd never take it up the ass. That's dangerous, I know that. Everybody knows that. I won't even suck: And if I do, I spit out and wash my mouth out right afterwards with Scope." "Nothing that ought to make me come down with this shit!" "It doesn't really matter, since I got it—probably getting head from some prostitute." —and the myriad answers given by m e n a n d w o m e n w h o often inhabit a world of borderlines, lines laid out very differently from w h e r e the straight world m i g h t place t h e m , and conflates these answers into an offi­ cial statement, "AIDS can be passed t h r o u g h fellatio," c o m p l e t e , in many cases, with statistics o n the n u m b e r o f p e o p l e w h o have so c a u g h t it. T h e law o f discourses, like the law o f g e n r e s , is that "Discourses are not to be m i x e d . " (It is, o f course, the same law.) A n d , as with the law o f genres, the truth o f the law is that it can never b e o b e y e d : like g e n r e s , discourses never arrive p u r e . T h e p r o b l e m with individuating discourses and genres is simply the macro-version o f the p r o b l e m o f individuating meanings. T h e signified can only—at times—appear to b e unitary. Yet the conflation o f discursively o p e r a t i o n a l i z e d rhetoric with u n o p erationalized rhetoric, b o t h taken as equally w e i g h t e d e v i d e n c e , has pro­ duced the c u r r e n t discourse o f AIDS—provisionally, locally, a n d at this historical m o m e n t , a demonstrably m u r d e r o u s discourse, vigorously em­ ployed by the range o f conservative forces p r o m u l g a t i n g the anti-sexual stance that marks so m u c h o f this era, a discourse o f "high risk" a n d "low

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risk" behavior, rather than the dicta o f street talk: " D o n ' t g e t fucked u p the ass w i t h o u t a c o n d o m . D o n ' t use a n y o n e else's works." Today, in­ stead, t h e r a n g e o f chatter a n d disinformation moves t h r o u g h all the m o d e s o f street talk a n d straight talk ("Use a c o n d o m for all sexual acts"), o b s c u r i n g a n d o c c l u d i n g precision, articulation, a n d the possibil­ ity for life. 18. T h e r a n g e o f discourses—and the rhetoric that falls o u t o f them— must b e listened to, a n d listened to carefully, if only to suggest further o p e r a t i o n a l i z e d studies. B u t to give conclusions drawn from unoperationalized rhetoric the same w e i g h t as such studies, while lacking their o u t c o m e s , is a discursive crime at o n e with murder. A n d the range o f o u r society, from h i g h e s t to lowest, is guilty o f that crime, o n the g r o u n d s o f what w e say a b o u t A I D S . 19. A r e w e s p e a k i n g o f s o m e t h i n g that can, if o n e wishes, simply b e called the scientific m e t h o d ? N o . We are speaking, rather, o f what hap­ p e n s to such a " m e t h o d " in a field ripe with a n d r i d d l e d by despair a n d terror a n d prior political agendas that flagrantly, at all levels, abnegate that m e t h o d , in a k i n d o f w a g e r far m o r e immediate, if n o t m o r e desper­ ate, than the o n e Pascal so famously c o n c e i v e d : "If ' D o n ' t g e t fucked u p the ass w i t h o u t a c o n d o m ' is safe, perhaps ' D o n ' t d o anything without a c o n d o m ' is safer." B u t because the latter is far h a r d e r to follow, it mili­ tates instead for laxness; a n d to the e x t e n t that the two are perceived as s o m e h o w the same, the laxness finally infects the former. B u t — t o b o r r o w an always already i m p u r e rhetoric—unless these dis­ courses c a n b e k e p t separate l o n g e n o u g h to d o m o r e studies a n d to dis­ seminate their results, n o t h i n g officially said a b o u t A I D S can be ac­ c e p t e d as straight. A l l is twisted—and is deadly. 20. W h i c h brings us to the ticklish question o f w o m e n a n d A I D S . T h e r e is a k i n d o f Utopian desire to see A I D S as equally d a n g e r o u s to w o m e n as to m e n . A n d w i t h o u t question, in its transmission t h r o u g h the use o f IV needles, it is. W i t h o u t question, in receptive anal intercourse, w o m e n are j u s t as susceptible to A I D S as m e n . W h e t h e r A I D S c a n or c a n n o t be passed to w o m e n vaginally, I, personally, have n e v e r h e a r d discussed o n the street, n o r have I y e t seen a m o n i t o r e d study to find out. T h e notion that A I D S is unlikely to b e passed o n by w o m e n in ordinary heterosexual vaginal intercourse sounds like a n o t h e r anatomical d e c r e e or g e n d e r powerlessness. D o we really n e e d a n o t h e r one? W h a t I have f o u n d in an informal survey o f b o o k s o n w o m e n a n d A I D S is that o n e c a n peruse v o l u m e after v o l u m e purportedly addressing

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w o m e n and A I D S in w h i c h anal intercourse is n o t m e n t i o n e d ; v o l u m e after v o l u m e in w h i c h no inflection in the c o n t a g i o n rates b e t w e e n oral and anal intercourse is suggested. T h e assumption w o u l d s e e m to b e that w o m e n ' s bodies in sexual terms are n o t h i n g but vaginas—and that these totally vagin ate d bodies can never be l o o k e d at, m o n i t o r e d , or tabulated. We simply have a n o t h e r major situation o f s e x u a l / g e n d e r oppression to deal with, its thrust overwhelmingly toward heterosexually active w o m e n . A l t h o u g h there is a discourse, c o n t r o l l i n g vast a m o u n t s o f A I D S anx­ iety a m o n g gay males, in w h i c h , yes, my California friend's association still resonates, there is also a level o f street discourse that has m o r e or less wrestled with that anxiety from 1983 onward, a n d t h r o u g h w h i c h the straight rhetoric o f the m e d i c a l j o u r n a l s only n o w a n d again transpares. It is o f course straight discourse that is wholly entailed in the m o d e l I began this p a p e r by describing. I shall r e p e a t that description h e r e : A t one side o f it rises the axis o f death. T h e discourse is a totally c o n t i n u o u s and uninflected curve that shoots across that deadly locus at "one"; that is, it is stopped by a n d a b s o r b e d by death at that terrifying a n d totalized point o f unity. F r o m there, the curve flows toward the base axis o f life— but a life that is wholly a n d ideally secure, rich in pleasure, close to im­ mobile: T h a t is to say that above all things, this particular biotic axial is "safe." T h e axis o f death cleaves the space b e a r i n g with it a m y t h o l o g y similar to that with w h i c h the axis o f the real cleaves the p l a n e o f c o m ­ plex numbers. T h e axis o f life carries across its space an equally rarefied mythology suggesting n o t h i n g so m u c h as the axis o f the imaginary that transects the c o m p l e x plane. T h e discourse a p p r o a c h e d that lively, that imaginary axis asymptotically, yearningly, steadily, endlessly. . . . For by now I h o p e we can r e c o g n i z e the rhetorical symptoms o f this discourse: "High risk behavior" and "low risk behavior" define a discursive substratum w h e r e all sexual behavior b e c o m e s m o r e o r less d a n g e r o u s , and all is subject to endless displacement a n d slippage a l o n g that discur­ sive slope, now n e a r e r to, n o w further from, death; in "repeated sexual encounters," a kind o f inflation o f pleasure brings o n e s o m e h o w m o r e and m o r e mysteriously close to infection a n d annihilation (in Kingsley, Kaslow, Rinaldo, et al., at least eight o f the m e n w h o seroconverted h a d only a single anal receptive e n c o u n t e r ) . Symptoms i n c l u d e such phrases as "AIDS is everybody's p r o b l e m , " from the latest circular from my own university's so well-intentioned A I D S c o m m i t t e e , a circular that d o e s not go on to distinguish what kindoi p r o b l e m it is for different p e o p l e — a tax problem here, a w h o l e range o f m e d i c a l p r o b l e m s for a w h o l e r a n g e o f other p e o p l e there; a w h o l e range o f specifically sexual p r o b l e m s , b o t h for p e o p l e w h o are in b e d with each other a n d w h o are w o n d e r i n g what to d o next, as well as for p e o p l e w h o are w o n d e r i n g if they are ever g o i n g to e n d u p in b e d with anyone again. In short, the rhetorical symptoms o f

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this discourse are n o t a set o f polidcal intentions but rather the signs o f a discourse that, from whatever political position, h o m o g e n i z e s the prob­ l e m instead o f inflecting it; that assigns p e o p l e a n d actions, sexual and social, positions o n that u n p r o b l e m a t i c a n d uninflected line r u n n i n g from life to death—until the establishment o f quarantines, curfews, and d e a t h c a m p s . A n d I a m c o n v i n c e d that a later age will l o o k back on this o n e a n d r e s p o n d to these rhetorical moves that scatter so many o f our texts today; it will read t h e m with the kind o f mute h o r r o r with which we read the anti-semitic rhetoric that proliferated t h r o u g h G e r m a n y in par­ ticular a n d E u r o p e in general all t h r o u g h the '30s and 40s. 21. L e t m e c o n c l u d e with a n o t h e r p i e c e o f street rhetoric, another bit o f street discourse. B e c a u s e , in various talks, I have b e e n saying m u c h what I a m saying h e r e for two years now, I felt it was i n c u m b e n t u p o n m e to have an H I V test a n d c h e c k o u t my o w n , a g i n g body. Since I have b e e n at the Univer­ sity o f Massachusetts for a bit over a year and a half now, with only occa­ sional visits to N e w York, my sexual e n c o u n t e r s , in the city, all o f t h e m oral ( s e m e n r e c e p t i v e ) , w i t h o u t c o n d o m s , a n d the vast majority a m o n g strangers (I last g o t fucked well over twelve years a g o ) , have certainly fal­ l e n off: A conservative estimate w o u l d b e three h u n d r e d a year between 1 9 7 7 a n d 1 9 8 3 ; that falls d o w n to a b o u t a hundred-fifty a year till I left for Massachusetts in 1988; that has t h e n a bit m o r e than halved, to some­ w h e r e b e t w e e n forty and sixty-five a year since. F o u r m o n t h s ago, on a visit to the city, I availed myself o f the city's H I V testing facilities. Four m o n t h s a g o , I was seronegative. B u t n o w w e must m o v e to a discursive analysis o f this very classically rhetorical ploy, for—despite its truth claims—it is n o t h i n g m o r e . In n o way a m I asking a n y o n e to c h a n g e his or h e r behavior o n the strength o f ways I have or have n o t b e h a v e d . W h a t I a m asking is that all o f us begin to p u t forward the m o n u m e n t a l analytical effort, in whichever rhetorical m o d e w e c h o o s e , n e e d e d n o t to interpret what we say, but to say w h a t we do. T h a t requires first and foremost speaking with others about what we d o . T h a t is the only way that w e can destroy the discursive disarticulation that muffles and m u d d l e s all, that drags all into and within it, that represses a n d suppresses a n d lies a n d distorts and rereads a n d rewrites any a n d every rhetorical m o m e n t within its field. Rhetoric can control discourse—but only if it is insistent, accurate, an­ alytical, a n d articulate. —Amherst February 19,

iggo

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WORKS

57

CITED

Delany, Samuel R. "The Tale of Plagues and Carnivals." 1984. Flight From Nevèryon. New York: Bantam, 1985. Greenhouse, Peter. Letter. The Lancet 15 Aug. 1987: 4 0 1 - 0 2 . Kingsley, Lawrence A., Richard Kaslow, Charles R. Rinaldo, Jr., et al. "Risk Factors for Seroconversion to Human Immunodeficiency Virus Among Male Homosexuals: Results from the Multicenter AIDS Cohort Study." The Lancet 14 Feb. 1987: 345-48. Lyman, David, MD, and Warren Winkelstein, MD. Letter. "Minimal Risk of Transmission of AIDS-Associated Retrovirus Infection Oral-Genital Contact." Journal of the American Medical Association 4 Apr. 1986. Rpt. in The AIDS Reader: Documentary History of a Modern Epidemic. Ed. Loren K. Clarke and Malcolm Potts. Vol. 1. Boston: Branden, ig88. 261. Quine, W. V. The Philosophy of Logic. Engleside Cliffs, NJ: Prentice, 1970. Spitzler, Peter G., MD, and Neil J. Weiner, MD. Letter. "Transmission of HIV Infection from a Woman to a Man by Oral Sex." New England Journal of Medicine 320.4 (1989): 251.

O n the Unspeakable [The Capri Theater, Times Square, 1987]

the p o s i t i o n i n g o f desire that al­ ways draws us to " T h e Unspeak­ a b l e " in the first place. It is an area, a topic, a trope im­ possible to speak o f outside (it is at o n c e evil a n d extralinguistic) that r a n g e , equally difficult to describe, to define: " T h e Everyday." (It is at o n c e banal a n d representationally difficult.) B o t h are terribly local­ ized. B o t h are wholly a n d socially b o u n d e d . T h e division b e t w e e n everyday a n d u n s p e a k a b l e , diffi­ cult a n d extralinguistic, banal a n d evil may j u s t b e the prototype for all social division. We n e e d s o m e t h i n g from the everyday, then, o f a 45-year-old black, gay m a l e w h o cruises the c o m m e r c i a l p o r n theaters a l o n g E i g h t h A v e n u e above 4 3 r d Street in N e w York City (the "Author") in the m i d d l e a n d late 1980s: W h y n o t this? Rose is a pudgy, white, w o r k i n g class prostitute, m a y b e twenty-six, from Upstate N e w York; she's also a c r a c k e r — w h i c h m e a n s that for

to clear away the p r e - c u m leakage, raise his t h u m b to his m o u t h , and suck it clean. After three minutes, his hips b e g a n to lift in little twitches. H e h a d b o t h hands on his c o c k now. H e shot in a c o u p l e o r three four-inch spurts that fell, shiny as snot from a N o v e m b e r sneeze, d o w n the knuckles o f b o t h hands. H e raised o n e and thrust the backs o f three fingers into his m o u t h , t u r n e d t h e m over, and s u c k e d away the c u m . T h e n he lifted the other, to lick m o r e off, this time delicately. His t o n g u e r e a c h e d out p o i n t e d , but b e c a m e broader, s l u g g i n g slowly between o n e a n d the n e x t knuckle, bright with saliva a n d semen in the video's flicker he still stared at. T h a t ' s w h e n the o l d RR. beside h i m w o k e u p l o n g e n o u g h to give h i m a frown. T h e white kid j u m p e d a little, rearing to the side, in a hyperbolic m o m e n t o f fear. ( H y p e r b o l e is the figure o f the everyday; e u p h e m i s m is the figure o f the unspeakable.)

O n the U n s p e a k a b l e

59

the last few m o n t h s she's s e l d o m g o n e for m o r e than ten dollars a trick, since her interests have dwin­ dled pretty m u c h to the n e x t bot­ tle o f rocks—a h y p e r b o l e if there ever was o n e : the "bottie," a plastic capsule a shy c e n t i m e t e r l o n g , stoppered at o n e e n d with some­ thing like they p u t in the top o f Bic pens; the "rocks," a b o u t h a l f a crystal o f rock salt's worth o f cooked-down c o k e b r o k e n u p into smaller bits. C o s t p e r bottle any­ where from six to ten dollars. Eight is average. T h e long-time professional h o o k e r s w o r k i n g the winter Strip outside have lost all pa­ tience with the new b r e e d o f "ten dollar w h o r e " crack has created— many o f t h e m only fifteen, sixteen, and seventeen years old.

B u t h e gave the guy a l o o k that said, "Say s o m e t h i n g to m e , m o ­ therfucker, a n d I'll bust y o u ! " T h e r e was a wholly m a c h o aspect to his exhibitionism. T h e o l d guy s h o o k his h e a d , l e a n e d back against the wall, a n d closed his eyes again. T h e kid w e n t b a c k to licking, m o v e d to the inside o f his wrist. W i t h the e d g e o f o n e t h u m b h e s q u e e g e e d u p s o m e clam o f c u m that h a d fallen o n his d e n i m thigh, ate that, a n d e x a m i n e d his lap a n d g r e e n workshirt for any h e ' d missed. W i t h a few m o r e tugs h e m i l k e d his c o c k o f its final freight; then, with the h u g e l y circular t o n g u e m a n e u v e r five-year-olds re­ serve for d r i p p i n g c o n e s , h e l a p p e d the last from his first.

( T h e m e a n i n g o f the following exterior u r b a n portrait is entirely in terms o f what it tells us o f this m o m e n t a r y travesty o f theatrical interiority.) T h e last three years have seen a radical atmospheric and e c o n o m i c shift a l o n g the Strip from the fall­ out o f the c o c a i n e trade—crack, base, eightballs. It's part o f the slowly g a t h e r i n g e c o n o m i c devas­ tation o f the entire n e i g h b o r h o o d , which is presumably p r e p a r i n g the way for the brave n e w r e b u i l d i n g as a large s h o p p i n g mall, with a few theaters and business towers, scheduled to b e g i n n e x t year: gro­ cery stores, comic-book stores, shoe repair shops, drugstores, barber­ shops, bookstores, theatrical light­ ing and m a k e - u p stores, the m a g i c

( T h e above, o b s e r v e d purely as information—his actions a n d his dress a n d his b e a r i n g , from polite­ ness to b e l l i g e r e n c e — t e l l only o f w h a t is exterior to this tightly c o n ­ v e n t i o n a l i z e d a n d wholly c o n ­ tained c o m m e r c i a l , public space.) W a t c h i n g h i m , I f o u n d it easy to see the entire non-white a u d i e n c e a r o u n d h i m — m a c h o , male, a scat­ tering o f prostitutes, o f transsexu­ als, o f faggots, a n d largely there for drugs a n d the safest o f safe sex—as an a n a l o g u e for the w h o l e o f A m e r i c a n (if n o t o f Western) civilization. I f o u n d it equally easy to see the trio o f whites—Rose, R e d , a n d the y o u n g w o r k e r (again sucking o n e finger a n d the next, n o w o n his left h a n d , n o w o n his right, for any l i n g e r i n g taste) —as

6o

Shorter Views

shop, souvlaki a n d h o t d o g a n d pizza stands, hardware stores, liq­ u o r stores, drugstores, cafeterias, coffee shops, a n d the s e c o n d story rehearsal studios a n d the dry cleaners—the h u m a n services that, a l o n g the g r o u n d - f l o o r fronts o f the two- a n d three-story buildings (now d e e m e d wholly unprofitable for the T o w e r i n g City), scattered a m o n g the p o r n shops, peepshows, sex palaces a n d fuck-film houses, o n c e k e p t the area alive a n d livable for a considerable residence—have b e e n b o a r d e d u p o r shut d o w n . " T h e crackers are drivin' o u t the c o o k i e s , " has b e e n the call o n the street for a year, now. ( ' C o o k i e ' refers to the b e n t s p o o n or bottlecap in its hairpin h o l d e r — t h e c o o k e r — w i t h w h i c h h e r o i n users traditionally boil u p a fix, as 'crack' refers to the faint Rice Krispie crackle o f the b u r n i n g rocks as they h e a t to an o r a n g e glow in the screened-off e n d o f the sooty glass tube t h r o u g h w h i c h the drug's in­ haled.) B u t the crack trade, far vaster, cheaper, m o r e visible, a n d m o r e visibly d a m a g i n g than the h e r o i n traffic o n c e was, is only part o f the g e n e r a l d e c l i n e . T h i s is the Strip: this is the n e i g h b o r h o o d that, like n u m e r o u s n e i g h b o r h o o d s b e f o r e it ( C a n n e r y Row, Farrell's or Bellow's C h i c a g o , R u n y o n ' s Broadway) yearns to be­ c o m e a m e t a p h o r for the w h o l e g r e a t A m e r i c a n outside. T h e r e is n o r e t r e a t / a d v a n c e e x c e p t within. Rose was d o z i n g in the ninth row o f the b a l c o n y o f the C a p r i

an a n a l o g u e o f whites and white culture within that A m e r i c a n / Western c o m p l e x . Perhaps the major appeal o f the analogy was that the reversal, the subversion, the overturning o f m o r e usual an­ alogical alignments o f primitive a n d sophisticated, o f white and non-white, initiated (at least mo­ mentarily) its o w n critique o f pre­ cisely the failures o f such racially analogic thinking (the overriding characteristic o f the culture it sym­ bolized) in the first place. T h e kid w a t c h e d the movie a few m o r e minutes; finally he p u s h e d his c o c k back into his j e a n s a n d z i p p e d u p . A minute later, h e stood and w a n d e r e d to the bal­ cony d o o r to g o d o w n . "Man," Rose was saying to R e d ( s h e ' d already said it n o w as many times as s h e ' d said "Huh?" b e f o r e ) , "what the fuck is he g o n n a c o m e b o t h e r m e for if h e ain't g o t n o money? T h a t ain't right. I gotta get m e s o m e m o n e y . W h a t does he think I am?" Still half asleep, R e d was r u b b i n g b e t w e e n Rose's legs n o w — h i s reparation for sitting beside her, offering what protec­ tion h e can while she sleeps or works. "Man, what the fuck is he g o n n a c o m e b o t h e r i n g m e for if h e ain't g o t n o money, y o u hear what I'm saying . . . ?" T h i s interior? All three whites there—or per­ haps just the relationship between t h e m (its cultural, analogical rich­ ness) —I found, o n o n e level or an­ other, sexually attractive: both guys

O n the U n s p e a k a b l e p o r n o theater o n Eighth Ave. just below 46th Street, beside Red, o n e ­ time p i m p , now wino and cracker, a scrawny guy with a m e d i c i n e ball of dirty red hair, his winter-burned hands alight with the translucent bloat o f the permanentiy under­ nourished alcoholic. R e d was half asleep too, b u t now and again h e ' d scratch him­ self, pawing d o w n inside the front of his j e a n s , clawing at his hip, b e n d i n g to g e t at an ankle inside the d o u b l e pair o f sweaty tube socks I can smell from w h e r e I ' m sitting a row in front o f t h e m to the left, n o w thrusting a h a n d through the n e c k o f his sweater to rake out an armpit. Rose a n d R e d were the only two whites visible a m o n g the y o u n g to m i d d l e - a g e d black and Hispanic m e n ; h e r e a n d there, long, forbidden flames from red, blue, a n d yellow Bic lighters, turned u p high, played a l o n g glass stems. T h e smell o f the d r u g — a burnt plastic stench, besides w h i c h the spicy o d o r o f pot seems healthy and o r g a n i c — w e l l e d h e r e , fell away there, or drifted across the flickering video projection at the front o f the narrow theater. T h r e e rows down from Rose and Red, a guy in a black and white c h e c k e d scarf with tassels was giv­ ing a blowjob to a n o t h e r guy, w h o leaned back staring t h r o u g h wireframed glasses m o r e at the ceiling than at the porn movie. S o m e o n e else was b e n d i n g down b e t w e e n the seats, l o o k i n g a r o u n d with his lighter—and had b e e n for ten min-

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physically so, Rose intellectually so. B u t that, o f course, is w h e r e I find myself at the particular b o u n d a r y o f the everyday that b o r d e r s the unspeakable, w h e r e l a n g u a g e , like a n e e d l e infected with articulation, threatens to pierce s o m e ultimate a n d final interiority—however un­ clear, as we a p p r o a c h it, that limit is (if n o t what lies b e y o n d it) w h e n we attempt analytic seizure. T h e lack o f clarity is, o f course, w h a t is t h e r e to b e analyzed, artic­ ulated. T h e unspeakable. T h e unspeakable is, o f course, not a b o u n d a r y dividing a positive area o f allowability from a c o m ­ plete a n d totalized negativity, a b o u n d a r y located at least o n e step b e y o n d the f o r b i d d e n (and the forbidden, by definition—no?— must be speakable if its prescriptive p o w e r is to f u n c t i o n ) . If we pursue the b o u n d a r y as such, it wrill r e c e d e before us as a limit o f mists a n d va­ pors. Certainly it is n o t a line drawn in any absolute way across s p e e c h or writing. It is n o t a fixed a n d locable p o i n t o f transgression that glows hotter a n d brighter as we a p p r o a c h it till, as w e cross it, its searing heat b u r n s away all pos­ sibility o f further articulation. Rather it is a set o f positive c o n ­ ventions g o v e r n i n g w h a t can b e s p o k e n o f (or written about) in general; in particular, it comprises the endlessly specialized tropes (of analysis, o f apology, o f aesthetic distance) r e q u i r e d to speak or write a b o u t various topics at vari-

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Shorter Views

utes now—for any rocks that m i g h t have fallen o n the floor b e t w e e n the cigarette butts a n d the soda bottles a n d the b e e r cans a n d the spit a n d the trickles o f urine from the guys four a n d three a n d nine rows back, too lazy or too frus­ trated to g o d o w n to the John (which was always filled with five or six guys in the m i d d l e o f a d r u g deal, anyway), a n d the dried a n d not-yet-dried c u m puddles. S o m e ­ o n e else p u s h e d his rolled screen from o n e e n d o f his stem to the other with a w o o d e n stick to collect the m e l t e d residues from the glass sides for a n o t h e r impoverished hit. T h e effects o f the d r u g are kind o f like a p o p p e r that lasts four minutes instead o f forty seconds. T h o u g h it has n o long-term with­ drawal effects, it's g o t the worst c o m e - d o w n — b e t w e e n three and six h o u r s o f depressed h e a d a c h e , nausea, a n d achiness—this side o f airplane g l u e . A n d its addiction s c h e d u l e is fierce. Intermittent use over three m o n t h s will h o o k y o u . A n d , as far as I can see, use o n six consecutive days will m a k e some­ o n e an addict. S o m e o n e else was m o v i n g u p a n d d o w n in his seat, quickly, rhythmically, shoulders shaking in a masturbatory frenzy. I'd passed h i m five minutes back: H e ' d p u l l e d his pants off, balled t h e m u p , a n d p u t t h e m a n d his coat in the seat beside h i m , so n o o n e w o u l d sit n e x t to h i m while h e b e a t off. In a man's d o w n j a c k e t c l u t c h e d

ous a n o m a l o u s places in o u r com­ plex social g e o g r a p h y — p l a c e s w h e r e such topics are specifically n o t usually (or ever) spoken of: W h a t is speakable between client a n d a c c o u n t a n t is unspeakable b e t w e e n newly i n t r o d u c e d ac­ quaintances at a formal dinner party. (What about the unspeak­ able as drug? Its history comprises l a u d a n u m , o p i u m , heroin, and n o w crack. T h e unspeakable as d r u g b e c o m e s the e p o c h ' s roman­ tic metaphor.) W h a t is speakable b e t w e e n client a n d prostitute in the b a l c o n y o f a 4 2 n d Street porn theater is unspeakable between m a n a n d wife o f thirty years. W h a t is speakable between lovers o f three w e e k s is unspeakable b e t w e e n best friends o f a dec­ a d e — a n d vice versa. W h a t is speak­ able b e t w e e n a magazine essayist a n d an a u d i e n c e c o n c e r n e d with art a n d analysis is unspeakable b e t w e e n a p o p u l a r journalist and an audience c o n c e r n e d with "every­ day" news. A n d there are a d o z e n p e o p l e I—or y o u — m i g h t tell the story o f R e d , Rose, a n d the u n n a m e d semenophage. "Unspeakable," then, is always a s h o r t h a n d for "unspeakable unless a c c o m p a n i e d by especially press­ ing rhetorical considerations" ( T h e u n s p e a k a b l e is as m u c h a b o u t cruelty as it is about sexual­ ity. I n d e e d , for many o f us it is w h e r e they m e e t ) : I d o n ' t know how to tell y o u this, but . . . (The unspeakable comprises the wounds

O n the U n s p e a k a b l e a r o u n d her with f o l d e d arms, an anorexically thin black w o m a n with missing teeth l e a n e d over m e to smile: "You want c o m p a n y . . . ?" T h e n , r e c o g n i z i n g m e for gay, she grinned, s h r u g g e d , a n d whis­ pered, " O h . . . !" a n d h u r r i e d on. Oblivious, Rose o p e n e d h e r eyes. "Man, I'm itchin', too," she told Red: ' Y o u w a n n a scratch my b a c k . . . ?" R e d finished his o w n clawing and turned to Rose with a g r u n t and a c o u p l e of b e w i l d e r e d sighs. Without really l o o k i n g u p , he rubbed the side o f Rose's navy sweatshirt. "No," Rose said. " U n d e r n e a t h . " So R e d put his h a n d u n d e r the frayed cloth and r u b b e d . Rose twisted in the seat. "Hard, m a n . Yeah, there. Hard. L i k e that. T h i s is killin' me!" N o t l o o k i n g any m o r e awake, Red l e a n e d his full hundred-thirty p o u n d s (five o f w h i c h is hair) into her, rubbing, raking. "That's it," Rose said, her b a c k toward him. " G o on. K e e p it u p , man." In d o w n j a c k e t a n d knitted watch cap, a n o t h e r white g u y pushed t h r o u g h the fellows hang­ ing a r o u n d the b a l c o n y door. Husky, g o o d - l o o k i n g , b e t w e e n eighteen and twenty-three, he could be an a p p r e n t i c e starting at one o f the construction sites fur­ ther up, in from L o n g Island a n d just off w o r k — o r he c o u l d b e a working-class student from o n e o f the city's outlying colleges. L o o k -

63

o n the b o d i e s o f a b u s e d c h i l d r e n , their mutilations and o u t r a g e o u s shrieking or tight-lipped m u r d e r s at the h a n d s o f parents); I have s o m e t h i n g I really have to e x p l a i n to y o u . . . (It is certainly any pleas­ ure at such abuses, even private, p o r n o g r a p h i c , onanistic); Allow m e to m a k e a special p o i n t h e r e . . . (It is civil o r political prisoners tortured or slowly slaughtered by i d e o l o g u e s o r their h i r e ) ; You mustn't take it personally, b u t . . . (It is the uncritical c o n j u n c t i o n in the m i n d o f certain social critics o f p o r n o g r a p h y a n d such pleasure— a c o n j u n c t i o n that dissolves with any real e x p e r i e n c e s o f the r a n g e of current, c o m m e r c i a l p o r n o g r a ­ phy or the real practices o f practic­ ing sadists and masochists—that makes the p o r n o g r a p h i c unspeak­ able, b e y o n d any rhetorical re­ d e m p t i o n , impossible to a p o l o g i z e for); Now, this may s o u n d very cruel, but I feel I j u s t have to say . . . Quotability always allows, at least as a limit case, the everyday j o u r n a l i s t to q u o t e the unspeak­ able artistic a n d / o r analytic text. (What h e c a n n o t d o — w h a t re­ mains, for the journalist, unspeak­ able, save t h r o u g h an analytical raid a m o n g the esthetic figures o f analysis, o f apology, esthetic dis­ tance—is tease apart for his every­ day a u d i e n c e the boundary, the g a p b e t w e e n p r o b e and presenta­ tion, b e t w e e n interpretation a n d representation, b e t w e e n analysis and art.) It is as if w e must estab­ lish two c o l u m n s , with everything

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i n g a r o u n d the aisle, h e m a d e to­ ward Rose a n d R e d as only o n e white can seek o u t a n o t h e r in the dark sea. Sitting two seats away from w h e r e Rose still swayed u n d e r Red's r u b b i n g , for a m i n u t e the n e w guy l o o k e d at the dull, n e a r colorless picture down o n the screen; n o w a n d again h e g l a n c e d at the pair to his left. Finally, h e t u r n e d in his seat, smiled openingly, l e a n e d toward r o c k i n g Rose, a n d asked: "Can y o u use a n o t h e r h a n d ? " N o t l o o k i n g from u n d e r the b r o n z e blades o f h e r hair, Rose said: "Huh?" "Can y o u use a n o t h e r h a n d ? " "Huh?" Rose still d i d n ' t l o o k u p . "Can y o u use a n o t h e r h a n d ? " S h e l o o k e d now. (Red w e n t o n scratching.) "What'd y o u say?" T h e kid was good-natured, pleased with himself: "I said, ' C a n y o u use a n o t h e r hand?'" Because there were n e w words in the sentence, Rose was back to the b e g i n n i n g o f h e r befuddlem e n t . " H u h ? " S h e g r i m a c e d , with eyes already pretty m u c h swollen closed. (This m u c h repetition is, o f course, narratively u n a c c e p t a b l e , aesthetically u n s p e a k a b l e : Its only e x c u s e is accuracy o f transcrip­ tion; its only m e a n i n g is the pa­ tient persistence o f it: Repetition, said Freud, is desire.) T h e guy repeated: "Can y o u use another hand?" "Huh?"

o f o n e m o d e relegated to o n e side a n d everything o f the other rele­ g a t e d to the other. It's as if w e h a d to figure the im­ possibility o f such a task, such a split, such a gap—figure it in lan­ g u a g e — r a t h e r than write o f it, speak o f it. T o speak the unspeakable with­ out the p r o p e r rhetorical flourish o r introduction; to muff that flour­ ish, either by accident, misjudgment, or simple i g n o r a n c e ; to c h o o s e the w r o n g flourish or not c h o o s e any (i.e., to c h o o s e the flourish called "the literal") is to p e r f o r m the unspeakable. M a n y o f us are n o t taught the p r o p e r rhetorical flourishes that allow us to say anything anywhere: H o w to tell y o u r parents y o u ' r e gay. H o w to tell y o u r boss you want a raise. H a v i n g said any o f these unspeakable things, that's n o guar­ antee it will p r o d u c e the effects we want. B u t the fear o f reprisals (or failure) b e c o m e s o n e with the ig­ n o r a n c e o f how to say it. This is a form o f oppression. T h e history o f the unspeakable descends most recently from the unprintable—from forties and fif­ ties A m e r i c a w h e n certain words w o u l d r e n d e r a text "outside the law"—an interesting metaphor, as what the m e t a p h o r ' s exclusionary force actually o n c e indicated was that, u p o n containing such words, a text b e c a m e a privileged object of the law. T h e m e t a p h o r was the under­ side o f a system whose major thrust

O n the U n s p e a k a b l e "Can y o u use a n o t h e r h a n d ? " His tone o f whispered goodwill did n o t vary. Rose pulled herself u p , t u g g e d the front o f h e r sweat shirt d o w n (it rode u p from h e r belly right away because b e h i n d h e r R e d was still r u b b i n g ) . "You g o t any m o n e y ? " she asked, finally, voice raucous and bitter. T h e kid s h o o k his head, laugh­ ing a little, n o t as a negative answer but just to a c k n o w l e d g e the suggestion's preposterousness. She can sell the niggers a n d spies a r o u n d t h e m ten dollar blowjobs, he was thinking, b u t n o t h i m . (Even h e is unaware that Rose will g o for five.) H e t u r n e d back to look at the movie. T h e n , after an­ other minute, he stood. F e e l i n g along w h e r e foam r u b b e r p u s h e d between the metal backs, with their c h i p p e d m a r o o n paint the color o f his knitted cap, a n d the torn c o r d u r o y o f the seat cush­ ions, he e d g e d to the aisle. A few rows down, o n the other side o f the balcony, were three sets of two chairs apiece, all o c c u p i e d e x c e p t o n e at the front, before the iron balcony rail. Beside the free seat, in a black b o m b e r j a c k e t , fur collar up and white hair awry, an older Puerto Rican slept against the wall. T h e white kid m o v e d down the aisle, l o o k i n g left and right, like the eyes o f a reader sweeping back a n d forth in their descent a l o n g the c o l u m n a r text. (The unspeakable is always in the c o l u m n you are not reading. A t any

65

was protective. T h a t w h i c h was within the l a w — p e o p l e , actions, texts, p r o p e r t y — w e r e p r o t e c t e d by the law. W h a t was outside the law was attacked, d e t a i n e d , im­ pounded, exploited, and pun­ ished by the law. T h e b o u n d a r y was b e t w e e n a passive surveillance in the n a m e o f p r o t e c t i o n a n d an active aggression in the n a m e o f retribution. T h e n o t i o n that a n y o n e should clearly a n d c o m m i t t e d l y believe in the absolute locatability o f such a b o u n d a r y is, for m a n y o f us (if n o t most o f us), u n s p e a k a b l e . Yet we function as if such a b o u n d a r y were lucid, absolute, a n d unques­ tionably everyday. T h e everyday a n d the unspeak­ able are only the linguistic—the 'social,' in its most limited sense— shadows o f this legalistic system: the passive surveillance a n d the ag­ gressive attack o f the law s p o k e n of, written o f (figured) as an in­ side and an outside. In m a n y cases, desire lies like a bodily b o u n d a r y b e t w e e n the everyday a n d the u n s p e a k a b l e . In s o m e circles it is u n s p e a k a b l e to call m e n feminists: they may b e "feminist sympathizers," but a "male feminist" is as m u c h a contradic­ tion in terms (as well as a sign o f the m o s t naive political c o optation o n the part o f any w o m a n w h o accepts the term) as a "white black-militant." In o t h e r circles— A m e r i c a n a c a d e m e , for e x a m p l e — it is c o m m o n p a r l a n c e . In s o m e circles it w o u l d b e u n s p e a k a b l e to

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given m o m e n t it is what is o n the opposite side o f the M ô b i u s text at the spot your own eyes are fixed on. T h e unspeakable is mobile; it flows; it is displaced as m u c h by lan­ g u a g e a n d e x p e r i e n c e as it is by de­ sire.) R e a c h i n g the empty chair, the guy hesitated, p u s h e d his lower lip over his u p p e r a m o m e n t in thought; b u t the Puerto Rican really s e e m e d out o f it. So h e sat d o w n beside h i m and u n z i p p e d his coat. T u g g i n g his belt o p e n (like a text that l o o p s a n d seals u p o n it­ self, w i t h o u t c o m m e n c e m e n t or termination, the u n s p e a k a b l e lies in the silence, b e y o n d the white space that a c c o m p a n i e s the text, across the m a r g i n a l b l a n k that d r o p s o p a q u e l y beside the text to­ ward a c o n c l u s i o n a r y a b s e n c e that finally is n o t to b e f o u n d ) , uns n a p p e d h i s j e a n s , p u l l e d d o w n his fly, a n d p a r k e d his R e e b o k s o n the lower metal rail. T u g g i n g his c o c k o u t from the side o f his briefs, he m o v e d it from o n e fist to a n o t h e r a n d b a c k a few times, b e f o r e h e b e g a n to j e r k . F r o m w h e r e I sat, across the aisle a n d a row b e h i n d , the h e a d a b o v e t h u m b a n d fore­ finger l o o k e d like a Barbie-doll hard-hat. His u p w a r d tug was clearly the business o n e ; down­ ward was j u s t to g e t his fist back to w h e r e h e c o u l d pull u p . N o w a n d again h e ' d rub the t h u m b o f his free h a n d across his c o c k ' s c r o w n

suggest that c o m m e r c i a l porno­ graphic films are relatively less sex­ ist than the c o m m e r c i a l n o n p o r n o g r a p h i c c i n e m a . Yet this is certainly the way in w h i c h they strike m e . (However minuscule their plots, they have a h i g h e r pro­ p o r t i o n o f female to male charac­ ters; they show m o r e w o m e n hold­ i n g m o r e j o b s and a wider variety o f j o b s ; they show m o r e w o m e n in­ stigating sex; they show a higher p r o p o r t i o n o f friendships between w o m e n ; a n d they show far less physical v i o l e n c e against w o m e n than d o the c o m m e r c i a l films m a d e for the same sociological au­ d i e n c e . T h e i r particular didactic message a b o u t the sexual act per se is that "the n o r m a l sex act" should i n c l u d e cunnilingus, fellatio, male superior, a n d female superior posi­ tion; anything else is perceived as a diversion from this norm.) But it is precisely this rhetorical frame that m a k e s such an analysis—here— speakable, precisely as it makes speakable the analysis o f the soci­ ology o f pornography (in the literal sense o f writing a b o u t prostitutes) that is to follow. T h e positioning o f desire is a result o f social power. B u t the c o n t e n t o f desire does not contain—the way a mirror contains —social power, in image or in real­ ity. (What it contains, if anything other than itself, is that tiny part of the f r e e d o m o f language asso­ ciated with abjection.) Indeed, it is

4

Coming/ Out

In the twenty-seven years since the 1 9 6 9 Stonewall riots, " c o m i n g o u t " has a c q u i r e d e x t r a o r d i n a r y significance in the gay c o m m u n i t y — s o m u c h significance that many o f us m i g h t e v e n say c o m i n g o u t "defines" the difference b e t w e e n b e i n g gay a n d an older, pre-gay n o t i o n o f b e i n g h o m o s e x u a l . T h r o u g h m u c h o f that quarter-century-plus, w h e n , if y o u h a d n ' t " c o m e o u t o f the closet," m a n y gay m e n a n d lesbians felt y o u h a d s o m e h o w betrayed t h e m , that y o u c o u l d n ' t really "define y o u r s e l f as gay," that y o u had n o t " a c c e p t e d y o u r gay identity," I f o u n d myself f a c e d with a p a r a d o x : M u c h o f my critical enterprise over that same p e r i o d had b e e n d e v o t e d to s h o w i n g that s u c h "defining" or "identifying" events (when, as a reader, y o u first b e c a m e aware o f s c i e n c e fiction; w h e n , as a child, y o u realized y o u w e r e black, gay, or an artist) simply did n o t "define" anything. In the gradual, continual, a n d constantly m o d u l a t i n g process o f be­ c o m i n g w h o we are, all events take their m e a n i n g s , characteristic or un­ characteristic, from the s u r r o u n d i n g event field in w h i c h they occur. While certainly they contribute to what we are or are b e c o m i n g , single events simply d o n o t carry the explicative strength "definition" a n d "identity" d e n o t e . T h i s is n o t to say s o m e events a r e n ' t m o r e i m p o r t a n t than others. Recently I h a d a discussion with a w o m a n w h o , s o m e years back, h a d b e e n a catcher in a circus aerial act. "Well," she said, "I see what y o u mean. But I r e m e m b e r the m o m e n t my p a r t n e r fell. It c o m p l e t e l y c h a n g e d my life. W e were in the m i d d l e o f a p e r f o r m a n c e in Las Vegas. I didn't d r o p h e r — I ' m rather touchy a b o u t that. S h e was swinging around, h a n g i n g from a h a n d - l o o p attached to the trapeze. T o steady her, I was fronting the b a r — m y term for b a l a n c i n g horizontally o n my pelvis o n a still trapeze. W e were j u s t getting ready for the finale. T h e loop b r o k e a n d she flew out, still o n h e r side—and w e n t d o w n . She landed o n the c o n c r e t e , almost thirty feet below. N o , she wasn't killed.

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B u t she shattered h e r elbow, b r o k e h e r arm, and bruised herself from h e a d to foot. F r o m that m o m e n t o n , I just c o u l d n ' t be an aerialist again. I f o r m e d a n o t h e r act with my boyfriend immediately, w h e r e h e was the c a t c h e r this time. I guess it was to prove to myself that I hadn't c h a n g e d . B u t three w e e k s later, after three m o r e p e r f o r m a n c e s , I quit." She sighed. "I missed the circus for the n e x t ten years. B u t my life just wasn't the same after the a c c i d e n t as it was before." "I d i d n ' t say that w h a t h a p p e n s in a single m o m e n t can't change your life," I told her. "I said that it d o e s n ' t deftneyour life. W h a t m a d e that mo­ m e n t have the m e a n i n g for y o u that it did was your previous years o f training as an acrobat, as an aerialist, the circus tradition; it was the med­ ical e m e r g e n c y that followed, the severity o f y o u r partner's injuries, the response o f the p e o p l e a r o u n d y o u — a l l that makes such an o c c u r r e n c e as o v e r w h e l m i n g l y significant as it was. T h e fact that y o u did g o u p again, a n d also that y o u missed the circus for so l o n g , o n c e y o u left, shows how m u c h wasn't changed in spite o f the very real c h a n g e that did occur." It's a subtle b u t i m p o r t a n t difference. My friend a g r e e d . All the incidents I a m g o i n g to r e c o u n t — n o n e so dramatic as my aer­ ialist friend's a d v e n t u r e — c h a n g e d my life. B u t they c h a n g e d it in small, distinct ways. N o n e o f t h e m m a r k e d a before or after point, distinguish­ i n g a b s e n c e from presence. Rather, each is notable because it was a. point o f c h a n g e , a p o i n t w h e r e w h a t was present b e f o r e was still present, only in r e a r r a n g e d form.

/ My s e c o n d s u m m e r c a m p was as wonderfully rich a n d pleasant (I was ten) as my first h a d b e e n nightmarish. T h e boys in the senior c a m p area were h o u s e d j u s t b e y o n d a small hill, the Knoll, in a clearing in the trees, the Tent Colony. T o o n e side was a plank-walled, black-brown shack with a slant roof: the boys' John. Inside were two wooden-stalled showers, two wooden-stalled c o m m o d e s , sinks, a n d urinals. O u t s i d e , just left o f the door, against the c r e o s o t e d planks a n d above a splatter o f gravel, the steel basin (that let the water fall o u t the b o t t o m o n t o the stones) leaned askew. A water fountain's rusted spigot thrust u p from it, with an ancient spring-knob to turn it o n . A r o u n d a twenty-five- o r thirty-yard clearing, set in pairs, were the w o o d e n platforms a n d frames over w h i c h , for the summer, o r a n g e or olive drab canvas tents were p u t u p to h o u s e the y o u n g male campers: two tents for B u n k Five, two tents for B u n k Six, two tents for B u n k Seven,

C o m i n g / Out

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two tents for B u n k Eight, and, finally, c o m p l e t i n g the circle o n the o t h e r side o f the j o h n — t w o for storage o f extra b e d s a n d mattresses. A t least that was the ideal a r r a n g e m e n t , b u t s o m e t i m e s the vagaries o f enroll­ m e n t m o v e d things a r o u n d . T h e o t h e r interruption to this pattern was geographical: T h e far c o r n e r o f the c o l o n y d i p p e d steeply, so that the B u n k Seven tents were practically o u t o f sight o f the others. 1 9 5 3 , the s u m m e r the K o r e a n War e n d e d a n d my s e c o n d s u m m e r at W o o d l a n d (I was eleven n o w ) , b e g a n with a major disappointment. I a n d some o f my friends from the previous s u m m e r w e r e assigned the same tents beside the j o h n for B u n k Six as we h a d b e e n in, the year before, for B u n k Five. T h e camp's logic a n d folklore was that the y o u n g e r y o u w e r e , the closer they w a n t e d y o u to the b a t h r o o m . T h e extra eight- o r n i n e yard walk across the w o r n grass a n d gravel was to b e a m a r k o f o u r o n e year's seniority, o u r n e w maturity—and n o w it h a d b e e n d e n i e d . W e sulked as w e p u t away o u r clothes in the w o o d e n c u b b i e s beside o u r beds, newly m a d e u p with olive drab army blankets. Two days after o u r arrival, however, o n a windy a n d rainy July 3, after w e ' d hiked down the cindery road in o u r rain g e a r to the recreation a n d dining hall for breakfast, while w e w e r e eating o u r o a t m e a l a n d pan­ cakes, the weather blew u p into a windstorm. In o u r g r e e n p o n c h o s a n d yellow slickers, we c r o w d e d to the d o o r to stand at the top o f the h i g h w o o d e n steps a n d gaze out, l a u g h i n g a n d d a r i n g e a c h o t h e r to d e s c e n d to the cinders a n d gravel, o n e a c h side o f w h i c h b r a n c h e s s n a p p e d a n d quivered as torrential gusts slated the w a d i n g p o o l - s i z e d p u d d l e s b e f o r e the deluge salted t h e m over with froth. T h e rain stopped. T h e wind lessened. But w h e n we g o t back to the T e n t C o l o n y a n d the six o f us B u n k Six­ ers (in the o l d B u n k Five tent) started across the clearing, w e saw some­ thing wrong. A tree h a d blown d o w n , to fall across the tent's r o o f a n d smash the two-by-four that h e l d u p the peak. O u r counselor, Roy, a n n o u n c e d that we should stay a g o o d twenty feet away from it. O n e small, angry camper, Noah, b e g a n to argue that he h a d valuable things in there that n e e d e d to be taken out. Now! T h o u g h I did n o t say it, I felt m u c h the same. My vio­ lin was in there. T h e rest o f us a r g u e d with N o a h : S u p p o s e the tent col­ lapsed further while h e was inside? N o o n e should g o in, at least till the fallen tree was r e m o v e d . "Now don't g o in there ! " were Roy's last w o r d s as h e sprinted away to­ ward the Tent C o l o n y entrance to g e t s o m e assistance. T h e m o m e n t h e was g o n e , little N o a h uttered a harsh, "Fuck himV m a r c h e d u p to the half-collapsed tent, a n d p u s h e d within the skew o r a n g e flap, to e m e r g e a few m o m e n t s later with his m i c r o s c o p e , a b o x o f slides, a n d his c a m e r a .

7o

Shorter Views

"You're crazy," a stolid c a m p e r n a m e d Dave d e c l a r e d . "You know that? Y o u ' r e really crazy." "Well, I j u s t d i d n ' t w a n t anything to h a p p e n to this," N o a h declared, "while they w e r e f o o l i n g a r o u n d with the tree." O n c e the o r d e r was b r e a c h e d , however, w e all drifted closer to c h e c k things out. Bathtubs o f rainwater filled the bellied-down canvas. Leaves floated in it. T h e tree itself h a d l o d g e d securely. N o n e o f the tent canvas was actu­ ally torn, save a six-inch rip at o n e c o r n e r w h e r e w e a t h e r e d w o o d thrust t h r o u g h . A heavy, sensible kid n a m e d Billy shoved first at this part, then l e a n e d o n another. N o t h i n g b u d g e d . B e n e a t h the canvas, the shape the b r o k e n two-by-fours h a d fallen into was stable. "I'm g o i n g to l o o k inside, too," I said. I stepped u p t h r o u g h the front flap. Inside, weighted with all that water, the canvas pressed my b e d , held u p by my cubby beside it. T h r o u g h canvas, a watery light deviled the shadows. T h e fabric smell was far more intense than it h a d b e e n in the past two nights w e ' d slept there. Flush with the w e i g h t e d tent, part off and part o n my cubby, was my violin case. C r o u c h i n g a n d h o l d i n g the e d g e o f o n e , I squat-walked between two b e d s to see that the c u b b y c o r n e r h a d p u n c t u r e d the case's b o t t o m . I tried to tug the case free. W i t h h u n d r e d s o f gallons o f water above it, however, it w o u l d n ' t m o v e . In w h a t c o n d i t i o n , I w o n d e r e d , was the violin? O u t s i d e I w e n t b a c k d o w n the platform steps. In minutes, Roy came b a c k with the c a m p director and Mr. H e r d m e n , from the farm down the hillside. O v e r the n e x t hour, with b l o c k and tackle, the tree was r e m o v e d from the tent roof, a n d it was d e c i d e d that o u r g r o u p w o u l d relocate, along with o n e o f the o t h e r bunks. W e w o u l d g e t what, last year, h a d b e e n the B u n k Seven tents, d o w n in the depression at the Tent C o l o n y ' s corner— even further from the j o h n than the B u n k Six tents! T h e r e m a i n i n g B u n k Five tents w o u l d b e used for storage; the o l d storage tent w o u l d n o w be­ c o m e the c o u n s e l o r s ' "day off" tent. It was a vindication and a reward Na­ ture h a d e n g i n e e r e d to c o m p e n s a t e us for the indignity o f the camp's shortsightedness. T h r o u g h o u t the rest o f the m o r n i n g , w e d r a g g e d trunks and r e m a d e beds. In the collapsed tent, the water was p u s h e d o u t o f the canvas, so that it r o a r e d a n d splattered over the tent ropes. I g o t my violin case out, took it d o w n to m y n e w tent, and, o n my n e w b e d , o p e n e d it. T h e bridge's feet h a d stamped two tiny rectangular holes t h r o u g h the face—as the b r i d g e itself h a d s n a p p e d . T h e strings lay loose. A seveni n c h crack split the face.

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I lifted the instrument from b l u e plush a n d t u r n e d it over. T h e c u b b y corner had g o n e t h r o u g h the black case b o t t o m a n d p u n c t u r e d a rightangle crack in the back o f the varnished w o o d . S h o r t o f major repair, it was unplayable. T h e day's relocation m e a n t Roy h a d to b e d o w n at the c a m p office a lot. T h e wind settled. T h e sun c a m e out. T h e m o r n i n g grew warmer. A n d , in o u r new tent out o f sight in the dell, we w e r e left unsupervised. It was stolid Dave w h o suggested, "Hey, let's all g a n g u p o n some­ b o d y — a n d have a fight!" "Yeah, sure!" declared N o a h . We all felt the thrill o f possible victimiza­ tion—like a great Russian roulette g a m e . "Yeah, but w h o ' s it g o n n a b e ? " I asked. "We're g o n n a g a n g u p o n . . . " In the m i d d l e o f the tent floor, b e t w e e n the b u n k beds, Dave t u r n e d slowly. ". . . himl " H e p o i n t e d to short, heavy Billy. W h o cried out, ".. . Hey\" Relieved, the rest o f us threw ourselves o n Billy, w h o b e g a n to shout: "Come o n — c u t it out! Now, stop itl Stop!" It was also Dave w h o yelled: "Let's m a k e h i m suck o u r dicks!"—a camper w h o , before or afterwards, I never h a d any reason to think was other than straight. "Yeah!" a g r e e d Joel, a n o t h e r b i g camper, in the midst o f the fray. Like m e , J o e l wore glasses. L i k e m e , J o e l was black. L i k e m e , J o e l was light e n o u g h that y o u m i g h t n o t have n o t i c e d it. It was signaled only by the b r o a d nose and the d g h t curl to his b r o w n hair, above a bony, even horse-like face, that, o n s o m e o n e older, c o u l d have s p o k e n o f a truly interesting character. Also Joel was a b a d nail-biter. O n c e Dave h a d articulated the g a m e ' s g o a l , over the first thirty sec­ onds I n o t i c e d the i n c r e a s e d avidity, a level or two h i g h e r than a n y o n e else's, with w h i c h J o e l threw himself into it. In the crush o f the six o f us, pushing protesting Billy to his k n e e s b e t w e e n the iron-frame steads, without even l o o k i n g J o e l g r a b b e d first Dave's h a n d , t h e n m i n e , to thrust it against his grey khaki crotch. W i t h i n , his penis was hard. Dave just y a n k e d his h a n d away, a n d w e n t o n struggling with Billy, b u t I s q u e e z e d — a n d r u b b e d . A n d k e p t r u b b i n g , till first Dave, then J o e l , then N o a h , then I p u l l e d o u r flies o p e n to p u s h o u r c o c k s at Billy's gri­ m a c i n g face as he tried to twist away. Joel's a n d m i n e w e r e the only two erect. Quickly it was over. Billy was released, with a l l — e x c e p t Billy—laugh­ ing. I r e m e m b e r watching h i m carefully. M o r e than anything else, his at­ titude was a n n o y a n c e . T h e r e was n o major distaste, horror, o r degrada­ tion. But, then, the " c o c k s u c k i n g " h a d only b e e n a ritual t o u c h o f o u r

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penises to his m o u t h . O n l y J o e l a n d I h a d tried to push within his pursed a n d t i g h t e n e d lips. "That was really stupidl" Billy said—three dmes. M o m e n t s later, Roy was c o m i n g u p the tent steps, a n d the incident— like several d u r i n g those first days—simply vanished in all its bodily traces, as m u c h from Billy as it did from Dave, Joel, a n d the rest o f us. I d o n ' t k n o w w h e n I d e t e r m i n e d to speak to J o e l a b o u t it, but s o m e d m e in the following ten days I d e c i d e d to, n e x t d m e w e were alone. J o e l a n d I b o t h l o a t h e d baseball: After a w e e k , we were regularly c h o ­ sen last for the baseball teams. Finally, in despair at o u r lack o f enthu­ siasm for his u n d e r h a n d pitches, Roy p u t the two o f us to tetherball—a "girls' g a m e " set a d o z e n yards into the baseball field's foul area: A twelve-foot p o l e was driven into the g r o u n d in the center o f an irregular c o n c r e t e circle, a r o p e fixed to its top, a net at the r o p e ' s end, h o l d i n g a s o c c e r ball. J o e l a n d I batted it b a c k a n d forth, e a c h trying to g e t it past the other, till finally the r o p e w r a p p e d the post a n d the ball b a n g e d the w o o d . By the g a m e ' s end, w e were often in hysterics over o u r shared clumsinesses; a n d w h e n Roy called, "Okay—athletics is over! T i m e for y o u r swim," often w e g o t to leave for the p o o l (at the u p p e r e n d o f a h u n d r e d - y a r d field, beside a muddy, m a n - m a d e lake called the UshyG u s h y ) , a m i n u t e o r so b e f o r e the others, w h o clustered a r o u n d h o m e plate with Roy, to d e m a n d if they threw like Pee-Wee Reese, if they hit like M i c k e y M a n t l e . O n e afternoon, thirty o r forty yards a h e a d o f N o a h , Dave, Billy, a n d the others, J o e l a n d I were walking to the p o o l . 'Joel," I said, "do y o u r e m e m b e r w h e n w e h a d the fight w h e r e we all m a d e Billy suck o u r cocks?" ' Y e a h , " J o e l said. "Sure." "We really liked that, d i d n ' t we? I m e a n , I c o u l d tell—you and m e , we liked it a lot m o r e than the others did." "Huh? Yeah, I guess w e did." "I c o u l d see it. I m e a n , I liked it t o o . " T h e n I said: "I think that's be­ cause w e ' r e h o m o s e x u a l . " T h o u g h I h a d r e a d it, l o o k e d it u p in the dictionary, and searched it o u t o f the i n d e x e s o f any n u m b e r o f b o o k s , this was the first time I'd s p o k e n the w o r d " h o m o s e x u a l " to a n o t h e r person. " O h , " J o e l said. ' Y e a h . I guess so . . . I figured that." H e let o u t a sigh. I sighed too. "It's funny," I said. ' Y o u and m e . W e ' r e b o t h h o m o s e x u a l . We're both Negro . . . " "Well,"Joel said, after a c o n s i d e r e d m o m e n t . "I'm only halfNegro. It's j u s t m y father." I was a litde surprised. A shade or so lighter than Joel, I'd never

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thought o f myself as anything o t h e r than black. B u t then, h e ' d b e e n raised by a white mother. I'd seen t h e m t o g e t h e r the previous year's Vis­ iting Day. F r o m s o m e c h a n c e conversation, w h e n I'd asked h i m w h y his father h a d n ' t b e e n able to c o m e u p , I'd l e a r n e d Joel's d a d h a d left the family so l o n g a g o J o e l d i d n ' t even r e m e m b e r him. "Yeah," I said. "But in this country, that d o e s n ' t m e a n anything. L e ­ gally, y o u m i g h t as well b e all N e g r o . " "Yeah," Joel said. "I t h o u g h t a b o u t that, t o o . " "We should probably be friends," I said. '"Cause w e may have a very rough time. A lot o f p e o p l e d o n ' t like p e o p l e like us, w h e n they find out." "Yeah,"Joel said, "I know." It s o u n d e d as t h o u g h that c a m e from e x p e r i e n c e . Before we r e a c h e d the p o o l , w e h a d a g r e e d to b e friends—then h a d practically n o t h i n g to d o with e a c h o t h e r for the s u m m e r ' s remainder. T h r e e years later, w h e n I e n t e r e d the B r o n x H i g h S c h o o l o f S c i e n c e , I learned that J o e l h a d also arrived there as a freshman. N o n e o f o u r courses overlapped, t h o u g h , a n d a certain anxiety c o n n e c t e d largely to what I was learning a b o u t what society t h o u g h t o f such sexual pursuits kept m e from seeking h i m out. By my j u n i o r year, however, e x p e r i e n c e had sedimented within m e b o t h m o r e self-consciousness a n d m o r e so­ cial awareness. I d e c i d e d to find J o e l — i f only to say h e l l o again, to see how he was d o i n g , and, yes, to reminisce a b o u t o l d times at s u m m e r camp. I asked a girl n a m e d M a d d y if she r e m e m b e r e d him. S h e did. B u t after three or four days, it b e c a m e clear that J o e l n o l o n g e r a t t e n d e d the school. I asked a n u m b e r o f students if they h a d any i d e a w h a t h a d hap­ p e n e d to him. I even h u n t e d u p p e o p l e w h o ' d g o n e to e l e m e n t a r y school with him. N o n e h a d any news. In the years since, I've run into d o z e n s o f p e o p l e from my h i g h s c h o o l days; n o w and again I've h e a r d news o f d o z e n s m o r e : But, t h o u g h I've often asked after h i m , I've never e n c o u n t e r e d J o e l — o r any information about him.

II T h e r e ' s a reason heterosexuals d o n o t usually ask e a c h other, "What was the m o m e n t y o u realized y o u w e r e straight?" T h a t ' s b e c a u s e the fixing of such a m o m e n t w o u l d m e a n that there was a w h o l e b l o c k o f time, prior to it, w h e n y o u didn't k n o w y o u w e r e straight. T o k n o w y o u are straight is to k n o w y o u are n o r m a l . T h u s , to the e x t e n t that s u c h ignor­ ance is itself a form o f k n o w l e d g e , n o t to k n o w y o u w e r e straight w o u l d signify a time w h e n y o u were d a n g e r o u s l y close to abnormal. N o t only is

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that an u n c o m f o r t a b l e idea for h o m o p h o b i c reasons, also it's intuitively "off." O n e learns o n e is attracted to whatever attracts o n e — m a l e s , fe­ males, w h a t e v e r — m o r e and m o r e over a p e r i o d o f time. A n d the only times straight m e n are asked, " W h e n did y o u first b e c o m e interested in girls?" o r straight w o m e n asked, " W h e n did y o u first b e c o m e interested in boys?" are w h e n the o v e r a r c h i n g rhetorical enterprise is to trivialize a n d delimit m a l e heterosexuality vis-à-vis s o m e other social field, such as labor o r familial relationships, o r to trivialize female heterosexuality, often vis-à-vis male heterosexuality. T h e rhetoric o f singular discovery, o f revelation, o f definition is o n e of the c o n c e p t u a l tools by w h i c h d o m i n a n t discourses repeatedly suggest that there is n o b r o a d a n d r a n g i n g field o f events informing the margi­ nal. T h i s is true o f science fiction versus the pervasive field o f literature; art as c o m p a r e d to social labor; blacks as a marginal social g r o u p to a central field o f whites; a n d gay sexuality as marginal to a heterosexual n o r m . T h a t rhetoric b e c o m e s part o f the way the marginal is trivialized, distorted, a n d finally oppressed. For what is w r o n g with all these seem­ ingly i n n o c e n t questions—which i n c l u d e , alas, "When did y o u c o m e out?"—is that e a c h tends to assume that the individual's subjective field is o n e with the field o f social statistics. Sexual interests, concerns, and observations form a b r o a d and perva­ sive field within every personality, as b r o a d a field in m e as it is in you, as b r o a d within the straight m a n as it is in the gay w o m a n . W h e n we speak o f b u r g e o n i n g sexuality, that's the internal field w e speak of—not the social field defined by what p e r c e n t o f us are gay or straight, male or female. T h e discourse b e h i n d that same rhetoric o f singularity is, o f course, the discourse w h i c h stabilizes the belief that a single h o m o s e x u a l event can m a k e an otherwise straight person turn g a y — o r that the p r o p e r hetero­ sexual e x p e r i e n c e can "cure" s o m e o n e gay a n d turn h i m or her straight. A s a p r e l u d e to m o r e incidents, then, that p r e c e d e d my "coming out," I've p u t t o g e t h e r a list o f some twenty-two incidents involving sex that h a p p e n e d to m e b e t w e e n age seven ( 1 9 4 9 ) a n d a g e fifteen ( 1 9 5 7 ) , in­ c l u d i n g the 1 9 5 3 i n c i d e n t with Joel. T h e twenty-two are n o t exhaustive. T h e y are the o n e s I r e m e m b e r . A reason I r e m e m b e r t h e m is because e a c h taught m e s o m e specific lesson. (Possibly I've forgotten the sexual incidents that only r e p e a t e d o r c o n f i r m e d these lessons.) T o g e t h e r they limn the range of sexual events against w h i c h any individual event a m o n g t h e m signifies; thus they delineate at least part o f the field o f my child­ h o o d sexual awareness. T o h e l p t h e m register as a field, however, I'll speak a b o u t t h e m for a few paragraphs in statistical cross sections, rather than as specific occur­ rences, o r even as particular m e a n i n g s drawn from them:

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O n l y o n e o f the twenty-two—the earliest, d u r i n g m y s e c o n d year at my first s u m m e r c a m p , with a s o m e w h a t older girl, herself wildly misin­ formed about sex—involved anything like pain or physical abuse. Eight o f these twenty-two events o c c u r r e d in rural settings. T h r e e o c c u r r e d in suburban locations. Eleven o c c u r r e d in N e w York City, w h e r e I lived the vast majority o f my life t h r o u g h o u t those years—far m o r e than the fifty p e r c e n t the sta­ tistical d e p l o y m e n t suggests. Seventeen involved bodily contact with other youngsters. Seven o f them were fundamentally heterosexual. Finally, fifteen of t h e m were fundamentally h o m o s e x u a l , so that, with e x p e r i e n c e to back m e , I was fairly sure by the a g e o f eleven my own sex­ uality was largely g a y — t h o u g h I was curious e n o u g h a b o u t the o t h e r kind. Virtually all specifically sexual behavior for the pre-fifteen-year-old lies outside socially a c c e p t a b l e — b u t by n o m e a n s outside socially deter­ m i n e d — b o u n d a r i e s . Freud, Foucault, a n d Aries have all r e m i n d e d us that the family is the social unit that most confines a n d constrains children's sexual behavior. T h e "normal" m o d e l for all o f us in the West, even the most resolutely h e t e r o s e x u a l , is to b e g i n o u r sexual life outside the socially acceptable, as children, a n d only with time to e n t e r it m o r e and m o r e . Immediately and absolutely I b o w to the assertion that the various m e a n i n g s I took from those early incidents w e r e d e t e r m i n e d by a range of intersecting and intercritiquing preexisting discourses—discourses which allowed m e to read, w h i c h stabilized in my memory, w h i c h consti­ tuted for m e the events themselves. B u t because o f that "intercritique" o n e o f the important m e a n i n g s I quickly inferred from my e x p e r i e n c e s was that often what is said a b o u t sex d o e s n o t cover the case. B u t now we can p r o c e e d with some sense o f an i n f o r m i n g field to the following i n c i d e n t s — p r o l o g u e , as I have said, to " c o m i n g out." Generally s u m m e r c a m p was a constant series o f sexual surprises. My very first e v e n i n g in B u n k Five, a y o u n g c a m p e r n a m e d K e n r o y from Florida e x p l a i n e d to the b u n k that the way to have the best s u m m e r was if the big boys (like him) regularly f u c k e d the asses o f the smaller boys (like m e ) —and p r o c e e d e d to use an interested a n d willing m e to d e m ­ onstrate how it was d o n e . Five years later, o n my very last night, half a d o z e n o f us were cavorting about, in the altogether after lights o u t in the b u n k n e x t to o u r own, w h e n the flashlight o f the r e t u r n i n g c o u n s e l o r flickered across the p o r c h screening. T o my astonishment, big, r o u g h Berny, whose foreskin was as l o n g as his four-syllable Italian last n a m e ,

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lifted u p his covers a n d whispered, "Quick, Delany! G e t in!"—and I slid in to b e e n f o l d e d by his arms, my n a k e d b o d y p u l l e d against his, where his c o c k , already rigid, b e g a n to r u b against my belly. In that same landscape, b e t w e e n those first a n d last days, fell some half-dozen o f those twenty-two incidents that constituted the field o f my c h i l d h o o d sexuality. O n e o f the oddest was w h e n , in my third year o f senior c a m p , I n o t i c e d a boy, T o m , h a n g i n g toward the outside o f the cir­ cle o f c a m p e r s a n d counselors that w e f o r m e d every m o r n i n g a r o u n d the flag p o l e b e f o r e breakfast for Flag Raising. W h e n he t h o u g h t himself u n o b s e r v e d , T o m w o u l d d i g in his nose repeatedly with o n e thick finger o r the o t h e r a n d f e e d himself the pickings. W a t c h i n g h i m gave me an e r e c t i o n . T h e r e was litde specificity to the desire, neither to emulate nor to share, t h o u g h if h e h a d offered m e some, I w o u l d have accepted, won­ derfully pleased by the b o l d self-confidence a n d inclusion o f his gesture. ( A g e d five, in s c h o o l , I'd b e e n r o u n d l y embarrassed out o f the same habit by public ridicule, led by Miss Rubens: "If y o u are hungry, y o u n g m a n , I ' m sure w e c a n arrange for y o u to g e t s o m e t h i n g to eat. B u t stop that! ") My response was to m a k e every effort to befriend T o m and, o n c e that friendship h a d b e e n secured, to explain to h i m that I h a d n o prob­ lems with the habit I k n e w must have caused h i m , n o w and then, at least some social pain. H e s h o u l d feel free to i n d u l g e it w h e n e v e r we were a l o n e together. H e did, at first with s o m e trepidation, t h o u g h less and less as time w e n t o n . W e e n d e d u p taking l o n g walks t h r o u g h the woods, h o l d i n g h a n d s ( a n o t h e r nail-biter, h e ) , talking o f this a n d that. W h i l e h e d u g a n d ate, I w a n d e r e d a l o n g b e n e a t h the leaves, p u s h i n g aside brush, c r u n c h i n g twigs, a n d c l i m b i n g over logs in a haze o f barely presexual ecstasy. T h e same years c o n t a i n e d three fairly e n d u r i n g (for weeks in each case) h e t e r o s e x u a l e x p e r i m e n t s w h i c h , while they were physically pleas­ ant e n o u g h (all three involving everything, as they say, e x c e p t penetra­ tion), nevertheless registered with a c o m p l e t e e m o t i o n a l flatness and lack o f affect, save the i m m e d i a t e frisson o f trying s o m e t h i n g new—a flat­ ness a n d lack w h o s e prevailing sign is the lack o f detail with w h i c h I re­ c o u n t t h e m h e r e . ( T h e four girls' b u n k s o c c u p i e d two b u n k h o u s e s out­ side the T e n t C o l o n y o n the o t h e r side o f the Knoll, across from a red a n d white barn—gray inside a n d h o u s i n g a P i n g - P o n g table and upright p i a n o — c a l l e d , rather eccentrically, "Brooklyn College.") A l t h o u g h the w o r d "love" was s p o k e n repeatedly—and, I suspect, sincerely—by the y o u n g w o m e n (and e v e n a few times by m e , to see h o w it tasted on my t o n g u e ) , silent j u d g m e n t was that if this was all that accrued to these "nor­ m a l " adventures—very m u c h socially a p p r o v e d o f by b o t h the male and female counselors—they just w e r e n ' t worth it. In two cases, the lessons

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learned were a m o n g the m o r e negative o n e s I took from these early ex­ plorations. O n e affair e n d e d with a fight b e t w e e n m e a n d a rival n a m e d Gary over the affection o f o n e girl w h o c o u l d not, or w o u l d not, m a k e u p her mind. ' Y o u d e c i d e w h i c h o n e o f us y o u like better," G a r y a n d I a g r e e d , "and the other o n e will g o away." "But I can't! I d o n ' t want to h u r t anybody's feelingsl " the y o u n g w o m a n insisted, then lamented, repeatedly b e h i n d B r o o k l y n C o l l e g e , while Gary and I growled, r e p e a t e d o u r request, then shoved, r e p e a t e d o u r request once m o r e , then—finally, to avoid any h u r t f e e l i n g s — b l o o d i e d e a c h other's noses. A feminist critic, to an earlier a c c o u n t o f this i n c i d e n t o n c e suggested: "Perhaps she wanted y o u b o t h a n d was as stymied in h e r ability to g e t out­ side the status q u o response as either o f y o u w e r e . " It's quite possible. Probably we were all social dupes: My rival, Gary, was fat a n d h a d l o n g dirty fingernails—and thus h e l d no sexual interest for m e . T h e o t h e r girl (Karen), the other b o y — b o t h may have b e e n acting u n d e r the impetus of an always-excessive [hetereosexual] desire. B u t if s o m e idealized so­ cial n o r m is the villain in the p i e c e , then I represent it—since, t h o u g h I sincerely liked the girl and (equally sincerely) disliked the boy, I f o u n d both without sexual interest: My actions were d e t e r m i n e d purely from my knowledge o f social norms, a n d h a d n o n e o f the creative energy, enthu­ siasm, or invention that sexual desire can sometimes l e n d — w h i c h may well be why the i n c i d e n t was the particular (and n o t greater o r lesser than the) disaster it was. I've n o clear m e m o r y o f what any o f us did afterward. I d o n ' t think much o f it was with each other. (Possibly she w a n t e d neither o f us—and this was the only socially acceptable way to g e t rid o f me.) Leave such pur­ suits to the girls a n d boys, I d e c i d e d , w h o g o t s o m e sense o f soaring, o f safety, o f security—or at least g o t the rewards from creative social manip­ ulations that h o n e s t sexual interest always adds to a situation. B u t all m y heterosexual e x p e r i e n c e s have g r o w n from opposite-sex friendships that have gotten out o f h a n d , spurred o n by a v a g u e sense o f social expecta­ tions, whether at s u m m e r c a m p or in the d o z e n years after. A n o t h e r i n c i d e n t returns m e to N e w York City, the spring in w h i c h I went from fourteen to fifteen ( t h o u g h today I d o n ' t recall w h i c h side o f my birthday it fell o n ) . By that time, I'd l e a r n e d (again, I d o n ' t r e m e m ­ ber how) that N e w York's 4 2 n d Street a n d Broadway area was o n e o f the centers o f the city's furtive h o m o s e x u a l activity. S u n d a y m o r n i n g , w h e n I was e x p e c t e d to g o to c h u r c h a n d t h e n c h o i r practice, I d e c i d e d to visit.

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I'd c o n t e m p l a t e d the j o u r n e y for days. B u t how or why, that particular Sunday, w h e n I w o k e , I knew that this was the day I w o u l d make the trip d o w n from H a r l e m , I c o u l d n ' t tell y o u — t h o u g h I recall the silent, tin­ g l i n g e x c i t e m e n t , all m o r n i n g , t h r o u g h breakfast d o w n in the kitchen, t h r o u g h shaving at the upstairs b a t h r o o m mirror, t h r o u g h putting o n my white shirt a n d tying my red tie. In gray suit a n d tan overcoat, I left my H a r l e m house to walk u p Seventh A v e n u e , turn left at 1 3 3 r d Street, stop for a shine at Lewy's sag­ g i n g g r e e n - p a i n t e d p l a n k stall, then c o n t i n u e d o w n the street, even an­ g l i n g across the m a c a d a m b e t w e e n the cars toward St. Philip's back en­ trance, n o w a n d again w o n d e r i n g if any o f the three horse bettors chatting with Lewy inside his "shoeshine parlor" w o u l d notice that, this m o r n i n g , I did n o t turn in to the Parish H o u s e that w o u l d let m e into the c h u r c h basement, b u t c o n d n u e d d o w n the street toward Eighth A v e n u e . N o , I figured, they w o u l d all b e too busy speculating on the track events that w e n t into the day's "number"—at least, I h o p e d so. T h e r e were three o r four H a r l e m blocks I knew to every inch, but my father was strict a b o u t w h e r e I was a n d w h e r e I was not allowed to g o . As little as a b l o c k away from my o w n h o u s e lay vast areas o f the neighbor­ h o o d I'd simply never seen. A t the unfamiliar c o r n e r o f Eighth A v e n u e a n d 1 3 3 r d Street I t u r n e d north, thankful for my k n o w l e d g e o f the city's grid. T h o u g h I traveled to h i g h s c h o o l every m o r n i n g using the 1 3 5 t h S t r e e t / S t . N i c h o l a s A v e n u e subway stop, this m o r n i n g ' s decision had sent m e there by a wholly new route, by n e w barbershops, new eating places, n e w a c c o u n t a n t offices, n e w r e c o r d shops, a n d new funeral par­ lors (far smaller than my father's o r Mr. Sterritt's back o n Seventh Ave­ n u e ) . Finally, at the familiar 1 3 5 t h Street subway station, across from the rising slope o f St. N i c h o l a s Park a n d u n d e r a sky without cloud, I took the steps to the d o w n t o w n side (instead o f the u p t o w n kiosk across the street—as I w o u l d have d o n e o n a school m o r n i n g ) . I c a m e u p , s o m e few minutes before nine, at 4 2 n d just in from Eighth A v e n u e . In those days, 4 2 n d Street was an all-night affair, with its d o z e n plus m o v i e houses o p e n till four o ' c l o c k in the m o r n i n g and r e o p e n i n g four h o u r s later at eight. O n weekdays, that is. O p e n i n g time was ten o ' c l o c k o n Sundays, I f o u n d o u t w h e n I w a n d e r e d u p to a closed ticket window. A c r o s s the street a n d u p at the o t h e r e n d o f the block, Grant's (where o n e c o u l d g e t h o t d o g s , h a m b u r g e r s , a n d fresh clams at the side­ walk c o u n t e r ) h a d a few p e o p l e lingering before it. Directly across from m e , s o m e o n e w a n d e r e d into the H o r n & H a r d a r t A u t o m a t , while some­ o n e else w a n d e r e d out. B u t there was certainly n o t the constant and lively flow o f pedestrians that I'd seen o n my last Saturday afternoon or Friday e v e n i n g visit with whatever friend or cousin.

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It was my first visit alone. Across the street, its n e o n lights wan in the chill spring daylight, Hubert's M u s e u m was o p e n . I w e n t to the corner, crossed, a n d d e c i d e d that m i g h t b e as g o o d a p l a c e as any to e x p l o r e . O n the front window, hand-painted letters declared: H u b e r t ' s Flea C i r c u s — a sign that easily could have b e e n twenty years old. I w e n t inside—was the Sunday m o r n i n g admission fifty cents?—and down the black stairwell, at the b o t t o m p u s h i n g t h r o u g h the o r a n g e cur­ tain. In the little r o o m , s o m e o n e else was already waiting. W h e n two other p e o p l e j o i n e d us, the g u i d e / g u a r d (wearing a u n i f o r m cap, b u t otherwise in street clothes) said they usually waited for six customers be­ fore they started. B u t it d i d n ' t l o o k as if they were g o i n g to g e t six any time soon. So we four were u s h e r e d out to see, first, b e h i n d a rail u p o n a kind o f stage, the Fat Lady, w h o told us h o w heavy she was, h o w m u c h she ate daily. T h e n , g r i n n i n g , she l e a n e d over the rail to h a n d us h e r sta­ tistics o n little p a p e r slips. W e w e n t o n to see the Alligator M a n a n d the Dog-Faced Boy. T h e g u i d e a p o l o g i z e d that the Siamese Twins w e r e off that m o r n i n g . I d o n ' t r e m e m b e r w h i c h e x h i b i t i o n w e were w a t c h i n g , but, with my overcoat o p e n , I was standing at the front, b o t h my h a n d s o n the w o o d e n bar, w h e n , o n my left hand, I felt s o m e t h i n g warm. I looked down—and up. A y o u n g black m a n in a sports j a c k e t and a cap, perhaps j u s t twenty, had slid his dark fingers over m i n e a n d was smiling at m e . I k n e w that this was exactly what I h a d c o m e h e r e for. B u t I was t o o surprised to smile. I pulled my h a n d from u n d e r his, t u r n e d b a c k to whatever was o n stage, but did n o t step away. M o m e n t s later, we were u s h e r e d into the r o o m with the flea circus—a round, glass-covered table, b e n e a t h w h o s e transparent p a n e the fleas pulled a small cart, j u m p e d over a hurdle, w o r e o d d little bits o f c o l o r e d paper that were their "costumes." M a y b e six p e o p l e c o u l d fit a r o u n d it at any o n e time. I m a d e a big show o f watching, d e c i d i n g quietly that, w h e n we went upstairs, I w o u l d speak to the y o u n g m a n — t h a t is, o n c e the oth­ ers had left. O n l y w h e n I l o o k e d u p — t h e show was over, we were asked to g o up­ stairs—he was g o n e . A p p a r e n t l y because I h a d n o t r e s p o n d e d , h e ' d de­ cided h e ' d better leave. Back o n 4 2 n d Street, I l o o k e d a b o u t for him. B u t h e ' d h u r r i e d away— perhaps g o n e into the A u t o m a t , or j u s t sprinted across to the subway. It was almost an h o u r till the movies o p e n e d . After w a l k i n g u p a n d d o w n the b l o c k a n o t h e r twenty minutes, I w e n t to the subway a n d r o d e home.

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By my last year o f h i g h s c h o o l , my friends were divided into two catego­ ries: those w h o k n e w I was "queer"—the working-class term in general use b a c k t h e n — a n d those w h o didn't. T h o s e w h o k n e w i n c l u d e d Marilyn, Judy, G a l e (friends o f mine now in c o l l e g e , a year or so a h e a d o f m e in their e d u c a t i o n ) , and a y o u n g man in a n u m b e r o f my h i g h school classes n a m e d Murray. B l o n d and grayeyed, Murray h a d b e e n b o r n in the B r o n x . B u t his hair was extremely long, as if h e w e r e s o m e E u r o p e a n or South A m e r i c a n — a half or even threequarters o f an i n c h l o n g e r than any o t h e r boy's in the school. In the preBeatles fifties, that was as g o o d as having a two-foot ponytail. T h e r e were always whispers a b o u t h o w Murray l o o k e d like a girl. His features were delicate. H e was very smart. Like m e , h e enjoyed music and the arts. I was certain h e must b e queer. T h e r e was nothing a b o u t h i m I f o u n d sexually attractive. B u t I'd also realized that, since e n t e r i n g h i g h school, the easy, poly­ m o r p h o u s bisexuality that h a d b e e n rife a m o n g my friends in elemen­ tary s c h o o l a n d s u m m e r c a m p h a d dried u p almost completely. I had m o v e d into a space w h e r e a stricter a n d stricter c o d e o f heterosexuality was taking over. If I w a n t e d to have any sort o f satisfying sexual outlet for myself, I'd have to w o r k at it. Several times I'd invited Murray to my h o u s e . A c o u p l e o f times I'd g o n e over to his. O n his n e x t visit to my place, after a few minutes o f m o o d y silence, d u r i n g w h i c h he asked m e w h a t was the matter, I told him that I was h o m o s e x u a l — a n d w a n t e d to g o to b e d with him. I was very surprised w h e n h e e x p l a i n e d to m e ( 1 ) h e just wasn't like that, (2) this was the s e c o n d time, n o t the first, that s o m e o n e had felt this way a b o u t h i m , and (3) t h o u g h h e liked m e and w a n t e d to b e my friend, h e really h o p e d I w o u l d n ' t find it too upsetting o r frustrating if he didn't share my sexual feelings. B u t (4) k n o w i n g h o w serious the matter was, he p r o m i s e d that h e w o u l d n o t reveal my secret. T o w h i c h I said, "Yeah . . . sure. Okay," actually with some relief. We r e m a i n e d friends. A n d I did h a v e — t h o u g h oddly acquired—a straight m a l e friend with w h o m , however guardedly, I c o u l d mention, n o w a n d again, my desires for other m e n , which—intellectually, at least—he s e e m e d to find interesting.

/// I first h e a r d the w o r d s "camp," "closet," a n d " c o m i n g out" all o n the same afternoon in July o f 1 9 5 9 . 1 was seventeen and had gotten ajuvenile

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role in an aspiring s u m m e r stock c o m p a n y w h o s e directors h a d h a d the ingenious notion o f basing the c o m p a n y in N e w York City. T h e y ' d rented a litde theater o n e b u i l d i n g to the west o f the St. Marks Baths, o n the south side o f St. Marks Place n e a r the c o r n e r o f T h i r d A v e n u e . ( T h e iron steps that led u p to the lobby are still there today, t h o u g h the space is now a s e c o n d h a n d c l o t h i n g store.) After o u r theatrical c o m p a n y was long g o n e , the theater b e c a m e the p e r f o r m a n c e space for E d Sanders, Allen Ginsberg, and the l e g e n d a r y Fugs. W h e n we g o t it, however, the performance space a n d lobby were in appalling c o n d i t i o n . In true summer stock style, cast m e m b e r s were requisitioned by the set designer, his assistant, and the two d i r e c t o r s / p r o d u c e r s to paint the entire theater— lobby, auditorium, a n d s t a g e — o n c e s o m e m i n i m a l carpentry w o r k h a d been done. T h e set designer and his male assistant w e r e lovers—had b e e n lovers, they told us all, that afternoon, for s o m e ten years. I was the only p e r s o n in the volunteer paint crew u n d e r twenty-one, a n d m u c h was m a d e o f it, to my embarrassment. I'd b e e n taking ballet lessons for the previous three m o n t h s and h a d a hopeless crush o n the only straight student in the class, a twenty-three-year-old aspiring actor with a w o n d e r f u l bearlike body w h o h a d b e e n instructed by his acting c o a c h to study d a n c e to "learn how to m o v e . " W e were b e c o m i n g friends, b u t I'd taken a lesson from Murray: T h e r e was as m u c h c h a n c e o f o u r b e c o m i n g lovers as there was o f this thick-thighed, stout-bellied fellow's b e c o m i n g a dancer. B u t I'd never g o n e back to 4 2 n d Street, and, despite the b a n t e r a n d repartee in the Ballet T h e a t e r m e n ' s c h a n g i n g r o o m (and, frankly, there wasn't m u c h ) , in many ways I was as naïve a b o u t the social side o f h o m o s e x u a l ity as it was possible for a N e w York City y o u t h to be. F r o m the j o k i n g that w e n t o n a m o n g the actors painting the theater lobby that afternoon, I l e a r n e d that " c o m i n g out" m e a n t having y o u r first h o m o s e x u a l e x p e r i e n c e . A n d what y o u c a m e out into, o f course, was h o m o s e x u a l society. Until y o u h a d a major h o m o s e x u a l e x p e r i e n c e , y o u could be—as many younger, older, straight, gay, male o r female folk have always b e e n — a kind o f mascot to h o m o s e x u a l society. B u t it took s o m e major form o f the sexual act itself to achieve " c o m i n g out." A n d f o o l i n g around with y o u r bunk-mates after lights out, I was i n f o r m e d , was not major. T h e origins o f the term w e r e d e b u t a n t e cotillions, those sprawling, formal society balls w h e r e , squired by equally y o u n g a n d u n c o m f o r t a b l e cousins, brothers, or schoolmates, y o u n g ladies o f sixteen or so "came out" into society. By n o w I h a d b e e n an escort at a c o u p l e o f those, too— Harlem variety: the presentation m a r c h d o w n the hall's r e d central carpet, two seventeen-year-old or eighteen-year-old g e n t l e m e n o n the arms

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o f e a c h sixteen-year-old y o u n g lady, the listless rehearsals in e c h o i n g ballrooms, the quivering o r c h i d petals, the nervous parents, the rented tuxedos. D u r i n g that afternoon's painting session, I first l e a r n e d what "a c a m p " was—the c o l o r s c h e m e the directors had c h o s e n for the theater, for one: p e a c h , g o l d , a n d azure. I also l e a r n e d that "to c a m p " and the g e r u n d " c a m p i n g " d e n o t e d dressing u p in d r a g and, by extension, acting in a particularly effeminate manner, either in private or in public—flouting the notions o f the straight w o r l d by flaunting the customs o f the q u e e r o n e . T h e n o u n form was the base form: " O h , my dear, she is such a c a m p ! " ("she," in such cases, almost always referring to a m a l e ) . Etymologically, o f course, " c a m p " was an a p o c o p a t i o n o f "camp follower." C a m p followers w e r e the w o m e n , frequently prostitutes, w h o followed the armies across E u r o p e from military c a m p to military c a m p . Since the military have always h a d a special place in h o m o s e x u a l mythology, and presumably b e c a u s e the advent o f a large g r o u p o f y o u n g , generally womanless m e n was as g o o d an e x c u s e as any for cross-dressing a m o n g the local male p o p u l a c e so inclined, the then-new m e a n i n g o f the term—"to g o o u t a n d c a m p it up"; "to have a m a d c a m p " (and "mad c a m p " was the phrase most c o m m o n l y in use) — g a i n e d currency in En­ g l a n d d u r i n g W o r l d War I a n d h a d b e e n b r o u g h t back to the U n i t e d States by A m e r i c a n soldiers. Calling s o m e t h i n g "a c a m p " followed the same linguistic template as calling a funny e x p e r i e n c e "a riot." Indeed, the two were often synonymous. T h a t same afternoon, I l e a r n e d that ordinary day-to-day h o m o s e x u a l argot h a d a far m o r e analytic way o f dividing u p p e o p l e by sexual prefer­ e n c e s than any b u t the most detailed psychiatric j a r g o n : T h e r e were queers interested exclusively in "seafood" (sailors); there were "toe q u e e n s " (foot fetishists) a n d "dinge q u e e n s " (white m e n interested only in blacks) a n d "snow q u e e n s " (from a p o p u l a r b r a n d o f ice cream, black m e n interested only in whites) a n d "speed q u e e n s " (this last, taken from the n a m e o f a c o m m o n clothes washing m a c h i n e : It m e a n t a gay male a d d i c t e d to a m p h e t a m i n e s ) . T h e r e were "leather q u e e n s " (the S & M crowd) a n d "size q u e e n s " ("There are two kinds o f queers, my dear. T h e r e are size q u e e n s — a n d there are UarsV) a n d "chubby chasers" and "chicken q u e e n s " (those w h o w e n t after y o u n g children) and "closet queens." H o w e v e r mildly pejorative e a c h was, e a c h represented an active per­ version. A closet q u e e n was s o m e o n e w h o liked d o i n g it in the closet— that is, w h o enjoyed the fact that friends a n d others d i d n ' t know. I d o n ' t k n o w h o w m u c h my discovering a g r o u p o f gay m e n w h o used these terms a n d expressed themselves with this slang had to d o with it,

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but four m o n t h s later, in O c t o b e r , w h e n the plays a n d playfulness o f the summer were over, I "came out." In many ways it was a repeat o f s o m e t h i n g I'd already d o n e , t h o u g h not for three years. O n c e m o r e , alone, I w e n t d o w n to 4 2 n d Street—on a Saturday afternoon. This time I walked directly to the largest theater o n the strip, the N e w A m s t e r d a m , and, inside, took a seat midway b a c k in the orchestra. It was a busy day, a n d soon p e o p l e w e r e sitting o n b o t h sides o f m e . T h e film was a western in w h i c h I h a d n o interest, b u t w h i c h I made myself watch. After fifteen minutes, o n my right I felt a leg m o v e against m i n e . I re­ m e m b e r e d what h a d h a p p e n e d to the guy in H u b e r t ' s M u s e u m a n d re­ solved not to let this o n e get away, n o matter w h o it was. I pressed back. S o o n a h a n d was o n top o f m i n e ; it m o v e d over to my crotch. I felt a r o u n d b e t w e e n his legs. H e was stubby a n d hard. W h e n I looked, he was a d u m p y guy in his m i d d l e o r late forties, with glasses a n d white hair. Finally, tentatively, h e l e a n e d over to speak. " C a n y o u c o m e h o m e with m e . . . ?" H e had a strong accent. "Yes! " I declared. We g o t u p together and left the theater. H e lived in B r o o k l y n , h e ex­ plained. Brooklyn was a l o n g way; but I was d e t e r m i n e d . O n the subway, sitting inches apart, we h a d a spare conversation. T h e man was Israeli. H e ' d b e e n in the country not quite a year. I also realized, as we rode over the Manhattan B r i d g e , h e was nervous. A block from his house, I listened to his c o m p l i c a t e d instructions. H e would g o in first and leave the d o o r o p e n for m e — i f it was all right. If s o m e o n e was around, h e w o u l d l o c k the d o o r — h e was sorry. B u t if the door was l o c k e d , then I w o u l d simply k n o w the coast was n o t clear a n d I had to g o h o m e . If the d o o r was not l o c k e d , I was to c o m e u p to the third floor a n d knock—softly—on the apartment d o o r there. Even inside his apartment we had to speak quietly.. . . T h e d o o r was o p e n . In a stairwell c o v e r e d with cracked, yellow paint, I walked u p to the third floor. I knocked—softly. T h e d o o r o p e n e d , wide e n o u g h to show half his face. For a m o m e n t h e l o o k e d as t h o u g h h e was not sure w h o I was. T h e n , the quick whisper: " C o m e in . . . ! " H e lived in two g r u n g y rooms, the first o f w h i c h was b o t h kitchen a n d living r o o m (with very b l u e walls). H e took m e into the second. We sat o n his b e d and p u t o u r arms a r o u n d e a c h other. I was e x c i t e d e n o u g h by the whole situation o f d o i n g it with a stranger that I c a m e the m o m e n t w e lay down. (It remains my single e x p e r i e n c e o f p r e m a t u r e orgasm.) B e c a u s e I felt guilty for c o m i n g so fast a n d because I still h a d an erection, I tried

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to b e o b l i g i n g while w e took o u r clothes off—he never r e m o v e d his undershirt—and w e l a b o r e d to an orgasm for him. "Okay," h e whispered, as soon as h e finished. "You gotta g o now." " C o u l d n ' t w e rest j u s t a little?" I asked, even as I slid o n my pants. I'd w o r k e d h a r d to m a k e h i m c o m e , a n d I was tired. H e took a d e e p breath. ' Y o u w a n n a rest a little . . . ?" H e didn't sound happy. "But I d o n ' t think it w o u l d b e g o o d in the same b e d . " H e g o t u p and, carrying the clothes I h a d n ' t yet p u t on, took m e back into the living r o o m / k i t c h e n . "I rest in there. You rest in h e r e — o n the c o u c h . " "Okay . . . " I said, sat o n the sagging yellow sofa, a n d stretched out. H e h u r r i e d b a c k inside. A m o m e n t later, I h e a r d a kind o f ratchet and l o o k e d u p . T h e r e was a full key-and-lock m e c h a n i s m o n the b e d r o o m door. I stretched o u t again, possibly even tried to sleep. After a little w h i l e it may have b e e n only minutes—I g o t u p , w e n t back a r o u n d the c o u c h , and knocked. T h e r e was n o answer. I tried the k n o b — y e s , h e ' d firmly l o c k e d the d o o r against m e . S u d d e n l y I g o t a sense o f the despairing idiocy o f the w h o l e thing. "Hello . . . !" I called, t h r o u g h the door. " L o o k , I'm g o i n g to g o h o m e now." H e didn't answer. Maybe he'd fallen asleep. "I'm g o i n g to leave now. G o o d - b y e . " I p u t o n my shirt a n d my shoes, g o t o n my j a c k e t , and w e n t outside into the hall a n d d o w n the stairs. A year later, I'd h a d m a n y m o r e sexual e x p e r i e n c e s , m a n y o f t h e m o n 4 2 n d Street, m a n y o f t h e m o n C e n t r a l Park West. If y o u ' d asked m e to evaluate my " c o m i n g out" e x p e r i e n c e against these others on a scale o f o n e to ten, w h e r e five was a v e r a g e / a c c e p t a b l e , I'd have given it a two. Frankly, it d o e s n ' t often g e t m u c h worse than that. B u t the unpleasant o n e s are the most informative; I'd l e a r n e d from it h o w m u c h anxiety cer­ tain m e n c o u l d c o n n e c t with the sexual e n c o u n t e r — a n d how m u c h anx­ iety p e o p l e were willing to p u t u p with to have sex in spite o f it. Eventually I d e s c r i b e d the e x p e r i e n c e in a l o n g letter, c o m p l e t e with an attempt to sketch the m a n ' s face, i n t e n d e d for my friend Gale, which I never sent her. Rather, I k e p t it. A year later, w h e n I read the letter over, I was astonished by h o w m a n y stock phrases o f despair and disgust I'd used, as t h o u g h the entire vocabulary for describing the incident had b e e n lent m e by s o m e true-confessions m a g a z i n e (that didn't exist) de­ v o t e d to d e g r a d i n g h o m o s e x u a l e n c o u n t e r s . T h e e x p e r i e n c e had only b e e n a two, after all—not a o n e or a z e r o !

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A n o t h e r bit o f fallout from the w h o l e business is worth m e n t i o n i n g . I talked a b o u t the e x p e r i e n c e endlessly to Marilyn, to Judy, to G a l e . I also talked with t h e m o f the m u c h m o r e pleasant e n c o u n t e r , only a few weeks later, with a Puerto Rican pharmacist w h o p i c k e d m e u p o n C e n ­ tral Park West and gave m e detailed instructions o n h o w to give a n d take anal sex, and w h o lived in a friendly b r o w n s t o n e off the park, all o f whose tenants were gay a n d most o f w h o m I m e t over a three-day stay. I told t h e m about the twenty-three-year-old postal worker, w h o drove m e back to his apartment in Brooklyn. Q u i t e as anxiety r i d d e n as the Israeli, at least he was o n e o f the most physically g o r g e o u s m e n I've ever b e e n to bed with, before or since. I told t h e m a b o u t the o d d e x p e r i e n c e s with Cranford and Peter a n d the incredibly h u n g black m a n , j u s t o u t o f jail, who took m e back to the E n d i c o t t H o t e l . ("He c a m e w a l k i n g u p to m e , where I sat o n a b e n c h o n Central Park West, s t o p p e d right in front o f me, with a big, friendly smile, a n d said, 'Hi, there. W h a t y o u o u t l o o k i n ' for?' A n d I said, 'I d o n ' t know! W h a t d o y o u . . . have?' A n d h e said, " O h . . . ' b o u t eleven i n c h e s — ' ! " G a l e threw h e r h a n d s over h e r face a n d cried, "No! No—really} O h , my G o d . Really? N o , d o n ' t tell m e this. Yes, tell me . . . ! " ) O t h e r friends—mostly m a l e — I simply d i d n ' t e v e n c o n s i d e r b r o a c h ­ ing the subject with. O n e o f those was my g o o d friend B o b . I d o n ' t think I've ever k n o w n a n y o n e w h o h a d m o r e hostility toward his parents, b o t h o f w h o m were fairly elderly—his father a doctor, his mother an administrator in the N e w York public h i g h s c h o o l system. A grandmother lived with t h e m , w h o reputedly h a d quite a bit o f m o n e y (millions was the r u m o r a m o n g the tenants at M o r n i n g s i d e G a r d e n s housing cooperative w h e r e w e ' d b o t h lived t h r o u g h o u t m y h i g h school years). B o b claimed that his parents' only interest in letting his grand­ mother live with t h e m was h e r wealth. F r o m what I'd seen o f his parents and his grandmother, that s o u n d e d patently unfair. B u t to visit their apartment with B o b was s o o n to witness a shouting m a t c h b e t w e e n child and parents o f a vicious intensity I've never e n c o u n t e r e d , b e f o r e o r since, at any social level. Bob's sexual history was equally strange. T h e first time h e ' d mastur­ bated, he e x p l a i n e d to m e , h e ' d b e e n twelve or thirteen, sitting in the tub finishing a bath. T h e orgasm h a d o c c u r r e d underwater. Soapy b a t h water had b a c k e d u p his u r e t h r a a n d spermduct; within a day o r two, in­ fection had ensued. Afraid to tell his parents a b o u t it, h e ' d let it g o till it reached an incredibly painful state. H e ' d h a d to be hospitalized a n d come near having to b e castrated. H e ' d never masturbated again. Almost exacdy a year after the O c t o b e r I c a m e out, my father died. A n d at the same m o n t h ' s e n d (itwas i 9 6 0 ) , I m o v e d into B o b ' s 1 1 3 t h

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Street apartment, in the St. Marks A r m s (no, it h a d n o t h i n g to d o with St. Marks Place) a n d i m m e d i a t e l y — u n b e k n o w n s t to Bob—started a low-key, pleasant, desultory affair with a white guy from the South w h o lived d o w n the hall from us, n a m e d L e o n . A t a b o u t the same time, Judy a n d B o b h a d g o n e o u t o n a few dates to­ g e t h e r — a n d Judy finally told h i m o f my 4 2 n d Street adventure. Today, I'm n o t sure if h e realized h o w l o n g a g o it h a d b e e n . But o n e evening, w h e n I c a m e in a n d s t e p p e d into the living r o o m full o f Bob's ham-radio e q u i p m e n t , w h e r e b o t h o f us slept, h e switched off his m i c r o p h o n e , t u r n e d a r o u n d a n d stood u p s o m e w h a t uncomfortably, his b l o n d hair awry, his bare feet o n the cluttered rug. Pulling at his T-shirt, he began: "I've g o t s o m e t h i n g very i m p o r t a n t to say to y o u , C h i p . You d o n ' t have to say anything back. Judy told m e that y o u . . . did s o m e t h i n g . D o w n on 4 2 n d Street. Y o u k n o w what I ' m talking about. We d o n ' t have to say ex­ actly what it w a s — n o , d o n ' t say anything n o w . . . " I was d u m b f o u n d e d . I h a d n o idea what h e was talking about. T h e in­ c i d e n t I'd told Judy a b o u t h a d o c c u r r e d almost a year ago; and t h e r e ' d b e e n a g o o d l y n u m b e r o f others since, on 4 2 n d Street and elsewhere. I b e g a n to realize that it must have h a d to d o with sex—and probably h o m o s e x u a l sex. O n l y as h e w e n t on, did I realize it was last year's "com­ i n g out" that h e was talking about. ". . . B u t I d o n ' t w a n t y o u to d o anything like that ever again! That's very important. Y o u have to p r o m i s e m e — n o , w e ' r e n o t g o i n g to talk a b o u t it. B u t y o u have to promise m e that—see? I d o n ' t want y o u to try to e x p l a i n it. I d o n ' t want y o u to say anything a b o u t it at a l l — e x c e p t that y o u p r o m i s e m e y o u ' l l never d o it again. A n d n o w I've a c c e p t e d your p r o m i s e — " (All I'd d o n e was raise an eyebrow, w h e n finally I'd realized w h a t h e was referring to.) "—and n o w it's over. W e ' l l never m e n t i o n it a n y m o r e . It's all b e e n taken care of. I won't—I promise you. A n d you won't. B e c a u s e y o u ' v e p r o m i s e d m e . That's all there is to it." N o d d i n g his h e a d , h e t u r n e d b a c k to sit at the radio. I was left to g e t a soda from the i c e b o x , sit for a while, read, then fi­ nally leave the little apartment w e shared to g o off d o w n the hall, d r o p in o n L e o n , and, b e t w e e n bouts o f l o v e m a k i n g , tell h i m about what B o b h a d said, decry h o w self-righteous h e ' d b e e n , but suggest that w e ' d bet­ ter b e careful, the two o f us. . . . O n e night seven years later, I was leaving my mother's h o u s e and ran into B o b , w h o was n o w m a r r i e d to a pleasant y o u n g black w o m a n with w h o m I h a d g o n e to e l e m e n t a r y s c h o o l . W i t h a surge o f old friendship he invited m e to c o m e u p a n d say h e l l o . H e a n d his wife were living in an­ o t h e r M o r n i n g s i d e G a r d e n s a p a r t m e n t filled with strange contraptions: m e c h a n i c a l gypsy fortune-telling b o o t h s o f the sort that had lined the

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walls o f Hubert's M u s e u m ; o l d musical instruments c o n t a i n e d in glass booths, such as the T a n g o Banjo or the D u o Arts Player P i a n o or the V i o lano Virtuoso (a player violin built in 1 9 1 6 with m e c h a n i c a l stops a n d an automatic bow that played songs p r o g r a m m e d into it). B o b h a d restored them all and had b e c o m e an e x p e r t o n t h e m — t h o u g h they m a d e his apartment l o o k like the b a c k storage r o o m in a bizarre carnival. T h e notes I took o n the evening, right afterward, p r o v i d e d a scene in the novel I was then writing, Nova. A year or so later, B o b t o o k his own life s o m e w h e r e in the C a r i b b e a n .

TV W h e n I was seventeen and my friend J u d y was e i g h t e e n , o n e e v e n i n g I left my parents' M o r n i n g s i d e G a r d e n s a p a r t m e n t to visit a coffee s h o p a r o u n d o n A m s t e r d a m A v e n u e a n d settle into the p h o n e b o o t h , so J u d y and I c o u l d have an u n i n t e r r u p t e d hour-and-a-half conversation. J u d y had b e e n a child actor a n d was n o w a dancer. She knew lots o f gay m e n , some o f w h o m (Freddy H e r k o , V i n c e n t W a r r e n , J a m e s Waring) s h e ' d introduced m e to. I r e m e m b e r my surprise w h e n she said (the first o f half a d o z e n w o m e n w h o w o u l d later tell m e the s a m e ) , "I always wanted to be a m a n so I c o u l d g o to b e d with other m e n . I've often w o n d e r e d why anyone w o u l d want to g o to b e d with a w o m a n , anyway!" T h e c o m ­ m e n t was offered as support from a y o u n g w o m a n to a y o u n g e r gay m a n . But even in 1959—pre-Stonewall; p r e - W o m e n ' s Liberation; pre-Martin Luther King—I c o u l d hear in it a p r o f o u n d and troubling dissatisfaction with the whole situation o f w o m a n in this country. Marilyn, Judy, and Gale are a trio o f n a m e s anyone w h o has l o o k e d at my memoir, The Motion of Light in Water ( 1 9 8 8 ) , will r e m e m b e r as repeat­ edly s o u n d i n g out, singularly a n d together, t h r o u g h the course o f my late adolescence a n d early m a n h o o d . Marilyn, in A u g u s t 1 9 6 1 , b e c a m e my wife; we lived together for thirteen years a n d have a w o n d e r f u l daughter w h o has always k n o w n h e r parents were gay. (In 1 9 8 4 , w h e n she was ten, my d a u g h t e r sat o n a p a n e l o f C h i l d r e n o f Gay Parents at the Lesbian and Gay C o m m u n i t y Services C e n t e r in N e w York, discussing the situation and answering questions. All those children a g r e e d that it's best to let your child know as early as possible. T h e s o o n e r they know, the less traumatic it is.) W h e n w e were first married, I r e m e m b e r how, at eighteen, Marilyn s e e m e d to d e l i g h t in using gay terms a n d gay slang in front o f o u r straight friends, to m a k e j o k e s o r to pass c o m m e n t s to m e b e h i n d their backs or over their heads. Several times w h e n w e w e r e alone, I asked her not to. It s e e m e d as t h o u g h she w o n d e r e d w h a t was

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the fun o f b e i n g gay if it wasn't a special c l u b that allowed y o u to have it over the ordinary p e o p l e . B u t in that n e e d to be special, I sensed the same dissatisfaction with the ordinary situation o f w o m e n that I h a d in Judy's statement o n the p h o n e a year or so before. Racism, anti-Semitism, sexism, a n d h o m o p h o b i a are intricately re­ lated—only secondarily b e c a u s e o f the o v e r l a p p i n g categories o f op­ pressors. Despite their vast r a n g e o f specific differences, so many o f their m e c h a n i c s follow the same pattern, from the direct inflicting o f eco­ n o m i c a n d social d a m a g e s , to b l a m i n g the victim a n d the transcendental mythicizing o f the victim's "world." Immediately o u r marriage b r o u g h t that analysis (the tale is told in Motion) to articulation. If only as a gloss, I must m e n t i o n h e r e all the help, support, and friendship I've had from w o m e n , over these same periods, in learning to u n d e r s t a n d these m e c h a n i s m s — f r o m hours, months, years o f personal discussion, questions, a n d insights, to the (at the institutional level) m a n y v o l u m e s o f feminist and social analysis I've b e e n lucky e n o u g h to have t h e m push at m e , without w h i c h my understanding o f the m e c h a n ­ ics o f oppression, from racism to h o m o p h o b i a , w o u l d have r e m a i n e d in another, far m o r e i m p o v e r i s h e d ballpark. J u d y a n d Marilyn r e m a i n my friends to this day. A n d happily I w o u l d w e l c o m e a r e u n i o n with Gale. All three eventually took greater or lesser j o y in lesbianism. B u t b e i n g gay is n o t a matter o f b e i n g in a special club. In this country it's a belea­ g u e r e d situation that o n e must learn to negotiate as best o n e can. I d o n ' t think I've ever b e e n that m u c h into control—as an earlier gen­ eration m i g h t have p u t it. B u t I d i d want to b e in control o f w h o knew a n d w h o d i d n ' t know I was gay. In the h o m o p h o b i c social field that ob­ tained pre-Stonewall (and, i n d e e d , s i n c e ) , it was still—as it h a d b e e n with B o b — a litde too disorienting w h e n p e o p l e f o u n d out on their own. As o u r c u r r e n t society is discursively constituted, that is still o n e o f the things that creates tension in the relations b e t w e e n s o m e gay m e n and a range of women. It's a p h i l o s o p h i c a l p a r a d o x : Differences are what create individuals. Identities are what create g r o u p s a n d categories. Identities are thus conditions o f comparative sim­ plicity that c o m p l e x individuals m i g h t m o v e toward, but (fortunately) never achieve—until society, tired o f the c o m p l e x i t y o f so m u c h individ­ ual difference, finally, o n e way or the other, imposes an identity o n us. Identities are thus, by their nature, reductive. (You d o not n e e d an identity to b e c o m e yourself; y o u n e e d an identity to b e c o m e like s o m e o n e else.) W i t h o u t identities, yes, l a n g u a g e w o u l d b e impossible (because

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categories w o u l d n o t b e possible, a n d l a n g u a g e requires c a t e g o r i e s ) . Still, in terms o f subjects, identity remains a highly p r o b l e m a t i c sort o f reduction a n d cultural imposition. T h r o u g h the late sixties the sensation-hungry m e d i a b e g a n r u m m a g ­ ing t h r o u g h various marginal social areas for n e w a n d e x c i t i n g v o c a b u ­ lary. In almost every case, however, o n c e a n e w term was f o u n d , an al­ most c o m p l e t e c h a n g e in m e a n i n g o c c u r r e d as it was a p p l i e d to m o r e o r less bourgeois e x p e r i e n c e s a n d c o n c e r n s . "Rap" h a d already b e e n appro­ priated from the w o r l d o f down-and-out a m p h e t a m i n e d r u g g i e s ("rap­ ping" was initially the term for the u n s t o p p a b l e , often i n c o h e r e n t cas­ cade o f talk from s o m e o n e w h o ' d taken too m u c h o f the d r u g ) ; " c a m p " had already b e e n b o r r o w e d from gay slang, largely in the w a k e o f a p o p ­ ular 1 9 6 4 Partisan Review essay by Susan Sontag, "Notes o n ' C a m p , ' " after which it all but lost its m e a n i n g o f "cross-dressing" a n d b e c a m e a g e n e r a l synonym for 'just too m u c h . " With Sontag as q u o t a b l e source, " c a m p " be­ came an adjective, driving out "a c a m p " a n d "campy"—as t h o u g h "riot" were to be used as an adjective, displacing b o t h "a riot" a n d "riotous." (To ears my age, adjectival " c a m p " still sounds like a usage error.) Spurred o n by Stonewall a n d the rapid formation j u s t after it o f an orga­ nized Gay Liberation Front, the term " c o m i n g out" over the n e x t eight­ een m o n t h s c h a n g e d its m e a n i n g radically. Gay liberation p r o p o n e n t s b e g a n to speak a b o u t " c o m i n g out" o/"the closet"—the first time either the words or the c o n c e p t s h a d ever b e e n linked. (Till then n o o n e w o u l d have t h o u g h t o f asking the closet q u e e n to give u p his closet any m o r e than o f asking the toe q u e e n to give u p his toes—save in the smug, p e r e m p t o r y tone in w h i c h all perversion was de­ cried.) In the m e d i a this m e t a p h o r i c a l e x t e n s i o n s o o n c o m p l e t e l y dis­ placed the denotative m e a n i n g ("coming o u t into" gay society: having one's first major gay sexual e x p e r i e n c e ) . A g o o d n u m b e r o f p e o p l e — m y ­ self i n c l u d e d — w h o were u n d e r the impression w e h a d c o m e o u t ages ago, now realized w e were e x p e c t e d to c o m e o u t yet again in this wholly new sense. T h e logic o f " c o m i n g out"—in this new sense—was i m p e c c a b l e . Six­ teen and seventeen years before, the H o u s e U n - A m e r i c a n Activities C o m m i t t e e , a l o n g with its h o u n d i n g o f communists, h a d b e e n equally vigilant in its crusade against h o m o s e x u a l s : Its logic was that h o m o s e x u ­ als were security risks because w e were susceptible to blackmail. Said the Gay Liberationists, if w e ' r e "out," n o b o d y can blackmail us a n d n o b o d y can accuse us o f b e i n g blackmailable. S o let t h e m all k n o w w h o w e are, how many o f us there are, and that w e ' r e p r o u d to b e w h a t w e are! L i k e m a n y gay m e n , I f o u n d myself seriously asking, "Just h o w o u t am I?"

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In i g 6 i , I'd g o t t e n married. A s far back as i g 6 4 , I'd d e c i d e d — w h e n I'd a spent a few weeks in Mt. Sinai Hospital's m e n t a l ward—that if anyone ever asked m e was I queer o r not, I w o u l d never even c o n s i d e r lying. Was that a kind o f "coming out"? O n l y it was five years before Stonewall a n d in a wholly pathologized situation. A n d t h o u g h I'd m a d e the decision (and stuck to it), years had passed w i t h o u t my having to confront such a question directly and test my resolve. In 1 9 6 7 I'd published a story, "Aye, and G o m o r r a h . . . ," in which the basic situation dealt with a future perversion, clearly an a n a l o g u e o f cur­ r e n t homosexuality. T h e story w o n a N e b u l a A w a r d for best SF story o f its year. I was sure most o f the tale's readers w o u l d assume I was gay. In 1 9 6 8 , I'd written "Time C o n s i d e r e d as a H e l i x o f Semi-precious Stones," a story a b o u t h o m o s e x u a l S & M which w e n t on to win b o t h a N e b u l a and a H u g o . I was pretty sure any r e a d e r w h o ' d had doubts a b o u t my sexual­ ity after the first story w o u l d have t h e m cleared u p with the second. Was I afraid o f b e i n g f o u n d out? Yes. In n o way d o I m e a n to imply I partook o f s o m e particularly h e r o i c social bravery. T h e fact that I was gay had b e e n o n e o f the greatest factors in d e t e r m i n i n g m e to c o m m i t myself seriously to writing a n d the arts in the first place: Even in my early teens I knew the worlds o f theater, d a n c e , a n d literature were far m o r e tolerant o f such deviancy as m i n e , whereas w h a t h a p p e n e d to g e t m e n a n d w o m e n in m o r e "central" areas o f e n d e a v o r were the sort o f tragedy a n d social os­ tracism portrayed in Lillian H e l l m a n ' s The Children's Hour, a play I'd read in h i g h school. A t least o n e straight science fiction scholar, w h o did not m e e t m e till m o r e than a d e c a d e later, has told m e : "I knew y o u were gay by 1968, t h o u g h I d o n ' t k n o w how I knew. N o r d o I r e m e m b e r w h o told m e . " I'm sure h e did too. T h e only p e o p l e in A m e r i c a w h o wrote even vaguely sympathetic portrayals o f gay m e n a n d w o m e n were—it was a f o r e g o n e c o n c l u s i o n — g a y themselves. In science fiction, the only gay characters not written by gay authors were those like the evil B a r o n H a r k o n n e n and his equally evil nephew, Feyd Rautha, in Frank Herbert's Dune, m o n ­ strous villains w h o D i e d Horribly in the End. By i g 6 g it was c o m m o n k n o w l e d g e t h r o u g h o u t the science fiction field that I was gay. Marilyn a n d I were living t o g e t h e r a b o u t half the time. ( W h e n Stonewall o c c u r r e d , w e were together in San Francisco.) T h e o t h e r half we w e r e following o u r own amatory pursuits, with neither o n e o f us really set o n establishing any sort o f p e r m a n e n t relationship— w h i c h was n o t p r o v i n g to be an easy solution for either o f us. A s a result o f Stonewall a n d the redefinition o f " c o m i n g out," I had to c o n s i d e r that, while I a p p r o v e d vigorously o f " c o m i n g out" as a necessary

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strategy to avoid blackmail a n d to p r o m o t e liberation, there s e e m e d to be an oppressive aspect o f surveillance a n d c o n t a i n m e n t intertwined with it, especially w h e n c o m p a r e d to the term's o l d e r m e a n i n g . B e f o r e , one came out into the gay community. Now, c o m i n g o u t h a d b e c o m e something entirely a i m e d at straights. Its initial m e a n i n g h a d b e e n a mat­ ter o f bodily practice. (It involved coming . . .) N o w it h a d b e c o m e a purely verbal o n e . Despite its political goals, was this c h a n g e really as beneficial as it was so often touted to be? Since it h a d b e e n a case o f dis­ placing a term, rather than a d d i n g a term, h a d n ' t we p e r h a p s lost some­ thing by that displacement? We heard the phrase m o r e and m o r e . It b e c a m e almost a single word. T h e straight m e d i a b e g a n to take it over. ( T h a t was the time w h e n the "si­ lent majority" was n o w " c o m i n g out" o f the closet o f its silence. A few months later, fat p e o p l e were " c o m i n g out" o f the closet o f their fat, and smokers were " c o m i n g out" o f the closet o f their smoking.) I f o u n d my­ self wanting to stop p e o p l e , every time they b e g a n say the phrase—to slow t h e m d o w n , startle t h e m with a slash struck d o w n b e t w e e n the words, m a k e t h e m c o n s i d e r what e a c h m e a n t separately, a n d r e m i n d them o f all the possible meanings—historical, new, a n d revolutionary— that the two c o u l d be p a c k e d with, either apart or j o i n e d . T h e r e was a closet o f banality, overuse, a n d cliché I w a n t e d to see "coming out" c o m e o u t of! In 1 9 7 5 , 1 taught my first university class. I told my students I was gay within the first two weeks. In the gay press the fact h a d a p p e a r e d often e n o u g h that there s e e m e d n o reason to let it m o v e t h r o u g h a n e w g r o u p of y o u n g p e o p l e as a m o r e o r less c o n f i r m e d rumor. I'd h e a r d too m a n y horror stories about gay teachers w h o did not c o m e o u t to their students, accused by neurotic y o u n g m e n or w o m e n (who knew, o f course, their teacher's secret) o f playing favorites because o f sexuality. T h e p r o b l e m is taken care o f w h e n everything is a b o v e b o a r d , w h e n they know, w h e n I know they know, a n d w h e n they k n o w I k n o w they k n o w — b e c a u s e I've told them. In the middle seventies I received a harsh criticism from a gay friend because a biographical p a r a g r a p h that a p p e a r e d in the b a c k o f a n u m ­ ber o f my b o o k s m e n t i o n e d that I was married to the p o e t Marilyn Hacker, that we h a d a daughter, a n d that Marilyn h a d w o n the National B o o k Award for Poetry. N o t only was I trying to gain prestige t h r o u g h Marilyn's reputation (ran my friend's accusation), I was falsely present­ ing myself as a straight m a n , happily married, with a family, e v e n t h o u g h in those years Marilyn and I n o l o n g e r lived together. T h e p a r a g r a p h had b e e n written perhaps a m o n t h before w e ' d last separated. I'd u s e d it, first, because it was true w h e n I wrote it. My reason for m e n t i o n i n g the

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National B o o k A w a r d I'd felt to b e wholly altruistic. T h o u g h it's the high­ est, or o n e o f the highest, awards for poetry in the U n i t e d States, the fact is, a year after y o u ' v e w o n it, hardly a n y o n e can r e m e m b e r — e v e n p e o p l e p r e s u m a b l y c o n c e r n e d with such things. ( C a n you n a m e the last three years' recipients? ) I'd t h o u g h t by putting it in my biographical squib I m i g h t k e e p the fact o f Marilyn's award before a few p e o p l e ' s eyes just a lit­ tle l o n g e r than usual. 1

T h a t ' s h o w I'd i n t e n d e d it, a n d that's how Marilyn h a d taken it. (At a b o u t that time, Marilyn a p p l i e d for an interim j o b teaching at C o l u m b i a University. W h e n the j u n i o r professor w h o was interviewing h e r men­ tioned the r a n g e o f possible salaries a n d asked h o w m u c h she w o u l d seek, she n a m e d the highest figure. H e l a u g h e d . "For us to give y o u that m u c h , " h e said, "you w o u l d have to have w o n a National B o o k A w a r d or s o m e t h i n g . " R e c o u n t i n g it to m e later, she said: "It was so m u c h fun to be able to smile at h i m d e m u r e l y a n d say, 'Well, actually . . . I have.' H e t u r n e d quite red.") I'd already m a d e o n e desultory attempt to c h a n g e the paragraph even b e f o r e my friend objected, b u t it h a d g o n e astray in the Bantam B o o k s office. Now, true, Marilyn a n d I were living apart. I had a perma­ n e n t m a l e lover. I wrote a n e w b i o g r a p h i c a l p a r a g r a p h a n d t u r n e d it in to my publisher, only to learn that a n e w run o f my science fiction novels h a d j u s t b e e n o r d e r e d m e r e days before—with the old squib! It was an­ o t h e r year a n d a h a l f b e f o r e I c o u l d c o r r e c t it. H o w e v e r i n n o c e n t my transgression, m y friend's criticism h a d its point, t h o u g h , and I felt I s h o u l d r e s p o n d to it.

V In i g 7 7 for the first time, at the World S c i e n c e Fiction C o n v e n t i o n in P h o e n i x , A r i z o n a , a p a n e l o n "gay science fiction" was p l a c e d o n the offi­ cial W o r l d C o n P r o g r a m . I was asked to sit a n d a g r e e d readily. T h e four panelists i n c l u d e d Frank R o b i n s o n (author o f the ig§6 sci­ e n c e fiction classic The Power), N o r m a n Spinrad (our t o k e n straight), a n d m e . W h e n the p r o g r a m c o m m i t t e e asked for permission to tape the p r o c e e d i n g s , I was surprised w h e n the y o u n g w o m a n o n the p a n e l flatly refused. S h e w o u l d n o t participate if there w e r e any c h a n c e o f its get­ ting back to h e r family. A w e e k b e f o r e the panel, however, I too was electrically aware that it was the first time I'd sit in front o f an a u d i e n c e a n d talk a b o u t b e i n g gay. T o o u r surprise, that a u d i e n c e t u r n e d o u t to b e standing r o o m only a n d c o m p r i s e d o f m o r e than three h u n d r e d people.

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It was wonderfully invigorating. For m e its h i g h p o i n t was w h e n R o b ­ inson told us what T h e o d o r e S t u r g e o n , already a personal h e r o o f m i n e , had had to g o t h r o u g h in 1 9 5 3 , d u r i n g a n d after writing his ovular story on a gay t h e m e , "The W o r l d Well Lost." W h e n S t u r g e o n submitted it to Fantastic, editor H o w a r d B r o w n e n o t only refused to publish it b u t l a u n c h e d a t e l e p h o n e c a m p a i g n a m o n g all the field's editors never to publish anything by S t u r g e o n again, and, further, t h r e a t e n e d to see that anyone w h o published that particular tale w o u l d b e ostracized from the SF community. Feisty little h u n c h b a c k e d editor Ray P a l m e r b r o k e the nascent boycott a n d published the story in Universe Science Fiction, w h e r e it b e c a m e an i m m e d i a t e classic. After the p a n e l h a d taken place, I was astonished h o w quickly I be­ came "Samuel R. Delany, the black, gay science fiction writer" in the straight media. ( T h o u g h my 1 9 6 7 a n d 1 9 6 8 stories h a d g o t t e n m e in­ vited to sit on the panel, they h a d p r o d u c e d n o such effect!) A n interview in the Advocate followed, a n d several articles a p p e a r e d in the Village Voice. Any newspaper m e n t i o n o f m e — e v e n in the New York Times Book Re­ view—seemed o b l i g e d to tag m e as gay (and b l a c k ) , a n d if the article was by a straight reporter, usually the tag a p p e a r e d in the first sentence. After only a little while, the situation b e g a n to s e e m vaguely hysterical, as if, through an awful oversight, s o m e o n e m i g h t not k n o w I was gay. I d i d n ' t mind. But, from time to time, it g o t a bit tired. In the late seventies, w h e n my d a u g h t e r was a b o u t four, I h e l p e d es­ tablish a Gay Fathers g r o u p with two o t h e r m e n — a b a n k vice president and a musician teaching at C o l u m b i a . O v e r the n e x t two years the g r o u p e x p a n d e d to i n c l u d e m o r e than forty fathers a n d twice that n u m b e r o f children. I was surprised to learn that, just as I had, all o f us h a d told o u r wives-to-be that we were gay well b e f o r e the w e d d i n g ; t h o u g h often nei­ ther husband n o r wife was quite sure what, exacdy, that w o u l d m e a n o n c e marriage took place. In those same years, a collection o f gay businessmen p u t o n a pro­ gram at an East Side gay c l u b in w h i c h they asked three gay m a l e "role m o d e l s " — Q u e n t i n Crisp, a n d an o p e n l y gay p o l i c e m a n o n the N e w York City police force w h o h a d b e e n m u c h in the news o f late, a n d m e — t o take part. D u r i n g the fresh-faced b l o n d c o p ' s presentation, I r e m e m b e r , he said, "You know, there've b e e n half a d o z e n articles a b o u t m e in the New York Times in the last year—but the truth is, I ' m n o t o u t to my mother." Frankly, I wanted to h u g him. I'd never s p o k e n a b o u t b e i n g gay to any­ one in my immediate family, either. I r e m e m b e r visiting my m o t h e r in 1 9 8 5 , while h e r downstairs n e i g h ­ bor, Mrs. Jackson, having d r o p p e d u p for a visit, e n t h u s e d to m e over a

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r e c e n t Village Voice article, in w h i c h , yes, I'd b e e n identified as gay in the first s e n t e n c e . D i d my m o t h e r herself know? I d o n ' t see how, d u r i n g those years, she c o u l d have missed it! Still, w e ' d never talked a b o u t it to e a c h other. Perhaps a year later, my m o t h e r took m e to see William M . Hoffman's m o v i n g A I D S play, As Is, w h i c h s h e ' d already seen o n c e and had b e e n im­ pressed with e n o u g h to see again. S h e ' d wanted m e to see it. Was this her way o f letting m e k n o w she knew? We talked only a b o u t the play, not a b o u t ourselves. A l o n g with the b u r g e o n i n g tragedy o f A I D S , I was r e a d i n g many arti­ cles by gay m e n a b o u t the p r o b l e m s they h a d getting their families to ac­ c e p t their gay lovers. My family, however, was always immediately and warmly a c c e p t i n g o f any m a n / e v e r lived with. My p r o b l e m s b e g a n w h e n w e b r o k e u p ; my folks s e e m e d unable to ac­ c e p t that such a relationship was finished. "Why d o n ' t you ever bring over X , these days?" "I told you, M o m . H e m o v e d out. W e d o n ' t live together anymore." " O h , well w h e r e is h e living? Maybe I'll call h i m u p a n d invite h i m over for d i n n e r n e x t Sunday. H e always used to enjoy my Sunday biscuits so much . . . " W o u l d my " c o m i n g o u t " to my m o t h e r really solve such a problem? (In later years, several times I'd h a d to speak to my m o m to r e m i n d her that Marilyn a n d I really were divorced.) In the mid-eighties, I was giving lectures regularly in w h i c h the per­ sonal e x a m p l e s I cited c a m e from my life as a gay m a n . O n e N o v e m b e r e v e n i n g I was l e c t u r i n g to a large a u d i e n c e at the m a i n b r a n c h o f the N e w York Public Library. Halfway t h r o u g h it, I realized my sister was sit­ ting s o m e rows b a c k — n e x t to Mrs. Jackson. W h e n the question p e r i o d afterward started, I saw a m o n g the a u d i e n c e a d o z e n o t h e r well-tailored black w o m e n , also close friends o f M o m ' s , w h o ' d c o m e to the lecture to­ g e t h e r a n d were sitting to o n e side. W h e n the lecture was over, Mrs. Jackson b r o u g h t my sister u p and ex­ plained, "I realized that P e g g y h a d never h e a r d y o u talk. You've always b e e n such an e l o q u e n t speaker, I d e c i d e d to b r i n g h e r h e r e to the Li­ brary to h e a r y o u lecture as a birthday present!" A m i n u t e later, my m o t h e r ' s friends h a d g a t h e r e d , e a c h o f t h e m congratulating m e o n o n e o r a n o t h e r o f my points. I was truly h a p p y to see t h e m . B u t I left the library that n i g h t thinking, "Well, if I wasn't out before, I a m now! " In 1 9 8 7 I b e g a n writing a memoir, focusing specifically o n changes in attitudes toward s e x — g a y sex at that—from 1 9 5 5 t h r o u g h the sixties. I

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resolved that, o n c e I finished the text, I would have the by-now-fabled "coming out" talk with M o m . Since o u r separation Marilyn h a d b e e n e x p l o r i n g h e r own lesbianism; she had finally o p e n e d the subject with my mother, only to find—to h e r surprise (but n o t really to mine) —that it h a d not g o n e well. My m o t h e r felt such things were better left b e h i n d closed d o o r s a n d not s p o k e n of. B u t because o f the nature o f the b o o k I was writing, I felt that such a direct conversation—the first a n d most i m p o r t a n t that so m a n y advo­ cates o f "coming out" e n c o u r a g e d — w a s imperative. S o m e two weeks before I finished the manuscript, in a Village restau­ rant on the way to the Public T h e a t e r with two o l d friends, my m o t h e r suffered a major stroke, as a result o f w h i c h she lost all powers o f lan­ guage, both o f speaking and o f u n d e r s t a n d i n g . S h e survived in that state, wheelchair b o u n d for the n e x t eight years. O n c e the b o o k was finished, I did have a conversation with my sister: It turned out to be easy, brief, and all but superfluous. I never did g e t the c h a n c e to c o m e out to my mother. T h e truth is, t h o u g h , it's not a major regret. Many times I've asked myself, j u s t w h e n a n d if (in the post-Stonewall sense) I did c o m e out? A l t h o u g h I approve o f c o m i n g o u t a n d believe it's imperative at the stadstical level, it's still not a question I can answer easily. Did I d o it w h e n I was eleven, walking from the athletic field with Joel? Is it what I did at n i n e t e e n w h e n , o n the platform o f the D-train, I asked p r e g n a n t Marilyn, w h o m I w o u l d shortly marry, if she was really aware that I was h o m o s e x u a l , and that even if w e married, I d i d n ' t see how that was g o i n g to c h a n g e . (She l a u g h e d a n d said, " O f course I am! You've taken m e cruising with y o u , for G o d ' s sakes! ") Did I d o it in the mental hospital w h e n I spoke to the g r o u p o f psychi­ atric residents interviewing m e a n d e x p l a i n e d I d i d n ' t think my h o m o ­ sexuality had anything to d o with any p r o b l e m s that h a d b r o u g h t m e there? Did I d o it w h e n I took my three-, four-, t h e n five-year-old d a u g h t e r o n outings with the Gay Fathers a n d o u r kids to the U p p e r C e n t r a l Park ice-skating rink, w h e r e she l a u g h e d a n d h a d fun with the o t h e r children? (As I w o b b l e d across the ice, a large black w o m a n in a s w e e p i n g p u r p l e coat, far steadier o n her blades than I, asked, "Excuse m e , b u t w h o are you all?" I explained, "We're a g r o u p o f gay m e n , h e r e with o u r . . . chil­ dren!" and fell into h e r arms.) O r did I d o it at the Staten Island Z o o , where I answered the same question for the y o u n g w o m a n taking the kids a r o u n d o n the d o n k e y ride?

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("When are w e g o i n g with the daddies again?" my four-year-old de­ m a n d e d , j u s t b e f o r e we left. E v e r y o n e l a u g h e d . A n d " T h e Daddies" be­ c a m e the g r o u p ' s unofficial name.) D i d I d o it the first time I sat o n the gay p a n e l in P h o e n i x a n d spoke a b o u t the realities o f b e i n g a gay SF writer? Will c o m i n g o u t b e s o m e t h i n g I shall d o in three weeks, o n c e I start t e a c h i n g again at the University o f Massachusetts, a n d (again) I tell the a n o n y m o u s hundred-fifty faces in my lecture class that I have to l o o k at this tale or that from the p o i n t o f view o f a gay m a n — b e c a u s e , after all, I am gay? Or, finally, is it s o m e t h i n g that I, like the gay p o l i c e m a n written about so widely in the Times, can never really d o , b e c a u s e I never c a m e out to Mother? I w o n d e r today if, instead o f c o n s i d e r i n g " c o m i n g out"—in the new sense or the o l d — a point-effect that separates a before (constituted o f si­ l e n c e , paralysis, a n d fear) from an after (constituted o f articulation and bodily, e m o t i o n a l , or linguistic f r e e d o m ) , the discontinuity between the a b s e n c e and p r e s e n c e o f an identity, it m i g h t b e better to consider com­ i n g o u t an aware attitude, a vigilant disposition, an o p e n m o o d (or even a discursive apparatus) that c o u l d beneficially inform all o u r behavior a n d discussions involving the sexual, a n d even, at s o m e points, for any n u m b e r o f considerations, contain its p r e s u m e d opposite—not c o m i n g o u t to s o m e o n e — a s l o n g as the reason involved c h o i c e and not terror, n o t intimidation, n o t victimization, n o r any o f the range o f attitudes that fall u n d e r the u m b r e l l a o f oppression. (For those, I ' m afraid, we still have to c o m e out; a n d if it's too scary to d o it by yourself, organize a fullscale demonstration: That's o n e o f the things they're for.) But the fact is, c o m i n g o u t (in the post-Stonewall sense) was s o m e t h i n g that many o f us h a d b e g u n to d o , h e r e a n d there, without the n a m e , years before Stone­ wall: Stonewall only f o c u s e d a n d fixed its statistical necessity as a b r o a d political strategy. W e n e e d to r e m e m b e r that if the h u m a n material—not to m e n t i o n the simple bravery so many have shown a n d continue to show in o u r still h o m o p h o b i c society—had not already b e e n there, the strategy w o u l d n o t have b e e n anywhere near as successful as it was. M a n y p e o p l e have m a d e the point: O n e d o e s n o t c o m e out o n c e . Rather, o n e c o m e s o u t again a n d again a n d again—because the d o m i n a n t discourse in this c o u n t r y is still o n e o f heterosexist oppression and be­ cause it still controls the hysteria to know w h o ' s gay a n d w h o ' s not. H e t e r o s e x u a l s d o n o t have to c o m e o u t — i n d e e d c a n n o t c o m e out—be­ cause there is n o discursive pressure to d e n y their ubiquity (and, at the same time, d e n y their social contribution and the sexual validity o f their growth a n d d e v e l o p m e n t , the event field-effect o f their sexuality) and to

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penalize t h e m for their existence. T h i s is the same discourse that c o n ­ strains " c o m i n g out," for all the act's Utopian thrust, to a c o n d i t i o n o f heterosexist surveillance. A n d t h o u g h perhaps my " c o m i n g out" with the anxious Israeli was an i n c i d e n t that my interested friends c o u l d subse­ quently use to define the fact that I had, i n d e e d , actually c o m e out, o r t h o u g h my " c o m i n g o u t publicly" in P h o e n i x m e a n t that the straight media c o u l d n o w define m e , regularly, as a "gay science fiction writer," t h o u g h I w o u l d n o t relinquish either e x p e r i e n c e , a n d value what b o t h taught m e (for b o t h are part o f the field of e x p e r i e n c e s that have articu­ lately demonstrated to m e that the h u m a n b o u n d a r i e s o f sexuality c a n be far m o r e h u m a n e l y p l a c e d than they have b e e n : B o t h o f t h e m c h a n g e d me, and c h a n g e d m e for the better), t h o u g h b o t h showed m e m u c h and c h a n g e d my life in ways I can only celebrate, I c a n n o t claim that either identified o r defined anything o f m e b u t only illuminated parts of my endlessly iterated (thus always c h a n g i n g ) situation. Firmly I believe that's h o w it should be. —New York City January iççô

NOTES

l. A. R. Ammons, 1993; James Tate, 1994; Stanley Kunitz, 1995.

5

A B e n d in the Road

"We're having a c o n f e r e n c e o n postcolonialism. W e ' d like y o u to take part." "But it's n o t my field. I'm a science fiction writer—a black science fic­ tion writer, w h o dabbles in gay studies." "Well—we t h o u g h t w e ' d p u t y o u o n the p a n e l called ' T h e U n i t e d States'." " O h — t h e n , I suppose so. A l l right." W h y d o I feel that, somehow, I have b e e n recolonized? W h y d o I feel, in line with Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak's definition (provisional description?) o f postcolonialism ("Postcolonialism repre­ sents the failure o f recolonization"), that if what I have to say this morn­ i n g bears any relation at all to questions o f postcolonialism or postcoloniality, as w e have u n d e r t a k e n t h e m in their multiplicity during yesterday's two panels, it will i n d e e d b e t h r o u g h that recolonization's failure?

/ "More than three-quarters o f the p e o p l e living in the world today have h a d their lives s h a p e d by colonialism," begins the introduction to a b o o k b e a r i n g a science-fiction inspired title a n d c o n t a i n i n g a collection o f fas­ cinating fictions a b o u t fiction, The Empire Writes Back. W h a t a vast topic, t h e n , o u r c o n f e r e n c e title covers! A n d only a p a g e later, we find the first m e n t i o n o f the subject o f o u r particular panel: So the literatures of African countries, Australia, Bangladesh, Caribbean countries, India, Malaysia, Malta, New Zealand, Pakistan, Singapore, South Pacific Island countries, and Sri Lanka are all post-colonial literatures. The lit­ erature of the U.S.A. should also be placed in this category. 1

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T h a t last, singular sentence, in w h i c h the U n i t e d States falls outside the b r o t h e r h o o d that—for the U S A — d e f i n e s the exotic, m i g h t give any n u m b e r o f readers pause. B u t our Empire authors, Ashcroft, Griffiths, a n d Tiffin, immediately explain their singularizing the U S A in its very own sentence: Perhaps because of its current position of power, and the neo-colonizing role it has played, its post-colonial nature has not been generally recognized. But its relationship with the metropolitan centre as it evolved over the last two centuries has been paradigmatic for post-colonial literatures everywhere. 2

It is m o o t w h e t h e r the n e x t sentence i n c l u d e s the U n i t e d States—or excludes it, as a special case, already c o v e r e d in the previous two sen­ tences. T h a t sentence reads: What each of these literatures has in common beyond their special and dis­ tinctive regional characteristics is that they emerged in their present form out of the experience of colonization and asserted themselves by foregrounding the tension with the imperial power, and by emphasizing their difference from the assumption of the imperial centre. 3

Let me note here the most fleeting, historically b o u n d e d i d e o l e c t a l dif­ ference in my own, very marginal i d e o l e c t o f written A m e r i c a n English, with its local, historically prescribed, a n d o u t m o d e d n o d o n o f prescrip­ tive grammar: In that fast-fading i d e o l e c t I write, the singularity o f "each" w o u l d control the rest o f the n o u n s in the s e n t e n c e m o r e tightly than this particular academic ideolect (which so easily encompasses "dif­ ferent than") allows. In my o u t m o d e d a n d all but s u p e r s e d e d A m e r i c a n ideolect (and let m e stress, perhaps as an invented Unity, that it is an A m e r i c a n ideolect o u r three Australian-based writers s e e m to m e to write—an i d e o l e c t that has b e e n the recipient o f m u c h translated poststructuralism and M a r x i a n rhetoric), / m i g h t have written: "What e a c h o f these literatures has in c o m m o n b e y o n d its special a n d distinctive re­ gional characteristics is that it e m e r g e d in its present form o u t o f the ex­ perience o f colonization a n d asserted itself by f o r e g r o u n d i n g the ten­ sion with the imperial p o w e r a n d by e m p h a s i z i n g its difference from the assumption o f the imperial centre." W h a t I h o p e w e can h e a r in w h a t sits so uneasily between a rewriting a n d a translation is an uneasiness with such specificity that b e g i n s with the first n o t i o n o f "regional characteris­ tics" as applied to the countries involved, an uneasiness that resonates all the way to the end.

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T h e special a n d distinctive "regional characteristics" o f Indian litera­ ture, as a hypostatized w h o l e , are certainly as p r o b l e m a t i c as the special a n d distinctive r e g i o n a l characteristics o f " A m e r i c a n " literature as a w h o l e — n o t to m e n t i o n Australian literature, C a r i b b e a n literature, or Pa­ cific Island literature. A n d w o u l d the described template really cover all postcolonial literatures in the list—including the A m e r i c a n ? W h a t about that p o s t c o l o n i a l w r i t i n g — h o w e v e r embarrassing, it is there—that sup­ ports the imperial centre? M o r e to the point, isn't that what a g o o d deal o f postcolonial literature is p o l e m i c i z i n g with, defining itself against? Es­ pecially if o n e is to i n c l u d e , h o w e v e r uncomfortably, the U n i t e d States? Is it p e r h a p s allegorical o f s o m e t h i n g w e m i g h t find useful that this par­ ticular pluralized blindness to the p r o b l e m s o f specificity occurs pre­ cisely in a s e n t e n c e in w h i c h it is u n d e c i d a b l e w h e t h e r that sentence does, o r d o e s not, i n c l u d e the U n i t e d States as postcolonial? A n d while w e h o l d o n t o that notion, certainly we should note as well that, in the pause w e spoke o f above, there is certainly r o o m for a g o o d deal o f q u e s t i o n i n g o f the w h o l e assertion. T h a t a r g u m e n t e x t e n d e d , British literature itself is a form o f postcolonial literature, since at some p o i n t in the age o f the blue-painted Picts, Britannia itself was u n d e r Rome .. .

// T h i s is w h e r e I'd g o t t e n , w h e n I asked myself: What, from my own, margi­ nal, c o n t e m p o r a r y position, d o I see in these postcolonial discussions? What, i n d e e d , is that position? I am, o f course, first a n d foremost a writer, a teller o f tales. I am, c o e q u a l with that, a black m a n , in A m e r i c a , w h o , a l t h o u g h six o u t o f e i g h t o f his great-grandparents were slaves in this country, is nev­ ertheless, in the c u r r e n t debates—in w h i c h melanists contest with culturalists, w h o contest with Afro-centrists, over j u s t what black means—at a rather p r o b l e m a t i c position. A n d quite as subjectively i m p o r t a n t as either o f the previous two, I am a gay m a n — w h i c h is to seize only a n o t h e r m a r g i n a l a n d problematic i n d e x in the discussion a r o u n d so sexually a n d hereditarily laden a no­ tion as r a c e — a n d I a m a gay m a n , let us n o t forget, w h o has h a d a wife a n d a child. F r o m such a position, fixed only t h r o u g h so many intersecting mar­ gins, if I were to c h o o s e to tell a tale, what w o u l d it be? L i k e the teller, it w o u l d b e marginal. Its relation to the discussion c o u l d b e only indirect.

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A n d , yes, it w o u l d c h r o n i c l e a certain play b e t w e e n blindness a n d a singular vision. Certain margins w e envision as safe, practicing a sort o f safe sex, as it were: my tales will all c o m e from at least twenty years a g o or m o r e — though, I h o p e , the points drawn from t h e m will not.

Ill In 1 9 6 5 , w h e n I was twenty-three, I took off to G r e e c e with a friend. I wanted to g o because the country was c h e a p . I w a n t e d to g o b e c a u s e the culture, b o t h ancient a n d m o d e r n , was o f historical interest. It h a d never o c c u r r e d to m e that G r e e c e was a colonial, o r postcolonial, country— and certainly not a c o l o n y o f the U n i t e d States. T h e G r e c o - T u r k i s h War, that, in 1 8 9 7 S t e p h e n C r a n e h a d r e p o r t e d o n so vividly in the N e w York press, for m e was a dateless ghost. B u t World War IFs G r e c o - G e r m a n hos­ tilities, as novelized by J o h n Fowles in The Magus, I'd read o f only months, if not weeks, before my trip. A n d Fowles's smoky tableaus o f the embattled islands were b u r n e d t h r o u g h by the b r i g h t i m a g e s from Law­ rence Durrell's Bitter Lemons, Prospero's Cell, Reflections on a Marine Venus, and H e n r y Miller's Colossus ofMaroussi. Also, my o w n marginal g e n r e , sci­ e n c e fiction, h a d m a r k e d the same g e o g r a p h i c area o f the i m a g i n a t i o n with R o g e r Zelazny's novel o f a devolved G r e e c e , And Call Me Conrad—as interesting a n o v e l a b o u t life in an o c c u p i e d c o u n t r y as Ulysses. T h a t novel—And Call Me Conrad— l o o k i n g b a c k o n it, should have w a r n e d m e . But it didn't. Understand: I wanted to visit Paris. Understand: I wanted to visit V e n i c e . But—understand—I w a n t e d to live in G r e e c e . T h e specific channels t h r o u g h w h i c h I'd gotten the sexual samizdat in­ formation that G r e e c e , as a M e d i t e r r a n e a n country, w o u l d likely b e . . . well, a land not o f sexual b o r e d o m b u t o f sexual pleasure, I can n o l o n g e r recall. But it was part o f the image, with w h i c h I took off from the States. Two o f us left; a n o t h e r y o u n g m a n , a C a n a d i a n , j o i n e d us o n the plane, so that w h e n w e set d o w n in L u x e m b o u r g , w e w e r e a g r o u p o f three. My c o m p a n i o n s were straight a n d white. A n d o u r trio persisted, in an uneasy c o h e r e n c e , t h r o u g h ten days in Paris at a t h e n inexpensive hotel o n the Isle St.-Louis, a n d ten days in V e n i c e at a p e n s i o n e n e a r Ferovia, and finally, after a n i g h t o n the ferry from Brindisi, t h r o u g h the Corinth Canal a n d into the Piraeus.

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Paris a n d V e n i c e h a d b o t h provided g e n e r o u s sexual encounters within the first twenty-four hours o f my stay, so that I was, at this point, rather blasé a b o u t the possibilities o f pleasure in general. A t h e n s lived u p to its reputation, however. W i t h i n the first twenty minutes we were there, while R o n w e n t in to see if any mail h a d c o l l e c t e d for us at A m e r ­ ican Express, a n d Bill, as was his wont, w e n t to c h e c k the prices in hotels that were obviously b e y o n d o u r means, I was sitting in Syntagma Square, w h e n a G r e e k in his early thirties started a conversation with m e in En­ glish, a n d after a few looks, a few n o t particularly subtle questions, sug­ gested I c o m e with h i m to the m e n ' s r o o m . W h e n we were finished, I asked h i m my usual question: "But w h e r e d o . . . p e o p l e — g o in Athens?" H e m e n t i o n e d several park areas, gave m e the n a m e s o f two movie houses in a street j u s t off O i m o i n e i a Square (one, the Rosyclaire, he told m e , I s h o u l d watch o u t for, as it c o u l d g e t a little r o u g h ) , and the names o f s o m e clubs. "But, really," he said, "in A t h e n s , if y o u ' r e l o o k i n g for it, you'll find it practically anywhere." T h e n h e left. T h a t n i g h t we three spent the first o f four days at the dingy H o t e l O i ­ m o i n e i a . T h a t e v e n i n g w e ate in a restaurant near Syntagma, recom­ m e n d e d — s i g n o f an earlier a g e — i n H o p e a n d A r t h u r Fromer's Europe on Five Dollars a Day. Pale, p l e a t e d curtains stretched over the lower parts o f the window a n d d o w n the glass in the d o o r ' s dark w o o d e n frame. We sat at a whitec l o t h e d table, eating a v g o - l e m o n o soup a n d discussing o u r travel plans. And Call Me Conrad h a d scenes set o n the isle o f K o s — a n d so, with n o m o r e reason than that, Kos was o u r destination. Just then, from the table d i a g o n a l to ours, a G r e e k businessman in his forties, w e a r i n g a staid suit a n d tie, with a horseshoe o f black hair around a prematurely bald h e a d , c o u g h e d a n d said to us in very g o o d English: "Excuse m e — I c o u l d n ' t h e l p o v e r h e a r i n g y o u . B u t the three o f you are p l a n n i n g to g o to Kos, for six weeks y o u were saying? D o e s o n e o f y o u have relatives there?" No .. . " T h e n I just d o n ' t think that's w h e r e y o u want to g o . I understand, you d o n ' t want a heavily touristed island. But, at this time o f the year, none of the islands are heavily touristed. Y o u c o u l d even g o to Mykonos, and still b e quite private. B u t K o s — y o u have to understand. T h e r e ' s nothing there at all! N o hotel. N o guest houses. I d o n ' t think there are three h u n d r e d p e o p l e living o n the island! A boat will m a k e a special stop there—per­ haps o n c e a m o n t h , if there's a particular reason to. You'll be g o i n g to an island w h e r e the p e o p l e have simply never seen tourists before. Really, with only y o u r best interest in mind, may I m a k e some suggestions . . . ?"

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His suggestion was an island called Mîlos. T h e r e were two towns o n it, an old city, Plaka, and a h a r b o r town, A d e m â s . In the o l d city, there were some catacombs and also s o m e Hellenistic ruins. A n d three days later found us o n the weekly b o a t to Milos. ( O n l y after w e arrived did w e real­ ize the island h o u s e d the site o f the discovery o f the V e n u s di Milo.) Knowing h o w isolated we were o n Milos, w h e r e , i n d e e d , in the first after­ n o o n we rented a small h o u s e o n the e d g e o f the h a r b o r town that c o u l d be traversed, e n d to end, by a sharply h u r l e d p e b b l e , w e realized h o w right o u r restaurant acquaintance h a d b e e n a b o u t the m o r e m o u n t a i n ­ ous and even m o r e r e m o t e Kos. B u t two a n d a h a l f m o n t h s later, with a n o t e b o o k full o f seaside tales a b o u t o u r local baker, butcher, cafeneon owner, fishermen, a n d landlady, a n d finally, yes, a m o n t h o n M y k o n o s , we returned to A t h e n s . I had not forgotten the locations o f the movie theaters given to m e o n my first afternoon in A t h e n s , so many weeks a g o now. A n d o n a w a r m day in a m o n t h that, in N e w York w o u l d have b e e n in the d e a d o f winter, I went to visit them. A single narrow m a r q u e e with wrought-iron d e c o r a t i o n s h u n g over both. B o t h screened Steve Reeves-style Italian m u s c l e epics, alternating with A m e r i c a n westerns. (At o n e , I recall, I saw Anjelica H u s t o n ' s first film, A Walk with Love and Death.) T o say that the Rosyclaire was the r o u g h e r simply m e a n t that there were m o r e y o u n g G r e e k s there, often from the army or the navy, actively hustling the procession o f m i d d l e aged businessmen, in a n d out, m a n y o f w h o m c o u l d easily have b e e n cousins to the m a n w h o h a d diverted us from rock-shot Kos. I w o u l d m o v e from o n e theater to the other, simply to vary the faces that, even in the flickering darkness, grew, after a w e e k or two, fairly fa­ miliar fairly quickly. A n afternoon there b e g a n with s o m e q u i p ex­ c h a n g e d with the prim a n d a g i n g g e n t l e m a n with his black b o w tie w h o took your m o n e y t h r o u g h the bars o f the Rosyclaire's ticket window, or it w o u l d involve s o m e w h i s p e r e d tale—in my inventive G r e e k — t o a n o t h e r patron a b o u t the thickly b e s p e c t a c l e d , b l u e - s m o c k e d , iron-haired, w o m a n attendant o f the incredibly sexually active m e n ' s r o o m , w h o r e i g n e d over the first three feet o f those facilities with lordly hauteur, while maintaining magisterial obliviousness to w h a t w e n t o n in the re­ m a i n d e r o f that dripping, white-tiled hall. A s far as I c o u l d tell, n o o n e ever tipped her after their first visit. In that r o u g h e r setting, then, I was surprised, o n e afternoon, w h e n I saw a y o u n g m a n , a b o u t e i g h t e e n , sit­ ting in the balcony in a suit and tie—rare a m o n g the w o r k clothes, mili­ tary uniforms, a n d slouch j a c k e t s most o f the patrons wore. H e s e e m e d a bit too p r o p e r for this milieu. But, after o b s e r v i n g h i m for twenty min­ utes, I saw he knew a n u m b e r o f the p e o p l e m o v i n g a b o u t from seat to

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seat in the b a l c o n y — a n d , a bit later, o n c e w e h a d passed e a c h other o n the narrow stairway u p to the balcony, he c a m e over to talk to me! Petros was a student—and t u r n e d o u t to b e extraordinarily intelligent. C o m m i t ­ ted to b e i n g a doctor, h e was nevertheless a lover o f literature. A t the mo­ vies—and, later, b a c k at the Boltetziou Street r o o m my two friends and I w e r e r e n t i n g — w e h a d sex s o m e three o r four d m e s . "Are y o u really black?" h e w a n t e d to know. A n d I e x p l a i n e d as best I c o u l d that, a c c o r d i n g to A m e r i c a n law and culture, I was. His response was to leap o n m e for a n o t h e r session o f lovem a k i n g , w h i c h m e r e l y c o n f i r m e d what I'd already learned, really, in France a n d Italy: that the racial myths o f sexuality were, if anything, even m o r e alive in E u r o p e a n u r b a n centers than they were in the cities o f the U n i t e d States. A l m o s t as s o o n as w e finished, Petros asked m e w o u l d I give h i m En­ glish l e s s o n s — t h o u g h h e already spoke the l a n g u a g e fairly well. In re­ turn, h e said, h e w o u l d h e l p m e with my G r e e k . C o u l d h e take o n e o f the novels I had written h o m e with h i m to try to read it? Certainly, I said. T h e four or five sessions over w h i c h I h e l p e d Pe­ tros u n s c r a m b l e the syntax o f various paragraphs in my fifth novel, City of a Thousand Suns, w e r e s o m e o f the most useful lessons in the writing o f English / h a v e ever had! A n d for my first G r e e k lesson, a day or two later, Petros c a m e over to my r o o m s after his university classes with a p a m p h l e t copy o f Yanis Ritsos's 1 9 5 6 '0 Sonata Selinophotos (The Moonlight Sonata). In that highc e i l i n g e d r o o m , with its three c o t b e d s a n d tall, shuttered windows, we sat d o w n a n d b e g a n . "If y o u are g o i n g to learn G r e e k , y o u start with very g o o d Greek—very great G r e e k poetry," Petros e x p l a i n e d . "You k n o w Ritsos? A great mod­ ern poet!" In s o m e ways r e m i n i s c e n t in b o t h tone a n d matter o f Eliot's "Portrait o f a Lady," '0 Sonata Selinophotos is a g o o d deal longer, however, and—fi­ n a l l y — m o r e c o m p l e x . T h e speaker, an o l d w o m a n in a h o u s e (which may, after all, b e e m p t y ) , k e e p s l o o k i n g o u t the F r e n c h window, wanting to g o with s o m e o n e in the m o o n l i g h t just as far as "the b e n d in the road"— "'0 streve tou dromou. " N o literary slouch, Petros spent an h o u r and a h a l f explicating the phrase, "let m e c o m e with y o u , " which tolls re­ peatedly t h r o u g h the p o e m , e a c h time m o d u l a t e d in its n u a n c e — t h e phrase with w h i c h h e h a d invited h i m s e l f to my r o o m , as h e r e m i n d e d m e with a grin. By the e n d o f two w e e k s , sex h a d fallen o u t o f o u r relationship: Poetry h a d taken its p l a c e . T h e n , with a burst o f warm weather, now at

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my e x c u s e , n o w at his, e v e n the l a n g u a g e lessons d r o p p e d off. B u t the friendship e n d u r e d . A brief trip I took to T u r k e y (I was d e p o r t e d for a week, but that's a n o t h e r story), at a b o u t this point, established a few o f its own postcolonial insights. S o m e o f the things I'd suspected were n o w confirmed: W i t h its white skirt a n d fez, the G r e e k national c o s t u m e was largely Turkish in origin. T h e G r e e k custom o f having the kitchen in the front o f the restaurant s e e m e d to be basically Turkish. A n d a g o o d m a n y G r e e k foods were very similar to Turkish foods—only the Turks ate t h e m in m u c h smaller quantities a n d m u c h m o r e varied c o m b i n a t i o n s . O n my return, I m e n t i o n e d these insights to Petros. T o appropriate a phrase directly from the imperial centre: W e w e r e not amused. O n e e v e n i n g after my return, Petros a n d I d e c i d e d to g o for d i n n e r down to the Piraeus—a few stops o u t o n the subway that b e g a n at O i m o i neia Square, with its d o z e n s o f lottery salesmen a n d their sticks a n d streaming ticket strips, strolling a b o u t the u n d e r g r o u n d c o n c o u r s e . A l o n g the docks, as the c l o u d s striped the east with e v e n i n g , w e h u n t e d out the smallest a n d most pleasant o f places w e c o u l d find: A w o o d e n structure, it was built o u t over the dockway. Inside, it was painted green, with s c r e e n i n g at the windows rather than glass. A t places you c o u l d l o o k d o w n b e t w e e n the floorboards a n d see water flicker. A t a picnic-style, o r perhaps barracks-style, table, we set o u t o u r b e e r and a plate o f mezei— hors d'oeuvres. A s w e sat, talking, j a b b i n g tooth­ picks into oily bits o f octopus, artichokes, and stuffed g r a p e leaves, some­ how we g o t o n t o the politics o f G r e e k a n d A m e r i c a n relations. W h a t pushed us across the transition from the amiable converse o f two y o u n g , gay m e n o u t in the p u r p l e e v e n i n g to s o m e t h i n g entirely other, I've never b e e n able to reconstruct. B u t suddenly Petros was lean­ ing across the table toward m e , b o t h his h a n d s in fists o n the boards. "Even this p l a c e — " h e was saying. "What c o u l d b e m o r e G r e e k than this place—eh? Y o u think, yes? H e r e o n the Piraeus docks? Eh? Well, I tell you—everything y o u see h e r e is A m e r i c a n ! T h e paint o n the walls— A m e r i c a n ! T h e s c r e e n i n g in the w i n d o w s — A m e r i c a n ! T h e nails in the boards—American! T h e fixture o n the sink over t h e r e — A m e r i c a n . Even the calendar o n the wall, there—even y o u can see that's A m e r i c a n ! "—he p o i n t e d to a pin-up calendar, in G r e e k , advertising C o c a - C o l a . " T h e blades that cut the p a p e r mats w e ' r e eating on! T h e m a c h i n e r y that puts the electroplating on this knife a n d fork. N o n e o f that is G r e e k ! L o o k out the windows at the boats in the harbor. Even if s o m e o f t h e m are Italian-built, their hull paint is A m e r i c a n ! Everything, the floor, the ceil­ ing, everything y o u l o o k at, every surface that y o u see—in this G r e e k e s t

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o f G r e e k places—is A m e r i c a n ! I have n o country! Y o u — y o u A m e r i ­ cans—have it all!" T o say I was taken aback j u s t d o e s n o t cover my response. B u t s o m e h o w Petros, then I, r e c o v e r e d . W e finished eating. T h e n we w e n t for a walk outside by the water. B u t it was, i n d e e d , as if I had c o m e so far a l o n g an e v e n i n g road, only to r o u n d a certain b e n d — t o discover a waterfall o r an o c e a n or a m o u n t a i n r a n g e b e y o n d , that I had never seen before, so that, e v e n on the return trip, n o t h i n g l o o k e d quite the same. S o o n , however, w e were m o r e or less amiable. I told Petros w h e r e I h a d to g o the n e x t afternoon—a street that m a d e h i m raise an eyebrow, then laugh. It was famous in the city for its cross-dressers. B u t I e x p l a i n e d to Pe­ tros: "No—there's an English-language school down there, w h e r e a Brit­ ish friend o f m i n e is teaching. B e c a u s e I write b o o k s , he's asked m e to c o m e a n d visit his class. H e wants m e to read t h e m s o m e t h i n g o f mine. A n d to talk a b o u t writing English with them." "Will y o u talk to t h e m a b o u t s o m e o f the things y o u spoke to m e about, in y o u r b o o k that w e read?" "Probably," I told h i m . " G o o d ! " Petros p r o n o u n c e d . We c a u g h t the subway b a c k to A t h e n s , and I walked u p steep T p p o c r a t o u to ' O d o s Boltetziou, trying to k e e p h o l d o f the fact that what I was s e e i n g — m u c h o f it, at any rate—was simply not what I had thought I was seeing w h e n I'd left.

IV T h e n e x t afternoon at twenty-to-four, I t h r e a d e d my way out from O i m o i n e i a S q u a r e to the glass d o o r with the Venetian blinds inside it, hurried u p to the s e c o n d floor o f what was called s o m e t h i n g very like the Panipistemiou Ethnike Anglike; and my British friend J o h n let m e into the r o o m , w h e r e his fourteen pupils—two girls and twelve boys, all about seventeen o r s o — h a d b e e n in session for twenty minutes o f their hour-and-a-half English lesson. T h e pages I read t h e m from o n e o f my science fiction novels and our discussion o f t h e m were n o w h e r e near as interesting as Petros's exegesis o f Ritsos. B u t the students m a d e a brave attempt to question m e intelli­ gently a b o u t it. ("How m u c h m o n e y y o u m a k e from writing o f a b o o k in A m e r i c a ? " A t the time, I m a d e a t h o u s a n d dollars a novel—seven hun­ d r e d a n d fifty, if it was u n d e r sixty thousand words. "Are writers very rich in A m e r i c a — t h e y are n o t so rich in G r e e c e , I think.") T h e n my part in

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the lesson was m o r e or less over, a n d J o h n m o v e d o n to o t h e r material. W h e t h e r it was o n e o f the students or J o h n , at s o m e point, w h o m a d e a j o k e about the cross-dressers w h o , outside, w o u l d s o o n b e strolling u p and d o w n the e v e n i n g street, I d o n ' t r e m e m b e r . B u t I recall h o w o n e thick-set, dark-eyed youngster l e a n e d forward now. "I m u s t say . . . " h e b e g a n three times: "I must say . . . I must say, b e c a u s e w e have a g u e s t today, I must say—must explain: T h e r e is no h o m o s e x u a l i t y in G r e e c e ! " In concentration, his fists k n o t t e d o n the small table b e f o r e h i m , as h e leaned with an intensity that m i r r o r e d Petros's from the n i g h t b e f o r e — t h o u g h this y o u n g m a n was a year taller, a n d w e i g h e d , I ' m sure, h a l f again as m u c h . "There is no h o m o s e x u a l i t y in G r e e c e ! T h e G r e e k s must not— can not d o that. It is dirty. It is bad. It is b a d a n d disgusting they w h o d o that. T h e Greeks d o n o t d o that. T h e r e is homosexuality only from foreigners. T h e y m a k e homosexuality in G r e e c e ! It is n o t us—the Greeks! It is the bad and dirty foreigners! It is all the b a d a n d dirty tourists that make—that bring homosexuality in G r e e c e . T h e E n g l i s h m e n . T h e A m e r ­ icans. T h e Germans. T h e tourists! N o t G r e e k s — y o u know, now! " J o h n knew that I was g a y — t h o u g h I d o u b t the students did. Perhaps, as s o m e o n e w h o had invited m e to his class, h e felt h e h a d to d e f e n d m e , t h o u g h I would have b e e n perfectly happy to let it ride. "That just doesn't make sense to m e , Costa. W h e n y o u all g o h o m e from h e r e , the p e o p l e you see on the street, most o f t h e m are pretty obviously G r e e k . Y o u h e a r them talking with o n e another, j o k i n g . That's G r e e k I hear, downstairs." "You d o n ' t see that!" Costa insisted. ' Y o u d o n ' t see that! N o t G r e e k s ! If Greeks d o that, it is only because o f the foreigners. T h e y d o it, some­ times, maybe for n e e d m o n e y — m a y b e , that the foreigners pay t h e m . B u t Greeks n o t d o that. It is bad, it is very bad. Why w o u l d G r e e k s d o that? It—how y o u say, d o e s n ' t m a k e sense!" I watched this impassioned y o u n g m a n . I l o o k e d at the o t h e r y o u n g ­ sters a r o u n d the r o o m : O n e girl in a dark sweater r u b b e d the e d g e o f a b o o k with her f o r e k n u c k l e . A boy with a b u s h o f light hair s l o u c h e d back, o n e h a n d forward over the front e d g e o f the table. S o m e smiled; some just l o o k e d u n c o m f o r t a b l e w i t h o u t smiling. T h e r o o m ' s walls w e r e gray. A ceiling fan h u n g from the center, n o t t u r n e d o n . Blinds w e r e raised halfway u p the windows. Costa's white shirt was o p e n at the neck; his sleeves were rolled u p his forearms. B e n e a t h his desk, h e w o r e dark socks b e n e a t h broad-strapped sandals, w h i c h n o w h e slid b a c k u n d e r his chair. I w o n d e r e d what surfaces o f G r e e c e , if any, I was seeing. After the class, I w a l k e d h o m e with E n g l i s h J o h n — w h o was r a t h e r breezy a b o u t it all, t h o u g h e v e n h e s e e m e d t r o u b l e d . "You know, h e m a n a g e s to m a k e that s p e e c h to us almost every o t h e r w e e k ! I wasn't ex­ p e c t i n g it today, t h o u g h , but—like h e said—we h a d a guest."

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O v e r the n e x t days, I f o u n d myself thinking a b o u t b o t h experiences. W h a t was particularly b o t h e r s o m e to m e was the way the s e c o n d seemed p o s e d to obliterate the first—to i m p u g n the very social c o n d u i t by which my n e w vision h a d b e e n gained. If, i n d e e d , as Costa insisted, I "didn't see that," w h a t was I to m a k e o f w h a t I did see? T h e way to "untrouble" such conflicting visions is, o f course, to shrug off—as daily, in those m o n t h s , I'd f o u n d myself having to do—the no­ tion o f s o m e hypostatized, m o n o l i t h i c entity called "modern G r e e c e " a n d its constitutive necessity, "the m o d e r n G r e e k . " T h e country I was in was as various a n d multifaceted in its play a n d counterplay o f ideas as anywhere else. A n d what I was seeing w h e n I l o o k e d at Costa, I now know—this side o f Stonewall—was j u s t a g o o d deal o f Petros's problems to c o m e . For better or for worse, the e x p e r i e n c e s that we actually have form the m o d e l s by w h i c h w e interpret all situations that w e encounter, verbally or pictorially, in the abstract. ( A n d a situation p r e s e n t e d to us only in film o r v i d e o is as abstract as o n e presented in words.)

V Today, however, w h e n I h e a r discussions o f h e t e r o s e x u a l A I D S in Zaire, say ( a n d A I D S is certainly the most p o s t c o l o n i a l o f diseases), it is im­ possible for m e n o t to r e m e m b e r a thirty-four-year-old black African from N a i r o b i ( o n e o f two c a r p e n t e r s w h o m I h a d regular, casual sex with in those m o n t h s ; the o t h e r was white, n a m e d J o h n , a n d lived in a f u r n i s h e d flat s o u t h o f the T h a m e s ) , w h o told m e h e w a n t e d to be c a l l e d Willy b e c a u s e his real n a m e I w o u l d p r o b a b l y b e u n a b l e to n e g o ­ tiate. F o r several m o n t h s , d u r i n g the two years I lived in L o n d o n almost two d e c a d e s a g o n o w — a city w h e r e I lived with my wife, w h e r e my d a u g h t e r was b o r n , w h e r e m y h o m o s e x u a l i t y was at its most marginal— I w o u l d m e e t h i m n e a r B a k e r Street. Willy was missing an eye from a c h i l d h o o d a c c i d e n t a n d lived in Earls C o u r t in a slightly uneasy truce with his n u m e r o u s Australian n e i g h b o r s ; a n d h e e x p l a i n e d to m e that, b e t w e e n the time h e was e i g h t e e n a n d the time h e was twenty-five, w h e n h e ' d left N a i r o b i , his s e x u a l p a r t n e r s had i n c l u d e d , in his own w o r d s , "Pretty m u c h every b l a c k African in the N a i r o b i p o l i c e depart­ m e n t . T h e y w o u l d p i c k m e u p o n their m o t o r b i k e s . T h e n w e ' d g o off— t h e n t h e y ' d drive m e h o m e . " A n d I c a n also r e m e m b e r Willy saying: "Are y o u really black? Y o u are? T h a t ' s very e x c i t i n g ! C o m e h e r e , let's d o it again!"

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T h o u g h I a m perfectly aware that Z a i r e is n o t K e n y a , t h o u g h I ' m perfectly aware p e o p l e like to e x a g g e r a t e their sexual c o n q u e s t s , I also r e m e m b e r Willy saying: "No, it is n o t like h e r e . T h e r e is n o h o m o s e x u a l ­ ity in Africa: T h e r e y o u d o n ' t talk a b o u t it at all. Y o u j u s t d o it!" B u t though his words were closer to Costa's, his inflection was closer to Petros's. My story o f G r e e c e b e l o n g s , o f course, to the n e o c o l o n i a l i s m that Ashcroft, Griffiths, a n d Tiffin d e s c r i b e d in their o p e n i n g paragraphs. If there is a point to draw from it, it is that n e o c o l o n i a l i s m c a n so easily masquerade as postcolonialism that they are often indistinguishable. A n d my story o f Willy. . . ? Understand, I d o n o t tell any o f these as a tale o f the h o m o s e x u a l s or the h o m o p h o b e s o f G r e e c e . I d o n o t tell t h e m as a tale o f the h o m o s e x u ­ als o f Africa, representing s o m e h a p p y H e g e l i a n synthesis of, for better or worse, the G r e e k opposition, say. A n d a l t h o u g h I think Willy's story of­ fers at least a partial explanation for what I h e a r d in A t h e n s eight years be­ fore, that is still n o t the direction I h o p e y o u will take the stories' e x e m plarity in. I want my tales to trouble with the same trouble that was pluralized out o f the o p e n i n g s e n t e n c e o f The Empire Writes Back a b o u t what is c o m m o n to all postcolonial literature—possible e x c e p t i o n , the United States's, w h i c h o f necessity must contain, for better o r worse, these tales. A n d as they trouble, I h o p e they r e m i n d us o f the differences in the world that have c o m e a b o u t since they o c c u r r e d . (I have since read accounts o f celebrations o f Gay Pride Day in Athens.) I h o p e they call into question certain assumptions a b o u t the w o r l d that is n o t the United States for those w h o , h e r e at this p a n e l , are c o n s i d e r i n g the United States as a topic o f e x a m i n a t i o n , study, a n d interrogation—for those w h o , h e r e , in this c o n f e r e n c e , are c o n s i d e r i n g v e n u e s w h e r e (sometimes) there is homosexuality and, sometimes, there isn't. Equally I h o p e that n o n e o f these tales suggests a c e n t e r e d answer to any question o f homosexuality, certainly n o t o f A I D S , n o r — h e a v e n forefend—of postcolonialism itself. B u t w h e n w e h e a r h e t e r o s e x u a l statistics for A I D S in Africa, I should simply like to k n o w what h a p p e n e d to the homosexual statistics, w h i c h , from all I've b e e n able to find, d o n ' t exist— though such n o n e x i s t e n c e should n o t b e terribly surprising for a c o u n t r y in which, as Willy i n f o r m e d m e , b e t w e e n bouts o f v i g o r o u s l o v e m a k i n g , there is n o homosexuality; n o r should it b e surprising that, in such a country, the h e t e r o s e x u a l statistics are as h i g h as the h o m o s e x u a l statis­ tics are low. B u t should even these—let's face it, very A m e r i c a n — t a l e s I have told eventually stand revealed as ventriloquized by the imperial cen­ tre itself, against w h i c h o t h e r marginal subjects have to p o l e m i c i z e a n d define themselves, I h o p e only that their side o f the p o l e m i c is carried

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o n at the level o f direction and indirection, o f statement and suggestion, w h i c h is w h e r e , a l o n e I think, they can b e o f any use. —New York City April 1993

NOTES

1. Bill Ashcroft, Gareth Griffiths, and Helen Tiffin, The Empire Writes Back: Theory and Practice in Post-Colonial Literatures (London: Routledge, 1989), 2. 2. Ashcroft et al., The Empire Writes Back, 2. 3. Ashcroft et al., The Empire Writes Back, 2.

6

The "Gay Writer " / " G a y Writing". . . ?

It's too easy to r e d u c e the p r o b l e m o f "the gay writer" to the split between those gay writers (like myself) w h o , o n the o n e h a n d , feel that all art is political o n e way or the o t h e r a n d that all they write is f r o m a gay position—and, in my case, from a b l a c k a n d a m a l e position as well—and those writers w h o , o n the o t h e r h a n d , feel that all they write is fundamentally apolitical, e v e n if it involves gay topics; that they are j u s t writers w h o h a p p e n to b e gay, or, i n d e e d , black, o r f e m a l e , or m a l e , or Jewish or what-have-you. W h a t e v e r o n e ' s knee-jerk reaction to either stance, the truth is that a tally o f what writers f r o m b o t h g r o u p s actually write in their fictions, in their poetry, in their plays w o u l d show that, out­ side o f direct statements o n the matter, there's n o simple way to tell from their creative w o r k — f o r certain—which i d e o l o g i c a l t h e m e e a c h es­ pouses. Writers w h o believe that art is f u n d a m e n t a l l y apolitical often p r o d u c e extraordinarily socially sensitive works. A n d it is an endless em­ barrassment to us w h o believe in the fundamentally political n a t u r e o f all h u m a n p r o d u c t i o n s that, simply f r o m the p l o t r e d u c t i o n s o f their stories, or even from the e x p r e s s e d sentiments o f their p o e m s , meas­ u r e d against whatever n o t i o n o f "political c o r r e c t n e s s " they b e l i e v e in (and, like the rest o f us, I believe in m i n e ) , writers w h o express the m o s t "correct" political sentiments can p r o d u c e the m o s t politically a p p a l l i n g work. If we are ever to solve o u r p r o b l e m s , I believe the o p p o s i t i o n b e t w e e n the two—the belief in the fundamentally apolitical nature o f the best art and the belief in the fundamentally political nature o f all art—needs to be carefully u n d o n e . Personally I suspect that m o r e i m p o r t a n t than which o f these positions a particular writer adopts is w h e t h e r that writer sees his or her own position as o p p o s i n g the majority o p i n i o n a r o u n d , o r whether the writer sees his or h e r position as m e r e l y an e x t e n s i o n o f what most other intelligent p e o p l e think. In the academy, for instance, there's a tendency to see everything as politicized: T h u s writers w h o have

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l o n g s t a n d i n g a c a d e m i c c o n n e c t i o n s can assert their oppositional stance by u p h o l d i n g art to be fundamentally apolitical. I've lived most o f my life outside the a c a d e m y in a society and at a time w h e r e a n d w h e n the n o t i o n that there m i g h t be any political aspect to any w o r k n o t a n n o u n c i n g itself as p r o p a g a n d a is hardly entertained or is wholly p o o h - p o o h e d . T h u s my oppositional belief in total politicization. But, if I ' m honest, w h e n I read with great care, say, m u c h o f Harold B l o o m , or even Paul d e M a n , n o t to m e n t i o n Milan K u n d e r a , in The Art of the Novel (three critics w h o u p h o l d that art is fundamentally apolitical), it seems that m u c h o f what they m e a n by "apolitical" is precisely what I m e a n by "political." I j u s t d o n ' t k n o w if t h e y ' d give m e as g e n e r o u s a r e a d i n g as I give t h e m . A n d , i n d e e d , the generosity o f their readings, o n e way o r the other, w o u l d b e controlled, I suspect, by their perception o f w h a t e a c h saw as the major abuses o f the position h e polemicizes against. W h a t I h o p e we can d o this afternoon is to switch the scene o f the de­ bate from that o f h o w the gay writer perceives her- or himself ( e n g a g e d in a fundamentally political o r apolitical endeavor) to h o w the gay writer is p e r c e i v e d at large. T h a t , I think, is w h e r e the debatable p r o b l e m s lie. T w o e x a m p l e s c o m e to m i n d that dramatize a r a n g e o f perceptions a n d their problematics. My first e x a m p l e is Martin D u b e r m a n . Prizewinning playwright a n d n o t e d a c a d e m i c historian, D u b e r m a n is the b i o g r a p h e r o f J a m e s Russell Lowell a n d the a u t h o r o f the definitive history o f Black M o u n t a i n C o l l e g e as well as a r e c e n t b i o g r a p h y o f Paul R o b e s o n . A n d h e is an o u t s p o k e n d e f e n d e r o f gay rights. For several years D u b e r m a n was also a regular reviewer for the New York Times. O n c e D u b e r m a n b e c a m e established as a c o m m e n t a t o r on gay rights, he f o u n d the Times s e n d i n g h i m n o t h i n g but b o o k s o n gay topics to review. After several years o f this, h e finally asked t h e m , first informally, then formally, to s e n d h i m b o o k s o n historical or dramatic topics to review as well. W h e n they didn't, with m u c h soul searching, h e finally asked them to send h i m n o m o r e b o o k s on gay topics. H e w o u l d b e glad to review for t h e m anything o n history o r theater, two areas in w h i c h he h a d d e m o n ­ strated clear a n d p o i n t e d authority. T h e result? D u b e r m a n has n o t reviewed for the Times since. My s e c o n d e x a m p l e is the career o f the writer G u y Davenport. I start by saying I have n o n o t i o n what Davenport's sexual persuasion might be. For m a n y years h e has closely associated with a w o m a n in his h o m e t o w n o f L e x i n g t o n . Even ten years a g o , such a claim as m i n e m i g h t have b e e n taken h e r e as polite disingenuousness, a protective gesture toward preju­ dice a n d the law. B u t in this case, my disclaimer is sincere. I d o n ' t know.

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N o r d o I care. Certainly D a v e n p o r t is a m o n g the most e l e g a n t writers at the sentence level to work in A m e r i c a n prose. O n l y William Gass currently c o m e s n e a r him. A n d Davenport's erudition is occasionally almost b e y o n d following . . . His short stories (in Tatlin!, Da Vinci's Bicycle, Eclogues, a n d The Jules Verne Steam Balloon) dramatize b o t h my claims. His essays (in The Geogra­ phy of the Imagination a n d Every Force Evolves a Form) confirm the facts be­ hind the drama. H e is also a superb translator from the G r e e k . His are simply the finest versions d o n e o f the prose a n d poetic fragments o f H e ­ rodotus and S a p p h o , A l k m e n , A r c h e l o g o s , A n a k r e o n , o r o f the m i m e s o f Herondis. S o m e years back, it was rewarding to see D a v e n p o r t n o w intro­ d u c i n g N a b o k o v ' s p o s t h u m o u s l y p u b l i s h e d notes o n Don Quixote, n o w writing the o d d sidebar for the Times, n o w reviewing this or that w o r k o n classicism for a general a u d i e n c e w h o m his writerly color, r a n g e , a n d pre­ cision c h a r m e d . But, as o n e b o o k followed another, it b e c a m e clear that o n e o f Davenport's fictive t h e m e s was boys masturbating, singly or in g r o u p s , now alluded to in passing, now described in electric, limpid, endlessly in­ ventive l a n g u a g e . Masturbation surfaces in half a d o z e n o f the twenty-six or so stories o f his I've read. Whatever Davenport's o w n sexual leanings, the h o m o e r o t i c c h a r g e o n these onanistic celebrations is u n d e n i a b l e ; the h o m o p h o b i c m a r g i n g e n e r a t e d a r o u n d t h e m is i n e s c a p a b l e — i n a h o m o p h o b i c society. A n d Davenport's n a m e b e c o m e s rarer a n d rarer in the better quality g e n e r a l readership magazines. T h e last time I asked a n y o n e literary a b o u t Davenport's work, I was given a small mou a n d a little shake o f the head. "No, his w o r k is too per­ fect. It's too studied—too polished; n o t first-rate art at all." But the truth is that it is too h o m o p h o b i c a l l y embarrassing. A n d since it is always embarrassing to admit embarrassment, this silly j u d g m e n t a l j u d o is positioned to cover over a topic it d o e s n o t even b e g i n to tease at, m u c h less touch on. But these two e x a m p l e s — D u b e r m a n , the o p e n l y gay writer p i g e o n ­ holed and stripped o f o n e critical platform, a n d D a v e n p o r t , the writer who, whatever his sexual fixes, nevertheless p r o d u c e s w o r k saturated with pédérastie resonances (only c o m p a r e the relative ease with w h i c h Nabokov's far m o r e legally a n d morally disturbing, a n d certainly as esthetically intense, p e d o p h i l i a was assimilated: b e c a u s e it h a p p e n e d largely in the sixties and because the transgression was h e t e r o s e x u a l ) — are, for m e , the best characterizations o f the p r o b l e m , n o t o f the gay writer (such a topic finally dissolves before the impossibilities o f defini­ tion), but o f the p r o b l e m s a c c r u i n g to the p r o d u c t i o n o f writings per­ ceived to be gay.

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T h o u g h y o u m a y accuse m e o f switching the scene of the debate o n c e a g a i n — a n d o n c e t o o o f t e n — I ' d l i k e to leave us w i t h this q u e s t i o n . N o t w h a t w o u l d w e a d v i s e D u b e r m a n o r D a v e n p o r t t o do as w r i t e r s . P r e s u m a b l y they w i l l c o n t i n u e to write a n d to p u t w h a t e v e r e n e r g i e s they d o o r d o n o t p u t into that m o s t i m p o s s i b l e o f objects, the writerly career, a c c o r d i n g to t h e i r w o n t s a n d t e m p e r a m e n t s . M y q u e s t i o n is r a t h e r : D o w e , g a y , s t r a i g h t , o r o t h e r w i s e , as r e a d e r s a p ­ p r i s e d o f the s i t u a t i o n , h a v e a n y r e s p o n s i b i l i t y to D u b e r m a n , D a v e n p o r t , o r t h e i r texts?

—Philadelphia February ig8g

7 The Black Leather in Color Interview

Questions by Thomas Deja

BLIC:

W h e n y o u s t a r t e d w r i t i n g s c i e n c e f i c t i o n , it was still b a s i c a l l y a

w h i t e , m a l e h e t e r o s e x u a l p r e s e r v e . A s a gay, b l a c k m a n , h o w d i d y o u f e e l a b o u t b e i n g t h e o d d m a n o u t ? D o y o u t h i n k it m a y h a v e c h a n g e d t h e w a y y o u r c a r e e r p r o g r e s s e d i n a n y way? W h y d o e s it still s e e m t o b e a c o m m u ­ nity o f white guys?

Samuel R. Delany:

O f c o u r s e , t h e r e are n o " h e t e r o s e x u a l " m a l e p r e ­

serves. T h e r e a r e s o c i a l g r o u p s w h e r e g a y o r b i s e x u a l m e n f e e l safe a c ­ k n o w l e d g i n g themselves—first to o n e a n o t h e r , t h e n to pretty everyone. A n d there

are o t h e r

social groups where

much

they don't.

By

h e t e r o s e x u a l p r e s e r v e , y o u s i m p l y i n d i c a t e the latter. T h e gay a n d b i s e x ­ u a l m e n a r e t h e r e . B u t t h e h o m o p h o b i a i n t h e g r o u p is h i g h e n o u g h t o m a k e t h e m wary o f a c k n o w l e d g i n g their p r e s e n c e — s o m e t i m e s e v e n to themselves. Possibly because I h a d a n extremely supportive a n d w i d e - r a n g i n g ex­ t e n d e d b l a c k f a m i l y , I've r a r e l y f e l t m y s e l f t h e o d d m a n o u t i n a n y g r o u p I've e n t e r e d — e v e n t h o u g h I p r o b a b l y w a s . A g a i n a n d a g a i n . O r , p o s s i b l y , b e c a u s e o f m y s e x u a l i t y a n d b e c a u s e o f m y i n t e r e s t i n w r i t i n g as a n a r t

(I

d i d n ' t c o m e o u t s e x u a l l y i n m y f a m i l y at a l l w h e n I was a y o u n g s t e r , a n d w o u l d have b e e n s c a r e d to d e a t h to, b u t they all k n e w I w a n t e d to w r i t e a n d t h o u g h t that was great) I'm so u s e d to b e i n g the o d d m a n o u t I j u s t d o n ' t n o t i c e it a n y m o r e . You decide where, o n the s p e c t r u m between the two, the e x p l a n a t i o n lies. C e r t a i n l y i t ' s c h a n g e d m y c a r e e r . T h e a r t i s t is a l w a y s t h e o d d w o m a n or o d d m a n o u t i n a n y g r o u p — e v e n i n a g r o u p o f o t h e r artists. ( T h a t last is t h e m o s t p a i n f u l l e s s o n w e a l w a y s l e a r n a n d t h e n r e l e a r n . ) I f t h a t ' s a n anxiety-producing situation for you, a n d you're an artist—then

you're

n6

Shorter Views

b o u n d to have a n u n h a p p y life; a n d that's certainly g o i n g to i n f l u e n c e h o w y o u present yourself, h o w you're perceived, a n d h o w you're treated by those a r o u n d you. W h y is S F s d l l s o o v e r w h e l m i n g l y w h i t e ? I w i s h I k n e w . T h e r e ' r e l o t s o f A f r i c a n - A m e r i c a n SF r e a d e r s — m a n y m o r e today than there were when I e n t e r e d t h e field i n '62, b y h u n d r e d s o f p e r c e n t . I m e e t t h e m a t c o n v e n ­ t i o n s . I m e e t t h e m at a c a d e m i c c o n f e r e n c e s . I m e e t t h e m at b o o k s t o r e signings. W h y h a v e n ' t the writers followed? ( T h e y ' r e f o u r o f us w r i t i n g regularly in English: Octavia Butler, Steven Barnes, Charles Saunders, a n d m y s e l f — a n d most r e c e n d y N a l o H o p k i n s o n . In the related field of H o r r o r there's Tananarive D u e . A n d , writing in F r e n c h , out of Canada, there's Haitian-born Jean-Claude Michel.) A g a i n , I don't know. I know w h a t it's n o t , t h o u g h ; it's n o t e d i t o r i a l b i a s . If a n y t h i n g , t h e w h i t e e d i t o r s I've t a l k e d t o t o d a y a r e a w a r e e n o u g h o f t h e b l a c k r e a d e r s h i p t h a t t h e y ' d j u m p at the c h a n c e to s p r i n k l e s o m e g o o d S F stories w i t h a b l a c k per­ s p e c t i v e a r o u n d t h e i r m a g a z i n e s o r b o o k lists. A m I o v e r - o p t i m i s t i c ? P e r h a p s . B u t n o t b y m u c h , I'd wager. W h e n sub­ missions by black writers hit the twenty p e r c e n t m a r k — o r get above t h a t — t h e n we may well have some problems. But right n o w they're no­ where near that number.

BLIC: H o w d i d y o u d i s c o v e r t h e l e a t h e r c u l t u r e ? SRD:

T h e l e a t h e r w o r l d has always b e e n t h e m o s t visible p a r t o f the gay

m a l e w o r l d , n e x t to the a r e a that l a p s — o r o v e r l a p s w i t h — t h e w o r l d o f cross-dressers. T h e r e a l q u e s t i o n for m a n y if n o t m o s t gay m e n m i g h t b e t t e r b e : H o w d i d y o u m a n a g e t o find t h e rest o f t h e g a y w o r l d , o n c e y o u f o u n d the w o r l d of leather a n d / o r drag queens? A m o n g t h e first t h r e e o f f o u r t i m e s I g o t p i c k e d u p a n d t a k e n h o m e , b a c k w h e n I was e i g h t e e n o r n i n e t e e n ( n i n e years b e f o r e Stonewall), a g u y i n his thirties started t a l k i n g to m e o n C e n t r a l P a r k W e s t a n d invited m e b a c k to his p l a c e , a f e w b l o c k s away. C l e a r l y , h e e x p l a i n e d , h e was i n t o sadomasochism a n d thus things w o u l d be somewhat unusual once we got there. B u t since I was n e w to the w h o l e c r u i s i n g scene, I wasn't all that clear o n w h a t the u s u a l was. S o I w e n t w i t h h i m . A t his place, h e h a d s o m e l e a t h e r l y i n g a r o u n d , a j a c k e t o n h i s c o a t h o o k , a vest o v e r the b a c k o f o n e chair; he himself h a d gone cruising, I recall, in a brown, threep i e c e suit. H e t o l d m e to strip, t h e n — w h i l e h e r e m a i n e d d r e s s e d — h e started to p u t m e t h r o u g h a n instruction r o u t i n e : " A l l right! P u t y o u r h a n d s o n y o u r k n e e s ! N o w y o u r toes. N o w r e a c h a r o u n d — a n d spread your buttocks!" I w e n t a l o n g w i t h it w i t h w h a t I t h o u g h t was p e r f e c t g o o d w i l l . W h a t I

T h e Black Leather in Color I n t e r v i e w

117

w a n t e d to d o was s u c k a n d get s u c k e d , c u d d l e s o m e , a n d m a y b e d o s o m e f u c k i n g — i n a b o u t that o r d e r o f p r e f e r e n c e . B u t if this was a necessary p r e l u d e , I was w i l l i n g to c o o p e r a t e . A f t e r a b o u t t e n m i n u t e s , t h o u g h , h e sat b a c k a n d l a u g h e d : " Y o u ' r e n o t r e a l l y i n t o t h i s , " h e s a i d , " a r e y o u ? " I confessed: " N o t really." "Get y o u r clothes o n , " he said, good-naturedly, " a n d get o n out

of

h e r e . Y o u g o b a c k to C e n t r a l P a r k a n d m a y b e y o u ' l l f i n d s o m e b o d y else m o r e into what y o u ' r e l o o k i n g for." S o I d i d . W e s h o o k h a n d s at t h e d o o r . A n d I left, t h i n k i n g h e was a pretty n i c e guy. T h a t was m y i n t r o d u c t i o n to t h e l e a t h e r w o r l d . A p e r f e c t l y p l e a s a n t M r . B e n s o n , i f y o u w i l l — w h o k n e w w h a t h e w a n t e d , a n d t h a t I w a s n ' t it. B u t i n the way that first i m p r e s s i o n s o f t e n d o , this o n e f o r m e d a pretty g o o d basis f o r m o s t o f w h a t I've f o u n d i n t h a t w o r l d s i n c e : a c e r t a i n a m o u n t o f c o m m o n sense, a certain a m o u n t o f g o o d w i l l .

BLIC: H o w h a s l e a t h e r i n f l u e n c e d y o u r w r i t i n g ? W i l l i t i n f l u e n c e y o u r writing further? SRD:

I first started w r i t i n g a b o u t S / M — i n a tale c a l l e d " T i m e C o n s i d ­

e r e d as H e l i x o f S e m i - P r e c i o u s S t o n e s " — p r e t t y m u c h t h e w a y m o s t p e o ­ p l e d o . I s a w S / M as a l i m i t c a s e f o r h u m a n s e x u a l i t y . T h a t is t o say, i n ­ i t i a l l y S / M h a d b e e n p r e s e n t e d t o m e as s e x u a l i t y s t r a d d l i n g

some

border, beyond w h i c h we were outside of the "acceptable," the " h u m a n , " the " c i v i l i z e d . " I w r o t e a b o u t it i n t h e t y p i c a l way that o n e t e n d s to w h e n o n e is w r i t i n g a b o u t a s e x u a l i t y t h a t o n e p e r c e i v e s as f u n d a m e n t a l l y

"not

m i n e . " I o f f e r e d e x p l a n a t i o n s f o r it. ( W h o e v e r t r i e s t o e x p l a i n h i s o r h e r own s e x u a l i t y , o n c e s o c i e t y h a s a l l o w e d y o u t o b e c o m f o r t a b l e w i t h i t ? It's j u s t y o u ; it's w h a t y o u e n j o y d o i n g ! ) I saw it p e r m e a t i n g e v e r y a s p e c t o f t h e y o u n g c h a r a c t e r ' s ( H a w k ' s ) l i f e — i n d a n g e r o u s , e v e n s u i c i d a l w a y s . It f u n c t i o n e d l a r g e l y as a m a r k o f d o o m , a s c a r o f C a i n . T h i s is w h a t ' s o f t e n c a l l e d t h e " R o m a n t i c " v i e w ; a n d i t ' s p e r f e c t n o n s e n s e . T h i s is t h e v i e w t h a t says t h a t s o m e h o w p e r f e c t l y d e c e n t , o r d i n a r y g u y s , l i k e t h e o n e w h o p i c k e d m e u p by the p a r k w h e n I was a k i d , are at h e a r t secret J e f f r e y D a h m e r s o r J o h n W a y n e G a c y s — a t least o n the S side. A n d , conversely, a n y o n e o n t h e M s i d e is s o m e h o w o n s o m e s u i c i d a l r o l l e r c o a s t e r t h a t m u s t l e a d t o s e l f - i m m o l a t i o n . B u t b e c a u s e I ' d h a d as m a n y r e a l a n d p r a c ­ t i c a l e x p e r i e n c e s as a s e x u a l l y a c t i v e g a y m a n t h a t I h a d ( a n d o f c o u r s e t h e r e w e r e , l a t e r , m a n y m o r e t h a n t h e o n e I've j u s t r e c o u n t e d ) , s o m e o f them leaked over into my description of things like actual meetings a n d real conversations. T h e story w o n b o t h a H u g o A w a r d a n d a N e b u l a A w a r d for

1968

118

Shorter Views

f r o m the Science Fiction Writers o f A m e r i c a — p r o b a b l y for all the wrong reasons. W h e n I thought about taking o n thetopic again, I realized I could g o o n w i t h t h e r o m a n t i c view. O r I c o u l d g o m o r e d e e p l y i n t o t h e m a t e r i a l that m a d e u p m y o w n experiences. B u t t h e r e a d e r r e a c t i o n to t h e s t o r y — i n c l u d i n g t h e awards it w o n , f r o m a largely straight r e a d e r s h i p after a l l — a l e r t e d m e that there was a reality ( a n d f o r m e , "reality" is a s y n o n y m f o r "politics") to b e e x p l o r e d h e r e ; a n d there was also a m y t h to b e c u t t h r o u g h . M y 1 9 7 4 n o v e l Dhalgren f e a t u r e s a l e a t h e r m a n — T a k L o u f f e r — a s a n i m p o r t a n t secondary character. A s Virgil g u i d e d Dante, T a k guides m y n a m e l e s s h e r o , as h e e x p l o r e s t h e i n s a n d o u t s o f t h e b u r n e d - o u t c i t y o f B e l l o n a . B u t t h e stories i n w h i c h I t u r n e d to e x a m i n e s o m e o f t h e real (i.e., a g a i n , I m e a n p o l i t i c a l ) p r o b l e m s that t h e i d e a o f S / M b r i n g s u p was i n a p r o j e c t I b e g a n i n 1 9 7 6 — m y series o f stories set i n t h e a n c i e n t land of Nevèryôn. N e v è r y ô n is a l a n d w h e r e t h e m a j o r i t y o f t h e g o o d citizens, the majority o f its a r i s t o c r a c y a r e b r o w n o r b l a c k — w h i c h is t o say t h e m a j o r i t y o f t h e money i s i n t h e h a n d s o f p e o p l e w h o a r e b r o w n o r b l a c k . T h u s i t r e p resents a n u n s e t t l i n g reversal o f t h e A m e r i c a n p o w e r structure. It's also a l a n d t h a t e m p l o y s s l a v e r y as a n e c o n o m i c s y s t e m — m a n y o f t h e s l a v e s a r e b l o n d a n d blue-eyed "barbarians" f r o m t h e south. A n d that o f course takes t h e reversal o n e step further. I n t h e c o u r s e o f t h e e l e v e n stories a n d n o v e l s that m a k e u p t h e series, t h e b a c k g r o u n d tale that h o l d s t h e m all together

is that a g r e e n - e y e d b l a c k m a n c a l l e d G o r g i k is h i m s e l f

taken—uncharacteristically—as

a slave w h e n h e is s i x t e e n . O v e r t h e

c o u r s e o f the series, w h i c h covers s o m e thirty-five years, G o r g i k gains his f r e e d o m , f o m e n t s a slave revolt, f i n a l l y m a n a g e s t o b e a p p o i n t e d a m i n i s ter o f state, f r o m w h i c h p o s i t i o n , after m u c h w o r k , h e e v e n t u a l l y a b o l ishes slavery f r o m t h e l a n d . T h e p r o b l e m a d z i n g f a c t o r , h o w e v e r , i s t h a t G o r g i k i s n o t o n l y gay, b u t h e is also s e x u a l l y attracted to t h e a c c o u t r e m e n t s o f s l a v e r y — w h i p s , c h a i n s , a n d t h e i r o n slave c o l l a r s that, t r a d i t i o n a l l y , slaves i n N e v è r y ô n w e r e m a d e t o wear. H e h i m s e l f is n o t a b l o n d b a r b a r i a n — b u t

h e is

c l e a r l y racially m i x e d ; a n d h e also f i n d s t h e b a r b a r i a n s sexy. F o r a w h i l e , i n t h e first h a l f o f t h e series, h e has a b a r b a r i a n f o r a lover . . . a relationship that comes to a rather b a d e n d , bythe bye. B u t what p a r a d o x e s d o these situations create f o r G o r g i k ? D o e s his o w n d e s i r e s o m e h o w c o n t a m i n a t e h i s p o l i t i c a l p r o j e c t o f a b o l i s h i n g slavery? D o e s it i n t e n s i f y it? H o w is t h e r e l a t i o n b e t w e e n d e s i r e a n d p o l i t i c s p e r c e i v e d b y h i s f o l lowers, b yhis a d v e r s a r i e s — a n d b y the o r d i n a r y p e o p l e i n the society w h o

II

T h e Black Leather in Color I n t e r v i e w

119

d o n ' t t h i n k o f t h e m s e l v e s as r e a l l y i n v o l v e d i n t h e q u e s t i o n ? F o r G o r g i k is v e r y m u c h " o u t " a b o u t h i s p r e f e r e n c e s . T h e stories have a lot b o t h to interest a n d to d i s t u r b b l a c k r e a d e r s , gay readers, S / M r e a d e r s — a n d , probably, white, straight readers o f

both

sexes. If y o u w a n t to w a t c h a w r i t e r t r y i n g to solve s o m e o f t h e s e p r o b ­ l e m s , s u c c e e d i n g at s o m e a n d f a i l i n g at o t h e r s , t h e n t h e s e b o o k s m i g h t interest y o u . T h i s past year, W e s l e y a n U n i v e r s i t y Press r e s c u e d t h e m f r o m m a s s - m a r k e t o b l i v i o n a n d h a s j u s t r e p r i n t e d t h e m as h a n d s o m e ,

trade

p a p e r b a c k s . S h o u l d y o u r e a l l y w a n t t o k n o w w h a t t h i s w e i r d D e l a n y g u y is a l l a b o u t , these a r e t h e b o o k s t o w r e s t l e w i t h .

BLIC: Y o u ' v e

b e e n o n r e c o r d as s a y i n g t h a t Starship Troopers' c o l o r - b l i n d

society was o n e o f the t h i n g s t h a t i n f l u e n c e d y o u to e m b r a c e s c i e n c e fic­ tion. C o n s i d e r i n g that, thirty years after M a r t i n L u t h e r K i n g , the racial s i t u a t i o n is as b a d — i f n o t w o r s e — i n t h i s c o u n t r y , d o y o u f e e l t h a t s u c h a s o c i e t y is s t i l l o b t a i n a b l e ? W h a t w o u l d w e h a v e t o d o t o o b t a i n it? SRD:

F i r s t o f a l l , t o say t h i n g s a r e j u s t as b a d o r w o r s e t h a n t h i r t y y e a r s

a g o is a b s u r d . O n l y s o m e o n e w h o w a s n ' t h e r e t h i r t y y e a r s a g o c o u l d p o s ­ s i b l y say t h a t . T h i n g s n e e d t o g e t a l o t , l o t b e t t e r , c e r t a i n l y . B u t t h e r e a r e n o r e s t a u r a n t s i n M a n h a t t a n , at least, w h i c h , i f y o u ' r e b l a c k , w i l l s t o p y o u — a s s u m i n g y o u ' r e d r e s s e d p r o p e r l y — a t t h e d o o r a n d say, " I ' m

sorry.

W e can't serve y o u h e r e . W h y d o n ' t y o u try s o m e p l a c e else?" I j u s t c a m e b a c k , a c o u p l e o f w e e k s a g o , f r o m a B l a c k A r t s F e s t i v a l i n A t l a n t a — a fes­ tival w h i c h h a d t a k e n o v e r t h e e n t i r e city. T h e w h o l e p u b l i c p a r k b e e n t u r n e d over to b l a c k a n d w h i t e v e n d o r s a n d p e o p l e

had

exhibiting

A f r i c a n fabrics, jewelry, pottery, a n d art. T h e guests at t h e m o t e l I stayed at w e r e a b o u t fifty p e r c e n t A f r i c a n - A m e r i c a n s . T h e r e w e r e b o t h w h i t e a n d black waitpersons in the d i n i n g r o o m . W e l l , if y o u t h i n k that's w h a t A t l a n t a was like thirty years a g o , y o u ' r e out of your m i n d ! Atlanta, N e w Y o r k City, W a s h i n g t o n , L o s A n g e l e s have all h a d b l a c k m a y o r s . T h e r e w e r e no b l a c k m a y o r s t h i r t y y e a r s a g o , m y f r i e n d ,

and

m o r e to the p o i n t if y o u s u g g e s t e d that t h e r e ever m i g h t b e , y o u ' d h a v e been laughed out of the r o o m . T h i r t y y e a r s a g o i t w a s 1 9 6 4 — a n d less t h a n t e n y e a r s b e f o r e

that

schools were desegregated by law for the first d m e ! T h e p a r a d o x today, t h o u g h , is t h a t w e a c t u a l l y s e e m to h a v e a c h i e v e d n o t H e i n l e i n ' s " c o l o r - b l i n d " w o r l d by any m e a n s , b u t s o m e t h i n g distress­ i n g l y c l o s e t o it: a w o r l d t h a t ' s c o l o r - d e a f . B y t h a t I m e a n a w o r l d w h e r e , w i t h v e r y f e w e x c e p t i o n s , s u c h as n o w a n d a g a i n i n t h e a c a d e m y a n d i n a few newscasts f o c u s i n g p a r t i c u l a r l y o n a racial i n c i d e n t , there's little o r

120

Shorter Views

n o t a l k o f r a c i a l m a t t e r s at a l l . A n d t h e r e ' s a b s o l u t e l y n o talk o f t h e class matters—of money, politics, a n d power—that underlie them. A n d — n o — u n t i l that happens, we probably won't m a k e m u c h m o r e p r o g r e s s t h a n we've m a d e . A n d that's a c r i m i n a l situation. W h a t d o we h a v e to d o to m a k e t h i n g s better? S h i f t a r o u n d a lot o f m o n e y ; d o a lot o f politicking; a n d redeploy a lot of power. B u t I d o n ' t see h o w t h a t c a n b e d o n e — a n d d o n e w i t h g o a l s — u n t i l w e s t a r t t a l k i n g a b o u t it, l o u d l y a n d a r t i c u l a t e l y ,

intelligent first.

BLIC: W h a t i n f l u e n c e d o y o u t h i n k y o u r w o r k , a n d t h e w o r k o f t h e o t h e r ' N e w Wavers,' has h a d o n m o r e recent trends i n science

fiction?

What's

y o u r o p i n i o n o f s u c h s t y l e s as c y b e r p u n k ? SRD:

T a l k i n g a b o u t y o u r i n f l u e n c e o n t h o s e w h o ' v e c o m e a f t e r y o u is

the q u i c k way to s o u n d like a p o m p o u s c l o w n . T h a t ' s f o r those who've b e e n i n f l u e n c e d to s a y — n o t m e . I e n j o y e d t h e c y b e r p u n k p h e n o m e n o n b a c k w h e n it was h a p p e n i n g — b e t w e e n 1982

a n d 1987.

T h a t , seven years later, p e o p l e are still t a l k i n g

a b o u t it, a n d t h a t i t ' s s t i l l s e e n as a n a c t i v e f o r c e i n s o m e p e o p l e ' s m i n d s , seems a little strange to m e , I c o n f e s s — l i k e p e o p l e talking a b o u t N e w E n ­ g l a n d T r a n s c e n d e n t a l i s m as if, a h u n d r e d - f o r t y y e a r s l a t e r , i t w a s s t i l l g o i n g o n . B u t I ' m v e r y p l e a s e d f o r t h e w r i t e r s i n v o l v e d b e c a u s e it k e e p s t h e m i n t h e s p o t l i g h t . I l i k e G i b s o n ' s w o r k . I ' m always g l a d w h e n a tal­ ented writer gains some serious attention. T h e d o w n s i d e is, h o w e v e r , that a lot o f p e o p l e n o w t h i n k that o n c e t h e y ' v e r e a d G i b s o n , S t i r l i n g , a n d C a d i g a n , t h e y ' v e r e a d a l l t h e r e is o f interest in the w h o l e science

fiction

field

f o r the last

fifteen

years o r so.

T h e y k n o w n o t h i n g about the exciting w o r k of K i m Stanley R o b i n s o n , o r K a r e n J o y F o w l e r , o r L u c i u s S h e p a r d , o r C o n n i e W i l l i s — n o t to m e n ­ tion Octavia Butler. B u t there are an incredible n u m b e r of

fine

writers

i n t h e S F field r i g h t t h r o u g h h e r e . It s e e m s i d i o t i c t o p e n a l i z e t h e m s i m ­ ply because they weren't involved with o n e particular fanzine that flour­ i s h e d i n T e x a s f o r a c o u p l e o f y e a r s i n t h e e a r l y e i g h t i e s — C h e a p Truth— w h i c h , w h e n a l l i s s a i d a n d d o n e , is r e a l l y a l l t h e c y b e r p u n k s h a v e i n common.

BLIC: It is p o s s i b l e t o w r i t e e f f e c t i v e

fiction

without putting

p e r s o n a l i n t o it? H o w m u c h d o e s y o u r i d e n t i t y s h a p e y o u r

something fiction

and

vice versa? SRD:

O f c o u r s e y o u can't write effective

fiction

without putting some­

t h i n g o f y o u r s e l f i n i t — b u t I ' d h a t e t o l e a v e t h i s d i s c u s s i o n w i t h t h a t as

T h e Black Leather in Color I n t e r v i e w

121

a n e n d note. Because y o u can't write d r e a d f u l , w o o d e n , lifeless fiction w i t h o u t p u t t i n g s o m e t h i n g o f yourself i n that, either. The

sad fact a b o u t

fiction

is t h a t t h e

autobiographical

element,

w h i c h , m o r e o r l e s s t r a n s f o r m e d , is a l w a y s t h e r e , h a s n o t h i n g t o d o w i t h e f f e c d v e n e s s — o r l a c k o f it. F i c t i o n e x i s t s as a n e x t r a o r d i n a r y c o m p l e x o f e x p e c t a t i o n s . T e x t s t h a t f u l f i l l a l l t h e s e e x p e c t a t i o n s r e g i s t e r as m o d e r a t e l y g o o d o r m e d i o c r e t i o n : t h e sort o n e r e a d s , m o r e o r less e n j o y s , b u t f o r g e t s W h a t s t r i k e s u s as e x t r a o r d i n a r y , e x c e l l e n t , o r s u p e r b

fiction

fic­

immediately. must fulfill

s o m e o f t h o s e e x p e c t a t i o n s a n d a t t h e s a m e t i m e v i o l a t e o t h e r s . It's a v e r y fancy dance of fulfillment

a n d violation that produces the " W o w ! " of

w o n d e r t h a t g r e e t s a t r u l y fine p i e c e o f w r i t i n g — a t r u l y w o n d e r f u l s t o r y . T h o s e e x p e c t a t i o n s have to d o w i t h e v e r y t h i n g f r o m the p r o g r e s s i o n o f i n c i d e n t s t h a t , i n t h e c o u r s e o f t h e s t o r y , w i l l r e g i s t e r as p l o t , t o t h e p r o ­ g r e s s i o n o f s o u n d s i n t h e c o u r s e o f its s e n t e n c e s . A n d t h o s e e x p e c t a t i o n s c o v e r m a n y o t h e r t h i n g s at a l l l e v e l s — a n d o f t e n b e t w e e n levels. N o o n e sits d o w n a n d t e a c h e s y o u w h a t t h e s e e x p e c t a t i o n s a r e — m u c h less w h i c h o n e s y o u s h o u l d c o n f o r m

to a n d w h i c h o n e s

you

s h o u l d violate. I've n e v e r s e e n a c r e a t i v e w r i t i n g c l a s s y e t t h a t e v e n t a l k s a b o u t t h e m a t any length. You learn them f r o m reading other fiction—other truly g o o d a n d also f r o m r e a d i n g b a d

fiction;

fiction.

B e c a u s e v i o l a t i o n h a s as m u c h t o d o w i t h s u c c e s s as f u l f i l l m e n t

does,

t h e r e c a n n e v e r b e o n e story, o r e v e n a g r o u p o f stories, t h a t c a n t e a c h y o u all the e x p e c t a t i o n s at o n c e . A l s o , we l e a r n t h o s e e x p e c t a t i o n s n o t as a s e t o f r u l e s t o f o l l o w o r b r e a k — t h o u g h , a f t e r a w h i l e , s o m e w r i t e r s c a n actually list a n u m b e r o f t h e m . R a t h e r w e l e a r n t h e m i n the s a m e way w e l e a r n a l a n g u a g e w h e n w e g o to t h a t c o u n t r y — l e a r n its g r a m ­ m a r a n d s y n t a x ; l e a r n w h a t is e x p e c t e d o f a c o m p e t e n t s p e a k e r o f t h a t language. A n d j u s t to u p the ante, l a n g u a g e s c h a n g e — a n d the l a n g u a g e o f

fic­

t i o n c h a n g e s as w e l l . W h a t w a s p e r c e i v e d as a v i o l a t i o n y e s t e r d a y is a s e d i m e n t e d e x p e c t a t i o n t o d a y . W h a t w a s o n c e a n e x p e c t a t i o n is n o w t o b e h o n o r e d only in the b r e a c h — o r p e o p l e will just giggle. T h e language of

fiction

is n o t q u i t e t h e s a m e t o d a y as i t w a s e i g h t e e n o r t w e n t y y e a r s

a g o . A n d it's c e r t a i n l y n o t t h e s a m e as it w a s s i x t y o r s e v e n t y - f i v e y e a r s a g o . A n d it's a l m o s t e n t i r e l y d i f f e r e n t f r o m w h a t it w a s a h u n d r e d o r a h u n d r e d - f i f t y y e a r s a g o . S o w h i l e it's a l w a y s g o o d t o k n o w t h e h i s t o r y o f t h e language you're speaking, a n d w h i l e that history will often tell y o u the rea­ son why certain expectations are (or are not)

still i n p l a c e today,

the

great stories o f the past h o l d the key to w r i t i n g the great stories o f today

122

Shorter Views

n o m o r e t h a n a n o r a t i o n by C i c e r o will tell a c o n t e m p o r a r y politician the specifics o f what to m e n t i o n i n his n e x t s o u n d bite. P e r h a p s that's w h e r e y o u r " p e r s o n a l identity" c o m e s i n , if we r e m e m ­ b e r t h a t i d e n t i t y is w h a t w e s h a r e w i t h o t h e r p e o p l e — a g a i n i n t h e l a n ­ guage sense: the infinite play o f differences that m a k e u p o u r specific lives, w h o s e p a t t e r n s , w h e n t h e y b e c o m e c o m p l e x e n o u g h , start to regis­ t e r as s i m i l a r i t i e s w i t h t h e p a t t e r n s t h e p l a y o f d i f f e r e n c e a m o n g o t h e r people make. Y o u r s e n s e o f t h e e x p e c t a t i o n s is a l w a y s

filtered

t h r o u g h that play of

d i f f e r e n c e s t h a t is e a c h o f u s . B u t , i n t e r m s o f t h e t e x t o n t h e p a g e — a n d i n t h e r e a d e r ' s m i n d — t h e i r f u l f i l l m e n t (and

v i o l a t i o n ) is e v e r y t h i n g .

—New York City i 9 9 4

8 The Thomas L. L o n g Interview

At the time of this interview, Thomas L. Long was a graduate student working at the University of Virginia o n questions of AIDS and American

apocalyptic

imagery. THOMAS LONG: W h a t w o r k

does your writing

perform

i n regard to

H I V / A I D S ? W o u l d I b e o n t r a c k b y t h i n k i n g t h a t § 1 1 . 4 i n The Tale of Plagues and Carnivals

represents a summary o f your self-understanding

of all your writing?

SAMUEL R . D E L A N Y : I n g e n e r a l , w h a t I h o p e a t l e a s t p a r t o f m y w o r k p e r f o r m s — o r helps to p e r f o r m — i s a necessary d e f o r m a t i o n o f a n older, pre-AIDS discourse, which privileged sexual reticence, into a discourse that f o r e g r o u n d s d e t a i l e d s e x u a l honesty, i m a g i n a t i o n , a n d a r t i c u l a t i o n . A I D S makes such a discursive adjustment imperative. (Today, a n y t h i n g else is m u r d e r . ) B u t s u c h a d e f o r m a t i o n a l s o h a s o t h e r b e n e f i t s , i n t e r m s of the liberation o f a range o f subjects frequently m a r g i n a l i z e d u n d e r the r u b r i c o f "the p e r v e r s e . " A s a n a r t i s t I (I w a n t t o a d d , " o f c o u r s e " ) r e s i s t t h e i d e a o f m y w o r k c o n t a i n i n g a n y s u m m a r y o f itself. A s I u n d e r s t a n d it, s u c h a s u m m a r y w o u l d m a k e — o r at least take steps t o w a r d m a k i n g — t h e rest o f t h e w o r k superfluous. B u t especially I resist t h e n o t i o n o f s u m m a r y i n terms o f § 1 1 . 4 ! T h a t , y e s , i s t h e c l i m a x o f m y 1 9 8 4 n o v e l a b o u t A I D S , The Tale of Plagues and Carnivals. A s s u c h , i t ' s a p i e c e o f w r i t i n g t h a t w o u l d b e m e a n ­ ingless w i t h o u t a l l that has g o n e b e f o r e i n t h e n o v e l — a n d that c a n o n l y f i n i s h i t s r e v e r b e r a t i o n s as t h e r e a d e r r e a d s t h e s e c t i o n s t h a t c o m e a f t e r it. A l o n e , i t i s p a r t i c u l a r l y f l a t a n d d e a d . B y i t s e l f , i t i s a l m o s t i n c o h e r e n t . T a k e n o u t o f c o n t e x t , r a t h e r t h a n s u m m a r i z e a n y t h i n g , it w o u l d strike m o s t r e a d e r s u n a c q u a i n t e d w i t h t h e r e s t o f t h e b o o k , I s u s p e c t , as l u n a t i c b a b b l e . I t ' s a p i e c e o f w r i t i n g s p e c i f i c a l l y c r a f t e d t o b e without a n y o f t h e

124

Shorter Views

e x p l a n a t o r y excess that, at least t o m y u n d e r s t a n d i n g , s u c h a s u m m a r y section w o u l d d e m a n d . If I were g o i n g to c h o o s e a s u m m a r y section f r o m that novel, I w o u l d c h o o s e a n y a n d every s e c t i o n b e f o r e I w o u l d c h o o s e t h a t o n e ! P a r t i c u l a r l y , I w o u l d c h o o s e — a s a s u m m a r y — s e c t i o n §9.82 a n d t h e o t h e r sections c i r c l i n g a r o u n d t h e Master's attempt at a b i o g r a p h y o f B e l h a m . A t least t h o s e s e c t i o n s d r a m a t i z e w h a t I see as t h e p r o b l e m o f the subject-for-another-subject—and

d o so i n general s u m m a r y terms.

T h e i r constituent m i c r o d r a m a s allegorize the p r o b l e m s w e have appre­ hending any other

subject, w h e t h e r

that subject b e t h e socially ac­

c l a i m e d great m a n , t h e m o s t o r d i n a r y p e r s o n o n t h e street, o r t h e partic­ ularly m a r g i n a l i z e d a n d o p p r e s s e d : s o m e o n e w h o m society urges us at e v e r y t u r n t o s e e as o s c i l l a t i n g b e t w e e n t h e s t a t e o f " d a n g e r o u s " a n d t h e s t a t e o f " v i c t i m " — s o m e o n e w h o i s , say, H I V p o s i t i v e . T h u s they generalize the overall problems o f

fiction

w r i t i n g as I s e e

t h e m , w h e t h e r a b o u t A I D S o r a b o u t a n y t h i n g else i n v o l v i n g

human

beings. T h e faltering a n d all b u t impossible attempts o f the "author" to de­ scribe a specific m o m e n t i n t h e life o f t h e i l l " P h e r o n " i n section § 1 1 . 4 constitute a specific, n o n - s u m m a r y e x a m p l e o f the general

problems

that t h e M a s t e r h a s d e s c r i b i n g t h e life o f B e l h a m t h r o u g h o u t

section

§9.82 ( a n d h a s , e q u a l l y , t r y i n g t o find a r e c o g n i z a b l e r e f l e c t i o n o f h i s o w n life i n §9.83). I w o u l d h o p e i t ' s c l e a r t h a t §9.82 a n d §9.83 d r a m a t i z e t h e g e n e r a l c a s e w h i l e § 1 1 . 4 i s a s p e c i f i c c a s e ( a s p e c i f i c n a r r a t i v e c a s e e f f e c t i v e as i t recalls a n d evokes t h e g e n e r a l i t y , c e r t a i n l y ) — b u t not t h e o t h e r w a y a r o u n d ! T h e g e n e r a l is t h e r e s o n a n c e to t h e specific. T h i s is t h e "law" c o n t r o l ­ l i n g t h e r h e t o r i c o f P r o u s t a n d J a m e s . A n d , f o r b e t t e r o r f o r w o r s e , it c o n ­ t r o l s m y fictive r h e t o r i c as w e l l . I n d e e d , m y a p p r e h e n s i o n o f t h e t e x t — m o r e t h a n a d o z e n years after w r i t i n g i t , t r u e — i s s o f a r f r o m y o u r s , a t l e a s t i n t e r m s o f t h i s p o i n t , I sus­ pect we m a ysimply have different notions o f the meanings o f such terms as " s u m m a r y , " " u n d e r s t a n d i n g , " a n d e v e n ( o r e s p e c i a l l y )

"writing."

TL: W h a t c a n y o u t e l l m e a b o u t y o u r r o l e as b o t h w r i t e r - e d u c a t o r a n d w r i t e r - a d v o c a t e (i.e., y o u r i n c l u s i o n o f s p e c i f i c b i o m e d i c a l d i s c o u r s e o n H I V infection a n d y o u r persistent message that adequate research into vectors o f transmission have n o t b e e n undertaken)? SRD: T h e m e s s a g e i s p e r s i s t e n t — a n d , y e s , i t s t i l l is—because t h e s i t u a t i o n is p e r s i s t e n t .

T h o m a s L. L o n g Interview

125

M y g e n e r a l s e n s e is t h a t i n a n a n t i - s e x s o c i e t y s u c h as o u r s , e v e r y w h e r e w e t u r n , w h e t h e r it b e t o a g r o u p o f t h e m o s t w e l l - i n t e n t i o n e d

women

(in a d e m o n s t r a t i o n I w a t c h e d i n K n o x v i l l e , less t h a n two m o n t h s a g o ) swathing themselves a n d their partners' bodies in rubber—gloves, d e n ­ t a l d a m s , a n d c o n d o m s — s o as t o p r e v e n t l i t e r a l l y a l l c o n t a c t

between

b o d i e s i n t h e n a m e o f " s a f e s e x , " o r w h e t h e r i t is t h e a d m o n i t i o n t o t e e n ­ agers f r o m advertisement cards a l o n g the tops o f subway cars i n N e w Y o r k C i t y t h a t " a b s t i n e n c e is t h e b e s t p r o t e c t i o n , " I t h i n k p e o p l e a r e t r y ­ i n g t o u s e A I D S as a n e x c u s e t o a r m o r t h e b o d y i n s i l e n c e , i g n o r a n c e , a n d r u b b e r — e v e n as t h e y p r o c l a i m t h i s a f o r m o f e d u c a t i o n . T h i s is why, I t h i n k , s o l i t t l e w o r k h a s b e e n d o n e i n e s t a b l i s h i n g t r a n s ­ m i s s i o n v e c t o r s . A I D S is c u r r e n t l y a t its m o s t p o w e r f u l a s a

"cultural

t o o l " against sex w i t h i n the d o m i n a n t heterosexist d i s c o u r s e , to the ex­ t e n t w e a r e i n t h e g r e a t e s t i g n o r a n c e a b o u t it. T h e m o r e w e a c t u a l l y k n o w o f it, t h e l e s s w e c a n u s e i t i n s u c h a n a n t i - s e x a g e n d a as w e h a v e been. I h a v e a c t u a l l y h e a r d p e o p l e a r g u e t h a t i t ' s good t o u s e t o A I D S t o s c a r e teenage girls away f r o m b e c o m i n g u n w e d m o t h e r s ! T h i s r e p r e s e n t s s u c h a b a s i c m i s u n d e r s t a n d i n g o f t h e p s y c h o l o g y o f s e x as t o l e a v e o n e r e e l ­ i n g . T h e f e a r o f A I D S is n o m o r e l i k e l y t o s c a r e t e e n a g e g i r l s a w a y f r o m s e x t h a n it s c a r e d a w a y t h e f o u r - h u n d r e d - t h o u s a n d - o d d f o l k w h o h a v e , or have d i e d f r o m , the disease already!

TL:

Outside of writing, what role have y o u played in your n e i g h b o r h o o d

o r local c o m m u n i t y w i t h respect to H I V / A I D S ? SRD:

O u t s i d e o f w r i t i n g a n d writing-related activities ( l e c t u r i n g to a n d

talking with various groups, usually i n colleges a r o u n d the country),

I've

d o n e very little. I a m not a m e m b e r o f any organization.

A n d w h e n I w r o t e The Tale of Plagues and Carnivals back i n 1 9 8 4 , 1 h a d d o n e a g r e a t d e a l l e s s ! A s I say i n t h e b o o k , a t t h a t p o i n t I h a d n ' t e v e n k n o w n a n y o n e w i t h A I D S . S i n c e t h e n (as I've w r i t t e n i n s u b s e q u e n t e d i ­ tions) , A I D S has b e c o m e the largest killer a m o n g m y p e r s o n a l circle o f f r i e n d s a n d a c q u a i n t a n c e s . (I l e a r n e d o f m y f r i e n d p o e t E s s e x H e m p e l l ' s d e a t h o n l y a w e e k a g o . H e d i e d w h i l e I was t e a c h i n g o u t at M i n n e a p o l i s . ) W h a t have I d o n e ? W e l l , I've h a d a l o t o f s e x — w i t h o u t c o n d o m s . A n d I a m a l w a y s r e a d y to talk a n d discuss the s i t u a t i o n w i t h the p e o p l e I h a v e sex w i t h , espe­ cially those (very rare) f o l k w h o are m o r e c o m f o r t a b l e d o i n g t h i n g s w i t h rubber. (I'm fifty-three,

n o w , so that's d o w n to a b o u t seventy-five to a

126

Shorter Views

hundred times

times

a year. U p u n t i l 1992, this was closer to three

hundred

a year. B u t t h e n I e s t a b l i s h e d a p e r m a n e n t [ o p e n ] relationship.) I

g e t a n H I V test e v e r y y e a r . A n d I r e m a i n H I V negative. TL:

W h a t w o r k d o y o u see y o u r " B e n j a m i n e s q u e m o n t a g e " a n d " B a k h -

t i n i a n p o l y l o g u e " p e r f o r m i n g i n b o t h The Tale of Plagues and

Carnivals

a n d The Mad Man? SRD: I g o a l o n g a g o o d b i t w i t h S. L. K e r m i t ' s i n t e r n a l c r i t i q u e o f t h a t s o r t o f t h i n g , as e x p r e s s e d i n § 1 0 o f T o P a C . I t h i n k t h e o n l y t h i n g s u c h t e c h n i q u e s c a n d o ( a n d y o u have to r e m e m b e r that a " B a k h t i n i a n poly­ l o g u e " i s w h a t a n y n o v e l w o r t h t h e n a m e , a f t e r a l l , is) i s invite a c e r t a i n r i c h n e s s o f r e a d i n g . B u t t h e y c a n n o t assure s u c h a r e a d i n g . T h a t i s s o m e ­ thing that c a n only be s u p p l i e d by the radical reader. ( A n d , I m i g h t suggest, a search f o r s u m m a r y points does n o t strike m e as t h e m o s t p o w e r f u l o f r e a d i n g s t r a t e g i e s t o g e n e r a t e a r a d i c a l r e a d ­ i n g — o f m y texts, o r o f a n y o n e else's.)

TL: H o w h a v e w r i t i n g s l i k e The Tale of Plagues and Carnivals a n d The Mad Man b e e n r e c e i v e d b y n o n - p r o f e s s i o n a l r e a d e r s ( i . e . , p e o p l e w h o a r e n ' t b o o k r e v i e w e r s , a c a d e m i c s , o r critics) ? A r e r e a d e r s o f p a r a l i t e r a r y texts m o r e c o m m u n i c a t i v e " f a n s " t h a n t h e r e a d e r s o f literary texts, a n d h o w w o u l d y o u characterize y o u r relation with them? I n n o t i n g that "[t]he a u d i e n c e ' s p e r f o r m a n c e is always m o r e o r less s t o c h a s t i c " ( T o P a C , 345), d o y o u m e a n c o n j e c t u r a l ( i n t h e sense o f "imaginative") o r r a n d o m o r both o r neither?

SRD: I t is t h e r a r e , r a r e p e r s o n w h o w r i t e s t o a w r i t e r w h o d o e s n ' t h a r b o r s o m e a m b i t i o n t o w r i t e h i m - o r h e r s e l f . O f t e n i t is p o l i t e l y w i t h h e l d u n t i l the t h i r d o r f o u r t h letter, b u t it is a l m o s t always t h e r e , s o m e w h e r e . T h u s , the distinction between professionals a n d / o r academics o n the o n e h a n d a n d n o n - p r o f e s s i o n a l s o n t h e o t h e r is a b i t h a r d to m a k e . W h e r e does o n e p u t , f o r e x a m p l e , enthusiastic students (graduate o r under­ g r a d u a t e ) w h o a r e not c u r r e n t l y w r i t i n g a b o u t you? B u t I shall try t o d o m y best. W h e n , i n t h e s u m m e r o f 1984, m y e d i t o r f i n i s h e d r e a d i n g the T o P a C m a n u s c r i p t , h e c a l l e d m e u p t o tell m e . H i s w o r d s stayed w i t h m e . I re­ c o u n t t h e m n o w n o t to boast, b u t o n l y b e c a u s e o f w h a t was to h a p p e n later. O n t h e p h o n e , h e said: " W h e n I f i n i s h e d t h e b o o k , I was i n a daze. I g o t u p , w a l k e d o u t o f m y house, d o w n the hill, a n d — k i n d o f like a r o b o t — t u r n e d i n at m y n e i g h b o r ' s y a r d . H e was o u t t h e r e , w o r k i n g , a n d

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h e a s k e d m e w h a t w a s t h e m a t t e r . I t o l d h i m , T t h i n k I've j u s t r e a d t h e f i n e s t b o o k I've e v e r r e a d , i n m y l i f e — a b o u t a n y t h i n g . P e r i o d . ' " Realize, w h e n h e said this, I h a d n o i l l u s i o n s a b o u t e d i t o r i a l h y p e r b o l e . It's a n e c e s s a r y f a c t o f c o m m e r c i a l p u b l i s h i n g . T h e o n l y r e a s o n , as I say, t o c i t e t h i s a t a l l i s n o t t o a p p e a l t o a n y o b j e c t i v e j u d g m e n t o n t h e n o v e l , b u t o n l y t o s u g g e s t t h a t t h e r e p r o b a b l y w a s a t l e a s t some e n t h u siasm, i f o n l y o n a n e m o t i o n a l level, o n that e d i t o r ' s p a r t — u n l e s s h e was s i m p l y a n u n c o n s c i o n a b l e liar. H e also s a i d (to b e f a i r ) : " A n d I h a v e n ' t the vaguest i d e a h o w to m a r k e t it." Right from Nevèryôn a p p e a r e d i n t h e e a r l y m o n t h s o f 1 9 8 5 . I t r e c e i v e d o n l y t w o r e v i e w s : t h e o b l i g a t o r y p a r a g r a p h i n Publishers Weekly ( w h i c h d e v o t e s o n e t o e v e r y p r o f e s s i o n a l l y p u b l i s h e d t r a d e b o o k as i t a p p e a r s ) a n d a n o t h e r e q u a l l y b r i e f m e n t i o n ( b y M a r t a R a n d a l l ) i n t h e San Francisco Chronicle ( i n w h i c h — A h e m — s h e c a l l e d i t a " m a s t e r p i e c e " ) . T h e b o o k w e n t t h r o u g h t w o p a p e r b a c k p r i n t i n g s — t h e first, seventyfive t h o u s a n d c o p i e s , t h e s e c o n d f i f t e e n t h o u s a n d c o p i e s , p u t t i n g e i g h t y five t h o u s a n d p a p e r b a c k c o p i e s i n p r i n t . F o r a b o o k p r i n t e d i n s u c h n u m b e r s , this is a n u n u s u a l l y s m a l l n u m b e r o f reviews. A n ordinary paperback original with only a twenty-five-thousand-copy p r i n t r u n , c a n usually c o u n t o n a n y w h e r e b e t w e e n eight a n d a d o z e n re-

v i e w s . I n m y files Tales of Nevèryôn, Neveryâna, a n d The Bridge of Lost Desire (Return to Nevèryôn), h a v e u p w a r d s o f t w o dozen r e v i e w s a p i e c e ! V o l u m e s I, I I , a n d I V — t h a t i s t o say, t h e t w o v o l u m e s p r e c e e d i n g i t a n d t h e v o l u m e f o l l o w i n g i t — w e r e a l l r e v i e w e d f a v o r a b l y i n t h e New York

Times Book Review. B u t a y e a r a f t e r Flight from Nevèryôn a p p e a r e d , I h a p p e n e d to r u n into thereviewer (Gerald Jonas) w h o h a d b e e n so genero u s t o t h e first t w o a n d t h e l a s t o f t h e s e r i e s . H e w a s u n a w a r e t h a t t h e third volume even existed! The

novel d i d elicit o n e hate letter f r o m a C a n a d i a n reader. I n sub-

s t a n c e , as I r e m e m b e r , i t b o i l e d d o w n t o , " Y o u t h i n k y o u ' r e s o s m a r t p u l l i n g all t h e s e l i t e r a r y t r i c k s ! W e l l , / t h i n k it's

boring." T h i s w a s b l u r t e d

with

a spattering o f four-letter words over three pages handwritten i n r e d ballpoint. N e i t h e r A I D S n o r sexuality was m e n t i o n e d . I c a n o n l y assume t h e writer was fairly y o u n g , a n d m a y n o t h a v e g o t t e n v e r y far i n t o the b o o k . N o b o o k I ' v e e v e r p u b l i s h e d h a s r e c e i v e d l e s s a t t e n t i o n t h a n Flight from Nevèryôn. W h e t h e r i t w a s b y t h e p u b l i s h e r s ' a c c i d e n t o r b y d e s i g n , I have n o way o f k n o w i n g . E v e n at eighty-five t h o u s a n d , t h e sales o f t h e t h i r d v o l u m e w e r e l e s s t h a n h a l f t h e s a l e s o n e i t h e r o f t h e first t w o Nevèryôn b o o k s . B u t e v e n i f i t w a s a n a c c i d e n t t h a t t h e b o o k w a s n o t s e n t to t h e u s u a l r e v i e w e r s , i t ' s a n a c c i d e n t t h a t f a l l s i n t o a s y s t e m , t h a t f u n c t i o n s as p a r t o f a r e p r e s s i v e d i s c o u r s e .

128

Shorter Views

W h i l e , f r o m t i m e t o t i m e , p e o p l e have w r i t t e n t o tell m e that they disl i k e d o n e b o o k o f m i n e o r a n o t h e r (has it h a p p e n e d a d o z e n times i n w h a t n o w m u s t t o t a l s o m e t h r e e o r f o u r h u n d r e d f a n l e t t e r s I've r e c e i v e d o v e r thirty-five years?), the letter f r o m C a n a d a was certainly the m o s t viol e n t , i f n o t e n e r g e t i c , i n its n e g a t i v e e x p r e s s i o n . T o c o m p l e t e t h e story, w h e n I t u r n e d i n t h e m a n u s c r i p t o f the f o u r t h v o l u m e , Return to Nevèryôn, t h r e e d a y s l a t e r I r e c e i v e d a b r i e f n o t e

from

t h e s a m e e d i t o r w h o ' d c l a i m e d t o h a v e b e e n so t a k e n w i t h v o l u m e three. The

n o t e said h e was r e t u r n i n g the m a n u s c r i p t , u n r e a d . B a n t a m B o o k s

was n o l o n g e r i n t e r e s t e d i n p u r s u i n g t h e s e r i e s ; p e r f u n c t o r i l y h e w i s h e d m e g o o d luck with the b o o k elsewhere. T h e f o u r t h v o l u m e w a s b r o u g h t o u t b y A r b o r H o u s e , its n a m e c h a n g e d

f r o m Return to Nevèryôn t o The Bridge of Lost Desire: E d i t o r i a l r e s e a r c h e s disc o v e r e d that, now, i n t h e m i n d s o f b o o k distributors a n d b o o k buyers across the c o u n t r y , the series was p e r c e i v e d t o b e c o n t a m i n a t e d , i n f e c t e d , s i c k i n s o m e s t r a n g e a n d d a n g e r o u s way, s o t h a t i t s e e m e d a d v i s a b l e t o d i s s o c i a t e i t from t h e s e r i e s ( o f w h i c h i t w a s t h e c o n c l u d i n g v o l u m e ) ! S i n c e its h a r d c o v e r a p p e a r a n c e i n s p r i n g 1 9 9 4 , The Mad Man has, h a d a m u c h m o r e o r d i n a r y history o f reviews. I've revised the b o o k substantially, h o w e v e r , i n p r e p a r a t i o n f o r a m a s s - m a r k e t p a p e r b a c k e d i t i o n . T h i s w e e k , actually, that m a s s - m a r k e t e d i t i o n a p p e a r s . T h e r e are still a few m i s t a k e s — a n d , yes, e v e n s o m e m i n o r a d d i t i o n s t o b e m a d e (I've

pre-

p a r e d e r r a t a sheets) — b u t basically I ' m v e r y h a p p y w i t h it. The

Mad Man r e v i e w s , as y o u h a v e s e e n , a r e o v e r w h e l m i n g l y p o s i t i v e .

I f I d o say s o , t h e i n t e l l i g e n c e b e h i n d t h e R e e d W o o d h o u s e p i e c e ( " L e a v i n g N o B u t t o n U n p u s h e d " ) a n d the Ray Davis overview ("Delany's Dirt") a r e a t a l e v e l a n y w r i t e r m u s t b e g r a t e f u l f o r . Lambda w a f f l e s . B u t t h e o n l y truly dissenting voice was C a n d a c e J a n e Dorsey's " O n B e i n g O n e ' s O w n Pomographer. " The

o t h e r r e s p o n s e s t o the b o o k I've g o t t e n are s o m e six f a n letters,

a l l r e c e i v e d i n t h e f i r s t m o n t h a f t e r The Mad Man a p p e a r e d . A l l w e r e praiseful. F o u r are, i n d e e d , f r o m other academics at other universities t h a n m i n e — t h u s t h e y m a y f a l l o u t s i d e y o u r p u r v i e w . S t i l l a n o t h e r is f r o m a gentleman w h o wrote to make m e an honorary m e m b e r o f "The Soiled S o l e Society," a g r o u p o f twenty-five m e n a n d w o m e n w h o f i n d dirty feet sexually attractive. A n o t h e r i n v i t e d m e t o a sex party, s o m e w h e r e o n the other side o f the country i n the O r e g o n woods. I s u s p e c t , T o m , t h a t p e o p l e w h o d o n o t e n j o y s u c h w o r k s as t h e s e s i m ply d o n ' t get far e n o u g h into t h e m to m a k e w r i t i n g the a u t h o r a reasonable possibility. Y o u ask w h a t I m e a n t b y " s t o c h a s t i c " o n p a g e 345. T h e w o r d , y o u ' l l

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recall, is part o f a t w o - p r o n g e d r h e t o r i c a l attack a n d recovery, t h e first part o f w h i c h is at the b e g i n n i n g o f that s a m e s e c t i o n : " T h e artist's p e r ­ f o r m a n c e is always m o r e o r less a l e a t o r y . . . . T h e a u d i e n c e ' s p e r f o r ­ m a n c e is always m o r e o r less s t o c h a s t i c . " I w o u l d a c c e p t as a p a r a p h r a s e : ' T h e artist's p e r f o r m a n c e is always m o r e o r less a s c a t t e r - s h o t affair . . . t h e a u d i e n c e ' s p e r f o r m a n c e is always m o r e o r less g u e s s w o r k . "

TL: I n b o t h The Tale of Plagues and Carnivals a n d The Mad Man, c h a r a c ­ ters h a v e e n c o u n t e r s w i t h a m o n s t r o u s b e a s t , t h o u g h i n b o t h cases t h e m a n i f e s t a t i o n is s u f f i c i e n t l y h a l l u c i n a t o r y o r d r e a m l i k e as t o s e e m i m a ­ g i n e d , n o t r e a l . I n b o t h cases this m a n i f e s t a t i o n is also n o t a b s o l u t e l y central to the narrative a n d seems t o g o against the g r a i n o f o t h e r realis­ tic f e a t u r e s o f t h e n a r r a t i v e . W h e r e i n y o u r o w n i m a g i n a t i o n d o e s this beast c o m e f r o m ? A r e these beasts s y m b o l s o r d o y o u u n d e r s t a n d

them

t o b e p e r f o r m i n g o t h e r f u n c t i o n s as w e l l ?

SRD: Y o u m i g h t f i n d i t i n t e r e s t i n g t h a t , u n t i l y o u p o i n t e d i t o u t , I w a s u n a w a r e o f t h e b e a s t s as s h a r e d e l e m e n t s b e t w e e n t h e b o o k s ! T h e k e y t o s u c h a r e v e l a t i o n is, I t h i n k , F r e u d ' s d i c t u m : " R e p e t i t i o n is desire." B o t h beasts are j u s t t h a t — f i g u r e s o f ( a n d e v e n for) desire. ( M y n o v e l Equinox c o n t a i n s a s i m i l a r e n c o u n t e r w i t h a n h a l l u c i n o ­ g e n i c beast.

Hmmm...)

N o w that y o u have m a d e t h e p o i n t , i m m e d i a t e l y I c a n see o t h e r fea­ tures they share. B o t h a r e c o l l a g e m o n s t e r s , f o r m e d o f f r a g m e n t s a n d d i s p a r a t e traits, h e l d t o g e t h e r o n l y b y t h e d e s i r e o f a r e a d e r t o m a k e t h e m i n t o a w h o l e , t o f o r m t h e m i n t o a c o h e r e n t e n t i t y . I n The Tale of Plagues and Carnivals i t i s , o f c o u r s e , t h e e v i l m o n s t e r o f d e s i r e w h o i s f i g ­ u r e d i n t h e t e x t . I n The Mad Man, t h e m o n s t e r ' s f u n c t i o n i s m o r e c o m ­ p l e x : I a s s o c i a t e h i m b o t h w i t h L e a k y and w i t h M a d M a n M i k e — a s w e l l as w i t h the d e a t h o f M i k e B e l l a g i o , w h i c h d e a t h , i n effect, b r i n g s t h e m o n ­ s t e r i n t o b e i n g f o r M a r r as s o m e t h i n g o t h e r t h a n t h e q u e s t i o n o f H a s l e r ' s own death. I n h i s 1 9 9 2 b o o k Donner la mort, D e r r i d a s u g g e s t s t h a t a r e l i g i o n c o m e s into b e i n g w h e n t h e e x p e r i e n c e o f responsibility extracts itself f r o m s o m e interplay o f t h e a n i m a l , t h e h u m a n , a n d t h e divine. ( T h a t is t o say, t h e w i n g s o f t h e a n g e l s a n d t h e h o r n s , h o o v e s , a n d t a i l o f t h e d e v i l m a y j u s t h a v e a g o o d d e a l m o r e t o d o w i t h m a r k i n g C h r i s t i a n i t y as a r e l i g ­ ion than d o the w o u n d s o f Christ.) W i t h o u t the extraction o r the divine, however, w h a t is p r o d u c e d is t h e m o n s t r o u s . T h e m o n s t r o u s thus m a y just be a presupposition f o r the religious.

130

Shorter Views

P a r t o f the p r o b l e m w i t h s u c h s y m b o l s , however, is that the a u t h o r c a n usually n e g o t i a t e t h e m o n l y w i t h i n a specific text. That's certainly true f o r me. TL:

W h a t m o r e c a n y o u tell m e a b o u t t h e c o n n e c t i o n between t h e

e r o t i c a n d the m y s t i c a l i n b o t h stories? SRD: A l a s , n o t h i n g . I ' v e a l w a y s f e l t t h a t a n y " m y s t i c a l " e x p e r i e n c e f a l l s s o m e w h e r e between a logical a n d a psychological b r e a k d o w n . T h a t goes f o r t h e o n e t h e l e t t e r t o S a l l y M o s s m a n d e s c r i b e s i n The Mad Man. T h a t s e v e n t y - p a g e l e t t e r i s , as a m a t t e r o f f a c t , a c o m b i n a t i o n o f t h r e e a c t u a l letters I wrote i n the early eighties, two to w o m e n a n d o n e to a m a n , t h e t h r e e o f t h e m c o b b l e d t o g e t h e r i n t o a s i n g l e , fictive d o c u m e n t . Save a few d r e a m m o m e n t s , the o n e r e c o u n t e d t h e r e is the o n l y mysti­ cal e x p e r i e n c e I've ever h a d . A n d , after a l l , w h a t b r o u g h t it o n was think­ i n g n o n s t o p f o r t w o o r three h o u r s a b o u t matters o f m y o w n life a n d death. Mystical experiences are certainly rare, different, a n d interesting. B u t I d o n ' t t h i n k t h e y a r e p r i v i l e g e d , as i t w e r e , o v e r a n y o t h e r sort. I n f a c t I t h i n k i t ' s b e s t t o i n t e r r o g a t e t h e m e v e n more c a r e f u l l y t h a n m o s t . Certainly I don't believe they o c c u r outside theconstraints o f discourse, say, h o w e v e r d i f f i c u l t i t m i g h t b e t o a r t i c u l a t e t h e i r c o n t e n t . A s I s a i d , I a m m u c h m o r e likely to rack t h e m u p to (psycho) logical breakdown t h a n I a m to a s s u m e they i m p l y any sort o f access to a t r a n s c e n d e n t a l re­ a l i t y — t h o u g h , c e r t a i n l y , w h e n y o u have o n e , y o u c a n u n d e r s t a n d w h y people m i g h t assume t h e m to b e such.

TL:

A p o c a l y p s e i s a n e x p l i c i t t h e m e i n The Mad Man, w h e r e T i m H a s l e r

h a s s c r a w l e d "ekpyrosis" i n s h i t b e f o r e h i s d e a t h , a f t e r w h i c h M a d M a n M i k e defiles the apartment. T h e G r e e k root o f the term "apocalypse" m e a n s l i t e r a l l y r e v e l a t i o n o r u n v e i l i n g . D o y o u see a r e l a t i o n s h i p b e t w e e n these two senses? SRD: A t t h e l e v e l o f p l o t , w h a t I ' d i n t e n d e d t h e r e a d e r t o a s s u m e i s t h a t m o s t o f t h e d e f i l e m e n t w a s d o n e before T i m a n d M i k e l e f t T i m ' s a p a r t ­ ment—likely

i n a scene, possibly even involving several o f M i k e ' s

f r i e n d s , s i m i l a r t o t h e " t u r n - o u t " t h a t fills u p t h e s e c o n d h a l f o f p a r t I V a n d t h e first h a l f o f p a r t V . A n d , y e s , i t ' s b e f o r e t h e y l e a v e t h a t "ekpyrosis" is d a u b e d o n t h e m i r r o r a n d t h e w i n d o w . O n c e , d o w n a t T h e P i t , T i m h a s b e e n k i l l e d a n d M i k e h a s b e e n w o u n d e d , M i k e returns t o t h e a p a r t ­ m e n t t o w r e c k it. T h u s t h e d e s t r u c t i o n — o f f u r n i t u r e , b o o k s , a n d t h e like—is overlaid o n t o p o f thedefilement. Defilement and destruction surround

t h e m u r d e r o f H a s l e r — a s they d o its replay, t h e m u r d e r o f

T h o m a s L. L o n g Interview J o e y . It's i m p o r t a n t f o r t h e a l l e g o r y t h a t t h e m u r d e r n e i t h e r

131

climaxes

( n o r initiates) b o t h d e f i l e m e n t a n d d e s t r u c t i o n . (But a l l this m a y b e m u c h c l e a r e r i n t h e revised p a p e r b a c k version.) T h e r e ' s a h i s t o r y , o f c o u r s e , o f a p o c a l y p t i c i m a g e r y u s e d n o t o n l y as a s y m b o l o f t h e e n d o f t h i n g s b u t also as a s y m b o l f o r t h e b e g i n n i n g o f things.

( G e n e s i s , a n d t h e B i g B a n g b o t h , begin w i t h a p o c a l y p t i c m o ­

ments.) O n e o f the m o s t f a m o u s s u c h users, o f c o u r s e ( a b o u t w h i c h I've w r i t t e n , i n m y m o n o g r a p h Wagner/Artaud e n d s W a g n e r ' s Gotterdâmmerung—the

[ 1 9 8 8 ] ), i s t h e a p o c a l y p s e t h a t

e n d i n g o f the R i n g . T h a t tripartite

apocalypse ( i n o n e cataclysmic event, t h e fall o f t h e G i b i c h u n g castle, the b u r n i n g o f V a l h a l l a , a n d t h e f l o o d i n g o f t h e R h i n e ) is at o n c e t h e end of d i v i n e , c y c l i c , m y t h i c a l t i m e a n d t h e beginningoi

h u m a n , develop­

mental, historical time. (This d o u b l e r e a d i n g o f apocalypse I trace b a c k to W a g n e r ' s associa­ tion

w i t h B a k u n i n , as a n a c c o u n t o f t h e f r i e n d s h i p b e g i n s , b e f o r e t h e

D r e s d e n U p r i s i n g , i n W a g n e r ' s Mein Leben.) C e r t a i n l y i n The Mad Man, I w a n t e d t h e a p o c a l y p t i c i m a g e r y t o f u n c ­ t i o n i n b o t h ways. B u t , a g a i n , t h a t is m u c h c l e a r e r i n t h e r e v i s e d p a p e r ­ back v e r s i o n — w h i c h spends m o r e time portraying J o h n a n d Leaky's life t o g e t h e r after J o e y ' s d e a t h — t h a n i n t h e e a r l i e r h a r d c o v e r v e r s i o n . TL:

I a m c o n v i n c e d that a p o c a l y p t i c d i s c o u r s e is A m e r i c a ' s c h i e f struc­

ture f o r c o n s t r u c t i n g social identity, w h i c h it does b ym e a n s o f b i n a r y o p ­ positions ( U s / O t h e r ) , usually predicated o n sexual anxieties, particu­ larly i n terms o f physical d e f i l e m e n t . B o t h o f y o u r narratives

explicitly

s e e m t o resist a n d d i s m a n t l e s u c h b i n a r i s m s a n d so are i n these r e s p e c t s a n t i - a p o c a l y p t i c . Is t h i s o b s e r v a t i o n a c c u r a t e i n y o u r v i e w a n d h o w m i g h t y o u qualify it f o r m e ? SRD: B a s i c a l l y I t h i n k y o u ' r e o n t h e r i g h t t r a c k . B u t I t h i n k t h a t t h e a p o c a l y p t i c d i s c o u r s e y o u h a v e l o c a t e d is p a r t o f a l a r g e r d i s c u r s i v e p h e ­ nomenon—what

D o n n a H a r a w a y c a l l s "Salvationist r h e t o r i c " o f w h i c h

a p o c a l y p t i c i m a g e r y is a n i n t e g r a l p a r t . A n t h r o p o l o g i s t M a r y D o u g l a s ' s w o r k o n d i r t a n d d e f i l e m e n t is also relevant h e r e — t h o u g h , I a m trying to answer these questions quickly. I have forty cartons o f u n p a c k e d b o o k s currently i n a storage r o o m , c o n ­ taining m o r e than half m ylibrary—including the Douglas. So I'm afraid I can't give y o u the exact citation. E t y m o l o g i c a l l y , a n a p o c a l y p s e is a " d i s - c o v e r y " o r a n " u n - v e i l i n g . " B y t r a d i t i o n , w h a t is u n c o v e r e d o r u n v e i l e d i n a n a p o c a l y p s e ( t h a n k s t o t h e R e v e l a t i o n o f St. J o h n ) w i l l i n i t i a l l y a p p e a r m o r e c o n f u s i n g t h a n n o t , a n d w i l l b e seen to n e e d i n t e r p r e t a t i o n . O f t e n , i n w h a t is d i s c o v e r e d , t h e

132

Shorter Views

n e w s w i l l n o t b e g o o d . I n t h a t s e n s e a n a p o c a l y p s e is s o m e t h i n g o f a n e x ­ posé. T o the extent I a m w r i t i n g i n detail a b o u t p e o p l e a n d practices that are

77ft? Mad ( i f n o t The Tale of Plagues and Carnivals) a p o c a l y p t i c . B u t , y e s , i n

not usually portrayed in fiction, I suppose y o u c o u l d call

Man

g e n e r a l , I t r y h a r d t o r e s i s t t h e Salvationist r h e t o r i c t h a t a w a i t s t o f o r c e s u c h m a t e r i a l i n t o its w e l l - w o r n g r o o v e s . T h a t m e a n s r e s i s t i n g t r a d i t i o n a l apocalyptic imagery—in search, perhaps, of a m o r e rigorous a n d pro­ ductive sense o f the apocalyptic. In the sense that the b o o k s are anti-salvationist, they are also antitraditional) apocalyptic. C e r t a i n l y d i s m a n t l i n g U s / T h e m o p p o s i t i o n s is o n e w a y t o r e s i s t Salva­ tionist rhetoric. D e f i l e m e n t is a c u l t u r a l

TL:

( a n d therefore, relative)

category.

(My

m o t h e r , f o r e x a m p l e , o n c e t o l d m e that she t h o u g h t F r e n c h kissing was disgusting. I d i d n ' t ask h e r w h a t she t h o u g h t o f s u c k i n g cock, getting f u c k e d , o r r i m m i n g . ) I n The Mad

Man

p a r t i c u l a r l y y o u s e e m to b e carv­

i n g o u t a d i s c u r s i v e s p a c e or s t r e t c h i n g o u r b o u n d a r i e s b y g r a p h i c d e ­ s c r i p t i o n s o f w h a t is p o s s i b l e o r w h a t c a n b e i m a g i n e d , a " p o r n o t o p i c fantasy" w h i c h y o u (disingenuously) declare "never h a p p e n e d a n d c o u l d n o t h a p p e n . " H I V / A I D S p u b l i c d i s c o u r s e has f o u n d d e f i l e m e n t issues difficult to talk a b o u t (e.g., " C u m , spit, piss, shit, etc." b e c o m e " b o d i l y f l u i d s " ) . T h e r e l i g i o u s r i g h t is f a s c i n a t e d / h o r r i f i e d b y i m a g e s o f h o m o ­ s e x u a l d e f i l e m e n t . ( I ' m h a v i n g a h a r d time d e f i n i n g a s p e c i f i c q u e s t i o n h e r e . ) I'd l i k e to k n o w y o u r o b s e r v a t i o n s , e x p e r i e n c e s o f d e f i l e m e n t a n d

its r e l a t i o n s h i p t o b l i s s , t h e s a c r e d ( t h e mysterium tremendum et fascinans, terrifying a n d fascinating), identity, sense o f self a n d other . . . W h a t m o r e c a n y o u tell m e a b o u t " p o r n o t o p i a " ?

SRD:

T h a t ' s a l o t o f q u e s t i o n , e s p e c i a l l y to c o m e so late i n t h e g a m e . A s

f a r as m y o w n e x p e r i e n c e s , s u f f i c e i t t o say t h a t , w i t h o u t r e p r o d u c i n g a n y o f t h e m p h o t o g r a p h i c a l l y ( t h e c l o s e s t I c o m e t o t h a t is t h e " S l e e p w a l k e r s " l e t t e r ) , The

Mad

Man

covers a great e n o u g h r a n g e o f t h e m so that a

r e a d e r w h o b e a r s i n m i n d t h a t i t is w r i t t e n b y a f i f t y - a n d f i f t y - o n e - y e a r - o l d m a n a b o u t a twenty- to thirty-five-year-old m a n , a n d thence allows for the necessary novelistic exaggeration a n d f o r e g r o u n d i n g , w o u l d

probably

n o t b e t o o f a r o f f i n m o s t o f h i s or h e r a s s u m p t i o n s a b o u t m y o w n s e x l i f e . I d o n o t h a v e v e r y m u c h t o say a b o u t b l i s s . I a m m u c h m o r e c o m f o r t ­ a b l e t a l k i n g a b o u t p l e a s u r e . (I q u o t e J o h n M a r r : " W i t h o u t b e i n g b l o w n a w a y b y it, I l i k e d it. A n d w a n t e d t o d o i t s o m e m o r e . " T h a t ' s b e e n m y r e ­ a c t i o n to m o s t o f t h e s e x i n m y l i f e , o n e w a y o r a n o t h e r . ) B l i s s t e n d s to f u n c t i o n ( f o r m o s t o f u s ? ) as a p o i n t e f f e c t , a n d a p o i n t w e p e r c e i v e /

T h o m a s L. L o n g Interview

133

a p p r o a c h asymptotically, rather than e n c o u n t e r directly. T h o u g h I agree with what I take to b e t h e p o l e m i c a l thrust o f Barthes's discussion o f jouissance i n m a t t e r s l i t e r a r y , I s u s p e c t h i s p o i n t

finally

is p o l e m i c a l a n d

o n l y signifies as a c o u n t e r t o t h o s e w h o w o u l d a r g u e t h a t r e a d i n g is a p u r e l y A p o l l o n i a n activity, w i t h n o D i o n y s i a n s i d e at a l l . A s f a r as i t s r e l a t i o n t o t h e m y s t i c a l , a g a i n , w h i l e t h e m y s t i c a l m a y ( o r m a y not) b e a p a r t o f o n e ' s p e r s o n a l l i b e r a t i o n i n t o w h a t e v e r o n e gets p l e a s u r e o u t o f d o i n g ( w i t h b l i s s s e e n as t h e u l t i m a t e p o i n t o f p l e a s u r e ) , I d o n ' t t h i n k i t i s i n a n y w a y a necessary p a r t . T o u s e a m o r e D e r r i d i a n f o r ­ m u l a t i o n , t h e m y s t i c a l is a s t r u c t u r a l possibility o f a n y aspect o f h u m a n e x p e r i e n c e — t h u s it can never b e d i s c o u n t e d , b a r r e d , o r e x p e l l e d f r o m the M a t e r i a l City. B u t p r e c i s e l y b e c a u s e it is (potentially)

inherent in

e v e r y t h i n g , that's w h a t m a k e s it so u n i n t e r e s t i n g — a t least t o m e . It d o e s n o t w o r k i n a n y strong m a n n e r t o d i f f e r e n t i a t e . A n d d i f f e r e n c e f o r m e i s still the s o u r c e o f i n f o r m a t i o n , o f interest, or, i n d e e d , o f p l e a s u r e . " P o r n o t o p i a " is n o t t h e " g o o d s e x u a l p l a c e . " ( T h a t w o u l d b e " U p o r n o topia" or "Eupornotopia.")

It's s i m p l y

the " s e x u a l p l a c e " — t h e

place

where all can b e c o m e (apocalyptically) sexual. " P o r n o t o p i a " is t h e p l a c e w h e r e p o r n o g r a p h y o c c u r s — a n d that, I ' m a f r a i d , i s t h e w o r l d o f The Mad Man. I t ' s t h e p l a c e w h e r e a n y r e l a t i o n s h i p can b e c o m e sexualized i n a m o m e n t , with t h e p r o p e r w o r d o r l o o k w h e r e every r e l a t i o n s h i p is p o t e n t i a l l y s e x u a l i z e d e v e n b e f o r e i t starts. I n The Mad Man I t r y t o n e g o t i a t e p o r n o t o p i a m o r e r e a l i s t i c a l l y t h a n m o s t

— i n m u c h t h e s a m e w a y t h a t A la recherche du temps perdu a n d Ulysses n e g o ­ tiate t h e u n i v e r s e o f c o m e d y . B u t , t h o u g h o u r lives a r e p a c k e d w i t h t h e c o m e d i c , m o s t o f w h i c h w e i g n o r e d a y to day, t h e u n i v e r s e o f c o m e d y is still n o t t h e d a y - t o - d a y w o r l d w e i n h a b i t — n o r is i t t h e s a m e as w h a t is called "realism." T h e c o m e d i c universe has m a n y c o r r e s p o n d e n c e s t o the w o r l d we live in—just

as p o r n o t o p i a h a s m a n y s u c h c o r r e s p o n d e n c e s . B u t t h e t w o

w o r l d s a r e s t i l l n o t t h e s a m e a s t h e w o r l d o f r e a l i s m . T h e y feel d i f f e r e n t . T h e y a r e s i g n e d b y d i s c r e t e r h e t o r i c a l m a r k e r s . Ulysses a n d À la recherche a r e s e r i o u s c o m e d i e s . A s s u c h , t h e y are o f t e n c o n f u s a b l e w i t h r e a l i s m . B u t i t is a c o n f u s i o n , n e v e r t h e l e s s . A c r i t i c w h o completely m i s s e s t h e c o m e d i c a s p e c t s o f A la recherche a n d Ulysses w o u l d p r o b a b l y b e t a k e n t o b e m i s r e a d i n g t h e t e x t s — a t l e a s t b y most knowledgeable readers. The Mad Man i s a s e r i o u s w o r k o f p o r n o g r a p h y . I s u p p o s e I o u g h t t o be flattered by some readers' c o n f u s i n g it with realism. But,

finally,

i t is a

p o r n o g r a p h i c w o r k . Its v e n u e i s p o r n o t o p i a , n o t a r e a l i s t i c p o r t r a y a l o f l i f e o n N e w Y o r k ' s U p p e r W e s t S i d e , f o r a l l I h a v e u s e d t h a t as t h e b a s i s f o r w h a t I w r o t e . T h o s e w h o say it is n o t a p o r n o g r a p h i c w o r k ( a n d t h a t I a m

134

Shorter Views

b e i n g d i s i n g e n u o u s b y saying that it is) are, h o w e v e r

well-intentioned,

just wrong. TL:

I n a d d i t i o n to " p o r n o t o p i a s " b o t h narratives suggest a W h i t m a n i a n

i d e a o f a f f e c t i o n b e t w e e n m e n t h a t crosses class l i n e s . H o w w o u l d y o u c h a r a c t e r i z e y o u r o w n u t o p i e s ? D o y o u b e l i e v e that r e v o l u t i o n is pos­ sible o r only resistance (Sara S c h u l m a n ' s position i n " W h y I ' m N o t a Revolutionary") ? SRD: A g a i n , q u e s t i o n s l i k e r e v o l u t i o n o r r e s i s t a n c e s t r i k e m e as s e m a n ­ t i c h a g g l i n g — p o s s i b l y o f a n e c e s s a r y o r d e r . (I d o n ' t k n o w M s . S c h u l ­ m a n ' s essay.) A r é s i s t e r b e c o m e s a r e v o l u t i o n a r y w h e n t h e p e r c e i v e d d a n ­ g e r t o h e r o r t o those she loves is great e n o u g h f o r h e r to g o get a g u n . V e r y p o s s i b l y i t is a l s o a w a y o f a c k n o w l e d g i n g t h a t t h e r e are m a n y s i t u a ­ t i o n s o u t t h e r e w h e r e p e o p l e h a v e t o a n d are f i g h t i n g f o r t h e i r l i v e s . I n a t h e o r y class o f m i n e last year, a tall, s o f t - s p o k e n y o u n g w o m a n f r o m I r a n t o o k a f i r m o b j e c t i o n to the n o t i o n that e v e r y t h i n g was politi­ cal. S o m e things, she m a i n t a i n e d , were just private discussion, with n o political aspect at all. W e asked her for an example. T h i s is w h a t s h e c a m e b a c k w i t h . " W h e n m y f r i e n d a n d I u s e d to sit a r o u n d i n o u r r o o m a n d a r g u e f o r h o u r s a b o u t w h o was g o i n g to b e e l e c t e d , o r w h a t the o u t c o m e o f s o m e n e w g o v e r n m e n t p o l i c y was g o i n g to b e , that seems t o m e p u r e l y private s p e c u l a t i o n . W h e n , later the same w e e k , I was c r o s s i n g t h e street w i t h m y f r i e n d a n d she was shot d e a d b e s i d e m e b y a s n i p e r o n t h e r o o f across t h e street, a n d I h a d t o r u n a n d t a k e c o v e r i n a d o o r w a y s o / w o u l d n ' t b e s h o t , thatwas p o l i t i c a l ! " G i v e n the s h o c k all o f us i n that r o o m u n d e r w e n t at the apocalypse o f h e r e x p e r i e n c e i n h e r h o m e l a n d , i f y o u w a n t e d t o start d i s t i n g u i s h i n g b e t w e e n w h o was resisting a n d w h o was a revolutionary, I t h i n k all o f us w o u l d have said: Sure. G o ahead. B u t I a l s o p o i n t o u t , t h e y o u n g w o m a n w a s j u s t as s t a r t l e d as w e h a d b e e n w h e n s o m e o n e p o i n t e d o u t that a s o c i a l structure o f laws, behavior, a n d c u s t o m s t h a t prevents p e o p l e f r o m b e i n g s h o t i n t h e s t r e e t w a s also p o l i t i c a l . T o the y o u n g I r a n i a n w o m a n , all politics was evil. A n y t h i n g that was n o t evil was private. T h e n o t i o n that politics c o u l d b e g o o d , a n d c o u l d b e u s e d t o p r e s e r v e a s p a c e o f f r e e d o m a n d c h o i c e w a s as a s t o n i s h ­ i n g ( a n d , f i n a l l y , a s l i b e r a t i n g ) a n o t i o n t o t h i s y o u n g w o m a n as t h e n e ­ cessity f o r g r e a t e r d i s t i n c t i o n a m o n g levels o f resistant p o l i t i c a l involve­ m e n t h a d b e e n to us, w h e n we c o n t e m p l a t e d her experience o f crossing t h e street a n d l o s i n g a f r i e n d t o a b u l l e t i n h e r n a t i v e city. A s gays, i n t h e U . S . w e d o n o t y e t — m o s t o f u s — l i v e i n s u c h a city.

T h o m a s L. L o n g Interview

135

B u t others d o : T h r e e years a g o , at a c o n f e r e n c e o n p o s t c o l o n i a l i t y at Yale U n i v e r s i t y , I d e l i v e r e d a p a p e r " A B e n d i n t h e R o a d " ( s u b s e q u e n d y p u b l i s h e d i n The Yale Journal

of Criticism, S p r i n g 1 9 9 4 , V o l u m e 7, N u m ­

ber 1). M y paper h i n g e d o n accounts o f two conversations with two m e n , a y o u n g G r e e k student a n d a K e n y a n carpenter, b o t h o f w h o m I'd met, years apart, w h i l e c r u i s i n g . O n e o f t h e o t h e r participants was E g y p ­ tian

novelist a n d psychiatrist N a w a l E l Saadawi. W h e n all the partici­

pants h a d a d j o u r n e d f o r pizza, D r . Saadawi c o m m e n t e d to m e , rather offhandedly: " Y o u k n o w , i f y o u ' d given y o u r p a p e r i n m y country, at t h e U n i v e r s i t y o f C a i r o , say, b e f o r e t h e a f t e r n o o n w a s o v e r y o u w o u l d h a v e most certainly b e e n a r r e s t e d — a n d quite possibly killed before the week was o u t . " It b e h o o v e s u s t o r e m e m b e r t h a t t h e s t r i d e s m a d e i n g a y l i b e r a t i o n h a v e not o c c u r r e d e v e r y p l a c e i n t h e w o r l d . A n d i f t h a t i s t h e s o r t o f i n ­ sight that a c c o m p a n i e s M s . S c h u l m a n ' s d i s t i n c t i o n b e t w e e n

revolution

and resistance, m o r e p o w e r to her. B u t , r i g h t n o w , C a i r o i s not t h e p l a c e most o f t h e U . S . g a y c o m m u n i t y l i v e s — A I D S n o t w i t h s t a n d i n g . W h i c h is p r o b a b l y w h y t h e r e ' s a g o o d d e a l m o r e resistance here t h a n revolution. A s to t h e r e l a t i o n o f sex t o t h e c r o s s i n g o f class l i n e s , I've a n s w e r e d t h e q u e s t i o n a t s o m e l e n g t h i n m y b o o k Silent Interviews ( W e s l e y a n U n i ­ versity Press: 1995), i n t h e s e c t i o n e n t i t l e d " S w o r d a n dS o r c e r y , S / M , and the Economics o f Inadéquation." Y o u might pursue the topic there. TL:

W h a t i s t h e c o n n e c t i o n b e t w e e n ' J o e y " i n The Tale of Plagues and Car­

nivals a n d " C r a z y J o e y " i n The Mad

Man.

SRD: N o n e — t h a t I ' m a w a r e o f . J o e y was m o d e l e d o n a h o m e l e s s j u n k y h u s t l e r w h o m I k n e w

during

the early e i g h t i e s . I d e s c r i b e d o u r last m e e t i n g , i n S p r i n g o f 1988, i n " P o s t s c r i p t 3." P a r t o f t h e t a s k I s e t m y s e l f i n t h a t b o o k w a s t o r e m a i n a s a c c u r a t e as p o s s i b l e t o t h e a s p e c t s o f i t t h a t w e r e r e p o r t a g e . C r a z y J o e y was a c o m p o s i t e p o r t r a i t o f several m o r e o r less d e r a n g e d y o u n g m e n , m e t h e r e a n d i n S a n F r a n c i s c o m a n y years before, w i t h a g o o d l y d o l l o p o f fantasy a d d e d — w h i c h suits t h e c r e a t i o n o f a d e n i z e n o f pornotopia. W h a t is i m p o r t a n t a b o u t J o e y is that h e l i v e s — a n d lives A I D S f r e e , at l e a s t as f a r as I w a s a b l e t o d e t e r m i n e . W h a t is i m p o r t a n t a b o u t C r a z y J o e y i s t h a t h e d i e s . A s s u c h , t h e two characters o c c u p y different pivotal p o i n t s i n t h e i r re­ spective novels.

L.

136

Shorter Views

TL: W h a t a r e y o u r t h o u g h t s o n e r o t i c t r a n s g r e s s i o n , s e x u a l d i s s i d e n c e , e m b r a c i n g t h e role o f pariah? H o w are these roles related to carnival? A r e y o u aware o f t h e sexual a n t i n o m i a n i s m often associated with millen­ nial movements, particularly during the Reformation? SRD: I a m , o f c o u r s e , a g r e a t f a n o f t h e " a n t i n o m i a n i s m " o f A n n e M a r b u r y H u t c h i n s o n , w h i c h i n s p i r e d H a w t h o r n e t o h i s Scarlet Letter. ( W h a t A m e r i c a n is n o t ? ) O f c o u r s e , they w e r e n o t really " a n t i n o m i a n i s t s " ("per­ sons against a l l C h u r c h laws") at all. T h a t was s i m p l y h o w they were per­ ceived a n d what they were d u b b e d by their Puritan c h u r c h enemies. W h a t they believed (before they were allslaughtered b y Indians off i n P e l h a m B a y i n 1643, i f t h a t i n d e e d is w h a t really h a p p e n e d ) was that t h e r e w e r e e n o u g h intersecting social discourses i n a c a r i n g a n d n u r t u r i n g society to c o n s t r a i n i t s m e m b e r s ' b e h a v i o r t o t h e g o o d s o t h a t s o c i e t y d i d n o t need official C h u r c h l a w a n d official C h u r c h p u n i s h m e n t s . If anything, they were t h e country's first d i e - h a r d U t o p i a n social constructionists. Are

y o u familiar

with Scott O ' H a r a ' s public

sex journal

O ' H a r a is a n H I V - p o s i t i v e f o r m e r s e x w o r k e r i n t h e g a y p o r n

Steam} industry

t u r n e d writer a n d publisher. I f i n d myself greatly drawn to what h e has t o s a y . (Steam p u b l i s h e d e x c e r p t s f r o m The Mad Man j u s t b e f o r e i t f i r s t c a m e o u t . ) I n t h e m o s t r e c e n t i s s u e ( V o l u m e 3, I s s u e 3, A u t u m n 1 9 9 5 ) , O ' H a r a has all b u t repudiated the "Safe S e x " m o v e m e n t (although n o t all h i swriters have, b y a n ym e a n s ) , with a n article called " G o o d - B y e to the R u b b e r m a n , " i n a way that I a m deeply i n sympathy with.

Says

O ' H a r a q u o t i n g a positive f r i e n d : " I ' m so sick a n d tired o f these N e g a ­ tives w h i n i n g a b o u t h o w d i f f i c u l t i t i s t o s t a y s a f e . W h y d o n ' t t h e y j u s t g e t o v e r it a n d g e t p o s i t i v e ? " T h o u g h I a m H I V negative m y s e l f a n d w o u l d l i k e t o stay t h a t way, I ' m n o t a n d n e v e r h a v e b e e n — a t least n o t s i n c e m y g o o d o l d " m y s t i c a l " e x p e r i e n c e at t h e V a r i e t y i n ' 8 4 — o n e to w h i n e a b o u t it. Y o u ' d have to r e a d the w h o l e article to follow what he's saying. B u t I a g r e e w i t h h i m : N o t t h a t w e n e g a t i v e s s h o u l d b e c o m e p o s i t i v e ( w h i c h is lunatic) b u t w e s h o u l d stop w h i n i n g a n d take responsibility f o r learning to n e g o t i a t e t h e s e x u a l l a n d s c a p e that exists. T h e m i l l e n n i a l context c o m e s close to forcing the elements you're d i s c u s s i n g i n t o a "Salvationist r h e t o r i c a l " c o n t e x t — a n d t h a t ' s p r e c i s e l y the context that they have to b e k e p t o u t of, if they are to f u n c t i o n i n a positive manner. Transgression, sexual dissidence, a n d the role o f the p a r i a h ( n o t t o m e n t i o n c a r n i v a l itself: a c h u r c h - l i c e n s e d c e l e b r a t i o n o f a "farewell to the flesh" before a L e n t e n p e r i o d o f p r o l o n g e d abstinence) m u s t b e r e m o v e d f r o m Salvationist d i s c o u r s e i f t h e y a r e t o b e a n y t h i n g m o r e than a return to orthodoxy.

T h o m a s L. L o n g Interview

137

The Tale of Plagues and CarnivalYvaA i t s t i t l e as e a r l y as 1 9 8 0 , f o u r y e a r s b e f o r e i t h a d a t o p i c . W h e n I r e a d B a k h t i n ' s Rabelais and His World i n 1984,1 a s s o c i a t e d ( a n d c o n t r a s t e d ) h i s n o d o n o f c a r n i v a l w i t h B a t e s o n ' s n o t i o n o f t h e N e w G u i n e a c u s t o m o f t h e I a t m u l n a v e n (Naven,

1958),

w h i c h h a d a l r e a d y b e e n at w o r k i n the N e v è r y ô n tales. I w o n d e r e d i f this n e w d i s e a s e , t h e n s t i l l b e i n g r e f e r r e d t o as t h e " G a y P l a g u e , " w a s w h a t m y story was about. To find out, I wrote i t . .. B y 1986, D a v i d B l a c k ' s S c i e n c e - i n - S o c i e t y J o u r n a l i s m A w a r d - w i n n i n g

The Plague Years: A Chronicle of AIDS, The Epidemic of Our Time ( S i m o n a n d Schuster, 1985) was b e i n g p i l l o r i e d i n t h e gay press, b e c a u s e p e o p l e w e r e b e g i n n i n g t o r e a l i z e t h a t t h e c o n s t r a i n t s m e t a p h o r s s u c h as " p l a g u e " a n d " v i c t i m " i m p o s e d h a d m u c h f a r t h e r - r e a c h i n g effects t h a n h a d b e e n h e r e t o f o r e s u p p o s e d . S u s a n S o n t a g ' s v e r y w e a k b o o k o n A I D S (AIDS and Its Metaphors, a f o l l o w - u p t o h e r e x t r e m e l y s t r o n g Illness as Metaphor) l o c a t e s t h e r a n g e o f m i l i t a r y m e t a p h o r s as t h e f a l l g u y i n A I D S r h e t o r i c — a n d t o tally misses the b o a t . I k n o w that s h e n e v e r saw m y n o v e l . I f s h e h a d , s h e m i g h t h a v e n o t i c e d t h a t t h e controlling m e t a p h o r i c s t r u c t u r e f o r A I D S f r o m t h e v e r y b e g i n n i n g w a s : "What m e t a p h o r s h a l l w e u s e f o r i t ? " A I D S has b e e n f r o m t h e b e g i n n i n g a t e r m - i n - s e a r c h - o f - a - m e t a p h o r — a n d , i n t h a t s e n s e , b o t h h e r b o o k a n d m i n e f a l l r i g h t into t h e c o n t r o l l i n g , d o m i nant metaphoric structure. Black h a p p e n e d to b e a straight acquaintance o f m i n e . I'd k n o w n h i m o n a n d o f f f o r a n u m b e r years before his b o o k ( o rm i n e ) a p p e a r e d . It was q u i t e a n e x p e r i e n c e f o r h i m t o g o f r o m b e i n g a n a w a r d - w i n n i n g science writer, r e c e i v i n g a g o o d d e a l o f praise f r o m gays i n t h e c o u r s e o f it, d e e p l y i n s y m p a t h y w i t h t h e g a y c o m m u n i t y a n d a p p a l l e d b y t h e r a v ages o f the early years o f A I D S t o , a y e a r later, f i n d i n g h i m s e l f p i l l o r i e d i n t h e gay p r e s s as a n i n s e n s i t i v e p a n d e r o f p l a g u e a n d v i c t i m s t e r e o types. B u t it c o u l d j u s t as easily h a v e h a p p e n e d t o m e . B y 1986, I c o u l d n ' t possibly ( n o r c o u l d a n y o n e else w i t h a s h r e d o f social r e s p o n sibility) have u s e d t h e t e r m " p l a g u e " i n t h e title o f a n y t h i n g h a v i n g t o do with AIDS. B u t , b y p u r g i n g t h e d i s e a s e o f s t i l l another m e t a p h o r , w e w e r e a l l f u r t h e r i n g t h e dominant d i s c o u r s e o f t h e d i s e a s e - w i t h - n o f i x e d - m e t a p h o r . I h o p e y o u r o w n " a n t i - a p o c a l y p t i c " efforts d o n ' t fall i n t o t h e s a m e trap. It's o n e o f t h e t r o p e s t h a t s t i l l k e e p s s o m u c h o f t h e d i s e a s e l i t e r a l l y "unspeakable." B u t i f there is a t r u t h to b e l e a r n e d h e r e , it is that d o m i n a n t

dis-

courses are j u s t that: t h e discourses that d o m i n a t e . T h e d o m i n a n t structure d o e s n ' t p a r t i c u l a r l y care w h o a d d s to it, o r h o w s m a r t — o r e v e n w e l l i n t e n t i o n e d — t h e o n e s w h o a d d t o it are.

138

Shorter Views

T o c o n c l u d e : A t t h e b e g i n n i n g o f t h e letter c o n t a i n i n g y o u r list o f q u e s t i o n s h e r e , y o u m e n t i o n a r a n g e o f w o r k s , a f e w o f w h i c h ( e . g . , An­

gels in America a n d The Mystery of Irma Vep) I ' m f a m i l i a r w i t h b u t m o s t o f w h i c h I'm not. L e t m e r e f r a i n f r o m c o m m e n t o n a n y o f t h e m . I d o n ' t q u i t e see h o w , for y o u r purposes, that w o u l d be useful—especially since I don't have the d m e ( o r the energy) to r e t u r n to any o f t h e m f o r a closer l o o k that alone w o u l d give s u c h c o m m e n t the e n e r g y o r a c c u r a c y that m i g h t r e n d e r it so. Y e s , I ' v e r e a d P r o f e s s o r J a c k s o n ' s Strategies of Deviance a n d f i n d t h e w h o l e b o o k q u i t e a n e x t r a o r d i n a r y p e r f o r m a n c e . I ' m h o n o r e d b y h i s at­ tentions. W o u l d y o u m i n d if I sent h i m a copy o f o u r interchange here? H e m i g h t f i n d it o f interest, i f n o t o f use.

—New York City February iççô

Parti Tine Po.itics of i k e Raraiiterarij

L

Neither the First Word n o r the Last on Deconstruction, Structuralism, Poststructuralism, and Semiotics for SF Readers

. . . to dissolve the i n t r o d u c t o r y p r o b l e m , to search o u t a c o m m o n vocab­ ulary a m o n g the debates' discussants, to p i n p o i n t c o m m o n ideas o r pre­ suppositions they share, to locate c o m m o n centers f o r a r g u m e n t , o r to describe

the general

rubric

of

language-as-model-for-all-meaning-

processes that m a n y o f the dialogues have taken place u n d e r m i g h t well b e c o n s t r u e d b y a n u m b e r o f t h e d i a l o g u e s ' p a r t i c i p a n t s as a n a s p e c t o f a totalizing urge, a will to knowledge-as-power, a desire f o r mastery w h i c h has c o m e u n d e r severe c r i t i c i s m a n d i n t e n s e analysis at n u m e r o u s p o i n t s i n t h e s e v e r y d e b a t e s . W e m i g h t e v e n say t h a t a r e c u r r e n t " t h e m e " o f t h e p o s t s t r u c t u r a l i s t w a v e o f t h e s e d i a l o g u e s is t h a t a l l s u c h u r g e s a r e d i s t o r t ­ ing, biasing, untrustworthy, ideologically loaded, a n d

finally

blinding, so

that they must b e a p p r o a c h e d w i t h c o n t i n u o u s o p p o s i t i o n a l vigilance. W h a t y o u , m y h e a r e r s , however, c a n n o t see is t h e q u o t a t i o n s

marks

a r o u n d " t h e m e " i n the p a r a g r a p h f r a g m e n t above. A s easily I c o u l d have put a line through

t h e w o r d , p l a c i n g Theme-—to take a

D e r r i d a ' s 1 9 6 7 b o o k Of Grammatology, a from

the G e r m a n philosopher Martin

figure

figure

from

that D e r r i d a b o r r o w e d

Heidegger—"sous

rature," o r

" u n d e r e r a s u r e . " A r e a s o n f o r this m o v e is that this s a m e c r i t i q u e o f t h e totalizing impulse to mastery holds that even the social process o f consti­ t u t i n g aThenae-is, itself, a n e x a m p l e o f t h e s a m e t o t a l i z i n g u r g e . T h e c r i ­ tique

h o l d s : A " t h e m e " h a s t h e s a m e p o l i t i c a l s t r u c t u r e as a p r e j u d i c e .

B o t h the words " t h e m e " a n d "thesis" derive f r o m the G r e e k w o r d TiGevai, t o p l a c e , t o p o s e , t o p o s i t , t o p o s i t i o n , o r t o l e t s t a n d . T h u s t h e i d e a o f

142

Shorter Views

a Theme-is etymologically g r o u n d e d i n the i d e a o f having, o r h o l d i n g to, a p o s i t i o n . I n d e e d , as m y s e m a n t i c a l l y s e n s i t i v e l i s t e n e r s w i l l h e a r as w e p r o g r e s s , t h e i d e a o f p o s i d v i t y , o f p o s i n g , o f p o s i t i o n a l i t y is p a c k e d into—is impacted throughout—the

entire discourse a r o u n d

(that is,

p o s e d o r p o s i t i o n e d a r o u n d ) t h e n o t i o n o f t h e m e / p o s i t i o n itself. N o m a t t e r h o w m u c h w e talk as i f T h e m e s , w e r e objects w e f o u n d p r e s e n t i n , o r p o s i t i o n e d by, a t e x t , t h i s c r i t i q u e m a i n t a i n s t h a t " O t e m e s a r e a c t u a l l y p a t t e r n s t h a t w e a l w a y s i m p o s e on a t e x t ( i . e . , t h e p o s i t i o n i s always a p o s i t i o n w e p o s i d o n ) — a n d always f o r reasons we c a n n o t fully u n d e r s t a n d , that w e c a n n e v e r f u l l y master, that we r e m a i n b l i n d to. W e w i l l c o n f u s e t h e m j u s t the way we c o n f u s e t h e " p o s i t i o n s " w i t h i n the pa­ r e n t h e s e s i n t h e last s e n t e n c e . N o m a t t e r h o w m u c h w e c l a i m t o have f o u n d objective evidence o f one o r another Theme-present i n one o r an­ o t h e r text, the constitutive e l e m e n t s o f that " t h e m e " have already b e e n p o l i t i c a l l y i n p l a c e , i.e., p o s i t e d , b e f o r e w e m a d e t h e b l i n d m o v e o f r e c ­ o g n i z i n g it. " T h e t h e m e i s a l r e a d y i n p l a c e b e f o r e t h e t e x t is r e a d . " ' T h e t e x t r e a d s , i f y o u l i k e , t h e t h e m e is u s . " " T h e t h e m e is h i s t o r i c a l l y s e d i m e n t e d : It is n o t a n a e s t h e t i c a l l y p r i v i ­ l e g e d g r o u n d f o rthe text." . . . to use s o m e locutions characteristic o f the rhetoric associated with structuralist/poststructuralist discourse. P a r a d o x i c a l l y , i f this c r i t i c i s m is c o r r e c t — a n d I feel that it i s — o n e o f its i n e s c a p a b l e c o n s e q u e n c e s i s t h a t , r e a l l y , w e c a n n e v e r e s c a p e from t h e matics. T h u s w e m u s t always m a i n t a i n

a n alert a n d severe analytical

s t a n c e toward t h e m . T h i s is w h y y o u w i l l f r e q u e n t l y h e a r , i n d i s c u s s i o n s o f " d e c o n s t r u c t i o n " vs. " t h e m a t i c c r i t i c i s m , " p e o p l e s p e a k o f t h e o p p o s i t i o n between

the two—or

talk

about

a basic

a n d essential

antagonism

b e t w e e n t h e m . ( L a t i n : p o s i t i o n a n d o p p o s i t i o n . G r e e k : thesis a n d antith­ esis.) T h e t h e m a t i c c r i t i c s ' o p p o s i t i o n a l a r g u m e n t sees t h e s e a r c h i n g o u t o f t h e m e s ( a l o n g w i t h t h e i r sisters a n d t h e i r c o u s i n s a n d t h e i r aunts: s y m b o l s , a l l e g o r i e s , a n d m e t a p h o r s ) as t h e p r i m a r y a c t i v i t y o f t h e c r i t i c , w i t h a b i t o f semantic analysis, a b i t o f historical r e r e a d i n g — i . e . , a b i t o f d e c o n s t r u c t i o n — a s a s u p p l e m e n t a r y activity t o c o m p l e t e the j o b , per­ haps t o a d d a critical f o r m t o the search, t o give it closure at the e n d , to p r o v i d e a sense o f c o m m e n c e m e n t at its o p e n i n g . T h e p r o p e r

critical

p o s i t i o n f o r " d e c o n s t r u c t i o n " ( w h i c h i s , a f t e r a l l , almost a s y n o n y m f o r a n a l y s i s ) , say t h e t h e m a t i c c r i t i c s , a d d i n g t h e i r o w n i r o n i c q u o t e s t o t h e t e r m , s h o u l d b e as a n a d j u n c t t o t h e m a t i c s . D e c o n s t r u c t i o n s h o u l d b e u s e d t o trace o u t t h e m e s f r o m particularly hazy passages, s h o u l d b e u s e d to c o m p l e t e t h e m e s , to elide o n et h e m e t o another, t o f i x a theme's a u t o n o m y , t o d o , i n g e n e r a l , w h a t d e c o n s t r u c t i o n seems to d o best a n d

N e i t h e r the First W o r d n o r the Last

143

o f t e n e v e n b o a s t s o f : ". . . t o s e e r e l a t i o n s h i p s , " ( t o u s e t h e w o r d s

of

T h o m a s D i s c h ' s p a r o d i e c r i t i c a l essay, b y B u r d i e L u d d , i n h i s s h o r t s t o r y " T h e D e a t h of Socrates") "where n o n e exist." B u t f o r the poststructuralist critic, this o p p o s i t i o n a l tale b e t w e e n them a t i c s a n d d e c o n s t r u c t i o n is a n o l d s t o r y . It is t h e s t o r y o f t w o o p p o s i n g f o r c e s w h o s e r i g h t a n d p r o p e r r e l a t i o n is o n e o f h i e r a r c h y , o f s u b o r d i n a ­ t i o n , o f s u p p l e m e n t a r i t y . It is t h e s t o r y o f t h e b a t t l e o f t h e s e x e s , t h e a n ­ tagonism between m a n a n d w o m a n whose right a n d p r o p e r positionality is f o r w o m a n t o s t a n d b e s i d e , b e h i n d , a n d t o s u p p o r t m a n . It is t h e s t o r y of the essential o p p o s i t i o n between white a n d black w h o s e p r o p e r resolu­ t i o n is f o r b l a c k t o p r o v i d e t h e s h a d o w s a n d f o r e g r o u n d t h e h i g h l i g h t s f o r w h i t e , f o r b l a c k t o w o r k f o r w h i t e . It is t h e s t o r y o f e v i l t h a t f i n d s its p l a c e i n a d d i n g o n l y the smallest o f necessary spices to a pervasive, essential g o o d . It is t h e s t o r y o f n a t u r e a n d h e r c u p - b e a r e r , t h e p r i m i t i v e , p o s i n g a b i t o f r e l i e f f o r t h e r i g o r s o f c i v i l i z a t i o n a n d its f l a g - w a v e r , c u l t u r e . It is t h e O t h e r as t h e l o c u s , as t h e p o s i t i o n , as t h e p l a c e w h e r e t h e

all-important

S e l f c a n i n d u l g e i n a b i t o f p r o j e c t i o n (i.e., c a n t h r o w s o m e t h i n g f o r w a r d i n t o t h e p l a c e o f t h e O t h e r — o r s i m p l y h u r l t h i n g s a t t h e O t h e r ) . It is t h e s t o r y i n w h i c h t h e f r a i l , f r a g i l e , a n d e r r i n g b o d y is p r o p e r l y (as p r o p e r l y , as a n o w n e d p l a c e ) a v e s s e l f o r t h e m a n l y , m i g h t y , a n d o m n i p o t e n t m i n d ; w h e r e m a s t u r b a t i o n (or, i n d e e d , h o m o s e x u a l i t y o r a n y o f t h e o t h e r " p e r ­ v e r s i o n s " ) is a f a l l - b a c k o n l y w h e n r i g h t a n d a u t h e n t i c h e t e r o s e x u a l i t y is not available; w h e r e the great, taxing, b u t finally r i c h literary

tradition,

w i t h its e n t i r e a c a d e m i c a l l y e s t a b l i s h e d a n d s u p p o r t e d c a n o n , o c c a s i o n ­ ally allows us to give p l a c e f o r a m o m e n t to those u n d e m a n d i n g ( b e c a u s e they are w i t h o u t p o w e r to d e m a n d ) diversions (those objects we f i n d w h e n we turn f r o m o u r right place of traditional responsibility) of para­ literary p r o d u c t i o n — m y s t e r i e s , c o m i c s , p o r n o g r a p h y , a n d science

fiction.

It is t h e s t o r y w h e r e t h e c o n s c i o u s a n d s e l f - c o n s c i o u s s u b j e c t o c c a s i o n a l l y d i s c o v e r s (i.e., u n c o v e r s t h e p l a c e of) c e r t a i n i n c o n s e q u e n t i a l , o r e v e n interesting, slips o f the t o n g u e o r s u d d e n j o k e s that c a n b e e x p l a i n e d a w a y b y a n a p p e a l t o a n u n c o n s c i o u s t h a t is l i t t l e m o r e t h a n a s t a t e o f i n a t ­ t e n t i o n . It is t h e s t o r y o f t h e t h i n k i n g , s p e a k i n g , a c t i n g s u b j e c t f o r w h o m t h e w a y t o c o n s i d e r o b j e c t s is as e x t e n s i o n , p r o p e r t y , t o o l ; o f p r e s e n c e s merely o u t l i n e d a n d t h r o w n into relief by the otherwise secondary ab­ sences a b o u t t h e m ; o f the authoritative v o i c e that k n o w s a n d speaks the t r u t h , p r o m p t e d b y a b i t o f s u s p e c t w r i t i n g w h o s e p r o p e r u s e is o n l y as a n a i d to m e m o r y ; o f p r i m a r y c r e a t i v e w o r k that, f r o m t i m e to t i m e , m a y rightly, if respectfully, b e a p p r o a c h e d t h r o u g h s o m e s e c o n d a r y critical a c t ; o f t h e m a d w h o c a n b e h e a r d t o m e n t i o n as t h e y s h a m b l e p a s t a f e w amusing or even s h o c k i n g truths, here a n d there a m o n g their mutteri n g s — t r u t h s that, alas, o n l y t h e s a n e c a n r e a l l y a p p r e c i a t e .

144

Shorter Views

Male/female, white/black, good/evil, civilized/primitive,

culture/

nature, self/other, literature/paraliterature, m i n d / b o d y , conscious/unconscious, subject/object, presence/absence, voice/writing, artist/critic, sanity/madness—these

seeming conceptually egalitarian

oppositions

that c o v e r vast socially e x p l o i t e d h i e r a r c h i e s are, themselves, a "theme; p e r h a p s , till fairly recently, they w e r e the great"thenae-of the West. S o w h e n I p o i n t o u t first the o p p o s i t i o n b e t w e e n thematics a n d dec o n s t r u c t i o n , t h e n p o i n t o u t t h e h i e r a r c h y t h a t is a s s u m e d t o b e t h e p r o p e r t h e m a t i c (i.e., p o s i t i o n a l ) r e s o l u t i o n to t h e o p p o s i t i o n b e t w e e n t h e m ; a n d w h e n I g o o n to p o i n t o u t that n e i t h e r that o p p o s i t i o n n o r the s u b o r d i n a t i o n the o p p o s i t i o n c a n b e so easily s h o w n to m a s k really a n swers the n e e d s o f c r i t i c i s m , I a m e n g a g i n g i n a v e r y o l d m o v e — a m o v e that w i l l b e f a m i l i a r to t h o s e w h o have f o l l o w e d the

structuralist/post-

s t r u c t u r a l i s t d e b a t e s o f t h e last years. T h e p o i n t is, t h e p o s t s t r u c t u r a l i s t critic m o r e so t h a n the t h e m a t i c critic m u s t b e aware o f just h o w m i r e d i n themes we already are. W h a t has c h a n g e d for the

poststructuralist

c r i t i c is t h e s t a t e , t h e s t a t u s , t h e o n t o l o g i c a l p o s i t i o n o f t h e t h e m e . W h e n a n o b j e c t ' s o n t o l o g i c a l s t a t u s c h a n g e s , i t is n o l o n g e r t h e s a m e o b j e c t — p o s s i b l y it is n o l o n g e r a n o b j e c t at a l l : H e n c e ( w h i c h m e a n s , after

a l l , from here) t h e q u o t a t i o n

m a r k s a r o u n d it; h e n c e t h e

line

t h r o u g h it; h e n c e t h e b a r r a g e o f d e - p o s i t i o n i n g r h e t o r i c p l a c e d o n a l l sides o f i t — h e n c e , i n d e e d , w h a t e v e r i r o n i c m a r k we n e e d to tell us that, f o r a w h i l e a t l e a s t , i t is u n d e c i d a b l e w h a t o u r r e s p o n s e t o i t s h o u l d b e — a description o f irony courtesy o f the historian o f criticism, R e n é Wellek. A"trrenae.is n o w n o l o n g e r o n e a m o n g m a n y c o m p o n e n t s o f a t e x t t h a t we c a n locate h e r e o r there (a c o m p o n e n t s o m e t i m e s present, sometimes

a b s e n t ) ; i t is n o t a c o m p o n e n t t h a t , as w e t r a c e i t t h r o u g h t h e t e x t ,

as w e m a p i t b e t w e e n t e x t s , e x p l a i n s t h e t e x t s i t o c c u r s i n ; i t is n o t t h e c o m p o n e n t t h a t c o n f e r s o n texts u n i t y a n d c o h e r e n c e , n o r d o e s it give t h e m t h e i r s t a t u s as o b j e c t s w o r t h y o f a n a l y s i s ; i t is n o t a c o m p o n e n t t h a t lets us m a s t e r texts, allows us to d i s p o s e o f t h e m (or d i s p o s e o f the parts o f t h e texts i n w h i c h w e r e a d t h e m ) , e i t h e r t h o s e texts w e l i k e ( p u t safely i n t o o u r p e r s o n a l c a n o n ) o r those texts w e d o n ' t l i k e (left safely o u t s i d e it). I n s t e a d a T f r e n a e - b e c o m e s a s i g n , a p o l i t i c a l m a r k e r , a p l a c e to start t h e a n a l y s i s t h a t d i s s o l v e s t h e b o r d e r t h a t a l l o w s us t o r e c o g n i z e it i n t h e f i r s t p l a c e . F o r t h e f a c t i s , i n t h e t r a d i t i o n a l n o t i o n o f " t h è m e , (as i n t h e t r a d i t i o n a l n o t i o n o f fact) there are too m a n y things left out: T o o m a n y tacit presuppositions, too m a n y historical pressures, too m a n y stabilizing situations are j u s t m i s s i n g . T o r e c o g n i z e a n array o f e l e m e n t s w i t h this m a n y g a p s as a u n i f i e d , c o h e r e n t t h e m e is o n l y t o m a r k t h e p l a c e w h e r e we have b e e n m a d e analytically b l i n d , where we have b e e n r e n d e r e d i d e o l o g i c a l l y passive. U n d e r s u c h a n analytic r e g i m e , w i t h their

(old?

N e i t h e r the First W o r d n o r the Last new?) o n t o l o g i c a l status,Themes lose their specificity, their

145

individuality,

their structure, their critical privileges. T h e y n o l o n g e r e x i s t as o b j e c t s , as p r o p e r t y , as t o o l s w i t h w h i c h

the

subject-as-critic c a n m a r k o u t a clear a n d b o u n d e d territory, c a n solve the p r o b l e m s o f the text. ( T h e m e s are n o l o n g e r p r e s e n c e s i n the texts. T h e y are n o l o n g e r objects.) T h e m e s are n o w d e m o t e d to t h e status at least o f states ( w h i c h c a n b e o v e r t h r o w n )

or of kings (who can be de­

p o s e d ) , a n d r e m o v e d f r o m t h a t p o s i t i o n w h i c h c l a i m s t h a t t h e y a r e , as c o n t e n t , absolutely a n d i r r e v o c a b l y a l l i e d to t h e i r p o s i t i o n , g r o u n d e d i n it a n d p a r t o f it. T h e y d i s s o l v e , r a t h e r , i n t o s p e c i f i c , d e c e n t e r e d g a l a x i e s o f p r o b l e m s — a p r o b l e m a t i c , as s o m e p o s t s t r u c t u r a l i s t s m i g h t say. T h e y a r e d i s p o s e d o f as T h e m e s a n d b e g i n t o b e d i s p o s i t i o n s ( i . e . , m o o d s ) .

Almost an Analysis.

W h a t I h a v e d o n e h e r e , I m e n t i o n i n p a s s i n g , is at­

t e m p t to s k e t c h o u t a b r i e f a n d r a t h e r tentative d e c o n s t r u c t i o n o f

the

n o t i o n o f " t h e m e , " i.e., o f t h e o p p o s i t i o n o f t e n c i t e d b e t w e e n t w o m o d e s of criticism, "old-fashioned thematics" a n d "new-fashioned deconstruc­ t i o n . " O n e o f the i n e s c a p a b l e c o n s e q u e n c e s o f this a r g u m e n t , w e r e we to take it f r o m t h e l e v e l o f g e n e r a l i t y at w h i c h w e h a v e b e e n d i s c u s s i n g it t o t h e s p e c i f i c l e v e l o f p a r t i c u l a r e x a m p l e s , is t h a t w e ' d b e g i n t o s e e t h a t much

of

the

"old-fashioned" criticism

looks nowhere

near

as o l d -

f a s h i o n e d as i t m i g h t h a v e w h e n w e s t a r t e d , a n d t h a t m u c h i n t h e " n e w f a s h i o n e d " c r i t i c i s m w i l l b e g i n to l o o k all t o o familiar. B u t I h a v e started w i t h t h i s e x a m p l e — h o w e v e r s k e t c h y — of a. d e c o n s t r u c t i o n b e c a u s e t h i s is one of the most discussed, a n d thus o n e o f the most troublesome, terms associated with poststructuralist discourse. W h a t d e c o n s t r u c t i o n d o e s , i f I c a n h a z a r d s u c h a d e c l a r a t i v e state­ m e n t i n a n a r e a n o t e d f o r its i n s i s t e n t v e r b a l m u l t i v a l e n c e s , is d i s s o l v e o p ­ p o s i t i o n s : I h a v e s a i d t h a t " d e c o n s t r u c t i o n " is a l m o s t a s y n o n y m f o r " a n a l ­ y s i s . " B u t h e r e is w h e r e t h a t " a l m o s t " m u s t c o m e h o m e . T o a n a l y z e ( c o g n a t e , a f t e r a l l , w i t h L y s o l ) is " t o d i s s o l v e f r o m a b o v e , " w h i l e d e c o n ­ struction unbuilds throughout.

It u n b u i l d s o p p o s i t i o n s b y

unmasking

t h e h i e r a r c h i e s t h a t h i d e b e h i n d t h e m . O f t e n , as a n i n t e r i m s t r a t e g y , i t overturns the h i e r a r c h y to reveal the c o n t r a d i c t i o n s a n d i n t e r d e p e n d e n c i e s t h e h i e r a r c h y r e s t s o n i n o r d e r t o m a i n t a i n its p o s i t i o n a l i t y , its c o h e r ­ e n c e , its u n i t y . I m u s t s t r e s s , h o w e v e r , t h a t t h e r e v e r s a l o f t h e h i e r a r c h y c a n o n l y b e a n i n t e r i m m o v e to h i g h l i g h t the p o s i t i o n a l i t y u n d e r (over?) t h e c o n t e n t . B u t w h e n t h e h i e r a r c h y fixes i n its r e v e r s e d f o r m — w h i c h a l l too frequently h a p p e n s — n o t h i n g changes i n the o p p o s i t i o n a l structure's characteristic organization.

( S u c h reversals are, i n d e e d , o n e way

in

which such hierarchical "oppositions" recoup themselves a n d heal them­ s e l v e s a g a i n s t v a r i o u s a t t a c k s . ) T o d e c o n s t r u c t , t h e n , is t o

de-position

146

Shorter Views

w i t h o u t r e p o s i t i o n i n g . D e c o n s t r u c t i o n sets t h e o p p o s i t i o n a l t e r m s i n m o ­ t i o n — a n d r e t a i n s i t s f o r c e o n l y as l o n g a s t h e t e r m s r e m a i n i n m o t i o n . W i t h a n example before us (the deconstruction o f the opposition b e t w e e n t h e m a t i c s a n d d e c o n s t r u c t i o n ) , w e c a n p e r h a p s say a f e w m o r e things a b o u t i t — a b o u t d e c o n s t r u c t i o n — t h a t m i g h t m a k e this m o s t trou­ b l e s o m e a n d t r o u b l i n g t e r m h o l d still e n o u g h t o . . . t o master? t o t h e m a tize? t o totalize? Certainly not. B u t d o e s o u r e l l i p s i s — o u r s i l e n c e — l e a v e us silent? T h e inflation o f language that characterizes poststructuralist rhetoric, f o r b e t t e r o r f o r w o r s e , b o t h as a style o f t h o u g h t a n d o f d i s c o u r s e ( i . e . , r e ­ s p o n s e , u n d e r s t a n d i n g ) , s h o u l d m a k e i t c l e a r t h a t s i l e n c e is r a r e l y o u r problem. I i t e r a t e : A s y n o n y m o f t h e v e r b t o d e c o n s t r u c t is t o a n a l y z e — w i t h t h e r i d e r that w h a t is m o s t o f t e n a n a l y z e d i n d e c o n s t r u c t i o n a r e those c o n ­ f l i c t i n g a n d self-subverting e l e m e n t s that suggest that f o r whatever we are a n a l y z i n g t o m a i n t a i n itself, it m u s t f i g h t t h e v e r y n o t i o n s t h a t it s e e m s t o b e p u t t i n g f o r t h i n o r d e r f o r that m e a n i n g t o r e m a i n r e a d a b l e at all. T o d e c o n s t r u c t a t e x t is t o u n p a c k t h e m e a n i n g s t h a t h i s t o r y a n d t h e l a n g u a g e h a v e p a c k e d i n t o it, w i t h p a r t i c u l a r a t t e n t i o n t o those m e a n i n g s that c h a l l e n g e those elements that ideology h a s m a d e appear

self-

evident. T h e p r o b l e m arises, h o w e v e r (it has always-already a r i s e n ) , w h e n w e are n o longer " d o i n g i t " — w h e n we are n o t ,right now, deconstructing s o m e t h e m e — b u t a r e t a l k i n g about d e c o n s t r u c t i o n . . . w h e n l a n g u a g e it­ self has t r a n s f o r m e d d e c o n s t r u c t i o n f r o m a nanalytical process we are in­ volved i n to a nobject we are discussing, analyzing, thematizing, a n object that... I h a v e s a i d t h a t " d e c o n s t r u c t i o n " i s almost t h e s a m e a s a n " a n a l y s i s . " B u t I s h o u l d p o i n t o u t that i n a 1983 letter t o his J a p a n e s e translator, w h o was s e a r c h i n g f o r a J a p a n e s e equivalent f o r " d e c o n s t r u c t i o n , " t h e F r e n c h p h i l o s o p h e r J a c q u e s D e r r i d a (with w h o m t h e t e r m is associated) e x p l a i n e d that h e first t o o k u p t h ew o r d to translate a G e r m a n t e r m i n H e i d e g g e r : Destruktion.

H e chose the F r e n c h term,

"déconstruction,"

which, t h o u g h rare, has a n u m b e r o f legitimate F r e n c h meanings. A t l e a s t o n e , f r o m t h e Littré d i c t i o n a r y , i s : " G r a m m a t i c a l t e r m . D i s a r r a n g i n g t h e c o n s t r u c t i o n o f w o r d s i n a s e n t e n c e . " ( C o n s t r u c t i o n , as a g r a m m a t i ­ cal t e r m , is, o f course, t h e n o u n f r o m "to construe," a n d m e a n s "to u n d e r s t a n d . " ) I n his letter to the translator, D e r r i d a writes:

[I]n spite of appearances, deconstruction is neither an analysis nor a critique and its translation would have to take that into consideration. It is not an

N e i t h e r the First W o r d n o r the Last

147

analysis in particular because the dismantiing of a structure is not a regres­ sion toward a simple element, toward an indissoluble origin. These values, like that of analysis, are themselves philosophemes subject to deconstruction. No more is it a critique, in a general sense or in a Kantian sense. The instances of krinein or of krisis (decision, choice, judgment, discernment) is itself, as is all the apparatus of transcendental critique, one of the essential "themes" or "objects" of deconstruction. D e c o n s t r u c t i o n is n o t a n a n a l y s i s , t h e n , b e c a u s e t h e a n a l y t i c a l f a l l o u t is not s i m p l e r a n d m o r e f u n d a m e n t a l t h a n w h a t i s a n a l y z e d ; d e c o n s t r u c ­ t i o n is a n u n p a c k i n g o f m e a n i n g s t h a t , r a t h e r , p r o b l e m a t i z e .

Decon­

s t r u c t i o n is n o t a c r i t i q u e b e c a u s e i t s a i m i s n o t t h e r a p e u t i c : T h e c r i s i s ( K p i o r s — a s w e l l as t h e K p i f e i v o r " c u t t i n g t h r o u g h " ) t h a t o r i g i n a l l y g a v e us t h e n o t i o n o f c r i t i q u e a n d c r i t i c i s m was initially, i n G r e e k , t h e m e d i c a l crisis o f a disease that h a d to b e g o t t e n t h r o u g h b e f o r e t h e b o d y c o u l d r e t u r n to h e a l t h . A n d this sense lingers i n the v a r i o u s cognates: thus o n e criticizes to correct, to restore, to m a k e w h o l e a n d healthy. A n d this is not what deconstruction does. D e r r i d a h a s also s t r e s s e d t h a t d e c o n s t r u c t i o n is n o t a n o b j e c t

(which

c a n b e t h e basis o f a n e l a b o r a t e d d i s c i p l i n e ) . N e i t h e r is it a m e t h o d o l o g y (which c a n presumably b e a p p l i e d promiscuously to any object). H i s most rigorous commentators, Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, Barbara J o h n ­ son, R o d o l p h Gasché, a n d Paul de M a n (who,before his death, initiated a mode of deconstruction that—to m a n y — s e e m e d even more promiscu­ ously

radical

a n d rarefied

in

t h e ways it o v e r t u r n e d

all

thematic

g r o u n d s ) — a l l o f t h e m , i n t h e ways o f s t r o n g l y d i s a g r e e i n g a g o n i s t s — h a v e s t r e s s e d i t as w e l l . A n d , i n a n i n t e n s e l y f u n n y s u r v e y o f " A m e r i c a n D e c o n s t r u c t i o n " (which, h e c l a i m e d , several o f his supporters h a d u r g e d h i m n o t t o p r e s e n t [Memoirs for Paul de Man,

C o l u m b i a University Press,

1986] ), D e r r i d a s e e m s w i l l i n g t o a c c e p t , i n t h e m o s t p r o m i s c u o u s m o v e o f all, the n o t i o n that a n y truly r i g o r o u s analysis m i g h t b e d e c o n s t r u c ­ t i o n , i f o n l y b e c a u s e w h a t d e c o n s t r u c t i o n is i n A m e r i c a is n o w r a d i c a l l y undecidable. In that same letter to his translator, however, D e r r i d a wrote also:

It is not enough to say that deconstruction could not be reduced to some me­ thodological instrumentality or to a set of rules and transposable procedures. Nor will it do to claim that each deconstructive "event" remains singular or, in any case, as close as possible to something like an idiom or a signature. It must also be made clear that deconstruction is not even an act or an operation. Not only because there would be something "patient" or "passive" about it. . . Not only because it does not return to an individual or collective subject who

148

Shorter Views

would take the initiative and apply it to an object, a text, a theme, etc. Deconstruction takes place, it is an event that does not await the consciousness, or organization of a subject, or even of modernity. It deconstructs itself. It can be deconstructed. [Ça se déconstruit.] The "it" [ça] is not here an impersonal thing

that is opposed to some egological subjectivity. It is in deconstruction (the Littré says, "to deconstruct itself [se déconstruiré] . . . to lose its construction"). And the "se" [itself] of "se déconstruire" which is not the reflexivity of an ego or of a consciousness, bears the whole enigma. I recognize, my dear friend, that in trying to make a word clearer so as to assist in its translation, I am only increasing the difficulties: "the impossible task of the translator" (Benjamin). This too is what is meant by "deconstructs." T h e h a p p i e s t r h e t o r i c a l f o r a y i n t o t h e p r o b l e m t h a t I k n o w of, b y G a y a t r i C h a k r a v a r t y S p i v a k ( w h o t r a n s l a t e d D e r r i d a ' s Of Grammatology i n t o E n g l i s h , a n d w h o i s t h e a u t h o r o f In Other Worlds, M e t h u e n , N e w Y o r k a n d L o n d o n , 1 9 8 7 ) , talks a b o u t d e c o n s t r u c t i o n as a m o d e (i.e., a m o o d , a d i s p o s i t i o n ) o f v i g i l a n c e — w h i c h is f i n e , d e M a n m i g h t w e l l have a d d e d , as l o n g as w e t a k e t h a t t o b e a n i n t e r i m d e s c r i p t i o n a n d n o t the d e c o n structive t h e m e . . .

SF: Seizing the Critical Imperative.

T h e practical reason I have n o t

started o f f w i t h definitions o f "signs," "fictions," o r "texts" ( o r even worse, tried to define "structuralism," "poststructuralism," o r "semiotics") is t h e s a m e r e a s o n I w o u l d n o t start o f f a d i s c u s s i o n o f s c i e n c e fict i o n w i t h s o m e i m p o s s i b l e , fruitless, a n d t i m e - w a s t i n g SèTrrrrtion o f o u r g e n r e . (I p l a c e t h e n o t i o n o f " g e n r e d e f i n i t i o n " u n d e r e r a s u r e t o r e m i n d us that, f o r perfectly logical reasons accessible to any bright

fourteen-

y e a r - o l d , a " g e n r e d e f i n i t i o n " is a w h o l l y i m a g i n a r y object o f t h e same o n t o l o g i c a l s t a t u s as u n i c o r n s , H i t l e r ' s d a u g h t e r , a n d t h e c u r r e n t k i n g o f France. "Definitions" o f science

fiction

are i m p o s s i b l e f o r the same rea-

son that "definitions" o f poetry, t h e novel, o r d r a m a are impossible; t h o u g h it is i n t e r e s t i n g to s p e c u l a t e o n t h e h i s t o r i c a l a n d p o l i t i c a l reas o n s " d e f i n i t i o n " h a s p e r s i s t e d as a t h e m e , i f n o t t h e m a j o r s y m p t o m , o f t h e m a t i c S F c r i t i c i s m . ) W h a t w e a r e d e a l i n g w i t h h e r e is a d i a l o g u e , a c o l l e c t i o n o f d i a l o g u e s , a set o f d e b a t e s , a r a n g e o f i d e a s a n d a r a n g e o f thinkers, o f w h i c h o n l y a larger o r smaller fraction can b e o f interest to any particular person. T h i s is p e r h a p s a l s o t h e p l a c e t o a d d r e s s t h e q u e s t i o n : W h y s h o u l d s c i ence

ficdon

readers be interested i n such debates?

I have three answers. T h e first i s s i m p l y t e m p e r a m e n t a l . I t h i n k m a n y o f u s w o u l d

find

our-

selves a n i n t e r e s t e d a u d i e n c e t o t h e b o o k s a n d j o u r n a l s s o m e o f these

N e i t h e r t h e First W o r d n o r t h e Last

14g

debates take place i n f o r t h e same r e a s o n w e are a n interested a u d i e n c e f o r b o o k s s u c h a s S t e v e n W e i n b e r g ' s The First Three Minutes, F e y n m a n ' s QED, D a v i d R a u p ' s The Nemesis Affair,

Richard

Davis a n d Brown's

Superstrings, o r G l e i c k ' s Chaos. A g r e a t m a n y v e r y i n t e l l i g e n t p e o p l e a r e d o i n g some very exact a n d interesting t h i n k i n g i n these fields. W h i l e e a c h o f t h e m a n y d e b a t e s r e q u i r e s its o w n p r e p a r a t i o n , m a n y o f t h e m have, at this p o i n t , t h e i r o w n p o p u l a r i z e r s . A n d it is c o m p a r a t i v e l y easy (as h a r d as, say, l e a r n i n g a n e w c o m p u t e r p r o g r a m : i.e., i t c a n ' t n e c e s s a r ­ ily b e d o n e i n a n a f t e r n o o n , b u t f r e q u e n t l y it c a n b e d o n e i n a f e w 1

weeks ) to arrive at t h e p o i n t w h e r e y o u c a n enjoy t h e w o r k s o f t h e p r i n ­ cipal contenders themselves a n d y o u n o longer have to d e p e n d o n c o m ­ m e n t a t o r s . ( M a n y o f t h e p o p u l a r i z e r s f o r o n e d e b a t e a r e , as w e l l , p r i n c i ­ p a l c o n t e n d e r s i n others.) L e t m e c o n c l u d e this r e a s o n b y n o t i n g that the first v e r s i o n o f this article w a s r e q u e s t e d i n p l a c e o f a G u e s t o f H o n o r S p e e c h at t h e R e a d e r c o n S c i e n c e F i c t i o n C o n v e n t i o n i n 1988, i n L o w e l l , M a s s a c h u s e t t s , w h e r e , as f a r as I c o u l d t e l l , t h e i n t e r e s t i n t h e s e topics was b o t h h i g h a n d s i n c e r e . M y s e c o n d r e a s o n is s t r a t e g i c . I n t h e c o u r s e o f a n u m b e r o f t h e s e d e ­ bates, literature,

philosophy, a n d the political aspects o f b o t h

have

c o m e u n d e r a r a d i c a l c r i t i q u e . A l t h o u g h d e c o n s t r u c t i o n is n o t t h e s a m e as d é m y s t i f i c a t i o n ( a n d y o u w i l l s t i l l find p e o p l e w i t h a f a i n t k n o w l e d g e o f the o n ec o n f u s i n g it w i t h t h e o t h e r ) , a g o o d deal o f démystification has, i n d e e d , g o n e a l o n g w i t h that c r i t i q u e . E v e r y t h i n g f r o m t h e effects of p h r e n o l o g y a n d p o p u l a r science newspaper articles i n the early nine­ teenth century o n thenovels o f Charlotte B r o n t ë to theh i d d e n political a g e n d a i n t h e f o r m a t i o n o f t h e l i t e r a r y c a n o n , w h e n , a f t e r W o r l d W a r I, literature

first

b e c a m e a n a c a d e m i c discipline, have, a m o n g these d e ­

bates, b e e n t e a s e d a p a r t i n g r e a t d e t a i l . W h e n it is p u t b a c k t o g e t h e r , lit­ erature w i l l n o t b e t h e s a m e object that it was. ( M o r e a c c u r a t e l y " L i t e r a ­ t u r e " can n o t b e p u t b a c k t o g e t h e r . ) T h e " l i t e r a r y " w i l l n o l o n g e r b e a single, unified t h e m e a u t o n o m o u s l y placeable i n t h e greater text o f Western culture. Marginality a n d marginalizations have been o f pri­ m a r y c o n c e r n t h r o u g h a n u m b e r o f these debates. T h eways i n w h i c h black writing, women's writing, T h i r d W o r l d writing, a n d gay writing have b e e n m a r g i n a l i z e d a n d k e p t m a r g i n a l h a v e b e e n a n d still are b e i n g explored. Now, the traditional thematic critical stance o f the S F a c a d e m i c critic has b e e n (if I m a y b e forgiven s u c h a c r u d e characterization) to shout, " L o o k ! L o o k ! W e ' r e l i t e r a t u r e t o o ! " T h e s e c r i t i c s h a v e b e e n as r e s p o n ­ s i b l e as a n y o n e f o r t h e n e a r t h o u s a n d c l a s s e s i n S F c u r r e n t i y t a u g h t i n 1. [This paper was first drafted in 1 g88. Parts of it have been updated, but others have been left alone for historical interest.]

150

Shorter Views

A m e r i c a n u n i v e r s i t i e s . Is i t s i m p l e i n g r a t i t u d e , t h e n , t o q u e s t i o n j u s t h o w m u c h u n d e r s t a n d i n g o f o u r history, o u r practices, o u r traditions,

and

o u r texts t h e m a j o r i t y o f these classes are p r o d u c i n g — o r c a n p r o d u c e u n d e r a t h e m a t i c p r o g r a m t h a t p r e s e n t s S F as e x h a u s t e d w i t h a n d m a s ­ tered by n o t h a l f a d o z e n t h e m e s that, i n m y o p i n i o n , terrorize

our

genre: " N e w Worlds," "The Alien," "Technology," "Time," "Space," and " U t o p i a / D y s t o p i a " ? H o w e v e r y o u j u d g e it, I k n o w t h a t w h e n I h a v e d i s ­ c u s s e d s c i e n c e f i c t i o n a n d i t s m a r g i n a l s t a t u s , h o w i t h a s u s e d its m a r g i ­ n a l s t a t u s as a p o s i t i o n f r o m w h i c h t o c r i t i c i z e t h e w o r l d , h o w i t h a s o r g a ­ n i z e d i t s e l f d i f f e r e n t l y f r o m l i t e r a t u r e i n e v e r y t h i n g f r o m its m a t e r i a l p r a c t i c e s o f p u b l i c a t i o n a n d p r i n t i n g to the s e m a n t i c c o n v e n t i o n s that g o v e r n t h e r e a d i n g o f t h e s e n t e n c e s t h a t m a k e u p its t e x t s , a n d w h e n I have suggested S F has a p h i l o s o p h i c a l w o r t h a n d a n esthetic beauty that c a n be v a l o r i z e d by intensive analysis, a m o n g critics with m o r e recent al­ l e g i a n c e s , I've o f t e n f e l t t h a t I a m b e i n g h e a r d , t h a t t h e i d e a s I a m p u t ­ ting f o r t h are f a m i l i a r to t h e m . W h e n I talk w i t h t h e m a t i c critics, how­ ever, f r e q u e n t l y t h e i r r e s p o n s e is: " B u t s u r e l y y o u t o o w a n t s c i e n c e f i c t i o n t o b e l i t e r a t u r e t o o . . . " T o w h i c h m y a n s w e r is ( s u r p r i s i n g as s o m e s t i l l f i n d it) I d o n ' t a n d n e v e r h a v e . I d o n ' t e v e n w a n t literature to b e literature. I love t h e m b o t h too m u c h . M y t h i r d a n s w e r is a l s o , f i n a l l y , a p e r s o n a l o n e — t h o u g h i t is p o s i t i o n e d at t h e v e r y i n t e r f a c e o f m y first two. I w o u l d l i k e to see a d e b a t e a b o u t o u r o w n p r a c t i c e s o f e q u a l i n t e r e s t g r o w u p , h e r e , w i t h i n t h e p r e c i n c t s o f sci­ e n c e f i c t i o n — a debate i n f o r m e d by the same disposition toward analytic v i g i l a n c e , w i t h t h e s a m e w i l l i n g n e s s to h i s t o r i f y a n d d e m y s t i f y the vast range

of

sediments, unquestioned

self-evident positions, a n d

givens

u n d e r w h i c h o u r g e n r e , its f a n d o m , its r e a d e r s h i p s t r u g g l e , a l o n g w i t h e n ­ e r g e t i c a t t e m p t s to d e c o n s t r u c t t h o s e o p p o s i t i o n s at w h i c h so m u c h dis­ c u s s i o n o f s c i e n c e f i c t i o n s t a l l s : " t e c h n o l o g y " vs. " s c i e n c e , " " r e v i e w i n g " vs. " c r i t i c i s m , " " p r o " v s . " f a n , " " c o m m e r c i a l " v s . " q u a l i t y , " a n d " c r a f t " vs. " a r t . " F o r these are the oppositions o n w h i c h the c u r r e n t a n d practical pro­ d u c t i o n o f s c i e n c e f i c t i o n rests. T h e s e o p p o s i t i o n s a n d t h e t e n s i o n s they generate create the b o u n d a r i e s the S F text m u s t cross a n d recross, not o n l y a f t e r i t l e a v e s t h e w r i t e r t o m a k e its w a y t h r o u g h t h e p u b l i c a t i o n a n d d i s t r i b u t i o n m a c h i n e r y , b u t w h i c h i t m u s t n e g o t i a t e e v e n a t its i n c e p t i o n a n d a t e v e r y s t a g e o f its e x e c u t i o n . T h e e n d l e s s a n d s t i f l i n g c o n t r a d i c ­ tions, e c o n o m i c a n d i d e o l o g i c a l , o f w h i c h these o p p o s i t i o n s are c o n ­ structed, are the o n e s that all o f us i n science fiction, readers, writers, edi­ tors, a n d critics, c a n o n l y w h i s p e r o f i n the very m a r g i n s o f o u r respective p r o d u c t i v e efforts, practically i n fear o f e x p u l s i o n f r o m the field: Because i f w e s p o k e i n a n y o t h e r way, n o o n e i n t h e f i e l d , w e fear, w o u l d e v e n

N e i t h e r the First W o r d n o r the Last

151

u n d e r s t a n d us. T h e s e are the c o n t r a d i c t i o n s all o f u s — i n the f i e l d — m u s t d e c l a r e o u r s e l v e s b l i n d t o a t e v e r y f o r m a l s t a t i o n as w e n e g o t i a t e o u r w a y a b o u t i n it. T h e d e b a t e I w o u l d l i k e to see w i l l o c c u r w h e n that m a r g i n a l w h i s p e r is s p o k e n o u t a n d i s m a d e a c c e s s i b l e a n d a r t i c u l a t e , t h r o u g h t h e f u n c tion, t h e field, a n d t h e discourse o f science fiction. A n d it w o u l d b e w a r m i n g t o see s u c h a d e b a t e i n f o r m e d b y a n a w a r e n e s s o f t h e l a r g e r f i e l d o f critical debates i n w h i c h a n y critical d i s c o u r s e is e m b e d d e d t o d a y . T h o u g h I a m c o n t r i b u t i n g e d i t o r t o Science Fiction Studies a n d a r e g u l a r r e a d e r o f Extrapolation

(the two A m e r i c a n a c a d e m i c S F j o u r n a l s ) , I

d o n ' t believe that s u c h a debate c a n g r o w u p w i t h i n t h e m . T h e material exigencies o f a c a d e m i a p r e c l u d e i t — o r assure that s u c h a n analytic vigil a n c e will b e h a l f - h e a r t e d at best. B u t I t h i n k b y s e i z i n g the critical i m p e r ative f o r o u r s e l v e s , i n t e r e s t e d a n d i n f o r m e d r e a d e r s o f S F h a v e t h e b e s t c h a n c e t o t a k e as m u c h i n t e l l i g e n t c h a r g e o f o u r h i s t o r y as p o s s i b l e . A t any rate, to m a k e t h e smallest gesture t o w a r d i m p l e m e n t i n g t h e l a s t p a r t o f m y t r i p a r t i t e s u g g e s t i o n (". . . a n a w a r e n e s s o f t h e l a r g e r f i e l d o f critical d e b a t e i n w h i c h , today, a n y critical d i s c o u r s e is e m b e d d e d . . ."), we shall leave science fiction f o r a w h i l e — a l t h o u g h , i n a w h i l e , w e shall return.

The Archaeology of Structuralism.

F o r this i n t r o d u c t i o n to be o f use, we

must now turn to history—take u p the p r o b l e m o f origins, the p r o b l e m o f f i l i a t i o n (that is, t h e t h e m e o f s o u r c e s a n d i n f l u e n c e s ) , t h a t t r a d i t i o n ally m a k e s u p w h a t we a s s u m e t o b e history. W r i t e r s c h a r a c t e r i z e d as structuralists i n c l u d e t h e s t r u c t u r a l

anthro-

pologist C l a u d e Lévi-Strauss, the psychoanalyst Jacques L a c a n , a n d the Marxist theoretician L o u i s Althusser, a l o n g with lesser k n o w n n a m e s ,

s u c h as G e r a r d G e n e t t e ( a u t h o r o f Narrative Discourse: A Study of Proust), A l g i r d a s G r e i m a s ( a u t h o r o f On Meaning),

a n d M i c h e l Serres (author o f

Hermes a n d The Parasite). I n 1980 a t t h e i r a p a r t m e n t i n t h e École Normale Supérieure, A l t h u s s e r s t r a n g l e d t o d e a t h H é l è n e L e g o s t i e n ( w é e R y t m a n ) , a w o m a n seven years his s e n i o r w h o h a d b e e n his c o m p a n i o n since 1946 a n d his wife since 1976. A f t e r that, h e lived b a c k a n d f o r t h b e t w e e n m e n t a l h o s p i t a l s a n d a n a p a r t m e n t i n t h e n o r t h o f P a r i s , till h i s o w n d e a t h i n 1990

a t a g e 7 2 , h a v i n g m e a n t i m e w r i t t e n a n a u t o b i o g r a p h y , The Future

Lasts a Long Time [L'Avenir dure longtemps] ( 1 9 9 3 ) . L a c a n d i e d i n 1 9 8 1 , leaving b e h i n d a l e n g t h y series o f s e m i n a r transcripts that are still b e i n g e d i t e d a n d translated. L é v i - S t r a u s s is still alive, t h o u g h his last b o o k to b e t r a n s l a t e d i n t o E n g l i s h ( 1 9 8 5 ) i s a c o l l e c t i o n o f essays t h a t a p p e a r e d i n

1983 i n F r a n c e , The View from Afar [Le Regard Eloingné]. B u t a l l t h e s e thinkers

are associated—along with

the great

linguistics

scholar

152

Shorter Views

R o m a n J a k o b s o n (and his realizadon that i n living language metonymy is a m o r e f u n d a m e n t a l p r o c e s s t h a n m e t a p h o r ) — w i t h t h e s t r u c t u r a l i s t phase o f the dialogue. If y o u w i l l take t h e f o l l o w i n g statements o f similarities a m o n g

them

n o t as a p a c k a g e t o p u t t h e m i n , b u t r a t h e r as a p l a c e t o s t a r t f u r t h e r i n ­ quiries that will reveal p r o f o u n d differences a m o n g them, differences t i m e p r e c l u d e s u s f r o m p u r s u i n g h e r e , t h e n I c a n say t h a t , f o r a l l t h r e e , Lévi-Strauss, A l t h u s s e r , a n d L a c a n , l a n g u a g e was a p r i v i l e g e d object i n terms o f their o w n d i s c i p l i n e . A n t h r o p o l o g i s t Lévi-Strauss, after a m o n u ­ m e n t a l s t u d y o f k i n s h i p p a t t e r n s i n p r i m i t i v e t r i b e s , The Elementary Struc­ tures of Kinship ( 1 9 4 9 ) , w h i c h p o s e d t h a t p r i m i t i v e s o c i e t i e s w e r e h e l d t o ­ g e t h e r b y the e x c h a n g e o f w o m e n a m o n g m e n : father, brother, o r u n c l e to h u s b a n d , m u c h t h eway signs are e x c h a n g e d i n l a n g u a g e . A f t e r that h e u n d e r t o o k a four-volume "Introduction to the Science o f Mythology," w i t h t h e o v e r a l l t i t l e Mythologique ('64, '66, '68, ' 7 1 ) , i n w h i c h t h e e l e ­ m e n t s o f m a n y S o u t h A m e r i c a n I n d i a n myths are c o m p a r e d a n d tabu­ l a t e d as i f t h e y w e r e p h o n e t i c p a t t e r n s i n a l a n g u a g e , i n o r d e r t o d e c o d e v a r i o u s d e f e r r e d m e s s a g e s t h a t m i g h t s t a n d r e v e a l e d b e h i n d t h e i r stag­ g e r i n g variety. O n e o f t h e m o r e en passant c o n c e p t s t h a t L é v i - S t r a u s s i n t r o d u c e d t h a t p r o v e d e x t r e m e l y u s e f u l f o r a w h i l e w a s t h a t o f bricolage, as c o n t r a s t e d s p e ­ c i f i c a l l y w i t h " e n g i n e e r i n g . " T h e F r e n c h bricoleur i s a

figure

w h o is n o t

really a part o f t h eA m e r i c a n landscape. T h e closest translation we can m a k e is " h a n d y m a n . " B u t h e is also a p l u m b e r , a c a r p e n t e r , a n d a n e l e c t r i ­ c a l r e p a i r m a n as w e l l . H i s j o b is t o s o l v e w h a t e v e r p r o b l e m s a r i s e . H i s t o o l s are available materials. T h e e n g i n e e r takes a p r o b l e m a n d , a p p l y i n g over­ a r c h i n g p r i n c i p l e s t o it, w o r k s d o w n t o the s p e c i f i c , w e l l - f o r m e d s o l u t i o n . C o n t r a s t i n g l y , t h e bricoleur s t a r t s w i t h t h e l o c a l p r o b l e m , s o l v e s o n e p a r t , t h e n t h enext, u n t i l often rather quirky, Rube-Goldberg-style structures arise, w h i c h nevertheless c a n b e b o t h stable a n d efficient. Lévi-Strauss's observation that, i n spite o f all the d i a g r a m s a n d the dense rhetoric, t h e e f f o r t s o f t h e m o d e r n t h e o r i s t ( s u c h as h i s o w n i n Mythologique) w e r e b e t ­ t e r u n d e r s t o o d as c o n c e p t u a l b r i c o l a g e t h a n as g r a n d - p l a n e n g i n e e r i n g (à la H e g e l ) c a m e t o m a n y a c a d e m i c s w o r k i n g i n t h e a r e a o f t h e o r y as a useful a n d liberating notion. F o r p s y c h o a n a l y s t L a c a n , " t h e u n c o n s c i o u s " w a s " s t r u c t u r e d as a l a n ­ g u a g e . " L a c a n w a s r e s p o n s i b l e f o r a r e - e m p h a s i s o n p s y c h o a n a l y s i s as "the

talking cure," with a concomitant

emphasis o n language—the

patient's, the analyst's—by m e a n s o f a massive theoretical

interrogation

o f h o w l a n g u a g e f o r m s a n d i n f o r m s o u r entire social b e i n g , i n a register h e c a l l e d t h e S y m b o l i c , as d i s t i n c t f r o m t h e I m a g i n a r y — w h i c h is h o w t h e w o r l d a p p e a r s as a s e r i e s o f i m a g e s . ( I m a g i n a r y c o m e s f r o m " i m a g e "

N e i t h e r theFirst W o r d n o rthe Last

153

h e r e , n o t " t h e i m a g i n a t i o n . " ) T h e S y m b o l i c h a s b e e n d e s c r i b e d as t h e critical register i n w h i c h , a l o n e , t h e I m a g i n a r y c a n u n d e r s t a n d h o w it functions

as t h e I m a g i n a r y . W r i t e r s w h o h a v e p r o v i d e d

particularly

interesting e x p l a n a t i o n s o f this a n d o t h e r o f L a c a n ' s difficult c o n c e p t s include Jane Gallup, Shoshana Felman, and Juliet Flower MacCannell. L a c a n was also r e s p o n s i b l e f o r a " r e t u r n t o F r e u d , " that i n v o l v e d pay­ ing meticulous attention to the language o f Freud's o w n writings. O n e o f his m o s t p o p u l a r a n d s t i m u l a t i n g p i e c e s ( t h o u g h m u c h o f it c a n at first seem daunting)

is h i s " S e m i n a r o n ' T h e P u r l o i n e d L e t t e r ' " (that, i n

F r e n c h , o p e n s h i s t h o u s a n d - p a g e c o l l e c t e d w r i t i n g s , Écrits [ P a r i s : S e u i l , 1 9 6 6 ] , a n d w h i c h , i n t r a n s l a t i o n , h a s b e e n t a k e n as t h e c e n t e r p i e c e f o r a

b o o k a l l its o w n : The Purloined Poe: Lacan, Derrida, and Psychoanalytic Read­ ing, e d s . J o h n P. M u l l e r a n d W i l l i a m J . R i c h a r d s o n , B a l t i m o r e : J o h n s H o p k i n s , 1988), i n w h i c h L a c a n traces o u t t h e s t r u c t u r e o f t h e p s y c h o ­ a n a l y t i c r e l a t i o n t h a t a r r a n g e s i t s e l f a r o u n d a n y " s i g n i f i e r , " as i t f o r m s , r e ­ forms, then forms o n c e m o r e about t h e letter w h o s e contents w e never l e a r n as i t m o v e s a m o n g t h e c h a r a c t e r s i n P o e ' s s t o r y . A f t e r

reading

L a c a n ' s m e d i t a t i o n o n P o e ' s t a l e , W i l l i a m G i b s o n ' s 1982 s t o r y ' J o h n n y M n e m o n i c " b e g i n s t o l o o k p a r t i c u l a r l y i n t e r e s t i n g , i n t e r m s o f b o t h its similarities t o a n d its d i f f e r e n c e s f r o m t h e P o e . Another

Freudian concept

that

Lacan reinvigorated

(like

Lévi-

S t r a u s s ' s bricolage, i n p a s s i n g : T h e r e i s o n l y o n e 1 9 5 8 e s s a y d i r e c t l y o n t h e t o p i c [ " T h e S i g n i f i c a t i o n o f t h e p h a l l u s , " i n c l u d e d i n Écrit] a n d v a r i o u s o t h e r en passant m e n t i o n s a n d d i s c u s s i o n s ) w a s t h a t o f t h e p h a l l u s . F o r L a c a n t h e p h a l l u s w a s s p e c i f i c a l l y not t h e p e n i s o r c l i t o r i s t h a t c a n s y m ­ b o l i z e it. R a t h e r i t w a s a s t r u c t u r e o f m e a n i n g t h a t , l i k e t h e n a r r a t i v e s t r u c t u r e s t h a t f o r m a n d r e f o r m a r o u n d t h e p u r l o i n e d l e t t e r as i t j o u r ­ neys o n its w a y t h r o u g h P o e ' s tale, a n y " s i g n i f i e r o f d e s i r e " m u s t i n ­ h a b i t — a n d t h e s i g n i f i e r o f d e s i r e (that is, t h e s t r u c t u r e t h a t creates s u c h a s i g n i f i e r ) is w h a t t h e p h a l l u s is. U n l i k e t h e c l i t o r i s o r t h e p e n i s , t h e p h a l l u s f u n c t i o n s o n l y t h r o u g h cas­ tration. F r e u d gives a n a c c o u n t o f t h e e s t a b l i s h m e n t o f m a l e h e t e r o s e x u ­ ality that r u n s s o m e t h i n g l i k e this: T h e littie b o y u n c r i t i c a l l y a s s u m e s t h a t his m o t h e r is a n a t o m i c a l l y i d e n t i c a l to h i m s e l f — t h e p r e - p h a l l i c stage. A t a c e r t a i n p o i n t , h e l e a r n s o r n o t i c e s s h e d o e s n o t h a v e a p e n i s as h e h a s . This conceptual violence represents f o r h i m thematernal castration. Fre­ q u e n t l y little boys will a s s u m e , F r e u d n o t e d , that their m o t h e r s have lost their penises o r h a d t h e m s o m e h o w c u t off. T h e i m a g e / c o n c e p t o f t h e penis-that-is-not-there, this p e r c e i v e d a b s e n c e , this d i f f e r e n c e - f r o m - t h e self, w h i c h o r g a n i z e s h i s f i x a t i o n o n t h e f e m a l e g e n i t a l r e g i o n a n d e v e n ­ t u a l l y h e l p s s e x u a l i z e i t , is t h e p h a l l u s — t h a t i s , t h e a l l - i m p o r t a n t nal phallus" i n Freud's theoretical elaboration.

"mater­

154

Shorter Views

A n o t h e r e x a m p l e o f t h e p h a l l u s as a s t r u c t u r e o f m e a n i n g m i g h t b e the traditional progress o f the a r g u m e n t o f feminists a n d feminist sym­ p a t h i z e r s ( s u c h as m y s e l f ) a g a i n s t t h e w h o l e F r e u d i a n t h e o r y o f p h a l l i c s y m b o l s . I n t h e p r e - c r i t i c a l p e r i o d t h e r e is t h e b l a n k e t a s s u m p t i o n that F r e u d ' s t h e o r y o f p h a l l i c symbols associates the various manifestations o f m a l e p o w e r w i t h t h e h a v i n g o f a p e n i s — t h e p r e - p h a l l i c stage o f t h e a r g u ­ m e n t . T h r o u g h l o g i c a n d a n a l y s i s w e r e a l i z e t h a t t h e r e is n o necessary c o n ­ nection between those powers m e n have a n d any particularity o f male anatomy, t h e p e n i s o r any o t h e r part. T h i s represents t h e castration o f the pre-critical v e r s i o n o f the theory. F u r t h e r analysis o f the powers that are associated w i t h m e n p r o c e e d so that we can m a i n t a i n a vigilant cri­ t i q u e o f t h e p o w e r s m e n do e x e r c i s e , as w e l l as e s c h e w t h o s e p o w e r s w h e n we d o n ' t like their results, o r a p p r o p r i a t e those others that we d e s i r e — a n e n t e r p r i s e o r g a n i z e d a r o u n d a r e l a t i o n s h i p - w i t h - t h e - m a l e that is i m p o r ­ t a n t p r e c i s e l y b e c a u s e i t is not t h e r e i n a n y a b s o l u t e o r n e c e s s a r y w a y . T h i s absolute-relationship-that-is-not-there

is j u s t as m u c h t h e p h a l l u s as t h e

u n q u e s t i o n e d m a t e r n a l p e n i s - t h a t - i s - n o t - t h e r e : A n d t h u s , t h i s is p r e c i s e l y t h e phallic s t a g e o f t h e a r g u m e n t — t h a t is t o say, t h e r e l a t i o n s h i p b e t w e e n t h e s e p o w e r s a n d m e n is n o w s p e c i f i c a l l y p h a l l i c , r a t h e r t h a n p r e - p h a l l i c . B u t s o m e p e o p l e a r e still s u r p r i s e d , a n d e v e n t r o u b l e d , t o l e a r n that F r e u d ' s t h e o r y o f t h e p h a l l u s was n o t a theory o f strength b u t rather a theory o f strength subverted, contained, tamed, symbolized (for the p h a l l u s only f u n c t i o n s t h r o u g h c a s t r a t i o n ) , i.e., a t h e o r y o f p o w e r . F u r t h e r t h o u g h t w i l l s h o w t h a t t h e p h a l l i c s t r u c t u r e o f m e a n i n g i s fi­ n a l l y t h e s t r u c t u r e t h r o u g h w h i c h any s i g n i f i e r o p e r a t e s , s t a r t i n g w i t h t h e m o m e n t as t o d d l e r s , s t r a i n i n g a f t e r t h e a p p l e , t h e p i e c e o f c a n d y , t h e t o y j u s t o u t o f r e a c h , w e r e p e a t a n d r e p e a t ". . . a p p l e . . . c a n d y . . . t o y , " t h u s l e a r n i n g t h a t t h e w o r d is n o t t h e t h i n g — a l e a r n i n g t h a t is t h e "castra­ tion" o r splitting o f the concept o f any verbally e m p o w e r e d concept. T h u s , i n its essence, t h e p h a l l u s n o t o n l y has n o t h i n g necessarily t o d o w i t h m e n , i t h a s n o t h i n g t o d o w i t h s e x . Y e s , i t p a s s e s through s e x ; b u t i t p a s s e s t h r o u g h all the p r o c e s s e s o f m e a n i n g w e c a n l o c a t e . R e a l i z i n g t h i s is t h e n e c e s s a r y c a s t r a t i o n , o r d e - m e t a p h o r i z a t i o n , o f t h e t e r m t h a t is n e c e s s a r y f o r i t t o f u n c t i o n . T h a t t h e p r o c e s s w a s first n o t e d a n d n a m e d i n a c o n s i d e r a t i o n o f m a l e d e s i r e is itself o n l y a n a c c i d e n t o f t h e p o l i t i c a l fact that, since t h e tale o f A d a m d i s t r i b u t i n g

names in the garden

(which, if I can indulge i n a bitm o r e castration/demetaphorization/dem y s t i f i c a t i o n , i s not t h e b e g i n n i n g o f c i v i l i z a t i o n b u t o n l y a c o m p a r a t i v e l y r e c e n t t a l e about its b e g i n n i n g s , a n d h a s b e e n t h e o r i z e d b y c r i t i c H a r o l d B l o o m to have b e e n written b y a noble w o m a n i n the court o f K i n g D a v i d , t h e " J W r i t e r " o f b i b l i c a l e x e g e s i s ) , w e do l i v e i n a s e x i s t s o c i e t y t h a t p r i v i l e g e s m e n as p r e s u m e d c e n t e r s o f m e a n i n g p r o d u c t i o n . H a d

N e i t h e r the First W o r d n o rtheLast things b e e n different,

155

h o w e v e r , w h a t F r e u d a n d L a c a n d e s i g n a t e as

"phallus" a n d "castration" m i g h t have b e e n called " m u n g beans" a n d "harvesting"; o r "sunrise" a n d "blindfolding"; o r "refuse-placement" a n d " r e m o v a l " — a n d all w o u l d b e equally p r o n e to b e i n g m i s u n d e r s t o o d . F o r r e a l m u n g b e a n s a n d r e a l r e f u s e a r e n o t t h e s a m e as " m u n g b e a n s " a n d "refuse"

i n the psychoanalytic

sense,

since—in

the psychoanalytic

sense—"mung beans" a n d / o r "refuse" can only function through

"har­

vesting" a n d / o r "refuse r e m o v a l . " A n d to t h eextent that, i n their respec­ tive s o c i e t i e s , t h e i d e a o f m u n g b e a n s a n d / o r r e f u s e is a n e x p l o i t e d a n d mystified conceptual n o d e o f power, desire, a n dm e a n i n g , psychoana­ lytic m u n g - b e a n s o r p s y c h o a n a l y t i c refuse b e c o m e s a n i m p o r t a n t , vital, a n d c l a r i f y i n g s y m b o l . F o r t h e s a m e r e a s o n , so m a n y f e m i n i s t s (e.g., L u c e Irigaray, J u l i a Kristeva) h a v e f o u n d t h e p h a l l u s a u s e f u l c o n c e p t f o r a n a ­ lyzing the w o r k i n g s o f t h e patriarchy i n o u r society. L a c a n ' s t h e o r y o f t h e p h a l l u s is a t h e o r y o f d e s i r e , b u t n o t o f d e s i r e as a force o r power located i n o n esubject that impels that subject

toward

a n o t h e r subject o r a n object. R a t h e r it is a t h e o r y a b o u t t h e r e l a t i o n s h i p between the subject a n d t h e category that i n c l u d e s desire's object, w h i c h must b e established between subject a n d object-category i f the relation­ s h i p w e r e c o g n i z e as d e s i r e i s t o o b t a i n . A n d b e c a u s e i t a t o m i z e s p o w e r i n t o its constitutive a n t e r i o r r e l a t i o n s h i p s , it c a n b e a u s e f u l f a c t o r i n a theory o/power. After resigning (along with four other distinguished colleagues) f r o m t h e o r t h o d o x Société psychanalytique de Paris o v e r a d i s a g r e e m e n t a r i s i n g f r o m personalities a n d

finally

fixing

o n h o w y o u n g psychoanalysts were to

b e t r a i n e d , L a c a n a n d h i s a s s o c i a t e s f o r m e d t h e i r o w n Société Française de Psychanalyse, w h i c h t h e o l d e r o r g a n i z a t i o n s t e a d i l y r e f u s e d t o a c k n o w l ­ e d g e — a l t h o u g h , b y the n e worganization's First Congress, i n R o m e i n

1 9 5 3 , t h e Société Française de Psychanalyse h a d t h e s u p p o r t o f a l m o s t h a l f the student analysts. A t the e n d o f L a c a n ' s address to c o l l e a g u e s a n d stu­ d e n t s a t R o m e , p r e s e n t e d o n S e p t e m b e r 26 a n d 27, " T h e F u n c t i o n a n d F i e l d o f S p e e c h a n d L a n g u a g e i n Psychoanalysis" (the d e n s e a n d difficult l e c t u r e is o f t e n c a l l e d b y t h e n i c k n a m e " T h e D i s c o u r s e o f R o m e " ) , t o ­ ward thee n d o f his lengthy discussion o f the transference m e c h a n i s m , i n a n a t t e m p t t o p r e s e n t a n e x a m p l e o f t r a n s f e r e n c e at its m o s t b e n e f i c e n t L a c a n rereads a text familiar to m a n y E n g l i s h speakers: T h e referent text is, o f c o u r s e , " W h a t t h e T h u n d e r S a i d , " s e c t i o n 5 o f T . S . E l i o t ' s Waste Land. To t h e y o u n g e r a n d o l d e r analysts a t t e n d i n g h i m , L a c a n c o n c l u d e d :

The psychanalytic experience has rediscovered in man the imperative of the Word as the law that has formed him in its image. It manipulates the poetic function of language to give to his desire its symbolic mediation. May that

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Shorter Views 2

experience enable you to understand at last that it is in the gift of speech that all the reality of its effects resides; for it is by way of this gift that all reality has come to man and it is by his continued act that he maintains it. If the domain defined by this gift of speech is to be sufficient for your ac­ tion as also for your knowledge, it will also be sufficient for your devotion. For it offers it a privileged field. When the Devas, the men, and the Asuras were ending their novitiate with Prajapâti, so we read in the second Brahmana of the fifth lesson of the Bhradâranyaka Upanishad, they addressed to him this prayer: "Speak to us." "Da," said Prajapâti, god of thunder. "Did you hear me?" And the Devas an­ swered and said: "Thou has said to us: Damyata, master yourselves"—the sa­ cred text meaning that the powers above submit to the law of speech. "Da," said Prajapâti, god of thunder. "Did you hear me?" And the men an­ swered and said: "Thou has said to us: Data, give"—the sacred text meaning that men recognize each other by the gift of speech. "Da," said Prajapâti, god of thunder. "Did you hear me?" And the Asuras an­ swered and said: "Thou hast said to us: Dayadhyam, be merciful"—the sacred text meaning that the powers below resound in the invocation of speech. That, continued the text, is what the divine voice caused to be heard in the thunder: Submission, gift, grace. Da da da.* For Prajapâti replied to all: "You have heard me." 3

E v e n as i t s u g g e s t s t h a t l a n g u a g e h a s n o m e a n i n g o f i t s o w n , b u t o n l y t h e m e a n i n g s w e h e a r i n it, t h e p r o j e c t i o n o n t o t h e t h u n d e r o f t h e m o r a l i m ­ perative to treat ourselves a n d o u r fellows w i t h respect a n d c o m p a s s i o n is, f o r L a c a n , F r e u d i a n t r a n s f e r e n c e at its b e s t . F o r t h e t h r e e S a n s k r i t terms, E l i o t so f a m o u s l y p r o v i d e d the m e a n i n g s : c o n t r o l , give, sympa­ t h i z e . B u t h o w e v e r o n e r e a d s t h e m ( w h e t h e r w e r e a d t h e m as m o r a l i m ­ p e r a t i v e s o r as d e m o n s t r a t i o n s a b o u t l a n g u a g e i t s e l f ) , c e r t a i n l y t h e y m a r k out the field i n w h i c h the intricately a n d endlessly c o m p l e x recom­ p l i c a t i o n s o f L a c a n ' s l a t e r e l a b o r a t i o n s o n t h e s u b j e c t t h a t is a l w a y s s p l i t , t h a t i s n e v e r w h o l e , a n d t h a t is i t s e l f c o n s t i t u t e d o f t h e i l l u s i o n o f its o w n e x i s t e n c e w i l l strive to f u n c t i o n . C e r t a i n l y the structuralist t h i n k e r w h o t u r n s o u t to have h a d the m o s t l a s t i n g i n f l u e n c e , t h e t h i n k e r w h o is l e a s t k n o w n o u t s i d e t h e d e b a t e s 2. Let it be understood that it is not a question of those 'gifts' that are always supposed to be lacking in novices, but of a gift that is in fact lacking to them more often than they lack it. [Notes outside square brackets are Lacan's; those inside are the translator's or SRD's.] 3. Ponge writes it: réson (1966) [In his Pour un Malherbe. 'Resound' is 'résonner in French: réson is a homonym of raison.] 4. 'Soumission, don, grâce'. T h e three Sanskrit nouns (damah, dânan, dayâ) are also ren­ dered "self-control"; "giving"; and "compassion" (Rhadhakrishnan), the three verbs, "con­ trol", "give", "sympathize" (T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land, Part V; "What the Thunder Said"). 1

N e i t h e r the First W o r d n o r the Last

157

t h e m s e l v e s , is L o u i s A l t h u s s e r . A l t h u s s e r w a s a M a r x i s t t h e o r e t i c i a n . F o r A l t h u s s e r , M a r x w a s p r i m a r i l y a r e a d e r o f o t h e r w r i t e r s ' t e x t s . I n Lire le Capital ( " T o R e a d Das Capital," a c o l l e c t i o n o f five n e a r - b o o k - l e n g t h e s says b y B a l i b a r , R a n c i è r e , M a c h e r e y , E s t a b l e t , a n d A l t h u s s e r , w h i c h

first

a p p e a r e d i n two v o l u m e s i n Paris, 1965: the B a l i b a r a n d A l t h u s s e r c o n t r i b u t i o n s h a v e b e e n t r a n s l a t e d b y B e n B r e w s t e r a s Reading Capital [ N L B , L o n d o n , 1972]), Althusser a r g u e d that M a r x d e v e l o p e d a n e w level o f analytical reading: A c c o r d i n g to Althusser, earlier economists a n d political theorists r e a d e a c h o t h e r only i n terms o f what e a c h said. E a c h t h e n p r o p o s e d his o w n ideas against that r e a d i n g . B u t M a r x ' s writings o n earlier theorists presented a " d o u b l e

reading," Althusser maintains, i n

w h i c h M a r x reads what the other e c o n o m i s t said, then proceeds to read what h e left out, h i s tacit p r e s u p p o s i t i o n s , t h e h i s t o r i c a l pressures o n h i m , t h e stabilizing institutions h e was i n v o l v e d with, t h e aspects h e r e pressed o r was b l i n d t o , thus a l l o w i n g M a r x t o g o o n t o s h o w the c o n t r a dictions w i t h i n t h e " r e s t o r e d " text, a n d to speculate o n t h e significance o f the two texts o f the way o n e c o m m e n t s o n t h e o t h e r — a vigilant, a n a lytic e n t e r p r i s e i n w h i c h I h o p e y o u c a n r e c o g n i z e t h e s i m i l a r i t i e s t o t h e d e c o n s t r u c t i o n o f t h e n o t i o n o f t h e m e as I ' v e a l r e a d y p r e s e n t e d i t . A n o t h e r i d e a f r o m A l t h u s s e r ' s 1969 essay " I d e o l o g y a n d

Ideological

S t a t e A p p a r a t u s e s " (Lenin and Philosophy and Other Essays, M o n t h l y R e v i e w Press, N e w Y o r k , 1 9 7 1 ) that has r e c e i v e d m o r e a n d m o r e c o n s i d e r a t i o n o f late is t h e i d e a o f " i n t e r p e l l a t i o n " — a n d t h e q u e s t i o n o f h o w w e a r e i n t e r p e l l a t e d as s u b j e c t s b y t h e p e o p l e , i n s t i t u t i o n s , a n d o b j e c t s a r o u n d u s . ' T o i n t e r p e l l a t e " is a n a r c h a i c v e r b that m e a n s ( i n b o t h E n g l i s h a n d F r e n c h ) "to b r e a k i n o n " i n t h e sense o f " t o i n t e r r u p t . " A s w e l l , it m e a n s " t o p e t i tion,"

o r as A l t h u s s e r s u g g e s t s , " t o h a i l . " T h e p r o c e s s o f " i n t e r p e l l a t i o n "

o r " h a i l i n g , " c l a i m s A l t h u s s e r , c r e a t e s u s as s u b j e c t s . A l t h u s s e r w r i t e s :

[T] hat very precise operation which I have called interpellation or hailing . . . can be imagined along the lines of the most commonplace everyday police (or other) hailing, "Hey, you there!" Assuming that the theoretical scene I have imagined takes place on the street, the hailed individual will turn around. By the mere one-hundred-andeighty-degree physical conversion, he becomes a subject. Why? Because he has recognized that the hail was "really" addressed to him, and that "it was really him who was hailed" (and not someone else). T h e q u o t a t i o n m a r k s a r o u n d " r e a l l y " a n d t h e i t a l i c s o f really him s u g g e s t t h e sous rature m a r k i n g w i t h w h i c h w e b e g a n . I n d e e d , A l t h u s s e r u s e s t h e m precisely because the o n l y "reality" we have access to at a n y g i v e n m o m e n t is b u i l t u p f r o m m y r i a d p r e v i o u s h a i l i n g s , n o t o n l y f r o m i n d i v i d u a l s b u t f r o m advertisements, institutions, a n d even objects i n t h e l a n d s c a p e , so

158

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that, i n effect, we are "always-ready" ( a n o t h e r c o m m o n

structuralist/post-

structuralist l o c a t i o n u s e d b y A l t h u s s e r ) i n t e r p e l l a t e d b y o u r society at any given point.

(Fritz L e i b e r ' s 1949 S F story " T h e G i r l W i t h

E y e s " w a s t a k e n u p b y M a r s h a l M c L u h a n i n h i s 1 9 5 1 Understanding

Hungry Media

as a d r a m a t i c i n s t a n c e avant la lettre o f t h e w a y i n w h i c h a d v e r t i s e m e n t s " h a i l " u s . I t is e q u a l l y i n t e r e s t i n g t o d a y f o r t h e s a m e r e a s o n . ) T h e a s s u m p t i o n o f a reality b e y o n d o u r p e r s o n a l , always-mediated ex­ p e r i e n c e o f i t — w h e t h e r it be a reality o f matter a n d energy that science suggests o r a reality p u r e l y o f ideas a n d r e l a t i o n s h i p s that p h i l o s o p h e r s f r o m Plato to Berkeley a n d some c o n t e m p o r a r y philosophers o f mathe­ m a t i c s s t i l l b e l i e v e i n — i s theleap

into metaphysics. A n d because we can­

n o t n e g o t i a t e t h e w o r l d w i t h o u t a s s u m i n g it is really o n e t h i n g o r t h e other, we are always w i t h i n o n e m e t a p h y s i c a l system o r a n o t h e r . L a t e r c o m m e n t a t o r s o n A l t h u s s e r have p o i n t e d o u t that t h e way i n w h i c h we have always-already b e e n h a i l e d has a great deal to d owith any i n d i v i d u a l i n s t a n c e o f h a i l i n g : O n the streets o f N e w Y o r k , f o r e x a m p l e , a well-off a n d well-dressed white m a l e will b e / b e c o m e a very different sub­ ject f r o m a h o m e l e s s black w o m a n i n a tattered coat, w h e n hailed by the same, "Hey, you there!" f r o m thesame policeman. But f o r all three

o f these thinkers,

C l a u d e Lévi-Strauss, Jacques

L a c a n , a n d L o u i s A l t h u s s e r , i n t h e i r s e p a r a t e d i s c i p l i n e s , l a n g u a g e is t h e m o d e l t h e y u s e t o d e s c r i b e w h a t is m e a n i n g f u l i n t h a t d i s c i p l i n e . O n e o f t h e insights m o s t b r u i t e d a b o u t f r o m these debates is that "the o r i g i n is always a c o n s t r u c t . " T h a t is e q u a l l y t r u e f o r m y suggestion o f A l t h u s s e r ' s r e a d i n g o f M a r x ' s r e a d i n g m e t h o d s as i t is t r u e as a m o d e l f o r D e r r i d a ' s d e c o n s t r u c t i o n — t h o u g h y o u will f i n d it suggested b y a n u m ­ b e r o f o t h e r c r i t i c s as w e l l , i n c l u d i n g F r e d r i c J a m e s o n , w h o s e e a r l y b o o k s

a n d p a p e r s (Marxism

and Form [ 1 9 7 1 ] , The Prison House of Language

[ 1 9 7 2 ] , a n d t h e t w o - v o l u m e c o l l e c t i o n o f h i s essays, The Ideology of Theory [ 1 9 8 8 ] ) a r e s t i l l a fine i n t r o d u c t i o n t o t h e first w a v e o f t h i n k e r s i n t h e debate if w e c a n separate t h e m f r o m those thinkers like M a x Weber, E m i l e D u r k h e i m , V l a d i m i r P r o p p , a n d M a r c e l M a u s s — n o t to m e n t i o n M a r x a n d F r e u d — w h o c a m e before t h e m a n d f r o m w h o m they learned ( a n d o n w h o m t h e y b u i l t ) a n d w h o s e Political Unconscious ( 1 9 8 1 ) h a s b e ­ c o m e r e c o g n i z e d as a n i m p o r t a n t c o n t i n u a t i o n o f t h e d e b a t e s . B u t a l l that I c a n really d o h e r e is p o i n t o u t o t h e r o r i g i n s that have b e e n c o n s t r u c t e d f o r d e c o n s t r u c t i o n , w i t h theclear suggestion that each o f t h e s e o r i g i n s h a s , i n d e e d , its o w n i d e o l o g i c a l n u a n c e , a n d v a r i o u s p a r ­ ticipants i n the debates have frequently e m b r a c e d m o r e than one, a n d that f r o m time to time antagonisms i n the debates might b e illuminated, at least f o r a p e r i o d , i n t e r m s o f a p a r t i c u l a r o r i g i n c h o s e n . T h e G e n e v a - b o r n linguist, F e r d i n a n d - M o n g i n d e Saussure (1857-

N e i t h e r the First W o r d n o r the Last

159

1 9 1 3 ) , a n d t h e n o t e s o n h i s Course in General Linguistics t h a t s o m e o f h i s students t o o k d u r i n g h i s classes a t t h e U n i v e r s i t y o f G e n e v a

between

1907 a n d 1 9 1 1 a n d , a f t e r h i s d e a t h , p u b l i s h e d i n 1 9 1 6 h a v e f r e q u e n t l y b e e n c i t e d as a s o u r c e f o r s t r u c t u r a l i s m / p o s t s t r u c t u r a l i s m .

Saussure, Peirce, and Semiotics. S a u s s u r e i s c i t e d m o s t f r e q u e n t l y f o r a n u m b e r o f i m p o r t a n t i d e a s as w e l l as f o r p r i v i l e g i n g h a l f - a - d o z e n - p l u s t e r m s f u n d a m e n t a l t o t h e d e b a t e ' s r h e t o r i c : parole ( l a n g u a g e a s a s e t o f p o s s i b l e u t t e r a n c e s ) , langue ( l a n g u a g e a s t h e s y n t a c t i c a l a n d s e m a n t i c rules that m a k e utterances c o m p r e h e n s i b l e ) , sign (that w h i c h consists o f a signifier a n d its s i g n i f i e d , a n i d e a a n d t e r m s S a u s s u r e b o r r o w e d f r o m the Stoic p h i l o s o p h e r s o f a n c i e n t G r e e c e ) , signifier

(the perceptible

part o f thesign), signified (the intelligible part o f thesign: the concept t h e s i g n i f i e r i s a s i g n of), s y n c h r o n i c ( t h e m u t u a l r e l a t i o n o f e l e m e n t s [ o r signs] at t h e s a m e h i s t o r i c a l m o m e n t ) , d i a c h r o n i c ( t h e successive rela­ tion

o f e l e m e n t s [ o r signs] over t h e c o u r s e o f t i m e ) . H e r e are four o f Saussure's most frequently cited ideas: (1)

T h e l i n g u i s t i c s i g n is a r b i t r a r y — t h a t is, t h e r e l a t i o n b e t w e e n t h e

signifier

a n d the signified

in words

(Saussure called t h e m

"sound-

i m a g e s " ) is s u c h t h a t a n y s o u n d c o m b i n a t i o n c a n b e a s s i g n e d t o a n y m e a n i n g a n d that relation will obtain until s o m e t h i n g c o m e s a l o n g a n d makes a reassignment (either o f the signifier o r o f the signified). (2) P h i l o l o g y s h o u l d b e s e p a r a t e f r o m l i n g u i s t i c s . T h e s e p a r a t i o n s h o u l d b e the separation o f s y n c h r o n i c elements (linguistics) f r o m d i ­ achronic elements

(philology).

(3) L a n g u a g e i s a p l a y o f p u r e d i f f e r e n c e s — t h i s l a s t i s a n o t i o n

hard

to c o n v e y i n a s i n g l e p h r a s e o r a f e w s e n t e n c e s . G e n e r a l l y , h o w e v e r , S a u s s u r e ' s p o i n t was t h a t w h a t c h a r a c t e r i z e s t h e s o u n d " b " is its d i f f e r ­ ences f r o m t h e s o u n d s " c , " " d , " a n d " f " — a n d , i n g e n e r a l , its d i f f e r e n c e s f r o m all other possible sounds. Thus, differences i n sounds b e c o m e m e a n i n g f u l i f o n e c a n establish " m i n i m a l pairs" f o r t h e m : e.g., i n s p o k e n American English thedifference between the voiced a n dunvoiced " t h " is m e a n i n g f u l b e c a u s e t h a t d i f f e r e n c e a l o n e d i s t i n g u i s h e s t h e m i n i m a l pair "ether/either," with their different meanings. (4) H u m a n l a n g u a g e i s a s u b s e t o f a m o r e g e n e r a l s y s t e m o f s i g n s b y which nature's creatures c o m m u n i c a t e with each other o r read the w o r l d to b e l a i d o u t i n a c e r t a i n way. T h e s t u d y o f this m o r e g e n e r a l s y s t e m o f signs is s e m i o t i c s . A l l f o u r o f these ideas have h e l d c e n t e r stage f o r v a r i o u s p e r i o d s i n the structuralist/poststructuralist

d e b a t e s . It was t h e last o f t h e m , h o w ­

ever, t h a t was t o p r o v e m o s t f e r t i l e w h e n it was r a d i c a l l y r e v e r s e d b y R o ­ l a n d B a r t h e s i n h i s b r i e f b o o k The Elements of Semiology ( 1 9 6 4 ) .

16o

Shorter Views

T h e A m e r i c a n philosopher Charles Sanders Peirce

(1839-1914),

w h o s p e n t m a n y years, b y t h e b y e , l i v i n g i n M i l f o r d , P e n n s y l v a n i a , the so­ c i a l a n d e s t h e t i c c e n t e r o f s c i e n c e fiction d u r i n g t h e fifties a n d s i x t i e s , d i d a great deal o f w o r k o n semiotics i n the tradition o f Saussure—without ever h a v i n g e n c o u n t e r e d Saussure's very brief r e m a r k s o n the topic f r o m t h e Course. I n h i s s e a r c h f o r a g e n e r a l i z e d s e m i o t i c s , o f w h i c h

human

l a n g u a g e was o n l y a subset, P e i r c e d i v i d e d signs i n t o three categories: i c o n s ( i n w h i c h t h e s i g n i f i e r , h o w e v e r a b s t r a c t l y , p i c t u r e s t h e s i g n i f i e d , as i n various r o a d signs for turnoffs a n d m e r g i n g highways), indices

(in

w h i c h t h e s i g n i f i e r h a s a m e a s u r a b l e r e l a t i o n t o w h a t is s i g n i f i e d , s u c h as t h e h e i g h t o f t h e m e r c u r y i n a t h e r m o m e t e r t o t h e a i r t e m p e r a t u r e o r the p o s i t i o n o f the h a n d s o n a c l o c k to the t i m e ) , a n d s y m b o l s (in w h i c h t h e r e l a t i o n o f t h e s i g n i f i e r t o t h e s i g n i f i e d is a r b i t r a r y , s u c h as i n n o n onomatopoeic spoken words or written Arabic numerals: Onomatopoeic words Peirce considered ironic). F o r all the initial s e e m i n g elegance of his semiotic trichotomy, Peirce f o u n d as h e p u r s u e d i t t h a t t h e r e w a s s o m u c h o f t h e a r b i t r a r y l u r k i n g i n b o t h the i c o n i c a n d the i n d e x i c a l s i g n , o r that so m a n y i n d e x i c a l o r iconic elements c o u l d enter into the m o r e c o m p l e x organization of sym­ b o l i c a l s i g n s ( s u c h as A r a b i c n u m b e r s h i g h e r t h a n t e n , o r i n t h e r h e t o r i ­ cal

figures

o f p o e t r y a n d literature), that, after g e n e r a t i n g several differ­

ent subsystems o f semiotic taxonomies (again, frequently divided

in

three) he f o u n d the whole process dissolving into what he called "unlim­ i t e d semiosis"—semiosis m e a n i n g r o u g h l y " t h e i n t e r p r e t a t i o n o f s i g n s , " a n d " u n l i m i t e d s e m i o s i s " b e i n g his t e r m f o r "signs u s e d to i n t e r p r e t o t h e r signs that are u s e d to i n t e r p r e t o t h e r signs that are u s e d to i n t e r p r e t .

.."

T h e p o i n t was, however, that P e i r c e ' s e x p l o r a t i o n (carried out sporad­ i c a l l y u n t i l h i s d e a t h ) t o o k p l a c e u n d e r w h a t I've c a l l e d S a u s s u r e ' s f o u r t h a s s u m p t i o n : H u m a n l a n g u a g e is a s u b s e t o f a m o r e g e n e r a l s e m i o t i c system. B u t it was n o t u n t i l t h e a d v e n t o f R o l a n d B a r t h e s that substantial p r o g r e s s w a s m a d e i n t h i s t i l l - t h e n r a t h e r m a r g i n a l field o f s p e c u l a t i o n .

The Advent of Barthes.

I n 1960 R o l a n d B a r t h e s p u b l i s h e d a l o n g a n d e x ­

c i t i n g e s s a y as a n i n t r o d u c t i o n t o a n e w e d i t i o n o f t h e m o s t f a m o u s a n d most

academically revered classical F r e n c h playwright, J e a n R a c i n e

(1639-1699).

But

instead of

talking

about

characters,

motivations,

p s y c h o l o g i c a l subtleties, a n d stylistic r e f i n e m e n t s o f l a n g u a g e , B a r t h e s w r o t e a b o u t t h e p l a y s as i f t h e y w e r e g e o g r a p h y , a r c h i t e c t u r e , o r g e o m e t r y :

[O] ne might say that there are three tragic sites. There is first of all the Cham­ ber: Vestige of the mythic cave, it is the invisible and dreadful place where Power lurks . . . the Chamber is contiguous to the second tragic site, which is

N e i t h e r the First W o r d n o r the Last

161

the Antechamber, the eternal space of all subjection, since it is there that one waits. The Antechamber (the stage proper) is a medium of transmission; it partakes of both interior and exterior, of Power and Event . . . Between the Chamber and the Antechamber stands a tragic object which expresses both contiguity and exchange: the Door. Here one waits, here one trembles. To enter it is a temptation and a transgression . . . The third tragic site is the Exte­ rior. Between Antechamber and Exterior there is no transition; they are joined as immediately as the Antechamber and the Chamber. This contiguity is expressed poetically by the "linear" nature of the tragic enclosure: The pal­ ace walls plunge down into the sea; the stairs lead down to the ships ready to sail; the rampants are a balcony above the battle itself . . . In effect, B a r t h e s s u p e r i m p o s e d a l l R a c i n e ' s d o z e n plays o n e o n t h e other, t h e n dealt p r i m a r i l y w i t h those patterns that were r e i n f o r c e d b y the s u p e r i m p o s i t i o n . W h e n t h i s essay, a l o n g w i t h t w o o t h e r s o n R a c i n e , w a s p u b l i s h e d as a b o o k (On Racine i 9 6 0 ) , B a r t h e s w a s t h e s u b j e c t o f a n e w s ­ p a p e r attack b y a l e a d i n g F r e n c h philologist f r o m t h e S o r b o n n e , Ray­ m o n d P i c a r d , w h o d e c r i e d B a r t h e s ' s a p p r o a c h as m e c h a n i s t i c , s c i e n t i s t i c , a n d , i n a l l its o v e r - i n t e l l e c t u a l i s m , w i t h o u t f e e l i n g o r sensitivity t o t h e great F r e n c h plays. B u t i n 1964 B a r t h e s p u b l i s h e d a b r i e f b o o k

that

s e e m e d t o o p e r a t i o n a l i z e t h e v e r y s c i e n t i s m o f h i s a p p r o a c h , The Elements of Semiology, as w e l l a s , i n 1 9 6 6 , a n a n s w e r t o P i c a r d , c a l l e d Criticism and Truth. M e a n w h i l e , a s c h o l a r e x c i t e d b y B a r t h e s ' s s e m i o t i c c o n c e r n s , G i l l e s D e l e u z e , p u b l i s h e d a b o o k that r e m a i n s twenty-five years later o n e o f t h e m o s t b r i l l i a n t a n d p e n e t r a t i n g s t u d i e s f r o m t h e p e r i o d , Proust and Signs

(1964). W h i l e F r e n c h academic circles were b e i n g polarized b y the B a r t h e s / P i c a r d d e b a t e , o t h e r s w e r e b u s y p o i n t i n g o u t that, save f o r t h e p a r t i c u l a r flavor o f t h e r h e t o r i c , t h e sort o f g e o m e t r i c a l c r i t i c i s m B a r t h e s was p r a c ­ ticing o n R a c i n e was n o t very far f r o m w h a t v a r i o u s m a v e n s o f F r e n c h ac­ a d e m i c c r i t i c i s m s u c h as G e o r g e P o u l e t h a d b e e n d o i n g i n h i s essays f o r m a n y years, i n w h i c h h e h a d a n a l y z e d " t h e s p a c e " o f B a u d e l a i r e , M a l ­ larmé, a n d Valéry. A s well, it b o r e a n u m b e r o f rhetorical r e s e m b l a n c e s to t h e w o r k o f s o m e o f t h e m o r e e c c e n t r i c , i f s t i l l e s t a b l i s h e d , c r i t i c s , s u c h as G a s t o n B a c h e l a r d (The Poetics of Space, The Psychoanalysis of Fire). I n s h o r t , the p h i l o s o p h i c a l split b e t w e e n t h e o l d a n d t h e n e w was largely m a n u f a c ­ t u r e d b y t h e o l d e r critics. T h o u g h t h e rhetorical split was certainly e n ­ c o u r a g e d i n all ways b y the n e w e r o n e s — a p a t t e r n t h a t c o n t i n u e s

through

t h e c u r r e n t d e c o n s t r u c t i o n / t h e m a t i c s p l i t , as I ' v e a l r e a d y s u g g e s t e d . T h e s a m e y e a r D e l e u z e p u b l i s h e d h i s P r o u s t study, B a r t h e s r e l e a s e d (as

I m e n t i o n e d ) The Elements of Semiology ( 1 9 6 4 ) . Elements of Semiology m a d e the first m a j o r a d v a n c e o n P e i r c e ' s w o r k t h r o u g h a reversal o f Saussure's

1Ô2

Shorter Views

f o u r t h a s s u m p t i o n : H u m a n l a n g u a g e is a subset o f a m o r e g e n e r a l semi­ otic system. T h a t r e v e r s a l m o r e o r less h i n g e d o n t h e f o l l o w i n g a r g u m e n t .

Instead

o f m a k i n g t h e c o n c e p t u a l f i e l d g e o g r a p h i c a l a n d z o o l o g i c a l , let's m o v e the a r g u m e n t

( B a r t h e s suggests) to t h e t h e o r e t i c a l p l a n e . H u m a n l a n ­

g u a g e is t h e m o s t c o m p l e x s i g n s y s t e m t h a t n a t u r e / c u l t u r e h a s p r o d u c e d . L e t us assume f o r the p u r p o s e s o f a r g u m e n t that all the simpler semiotic systems that o n e finds t h r o u g h o u t h u m a n cultures a n d t h r o u g h o u t t h e a n i m a l w o r l d utilize s e m i o d c principles that, s o m e w h e r e o r other, can b e f o u n d w i t h i n — a n d c a n b e d e s c r i b e d w i t h — t h a t r i c h e s t o f sign systems, l a n g u a g e . E v e n i f h u m a n s d o n o t i n d u l g e i n birdcalls o r leave c h e m i c a l scents b e h i n d t h e m , the abstract p r i n c i p l e s that m a k e these signs intelli­ gible to the birds, lower m a m m a l s , insects, a n d plants w h o e m p l o y t h e m , however blindly, must b e contained somehow i n h u m a n language for language to be able to describe the process at all. S o f o r B a r t h e s , i n s t e a d o f l i n g u i s t i c s r e s i d i n g as a subset o f a m o r e generalized a n d c o m p l e x semiotics, "semiology" (Barthes's term) n o w e x i s t e d as a s u b d i s c i p l i n e o f l i n g u i s t i c s . U n d e r t h i s r e v e r s a l , a n u m b e r o f the p r o b l e m s that h a d u n d e r m i n e d Peirce's various trichotomies

now

s e e m e d n e g o t i a b l e — m o s t f a m o u s l y a n d successfully, b y t h e Italian me­ dievalist p h i l o s o p h e r a n d c o n t e m p o r a r y social critic, U m b e r t o E c o , i n h i s A Theory of Semiotics, first t r a n s l a t e d i n t o E n g l i s h i n 1 9 7 6 . B u t o n c e a g a i n f o r B a r t h e s ( a n d f o r E c o ) , l a n g u a g e is t h e p r i m a r y m o d e l f o r t h e particular area o f m e a n i n g e a c h explores—areas that for Barthes w o u l d r a n g e f r o m t h e c a p t i o n i n g s y s t e m o f F r e n c h haute couture p h o t o g r a p h y

(The Fashion System 1 9 6 7 ) t o h i s i m p r e s s i o n s o f a v i s i t t o J a p a n (Empire of Signs 1 9 7 0 ) , t o t h e w r i t i n g o f h i s o w n a u t o b i o g r a p h y (Roland Barthes by Roland

Barthes 1 9 7 5 ) a n d h i s r e f l e c t i o n s o n t h e o r g a n i z a t i o n o f d i s ­

course a n d b e h a v i o r d u r i n g a love affair—certainly, we begin to suspect

b y t h e e n d o f t h e b o o k (A Lover's Discourse 1 9 7 7 ) , o n e o f h i s o w n . B u t to j u m p straight f r o m B a r t h e s t o E c o is to a b r i d g e the debate f a r too violently.

History Intervenes. 1 9 6 6

marks an important year for

structuralist/post-

structuralist debates i n A m e r i c a . At J o h n s H o p k i n s University, i n O c t o ­ ber, a n international array o f scholars, m a n y o f t h e m F r e n c h , m e t f o r The margin is frequently a privi-

w

h

a

t

w

a

s

t

o

b

e

t

h

e

first

o

f

m

o

y

e a r s

o

f

leged position in these debates,

eight international seminars o nT h e L a n -

Much of interest goes on in the

guage o f Criticism a n d the Sciences o f

margins of a seemingly more

Man, s e l e c t i o n s o f w h i c h w e r e

eventually

centered discussion.

p u b l i s h e d a s The Structuralist

Controversy

(eds. M a c k s e y & D o n a t o , J o h n s H o p k i n s , B a l t i m o r e a n d L o n d o n , 1972).

N e i t h e r the First W o r d n o r the Last

163

F o r those t u r n i n g f r o m popularizers to p r i m a r y statements b y D e r r i d a , L a c a n , L u c i a n G o l d m a n , a n d R e n é G i r a r d , this v o l u m e ( a l o n g w i t h t h e s p e c i a l 1 9 6 6 i s s u e o f Yale French Studies, r e p u b l i s h e d as a D o u b l e d a y A n ­ c h o r B o o k , Structuralism,

edited by Jacques E h r m a n n , N e w York & Gar­

d e n City, 1970), w i t h its i l l u m i n a t i n g d i s c u s s i o n b y t h e d e b a t e p a r t i c i ­ p a n t s , is b o t h i n v a l u a b l e a n d i n d i s p e n s a b l e e a r l y r e a d i n g . C e r t a i n l y t h e s e conferences b e g a n to b r i n g a n awareness o f these otherwise

primarily

E u r o p e a n discussions to A m e r i c a . E a r l i e r that year, M i c h e l F o u c a u l t ( a f o r m e r s t u d e n t o f A l t h u s s e r ' s ) h a d p u b l i s h e d h i s f o u r t h b o o k i n P a r i s , Les Mots et les Choses ( The Order of Things, V i n t a g e , N e w Y o r k , 1 9 6 8 ) . T h e b o o k w a s b o t h d e n s e a n d l y r i ­ c a l — a s w e l l as p r o f o u n d l y s y s t e m a t i c . It p r e s e n t e d i t s e l f as a g e n e r a l " a r ­ chaeology" o f the c o n c e p t o f representation a n d a study o f t h e changes r e p r e s e n t a t i o n u n d e r w e n t d u r i n g t h e a g e o f F r e n c h C l a s s i c i s m , i.e., t h e seventeenth a n d eighteenth

c e n t u r i e s . I n t h e c o u r s e o f it, F o u c a u l t

traced o u t a n intricate shift i n the g e n e r a l c o n c e p t o f the sign ( r e p r e s e n ­ tation must o c c u r b ym e a n s o f signs), t h r o u g h a tripartite archaeology o f three different fields: t h e transformation o f t h e early S c i e n c e o f W e a l t h into the m o d e r n idea o f economics, the transformation o f the o l d no­ tion o f Natural Philosophy into the m o d ' ern idea o f biology, a n dthe transformar

tion o f the G e n e r a l G r a m m a r o f C o n d i l l a c

w

„,.,.., ,. While we sit discussing the | .» o

r

d

j

p

o

w

e

r

w

o

r

k

s

i n

s i

e n c e

(Foucault)

a n d the seventeenth-century g r a m m a r i a n s of Port Royalle into the m o d e r n i d e a o f p h i l o l o g y a n d linguistics. B y p l a c i n g this a c c o u n t o f F o u c a u l t h e r e , b y starting n o t w i t h his ear­ lier work, but with his f o u r t h b o o k (and third major contribution), I a m very conscientiously trying to p r o d u c e t h e effect that F o u c a u l t ' s p o s i t i o n i n the overall debate was, a n d r e m a i n s since h i s d e a t h f r o m A I D S i n 1984,

that o f a dauntingly erudite intervention i n what, f o r all t h e inter­

n a l d i s a g r e e m e n t s , is o t h e r w i s e a l l t o o e a s i l y r e d u c e d t o a k i n d o f t h e ­ matic—yes, I c a n use the w o r d t o o — a t h e m a t i c that, at least w i t h o u t F o u ­ cault, centers almost entirely o n l a n g u a g e , literature,

a n d primitive,

"exotic" cultures, a n d very little o n history a n d t h e c u r r e n t practices o f Western m e n and women. I m m e d i a t e l y F o u c a u l t was c a l l e d a structuralist. I m m e d i a t e l y h e c l a i m e d , at l e n g t h a n d w i t h c o n v i c t i o n , that h e was n o such thing. H i s n e x t b o o k , The Archaeology of Knowledge, w a s a w h o l l y t h e o r e t i c a l , e x t e n d e d " p o s i t i o n p a p e r " o n t h e p r i n c i p l e s o f his w o r k till t h e n ; it c o n ­ c l u d e d with a n outline o f w h e r e these principles m i g h t take h i m i n t h e future. A n d o n e t h i n g b e c a m e , w i t h this b o o k , very clear: F o r a l l F o u ­ cault's l u c i d a p p r e h e n s i o n o f the debates u p till now, t h e semiotic thrust

164

Shorter Views

o f The Order of Things w a s a n e c e s s a r y a c c i d e n t , r a t h e r t h a n h i s o w n c e n tral c o n c e r n . T h e i m p r e s s i v e a n d l u c i d d e v e l o p m e n t o f F o u c a u l t ' s w o r k is s u c h a c o m p e l l i n g narrative that it was finally a b l e t o r e p l a c e t h e s i m p l e r n a r r a t i v e m a n y w e r e t e m p t e d t o t e l l a b o u t i t , i.e., t h a t h e w a s t h e l a t e s t , m o s t i m p r e s s i v e c o n t r i b u t o r o f a n e w c h a p t e r t o a n o l d story.

The Double Text. T h e s t o r y t h a t r e p l a c e s i t w a s , i n f a c t , a d o u b l e s t o r y . T h e first p a r t i s s i m p l y t h e s y s t e m a t i c p r o g r e s s i o n o f h i s s u b j e c t m a t t e r . F o u c a u l t ' s first m a j o r b o o k , Madness and Civilization

( 1 9 6 1 ), a t t e m p t e d

to trace, i n those s a m e classical c e n t u r i e s , the way the m a d c h a n g e d their p o s i t i o n i n s o c i e t y , as w e l l a s t h e c h a n g e s i n t h e w a y m a d n e s s i t s e l f w a s p e r c e i v e d . T h e " o r i g i n , " t h e " t h e m e , " o f Foucault's story has b e e n rec o u n t e d m a n y times. If we c a n k e e p i n m i n d that the s e c o n d part o f the story—the of

theoretical

progression

Foucault's work—develops

pre-

cisely to analyze, to d e c o n s t r u c t

if

you will, to show the illusions a n d presuppositions and assumptions we blindly follow (and that presumably he once followed)

that m a k e it s u c h

a n a p p e a l i n g story, s u c h a n easy n a r rative, t h e n

t h a t story is w o r t h r e -

c o u n t i n g b o t h f o r its s e d u c t i o n s a n d f o r its insights. E n d e m i c throughout E u r o p e during the M i d d l e Ages, leprosy underw e n t a s p o n t a n e o u s ( a n d t o this day, largely u n e x p l a i n e d ) r e m i s s i o n at the end

o f the fourteenth

century.

In

m o s t m a j o r cities, t h e largest b u i l d ings by far were the leper hospitals— Bicêtre

in

Paris,

Bedlam i n L o n d o n . B u t with

a n d Charrington

these

great buildings n o w all b u t empty, w e come "Great

to the seventeenth Confinement,"

century's

where

the

government rounded u p all the u n sightly o f P a r i s — t h e poor, t h e h o m e less, t h e d r u n k , t h e u n e m p l o y e d , t h e m a d — a n d i m p r i s o n e d t h e m i n these same, huge, dank buildings. O v e r the

Centered around Moorcock's New Worlds, the British New Wave of the 1960s was largely anti-theory, which, in retrospect, seems only a continuation of the generally antiintellectual current that has run through the history of science fiction—as well as an expression of the gentlemanly British distrust of anything too abstract (a classist attitude toward the sciences, which were associated with the rising education of the nineteenth century English working classes), an attitude shared today, however much headway some of these debates sometimes seem to have made, by the majority of American university English departments, incidentally. Nevertheless, in 1967, while I was in London I received a report of a meeting that Langdon Jones, then assistant editor of New Worlds, held of New Worlds writers, in which the program of the magazine was discussed. Three conventions of science fiction were located. (1) The Generous Universe: In a world where no one survives a plane crash, in a solar system with only one oxygenated planet, science fiction was still full of spaceships crash landing

N e i t h e r the First W o r d n o r the Last next years, o n e by o n e , the v a r i o u s categories of indigent were returned to t h e s t r e e t s a n d t o f r e e d o m . N e w laws w e r e p a s s e d e i t h e r to p r o v i d e for, o r to c o n s t r a i n t h e m . T h e o n l y o n e s to r e m a i n c o n f i n e d w e r e t h e m a d — who,

until

the

Confinement,

had

b e e n a l l o w e d to w a n d e r free, o f t e n to starve, o c c a s i o n a l l y to b e sent by b o a t f r o m c i t y t o city, b u t s t i l l o u t as a v i s ible part o f the social tapestry. W i t h the n e w situation, however, the insane asylum was n o w socially i n place—as well, the m o d e r n c o n c e p t o f " m a d n e s s " was p o s i t e d , a c o n c e p t t h a t h a d as m u c h t o d o w i t h a s s u m p tions

about

medieval leprosy

asso-

ciated with the buildings i n w h i c h the m a d were n o w h o u s e d (their new pos i t i o n ) as i t d i d w i t h t h e w o r k e t h i c , w i t h visibility, a n d w i t h all the T h e m e s of

the C o n f i n e m e n t : M a d n e s s ,

like

m e d i e v a l leprosy, was b o t h a n illness and a punishment from G o d ; madness,

like

m e d i e v a l leprosy, was

a

price paid for a certain behavior, a b e h a v i o r t h a t c o u l d j u s t as e a s i l y h a v e b e e n o u r p a r e n t s ' b e h a v i o r as o u r own

in

childhood;

madness,

like

m e d i e v a l leprosy, h e l d a n a m b i g u o u s status

between

illness,

sin,

and

c r i m e — a l l ideas that are slightly displaced,

but

not

fundamentally

changed, by Pinel's great humanitarian move, when in

the

nineteenth

century he took the chains f r o m

the

m a d at B i c ê t r e ; i d e a s w e c a n still t r a c e in Freud's own theories of psychoa n a l y s i s as w e l l as i n

the

common

prejudices of c o m m o n people.

165

on planets in which everyone walks away unscarred from the wreck into a landscape with a breathable atmosphere, with amenable flora and fauna, and civilized beings . . . (2) Linear Intelligence: In a world where the reigning math genius at any given university is eighty pounds over- (or under-) weight and can't keep his shirt buttons in their right holes, science fiction presents a world where a genius in one field is invariably a genius in all, often has a black belt in karate, and can negotiate with total suavity any social situation w h a t s o e v e r . . . (3) History Responds to the Individual: In a world where no social progress seems possible unless groups of people work long and hard together, science fiction continually presents a universe where one man is capable of changing the course of history... These were the conventions of science fiction, of course, that New Worlds was not interested in promulgating in its pages. As praiseworthy and productive as that program was twenty-five years ago, I would propose, however, that a meaningful theoretical reading of science fiction begins when we start looking at such works as Asimov's Foundation series, Brunner's The Whole Man, and Russ's We Who Are About to... as at once accepting of, and at the same time rigorously critical toward, these conventions, an examination that will reveal both the acceptance and the critique as intricately related, so that these conventions are not allowed to sediment into "themes" but are opened up into the complex and serious problematics these and other SF writers treat them as.

T h i s i s t h e s t o r y , as I s a i d , m a n y p e o p l e s t i l l t e l l o f F o u c a u l t ' s

first

m a j o r w o r k . It is c e r t a i n l y a w o n d e r f u l , c l a r i f y i n g s t o r y . B u t i t is p r e c i s e l y

166

Shorter Views

Since deconstruction frequently deals with oppositions, the texts it tends to privilege are philo­ sophical or argumentative texts. While deconstructions of poetry or fiction have been done, clearly it works best when even these texts—or elements of these texts—are considered as enunciative rather than sugges­ tive or descriptive. We might say, then, that deconstruction begins in the area of nonfiction. Paradoxically, though, the result of deconstruction is almost al­ ways to highlight the fictive na­ ture of the nonfictive text de­ constructed.

the story that the rest o f his w o r k analyzes w i t h great v i g i l a n c e , that t h e rest o f h i s work

dissolves

a n d deconstructs. T h e

story, o f c o u r s e , is t o o s i m p l e ; i t leaves o u t t o o m u c h . It m u s t b e r e a d c a r e f u l l y a n d h i s t o r i c a l l y f o r i t s r e p r e s s i o n s a n d its g a p s . A former student o f Foucault's, Jacques Derrida, wrote a thirty-three page exam­ ination o f what h e took to be the philo­ sophical u n d e r p i n n i n g s and limitations o f Foucault's b o o k , " T h e C o g i t o a n d the His­

t o r y o f M a d n e s s " (Writing and Difference, trans. A l a n Bass, C h i c a g o , 1978); a n d i n the next e d i t i o n o f h i s o w n book,

Fou­

c a u l t t o o k o n D e r r i d a ' s c r i t i q u e as a p h i l o ­ sophical challenge.

F o u c a u l t h a d a r g u e d ( i n p p . 5 6 - 5 9 o f t h e F r e n c h e d i t i o n o f Madness Civilization, a p a s s a g e n o t i n c l u d e d i n R i c h a r d H o w a r d ' s t r a n s l a t i o n

and

a n d a b r i d g e m e n t ) that there was a discursive system i n place b y the e n d o f t h e s e v e n t e e n t h c e n t u r y t h a t e x c l u d e d m a d n e s s i n a p a r t i c u l a r way, a n d t h a t , i n t h e f o r m a t i o n o f h i s f a m o u s cogito ergo sum as a d e c i s i v e s t e p in t h e pursuit o f truth, the great F r e n c h p h i l o s o p h e r R e n é Descartes ( 1 5 9 6 - 1 6 5 0 ) w a s e n t a i l e d i n t h a t e x c l u s i o n . D e s c a r t e s is g l i b l y b u t i n ­ s i g h t f u l l y c h a r a c t e r i z e d b y a c h i l d ' s e n c y c l o p e d i a f r o m t h e fifties i n m y

p o s s e s s i o n (The World Book Encyclopedia, v o l . 4, p . 1 9 5 9 [ C h i c a g o , 1 9 5 3 ] ) as f o l l o w s : " D e s c a r t e s a s s e r t e d , f i r s t , t h a t , a s a l l e x i s t i n g k n o w l e d g e r e s t s o n a n u n s t a b l e f o u n d a t i o n [ t h e e v i d e n c e o f t h e s e n s e s ] , t h e first step is to d o u b t e v e r y t h i n g that c a n b e d o u b t e d . T h e o n l y fact that h e c o u l d n o t d o u b t w a s t h e f a c t t h a t h e w a s d o u b t i n g . H e r e a s o n e d t h a t t o d o u b t is t o t h i n k , a n d t o t h i n k is to exist. H e e x p r e s s e d his c o n c l u s i o n i n the saying Cogito ergo sum [I t h i n k , t h e r e f o r e I e x i s t ] . " ) I n " T h e C o g i t o a n d t h e H i s t o r y o f M a d n e s s " D e r r i d a turns t o a pas­ s a g e f r o m D e s c a r t e s ' f i r s t Meditation, i n w h i c h t h e h a l l u c i n a t i o n s o f m a d ­ men,

t h e d r e a m s o f t h e p h i l o s o p h e r himself, a n d , i n a n o t h e r passage,

t h e i m a g i n a t i v e i m a g e s o f p a i n t e r s a r e c o n s i d e r e d as m o d e l s f o r d o u b t ­ f u l r e a l i t y . H e a r g u e s t h a t t h e r e is a r h e t o r i c a l l e v e l ( t h o u g h D e r r i d a d o e s n o t c a l l it this) e n t a i l e d w i t h the w o r k i n g o f l a n g u a g e itself i n w h i c h a n y e x c l u s i o n is a l w a y s - a l r e a d y b a s e d o n a n i n c l u s i o n , w h i c h is a l o n e w h a t a l ­ lows t h e e x c l u s i o n t o take p l a c e — a n d that this, i n effect, b o t h r e d e e m s Descartes a n d sabotages Foucault's project o f speaking f o r the other. B y f a i l i n g t o a c k n o w l e d g e that the o t h e r is a l r e a d y a part o f us, precisely i n the rhetoric o f the sentences that we speak to banish the other, Foucault

N e i t h e r the First W o r d n o r the Last

167

( c l a i m s D e r r i d a , b y t h e e n d o f h i s l e n g t h y e x e g e s i s ) is s i m p l y d e n y i n g t h e inclusion o f the other i n the same way that those he accuses o f e x c l u d i n g the other, Descartes a m o n g the accused, are d o i n g . In his response, " M y B o d y , T h i s Paper, T h i s F i r e , " w h i c h h e a p p e n d e d t o t h e n e w F r e n c h e d i t i o n o f Madness and Civilization i n 1 9 7 2 , F o u c a u l t a r g u e s p e r s u a s i v e l y : N o , t h e r e r e a l l y is a d i s c u r s i v e l e v e l a t w h i c h s u c h a n e x c l u s i o n w a s i n e f f e c t i n t h e s e v e n t e e n t h c e n t u r y . B e c a u s e i t is n o t i n e f fect i n t h e same way today, w e ( a n d D e r r i d a ) miss t h e r h e t o r i c a l details that betray it. W h a t ' s m o r e , D e r r i d a ' s r e a d i n g o f t h e passage f r o m t h e first Meditation d o e s n o t just i g n o r e t h o s e d e t a i l s b u t r a t h e r h i n g e s o n m i s r e a d i n g precisely t h o s e d e t a i l s — a s w e l l , t h e r e a d i n g r e m a i n s b l i n d t o m a n y o t h e r s u c h details: D e r r i d a ' s r e a d i n g o f Descartes, F o u c a u l t argues, confuses Descartes' p r e s u m e d thoughts about a n extravagant d e m o n stration (madness) with his very different thoughts a b o u t t h e n e e d f o r a n accessible d e m o n s t r a t i o n ( d r e a m i n g ) ; it hinges o n D e r r i d a ' s failure There are many other facts t o w h i c h appreciate subtleties i n t h e d o u b t is plainly impossible, a l t h o u g h o r i g i n a l L a t i n (the difference, f o r these are g a t h e r e d f r o m t h e same source e x a m p l e , b e t w e e n insani [ t h e i n [the senses]: e.g., t h a t I a m here, sitting sane/"lunatics," who hallucinate] by the fire, w e a r i n g a w i n t e r coat, h o l d ^ . ing this paper in my hands, a n d so o n . . , . . , ... , „ , A g a i n , these hands a n d my w h o l e b o d y of-their-mind/ madmen, who h o w can their existence be d e n i e d ? U n have n o judicial rights]; it hinges less indeed I likened myself t o some l u n a o n the failure o f the translation tics, w h o s e brains are so upset by t o p r e s e r v e t h e r u p t u r e i m p e l l i n g persistent melancholy vapours t h a t they ^ , ^ ^ firmly assert t h a t they are kings, w h e n , „ . .„ t

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m a d m e n ( sed amentes sunt isti p e r h a p s c l o s e r to: "but wait a m o m e n t — t h e s e are m a d m e n " ) ; a n d i h i n g e s o n , i n o n e case ( w h e n ^ , ,. . , . , P S g Pinters), a t

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tion a n d n o t i n Descartes' Latin. F o u c a u l t w r i t e s : " [ I ] n e r a s i n g t h e s e d i f f e r e n c e s " b e t w e e n t h e way i n w h i c h D e s c a r t e s c o u l d t h i n k a b o u t m a d n e s s a n d t h e way i n w h i c h h e c o u l d think about d r e a m i n g b y the conventions o f the time, rather than s i m p l y l o o k i n g a t , as D e r r i d a s e e m s t o b e , " w h a t " " D e s c a r t e s " " w r i t e s " about both, Descartes a n d his ideas are stripped o f their historically spec i f i c d i s c u r s i v e f o r m a t i o n s . "[I] n b r i n g i n g t h e t e s t o f m a d n e s s a n d t h a t o f d r e a m i n g as c l o s e t o g e t h e r as p o s s i b l e , i n m a k i n g t h e o n e t h e first, f a i n t failed draft o f the other, i n a b s o r b i n g the insufficiency o f the o n e i n t h e u n i v e r s a l i t y o f t h e o t h e r , D e r r i d a is c o n t i n u i n g t h e C a r t e s i a n e x c l u s i o n . "

i68

Shorter Views

W h a t F o u c a u l t is g i v i n g u s is t h e discursive structure, t h e historical f o r m s , a n d t h e m e t a p h o r i c system t h r o u g h w h i c h , specifically i n seven­ t e e n t h c e n t u r y F r a n c e , s u c h n o t i o n s as m a d n e s s , d r e a m i n g , a n d d o u b t c o u l d b e t h o u g h t ; this is t h e d i s c o u r s e that c o n s t r a i n e d Descartes f r o m d o u b t i n g ( t o r e c a l l t h e World Book) t h a t h e d o u b t e d . ( T h a t i s w h a t m a d ­ m e n a r e e x t r a v a g a n t e n o u g h t o d o ; that is w h y t h e m a d m u s t b e excluded as v a l i d e x a m p l e s o f d o u b t . ) I t w a s a d i s c o u r s e t h a t i n v o l v e d s p e c i f i c r e l a ­ t i o n s h i p s b e t w e e n states t h a t d i s l o c a t e t h e f i x e s o f c e r t a i n l y : d r e a m i n g , m a d n e s s , truth, d o u b t , a n d (later) artistic (painterly)

imagination.

Derrida's attempt to deconstruct theopposition here between exclu­ sion a n d inclusion n o t only ignores the historically demonstrable

form

o f t h a t e x c l u s i o n b u t , i n this c a s e , d i r e c t l y m y s t i f i e s a n d o b s c u r e s it. I n t h e f a c e o f s u c h a n a r g u m e n t as h i s t o r i c a l l y a n d t e x t u a l l y g r o u n d e d as F o u c a u l t ' s , t h e e x t r a o r d i n a r i l y w i d e r a n g e t o w h i c h D e r r i d a h a s a p ­ p l i e d what are often highly similar arguments begins to look like those a r g u m e n t s ' greatest weakness. T h e force o f Foucault's a r g u m e n t makes u s , I t h i n k , n o t q u e s t i o n w h e t h e r D e r r i d a ' s i s r i g h t ( y e s , l a n g u a g e does w o r k t h e w a y D e r r i d a h a s repeatedly d e m o n s t r a t e d that it d o e s ) , b u t rather question to what extent his a r g u m e n t can r e m a i n interesting i n a case w h e r e p r e c i s e l y t h a t d i s c u r s i v e e c o n o m y F o u c a u l t is s e e k i n g t o u n ­ earth has b e e n i g n o r e d / r e p r e s s e d . I n s u c h a situation, isn't any reading, e v e n o n e as p a t i e n t as D e r r i d a i s o f t e n w i l l i n g t o u n d e r t a k e , m o r e o r less d o o m e d t o b e c o m e i m p l i c a t e d i n t h e r e p r e s s i o n itself? D e r r i d a h a d a l r e a d y c l a i m e d t h a t t h e r e i s n o t h i n g hors du text ( o u t s i d e the text), i n a n attempt to begin to encourage readers to consider the m o s t distant a n d distinct m a t e r i a l still to b e related to any g i v e n text b y relations o f intertextuality. B y a rather suspicious revoicing o f Derrida's text (suspicious f o r one w h o , as d o e s F o u c a u l t , i n t h e s a m e p a r a g r a p h , c l a i m s D e r r i d a i s c a u g h t i n a system that r e d u c e s discursive practices to textual traces, elides events p r o d u c e d b y those discursive practices, a n d invents voices b e h i n d texts to a v o i d h a v i n g t o analyze the way subjects are i m p l i c a t e d i n those d i s c o u r s e s ) , F o u c a u l t r e v o i c e s D e r r i d a ' s e x h o r t a t i o n t h a t n o t h i n g i s hors du text. D e r r i d a u s e d t h e p h r a s e i n t h e s e n s e t h a t t h e r e i s n o t h i n g t h a t c a n n o t b e related to t h e text b y a n inclusive w e bo f intertextuality,

a

p h r a s e t h a t h a s s e r v e d h i s s t u d e n t s as a n e x h o r t a t i o n t o e x a m i n e t h e h i s ­ t o r y a r o u n d t e x t s a l m o s t as m u c h as t h e f o l l o w e r s o f F o u c a u l t . W r i t e s F o u c a u l t , D e r r i d a is c u r r e n t l y the m o s t g l o r i o u s representative o f a w e l l - d e t e r m i n e d p e d a g o g i c system that "teaches t h e p u p i l s there is n o t h i n g o u t s i d e t h e text, b u t t h a t i n it, i n its g a p s , its b l a n k s , a n d its si­ l e n c e s , t h e r e r e i g n s t h e r e s e r v e o f t h e o r i g i n ; t h a t i t is t h e r e f o r e u n n e c e s ­ sary t o search elsewhere, b u tthat h e r e , n o t i n the words, certainly, b u t i n

N e i t h e r the First W o r d n o r the Last

169

t h e w o r d s u n d e r e r a s u r e , i n t h e i r grid, t h e ' s e n s e o f b e i n g ' i s s a i d . A p e d ­ agogy that gives, conversely, t o t h e master's v o i c e t h e l i m i d e s s sovereignty that allows it to restate t h e text indefinitely." N o o n e w h o h a s r e a d D e r r i d a c a r e f u l l y c o u l d say t h a t a n y s u c h N e w C r i t i c a l - l i k e r e d u c t i o n o f texts has b e e n t h e g e n e r a l f o r m o f D e r r i d a ' s own work; n o o n e w h o has r e a d carefully t h e w o r k o f t h e best critics i n ­ spired b y his e x a m p l e (Barbara J o h n s o n , Gayatri C h a k r a v o r t y Spivak, R o d o i p h G a s c h é , N e i l H e r t z . . .) c o u l d s a y t h a t h a s b e e n t h e r e s u l t o f D e r r i d a ' s enterprise; rather, just t h e o p p o s i t e . N o r c o u l d a n y o n e seri­ ously think that D e r r i d a o r h i sarguments were s o m e h o w b l i n d to the fact that i n t h e d i s c o u r s e o f W e s t e r n p h i l o s o p h y t h e o r i g i n is a t r a d i t i o n ­ ally p r i v i l e g e d c o n c e p t , p r i v i l e g e d b e c a u s e , i n t h a t t r a d i t i o n / d i s c o u r s e , s o m e t h i n g o f b e i n g is p r e s u m e d t o b e i m m e d i a t e l y a n d t r a n s c e n d e n t a l l y present at ^ o r i g i n . (As often h a p p e n s i n these debates, i n o n e respect the scholars h e r e are talking past e a c h other.) F o u c a u l t ' s a r g u m e n t is, nevertheless, a n e x t r a o r d i n a r y r e m i n d e r o f j u s t h o w this c a n , i n d e e d , h a p p e n , i f o n l y provisionally, t h e m o m e n t o n e ' s historical v i g i l a n c e slips. T h i s was o n e o f t h e great m o m e n t s o f t h e debates. B u t it sidesteps w h a t is, I b e l i e v e , a n e v e n m o r e i m p o r t a n t c r i t i q u e t h a t F o u c a u l t h a d a l ­ r e a d y l e v e l e d a g a i n s t h i m s e l f i n 1 9 6 3 , t w o y e a r s a f t e r Madness and Civil­ ization f i r s t a p p e a r e d i n F r a n c e . T h i s c r i t i q u e w a s , h o w e v e r , h i s t o r i c a l , rather than philosophical: O n e c o u l d n o t explore the idea o f the " m a d " and the "mentally ill" until one h a d a g o o d handle o n the development o f t h e i d e a o f " i l l n e s s " itself.

F o u c a u l t ' s n e x t b o o k , The Birth of the Clinic (Naissance de la Clinque, 1 9 6 3 ) , w a s a b o u t p r e c i s e l y t h a t c o n c e p t , as i t u n d e r w e n t i t s o w n c h a n g e s o v e r the s a m e classical p e r i o d . H o w , asks F o u c a u l t , d i d illness shift f r o m a geographical organism

( a n entity that m o v e d t h r o u g h

countries, i n ­

v a d e d c i t i e s , fixed i t s e l f o n n e i g h b o r h o o d s , a n e n t i t y w i t h a l i f e c y c l e o f youth a n d strength a n d d e c l i n i n g weakness), to a n entity that c e n t e r e d on, and

finally

l o c a t e d itself w h o l l y w i t h i n , t h e b o d y ?

T h e o p e n i n g passages o f F o u c a u l t ' s b o o k s t e n d t o b e as a r r e s t i n g as the h o o k s c o m m e n c i n g the J a m e s B o n d ties.

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baths

ten or

twelve h o u r s a d a y , f o r t e n w h o l e »u » T I . u c u u m o n t h s . T h e results of s u c h a ghastly ' regimen? P o m m e saw " m e m b r a n o u s tissue l i k e p i e c e s o f d a m p p a r c h m e n t . . . p e e l away w i t h s o m e slight d i s c o m -

h o a n a l y t i c criticism in these d e -

bates has generally b e e n conservative—tending

t o bring

conflicting

criticisms in line w i t h each other, t e n d i n g t o s h o w h o w t h e text antici„ ... . . pates its o w n criticism. It seems only

0

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o

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e

f

o

r

texts w h e r e a u t h o r i t a t i v e readings have already s e d i m e n t e d — m a k i n g it

170

Shorter Views

fort, a n d these were passed daily with the urine: the right ureter also p e e l e d away a n d c a m e o u t w h o l e i n the same way." T h e same t h i n g o c c u r r e d w i t h the intestines, w h i c h , at a n o t h e r stage, "peeled

off

their

internal

tunics,

w h i c h w e saw pass f r o m t h e r e c t u m . T h e oesophagus, t h etongue, a n d the arterial

trachea also p e e l e d i n d u e

course; a n d the patient either h a d re­

somewhat problematic for use in sci­ ence fiction. Feminists have particu­ larly espoused this mode of critical discourse, however. Certainly it re­ mains open to exploration. But it seems to me that too little of this crit­ icism has borne in mind what I've often considered the most important of Foucault's exhortations: "We must get rid of the Freudian schema. You know, the interiorization of the Law through the medium of Sex."

jected different pieces by vomiting o r by expectoration." A m o d e r n m e d i c a l r e a d e r o f t h i s r e p o r t m u s t find i t s o m e b i z a r r e c o n ­ c o c t i o n o f w i l d fantasy a n d i m p e n e t r a b l e m i s a p p r e h e n s i o n . Yet, f r o m a h u n d r e d years later, F o u c a u l t gives a m e d i c a l r e p o r t that, b y m o s t m o d ­ e r n s t a n d a r d s , reads l i k e a m e d i c a l r e p o r t . W h a t , a s k s F o u c a u l t , h a p ­ p e n e d b e t w e e n t h e two? W h a t w e r e P o m m e a n d t h e many, m a n y r e ­ spected doctors o f t h e time w h o wrote similar reports, seeing? H e does n o t a s k , y o u u n d e r s t a n d , w h a t we w o u l d s e e w e r e w e g a z i n g o n t h e p a ­ t i e n t i n t h e i r s t e a d . W h a t , h e a s k s , c o n s t i t u t e d their gaze—a t e r m

Fou­

c a u l t , as d i d m a n y film t h e o r e t i c i a n s , b o r r o w e d f r o m L a c a n . B u t e v e n at t h e e n d o f this study, f o r a l l t h e q u e s t i o n s that w e r e r e ­ s o l v e d , m o r e w e r e left o p e n . E c o n o m i c s , b i o l o g y , a n d t h e f o u n d a t i o n s o f l a n g u a g e study, as e a c h h a d u n d e r g o n e its o w n c h a n g e s , h a d t o b e t a k e n i n t o a c c o u n t so that even t h e e x p a n d e d argument, a n d certainly theoriginal one, were sim­ ply vacuous without such considerations . . . T h i s w a s The Order of Things—which

is w h e r e w e c a m e i n . A n d the daz­

z l i n g o p e n i n g h e r e is a l u m i n o u s c o n s i d e r a t i o n o f representation i n Velazquez's painting,

Las Meninas

(The Maids-in-Waiting,

1656; also

k n o w n as The Royal Family), a p a i n t i n g w h i c h , d e s p i t e i t s d e c e p t i v e l y u n ­ troubled surface (unlike t h e self-referential play r a m p a n t i n m o d e r n w o r k s , n o t h i n g and i t s r e p r e s e n t a t i o n a r e s i m u l t a n e o u s l y s h o w n ) , is a nearly Escher-like visual construct; a painting o f a painter painting a painting o f animals a n d h u m a n s , n o b l e a n dc o m m o n , whole a n d de­ f o r m e d , w h i l e a k i n g a n d a q u e e n ( P h i l i p TV a n d M a r i a n a , the r e f l e c t e d subjects o f the painting) a n d courtiers a n d c o m m o n e r s observe h i m a n d what

h e observes f r o m

mirrors,

through

doors, from

the darkened

frames o f other paintings, and presumably from thesmall "cabonet" o f the P r a d o castle, w h e r e the ten-and-a-half by n i n e f o o t portrait o f the In­ f a n t a M a r g a r i t a i n a s t u d i o o f t h e E s c o r i a l was

finally

h u n g , t h e several

positions collapsed o n e into the other before a frame containing a n i m a g e the artist a l o n e c o u l d n e v e r have o b s e r v e d .

N e i t h e r the First W o r d n o r the Last

171

T h e n e x t b o o k , The Archaeology of Knowledge, t h e " p o s i t i o n p a p e r " w e have a l r e a d y m e n t i o n e d , was p u r e l y t h e o r e t i c a l . It r e p e a t e d f r o m t h e earlier b o o k s why F o u c a u l t h a d f o u n d it necessary to l o o k n o t o n l y at the history o f t h e a c c u m u l a t i o n o f r i g h t k n o w l e d g e (i.e., k n o w l e d g e c u r r e n t l y still a c c e p t a b l e ) b u t h a d t o p a y as m u c h a t t e n t i o n t o h i s t o r i c a l w r i t i n g s t h a t s t r i k e u s t o d a y as l u n a t i c ( t h e a s p e c t o f h i s w o r k t h a t m a k e s it a n a r c h a e o l o g y r a t h e r t h a n a h i s t o r y ) : T h i s was t h e o n l y w a y h e c o u l d d i s c e r n t h e r a n g e o f t h e s y s t e m — t h e épistèmé—which

is t h e syn-

chronic organization of thought in a given period. M o r e

important,

Foucault n o w expressed his dissatisfaction with the archaeological m e t a p h o r — a n d t h e i d e a o f a n épistèmé t h a t w e n t a l o n g w i t h i t — a b a n d o n i n g it h e r e f o r a n e w t h e o r e t i c a l battery o f g e n e a l o g i e s , e n u n ciations, discourses, a n d The traditional notion of the sign is that of "the signifier of the signified," a signifier that leads to a signified, a word that connects to a thought, a sign that cleaves to a meaning. Derrida has suggested that we take the model for the sign, however, from writing: "the signifier of the signifier," a signifier that leads to another signifier, a written word that leads to a spoken word, a sign that leads to another sign. Thus our object of analysis always becomes some form of Peirce's unlimited semiosis. Under such an analytic program, the beginnings and ends of critical arguments and essays grow particularly difficult. The "natural" sense of commencement and sense of closure the thematic critics consider appropriate to, and imminently allied throughout, the "naturally" bounded topic of his or her concern now is revealed to be largely artificial and overwhelmingly ideological. Thus the beginnings and endings (as well as the often easier middle arguments, once we are aboard) of our criticisms must embody conscientiously creative and political strategies.

(which

means

both

disposatifs

dispositions

a n d apparatuses). In the terminal chapters h e a n n o u n c e d a set o f possible future

projects h e might

undertake. T h e n e x t b o o k t u r n e d , as h e ' d suggested it m i g h t at t h e close o f The Archaeology, t o h i s t o r i f y a n o t h e r institution: jails. Conceived by the English philosopher

Jeremy

Bentham,

the

P a n o p t i c o n (the b u i l d i n g i n w h i c h all can b e observed, usually f r o m a central tower o r station) h a d b e e n modified for the construction o f hospitals. Foucault h a d t o u c h e d o n t h e i r s i g n i f i c a n c e i n The Birth of the Clinic. B u t t h e P a n o p t i c o n h a d b e e n used in a m u c h purer form forthe construction

of

jails—including

our most famous penitentiaries i n America

(for the detention

of

penitents, o f course), Alcatraz a n d Sing Sing. Tracing

t h e shift

from

public

t o r t u r e t o h i d d e n d e t e n t i o n (i.e., f r o m p u n i s h m e n t i n f l i c t e d o n t h e b o d y o f the c r i m i n a l a n d observed bythe c o m m o n p u b l i c to the disciplines inflicted o n the "soul" o f the presumably penitential prisoner a n d o b s e r v e d b y o n l y t h e p r i s o n o f f i c i a l s ) , Discipline and Punish w a s F o u c a u l t ' s n e x t a n d g e n e r a l l y m o s t p o p u l a r b o o k . B u t w i t h it, t h e o r i g i n a l story o f

172

Shorter Views

t h e d e t e n t i o n / c o n s t i t u t i o n o f t h e m a d w a s n o w s o t h i n a n d e m e n d e d as to b e u n r e c o g n i z a b l e . I n Discipline and Punish t h e o p e n i n g m o v e i s a d e v a s t a t i n g e y e w i t n e s s account o f a public drawing a n d quartering, complete with melted lead, h o t wax, a n d e v e n t u a l b u r n i n g at t h e s t a k e — m u c h o f w h i c h , w i t h ropes b r e a k i n g , a r m s r e f u s i n g t o p a r t f r o m t h e s t i l l - c o n s c i o u s b o d y , as t h e t o r ­ turers with their pincers simply were , , n o t s t r o n g e n o u g h t o s t r i p t h e t e n - f the central practice of a Great dons f r o m the criminal, didn't work o r Tradition (variously defined) to was e v e n m o r e c r u e l l y inefficient. T h e y 9ivictim wasa sixteenth-century noble Practices-political art. paralit, , , , . . . . . erary art, popular art, women s art, T

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who h a dattempted regicide. Against

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this a c c o u n t , F o u c a u l t poses, f r o m n o t

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then the daily schedule f o r prisoners . 1 • -, , T-. % i n F r e n c h jails. H o w , F o u c a u l t tries to

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Having Slaughtered My Mother, My Sister,

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T h | r d

Today all art is marginal; and a

sanctimonious busywork that was b y

A s u b s i d i a r y v o l u m e , / , Pierre Riviere,

r

World a r t . . .

a h u n d r e d years later, t h e p i o u s a n d

answer, d o e s o n e p r a c t i c e give way, o r transform, into the other?

e

appropriate model for any i s t

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| P the margin of another margin. Thus , u

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s u c h

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s c i e n c e

fiction, may become a privileged model for analyzing the ways in w

n

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h

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a l 1 a

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d

t i s

produced, is dissemi-

f u n c t i o n s

-

My Brother. . . , w h i c h F o u c a u l t e d i t e d a n d c o n t r i b u t e d t o , g r e w o u t o f a s e m i n a r F o u c a u l t c o n d u c t e d a r o u n d t h e first c a s e i n F r a n c e w h e r e psychiatric e v i d e n c e was effectively b r o u g h t i n to c o m m u t e a d e a t h sen­ tence to life. T h e c o m p i l a t i o n brings together n u m e r o u s d o c u m e n t s a r o u n d a m u r d e r i n 1835, i n w h i c h a "near-idiot"

eighteen-year-old

French peasant wiped o u t his mother and h e r children, w h o m h e be­ lieved w e r e d e s t r o y i n g t h e quality o f his father's life. T h e b o o k i n c l u d e s depositions f r o m doctors, lawyers, a n d various witnesses i n t h e small c o m m u n i t y , testimony f r o m thetrial, a n d various newspaper accounts o f the time. Various participants i n the seminar, i n c l u d i n g Foucault, con­ t r i b u t e s e v e n t e r m i n a l essays i n w h i c h t h e y d i s c u s s t h e r a n g e o f p r o b l e m s s u r r o u n d i n g t h i s t r a g i c d o s s i e r — t h e c e n t r a l d o c u m e n t o f w h i c h is t h e forty-page p a m p h l e t the y o u n g "near-idiot" m u r d e r e r wrote, explaining his situation, his motives, a n d his c o n v i c t i o n that h e ' d p e r f o r m e d his act aware that d e a t h w o u l d b e his r e t r i b u t i o n . Shortly after c o m p l e t i n g the piece, Riviere c o m m i t t e d suicide i n jail, w h e n h i s death sentence, over his protest, was c o m m u t e d . N o w F o u c a u l t t u r n e d t o still a n o t h e r project, also m e n t i o n e d at t h e e n d o f The Archaeology, a

five-volume

history o f sexuality. O n l y the intro­

ductory v o l u m e a p p e a r e d i n t h ef o r m initially outlined. T h e e n d o f the i n t r o d u c t o r y v o l u m e , The Will to Knowledge, p r o m i s e d t h a t t h e r e m a i n i n g

N e i t h e r theFirst W o r d n o rtheLast four volumes o f the w o r k w o u l d d e a l with the m e d i c a l invention o f "perversion," the "hysterization" of , , .. ,. , . . . women s b o d (i.e., t h e p n o n t i z ing o f women's reproductive function), a n d the control o f children's sexuality. i e S

It w a s ' a l o a d e d list. It w a s a w o r k . . . . . . . . . that p r o m i s e d insights, i f n o t inspi-

173

The signifier o f t h e signifier . . . T

h

e

m a r g i n o f the m a r g i n . . . Can a discussion o f such topics as w e are r e v i e w i n g here t a k e place anyw

n

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j n t

h

e S F p

r

e

d

n

c

t

s

o

t

n

e

r

t

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a

n

a

t

margins? The New York Review of Science Fiction, w h e r e this piece n o w appears, is itself—like all f a n z i n e s — t s

m a r

i n a l

t o

t h e

s c i e n <

e

r ,

i o n

e n r e

9 " ^ 9 Yet, as has been n o t e d , t h e margin is | t position f r o m u

r

f

r

e

q

u

e

n

t

y

t

h

e s t r o n g e s

r a t i o n , f o r feminists, f o r gay activists,

w h i c h t o deposit/deposition a strate-

and even for m u c h harassed groups

gic p r o g r a m , t o set it in m o t i o n .

like N A M B L A (the N o r t h A m e r i c a n Man-Boy-Love Association). A t o n e point, leaving his university i n Paris, F o u c a u l t was set o n b y s o m e y o u n g m e n , t h r o w n to t h e g r o u n d , a n d beaten—a sobering experience for a professional scholar w h o wrote o f Nietzsche a n dHeidegger, R a y m o n d Rousell, Margritte, Blanchot, a n d Bataille, w h o delivered lectures o n the difference between political a n d pastoral power . . . T h e n e x t two b o o k s (all F o u c a u l t l i v e d to c o m p l e t e ) d o n o t f u l f i l l t h e p r o m i s e r a i s e d a t t h e e n d o f The Will to Knowledge. W h i l e , i n t h e i r p r e f ­ aces, F o u c a u l t p r o v i d e s t e l l i n g r e a s o n s f o r h i s d e c i s i o n t o a b a n d o n h i s o r i g i n a l s c h e m e , t h e easy story to tell is that, i n t h e years j u s t p r i o r to h i s death, the F o u c a u l d i a n enterprise collapsed u n d e r the pressure o f f a m e , his o w n r e c o m p l i c a t e d theoretical elaborations, possibly t h e r e p e a t e d threats to h i s l i f e — o r e v e n h i s w a n i n g intellectual p o w e r s , a w a n i n g o f w h i c h t h e b o o k s h e did w r i t e , o r t h e m a n y i n t e r v i e w s h e g a v e , I m u s t say, show n o sign. I will c o n c l u d e w i t h t h e observation that t h e story o f F o u c a u l t ' s d e ­ cline (before the final collapse o n J u n e 2 f r o m the opportunistic infec­ t i o n t h a t k i l l e d h i m o n J u n e 25, 1984) is f a r t o o easy a t a l e — a s m u c h i n n e e d o f c r i t i q u e as t h e tale o f t h e s o c i a l o r i g i n s o f m o d e r n m a d n e s s h e first attracted o u r a t t e n t i o n w i t h .

The Ends of the Beginnings.

T h e slippery a n d elusive c h a n g e between

structuralism a n d poststructuralism i n t h e thirty-year

d e b a t e is o f t e n

characterized by a change i n a n attitude we have already cited: T h e d a u n t i n g a n d massively systematic organization i n w h i c h t h e t h o u g h t o f t h e e a r l y t h i n k e r s w a s c o u c h e d , as w e l l as t h e b e l i e f i n t h e s c i e n t i f i c i t y o f their enterprises b yLévi-Strauss, Althusser, a n d L a c a n , i n retrospect, cer­ tainly m a r k s a sort o f style. A n d t h a t was w h a t t h e n e x t wave, c h a r a c t e r ­ i z e d as p o s t s t r u c t u r a l i s t , t u r n e d t o c r i t i q u e i n i t s e x a m i n a t i o n o f t o t a l i t y , o f mastery, o f closure, i n a p h i l o s o p h i c a l a n d h i s t o r i c a l e x a m i n a t i o n o f

174

Shorter Views

t h e m e t a p h y s i c a l g r o u n d i n g o f a b s o l u t e k n o w l e d g e as P l a t o h a d a s p i r e d t o i t a n d as H e g e l c l a i m e d t o h a v e a t t a i n e d it. B u t as u s u a l w e a r e p r o g r e s s i n g t o o q u i c k l y . I n 1967,

a m o n g t h r e e b o o k s that h e p u b l i s h e d that year, D e r r i d a pre­

s e n t e d h i s s t u d y , t h a t w e ' v e a l r e a d y m e n t i o n e d , Of Grammatology. I n i t h e analyzes—a near

synonym, recall, for

deconstructs—the

opposition

between voice a n d writing that runs, in general, t h r o u g h Western philos­ o p h y since Plato, a n d specifically t h r o u g h the work of Lévi-Strauss and, i n t h e s e c o n d h a l f o f D e r r i d a ' s study, t h e e i g h t e e n t h - c e n t u r y F r e n c h p h i ­ l o s o p h e r o f the n o b l e savage, J e a n J a c q u e s R o u s s e a u . In a b r i e f section between the o p e n i n g m o m e n t a n d the closing b o d y of the book, how­ ever, h e

traces a n d analyzes the

same use of

voice and writing

in

Saussure's o w n w o r k o n the sign. W h a t lies u n d e r t h e m a l l — i t s h o u l d be o l d news to us by n o w — i s a nostalgia for self-presence, f o r authority,

for

unity, for a metaphysical g r o u n d i n g o n w h i c h the concepts of m a n , the s i g n , t h e self, t h e p r i m i t i v e , a n d t h e c i v i l i z e d m i g h t s t a n d . A l l s o m e o f us m i g h t b e p r o v i s i o n a l l y c o n t e n t t o k n o w h e r e is t h a t i n t h e c o n t e x t

of

Barthes's w o r k a n d F o u c a u l t ' s f r o m the same years, this s e e m e d certainly a n o t h e r i m p o r t a n t c o n t r i b u t i o n to the analysis o f the sign. T h e y e a r a f t e r D e r r i d a ' s first t r i p l e " b i b l i o - b l i t z " ( B a r b a r a J o h n s o n ' s t e r m ) , o n A p r i l 4 o f 1968,

M a r t i n L u t h e r K i n g was assassinated by J a m e s

E a r l R a y i n A t l a n t a . D a y s later, V a l e r i e S o l a n i s , a r a d i c a l feminist,

at­

t e m p t e d t o a s s a s s i n a t e a r t i s t A n d y W a r h o l as a n e x a m p l e o f a n e x p l o i t e r o f w o m e n . A d a y a f t e r , t h a t w a s k n o c k e d o f f t h e f r o n t p a g e b y t h e assassi­ n a t i o n o f R o b e r t K e n n e d y i n L o s A n g e l e s by S i r h a n Sirhan. In response to t h e r a c i a l s i t u a t i o n , b l a c k s t u d e n t s b y n o w w e r e s i t t i n g i n at C o l u m b i a U n i v e r s i t y . T h e w h o l e situation i n N e w Y o r k e r u p t e d days later i n A p r i l , w h e n t h e p o l i c e d e c i d e d t o r e m o v e t h e s t u d e n t s , a f t e r first j a m m i n g

the

C o l u m b i a University r a d i o station t h r o u g h w h i c h the students were orga­ n i z i n g a n d d i r e c t i n g their protests a n d demonstrations. W B A I - F M , a p u b l i c radio station The French academic system within w i t h h u n d r e d s o f t h o u s a n d s o f liswhich (and in reaction to which) t e n e r s , v o l u n t e e r e d its s e r v i c e s t o much of this critical discourse arose is , , , . f a r more rigorous—and in a word, the demonstrators. Very soon, the ... . . ., . , ' hidebound—than the American acadpolice actions exploded in horren. dous, night-long police brutality moves associated with it, such as the a n d v i o l e n c e — w h i c h , because the bringing to bear of vast analytic atw h o l e e v e n i n g was b e i n g broadcast insistently marginal T j m A T 1j u u J J text (often by great writers) has an efo n W B A I , was h e a r d by h u n d r e d s * ^. *u / 1 * 1 J JI ' I feet b o t h of playfulness and scandal of thousands of people through| , mitigated, o u t the night, across the city a n d when brought across the sea. One t h e state. of Derrida's most interesting books. r

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t h a t i n c l u d e d a M a y 1 7 g a t h e r i n g o f 50,000 a t t h e C h e r l é t y s t a d i u m i n support o f the students a n d workers, t h e n again r e t u r n e d to Tunis. U n ­ like U.S. workers, F r e n c h workers j o i n e d with t h e students. T h e result, i n F r a n c e , w a s w h a t h a s b e e n r e f e r r e d t o e v e r s i n c e a s " M a y '68," w h e n s t u ­ dents a n d workers c a m e near to seizing control o f the entire

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V e r y little o f t h e F r e n c h i n t e l l e c t u a l h o r i z o n was left u n c h a n g e d b y this m o m e n t o u s event. C e r t a i n l y o n e c h a n g e was that what h a d generally b e e n r e f e r r e d t o as " s t r u c t u r a l i s m " b e f o r e w a s , i n t h e l i g h t o f t h e n e w , r a d i c a l p o l i t i c a l c o n s c i o u s n e s s , n o w s p o k e n o f as " p o s t s t r u c t u r a l i s m . " T h e g e n e r a l c r i t i q u e o f totality, o f p o w e r , o f mastery, a n d o f m a r g i n a l i t y , f o c u s e d b y t h e e v e n t s o f M a y '68, b u r g e o n e d w i t h t h e n e w a n d e x c i t i n g t h e o r e t i c a l w o r k . O n e t e x t h e r e t h a t c a n b e r e a d as a r e s p o n s e t o t h e n e w sense o f f r e e d o m a n d e x p a n d e d possibilities g r o w i n g u p o v e r t h e d e c a d e i n F r a n c e a f t e r '68 i s D e r r i d a ' s 1 9 7 7 b o o k , Glas, a t w o - c o l u m n e x a m i n a ­ tion of, respectively, G e n e t a n d H e g e l , a d a u n t i n g M ô b i u s strip o f a book, where a consideration o f the G e r m a n philosopher, thefamily, a n d legitimacy r u n s a l o n g b y (till

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w i t h ) its d a r k e r s i d e , a n i n q u i r y i n t o t h e c r i m i n a l n o v e l i s t , c r i m e , bas­ t a r d y , a n d m a r g i n a l i t y ( e a c h c r i t i q u e w r i t t e n , as i t w e r e , i n t h e m a r g i n s o f the o t h e r ) , e a c h o f w h i c h starts a n d s t o p s i n t h e m i d d l e o f a s e n t e n c e , e a c h o f w h i c h , at its b e g i n n i n g a n d e n d , s e e m i n g — a l m o s t — t o j o i n w i t h the other. A n y o n e w h o h a s l o o k e d a t t h e t e x t o f Glas ( w h i c h m e a n s t h e t o l l i n g o f a b e l l ) , w i t h its d o u b l e c o l u m n s , m u l t i p l e type f a c e s , m a r g i n a l i n s e r t s , t h e

176

Shorter Views

d e p l o y m e n t o f white space a n d g e n e r a l typographic complexity, can see that by n o w the very c o h e r e n c e a n d unity o f the critical p a g e has b r o k e n d o w n , as well as the quest after facility a n d clarity o f expression tradition­ ally associated with classical F r e n c h criticism. T h i s "family r o m a n c e " o f . . . . absolute k n o w l e d g e [savoir absolu, Sa], Every e d u c a t i o n a l system is a p o litical means o f m a i n t a i n i n g o r

modifying t h e appropriation o f discourse, with t h e k n o w l e d g e and the powers it carries with it." F o u c a u l t ) [That goes for fanzines

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The Postcard ( 1 9 8 0 ) , is actually a rather dry, e x p e r i m e n t a l 2 5 3 - p a g e novel (Envois) a b o u t a m a n trying to make a p h o n e call from a p h o n e b o o t h at O x f o r d . F o r those o f y o u w h o enjoy the w o r k o f Harry Matthews o r J a m e s McElroy, let m e r e c o m m e n d it to you. It has certainly g o t to b e o n e o f the most r e m a i n d e r e d b o o k s in the w h o l e debate. T h e o t h e r aspect o f this b o o k that r e c o m m e n d s it is that it brings t o g e t h e r m a n y o f Derrida's writings o n Freud. (But n o t all— "Notes o n the Mystic Writing P a d " is a n o t a b l e e x c e p t i o n . ) Totality seems figured in the very metaphysic that g r o u n d s the fiction of "the systematic. " (For Barthes, a fiction was "anything that partakes o f the systematic") B u t closer e x a m i n a t i o n shows that all t h r o u g h LéviStrauss, L a c a n , a n d Althusser, y o u find t h e m w a r n i n g their readers against the totality o f their a p p a r e n t systematicness. It is only as this w a r n i n g ceases to b e p r e s e n t e d as passing c o m m e n t a n d b e c o m e s , with s o m e o f the later c o m m e n t a t o r s — d a r e we say it? (Yes, if we accept the analytical imperative) —a Theme, that it distinguishes, however briefly, mistily, a n d finally inadequately, a poststructuralist l e a n i n g away from the d e n s e , massive, systematic enterprises that might, if squinted at e n o u g h , s e e m to b e at least o n e o f the things structuralism was about. I have already cited May '68 in France as a historical n o d a l point. B u t if o n e b o o k was p e r c e i v e d as a transition b e t w e e n the two, structuralism a n d poststructuralism, it was R o l a n d Barthes's write-up o f his 1 9 7 0 semi­ nar o n Balzac, S/Z. In this famous b o o k , Barthes reads a till-then-almosti g n o r e d thirty-six-page n o v e l e t by Balzac, "Sarrasine," a b o u t a y o u n g sculptor o f that n a m e w h o c o m e s to Paris from the provinces a n d falls in love with a castrato, Z a m b i n e l l a , w h o m h e initially believes to b e a w o m a n . A s a result o f intricate plottings, d e c e p t i o n s , cross purposes, and—yes—self-deceptions, Sarrasine dies-in-the-end. Balzac's story is in­ dubitably interesting for a w h o l e r a n g e o f attitudes, b o t h o f license a n d of repression, it reveals a b o u t a n u m b e r o f topics ordinarily associated n e i t h e r with Balzac n o r with the n i n e t e e n t h century. B u t as indubitably, its sentimentality a n d g e n e r a l artificiality m a k e t h e tale, a m o n g such a

N e i t h e r the First W o r d n o r the Last

177

sprawling opera omnia as Balzac's, all too easy to o v e r l o o k o r i g n o r e . A t any rate, in S/Z, Barthes shatters Balzac's story into 5 1 2 sections—or lexias—each o f w h i c h he shows is c o n t r o l l e d by o n e o r m o r e o f five c o d e s : the semic c o d e , w h i c h covers what w e m i g h t a c c e p t as ordinary signs, such as grammatical signs o n the ends o f words, o r q u o t a t i o n marks to signal dialogue; the symbolic c o d e , w h i c h covers artistic a n d cultural al­ lusions; the referential c o d e , in w h i c h the text appeals to what m i g h t be called k n o w l e d g e of the social; the h e r m e n e u t i c c o d e , in w h i c h the text suggests there is some mystery to b e solved "and thus covers the 'unfold­ i n g / d i s c o v e r y ' o f the plot"; a n d the proairetic c o d e , in w h i c h the text in­ dicates direcdy or indirectly that some action is o c c u r r i n g . T h e s e codes, and these five c o d e s a l o n e (explains Barthes), e x h a u s t what is g o i n g on in the story's 5 1 2 successive lexias. T h e sheer operationalism o f assigning e a c h lexia its appropriate c o d e ( s ) seems rather a par­ ody o f what an unsympathetic observer o f the structuralist d i a l o g u e till then m i g h t have f o u n d all structuralism to have b e e n g o o d for. B u t the enterprise is r e d e e m e d by the g 3 divagations o n reading, all m o r e or less brief essays (most o f t h e m o n r e a d i n g this particular story), with w h i c h Barthes punctuates the otherwise n e a r - m e c h a n i c a l progression o f c o d i c assignments. T h e s e divagations range from t h o u g h t s o n the readerly— or "lisible"—text (the text we have all l e a r n e d to e x p e c t a story to be, a story in which every readerly unit is e x h a u s t e d by just such a limited set of codes—the well-made, well-plotted, a n d eminently forgettable story, such as "Sarrasine") to the writerly—or "scripdble"—text (the text that p r o d u c e s n o notable r e a d i n g e x p e r i e n c e without active p a r d c i p a t i o n by the reader, as t h o u g h the r e a d e r were the writer—the text that e v e n so thin a tale as "Sarrasine" b e c o m e s w h e n subjected to a certain analytical pressure) to notions a b o u t castrations and psychoanalysis. W i t h t h e m , Barthes moves us into a c r i d q u e o f system, into a consideration o f the excesses that outstrip even his own schema, a n d finally into a distrust o f precisely the totality his p e n t a g r a p h i c c o d i c exhaustiveness w o u l d s e e m to set in place. A n d in Barthes's n e x t b o o k (not a full seventy pages l o n g ) , The Pleas­ ure of the Text, the systematic has b e e n r e d u c e d to the alphabetic or­ dering o f the key words in a set o f similar divagations, in w h i c h any particular text as the occasion for these highly c h a r g e d , meticulously written, and finally poetic medita­ tions o n the b o r e d o m o f reading,

We find no more monolithically posi­ tive (or negative!) an attitude toward popular and/or marginal culture among the poststructuralist and semiotic de­ bates (the discussions there that obtain most directly to SF) than we do toward anything else. Critics such as the late Theodore Adorno and the currently popular Terry Eagleton do not believe popular culture can be any more than a conservative reification of the status quo, or, in Eagleton's case, that such a

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the pleasure o f r e a d i n g , a n d the "culture" could have any effect on any ecstasy o f r e a d i n g (Barthes uses branch of thought whatsoever. But crit­ the F r e n c h w o r d jouissance, w h i c h is ics such as Fredric Jameson and Um­ berto Eco feel that popular culture is b o t h "bliss" a n d "orgasm") has dis­ the site of some of the most important appeared. thinking that occurs in any society at Perhaps the only thing to say all. (Eco's 1962 essay, "The Myth of after this in the discussion o f semi­ Superman," in The Role of the Reader [Indiana U. Press, 1979], is one of the otics per se (rather than a b o u t semi­ most sensitive, informed, and insightful otics as it must endlessly aid a n d things ever written on comic books—a abet any discussion o f representa­ judgment I do not hand easily to an ac­ tion) —to say it b o t h for the provo­ ademic.) And in a discourse that has al­ cation a n d for the i m p l i e d criti­ ready produced sensitive discussions of film and television, we will not find cism—is that semiotics seems to m e ourselves all that lost. The usual situa­ to persist, b e y o n d this point, as that tion of the SF reader, confronted with w h i c h , in the face o f the poststruc­ criticism in general, is to discover, after turalist critique o f the systematic, whatever initial period of critical en­ thusiasm the critic claims for the genre, retains its systematic allegiances, only the genre's lacks. In the poststruc­ even as it tries to take into a c c o u n t turalist mode of critical discourse, how­ that critique. ever, there is a good chance for us to B u t then semiotics is n o t a forge a dialogue in which to speak with b r a n c h o f the d i a l o g u e I have fol­ both passion and precision about our strengths. lowed with any real care for the last And that seems worth the risk. few years. For an accessible a n d sensitive overview o f r e c e n t semioti d e v e l o p m e n t s , I r e c o m m e n d Marshal Blonsky's a n t h o l o g y On Signs. The Deluge After. I h o p e s o m e things are clear: N o t only have we not given a definition o f semiotics, poststructuralism, o r structuralism so far, w e have n o t g i v e n any functional descriptions o f t h e m either. (While "structuralism" was a F r e n c h term, "poststructuralism" b e g a n , it s h o u l d b e p o i n t e d out, as an A m e r i c a n o n e . ) W h a t I h o p e I've implied instead is that—with the possible e x c e p t i o n o f s o m e o f the work o f Lévi-Strauss ( w h o titled an early c o l l e c t i o n o f papers Structural Anthro­ pology [ 1 9 5 8 ] a n d thus d e c a n t e d the term)—structuralism a n d post­ structuralism b o t h , besides h a v i n g n o clear b o u n d a r i e s (even if, h e r e a n d there, as the debates progress, y o u will find discussions o f struc­ t u r e ) , have n o m o r e necessary relation to the idea o f structure than Dadaism has a necessary relation to the i d e a o f the h o b b y h o r s e . We are n o t defining o u r object o f inquiry h e r e because it is not an ob­ j e c t ; it is a vast a n d sprawling debate (or, better, a collection o f debates), a great a n d often e x c i t i n g d i a l o g u e , a wrangle b e t w e e n many voices, m a n y writers, in w h i c h n o w a n d again certain events are agreed to have b e e n o f i m p o r t a n c e by certain p e o p l e with certain intellectual interests.

N e i t h e r the First W o r d n o r the Last

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S o m e o f these I have tried to p o i n t out. S o m e I have n o t m e n t i o n e d are nevertheless h i g h points in my o w n reading. S o m e o f the latter i n c l u d e : Lévi-Strauss's dazzling eight-page description-CMm-analysis o f a sunset in the early pages o f Tristes Tropiques, w h e r e I first g o t a sense o f the sort of writerly enterprise h e a n d s o m e o f the o t h e r critics w h o m I'd already started r e a d i n g (with, I'm afraid, till then, n o t m u c h c o m p r e h e n s i o n ) were involved in. T h e r e was Lévi-Strauss's a n d R o m a n J a k o b s o n 's analy­ sis of, first, Baudelaire's sonnet "Le Chat" ("The Cat") and, later, o f Shakespeare's "Sonnet C X X I X , " followed by M i c h a e l Riffaterre's rejoin­ der to the Baudelaire critique a n d J o n a t h a n C u l l e r ' s m u c h later critique (in Structuralist Poetics) o f t h e m b o t h — i n w h i c h , y o u m i g h t b e surprised to learn, almost everyone agrees that Riffaterre "won," h a n d s d o w n . Still another exciting m o m e n t was my first r e a d i n g o f L a c a n ' s " T h e In­ sistence o f the Letter in the U n c o n s c i o u s " in o n e o f the J a c q u e s E r h m a n editions o f Yale French Studies, r e p u b l i s h e d as Structuralism. A short while later there was a n o t h e r special issue called "French F r e u d , " w h i c h pre­ sented L a c a n ' s seminar o n P o e ' s " T h e P u r l o i n e d Letter," a l o n g with Derrida's answer to it—"Le Facteur de la vérité" w h i c h means, incidentally, both "the truth factor" a n d "the p o s t m a n delivering truth." T h e s e , a n d the very fine further responses o f Barbara J o h n s o n (from still a n o t h e r issue o f Yale French Studies, "Literature a n d Psychoanalysis"), S h o s h a n a Felman, and others, have j u s t b e e n collected in a single v o l u m e , The Pur­ loined Poe, by the bye. A n d F e l m a n ' s o w n c o n t r i b u t i o n to the Literature and Psychoanalysis v o l u m e (which she also e d i t e d ) , "Turning the Screw o f Interpretation," a h u n d r e d - p a g e psychoanalytic r e a d i n g o f " T h e T u r n o f the Screw" (a text w h i c h most o f us, I suspect, w o u l d ordinarily assume there is simply n o t h i n g left to say a b o u t ) , is a breathtaking p e r f o r m a n c e that invigorates the idea o f L a c a n i a n psychoanalysis as a tool for literary criticism as m u c h as, or m o r e so than, E d m u n d Wilson's F r e u d i a n ap­ p r o a c h to the same tale from 1 9 3 4 . Certainly o n e o f my most e x c i t i n g r e a d i n g e x p e r i e n c e s was m y first e n c o u n t e r with Derrida's "Plato's P h a r m a k o n " in Barbara J o h n s o n ' s translation o f Derrida's Dissemination (certainly the best p l a c e for the careful, but nonspecialist, r e a d e r to b e g i n a m o n g Derrida's many, b u t at o n c e meticulous a n d mazy, texts). T h e discovery o f Julia Kristeva's in­ tensely ideological critique (she was Barthes's s o m e t i m e s collaborator and for many years editor o f the main p e r i o d i c a l in the debates, Tel Quel) o f the early s e m i o t i c / p s y c h o a n a l y t i c c o n j u n c t i o n was wonderfully exciting (Revolution in Poetic Language, Desire in Language, The Power of Horror) ; equally so the critique by L u c e Irigaray o f L a c a n (in Speculum de I 'autrefemme and Ce Sexe qui n 'en est pas un) a n d the subsequent o u t g r o w t h

18o

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o f the multiple, exciting feminist analyses o f reading, c a n o n foundation, film theory, a n d psychoanalysis. O n c e the r e a d e r feels a bit m o r e at h o m e within this discourse, I reco m m e n d highly the D e r r i d a / S e a r l e s debate over the speech act theory o f the late English p h i l o s o p h e r J o h n A u s d n . T h e Derrida side has just b e e n published in b o o k form as Limited, Inc., edited by G e r a l d Graff—though a n y o n e p u r c h a s i n g it should g e t h o l d o f Austin's little b o o k How to Do Things with Words, a n d also the full text o f J o h n Searle's "Reply to Derrida" from Glyph #2 (eds. Sussman a n d W e b e r ) —and take the time to read t h e m all carefully. It is o n e o f the few places in all this w h e r e there are smiles to b e smiled a n d belly laughs to be l a u g h e d . A n d there has b e e n s o m e subsequently exciting literary use m a d e o f speech act theory, notably by S h o s h a n a F e l m a n in The Literary Speech Act: Seduction in Two Languages: Austin and Molière ( 1 9 8 3 ) , a b o o k w h o s e French title was, incidentally, La Scandal de la corps parlant—the scandal o f the talking corpse. A l s o there are Felman's other pieces, collected in Writing and Madness ( 1 9 8 5 ) , w h i c h includes "Turning the Screw o f Interpretation," and Jacques Lacan and the Adventure of Insight ( 1 9 8 7 ) , a n d still m o r e by Barbara J o h n s o n (The Critical Difference [ 1 9 8 0 ] , A World of Difference [ 1 9 8 7 ] ) , Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak (In Other Worlds [ 1 9 8 7 ] ) , and J a n e Gallop (Intersections: A Reading of Sade with Bataille, Blanchot, and Klossowski [ 1 g81 ], The Daughter's Seduction: Feminism and Psychoanalysis [ 1 9 8 2 ] , Reading Lacan [ 1 9 8 5 ] , a n d Thinking Through the Body [ 1 9 8 8 ] ) . With their definite and powerful feminist orientation, these last four—Felman, J o h n s o n , Spivak, a n d G a l l u p — a r e my own c u r r e n t r e a d i n g favorites in the debates. A l o n g with J a c q u e l i n e Rose, Juliet Flower M a c C a n n e l l , a n d Alice Jardin, they are the most skilled writers to e n t e r the debates for some time. If o n e is still pressed for things to study, there are all the correspond e n c e s b e t w e e n these writers a n d an entirely different school o f criticism to consider, the Frankfurt S c h o o l , w h i c h privileges such names as A d o r n o , H o r c h i e m e r , H a b e r m a s , a n d — p e r h a p s most importantly— Walter B e n j a m i n . T h e r e are also the early Russian Formalists a n d folklorists, i n c l u d i n g V l a d i m i r P r o p p , w h o m many cite as yet a n o t h e r origin for this debate. T h e r e is the e x c i t i n g w o r k o f Vygotsky (Language and Thought, a b o o k that p r o p o s e s , with o v e r w h e l m i n g logic, that the child learns to speak first a n d only then to think), and, m o r e recently, the discovery o f the w o r k o f the Russian critic M i c h e l M i c h e l o v i t c h Bakhtin. J e a n F r a n c o i s L a y o t a r d ' s Driftworks are b r i e f a n d elegant; his Economie libidinal is a p r o v o c a t i v e study. Gilles D e l e u z e ' s a n d Felix Guatarri's j o i n t work, Anti-Oedipus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia, Volume I (Paris, 1 9 7 2 ) , w h i c h I o n c e h e a r d characterized, amusingly if unfairly, as "Yippieconsciousness for intellectuals," was another explosively exciting response

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to May '68 and m o r e recently they have written t o g e t h e r A Thousand Pla­ teaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia, Volume II (Paris, 1 9 8 0 ) . H a r o l d B l o o m ' s readings o f the misreadings o f those h e calls "strong poets," es­ pecially Wallace Stevens, are elegantly askew a n d provocative. A n d the deliriums o f Baudrillard are e x c i t i n g , if ultimately scary a n d reaction­ ary—those o f Baudrillard (The Mirror of Production, Forget Foucault, Simu­ lations) characterized by brevity, while Pierre B e a u r d i e u ' s tomes (Distinc­ tion is w h e r e o n e must start) are as massive (and as intelligent) as that o f some early structuralist. Most recently interest has focused o n the scandal o f the discovery o f de Man's collaborationist writings, w h i c h h e wrote in 1 9 4 2 as a 21-yearold literary editor in G e r m a n - o c c u p i e d B e l g i u m a n d w h i c h only c a m e to light after his death a few years a g o , o n c e h e h a d g a i n e d the reputation along with Derrida as the most i m p o r t a n t advocate o f d e c o n s t r u c t i o n . A m o n u m e n t a l c o m p e n d i u m , Responses, edited by H a m a c h e r , Herta, Der­ rida, and others, by a gallery o f scholars, such as G a s c h é a n d Weber, ex­ amines those early d e M a n texts in the light o f past a n d s u b s e q u e n t his­ tory and his w o r k in A m e r i c a at Yale—certainly the most anticipated (in many cases with real dread!) event in the debate. S o m e o f the n a m e s I've cited in the c a t a l o g u e above n o o n e w o u l d think to call "poststructuralist." Yet all—and m o r e — a r e m o r e o r less o f interest to those interested in the multiple d i a l o g u e s so far. B u t to cite any o f these m o m e n t s , these dialogues, these debates is simply to reiter­ ate what I have already said: Structuralism/poststructuralism has n e v e r b e e n a masterable m o n o l o g u e . SF: New Questions. B u t this is the m o m e n t for the p r o m i s e d return to the "themes" o f science fiction: "New Worlds," " T h e A l i e n , " "Technol­ ogy," "Time," "Space," a n d " U t o p i a / D y s t o p i a . " W e must note in passing that n o n e o f these Themes are really ours. Historically, all g a i n their im­ portance in other fields: "Space" is traditionally taken as the " t h e m e " o f nineteenth-century A m e r i c a n literature, i n c l u d i n g C o o p e r , Twain, a n d Melville. " T i m e " is, correspondingly, a traditional " t h e m e " o f a slighdy m o r e r e c e n t c u r r e n t o f continental literature, w h i c h i n c l u d e s B e r g s o n , Proust, a n d W y n d h a m Lewis. "New Worlds" is simply the retelling o f an­ other E u r o p e a n "theme," the e i g h t e e n t h - a n d nineteenth-centuries' fas­ cination with the discovery o f A m e r i c a . " T h e A l i e n " is a replaying o f the E u r o p e a n "theme" o f endless fascination with the O t h e r . " T e c h n o l o g y " is the nineteenth-century " t h e m e " o f science and progress. A n d "Uto­ p i a / D y s t o p i a " are j u s t that: In Marvin Lasky's magisterial Utopia and Rev­ olution, there is n o entry for "science fiction" anywhere in its i n d e x . Nor, really, should there have b e e n .

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B u t the u n e a r t h i n g o f historical p r o v e n a n c e s is merely the most passi n g g r a c e n o t e in o u r attempt to displace these "themes." M o r e important than h o w they g o t h e r e is w h a t their use has b e e n , since they have b e e n displaced h e r e . I start by m e n t i o n i n g that the last time I g e n e r a t e d this particular list (three m o n t h s a g o ) , I was in the first days o f a class in science fiction at the University o f Massachusetts. H a v i n g already located those in the class w h o w e r e science fiction readers, I asked t h e m not to r e s p o n d to the question. T h e n I asked the r e m a i n i n g two-thirds o f the class (the non-SF readers), "What are the ' t h e m e s ' o f science fiction?" A very relieved g r o u p o f youngsters (on discovery that Professor Delany's questions w e r e g o i n g to b e so s i m p l e ) , g e n e r a t e d my list o f "themes" in somewhat u n d e r three minutes. T h e students w e r e not, o f course, familiar with their thematic provenances— they c a m e as news. B u t what I n e x t asked t h e m and must now ask y o u , is: W h a t d o e s it m e a n w h e n p e o p l e w h o d o not read in the field "know" w h a t o u r "themes" are, in s o m e cases substantially better and m o r e surely than p e o p l e w h o do? T h i s list o f "themes" that so easily c o m e s to the lips o f anyone trying to create it is, o f course, what the most cursory g l a n c e at SF w o u l d suggest to those for w h o m such "themes" were already in place. A n d if y o u e x p l o r e the use o f these "themes" in the criticism o f SF, what y o u invariably find is they are used to denigrate the field. "SF text X or Y should, it w o u l d seem, have s o m e t h i n g interesting to say about T i m e / S p a c e / T e c h n o l o g y / e t c . , since self-evidently that's what the text is about. But, oddly, it doesn't seem to . . ." This is by far the most c o m m o n form o f the criticism that appeals to any o f them. In brief, these "themes" are i m p o s e d o n science fiction in the m o o d o f legitimization, a n d are actually e m p l o y e d to delegitimize us t h r o u g h inadéquation. This, to m e , h o w e v e r well intentioned, is critical terrorism. In a passi n g m o v e to d e p o s e these Thèmes let m e suggest several dispositions o f science fiction that can only b e teased o u t by r e a d i n g it. ( T h e Literary C h a m b e r o f C o m m e r c e c a n n o t g l a n c e at a c o u p l e o f SF-oriented comic b o o k s a n d say, " T h e r e . T h a t ' s what it must b e a b o u t . . .") T h e s e dispositions, as I have already suggested, will only b e useful if they serve as places to c o m m e n c e analyses that will m o v e t h e m o n to other forms, o t h e r figures, r a t h e r than as positions at w h i c h to stop analysis in its tracks. First: M u c h science fiction posits an alternate, technologically constituted space, in w h i c h l a n g u a g e reaches toward the lyric and death c h a n g e s its status: C o n s i d e r B u d r y s ' Rogue Moon, Zelazny's "He W h o Shapes," or Gibson's Neuromancer. (Closely allied to this disposition is the

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famous synesthesia episode in Bester's The Stars My Destination—dou­ bling is frequently, t h o u g h n o t always, a characteristic o f this alternate space.) W h a t d o e s this disposition m e a n , differently, in e a c h case? W h a t does each writer use this disposition to m a r k politically? S e c o n d : Well before the advent o f the most r e c e n t phase o f the w o m e n ' s m o v e m e n t ( 1 9 6 8 o n ) , science fiction h a d (and still has) an astonishing array o f strong female characters. A l m o s t invariably, how­ ever, such w o m e n either w o r k for the state or w o r k for m e n with e n o u g h wealth at their c o m m a n d to t o p p l e states. W h a t is politically m a r k e d here? W h a t are the differences various texts b r i n g into play a r o u n d it? Third: F r o m Asimov's Susan Calvin t h r o u g h S t u r g e o n ' s "Baby is T h r e e " and on, science fiction has b e e n fascinated by the idea o f psycho­ analysis. A l m o s t without e x c e p t i o n , however, SF c h o o s e s to analyze subjects-without-fathers. T h e p o i n t that all psychoanalytic transference goes back to in science fiction tends to be the state, rather than the father. (From "Baby is T h r e e , " G e r a r d ' s free association yields: "I ate from the plate o f the state a n d I hate.") W h a t is m a r k e d here? W h a t d o e s it set in motion? A n d how d o e s it relate to o u r s e c o n d disposition above? Others have n o t e d other dispositions, conventions, a n d attitudes that fall out o f careful readings o f a range o f science fiction (the g e n e r o u s universe and its disconcerting underside, the profligacy o f death; the ne­ cessity to leave a n d return to Utopia; the overmalleability o f history, etc., already referred to) ; but very few p e o p l e have discussed t h e m as politi­ cally revelatory dispositions; few critics have tried to dissolve t h e m into their greater problematics. As an interim strategic inversion, then, I w o u l d like to p r o p o s e that "New Worlds," " T h e A l i e n , " "Technology," " T i m e , " "Space," a n d "Uto­ pia/Dystopia" are not science fiction's TJhemes at all a n d can h e r e a n d now be a b a n d o n e d to the a r c h a e o l o g y o f o u r criticism. A n d as a l o n g e r term strategy, I propose that what is deeply n e e d e d in o u r field is p e o p l e to read science fiction carefully, synchronically with the historical a n d so­ cial occurrences (both inside a n d outside the SF field) a r o u n d its c o m ­ position, w h o are willing to discuss with precision, creativity, a n d critical inventiveness what they have read. W h a t we d o not n e e d any m o r e o f is people w h o merely g l a n c e at SF a n d say the first thing that c o m e s to mind—usually s o m e t h i n g that c o m e s most pointedly from s o m e w h e r e (anywhere!) else, rather than from the texts read. To that end, I'd p r o p o s e , here, before c o n c l u d i n g this survey, that w e remember both the m o d e l o f Foucault, as w e delve into what it is all too easy to call SF's history, b a c k to its trickles t h r o u g h the penny-dreadfuls which j o i n e d to swell into o u r current inland sea. A n d I p r o p o s e equally that, as we work as readers o f o u r own SF texts (which, o f course, n o n e o f

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us c a n o w n any m o r e than we can master), w e r e m e m b e r the m o d e l o f Derrida. W e must read carefully. Equally important, we must write care­ fully. Is there anything particularly radical in such an exhortation? O r is s u c h a call for readerly a n d writerly vigilance always a radical gesture? Homo Ludens. My last c o m m e n t s , as I m o v e back to o u r general purpose h e r e , must b e a b o u t style. In poststructuralist discourse, style is a topic r u n n i n g from the fa­ mously—and sometimes impenetrably—recomplicated language of L a c a n ' s seminars a n d writings (his Écrits, a thousand-plus pages in the original F r e n c h , a b r i d g e d to three h u n d r e d in the English selection) to the different m o d e s o f lyrical precisions (and imprécisions!) o f a Barthes or a Foucault. For most readers, at least, structuralism/poststruc­ turalism has b e e n primarily a stylistic e x p l o s i o n (perhaps, for some, a sty­ listic catastrophe) only m a t c h e d in English by the e x p l o s i o n represented by Carlyle, Ruskin, a n d Pater in the n i n e t e e n t h century. My own re­ sponse to all these thinkers has b e e n , primarily, as writers. D e m a n d i n g as their texts can b e , for fifteen years n o w I've simply f o u n d them the most e x c i t i n g reading available. ( T h e question o f style even covers why I have asked y o u to listen to a dense a n d lengthy paper, rather than an infor­ mal, i m p r o m p t u , a n d even spottier a c c o u n t that this o n e must, perforce, be.) T h e several reasons for these several styles are n o m o r e monolithic than the various positions p u t forward in t h e m a n d by them. But we can cite—and have already cited—a few o f these reasons. O n e is the p a c e o f t h o u g h t m a n y o f these thinkers have chosen to cleave rigorously to. It is simply a slower a n d m o r e stately p a c e than that o f the conversational a r g u m e n t s their thematic brothers and sisters fre­ quently favor. A n d often—as in the case o f L a c a n or Derrida—what is u n d e r discussion is precisely the way certain notions resist ardculation. T w o is the analytic vigilance I have already a n d so often spoken of— w h i c h c a n only b e carried o u t at such a pace. A l o n g with such vigilance must g o a willingness to p r o b l e m a t i z e radically, as part o f their critique, the m o d e l — t h a t is l a n g u a g e — t h a t still, in these debates, controls so much of meaning. Finally—three—is the reason those m o r e familiar with these topics have probably b e e n waiting for a while now: Play—play b o t h in the sense o f the slippages a n d i m p e r f e c t fits that o c c u r in b o t h m a c h i n e s and in l a n g u a g e , a n d in the sense o f j o y a n d playfulness, jouissance if y o u prefer, that leads the writer to let the l a n g u a g e write h i m or her into meaning— a n d e v e n a play o f styles that has led m o r e than o n e critic to c o m m e n t that any truly intellectual p e r f o r m a n c e is necessarily a comic act.

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Critics have written o f "the l a u g h t e r o f Foucault"; a n y o n e w h o reads h i m l o n g and carefully must h e a r it. D e r r i d a has said: "I a m an intellec­ tual clown." We are m o r e or less at o u r conclusion. W h a t I have d o n e h e r e is told y o u a story, a fiction, several fictions in fact. I've given t h e m a m o r e or less systematic presentation, h e l d to­ gether by certain "themes . . . w h i c h is to say that they will serve us only if we realize they are too simple: T o o m a n y things have b e e n left out, too many questions remain, n o t e n o u g h history a n d socially stabilizing insti­ tutions have b e e n e x a m i n e d . . . —Amherst 1988

10

T h e Para*doxa Interview Inside and Outside the Canon

P»D: W h a t is the canon? H o w d o e s it g e t formed? D o e s it have value? SRD: In the two-and-a-quarter c o l u m n s the O E D devotes to some four­ teen definitions o f the w o r d , from "canon" as rule (from the G r e e k Kavwy), t h r o u g h c a n o n as "a standard o f j u d g m e n t or authority; a test, a criterion, a m e a n s o f discrimination," t h r o u g h c a n o n law, the Biblical c a n o n , a n d the c a n o n o f the saints, to—finally—canon as "the metal l o o p or 'ear' at the top o f a bell," n o t o n e o f those definitions corre­ sponds to the "canon o f English literature," m u c h less to the "canon o f Western literature." T h e use o f the w o r d "canon" that has e x c i t e d so many o f us to so m u c h p o l e m i c recently is a m e t a p h o r i c a l extension o f the notion o f c a n o n as the list o f b o o k s a p p r o v e d as part o f the Bible or the list o f saints a p p r o v e d o f a n d c a n o n i z e d by the C h u r c h . A s , in his ovular essay, "What is an A u t h o r ? " ( 1 9 6 9 ) , F o u c a u l t r e m i n d e d us that the controlling c o n c e p t s o f historical, stylistic, ideational, a n d qualitative unity that held stable the notions o f "author" a n d "authority" are themselves religious holdovers, so is the c o n c e p t o f the c a n o n : T h e c a n o n is a list o f approved b o o k s , i.e., b o o k s w h i c h have b e e n verified to have c o m e from G o d . If w e are to m a k e any headway in such a discussion, we have to start with a few reasonable statements, however, a b o u t what the c a n o n is not. First, the canon is not a natural object. T h a t is to say, if the c a n o n is any sort o f object at all, it is purely a social object. T o use an e x a m p l e from the late L u c i e n G o l d m a n n , the c a n o n is n o t an object like a w o o d e n table w e i g h i n g three h u n d r e d p o u n d s . Rather it is a social object like the strength r e q u i r e d to m o v e a table that is too heavy for o n e , two, or even three strong m e n to m o v e w i t h o u t h e l p from a fourth. Largely because they are notoriously u n l o c a l i z e d in space, social objects d o not lend

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themselves to rigorous definitions, with necessary a n d sufficient condi­ tions. (Does it matter w h i c h four m e n m o v e the table? D o e s it matter if one, two, or three o f t h e m are w o m e n . . . ?) A t best, social objects can b e functionally described (in m a n y different ways, d e p e n d i n g o n the task the particular description is n e e d e d for, i.e., d e p e n d i n g o n the r e q u i r e d function). But functional descriptions are not definitions. T o speak o f them as if they were is to b r o a c h t e r m i n o l o g i c a l c h a o s a n d confusion. A l o n g with m a n y forms o f power, social objects i n c l u d e m e a n i n g s , genres, traditions, and discourses. Second, the canon is not a conspiracy. T h a t is to say, while the forces that constitute it are often mystified a n d frequently m o v e to h e a l the breaches effected o n it, there is n o synod, n o p a n e l , n o authoritative council, actually or in effect, that confers canonicity o n works or estab­ lishes their canonical rank. W h i l e the history o f the c a n o n is full o f cam­ paigns, mostly unsuccessful, to b r i n g writers or works into it—or often, to e x c l u d e writers a n d works from it—and while there are often e l e m e n t s of the conspiratorial in these campaigns, the c a n o n itself is n o t o n e with them. Third, the canon is not a list. T h o u g h from time to time the c a n o n presents itself as a paradigm, this is merely a flattened representation o f a c o m p l e x system, o f a r h i z o m e , o f a syntagm, or simply o f an abstract set of interrelations, too rich to b e m a p p a b l e with any sophistication in less than t h r e e — a n d m o r e likely four—dimensions. T h e c a n o n ' s selfpresentation as a. p a r a d i g m — o r r a n k e d list o f works (or m o r e accurately, as a set o f contesting r a n k e d lists)—is ( 1 ) always partial a n d (2) part o f that complexity. W h i c h is to say, its self-presentation as a p a r a d i g m is part of the mystification process by w h i c h this highly stable syntagm protects itself and heals itself from various attempts to attack it o r to c h a n g e it. In short, the c a n o n is an object very like a g e n r e . T h a t is to say, it func­ tions (in a way almost too blatant to b e interesting, b u t is thus p e r h a p s m o r e easily m e m o r a b l e ) as a way of reading— or, m o r e accurately, as a way o f organizing r e a d i n g over the range o f what has b e e n written. T h e as­ tute will realize that, having d e c l a r e d that the c a n o n is n o t j u s t a r a n k e d list but rather the discursive m a c h i n e r y that p r o d u c e s the m a n y contest­ ing lists involved, we have actually described an object that is n o t h i n g less than the historical and material discourse o f literature itself. How is the c a n o n formed? By political forces—in the sense that all social force is political. Traditionally a great m a n y o f the forces that w e w o u l d recognize today as overtly political are also overdy conservative. A t this point, o n e can g o back and read the a r g u m e n t s that fulminated over the worth of, say, Edgar Allan P o e — w h o only just m a d e it into the c a n o n ; o r

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J a m e s T h o m s o n — w h o still hasn't in spite o f the c a m p a i g n l a u n c h e d by B e r t r a m D o b e l l in the eighteen-nineties to have h i m included; or the various poets o f the R y m e r s ' C l u b , also from the eighteen-nineties, e.g., Earnest D o w s o n , L i o n e l J o h n s o n , J o h n Davidson, William Sharp (aka F i o n a M c C l o u d ) , a n d A r t h u r Symons. O r the novel that was, d u r i n g the nineties, the m o s t talked-about a n d highly favored w o r k a m o n g these same writers: Olive Schreiner's The Story of an African Farm ( 1 8 8 3 ) . Schreiner's w o r k is as o p e n l y feminist a w o r k as James's Portrait of a Lady ( 1 8 8 1 ) a n d later D . H . L a w r e n c e ' s Sons and Lovers ( 1 9 1 3 ) were overtly antifeminist. It is naïve to assume this hasn't at least s o m e t h i n g to d o with the reason J a m e s a n d L a w r e n c e were c a n o n i z e d while S c h r e i n e r was not. B u t it is equally naive to assume that such i d e o l o g i c a l forces exhaust the politics o f the c a n o n . T h e r e are too m a n y counter-examples. A little b o o k called The Tourist, A New Theory of the Leisure Class, by D e a n M c C a n n e l l ( S c h o c k e n Books, N e w York City, 1 9 7 6 ) , is o n e I w o u l d r e c o m m e n d to a n y o n e interested in the formation o f literary reputations in particular—and o f any sort o f social reputation in general. The Tourist professes to p r e s e n t a semiotics o f c o n t e m p o r a r y tourism, but M c C a n n e l l states in his introduction: The tourist is an actual person, or real people are tourists. At the same time "the tourist" is one of the best models for modern-man-in-general. I am equally interested in "the tourist" in this second, metasocial sense of the term. (1) P r o m p t e d only a bit by a quotation from Baudelaire that p r e c e d e s it, we can easily locate in M c C a n n e l l ' s "tourist" a d e s c e n d e n t o f Walter Benjamin's "flaneur"—whom B e n j a m i n saw as the privileged subject in Baudelaire's newly u r b a n b o u r g e o i s world. B u t the strength o f M c C a n n e l l ' s study is n o t his meditation o n the subject, b u t rather his astonishingly insightful dissection o f the structure o f the object: n o t w h a t g o e s into m a k i n g a tourist—but rather what goes into m a k i n g a tourist site. M c C a n n e l l states that, naturally, the tourist site must b e picturesque, enjoyable or interesting in itself, a n d worth visiting in s o m e m o r e or less describable way. (See? Y o u d o n ' t have to say "define" a n d "definable" every time y o u w a n t to specify s o m e t h i n g . Start getting used to it. You'll never d e v e l o p a sophisticated theory o f paraliterary studies if you don't.) B u t basically w h a t m a k e s a tourist site is the "markers" scattered a b o u t the l a n d s c a p e p o i n t i n g it out, directing us to it, m o r e or less available o n the well-traveled r o a d — e v e n w h e n the site itself lies off the path.

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T h e s e markers, M c C a n n e l l points out, can b e as e p h e m e r a l as a word-ofm o u t h c o m m e n t . ('Just before w e g o t to the turnoff o n 1-66, w e s t o p p e d at this place that served the most delicious, h o m e m a d e b l u e b e r r y muf­ fins! N e x t time y o u ' r e u p that way, try it!") O r they c a n b e as solid as a three-volume history a n d g u i d e to Life, Craft, and Religion Among the Penn­ sylvania Shakers. T h e y can be as traditional as a b r o c h u r e in a tourist of­ fice or a signboard o n the road ("Just Twelve miles to H o w e s C a v e r n " ) . T h e markers can g e n e r a t e as advertising by those w h o have invested in the site itself. O r they can g e n e r a t e spontaneously as writings, p h o t o ­ graphs, or art works from those w h o have simply passed by a n d b e e n m o v e d to create these m o r e lasting representations, impressions, a n d interpretations. A t larger a n d m o r e famous tourist sites, the markers c a n b e intricately entwined with the sites themselves, such as the archways, b r o a d e n e d highways, p a r k i n g lots, motels, a n d g u i d e d tours that have grown u p to a c c o m m o d a t e floods o f visitors—to the G r a n d C a n y o n , say, or to Niagara Falls. S o m e sites are c o n c e i v e d , created, a n d built to b e n o t h i n g but tourist sites: Mt. R u s h m o r e , Disneyland, the E p c o t Center, each functioning m o r e or less as o n e o f its own markers. A n d there is a whole set o f sites—often the spots w h e r e historical events t o o k p l a c e — that are sites only b e c a u s e a m a r k e r sits o n t h e m , telling o f the fact (so that, in effect, the informative m a r k e r becomes the site: an a p a r t m e n t h o u s e on West 84th Street b e a r i n g a p l a q u e : "In 1 8 4 4 , E d g a r Allan P o e lived o n a farm on this spot w h e r e h e c o m p l e t e d ' T h e R a v e n . ' " ) . W i t h o u t the marker, these sites w o u l d b e indistinguishable from the rest o f the landscape. Without markers, even the most beautiful spot o n the m a p b e c o m e s o n e with the baseline o f u n m a r k e d social reality. A n d u n d l s o m e o n e thinks to emit, erect, a n d / o r stabilize a m a r k e r in­ dicating it, n o tourist site c o m e s into b e i n g . T h e accessibility o f the markers, M c C a n n e l l notes wryly, is far m o r e important to the success o f a site than the accessibility o f the site itself. In the case o f some sites (various mountaintops, or the like), their inaccess­ ibility is precisely part o f the allure—often p o i n t e d o u t in the markers. Yes, w e ' r e talking a b o u t advertising a n d c o m m o d i f i c a t i o n . B u t it requires a very small l e a p to realize that M c C a n n e l l ' s discussion holds just as true for establishing "tourist sites" in the landscape o f art and literary p r o d u c t i o n as it d o e s for establishing t h e m in an actual phys­ ical landscape. For a c o m p l e x m a p p i n g o f those literary sites, with sug­ gestion as to what to see n o w a n d what to see n e x t is w h a t the c a n o n is. T h e first, major demystifying a n d axiomatic claim we can m a k e , then, about the c a n o n , in light o f M c C a n n e l l ' s semiotic survey o f tourist sites,

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is that the material from w h i c h the c a n o n is m a d e is not works o f litera­ ture ( a n d / o r art); rather it is m a d e from works-of-literature-(and-/orart-) and-their-markers. A n d the same r a n g e to the markers o f tourist sites (from w o r d o f m o u t h to the r e s e a r c h e d historical study) apply to the markers o f liter­ ary sites. If the c a n o n is m a d e u p o f literature-and-its-markers (and I believe it is), t h e n to study the c a n o n a n d canonicity means to study literature-andits-markers. T h a t is the object that controls the discipline. Literature a l o n e will n o t suffice. T h e d e t e r m i n i n g relationship o f literature-and-itsmarkers to the c a n o n should b e , I suspect, self-evidendy clear. If, for ex­ a m p l e , the major critical markers (or marker sets) associated with Ulysses w e r e obliterated and h a d never existed—James Joyce's Ulysses, A Study ( 1 9 3 0 ) , by Stuart Gilbert, The Making o/Ulysses ( 1 g 3 4 ) by Frank B u d g e n , various works o n Joyce by H u g h K e n n e r a n d the two biographies by Rich­ ard Ellmann— Ulysses w o u l d o c c u p y a very different place in the c a n o n . Positions in the c a n o n d o c h a n g e : We are currently seeing an attempt at a major réévaluation o f H a r t C r a n e — t h o u g h o n e c o u l d easily argue that C r a n e has b e e n u n d e r g o i n g "a major réévaluation" at least since 1 9 3 7 w h e n the first b i o g r a p h y by Philip H o r t o n a p p e a r e d seven years after C r a n e ' s death; a n d that to b e majorly reevaluated is finally Crane's function, persistent a n d u n c h a n g i n g , within the c a n o n from his initial consideration p e r i o d until today. T h e h i g h modernists l a u n c h e d a fairly strenuous effort to d e t h r o n e Milton from his place beside Shakespeare a n d C h a u c e r — a n d failed—while the conflict o f values that has continu­ ally r a g e d a b o u t Walt W h i t m a n since his a c c e p t a n c e into the c a n o n has stabilized his c a n o n i c a l position as firmly as any writer in the history o f A m e r i c a n "canonicity." (A similar conflict o f values has k e p t Robinson Jeffers from b e i n g finally a n d ultimately e x c l u d e d . ) T h e c a n o n keeps alive w h a t m i g h t b e called "the Keats or Wordsworth p r o b l e m , " which memorializes a m o m e n t w h e n poetry m i g h t be seen to bifurcate into two different sorts o f (and possibly even mutually exclusive) verbal objects— as different, i n d e e d , as the w o r k o f A u d e n a n d C r a n e ; at the same time, t h r o u g h its stabilizing forces, the c a n o n is what keeps us calling both "poetry." O n e o f the most fascinating a n d informative e x a m p l e s o f canoniza­ tion is the "invention" o f S t e p h e n C r a n e — b y T h o m a s B e e r in 1 9 2 3 . In terms b o t h o f the literary texts involved a n d their markers, at least two aspects to this "invention" are particularly worth discussing: O n e con­ cerns the y o u n g m a n w h o wrote the novels Maggie, A Girl of the Streets, The Red Badge of Courage, The Third Violet, a n d the various p o e m s and stories. T h e other c o n c e r n s the texts themselves.

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Between the two—and the markers associated with b o t h — w e have an extraordinarily informative tutorial case in c a n o n i c a l appropriation. Allow m e to review it: C r a n e b e c a m e a p o p u l a r — e v e n a best-selling—author, first with the newspaper syndication in 1893 o f The Red Badge of Courage (written a year before w h e n h e was twenty-one) a n d then, a bit over a year later, with its release as a novel by A p p l e t o n in 1 8 9 5 . C r a n e ' s e x p e r i e n c e s o n the Com­ modore in D e c e m b e r o f 1 8 9 6 r e t u r n e d h i m briefly to national attention in January o f 1 8 9 7 — a n d p r o d u c e d b o t h his n e w s p a p e r a c c o u n t o f the ship's sinking a n d his short story " T h e O p e n Boat." B u t the most inter­ esting literary d o c u m e n t to e n d u r e from the days o f his initial popularity is probably Frank Norris's p a r o d y o f C r a n e ' s impressionistic style, " T h e G r e e n Stone o f Unrest" ( 1 8 9 7 ) : The day was seal brown. There was a vermilion valley containing a church. The church's steeple aspired strenuously in a direction tangent to the earth's center. A pale wind mentioned tremendous facts under its breath with certain effort at concealment to seven not-dwarfed poplars on an un-distant mauve hilltop . . . By the time he was twenty-eight, however, C r a n e was d e a d in E u r o p e of tuberculosis. A n d while, in his last years in E n g l a n d , a n u m b e r o f writ­ ers, i n c l u d i n g David Garnett, H . G. Wells, H e n r y James, a n d J o s e p h C o n ­ rad, befriended h i m and his c o m m o n - l a w wife C o r a a n d felt that his nar­ rative artistry was well above the ordinary (and in this country, Elbert ["A Message to Garcia"] H u b b a r d , James G i b b o n s H u n e k e r a n d Willa Cather all wrote notes o n his passing), twenty years after his death he was as forgotten as any other y o u n g writer w h o h a d written a best-seller o n c e twenty-five years before. In the July 1 9 2 0 issue o f the The Swanee Review V i n c e n t Starrett pub­ lished "Stephen C r a n e : A n Estimate," w h i c h , a year later, b e c a m e the for­ ward to the Starrett-edited v o l u m e o f C r a n e short stories, Men, Women, and Boats, the first b o o k o f C r a n e ' s w o r k to a p p e a r for twenty years. Prompted by Starrett's v o l u m e and r e m e m b e r i n g The Red Badge of Cou­ rage, in 1 9 2 2 , T h o m a s B e e r ( 1 8 8 9 - 1 9 4 0 ) suggested a b i o g r a p h y o f Crane to the Alfred K n o p f publishing company. Beer's biography, Stephen Crane: A Study in American Letters ( 1 9 2 3 ) , b e c a m e , in its turn, a best-seller. From its publication we date the rise in Crane's reputation as the father o f American poetic realism. Willa Cather, w h o s e novel One of Ours ( 1 9 2 2 ) had just won the Pulitzer Prize, h a d k n o w n C r a n e briefly (i.e., for s o m e four or five days) w h e n , in 1896, the twenty-three-year-old a u t h o r h a d c o m e through L i n c o l n , Nebraska, a n d h a d to wait over for m o n e y at the

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B a c h e l i e r J o h n s o n newspaper office w h e r e the nineteen-year-old Cather then w o r k e d . Shortly after Beer's b o o k appeared, C a t h e r wrote an appre­ ciative introduction to a n o t h e r collection o f C r a n e ' s stories, Soldiers in the Rain. T o g e t s o m e idea o f h o w unimportant an a u t h o r C r a n e was by the be­ g i n n i n g o f the twenties, however, o n e notes that James G i b b o n s Huneker, a well-thought-of critic at the time, a g o o d friend o f Crane's w h e n C r a n e was in his twenties a n d H u n e k e r was j u s t thirty, a n d the source o f a n u m b e r o f incidents in Beer's b o o k , gives the y o u n g writer only the two briefest o f m e n t i o n s (one in e a c h v o l u m e , in the s e c o n d subordinated to C o n r a d , in the first to Howells) a n d cites n o n e o f his works in his twov o l u m e a u t o b i o g r a p h y Steeplejack, w h i c h b e c a m e a best-seller u p o n its publication in 1 9 2 0 (three years before Beer, following Starrett, b e g a n the resuscitation o f C r a n e ) , a n d r e m a i n e d widely read t h r o u g h several editions for the n e x t ten years. Even with the success o f B e e r ' s biography, the growth o f interest in C r a n e was slow. B u t by 1 9 2 5 , a c o m p l e t e works o f C r a n e b e g a n to appear in ten v o l u m e s (the final v o l u m e o f the set a p p e a r e d in 1 9 2 7 ) , and by 1 9 3 6 discussions o f the d e v e l o p m e n t o f the A m e r i c a n novel n o w men­ tioned C r a n e regularly. Starting at the e n d o f the forties and blossoming at the b e g i n n i n g o f the fifties, what h a d b e e n a slow-growing interest be­ c a m e a major e x p l o s i o n o f scholarly attention. But, with Beer's 1 9 2 3 b i o g r a p h y at its origin, o n e m i g h t a r g u e that a solidly canonical writerly reputation w o u l d never b e m o r e the p r o d u c t o f a single v o l u m e until M a x B r o d ' s 1 9 3 7 b i o g r a p h y o f Franz Kafka. A l m o s t from the b e g i n n i n g o f this surge o f interest, however, scholars b e g a n to find p r o b l e m s with B e e r ' s a c c o u n t o f C r a n e ' s life. But, then, Beer's b o o k h a d not b e e n presented as a scholarly biography; the gen­ eral t r e n d was to forgive h i m any small mistakes he had m a d e . J o h n Berryman, a g r a d u a t e student w h o h a d access to B e e r ' s papers, published his own b i o g r a p h y o f C r a n e in 1 9 5 0 , ten years after Beer's death. This at­ titude persisted u p to B e r r y m a n ' s 1962 revision o f the b o o k . T h e C r a n e letters B e e r ' s b i o g r a p h y quotes w e r e the first indication that s o m e t h i n g major was amiss. T h r o u g h o u t the fifties, w o r k i n g to­ g e t h e r to collect C r a n e ' s letters, R. W. Stallman and Lillian Gilkes found s o m e 230 for their i 9 6 0 edition, b u t none of the originals o f the letters B e e r h a d q u o t e d in his b i o g r a p h y t u r n e d u p — a n y w h e r e ! Finally, thanks to the w o r k o f scholars Stanley W o r t h e i m , Paul Sorrentino, a n d J o h n C l e n d e n n i n g , it is fairly clear that: ( 1 ) A l l but two o f the letters B e e r q u o t e d in his biography are fabrica­ tions. A m o n g B e e r ' s papers are several sets o f vastly differing versions o f

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what is obviously, in each case, the "same" letter—all b u t conclusively suggesting a novelist inventing a n d rewriting the "letters" for effect. (2) T h e r o m a n c e b e t w e e n C r a n e a n d o n e H e l e n T r e n t that forms the centerpiece for the first half o f B e e r ' s b i o g r a p h y is a fabrication. N e i t h e r the beautiful Miss T r e n t n o r h e r g u a r d i a n existed. A few incidents—in­ cluding a night spent m o o n i n g outside "Miss Trent's" w i n d o w in the street— may have b e e n b o r r o w e d from s o m e several o t h e r m u c h less in­ tense relations C r a n e h a d with a n u m b e r o f o t h e r y o u n g w o m e n , gener­ ally beefed u p , a n d attributed to his passion for the wholly fictive beauty. B u t even that is b e n d i n g over backwards to b e kind to Beer. (3) In an a p p e n d i x to his biography, B e e r c l a i m e d that a Mr. Willis Clarke had p r e c e d e d h i m in his a t t e m p t at a b i o g r a p h y o f C r a n e — a n d that Clarke had e v e n interviewed C r a n e in E n g l a n d , taking his w o r d s down in shorthand, shortly before C r a n e ' s death. Eventually C l a r k e h a d a b a n d o n e d his b i o g r a p h y (states B e e r ' s b o o k ) b u t t u r n e d over his notes and his interview to Beer. B e e r quotes several times from the C l a r k e interview. But, as far as we can tell (a) Clarke never existed (b) n o biogra­ phy was ever b e g u n , a n d (c) the q u o t e d interview is as b o g u s as the q u o t e d letters. (4) Finally, B e e r refers—once in his b o o k , a n d o n c e a m o n g his papers—to two u n p u b l i s h e d stories C r a n e is s u p p o s e d to have written, "Vashti in the Dark" a n d "Flowers o f Asphalt," the manuscripts o f w h i c h were supposedly lost o r destroyed. "Vashti in the Dark" was s u p p o s e d to have b e e n a b o u t a minister w h o s e wife was raped by a N e g r o , w h o t h e n dies o f grief. T h e story a r o u n d "Flowers o f A s p h a l t " is interesting e n o u g h to m e r i t greater detail in its r e c o u n t i n g b e c a u s e it offers a possible e x p l a n a t i o n for B e e r ' s imaginative flights. As well it poses an all b u t unsolvable enigma. T h e details a r o u n d the writing o f "Flowers o f A s p h a l t " w e r e found a m o n g B e e r ' s papers by the y o u n g p o e t J o h n B e r r y m a n , after Beer's death, and utilized for his own 1 9 5 0 b i o g r a p h y o f C r a n e . H e r e is a transcription o f an u n s i g n e d p a g e , p r e s u m e d by B e r r y m a n to be by the music a n d art critic J a m e s G i b b o n s H u n e k e r ( 1 8 6 0 - 1 9 2 1 ) , an older acquaintance o f C r a n e ' s as well as a fellowjournalist d u r i n g the nineties—before the e x t e n t o f B e e r ' s fictionalizing h a d b e e n assessed. One night in April or May of 1894,1 ran into Crane on Broadway and we started over to the Everett House together [a hotel on the north face of Union Square, whose bar was popular with reporters in the 1890s; recently the hotel's old shell was converted into a Barnes & Noble], I'd been at a thea­ ter with [Edgar] Saltus and was in evening dress. In the Square [Union Square] a kid came up and begged from us. I was drunk enough to give him a

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quarter. He followed along and I saw he was really soliciting. Crane was dammed innocent about everything but women and didn't see what the boy's game was. We got to the Everett House and we could see that the kid was painted. He was very handsome—looked like a Rossetti angel—big violet eyes—probably full of belladonna—Crane was disgusted. Thought he'd vomit. Then he got interested. He took the kid in and fed him supper. Got him to talk. The kid had syphilis, of course—most of that type do—and wanted money to have himself treated. Crane rang up Irving Bachelier and borrowed fifty dollars. He pumped a mass of details out of the boy whose name was something like Coolan and began a novel about a boy prostitute. I made him read [Karl Jouris Huysmans's] A Rebours [Against the Grain] which he didn't like very much. Thought it stilted. This novel began with a scene in a railroad station. Probably the best passage of prose that Crane ever wrote. Boy from the coun­ try running off to see New York. He read the thing to Garland who was hor­ rified and begged him to stop. I don't know that he ever finished the book. He was going to call it Flowers of Asphalt. Written to G a r l a n d shortly after C r a n e m o v e d from the o l d Arts Stu­ dents' L e a g u e b u i l d i n g at 1 4 3 East 23rd Street into a studio rented by C o r w i n K n a p p L i n s o n ( 1 8 6 4 - 1 9 6 0 ) at 1 1 1 West 33rd Street, an extant letter (May 9, 1 8 9 4 , Correspondence 1-68) declares: "I am w o r k i n g o n a n e w n o v e l w h i c h is a bird." B e r r y m a n took this as possibly referring to "Flowers." In W o r t h e i m a n d Sorrentini's 1988 two-volume edition o f the letters, the editors footnote this, however, as C r a n e ' s long-story "George's Mother." W i t h o u t a signature, the status o f the " H u n e k e r " passage is proble­ matic e n o u g h ; throw o n it the light o f B e e r ' s other fictionalizing, and it b e c o m e s e v e n m o r e so. T h i s is n o t a typical letter from H u n e k e r : It has neither salutation nor closing. Edited by his wife, two volumes o f H u n e k e r ' s letters were posthu­ mously published. Graceful and lapidary c o m m u n i c a t i o n s , they are nei­ ther blustery n o r telegraphic. It could, o f course, be a hastily dashed-off note. B u t it c o u l d also b e B e e r ' s reconstruction o f an a n e c d o t e remem­ b e r e d from a previous conversation or from an early research session with the m o r i b u n d music critic. B u t it could also b e Beer's attempt—safely after H u n e k e r ' s death in Brooklyn from diabetic complications in 1921 — to ventriloquize H u n e k e r toward a fictionalized C r a n e that, later, B e e r a b a n d o n e d for whatever reasons o f believability or appropriateness. T h e editors o f the magisterial Crane Log (Wortheim a n d Sorrentino again; G. K. Hall, Boston, i g g 6 ) , from w h i c h I've transcribed the page, in their notes to this passage m e n t i o n a 1 9 2 3 statement by Starrett o f

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H u n e k e r ' s a c c o u n t o f "Flowers o f Asphalt," in w h i c h Starrett says that the work was c o m p o s e d in O c t o b e r o f 1898 a n d was a b o u t "a boy prosti­ tute. " T h e y note as well that C r a n e ' s relationship with n e w s p a p e r p u b ­ lisher Irving B a c h e l i e r in spring o f 1 8 9 4 was just n o t the sort w h i c h m a d e either the request for o r the granting o f such a l o a n likely; as well, they note that the date Starrett gives is b e t w e e n unlikely a n d impossible, as C r a n e was in Havana at the time. W h a t we can't k n o w is if Starrett's ac­ c o u n t c a m e directly from H u n e k e r (with the date simply m i s r e m e m bered) —or if it c a m e to Starrett after H u n e k e r ' s death by way o f Beer. A year or so later, o n c e h e b e c a m e famous after the publication o f The Red Badge of Courage, C r a n e is k n o w n to have b o r r o w e d fifty dollars in order to h e l p out a y o u n g w o m a n accused o f prostitution—a scandalous incident r e p o r t e d in the newspapers a n d w h i c h B e e r certainly knew about. Perhaps B e e r — w h o was himself gay—was for a while c o n s i d e r i n g introducing evidence into his b i o g r a p h y to suggest that C r a n e was gay . . . or at least bisexual, or at least sexually adventurous. Circumstantial as it is, there is other e v i d e n c e to suggest a gay C r a n e . First, there is C r a n e ' s close friendships with a n u m b e r o f the y o u n g m e n living and studying at the f o r m e r site o f the A r t Students' L e a g u e o n East 23rd Street o f N e w York City. D u r i n g his twenty-first a n d twenty-second year, C r a n e spent the n i g h t there—crashed there, as the sixties w o u l d have put it—for weeks at a time. T h e b u i l d i n g r e n t e d to y o u n g artists. Some of the y o u n g m e n w h o lived a n d studied at the 23rd Street institu­ tion were—probably—straight. C o r w i n K n a p p L i n s o n , the art student seven years older than C r a n e w h o b e f r i e n d e d the y o u n g writer and wrote his own m e m o i r o f C r a n e (My Stephen Crane, Syracuse University Press, Syracuse, 1 9 5 8 ) , may have b e e n o n e such. B u t there is at least o n e p h o t o ­ g r a p h surviving from the p e r i o d — a j o k e p h o t o g r a p h taken by s o m e o f the boys—that shows C r a n e , in b e d , u n d e r the covers, with a n o t h e r boy, asleep with his h e a d on his b e a r d e d friend's shoulder. T h e prankster photographers have filled u p the f o r e g r o u n d o f the r o o m with o l d shoes and boots—the classical sign for marriage (this is why we still tie o l d shoes to the back o f the h o n e y m o o n car t o d a y ) . T h e usual way the p h o t o g r a p h has b e e n read is that C r a n e , innocently asleep in his friend's b e d (we know the boys sometimes slept three in a b e d ) , just h a p p e n e d to snuggle u p against his s l e e p i n g friend, a n d s o m e passing art students, looking in on the scene, ran off to g e t a camera, lights, set t h e m all u p , filled the r o o m with shoes, a n d "snapped" the p i c t u r e — w h i c h , w h e n it was developed, they all h a d a g o o d l a u g h over. T h e difficulty o f taking a picture in the 1890s (there were n o K o d a k m o m e n t s back then!) simply mitigates against this interpretation—or o f C r a n e and his friend actually sleeping t h r o u g h all the preparation. T h e

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question h e r e is: W h a t exactly was the prank's nature? Was it some straight y o u n g m e n , C r a n e a m o n g t h e m , p a r o d y i n g the relations o f the m a n y gay y o u n g m e n a r o u n d them? O r was it s o m e gay y o u n g m e n paro­ dying themselves—or, perhaps, d o c u m e n t i n g a love relationship with h e t e r o s e x u a l marriage symbolism? O r was it s o m e t h i n g in-between? T h e b l a n k e t in the p h o t o g r a p h looks very m u c h as if it has b e e n painted in later: P e r h a p s the two boys were originally p h o t o g r a p h e d n a k e d with o n e another, a n d t h e n the picture was d o c t o r e d . T h e r e is n o way to tell. But if B e e r k n e w o f the p h o t o g r a p h , it may well have p r o m p t e d him, h o w e v e r briefly, to elaborate o n the notion o f a gay C r a n e . O f course the "Flowers o f A s p h a l t " a c c o u n t m i g h t b e o n e area where B e e r actually h a d the truth a n d was simply suppressing it; while Berry­ m a n , later, revealed it. T h e only hint o f deviant sexuality that B e e r finally allows into his biog­ raphy c o m e s in the a p p e n d i x : It was suggested to me by Mr. Huneker that Crane's picturesque exterior of­ fered a field for the imagination of some contemporaries and that "they turned a little Flaubert into a big Verlaine." The injustice of that romancing was great, however, and inevitably I have concluded that a great spite followed him after his success. Else why did three unsigned letters reach me when Mr. Christopher Morley printed my wish for correspondence in the New York Eve­ ning Post? All three votaries of romantic love had charges to make and the charges were couched in excellent English. Some of Crane's friends erred in their mention of him after death. Elbert Hubbard's paper in The Philistine contained equivocal statements and Robert Barr's "qualities that lent themselves to misapprehension" is not a fortunate phrase. (Beer 244-5) After O s c a r W i l d e , Verlaine and R i m b a u d represent perhaps the most n o t o r i o u s gay relationship in the annals o f nineteenth-century litera­ ture. It is o d d to think o f s o m e b o d y like B e r r y m a n missing the reference. But in his o w n biography, B e r r y m a n writes: "Homosexuality was the only t h i n g C r a n e was never a c c u s e d of." A p p a r e n t l y in the late forties the y o u n g B e r r y m a n was j u s t n o t privy to the c o d e d m a n n e r in w h i c h such accusations were m a d e a m o n g twenties literati. A m o n g H u n e k e r ' s last publications before his death in 1 9 2 1 (two years b e f o r e B e e r ' s b o o k a p p e a r e d ) was a novel, Painted Veils, written in six weeks in 1 9 1 9 , published in 1920, a n d initially available only through subscription from S i m o n and Schuster. (Liveright reprinted it in 1942 — two years after B e e r d i e d a destitute alcoholic at the A l b e r t H o t e l in G r e e n w i c h Village—with an interesting a n d informative introduction by

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Benjamin DeCasseres. For s o m e years it was o n the list o f M o d e r n Li­ brary volumes.) Set in the last d e c a d e s o f the 1 9 t h Century, Painted Veils details, a m o n g o t h e r things, a lesbian affair/fascination b e t w e e n a y o u n g e r w o m a n musician a n d an o l d e r w o m a n , assumed to b e a scandal­ ous e x p o s é o f the A m e r i c a n classical music scene: T h a t is to say, by the time B e e r was putting t o g e t h e r his b o o k , H u n e k e r was k n o w n a m o n g cognoscenti to b e the author o f an e l e g a n t a n d i m m o r a l gay novel—and he was r e c e n d y dead. H e was k n o w n to have k n o w n C r a n e . T h u s , if B e e r had d e c i d e d to g o with a C r a n e with gay interests, H u n e k e r was a believ­ able person from w h o m to invent evidence. But then, some o f Beer's b i o g r a p h y is accurate. It's understandable why B e e r chose n o t to i n c l u d e the story b e h i n d "Flowers o f A s p h a l t " in a b i o g r a p h y for the g e n e r a l public in 1 9 2 3 ; a n d while it's possible that the a c c o u n t B e r r y m a n saw a n d I have transcribed was an early draft by B e e r o f s o m e t h i n g h e was o n c e t h i n k i n g a b o u t in­ cluding—like the early drafts o f the b o g u s letters—it's equally possible that the gay 1920s critic B e e r was p r o t e c t i n g the reputation o f a y o u n g writer with significant gay (or at least bisexual) interests—which w o u l d also a c c o u n t for the fictive "Miss Trent." In an April 1 2 , 1962 letter to E. R. H a g e b o r n , Wilson Follett, w h o ed­ ited the ten-volume Works of Stephen Crane that K n o p f p u b l i s h e d b e t w e e n 1925 and 1 9 2 7 , admits—even celebrates—Beer's extraordinary capacity to fabricate practically anything: " . . . T h i n g s that never w e r e b e c a m e real to him, o n c e his m i n d h a d c o n c e i v e d t h e m , as the rising m o o n or a drink at the Yale C l u b d u r i n g p r o h i b i t i o n era. H e c o u l d q u o t e p a g e s verbatim from authors w h o never wrote any such pages; s o m e t i m e s from a u t h o r s w h o never lived. H e c o u l d rehearse the plots o f stories never written by their ostensible authors, o r by anybody, r e p e a t p a g e s o f d i a l o g u e from them, and give y o u the (nonexistent) places a n d dates o f publication . . . " B u t Follett g o e s o n to say: " [ T ] h e p o i n t that always escapes an assai­ lant o f his b i o g r a p h y . . . [is that B e e r ] loved C r a n e , h u m b l y idolized h i m , and was incapable o f setting d o w n a syllable a b o u t h i m p r o m p t e d by any force e x c e p t that love and idolatry." If Follett is right, a n d it has the ring of truth, then the p a g e m i g h t have b e e n o n e o f the u n s i g n e d letters (ei­ ther actual—or invented by B e e r himself) that h e refers to in his A p p e n ­ dix. T h e only way it suggests any h o m o s e x u a l interests by C r a n e h i m s e l f is t h r o u g h traditional h o m o p h o b i c c o n t a g i o n : T h e only p e r s o n w h o could be interested in the topic must also i n d u l g e in it. B u t w h a t it clearly presents is, w h e t h e r fictive or factual, the y o u n g C r a n e as an interested c h a m p i o n o f gay male prostitutes in N e w York d u r i n g the Mauve D e c a d e —a c h a m p i o n t u r n e d aside by the e x i g e n c i e s o f social c o n v e n t i o n , rep­ resented by Garland's horrified p l e a to desist.

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T h e fact that the b i o g r a p h y that first p r o p e l l e d C r a n e into the general awareness o f the greater literary p o p u l a t i o n turns out to be between 30 a n d 40 p e r c e n t fiction—and knowingly so by the author—is, however, al­ most o v e r s h a d o w e d by the textual p r o b l e m s that circulate about the text o f The Red Badge of Courage itself. For a m o m e n t let us discuss the text. T h e twenty-one-year-old C r a n e wrote a truly extraordinary novel— w h i c h h e called Henry Fleming His Various Battles. S o m e t i m e later, possibly d u r i n g the rather violent editorial process (from fifty-five thousand words to e i g h t e e n thousand for serialization), h e r e n a m e d the b o o k The Red Badge of Courage. B u t to distinguish the b o o k as C r a n e first drafted it from the e i g h t e e n thousand words o f it later published by the Bachelier & J o h n s o n syndicate in newspapers in N e w York, Philadelphia, and other cities a r o u n d the country, first in D e c e m b e r 1894, then again in its al­ most full form in July o f 1 8 9 5 , w e will use the Henry Fleming title. A n d the fact is, Henry Fleminghas never b e e n p u b l i s h e d — t h o u g h a b o o k very close to it was published in 1 9 5 1 by the Folio Society, and then again by the in­ defatigable R. W. Stallman in 1 9 5 2 . B u t even h e r e there were significant differences. The Red Badge of Courage is a b r i e f novel: In the Library o f A m e r i c a Edi­ tion its twenty-four chapters run only 1 3 1 pages. Henry Fleming is thou­ sands o f words a n d a c o m p l e t e chapter longer. W h a t m a k e s Henry Fleming so astonishing is that it is a novel b o t h o f poetically r e n d e r e d action and incisive psychological analysis—an ironic c o m e d y in w h i c h w e are n e v e r allowed to identify fully with any o f the characters. R a t h e r the y o u n g writer k e e p s a c o l d eye o n t h e m all. It is a novel a b o u t y o u n g soldiers n a m e d Jim C o n k l i n a n d Wilson and H e n r y F l e m i n g . A l l its characters are n a m e d , n o t only in d i a l o g u e (as they are n o w ) , b u t in the r u n n i n g narrative o f the novel itself. W h e n the possibility o f newspaper syndication arose, C r a n e — f r o m a c o m m e r c i a l p o i n t o f view quite w i s e l y — d e c i d e d (or was strongly u r g e d ) to o m i t the ironic p s y c h o l o g i c a l analysis. In the course o f his cutting, he d e c i d e d to "universalize" his characters by suppressing their p r o p e r names—so that C o n k l i n b e c o m e s "the tall soldier" and y o u n g Wilson be­ c o m e s "the l o u d soldier" that today's reader o f the b o o k is familiar with. Later in the story a L i e u t e n a n t H a s b r o u c k loses his n a m e and is referred to only by his rank. A n d F l e m i n g retains his n a m e only w h e n he is ad­ dressed by others. T h e overall result o f the cutting is a somewhat m o r e readable n o v e l — b u t a far less interesting o n e . O n c o m p l e t i n g Henry Fleming the r e a d e r feels that he or she has just e n c o u n t e r e d a g r e a t novel. Its interplay o f ironies a n d associations is masterful. ( O n e suspects that it simply c o u l d not have b e e n written by a

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twenty-one-year-old.) Within the superbly orchestrated progression o f events, Henry Fleming delineates h o w the characters—especially Flem­ ing—perceive themselves as unlimited, a n d at the same time shows the precise ways in w h i c h that p e r c e p t i o n limits their u n d e r s t a n d i n g , their actions, and their futures. T h i s is to play the g a m e o f the n o v e l o n the fields set out by Flaubert, Stendahl, James, a n d Proust. By c o m p a r i s o n , the r e a c h i n g after s o m e ill-conceived "universality" t h r o u g h the suppression o f specific n a m e s (not to m e n t i o n slicing a great psychological novel d o w n to a m o r e or less colorful adventure) is the single thing a b o u t the b o o k that strikes m e as a pretentious verbal gesture and the mistake o f a twenty-one-year-old: the sort that o n e c o n ­ stantly has to tell enthusiastic y o u n g creative writing students not to d o . I say Henry Fleming has never actually a p p e a r e d ; w h e n Stallman pub­ lished his version from an u n c u t manuscript in 1 9 5 2 , h e nevertheless c h a n g e d the n a m e s o f the character to the "universal" forms readers o f the b o o k were already familiar with ( t h o u g h h e indicated the n a m e s in notes, so that y o u can reconstruct the original f o r m ) . T h e b o o k as pub­ lished by A p p l e t o n , after its successful newspaper syndication, is an inter­ esting a n d talented novel. T h e b o o k as first written (as close as we can g e t to it is the H e n r y B i n d e r edition p u b l i s h e d by W. W. N o r t o n & C o . in 1979) was a great o n e . B u t the final a n d almost i n a r g u a b l e p o i n t is that, if the original and better version o f the novel had a p p e a r e d , it w o u l d not have b e e n anywhere near as p o p u l a r as it was. Large, statistical a u d i e n c e s are simply n o t p r e p a r e d to d o the sort o f emotional a n d moral acrobatics necessary to appreciate an exquisitely crafted b o o k in w h i c h there is conscientiously n o moral o r e m o t i o n a l center o f identification. (Slight correction: Very occasionally they will d o it if the f o r e g r o u n d cast o f characters is female; b u t rarely will they d o it for a collection o f male characters in a tale o f war, syndicated in a weekly newspaper.) This brings us to what is certainly o n e o f the most i m p o r t a n t factors that goes into securing a b o o k a position in the c a n o n — a s it deals most directly with the markers: The Red Badge of Courage contains o n e o f the most discussed (i.e., marked) sentences in the w h o l e o f A m e r i c a n literature. I m e a n o f course the dazzling c o n c l u d i n g sentence to C h a p t e r I X (in w h i c h w e also have the excruciating description o f Jim C o n k l i n ' s death: "His face turned to a semblance o f gray paste . . . [Fleming] n o w sprang to his feet and, g o i n g closer, g a z e d u p o n the pastelike face."): " T h e r e d sun was pasted in the sky like a wafer. " Because o f its power, its originality, a n d its orchestration into the rest of the passage, few sentences in A m e r i c a n literature have sustained as in­ tense an examination as this o n e . In a N o v e m b e r 1 9 5 1 article, however,

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in American Literature, X X I I I , Scott C . O s b o r n p o i n t e d out that, however inadvertently, the line likely h a d its source in Kipling's novel The Light That Failed ( 1 8 9 1 ) , w h i c h w e k n o w C r a n e read enthusiastically shortly after publication: " T h e f o g was driven apart for a m o m e n t , and the sun s h o n e , a b l o o d - r e d wafer o n the water." In a footnote O s b o r n went o n to p o i n t o u t that the religious overtones o f the "wafer" (as in the Eucharist) that h a d fueled so m u c h o f that praiseful discussion o f C r a n e ' s "symbol­ ism" simply h a d n ' t b e e n available to C r a n e (or to Kipling) as a writer in the last d e c a d e o f the n i n e t e e n t h century. T h e c o m m o n use o f "wafer" that most certainly c o n t r o l l e d the c o n t e m p o r a r y r e a d i n g o f both lines was the wafer o f sealing w a x with w h i c h letters, at the time, were still c o m m o n l y fastened. Most eucharistie services before World War I were c o n d u c t e d with locally b a k e d u n l e a v e n e d bread; the "wine and the wafer" d i d n o t c o m e into c o m m o n parlance until after World War I, w h e n , with the g u m m e d e n v e l o p e , wafers o f sealing w a x vanished as all b u t eccentric affectations. N o w if most p e o p l e h a d to s u m m a r i z e the e l e m e n t s that militate for e n t r a n c e into the c a n o n , they w o u l d probably p r o d u c e a list something like the following: F a m e ( a n d / o r popularity) . . . Critical r e c e p t i o n . . . E n d u r i n g worth o f the work, in terms o f its originality, quality, and relevance . . . M o r e cynical ( a n d / o r m o r e conservative) c o m m e n t a t o r s w o u l d likely include: w h a t the w o r k h a d to say, that is, its i d e o l o g i c a l w e i g h t . . . T h o s e o f a m o r e psychoanalytic b e n t m i g h t a d d that certain figures o f desire i n h e r e in the b i o g r a p h i c a l reputations o f certain artists and k e e p p u l l i n g interest b a c k to the w o r k — C h a t t e r t o n 's suicide at seventeen years a n d n i n e m o n t h s , G e o r g Trakl's suicide at twenty-three, or R i m b a u d ' s d e b a u c h e d relations with Verlaine b e t w e e n the ages o f six­ teen a n d n i n e t e e n , c u l m i n a t i n g in his a b a n d o n m e n t o f literature for the life o f an African adventurer; Nietzsche's o r H ô l d e r l i n ' s ultimate insan­ ity, Novalis's, or Keats's, or P o e ' s , or J a m e s T h o m s o n ' s sexual love o f an early-dying (in Keats's case, unresponsive rather than dying) girl-child, the pansexuality o f a Catullus o r the homosexuality o f a Hart C r a n e cou­ p l e d with their o w n early deaths . . . Well, there are cynical c o m m e n t s to b e n o t e d a b o u t all o f these fac­ tors from o u r C r a n e story. C r a n e ' s o w n early f a m e — f o l l o w e d by his almost total oblivion after­ w a r d s — r e m i n d s us forcefully that fame a l o n e is n o g u a r a n t e e o f accep­ tance into the c a n o n . W h a t is suggested by the creation o f his reputation twenty-five years later by B e e r ' s b o o k is that the fame o f the marker

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(Beer's biography) is finally m u c h m o r e to the point. A s far as critical re­ action, it is certainly p a r a d o x i c a l that the most r e c e n t confirmation o f Crane's canonical position c o m e s from the almost total d e m o l i t i o n o f the c r e d e n c e given to B e e r ' s initial b i o g r a p h y / m a r k e r . B u t rather than dislodge C r a n e , it has only aroused m o r e interest in him—as I w o u l d h o p e this marker does, even while it attempts to demystify the m e c h a n i c s of the marking system itself. Indeed, this may be the place to articulate a basic principle o f canoni­ cal self-preservation. Poets a n d artists have n o t e d for m a n y years that a too virulent attack is often as great a g o a d to readerly interest as equally great praise. H e a p too m u c h scorn o n my grave, said Shelley, a n d y o u ' l l betray the place I a m buried. B u t o n c e the m a r k e r configuration has pro­ pelled a literary w o r k into the c a n o n , the s u b s e q u e n t c o m p l e t e denigra­ tion o f a primary marker, even w h e n it is revealed to b e n o t h i n g b u t a collage o f misstatements, fictions, a n d outright lies, d o e s n o t alter the ca­ nonical position o f the literary w o r k associated with it—because that denigration can only b e a c c o m p l i s h e d by the e r e c t i o n o f o t h e r markers that are effective only as they exactly replace the effects o f the f o r m e r marker. I n d e e d all such denigration can d o is further the c a n o n i c a l per­ sistence o f the work. Aside from its fabrications, the aspect o f B e e r ' s Stephen Crane to sus­ tain the most consistent criticism since its publication is its t e n d e n c y to soft-peddle the various scandals that all-but-constituted C r a n e ' s life o n c e he left Syracuse University. (Crane's c o m m o n - l a w wife, C o r a Taylor, a handful o f years his senior a n d with w h o m h e lived until h e died, C r a n e m e t within days o f his twenty-fifth birthday in 1 8 g 6 while she was the m a d a m o f a Florida b r o t h e l — a fact elided by Beer.) H e r e w e m e n t i o n , with C r a n e ' s (Beer's?) —possible—interest in matters gay a p r i m e e x a m ­ ple, it is not scandal per se that generates markers. Rather, it is scandals that a succession o f c o m m e n t a t o r s feel must b e r e i n t e r p r e t e d (and we may read suppression as the ultimate [de-] interpretation) b e c a u s e their topics represent c h a n g i n g social values: divorce, marriage, prostitution, homosexuality.. . This is why (to anticipate myself) the c a n o n — a n d all the textual mate­ rial, primary and secondary, that constitutes it—is n o t h i n g but value. As to the e n d u r i n g worth o f the work, O s b o r n ' s d e m o l i t i o n b o t h o f the notion o f Crane's stylistic originality and the religious value o f the "wafer" m e t a p h o r h a p p e n s in a textual marker that largely serves to stabi­ lize our attention on the text, even as it displaces certain values in the crit­ ical syntagm. (What was discussed for almost twenty years as a religious metaphor is now historified into an epistolary o n e . W h a t was a sign o f originality now b e c o m e s an e m b l e m o f influence.) B u t this is the way the

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c a n o n constantly functions, destabilizing and stabilizing in the same move. A s to the simple attractiveness o f the C r a n e myth, this is the o n e thing that is n o t figured directly by o u r tale so far—unless o u r simple inability to see C r a n e t h r o u g h the various inventions a n d distortions o f B e e r in it­ self constitutes a measure o f attractiveness that pulls the m o d e r n scholar, the c o n t e m p o r a r y reader, onward to l o o k harder. C r a n e ' s two a p o c r y p h a l stories ('Vashti in the Dark," Flowers of Asphalt) are certainly enticing points for speculative research. B u t the fact is, they l o o k m o r e a n d m o r e , the b o t h o f t h e m , like B e e r ' s inventions from the twenties rather than C r a n e ' s efforts from the nineties. T h e early i c o n o g r a p h y o f C r a n e , left in this mythic margin, is fascinat­ ing, however; the most c o m m o n a m o n g the early images o f o u r y o u n g writer was a p h o t o g r a p h o f C r a n e l o o k i n g serenely out from a m o n g the o t h e r players o n the Syracuse University baseball team. As were many o f the m e n o f letters w h o presided at C r a n e ' s early rise in the c a n o n , B e e r was gay. It is a p a r a d o x that in the early days o f baseball, many o f those w h o wrote a b o u t it a n d m e m o i r e d it a n d generally e x h o r t e d it into the position o f the country's national sport were also articulate gay men; and the i m a g e o f C r a n e as the p u r e , u n b l e m i s h e d athlete (dying young) had a lot to d o with the h o m o e r o t i c libidinal c h a r g e u n d e r l y i n g m u c h o f his early popularity. T h i s is a p a r a d o x because, by 1 9 6 2 , w h e n J o h n B e r r y m a n ' s revised b i o g r a p h y o f C r a n e a p p e a r e d , the situation had re­ versed to the p o i n t w h e r e n u m e r o u s practicing psychologists by now put a g o o d deal o f faith, possibly with s o m e reason, into the general rule o f t h u m b ; to d e t e r m i n e w h e t h e r an A m e r i c a n male was h o m o s e x u a l or not, simply ask h i m w h e t h e r or n o t h e liked baseball. If h e did, h e was straight. If h e didn't, h e wasn't. We have already m e n t i o n e d the clandestinely famous picture o f C r a n e ( k n o w n to scholars b u t n o t p r i n t e d till 1 9 9 2 ) — i n bed, asleep, with his h e a d o n the s h o u l d e r o f a n o t h e r boy, in a r o o m at the old A r t Students' L e a g u e . M a n y o f the male art students w h o c o m p o s e d Crane's circle were doubtless gay. T h e Bowery, well k n o w n as o n e o f Crane's haunts, was as famous in the 1890s for its gay life as it was for its m o r e tra­ ditional v i c e — i n w h i c h C r a n e so famously i n d u l g e d . T h e hint o f h o m o ­ sexuality a n d the vice that s u r r o u n d e d C r a n e (despite Berryman's ob­ tuse statement that h o m o s e x u a l i t y was the o n e thing C r a n e was never a c c u s e d of; w e ' v e cited a blatant a c c o u n t o f several such accusations in the a p p e n d i x o f B e e r ' s b i o g r a p h y [pp. 2 4 4 - 4 5 ] ) 7 possibly drew not only B e e r b u t other gay m e n o f letters to C r a n e ' s cause. v e l

B u t all these factors were at play in the mythology o f the "purest" o f A m e r i c a n writers—"pure" b e i n g the epithet used o f C r a n e by both Berry-

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m a n and the librarian at the University o f Syracuse Library, b a c k in the fifties, then in charge o f the library's considerable C r a n e holdings. This brings us to the last part o f y o u r question. Is the c a n o n o f value? T h e c a n o n is n o t h i n g but value. It is a c o m p l e x system o f interlocking, stabilizing a n d destabilizing—constandy circulat­ ing, always shifting—values. T h e course o f that endless circulation a l o n e is what holds the c a n o n stable, is what a l o n e allows it to b e n d a n d re­ cover. We think o f the c a n o n as a social object that holds things c o m p a r ­ atively stable in the face o/shifting values. B u t that "in the face of," with its suggestion o f opposition, is only m o r e mystification. T h e c a n o n is n o t a passive natural object, but an active social object, a n d it is precisely the shifting o f social values that fuels the c a n o n a n d facilitates its stability. (As an extraordinarily i m p o r t a n t corollary to o u r basic principle o f canoni­ cal self-preservation above: It is the value shifts a l o n e that produce the new markers.) W i t h o u t those social shifts, the c a n o n w o u l d collapse. B u t (within the c a n o n ) we can only study those shifts by studying the markers and their history, since they a l o n e m e m o r i a l i z e the e v i d e n c e . Finally, it is necessary to p o i n t out: N o o n e knows the c a n o n . A n d the assumption that other p e o p l e d o , w h e t h e r those o t h e r p e o p l e b e a h i g h school teacher, a professor emeritus, or H a r o l d B l o o m , is to g r a n t p o w e r to an O t h e r (and to p u t into circulation a value) —a p o w e r a n d a value that the c a n o n itself m i g h t b e seen as e x p l o i t i n g . A t best, we can k n o w something about some of the works (and their markers) that comprise the c a n o n . W e can k n o w s o m e t h i n g a b o u t o n e part o f the c a n o n a n d / o r another. Very few o f us w o u l d argue, for e x a m p l e , with the assertion that Shakespeare is n u m b e r one—or, m o r e accurately, in terms o f my w e b m o d e l , is at the c e n t e r — o f the c a n o n o f English litera­ ture. B u t w h o is n u m b e r two? Chaucer? Spenser? Milton? I have graduate students ( u n d e r thirty years old) w h o w o u l d b e sur­ prised to see Spenser even in the r u n n i n g for that still titanic s e c o n d a r y slot. But, by the same token, a n y o n e over forty w h o has spent a life in the field o f letters w o u l d probably be distressed that the same students should not k n o w this. D o e s that m e a n that Spenser's place in the c a n o n has c h a n g e d or is c h a n g i n g ? N o , but it may (or may not) m a r k a social value shift that will soon b e g i n to e m i t s o m e stabilizing markers. P«D: O n e c o m m o n criticism o f the term "paraliterature" is that it im­ plies a generically constant b o d y o f writing that lurks a r o u n d outside the library o f serious or authentic literature, but, in fact, n e w works—in

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whatever g e n r e — c o n s t a n t l y enter into the "upper" ranks. H o w w o u l d y o u d e f i n e — o r perhaps, describe "paraliterature"? (By the way, are there nonfiction paraliterary genres?) SRD: T h e initial criticism y o u speak o f arrives b e c a u s e literature implies a generically constant b o d y within the library. It's the n o t i o n o f "con­ stant, stable, a n d fixed" that has to g o in b o t h the literary and the paralit­ erary case. O n c e w e establish a clear view o f the circulation o f values l i m n e d by the r a n g e a n d c h a n g e in literary markers, the circulation o f values in the paraliterary follows pretty d i r e c t l y — t h o u g h the picture o f literary discourse above s h o u l d i m m e d i a t e l y h i g h l i g h t the first distinc­ tion b e t w e e n the literary a n d the paraliterary: I m e a n the relative satura­ tion o f the literary with markers, and the relative scarcity o f markers in the paraliterary. ( A l t h o u g h o n e can study literature w i t h o u t studying para­ literature, o n e cannot d o it the o t h e r way around.) A n d , o f course, there is the difference a m o n g the kinds o f markers prevalent in b o t h areas. B e c a u s e o f the differences b e t w e e n literature a n d paraliterature— that is, the difference b e t w e e n the saturation a n d scarcity o f markers, the kinds o f markers o n either side, a n d the way those markers facilitate the circulation o f values (in a w o r d , paraliterary markers generally facil­ itate that c i r c u l a t i o n far less than literary o n e s ) —I have suggested that we a d o p t a different m e t h o d o l o g y for studying paraliterature: Because we c a n n o t c o u n t o n the m a r k e r s the way we can in literary studies, we m u s t c o m p e n s a t e by p u t t i n g m o r e emphasis o n paraliterary g e n r e s as material p r o d u c t i o n s o f discourse. W e n e e d lots o f biography, history, r e a d e r r e s p o n s e r e s e a r c h — a n d w e n e e d to l o o k precisely at h o w these material situations i n f l u e n c e d the way the texts ( d o w n to individual rhe­ torical features) w e r e (and are) read. In short, w e n e e d to g e n e r a t e o u r o w n m a r k e r s — a n d , e v e n m o r e i m p o r t a n t , w e n e e d to g e n e r a t e t h e m from a sophisticated awareness o f the values already in circulation a m o n g the r e a d e r s h i p at the time these w o r k s e n t e r e d the public market. A g a i n , let m e reiterate: sophisticated awareness. If y o u are g o i n g to start with s o m e r i d i c u l o u s a n d uncritical m o v e o f the nature, "Well, these works w e r e r e a d only for e n t e r t a i n m e n t . T h e y w e r e w i t h o u t any o t h e r values," t h e n I throw u p my h a n d s a n d g o off to talk with other p e o p l e . T h a t is simply a c c e p t i n g the literary mystification that still r e d o u n d s on the paraliterary. I n d e e d , a n y o n e w h o has even the vaguest suspicious that "entertain­ m e n t v a l u e " actually covers all that's o f interest in the values circulating t h r o u g h o u t the paraliterary, I ask t h e m only to b e a r with m e until I can b e g i n to describe s o m e o f the behaviors that constitute the paraliterary, below.

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First, however, we must talk a b o u t a rift. T h e abyssal split b e t w e e n literature a n d paraliteratue exists precisely so that some values can circulate across it a n d others c a n b e s t o p p e d by it. T h e split between t h e m constitutes literature as m u c h as it constitutes paraliterature. Just as (discursively) h o m o s e x u a l i t y exists largely to de­ limit heterosexuality a n d to l e n d it a false sense o f definition, paralitera­ ture exists to delimit literature a n d provide it with an equally false sense of itself. Indeed, since b o t h were disseminated by the e x p l o s i o n o f print technology at the e n d o f the n i n e t e e n t h century, the two splits are n o t unrelated. B u t that abyssal split—that i m p e d e s the circulation o f values h e r e , while it p r o m o t e s it there—is as imperative to the c u r r e n t structure o f the c a n o n as is the circulation itself. Now, to say (as y o u do) that "new works . . . constantly enter the ' u p p e r ' ranks" o f the c a n o n is, I think, absurd—or rather, it is to speak with very b l i n k e r e d eyes from the paraliterary side o f the abyss with n o understanding o f perspective on what is o c c u r r i n g o n the literary side. N e w literary works are constantly b e i n g m a d e the focus o f attention for m o r e or less e x t e n d e d periods o f time in order, as it were, "to d e c i d e " if they can enter the u p p e r canonical ranks. ( There is that illusory synod, lurking just b e h i n d the infinitive.) B u t the vast majority d o n ' t m a k e it. N o r should they. Still, it's arguable that o n c e a w o r k is past the consider­ ation stage and has actually b e c o m e part o f the c a n o n , it is h a r d e r to dis­ lodge it than it is to g e t a new w o r k a c c e p t e d . N o w the vast majority o f works easily locatable as paraliterature d o n o t even have a c h a n c e for a consideration p e r i o d . T h e y are marginal­ ized at the outset. B u t it is absurd to confuse the—admittedly, s o m e t i m e s very generous—trying-out p e r i o d with c a n o n i c a l a c c e p t a n c e itself. Yes, by comparison with the attention paid to paraliterary works, w h i c h , g e n ­ erally speaking, c a n n o t g e t any such trying-out p e r i o d , n o matter h o w well t h o u g h t o f (that is, w i t h o u t s o m e violent d i s p l a c e m e n t from the c o n t e x t and tradition that m a k e s t h e m signify), it m i g h t well look like "new works" are constantly e n t e r i n g the u p p e r ranks. B u t that's j u s t n o t what's h a p p e n i n g . If we may a n t h r o p o m o r p h i z e it for a m o m e n t , the c a n o n "puts g r e a t trust in" the most conservative m e t h o d s . T h e c a n o n "believes in" the worth o f the society that has p r o d u c e d it. T h u s , any w o r k that b o t h is pre­ sumed to be literature a n d achieves a notable m e a s u r e o f social fame is tentatively a c c e p t e d into the c a n o n for such a trying-out p e r i o d , w h e n various p e o p l e g e t a c h a n c e to g e n e r a t e the particular sort o f markers— critical and otherwise—that may or m a y n o t g o o n to stabilize its posi­ tion. B u t while a Pulitzer, N a t i o n a l B o o k A w a r d , o r a N o b e l Prize may

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well p r o m o t e c a n o n i c a l consideration, n o n e o f the three is e n o u g h to as­ sure c a n o n i c a l acceptance—as u n c l e a r as the line m i g h t be between them. Since W o r l d War II, o n e o f the greatest—and, I think, most p e r n i c i o u s factors in canonicity has b e e n the teachability o f works. Whatever criti­ cisms o n e has o f the ability o f the conservative notion o f general literary fame to select the best works, the p r o b l e m o f teachability completely u n d e r c u t s it. G e n e r a l literary fame is still d e p e n d e n t o n the acceptance by a reading p u b l i c — h o w e v e r sophisticated, however unsophisticated. Teachability puts a further filter over the selection process, a filter consti­ tuted o f the popularity o f the works a m o n g an essentially very y o u n g , wow-reading p o p u l a t i o n — w h o are presumably in the process o f b e i n g taught to read. B u t this is a disastrous way to select—or reject—books o f esthetic worth! We have all h e a r d it m a n y times, from the graduate school T.A., t h r o u g h the j u n i o r , the associate, a n d the t e n u r e d faculty: "It was a won­ derful b o o k . B u t my kids just c o u l d n ' t g e t it. O h , a few o f them did. But for most o f t h e m , it was j u s t confusing." N o r is it a p r o b l e m confined to the literary. T h o s e o f us teaching science fiction or other courses in pop­ ular culture find ourselves with the identical p r o b l e m . A n y work that m a k e s its p o i n t in p o i n t e d d i a l o g u e with a tradition—any tradition—is simply lost o n i n e x p e r i e n c e d readers u n a c q u a i n t e d with that tradition. Works that are n e w a n d e x c i t i n g are new a n d exciting precisely because they are different from o t h e r works. B u t an "introductory b a c k g r o u n d l e c t u r e " c a n n o t substitute for e x p o s u r e to the d o z e n to two d o z e n titles that w o u l d m a k e the n e w w o r k c o m e alive by its play o f differences and similarities. I d o n ' t wish to imply that the p r o b l e m s — n o t to mention the insights—of n o n r e a d e r s must s o m e h o w be e x c l u d e d from culture. O n the contrary. A n d I a m also aware that student enthusiasms can be as sur­ prising as w h a t they reject. I will p o n d e r for years, for e x a m p l e , the upper-level m o d e r n i s t novel class o f m i n e in 1 9 9 1 that reveled in Robert Musil's The Man Without Qualities, while finding Julian Barnes's Flaubert's Parrot s o m e w h e r e b e t w e e n b o r i n g a n d pointless—even after reading (and enjoying) Trois Contes a n d Three Lives as preparation. B u t y o u n g readers w h o have a b s o r b e d only the limited narrative patterns available o n prime-time T V simply d o n ' t have a grasp o f the narrative tradition b r o a d e n o u g h to h i g h l i g h t w h a t is o f interest in the richest and most so­ phisticated fictions currently b e i n g p r o d u c e d , literary or paraliterary. T h e discussion (markers, if y o u like) o f p e o p l e who read must gener­ ate the c a n o n — n o t the acceptability o f works to p e o p l e who don't read. B u t that has b e e n m o r e a n d m o r e the case for the last fifty years. It's w o r t h p o i n t i n g o u t that this teachability p r o b l e m is not new: F r o m the

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time that it was formulated, the c a n o n was assumed to b e a t e a c h i n g tool. T e a c h i n g was precisely w h a t Matthew A r n o l d a n d the o t h e r n i n e t e e n t h century theorists o f the uses o f culture were c o n c e r n e d with. A n d it was their arguments that p r o m o t e d the switch from the G r e e k a n d R o m a n classics to works o f English literature as the basis for public e d u c a t i o n . But the difference is, the teachability o f works is n o t b e i n g h a n d l e d today by public discussion but rather by natural selection. A n d in matters intellectual, natural selection simply doesn't work. (Intelligence w o u l d seem to exist primarily as a way to o u t r u n natural selection.) B u t this is one o f the reasons that the c a n o n is u n d e r g o i n g the a p p a r e n t upheavals that it is. A n d this is directly b e h i n d the g r o w i n g interest in the paraliter­ ary—which interest, by now, at the ontological level, w e can r e c o g n i z e as following a very canon-like process. It is the same o r d e r o f social object. It's easy to describe it in the same terms. W h i c h brings us to the s e c o n d part o f your question: H o w w o u l d I de­ scribe paraliterature? While y o u recall the mystificational n o t i o n that the paraliterary is "purely entertainment," let m e r e c o u n t s o m e tales. Here, from an a u t o b i o g r a p h i c a l essay written for his therapist, Jim Hayes, in 1 9 6 5 , tells the great A m e r i c a n SF writer T h e o d o r e S t u r g e o n about his early e n c o u n t e r in the first years o f the D e p r e s s i o n with his multilingual stepfather ( w h o m the family called Argyll) over the paralit­ erary g e n r e o f science fiction: It was about this time that I discovered science fiction; a kid at school sold me a back number (1933 Astounding) for a nickel, my lunch money. I was always so unwary! I brought it home naked and open, and Argyll pounced on it as I came in the door. "Not in my house!" he said, and scooped it off my schoolbooks and took it straight into the kitchen and put it in the garbage and put the cover on. "That's what we do with garbage," and he sat back at his desk with my mother at the end of it and their drink. {Argyll, 36) A t the time, Argyll was giving his stepson such v o l u m e s to read as "The Cloister and the Hearth, The White Company, Anthony Adverse, Vanity Fair, Tess of the D'Urbervilles, H o m e r , Aristophanes, B y r o n (Childe Harold), The Hound of Heaven, War and Peace, Crime and Punishment, Dead Souls, G o d knows what all" {Argyll, 2 9 ) . A n d y o u n g S t u r g e o n d e v o u r e d t h e m . T h e family even h a d a regular "reading a l o u d " session after dinner. B u t Sturgeon also c o n t i n u e d to read the f o r b i d d e n p u l p stories. H e sought for a way to collect the magazines, a n d h e e x p e n d e d a g o o d deal of ingenuity figuring o u t a way to read t h e m — i n his desk drawer, while he was d o i n g his h o m e w o r k , the sides w a x e d with a c a n d l e to k e e p t h e m

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from squeaking, w h e n the drawer h a d to b e quickly closed—and to store them: F i n d i n g a trap in the r o o f o f his closet, y o u n g Sturgeon (he de­ scribes h i m s e l f then as "twelve or fourteen") p l a c e d his magazines, two d e e p , b e t w e e n the beams—starting five b e a m s away. H e even w e n t so far as to r e p l a c e the dust o n the b e a m s after h e h a d crawled across them, a n d did everything else to cover u p the traces. S o m e time later, however— I breezed home from school full of innocence and anticipation, and Argyll looked up briefly and said, "There's a mess in your room I want you to clean up." It didn't even sound like a storm warning. He could say that about what a sharpened pencil might leave behind it. The room was almost square, three windows opposite the door, Pete's bed and desk against the left wall, mine against the right. All the rest, open space, but not now. It was covered somewhat more than ankle deep by a drift of small pieces of newsprint, all almost exactly square, few bigger than four post­ age stamps. Showing here and there was a scrap of glossy polychrome from the covers. . . .This must have taken him hours to do, and it was hard to think of him in a rage doing it, because so few of the pieces were crumpled. Hours and hours, rip, rip, rip. It's hard to recapture my feelings at the moment. I went ahead and cleaned it all up and put it outside; I was mosdy aware of this cold clutch in the solar plexus which is a compound of anger and fear (one never knew when one of his punishments was over, or if any specific one was designed to be complete in itself or part of a sequence) . . . (Argyll, 38-39) N o w that describes a r o o m full o f paraliterature—and how it g o t that way. B u t h e r e are s o m e stories o f a m o r e recent vintage. A bit over a d o z e n years a g o , a r o u n d 1980, in my local bookstore, I c a m e u p o n a y o u n g w o m a n in h e r early twenties standing n e x t to a dolly full o f b o o k s , shelving them. A t the D's, she was putting away copies o f D o n DeLillo's Ratner's Star ( 1 9 7 6 ) . Smiling, I said: "You know, y o u should shelve s o m e copies o f that with science fiction." She l o o k e d u p startled, frowned at m e , then smiled: " O h , n o , " she said. "Really, this is a very g o o d b o o k . " I l a u g h e d . "It's a b o u t three-quarters o f a g o o d novel. B u t at the end­ ing, h e j u s t gets tired a n d takes refuge in a Beckettesque fable. It doesn't work." "Well, y o u can't m a k e it science fiction just because o f the endingi" I l a u g h e d again. " T h e e n d i n g is what m a k e s it literature. B u t the rest o f the b o o k is a very believable a c c o u n t o f a y o u n g mathematician work-

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ing for the g o v e r n m e n t , trying to d e c i p h e r messages from a distant star. It c o u l d g o upstairs in SF." H e r frown n o w h a d b e c o m e p e r m a n e n t . " N o , " she repeated. "It really is a g o o d b o o k . I've read it—it's quite w o n d e r f u l . " "I've read it too," I said. "I liked it very m u c h . B u t that's why I ' m saying it's science fiction . . . " T h e y o u n g w o m a n e x c l a i m e d , really n o t to m e b u t to the w h o l e r o o m : "That's just crazy . . . ! " She t u r n e d sharply away a n d b e g a n to shelve o n c e more. But w h e n , after a few seconds, I g l a n c e d at h e r again, she was still m u m b l i n g darkly to herself—and tears stood in h e r eyes! N o w that too is an a c c o u n t o f the social forces constituting paraliter­ ature. In the late seventies, shortly after receiving t e n u r e in the Pratt English Department, a friend o f mine, C a r o l Rosenthal, was teaching a graduate seminar that year called "Literature a n d Ideas" a n d invited m e o u t o n e Wednesday afternoon to address h e r students. Suited, tied, a n d with briefcase u n d e r my arm, I arrived at n o o n . W e h a d a pleasant l u n c h at a local C h i n e s e restaurant, a n d r e t u r n e d to the building for the o n e o ' c l o c k seminar. A s we were walking d o w n the hall toward the classroom, a n o t h e r w o m a n faculty m e m b e r was c o m i n g to­ ward us. Carol hailed her, then t u r n e d to m a k e introductions. " C h i p , this is my friend" (we'll call h e r Professor X ) "Professor X . Professor X is in e c o n o m i c s . A n d this is S a m u e l D e l a n y — h e ' s speaking to my Literature and Ideas seminar this afternoon." Brightly Professor X asked: "And what will y o u be talking about?" I said: "I'll be speaking a b o u t science fiction." Professor X g o t a rather sour l o o k o n h e r face, h e r shoulders d r o p p e d , and she e x c l a i m e d : "Science fiction . . . ? O h , shit... !" at w h i c h point she turned o n h e r h e e l , a n d stalked off d o w n the hall, leaving an astonished Carol w h o , after a few n o n p l u s s e d seconds, b e g a n to splutter and m a k e e x c u s e s — h e r friend was very eccentric, a n d probably j u s t hav­ ing a bad day as well—while we m a d e o u r way to the class w h e r e I was to give my talk. T h a t too constitutes paraliterature. Paraliterature is also the thousands o f p e o p l e w h o have said to m e , o n finding out that I ' m a science fiction writer, " O h , I d o n ' t really like sci­ e n c e fiction," as t h o u g h (a), I h a d asked t h e m ( b ) , I cared, or ( c ) , I was s o m e h o w pleased by their honesty. Believe m e , far fewer p e o p l e like poetry than like science fiction; b u t far fewer p e o p l e , o n b e i n g i n t r o d u c e d to poets, r e s p o n d with, " O h , I d o n ' t really like poetry." T h e y are m u c h m o r e likely to proffer a socially

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equivocal " O h , really?" a n d c h a n g e the subject. B u t the forces that make the o n e a c o m m o n p l a c e o f my life (but p r o m o t e the other in the lives o f poets) are precisely the real (i.e., political) forces that constitute para­ literature (and literature). B u t only c o n s i d e r the g e n e r a l layout o f most medium-size to large bookstores, with the best-sellers in the front, the literature a n d fiction p l a c e d so it is easily available to the e n t e r i n g customers, a n d the parali­ terature—science fiction, mysteries, horror, and r o m a n c e titles—toward the b a c k (and, yes, sometimes the poetry p l a c e d even further back!) —for, as countless articles a n d g u i d e s to the r u n n i n g o f bookstores have ex­ plained: "People w h o read such b o o k s will h u n t t h e m out wherever you have t h e m in the store. T h u s y o u n e e d n o t waste valuable display space o n t h e m a n d can p u t t h e m in the back, w h e r e v e r it is most convenient." T h a t too constitutes paraliterature. I describe paraliterature by these messy, highly interprétable social tales—rather than by turning to texts to discuss rhetorical features—be­ cause, b e f o r e everything else, paraliterature is a material practice of social division. (That's not a definition, m i n d y o u . B u t it is a powerful and im­ p o r t a n t functional description.) T h e s e tales represent some o f the most revealing a n d informative social markers (verbal, informal) that g o a l o n g with it. A n d , as w e have n o t e d , they are very different from literary mark­ ers. Paraliterature is a practice o f social division that many p e o p l e are d e e p l y invested in, often at a level o f e m o t i o n a n d c o m m i t m e n t that m a n y others o f us have simply forgotten, as we notice m o r e and m o r e that so m a n y texts d e v e l o p i n g o n the paraliterary side o f that division dis­ play g r e a t i n t e l l i g e n c e , are p r o d u c e d with extraordinary art, and have e x t r e m e l y relevant things to say a b o u t the w o r l d w e live in. T h e material practice o f social division fuels the c a n o n i c a l / n o n - c a n o n i c a l split. A n d the split fuels the material practice o f division. B u t if paraliterature were really only "pure entertainment," I could n o t possibly tell such tales a b o u t it. A t the rhetorical level, paraliterature is best d e s c r i b e d as those texts w h i c h the m o s t uncritical literary r e a d e r w o u l d describe as 'just n o t lit­ erature": C o m i c b o o k s , mysteries, westerns, science fiction, pornogra­ phy, g r e e t i n g c a r d verse, n e w s p a p e r reports, a c a d e m i c criticism, adver­ tising texts, m o v i e a n d T V scripts, p o p u l a r s o n g lyrics. . . . B u t if c o n t e m p o r a r y criticism a n d t h e o r y has told us anything, it is that the rhetorical l e v e l — t h e level o f the signifier—is the slipperiest to grasp a n d h o l d stable. B u t that is b e c a u s e , at the level o f the signified, things—values, if you will—are always m shift. A r e there any nonfiction paraliterary genres? Absolutely. Philosophy

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has b e e n trying to dissociate itself from literature since Plato—and failing. But, for openers, everything in this a n d any other critical j o u r n a l is para­ literature. ("Philosophy has n o muse . . . " Walter Benjamin c o m m e n t s in "The Task o f the Translator." T h o u g h M e m o r y ' s n i n e d a u g h t e r s w h o sang o n Mt. H e l i c o n represent a g e n r e system far o l d e r than o u r c u r r e n t post-Industrial o n e , in g e n e r a l it's n o t a b a d n o t i o n to c h e c k with t h e m and see w h o was assigned to what. It explains why History—overseen by Clio—is part o f literature a n d why p h i l o s o p h y has, until recently, felt it m i g h t escape.) T h e p a r a d o x is that the vast majority o f literary markers are, them­ selves, paraliterary. Often they are consulted, b u t rarely are they stud­ ied—which is only a n o t h e r reason why the overall process, w h i c h in­ cludes the literary/paraliterary rift, is so mystified. You can easily pick o u t the parameters o f the nonfiction paraliterary genres. First a n d foremost they i n c l u d e any texts n o t c o n s i d e r e d litera­ ture. T h e y include any texts c o n s i d e r e d m o r e o r less disposable. T h e y in­ clude any texts that, if we g o b a c k to consult t h e m , ten, twenty, thirty years after the fact, we d o so purely for information. T h e y i n c l u d e any text n o t considered primarily esthetic. N o w o f course this is all nonsense. Recently I just w e n t b a c k to reread L e o n a r d Knight's essay, "How M a n y C h i l d r e n H a d L a d y M a c b e t h ? " ( 1 9 3 3 ) — i n conjunction with S t e p h e n O r g e l ' s "Prospero's Wife" (Repre­ sentations 8, 1 9 8 4 ) . T h e y are two beautiful pieces, rhetorically b a l a n c e d and wonderfully rich. B u t this is a particular view that c o m e s o u t o f the appreciation o f the esthetics o f paraliterature—which is, in a w o r d , n o t supposed to exist. Paraliterary studies can arise only w h e n w e b e g i n to historify h o w this literary/paraliterary split c a m e a b o u t (largely in the 1880s w h e n , thanks to the new printing t e c h n o l o g y r e p r e s e n t e d by the typewriter a n d lino­ type, the explosion o f printed matter r e s h a p e d the informative structure of the w o r l d ) , a n d e x a m i n e the absolutely necessary function that rift plays in the persistence o f the n o t i o n o f literature today. P»D: T h e focus o f the s e c o n d issue o f Para'doxawas the mystery g e n r e . In what ways d o y o u think the mystery g e n r e fits into the paraliterary arena? Is there a relationship b e t w e e n paraliterary g e n r e s that defines them at the same time that it distinguishes t h e m from non-paraliterary genres? Is there a hierarchy a m o n g paraliterary genres? Is there a family tree, a g e n e a l o g y o f genres? SRD: Literature as we k n o w it is b o r n with the literary/paraliterary split that arises w h e n the tenets o f m o d e r n i s m are e m p l o y e d to m a k e sense

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o u t o f the simple a n d o v e r w h e l m i n g proliferation o f texts that started in the 1 8 o o s a n d has c o n t i n u e d u p to the present. T h e reason o n e c a n n o t k n o w the c a n o n is because o n e c a n n o t know all texts. B e c a u s e , by the e n d o f the 1880s, there were so many texts, s o m e g e n r e s simply h a d to b e p u t o u t o f the r u n n i n g tout court. T h e mystery was the privileged paraliterary form u p t h r o u g h World War II—when, u p until the H o l l y w o o d "blacklists," it was briefly j o i n e d by the film script. It m e a n t that intellectuals like G. K. Chesterton and scholars like D o r o t h y L. Sayers—who was, after all, first and foremost a translator o f D a n t e — a n d literary writers like G r a h a m G r e e n e (generally r e g a r d e d as o n e o f E n g l a n d ' s great twentieth century novelists) c o u l d offer y o u "entertainments" in the mystery form, a n d b e accused o f noth­ i n g worse than s l u m m i n g . R e s p e c t e d playwrights like Lillian H e l l m a n c o u l d have passionate, literary love affairs with folk like Dashiell Hammett, and, in the m o r e liberal drawing r o o m s o f the literary, b o t h c o u l d b e received. For the sixties a n d seventies, SF was the privileged just-sub-literary g e n r e . I think w e may b e e n t e r i n g a p e r i o d w h e r e that position may soon b e filled by p o r n o g r a p h y . P»D: "Paraliterature" has b e c o m e , paradoxically, an a c a d e m i c specialty at m a n y universities in E u r o p e . Is this e n c o u r a g i n g or alarming? SRD: W h y s h o u l d it alarm? T o r e t u r n o n c e m o r e to L u c i e n G o l d m a n n : Disciplines are defined by their o b j e c t — n o t by their m e t h o d o l o g i e s . A n d the question that must always b e t u g g e d a r o u n d a n d c h e w e d over at the b e g i n n i n g o f any disciplinary speciation is: W h a t are the structure a n d o r g a n i z i n g principles o f the object w e are l o o k i n g at? A g o o d l o n g wrestle with such questions alone is what lets us k n o w w h e n we are all ex­ a m i n i n g the same object—and w h e n w e aren't. T h i s is just a n o t h e r reason why we must g e t rid o f this incredibly limit­ i n g n o t i o n o f g e n e r i c definitions. (A discipline is defined by its object. But disciplinary objects themselves are usually not definable. That's why they must be so carefully a n d repeatedly described.) We are like the famous b l i n d m e n with the elephant. A n d if, at trunk, tail, tusk, a n d toe we k e e p trying to shout o n e a n o t h e r d o w n with quin­ tessential e l e p h a n t i n e definitions, we w o n ' t g e t anywhere. We have to be willing to e n g a g e in d i a l o g u e , present o u r m a n y descriptions humbly, talk a b o u t w h a t they d o a n d d o n ' t allow us to d o , a n d only then decide w h e t h e r w e are i n d e e d all talking a b o u t elephants, the same elephant, or if, in fact, a few o f us have inadvertently gotten h o l d o f crocodile tails or h i p p o p o t a m u s ears.

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L e t me close off this section o f y o u r question with the description o f the results o f social forces that are very similar, if n o t identical, to canon­ ical o n e s — i n d e e d if they were at w o r k in the p r e c i n c t o f the literary rather than, where I shall locate them, in the paraliterary, we w o u l d have no p r o b l e m r e c o g n i z i n g t h e m as canonical. Let's consider several b o o k s that deal directly with c o n t e m p o r a r y sci­ e n c e fiction: Scott B u k a t m a n ' s Terminal Identity, D a m i a n B r o d e r i c k ' s Reading by Starlight, Mark Dery's Flames Wars: The Discourse of Cyberculture, and my own Silent Interviews: On Language, Race, Sex, Science Fiction and Some Comics. Now, w h i c h SF writer d o y o u think has the greatest n u m b e r of citations in the i n d e x e s o f all these books? In all cases, it's William Gibson—which, today, I d o u b t should surprise a n y o n e . I can't speak for the other three writers, b u t I can tell y o u that for m e , the realization that Gibson was, i n d e e d , g o i n g to be the most cited writer in my b o o k was an occasion for some c o n c e r n . I think Gibson is a fine writer. I d o n ' t b e g r u d g e h i m o n e iota o f his fame. W h a t b e c o m e s problematic is w h e n w e g e t to (a), the markers that have b r o u g h t this situation a b o u t a n d ( b ) , the "worth o f the w o r k " vis-àvis his fellow science fiction writers. T h e major markers p r o p e l l i n g h i m into this position w e r e , first, an extraordinarily u n i n f o r m e d article in a mid-eighties issue o f Rolling Stone that m a d e the first spurious c o n n e c t i o n b e t w e e n G i b s o n ' s w o r k and c o m p u t e r s — a c o n n e c t i o n G i b s o n himself b e g a n by b a l k i n g at, until, with his fourth novel, in collaboration with his friend B r u c e Ster­ ling ( The Difference Engine), h e d e c i d e d to e x p l o i t it, h o w e v e r ironically. T h e second (really a m a r k e r set) was a series o f B i g Movie Deals, starting with the p r o p o s e d film o f Neuromancer ( 1 9 8 4 ) , g o i n g o n to his scripting an early version o f the third Aliens film, a n d finally the 30 million dollar L o n g o film released in J u n e 1 9 9 5 , from G i b s o n ' s fine short story, "Johnny M n e m o n i c " ( i g 8 i ) , for w h i c h G i b s o n himself has screen credit. A d d to that the extraordinary teachability o f his first a n d best known novel, and y o u have the c o m p l e x o f reasons for his p r e v a l e n c e in the indexes o f all four b o o k s . Yet these are not the markers the b o o k s discuss. T h e s e are not the markers whose values the writers o f any o f the b o o k s in question are interested in either contesting or supporting. I n d e e d , they're hardly even m e n t i o n e d . Actually, w h e n we step b a c k from it, the w h o l e process looks more than anything like a race to obliterate the first set o f markers and replace t h e m by a far m o r e acceptable a c a d e m i c set that, i n d e e d , does put into circulation values far m o r e in k e e p i n g with w h a t w e m i g h t find appropriate for a literary text. N o w — d o I find Gibson's work o f great social a n d esthetic value?

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Yes. I have taught it before. A n d I h o p e to teach it again. D o I think it is the most valuable w o r k b e i n g p r o d u c e d in the science fiction field at the m o m e n t ? A t this point, I balk—at the w h o l e c o n c e p t that assumes such a ques­ tion c o u l d (or should) b e answered! W h a t I pose against b o t h the question a n d the assumptions o n e must m a k e to answer it either yes or n o is the incontrovertible and blatant fact that there are m o r e than h a l f a d o z e n c o n t e m p o r a r y writers, from the same science fiction a n d fantasy field that p r o d u c e d G i b s o n , w h o are d o i n g extraordinary work, w o r k o f at least as much social and esthetic w e i g h t as G i b s o n ' s : G e n e Wolfe, Octavia Butler, M i c h a e l Swanwick, K i m Stanley R o b i n s o n , L u c i u s S h e p h e r d , K a r e n Joy Fowler, G r e g Bear. . . . A l o n g with G i b s o n , all have p r o d u c e d w o r k o f a very h i g h order. (And this is only to l o o k at the g e n e r a t i o n after m i n e , c o m p l e t e l y i g n o r i n g my c o n t e m p o r a r i e s Russ, Disch, Zelazny, Crowley, and L e Guin.) Without any o n e o f t h e m , the c u r r e n t SF field, a n d o u r potential for reading pleasure a n d e n l i g h t e n m e n t , w o u l d b e greatly impoverished. T h e y sim­ ply lack these all-but-accidental-in-literary-terms markers: Rolling Stone a n d T h e Movies! ( T h e strength that the concept o f T h e Movies has in the realms o f the literary is quite astonishing: S o m e t i m e in the middle eight­ ies, a n o v e l o f mine—Dhalgren—was o p t i o n e d by a movie company. A n d the p e o p l e involved sent s o m e o n e o u t to buy seven copies o f the book— to the same b o o k s t o r e , as a matter o f fact, w h e r e the y o u n g w o m a n had b e e n so upset a b o u t my suggesting DeLillo's Ratner's Star m i g h t be sci­ e n c e fiction—and w h e n o n e o f the clerks asked h i m why he n e e d e d seven copies, h e answered: "We're g o i n g to m a k e a major picture out o f the n o v e l . " T h e n e x t day, w h e n I c a m e into the store, all the copies had b e e n p u l l e d o u t o f the SF section a n d reshelved as "Literature"—where they stayed for the n e x t four months! T h e project, as is the case with so m a n y such, n e v e r c a m e to anything. B u t I can assure you, if it had, and the b o o k s t o r e p e o p l e h a d e n c o u n t e r e d further markers to stabilize their r e c o n c e p t i o n , the n o v e l m i g h t well have j u m p e d g e n r e s in bookstores all over the country.) T o read G i b s o n with these writers makes Gibson's w o r k m u c h richer. T o r e a d any o f these writers a l o n g with Gibson is to m a k e their w o r k m o r e significant. Well, with all that in m i n d , prior to publication, I w e n t t h r o u g h my b o o k a n d everywhere I c o u l d , w h e r e v e r I'd used G i b s o n as an e x a m p l e , if it was at all possible I substituted w o r k by a n o t h e r writer. A n d d o y o u k n o w what the results are? G i b s o n is still the most frequently cited SF writer in my b o o k . Why?

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Because my b o o k is a series o f dialogues. A n d my interlocutors ask m o r e questions about Gibson than any o t h e r writer! Well, the fact is, any set o f critical essays is, o n o n e level, part o f a criti­ cal d i a l o g u e — o n l y the questions are n o t necessarily articulated as such nor are their attributions always given. B u t as l o n g as the dialogic process is implicit in intellectual work, it functions to h o l d the position o f vari­ ous writers stable—even in the face o f an active attempt, h o w e v e r local, to dislodge t h e m from that position, such as the o n e I've j u s t described. Now—we must m a k e it clear—what's b e i n g afforded G i b s o n in this dialogical process is not canonical a c c e p t a n c e . By n o m e a n s . W h a t is b e i n g afforded h i m is that trying-out period, so rare as to b e otherwise all b u t nonexistent in paraliterature, that may or may n o t lead to such a c c e p ­ tance in ten, fifteen, or twenty years. But the same forces that w o r k at the c a n o n ' s e d g e to stabilize that trying-out p e r i o d also w o r k — o n c e a p i e c e o f writing ( t h r o u g h the course o f its markers) has b e e n m o v e d d e e p e r within the c a n o n toward the canonical center—to stabilize its position within the c a n o n itself. W o u l d I like to see similar p e r i o d s o f serious c o n s i d e r a t i o n offered to other writers o f paraliterary texts? W o u l d I like to see writers c h o s e n for reasons that have n o t h i n g to d o with Rolling Stone a n d the movies? In the l o n g run, w h e n social values a n d esthetic values are s o m e w h a t further teased apart, at this particular p o i n t o f s e e m i n g c a n o n i c a l up­ heaval, that's the only lasting justification I c a n think o f for paraliterary studies. B u t again: T h e c a n o n "believes in" the society that p r o d u c e s it. T h u s the c a n o n can only b e the c a n o n of that society. If w e w a n t to displace Rolling Stone and the movies as significant a n d powerful social m a r k e r s p r o m o t i n g c a n o n i c a l (or pre-canonical) literary (or paraliterary) c o n ­ sideration, we must start p r o d u c i n g o u r o w n . W e must p r o d u c e social and critical markers that p u t in circulation values we think are i m p o r ­ tant—and we must d o that with works (literary o r paraliterary) that we think are worthy o f critical attention. H o w e v e r contestatorily, w e must j o i n in o u r society. W e must b e c o m e (to b o r r o w a term from B l o o m ) strong readers o f the paraliterary. If we d o not, then Rolling Stone, the movies, a n d equally extra-literary forces alone will d e c i d e what scholars (literary o r paraliterary) pay atten­ tion to. P»D: C o u l d y o u say s o m e t h i n g a b o u t the impulse (either in g e n e r a l , o r as regards your particular impulse) to c h o o s e to write in a particular g e n r e — w h e t h e r SF, literary criticism, fantasy, or s o m e t h i n g else? W h e r e

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d o y o u b e g i n to c o n c e i v e a p i e c e o f writing? (This is n o t a thinly dis­ guised version o f "Why d o y o u write SF?") SRD: Well, first o f all, it's n o t an impulse. It's n o t a decision. It's n o t a c h o i c e per se. It's far m o r e like giving in to a habit. W h e n , for a m o m e n t , the barrier b e t w e e n w h a t o n e has b e e n r e a d i n g a n d what o n e m i g h t write breaks d o w n , discourse sweeps o n e u p , a n d s o m e h o w absorption b e c o m e s emission: A n d w h a t is emitted is simply g o i n g to be controlled by that discourse. I read criticism; I write criticism. I read SF; I write SF. I read sword a n d sorcery; I write sword a n d sorcery. I read p o r n o g r a p h y ; I write p o r n o g r a p h y . I read fiction; I write it, too. N o w in m y case there's also a desire formally to criticize the g e n r e in w h i c h I ' m r e a d i n g — a n u r g e that has s o m e t h i n g very important to do with obliterating the barrier b e t w e e n absorption a n d emission. However politely articulated, there's always s o m e e l e m e n t o f an oppositional stance. B u t h o w that critical desire functions specifically in the process w o u l d b e difficult to specify. P»D: Y o u have written that all genres—literary and "ways o f r e a d i n g . " C o u l d y o u elaborate?

paraliterary—are

SRD: I ' m afraid I must sigh a n d say, " N o . N o t h e r e . " B u t that's exhaus­ tion speaking. Still, a n y o n e interested in such an elaboration as y o u ask for should, for an introductory view, r e a d the "K. Leslie Steiner Interview" in my re­ c e n t c o l l e c t i o n from Wesleyan, Silent Interviews. A n d anyone w h o wants to see the process e l a b o r a t e d even m o r e fully should read Starboard Wine and, finally, The American Shore. T h e ideas y o u are asking m e to elaborate are counterintuitive ones; thus, to grasp t h e m , they require r e p e a t e d e x p o s u r e . Encapsulating t h e m in a single paragraph, n o matter h o w pithy or aphoristic, only betrays t h e m . T h e y require l o o k i n g at the l a n g u a g e in a different way from the o n e most o f us are used t o — a n d they require a constant vigi­ l a n c e against slipping b a c k into l o o k i n g at it in the o l d way. Rather than giving a reassuring little summary that sends the reader off with the feel­ i n g that the i d e a has b e e n r e n d e r e d summarizable, c o n s u m a b l e , and that it has (therefore) been c o n s u m e d , internalized, mastered, I w o u l d leave y o u r readers with an e x h o r t a t i o n to pursue the n o t i o n through others o f m y texts, t h r o u g h s o m e other writerly labor.

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For p e o p l e w h o are always ready to read a n o t h e r b o o k , literary or par­ aliterary, the c a n o n b e c o m e s a far less intimidating c o n c e p t than it first appears. A n d the literary/paraliterary split, while real (i.e., political) a n d important, can be negotiated. — New York City July 1995

11

T h e Politics of Paraliterary Criticism

Bright, g o o d - l o o k i n g , well-read, a n d socially skilled, Jerry (that was n o t his n a m e ; b u t that's what we'll call him) was a senior at C o l u m b i a Univer­ sity w h e n , in the early seventies, h e e n t e r e d my circle o f friends and col­ leagues, w h e r e h e was s o o n a well-liked y o u n g m a n . In those years, as today, that circle was the science fiction writers, the c o m i c b o o k writers a n d artists, a n d the various journalists and editors w h o m a d e u p m a n y o f my day-to-day acquaintances. W h i l e Jerry's interests w e r e generally o r i e n t e d toward what most speak o f as literature, like m a n y y o u n g p e o p l e h e ' d g o n e t h r o u g h a pe­ riod in early a d o l e s c e n c e , only half a d o z e n years before, w h e n h e ' d read c o m i c b o o k s a n d science fiction avidly—so that, s o m e w h a t to his own surprise, already h e k n e w the n a m e s and w o r k o f many o f the m e n and w o m e n h e was, at first t h r o u g h m e , then o n his own, m e e t i n g regularly: D e n n y O ' N e i l , Dick G i o r d a n o , L e n W e i n , H o w i e C h a y k i n , Mary Skrenes, B e r n i e Wrightson, Trina, A l a n Weiss, Frank Brunner, Mike Kaluta, T o m Disch, R o g e r Zelazny, Terry Carr. . . . T h u s , while h e did n o t particularly fetishize the paraliterary w o u l d o f science fiction a n d c o m i c b o o k s as having any special r o m a n c e about it at present, it was a w o r l d c o n n e c t e d to what h a d o n c e b e e n for him a rich a n d pleasurable interest. Because he felt at ease with most p e o p l e , Jerry was at ease with these p e o p l e . Because he was bright, o u t g o i n g , and well-mannered, Jerry was p o p u l a r with the p e o p l e he met. Because his intelligence had o n c e b e e n turned o n the products o f this w o r l d — c o m i c s and science fiction—Jerry h a d e n o u g h k n o w l e d g e , if n o t expertise, to h o l d his own, at least to ask in­ formed questions, in conversations with those w h o m a d e their living here. O n e m o r n i n g Jerry p h o n e d to say that, talking to s o m e comics artists a n d writers at a g a t h e r i n g the w e e k before, h e ' d h e a r d some c o m m e n t s

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about things they'd like to see—or currently disapproved of—in the Bat­ man comic as it was then b e i n g d o n e . A n idea h a d c o m e to h i m for a story. T o see if h e c o u l d d o it, over the w e e k e n d h e ' d written a Batman script. I told h i m it w o u l d b e fun to read. W h y d i d n ' t h e b r i n g it d o w n the next time he c a m e by? (I was t h e n living at the H o t e l Albert.) W h e n , the following day, h e arrived with it, h e explained: "Batmanv/as always o n e o f my favorites w h e n I was a k i d — " (This was years b e f o r e the T i m B u r t o n movies.) "I realized," h e w e n t o n , "that I knew the character awfully well. I was listening to what some o f the writers a n d artists were saying, w h e n we went to l u n c h last week. So, I thought, why d o n ' t I j u s t try my h a n d at a script?" I read it. It s e e m e d well above average in e x c i t e m e n t , action, a n d g e n ­ eral plot interest. "Why d o n ' t we show this to D e n n y O ' N e i l ? " I said. ' Y o u ' v e m e t him— and h e likes y o u . H e ' s editing n o w for D . C . " "Do y o u think h e ' d be interested? . . . " "The way to find out," I said, "is to ask." I called Denny. W o u l d he m i n d l o o k i n g at Jerry's script? . . . A couple o f days later, after a p h o n e call from Denny, I w e n t with Jerry to the D . C . offices. A s we sat in a l u m i n u m tubular chairs o n the b l u e car­ pet, D e n n y said: "Before I read it, Jerry, I was pretty dubious. W e g e t kids w h o want to write c o m i c s in h e r e all the time. B u t o n c e I started i t . . . well, it's a great story! A l s o , it's the most professional l o o k i n g script I've seen g o t h r o u g h this office in ten years. It's a fine story b r e a k d o w n . Y o u tell most o f it in three- a n d four-panel pages. Y o u d o n ' t o v e r l o a d y o u r panels with words. Your captions use the nonvisual senses. Y o u ' v e g o t a real grasp o f what c o m i c s are about. T h e only p r o b l e m is, I d o n ' t edit Batman. B u t I'll pass this a l o n g to Julie Schwartz." Julie was a senior edi­ tor, well-respected at the c o m p a n y . "See what h e thinks. H e ' s s o m e o n e you can learn a lot from. H e knows c o m i c b o o k writing's craft inside-out. If he likes what y o u ' r e d o i n g , a n d y o u w o r k with him, y o u can learn a lot." T h a t D e n n y h a d v o l u n t e e r e d to pass the script o n to Julie surprised and delighted Jerry. H e was vociferous in his gratitude. A few days later, Jerry p h o n e d to say Julie h a d called h i m a n d asked to meet. " C o m e o n down h e r e a n d tell m e what h a p p e n e d , " I told h i m , "when y o u ' r e finished at the D . C . offices." Eleven o ' c l o c k the following Wednesday, Jerry k n o c k e d o n my hotel r o o m door. As he c a m e in, I asked him, " H o w ' d it g o ? " "He had some interesting things to say." B u t Jerry s e e m e d pensive. "He suggested some rewriting. H e wants m e to c h a n g e the e n d i n g . "

2 2o

Shorter Views

"So . . . what d o y o u think?" "Personally, I d o n ' t think it'll be as g o o d a story. B u t h e had some points. It w o n ' t h u r t it that m u c h — t h o u g h it c h a n g e s what the w h o l e story's about!" H e c h u c k l e d . "But I'd still like to see it published. I told h i m I'd have the rewrite in to h i m the day after tomorrow." A w e e k later, Jerry was b a c k from a n o t h e r editorial session. 'Julie said h e t h o u g h t my rewrite was a very craftsmanlike j o b . B u t now he wants m e to m a k e m o r e c h a n g e s . " "Do y o u follow his points? Like D e n n y said, there's really a lot to learn a b o u t writing c o m i c s scripts. If y o u can master it—" "Basically, "Jerry said, rather surprising m e , "I think most o f his points are silly. A n d , if I d o what h e wants, it w o n ' t b e my story anymore. Still, if h e wants it, I'll probably try i t . . . . " A w e e k later, Jerry was back. "I j u s t g o t t h r o u g h talking to Julie. H e d o e s n ' t want to use the script at all, now. H e says h e d o e s n ' t think I ' m ready—that I've g o t a mastery o f comics craft great e n o u g h — t o d o Batman, yet. T h e thing that makes it so funny, that's exactly what D e n n y — a n d y o u , a n d everybody else w h o read it, even him—first said that they liked a b o u t it! A l l the things that m a d e it a g o o d c o m i c b o o k are what he's asked m e to take out! N o w he wants me to d o a w h o l e different script, a b o u t . . . " H e n a m e d a n o t h e r character. "He says if I can h a n d l e thatone, maybehe'M assign m e some paying work. H e says h e c a n ' t promise. B u t it's u p to m e . . . ." "What are y o u g o i n g to d o ? " "I think I ' m g o i n g to forget it," Jerry said. " T h e thing is, I d o n ' t want to be a c o m i c b o o k writer. I g o t w h a t I t h o u g h t was an idea for a g o o d story—and I t h o u g h t I c o u l d write a g o o d script for it that w o u l d be bet­ ter than most. T h a t ' s w h a t I think I did. If it h a d c o m e out, I'd have b e e n able to say: 'Hey, isn't that neat? I wrote that!' B u t n o w it's turned into s o m e t h i n g c o m p l e t e l y different—there're all these p r o b l e m s o f c o m i c s craft t h a t . . . well, I u n d e r s t a n d t h e m , w h e n h e talks a b o u t them. But, honestly, they d o n ' t interest m e . A t this point, I think I ' m g o i n g to forget it." "Well, y o u k n o w — " I h a d a sinking feeling—"you should pay some at­ tention to these questions." Really, I liked Jerry. B u t n o adult enjoys see­ i n g a youngster start s o m e t h i n g great guns, t h e n n o t follow through be­ cause the g o i n g gets a little t o u g h . A n d because I had introduced him to these p e o p l e , his failing enthusiasm m i g h t even have p r o m p t e d my own embarrassment. "If y o u c o u l d master it, it m i g h t be useful to y o u later—" "Yeah, I know. T h a t ' s w h a t Julie k e e p s saying. B u t the fact is, most o f w h a t h e says, in story terms, seems silly. A t least to m e . T h e changes h e suggests d o n m a k e it any better. Now, because he's g o t the dull script h e asked m e to write, h e d o e s n ' t want to use it at all! Really, at this point, I'm

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not that interested. I've d o n e three versions. H e d o e s n ' t like t h e m . So I think I'm g o i n g to let this o n e pass." I r e m e m b e r I said: "But y o u ' v e only d o n e two— " ' T h a t ' s what h e said," Jerry told m e . "But y o u ' r e forgetting the first version, that y o u and D e n n y a n d everybody e l s e — i n c l u d i n g Julie—said was so g o o d and so professional." "Yes, b u t . . . " T h e n I sighed, "Okay. B u t y o u ' r e a real smart kid. Y o u write well. I h o p e y o u ' r e n o t letting a g o o d o p p o r t u n i t y to learn a b o u t the craft o f comics slip by y o u . " "Maybe I am." H e g r i n n e d . "But then, I j u s t have to g o by what I feel." "I guess so." Jerry called Julie a n d told h i m h e w o u l d n ' t b e h a n d i n g in a fourth script. A year later, Jerry h a d m o r e or less d r o p p e d o u t o f the circle. Shortly, he had a j o b with a r e c o r d c o m p a n y . F r o m time to time I saw him. B u t t h o u g h he was always friendly, his interests h a d taken h i m o n , after his graduation from C o l u m b i a , in o t h e r directions a n d into o t h e r social and professional groups. F r o m time to time, I saw an alternative newspaper article u n d e r his byline. T h e n h e m o v e d to the West Coast. S o m e time later, in the bar o f a science fiction c o n v e n t i o n , I ran into Julie Schwartz, retired now. W h e n the circle o f p e o p l e a r o u n d us h a d drifted away, I asked: "Do y o u r e m e m b e r , a b o u t n i n e o r ten years a g o , a y o u n g C o l u m b i a University student w h o c a m e to y o u with a Batman script—through D e n n y O ' N e i l . I'd b r o u g h t h i m to D e n n y ' s attention. His n a m e w a s — " "Oh, yes. Jerry. A really bright kid. I liked h i m very m u c h . It's a shame he never followed t h r o u g h . " "What I d o n ' t understand," I said, "is that his first script s e e m e d so polished and professional. A s well, it had a great plot and was very inven­ tively told." "It was," h e said. "Why didn't y o u use it, then?" "I did with Jerry what I d o with every new c o m i c s writer w h o c o m e s to me, C h i p . I used to g o t h r o u g h the same routine, o h , m a y b e six, seven— sometimes ten—times a year." "I d o n ' t understand? . . . " Julie smiled at m e . "Look. T h e fact is, C h i p , anyone can write a g o o d comic b o o k script. Now, w h e n I say ' a n y o n e , ' I d o n ' t m e a n the janitor, or the plumber, or the dry cleaner. B u t I m e a n a n y o n e w h o c a n write any sort o f story at all can probably turn o u t a d e c e n t c o m i c b o o k script— " "But this was m o r e than d e c e n t . It was really talented—it was excel­ lent. I m e a n , it was u p there in A l a n M o o r e territory—" "Ah, yes."Julie shook his head. "But the craft—" "I d o n ' t understand what y o u — "

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"At this level o f writing, talent isn't the p r o b l e m — w h i c h is to say, there's e n o u g h o f it o u t there that it will take care o f itself. Every new writer w h o brings m e a script (and, the fact is, m a n y o f t h e m are tal­ e n t e d ) , I tell h i m — o r her—the same thing. I say: 'All right. T h e first thing I want y o u to d o is c h a n g e the e n d i n g . ' W e talk about comic b o o k craft. T h e n , after they b r i n g in a s e c o n d version, I tell t h e m to c h a n g e the m i d d l e . T h e n I tell t h e m to throw the w h o l e thing out a n d write m e a n e w script. T h e n , I tell t h e m to d o still another o n e . . . . A n d if they do everything I say, t h e n I assign t h e m a paying j o b o n the least important character we have. Y o u see, what we n e e d in the c o m i c s industry is writers w h o will d o what w e tell t h e m to. D o i n g what your editor says to d o : That's craft. It's n i c e w h e n I g e t a really talented writer, w h o gets t h r o u g h the w h o l e set o f tests. S o m e t i m e s they d o . But, frankly, what we need are writ­ ers w h o have j u s t t u r n e d in a w o n d e r f u l , poetic, brilliant script with a d o w n b e a t e n d i n g , w h o , w h e n an administrative decision c o m e s from up­ stairs that all o u r stories have to have u p b e a t e n d i n g s from n o w on, will throw that d o w n b e a t e n d i n g o u t a n d substitute a gloriously happy, feel­ g o o d e n d i n g , sacrificing everything o f worth in the story—and w h o will d o it w i t h o u t batting an eye. L i k e I say: craft. Jerry d i d n ' t have what it takes to b e a g o o d craftsman. H e ' s probably better off out o f the field. Likely h e was interested in writing art stories—" "What's an art story?" I said. "A story that follows its own internal logic, w h e r e the motivations m a k e sense, and, after lots o f inventive twists, it e n d s w h e r e it's s u p p o s e d to?" H e l a u g h e d . "Okay—sure, that's an art story: if'you want to make m e o u t to b e m o r e o f a villain that I am. I c o u l d j u s t as easily say: Inventive twists n e e d t h o u g h t to follow, and t h o u g h t is n o t in o v e r w h e l m i n g supply a m o n g average c o m i c s readers. B u t the p o i n t is: H o w e v e r y o u define them, n o . W e d o n ' t have time for art stories. First and foremost, even be­ fore talent, we n e e d craft h e r e . A n d , yes, craft, in this business, means d o i n g w h a t y o u ' r e told, as best y o u c a n — n o matter how d u m b , stupid, or irrational it is in terms o f the material." "You w o u l d n ' t have taken the first script from any writer, t h e n — n o matter h o w brilliant, well written, or professional it was." "No. I w o u l d n ' t . " H e smiled again. "But that's because I'm interested in the writer over the l o n g haul. I ' m there to teach y o u n g writers c r a f t it's too b a d Jerry d i d n ' t want to learn. B u t w h e n a y o u n g writer doesn't, believe m e , stopping then probably saved h i m — a n d m e — a lot o f time a n d unhappiness. S u p p o s e h e had to learn it after h e ' d already published half a d o z e n scripts, w h e n h e ' d already b e e n w o r k i n g as a professional for six m o n t h s , a year, o r m o r e ? So, in terms o f professional comics writ­ ing, I m a k e craft the first priority—before everything else."

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We see this c o n c e p t o f craft—where craft is o p p o s e d to a r t — c o n ­ stantly at work. (In a passing, e v e n p a r e n t h e t i c a l , way, this entire essay is a personal message to 'Jerry" so that h e , o r those in his situation in any o f the paraliterary g e n r e s , m i g h t u n d e r s t a n d a little o f w h a t hap­ p e n e d to t h e m — i n his case, years ago.) W e see it m a r r i n g the a r t w o r k s we are p r e s e n t e d with w h e n e v e r a s c i e n c e fiction writer o r a mystery writer or a writer o f p o r n o g r a p h y e x c u s e s his o r h e r failure o f taste, o f invention, o f skill, o f insight, o r simply o f i n t e l l i g e n c e in t h i n k i n g t h r o u g h the various ramifications o f his o r h e r story by r e a c h i n g for the e x c u s e that paraliterary criticism k e e p s ready: "I'm a craftsman— not an artist." We see that c o n c e p t at w o r k in every i n c o h e r e n t m o v i e in w h i c h motivations are absent o r u n b e l i e v a b l e a n d n o t h i n g m a k e s sense or registers with any i m p o r t , b e c a u s e , failing to u n d e r s t a n d the intri­ cate ways in w h i c h c o h e r e n c e , believability, a n d interest m u s t inter­ weave to p r o d u c e a satisfying story, o n e or a n o t h e r p r o d u c e r has told a writer, "Do it this way b e c a u s e it'll b e m o r e e x c i t i n g , " or, "Leave that o u t b e c a u s e it'll be dull," all o f w h i c h basically translates: " D o it this way because I ' m p a y i n g y o u . " B e c a u s e the interweave o f b a c k g r o u n d and f o r e g r o u n d is e v e n m o r e c o m p l e x in a s c i e n c e fiction m o v i e than it is in a film set in the c o n t e m p o r a r y w o r l d , this is a c o r r e s p o n d i n g l y greater p r o b l e m in SF films than it is in m o v i e s with historical o r c o n ­ temporary settings. W e see it in almost every a t t e m p t to write a story by committee. T h o u g h I retain my p e r s o n a l f o n d n e s s for Julie Schwartz a n d have great respect for w h a t h e ' s d o n e in c o m i c s , I a b o m i n a t e the esthetic o f Craft vs. Art. I think a n y o n e w h o loves the paraliterary g e n r e s s h o u l d abominate it as well. W e w h o criticize in the paraliterary g e n r e s s h o u l d work to u n m a s k it for w h a t it is, discredit it, dismantle it, a n d p e r m a ­ nently retire it. It is n o t that craft c a n ' t m e a n o t h e r things, useful things, valuable a n d valid things for the c o n s t r u c t i o n o f art w o r k s in narrative form. B u t w h e r e v e r craft is p r e s e n t e d as a c o n c e p t opposed to art, it will be available as a c o v e r - u p for the sort o f e x p l o i t a t i o n in the situation above. B e c a u s e o f the e c o n o m i c forces at w o r k in the paralit­ erary fields, there's n o way to p r e v e n t s u c h e x p l o i t a t i o n . Two other c o n c e p t s also h o l d b a c k the d e v e l o p m e n t o f paraliterary criticism and provide s m o k e screens for endless exploitation in m u c h the way the c o n c e p t o f "craft" (and the attendant c o n c e p t o f "mastery") does: First is the c o n c e p t o f "origins." S e c o n d is a c o n c e p t intimately linked with it, that o f "definition o f the g e n r e . " But, as w e shall see, all are c o n n e c t e d . With strong historical filiation, they w o r k to s u p p o r t a n d reinforce o n e another. By the e n d o f this essay, I h o p e w e ' l l have a stronger sense o f h o w that intersupport funcdons.

k.

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II Possibly toward the e n d o f the first century A . D . , but m o r e probably toward the e n d o f the third, Cassius L o n g i n u s (or possibly Dionysius L o n ginus; possibly they w e r e o n e a n d the s a m e ) , wrote a letter-cwmm o n o g r a p h to his friend Postimius Terentianus, in w h i c h , inspired by a treatise by o n e Caecilius, TTe pi 'uipous (Peri Hupsous— usually translated " O n the S u b l i m e , " b u t m o r e accurately " O n Greatness" o r " O n Greatness in Writing," or " O n Greatness in A r t " ) , h e p u t forward his own thoughts as to w h a t m a d e writing great. His essay was k n o w n t h r o u g h o u t the Renaissance as L o n g i n u s ' s " O n the S u b l i m e " — L o n g i n u s ' s piece, originally u n n a m e d , having taken its title from the n o w long-lost treatise by Caecilius that was its ostensible topic. T h e oldest version o f L o n g i nus's text is a m a n u s c r i p t c o p y from the tenth century. Milton mentions it in his 1 6 5 2 p i e c e , " O n E d u c a t i o n . " B u t with Boileau's 1 6 7 4 French translation o f the fifty-five p a g e essay, " O n the S u b l i m e " b e c a m e the most influential bit o f classical literary criticism in the West for a hund r e d years o r m o r e , briefly surpassing in its influence Plato, Aristotle, a n d H o r a c e . I n d e e d , as m u c h as any single text, it is probably the reason why w e venerate S o p h o c l e s a n d S a p p h o as w e d o today, if not The Iliad a n d The Odyssey, all o f w h i c h it analyzes a n d praises in terms close to the o n e s c o m m o n l y used a b o u t these works by c o n t e m p o r a r y critics. Possibly in the year o r so before 1 9 9 2 , in a p h o n e call to his friend Matt Feazell, Scott M c C l o u d talked a b o u t a project h e had b e e n considering: "an e x a m i n a t i o n o f the art-form o f comics, what it's capable of, h o w it works . . . I even p u t t o g e t h e r a new c o m p r e h e n s i v e theory o f the creative process a n d its implications for c o m i c s a n d for art in general!!" T h i s is from the "Introduction" to M c C l o u d ' s extraordinary paraliterary critique, Understanding Comics. R e a d i n g o n in M c C l o u d , we find there is a kind o f p a r e n t text that M c C l o u d greatly respects, a n d that his own work is in creative d i a l o g u e with, Will Eisner's Comics and Sequential Art (and, later, Wassily Kandinsky's 1 9 1 2 essay, " O n the P r o b l e m o f Form"), which, rather like Caecilius's e p o n y m o u s ire pi 'ui|tous in L o n g i n u s , is mentioned a handful o f times toward the b e g i n n i n g , t h e n drops away as M c C l o u d pursues his own ideas a b o u t his topic. I w o u l d n o t b e surprised if M c C l o u d ' s Understanding Comics b e c o m e s as i m p o r t a n t a n d influential a w o r k in the d e v e l o p m e n t o f the w h o l e r a n g e o f criticism o f the paraliterary as L o n g i n u s was in the last few centuries o f classical criticism. H a v i n g said that, let m e say also that that is s o m e t h i n g b e t w e e n an o p i n i o n a n d a h o p e . I m a k e the comparison with the Trepl ' û ^ o u ç in o r d e r to h i g h l i g h t a few, limited, particular points— and, m o r e important, to m a k e clear several points that I am not making.

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In my description above, I've l o c a t e d two tropes— ( 1 ) the orientation of a critical study toward the e n l i g h t e n m e n t o f a personal friend a n d (2) the c e l e b r a t i o n / c r i t i q u e o f a "parent" text e x a m i n i n g similar topics— shared by L o n g i n u s a n d M c C l o u d . B e c a u s e b o t h are writing criticism, doubtless I c o u l d find m o r e . B u t d o I believe that L o n g i n u s ' s rrepi 'tiijjous is in any way a privileged origin o f M c C l o u d ' s Understanding Comics} D o I believe that the Trepi 't>t[jo"s, because o f the similarities I've n o t e d , in any way lends authority to the a r g u m e n t s or presentations in Under­ standing Comics} N o , I d o n ' t — m y answer to b o t h questions. D o I believe that, direcdy o r indirecdy, Longinus's Trepi 'ut|jous is in any way a meaningful influence o n Understanding Comics} I w o u l d n o t b e aston­ ished to find that M c C l o u d had read L o n g i n u s . It's available in translation in most large bookstores a n d is o u t in a P e n g u i n anthology, an O x f o r d Classics anthology, a n d in a critical translation by G. M . A . G r u b e from the Hackett Publishing C o m p a n y with an extensive introduction, notes, a n d a bibliographical index. A s well it's b e e n reprinted in several other histor­ ical anthologies o f E u r o p e a n criticism. B u t t h o u g h I w o u l d not b e aston­ ished, I wouldbe surprised: Today readers o f the rrepi 'ui^ou? are limited largely to those graduate students interested in the history o f criticism. For m e to suspect meaningful influence from o n e text to the other, I w o u l d n e e d internal (some sign in M c C l o u d ' s text) or external (biographical or historical knowledge) evidence that M c C l o u d had read L o n g i n u s , or simi­ lar evidence that M c C l o u d had read a w o r k by s o m e o n e k n o w n (through similar historical evidence) to have b e e n influenced by L o n g i n u s . 1

T h e simple use o f the two tropes is, for m e , j u s t n o t strong e n o u g h ev­ i d e n c e to allow m e to m a k e any such suggestion. L a c k i n g a direct state­ m e n t about such r e a d i n g in M c C l o u d ' s text, at the very least I w o u l d have to find a significant string o f words c o m m o n to the two texts, a string that m i g h t have b e e n p u t there by M c C l o u d to recall the p a r e n t text (as w h e n in Red Mars [ 1 9 9 3 ] K i m Stanley R o b i n s o n recalls Philip K D i c k ' s novel The Martian Time-Slip [ 1 9 6 4 ] by n a m i n g the 3 9 . 5 - o d d - m i n u t e dif­ ference between an Earth day a n d a Mars day, c o m p e n s a t e d for by stop­ ping the clocks for 39.5 minutes b e t w e e n twelve m i d n i g h t a n d twelve-oho n e , "the Martian time slip" [internal e v i d e n c e ] , the source o f w h i c h is supported by the fact that R o b i n s o n wrote a b o o k o n Dick, The Novels of Philip K. Dick [ 1 9 8 4 — e x t e r n a l evidence] ), before I'd venture that such a suggestion carried any critically significant probability. 2

1. The information about Longinus and the rrepi 'villous comes from Grube's introduc­ tion. The Oxford Classical Dictionary's account of text and author differs notably. 2. In the past there have been many thematic critics who, considering the two cited fig­ ures not tropes but themes, might well have felt that, as themes, they were strong enough to suggest an influence. But, as someone who does not consider himself a thematic critic, I am not among their number.

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Finally, a n d p e r h a p s for this discussion most importantly, d o I think that what stalls these passages o f authority from L o n g i n u s to M c C l o u d is that L o n g i n u s is writing a b o u t literature w h e r e a s M c C l o u d is writing a b o u t comics? D o I believe s o m e t h i n g innate to the nature o f the differ­ ent genres—their assumed average quality, perhaps—makes the passage impossible? A g a i n , firmly I d o not. B o t h M c C l o u d and L o n g i n u s are writing criti­ cism—and, in b o t h cases, I believe, they are writing criticism o f a high order. Longinus's essay dates from many centuries before the current valu­ ation o f genres was in place. M c C l o u d ' s is from a time—and is at the fore­ front o f the e n d e a v o r — w h e n precisely such barriers are c o m i n g down. It is the system that tries to preserve such power relations and their attendant power exclusions that must be dismantled if M c C l o u d ' s project (and I h o p e , with this essay, I m a k e clear that I share it) is ever to see success. W h a t , then, is the status o f the relationship b e t w e e n two texts that ex­ hibit such similarity? I believe that for a certain kind o f reader w h o rec­ o g n i z e s such similarities, those similarities p r o d u c e a resonance and richness in the reading pleasure to be taken from M c C l o u d ' s text—and a highly pleasurable b o o k Understanding Comics is. B u t the relation b e t w e e n t h e m is specifically not a matter o f consciousness or authority. W e r e M c C l o u d later to inform m e that the similarity was, i n d e e d , con­ scious a n d in s o m e way ironic (as is R o b i n s o n ' s recall o f D i c k ) , I w o u l d a d m i t I was mistaken a n d say, "Fine." B u t I w o u l d also suggest that, were h e interested in d o i n g it again, h e m i g h t leave a clearer trail o f allusion (i.e., s o m e internal evidence) in his actual text. T h e two tropes shared by Understanding Comics and the Trepi 't) tatous are e x t r e m e l y powerful o n e s over the range o f western criticism. T h e y have i n t r o d u c e d m a n y strong critiques. A m o n g t h e m , now, is M c C l o u d ' s . B u t d o e s L o n g i n u s ' s use o f t h e m in a n y w a y l e n d power to M c C l o u d ? " N o , it d o e s not. Having n o t e d the similarities, I note as well that there are myriad differencesbetween the content, form, structure, a n d c o n t e x t o f Longinus's let­ ter to Postimius Terentianus a n d Scott M c C l o u d ' s p h o n e call to Matt Feazell. Similarly, the uses o f their respective parent texts are notably different in m a n y ways. D o e s initiating (in any sense) an essay with such tropes from an earlier classical e x a m p l e , either consciously or u n c o n ­ sciously, in any way guarantee the r e m a i n d e r o f the text power, insight, or brilliance? A s powerful, insightful, and brilliant as M c C l o u d ' s b o o k is (for it is all o f these), the answer must still be: N o . Many critiques have b e g u n with the same tropes but have g o n e o n to nothing, save the deadest o f ac­ ademicism. Myriad fine a n d brilliant critical essays have b e g u n , using other tropes entirely—which is to say, the use o f such tropes is neither

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necessary n o r sufficient to p r o d u c e critical e x c e l l e n c e . In n o way d o such tropes define e x c e l l e n c e in a critical endeavor. Because the two tropes have n o t b e e n used so frequently that they have b e c o m e deadly clichés, the relation b e t w e e n texts that e m p l o y them remains a matter o f resonance a n d pleasure—in the way that a reso­ nant note, calling u p e c h o e s a n d overtones, m i g h t s o u n d richer than o n e that p l u n k e d o u t devoid o f any e n h a r m o n i e s . T h e tropes function exactly the way the H o m e r i c parallels d o in Joyce's Ulysses—adding pleasure a n d r e s o n a n c e to the r e a d i n g o f those w h o r e c o g n i z e them. B u t neither in the case o f the likely c o n s c i o u s Joyce n o r in the case o f the probably u n c o n s c i o u s M c C l o u d d o they l e n d , in themselves, power, authority, persuasive force, or greatness. Ulysses c o u l d j u s t as easily have b e e n a dull, b o r i n g , unimaginative n o v e l based j u s t as firmly o n the Odyssey—in w h i c h case w e w o u l d have an uninteresting, boring, dull p i e c e o f writing. B u t w h a t Joyce gave us was a rich a n d reso­ nant novel, o n e o f whose pleasurable resonances o c c u r s at the level o f its H o m e r i c parallels. Even using the two tropes from L o n g i n u s consciously, M c C l o u d ' s b o o k c o u l d have b e e n a waste o f paper. It is not. It's a w o n d e r ­ ful and wonder-filled critical p e r f o r m a n c e . Tropes are basically formal, a n d as M c C l o u d himself declares, for a so­ phisticated discussion o f any art, w e must separate form from content:

Illustration #1: McCloud, page 199. Awareness that formal resonances are pleasurable b u t n o t authorita­ tive is what, I suspect, led J o r g e Luis B o r g e s to write, " T h e r e p e a t e d , but

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insignificant, contacts o f Joyce's Ulysses with the H o m e r i c Odyssey con­ tinue to enjoy—I shall n e v e r k n o w w h y — t h e h a r e b r a i n e d admiration o f the critics" (Ficciones, 4 2 ) . T h i s is n o t an attack o n m o d e r n i s m , or on Joyce, or o n Ulysses. It is an attack o n critics w h o see, in a figure that s h o u l d p r o d u c e pleasure, rather a m a r k o f power, authority, or great­ ness. That is what is h a r e b r a i n e d . T h e first o f several places w h e r e M c C l o u d ' s study soars to brilliance is in c h a p t e r 2, " T h e V o c a b u l a r y o f C o m i c s . " T h e chapter's o p e n i n g fourand-a-half p a g e s are an awkward discussion o f icons; to m e they seem an attempt to reinvent, in four pages, the w h o l e topic o f semiotics—the study o f signs—without realizing that this is what they are d o i n g . But from these u n p r o m i s i n g b e g i n n i n g s , M c C l o u d ' s c o m b i n a t i o n o f words a n d pictures rises to a series o f insights having to d o with the different ways highly r e p r e s e n t a d o n a l art can affect us contrasted to the way the highly r e d u c e d a n d schematic art associated with cartoons and comics can affect us. M c C l o u d a r g u e s — a n d argues convincingly—that the rep­ resentational portrait o f a face is p e r c e i v e d as the face o f another, w h e r e a s the highly schematic face is perceived as o n e ' s own. THUS, W H E N yOU LOOK A T A PHOTO OR REALISTIC DRAWING OF A F A C E - -

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Illustration #2: McCloud, page 36 W h e n abstracted from his presentation, the insight may n o t strike you. B u t w h e n y o u follow, in words and pictures, the progression o f his ar­ g u m e n t (from p a g e 28 to p a g e 4 7 ) , it is highly c o n v i n c i n g . It is also de­ lightful. I e x h o r t all my readers to take a l o o k at it, for this is Understand­ ing Comics at its b e s t — w h e r e a s u m m a t i o n , o r e v e n the citation o f a few panels, is i n a d e q u a t e to convey the force a n d efficiency with which

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M c C l o u d makes his points, a force arising n o t o u t o f the similarity with any other text—Longinus's o r a n y o n e else's—but o u t o f M c C l o u d ' s o w n formal organization o f his a r g u m e n t . T h e n e x t place M c C l o u d shines is in c h a p t e r 3, " B l o o d in the Gutter." H e r e he i n t r o d u c e s an i d e a h e n a m e s "closure"—i.e., w h a t g o e s o n b e t w e e n the panels; w h a t j o i n s p a n e l to p a n e l . (I have also seen this re­ ferred to as "gestalt p e r c e p t i o n . " B u t I ' m c o n t e n t to use M c C l o u d ' s term.) As h e points out, closure is often at w o r k within a single p a n e l as well. T h i s n o t i o n o f closure allows M c C l o u d to b e g i n an intense discus­ sion o f that aspect w h i c h is so i m p o r t a n t to any art: the relation b e t w e e n the shown a n d the n o t shown, the stated a n d the i m p l i e d , the articu­ lated a n d the suggested—for h e r e is w h e r e all art b e g i n s to manifest the complexities that m a k e s o m e formal analysis a necessity for sophisti­ cated appreciation.

Illustration #3: McCloud, page 66

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A s M c C l o u d eventually says, w h e n h e is s u m m i n g u p his findings, " T h e d a n c e o f the visible a n d the invisible is at the very heart o f comics t h r o u g h closure" ( 2 0 5 ) . A n earlier c o m m e n t , however, is perhaps m o r e to the point: " T h e c o m i c s creator asks us to j o i n in a silent d a n c e o f the seen a n d the u n s e e n . T h e visible a n d the invisible. T h i s d a n c e is u n i q u e to comics. N o o t h e r artform gives so m u c h to its a u d i e n c e while asking so m u c h from t h e m as well" ( 9 2 ) . In an essay o n L a Fontaine's Adonis, the F r e n c h p o e t Paul Valéry n o t e d a similar relation b e t w e e n the stated and unstated in poetry: "Follow the path o f y o u r aroused thought, and you will s o o n m e e t this infernal inscription: There is nothing so beautiful as that which does not exist," italics Valéry's. In a letter to a friend written after the publication o f his Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, the p h i l o s o p h e r Wittgen­ stein n o t e d the same relation even in philosophy: "My work consists o f two parts: the present o n e here plus all that I have n o t written. A n d it is precisely this second part that is the important one," italics Wittgenstein's. A n d , o f course, so-famously Keats wrote: "Heard m e l o d i e s are sweet. B u t those u n h e a r d are sweeter," w h i c h suggested a similar p o i n t about music. This relation b e t w e e n the e x p r e s s e d a n d the w i t h h e l d must exist in any art h i n g i n g o n representation—because o n e cannot, in any given art work, represent everything. S o m e t h i n g has to be left implied. If we take M c C l o u d to b e saying, by his d a n c e metaphor, that the c h o r e o g r a p h i c form o f the d a n c e is u n i q u e to e a c h m e d i u m , comics a m o n g t h e m , I have n o p r o b l e m with his assertion. T h a t the p o i n t has b e e n m a d e a n d m a d e frequently before gives reso­ n a n c e a n d pleasure. But M c C l o u d makes it well a n d specifically for com­ ics—and thus m a k e s it his o w n . In the course o f his discussion o f closure, M c C l o u d specifies six rela­ tionships that adjacent panels can have to o n e another: T h e panels can progress ( 1 ) m o m e n t - t o - m o m e n t , (2) action-to-action, (3) subject-tosubject, (4) scene-to-scene, (5) aspect-to-aspect, or be (6) n o n sequiturs. W h a t follows this is an extraordinarily illuminating analysis o f several c o m i c b o o k s , A m e r i c a n , E u r o p e a n , e x p e r i m e n t a l , and Japanese, as to the n u m b e r o f e a c h type o f transition. A m e r i c a n c o m i c s , w h e t h e r they are c o m m e r c i a l or u n d e r g r o u n d , all p r o d u c e the same graphic distribution, with action-to-action transition b e i n g far in the lead, with subject-to-subject transitions c o m i n g next, to b e followed by scene-to-scene transitions. O n l y in highly e x p e r i m e n t a l w o r k d o these p r o p o r t i o n s c h a n g e . Japanese c o m i c s also p r o d u c e a dif­ ferent g r a p h : A m e r i c a n c o m i c s almost n e v e r use aspect-to-aspect transi­ tions. J a p a n e s e c o m i c s use aspect-to-aspect transitions notably more than they use scene-to-scene transitions. I share M c C l o u d ' s h o p e that

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Illustration # 4 : McCloud, page 7 4 p o i n t i n g this o u t m i g h t inspire o u r c o m i c s writers a n d artists to try s o m e t h i n g new. T h e third area in w h i c h Mc­ C l o u d rises to brilliance is in his discussion o f c o m i c s time. O n e o f the most a m u s i n g a n d effective m o m e n t s in Understand­ ing Comics is w h e n M c C l o u d ex­ p l o d e s the n o t i o n that a single comics p a n e l shows only a single, isolated instant:

Illustration #5: McCloud, page 95

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In M c C l o u d ' s p a n e l above, possibly for as m u c h as thirty seconds, time runs left to right, intimately tied to the d u r a t i o n o f l a n g u a g e . His de­ tailed discussion o f this is intricate a n d illuminating. His a c c o u n t o f the various lines that c o m i c s have used to portray m o v e m e n t (zip-ribbons, as they w e r e o n c e called) leads, t h r o u g h a discussion o f "subjective mo­ tion," into a n o t h e r fine a n d revealing section o n the nature o f the ex­ pressive quality a n d variety o f line itself in c o m i c s art. In g e n e r a l , l o o k i n g b a c k t h r o u g h the several rich and suggestive argu­ m e n t s in Understanding Comics, I note that most o f the o n e s I've already p o i n t e d o u t (the nature o f faces a n d forms r e d u c e d to lines; the p o w e r o f the lines separating panels; lines used to signal m o v e m e n t in time and—finally—lines' vast r a n g e o f expressivity a n d e m o t i o n ) tend, in­ d e e d , to focus on the line. T h e line a n d its function in the range and field o f c o m i c s art are topics o n w h i c h M c C l o u d is unfailingly brilliant. M c C l o u d p r o p o s e s several analytical tools w h i c h h e uses to h e l p make his points. For e x a m p l e , b e t w e e n p a g e s 48 a n d 5 7 , h e poses a schematic triangle w h i c h plots artwork that is still referential a l o n g the b o t t o m line, from highly representational o n the left to highly schematic o n the right. T h e altitude o n M c C l o u d ' s triangle represents the m o v e from referential

Illustration #6: McCloud, page 51

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art, a l o n g the b o t t o m , to nonreferential art at the a p e x — w h a t M c C l o u d calls "the picture plane," a n d w h i c h m i g h t b e described as that art w h i c h , without referring to r e c o g n i z a b l e objects, instead f o r e g r o u n d s shape, line, color, a n d e v e n the materials—paint, ink, paper, a n d what-haveyou—for their o w n sake. S u c h scales are always provisional. I n d e e d , h a d M c C l o u d w a n t e d to o p e n u p his triangle's top v e r t e x a n d e x p a n d trian­ gle into rectangle, h e c o u l d have plotted abstract art a l o n g the u p p e r line from (say, o n the right) those works that e m p h a s i z e shape, line, a n d color to (on the left) those that e m p h a s i z e the physicality o f the materi­ als—ink, paint, paper, nails, string, w o o d , canvas, masonite, c h i c k e n w i r e , mirrors, o r what-have-you—in those abstract works (often called assem­ blages) that sometimes r e s e m b l e sculpture m o r e than painting. T o date, of course, there's n o t a g r e a t deal o f this in comics—-though o n e e x c e p ­ tion is the m o r e r e c e n t w o r k o f Dave M c K e a n , m a n y o f w h o s e Sandman covers are as m u c h assemblages as R a u s c h e n b e r g ' s briefly n o t o r i o u s Stuffed-Goat-with-Car-Tire (Monogram, 1 9 6 3 ) . We've already s p o k e n a b o u t M c C l o u d ' s six different kinds o f p a n e l transition—equally provisional. T h e third s c h e m a that h e c o m e s u p with is, for m e , the m o s t proble­ matic. M c C l o u d calls it "the six steps." T h i s follows u p o n a "definition o f art" that is equally p r o b l e m a t i c (and w h i c h I shall r e t u r n t o ) . M c C l o u d prefaces his "six steps" with the following statement: " ' P u r e ' art is essen­ tially tied to the question o f p u r p o s e — o f d e c i d i n g w h a t y o u w a n t o u t o f art. This is true in c o m i c s as it is in painting, writing, theater, film, sculp­ ture, or any other f o r m because the creation o f any work in any m e d i u m will always follow a certain path."

Illustration #7: McCloud, page 170

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M c C l o u d g o e s o n to describe e a c h o f these six steps: First [idea/purpose] : the impulses, the ideas, the emotions, the philosophies of the work . . . the work's "content." Second [form] : The form it will take . . . will it be a book? A chalk drawing? A chair? A song? A sculpture? A pot holder? A comic book? Third [idiom] : The "school" of art, the vocabulary of styles, ges­ tures, or subject matter, the genre that the work belongs to . . . maybe a genre of its own. Fourth [structure] : putting it all together . . . what to include, what to leave o u t . . . how to arrange, how to compose the work. Fifth [craft] : con­ structing the work, applying skills, practical knowledge, invention, problemsolving, getting the 'job" done. Sixth [surface] : production values, finishing . . . the aspect most apparent on first superficial exposure to the work. T h e f u n d a m e n t a l p r o b l e m I see with this s c h e m e is that too m u c h is p a c k e d into e a c h step, so that most o f t h e m have aspects both o f form and c o n t e n t a b o u t them. T h a t m i g h t even have b e e n M c C l o u d ' s purpose in formulating t h e m . But, for that reason, it tends to u n d e r c u t m u c h o f what h e has p r o p o s e d so far u n d e r that critically so necessary separation. It is the quotation marks a r o u n d ' j o b " in "getting the 'job' d o n e " and the idea o f "practical k n o w l e d g e " in the description o f n u m b e r five ("craft") that holds that description o p e n for my u n h a p p y a c c o u n t o f the function o f craft in c o m i c s art with w h i c h we b e g a n . T h e question M c C l o u d sidesteps taking o n directiy is: Just whose j o b is it, anyway? (Not in the sense o f w h o has to do it, b u t w h o owns it. It is n o accident that this has b e e n such a b i g part o f the nuts-and-bolts history o f recent comics.) T h e c o m i c s publisher? T h e comics buyer? O r the c o m i c s creator? T h e re­ lationship o f art and its a u d i e n c e in c o m i c s is o n e classical area o f art criticism that seems slighted in M c C l o u d ' s study—because, especially in comics, that relation, in terms o f a c c e p t a n c e , appreciation, and finally m o n e y is, thanks to f a n d o m , u n i q u e and has had a n d will have a great deal to d o with the d e v e l o p m e n t and growth o f comics, about which M c C l o u d is so luminously passionate. Finally, however, I think the most c o m m e n d a b l e aspect o f M c C l o u d ' s b o o k is its particular combination—manifested in its layout, its draftsman­ ship, its b r e a k d o w n o f ideas—of intelligence and enthusiasm. Either one without the other w o u l d have p r o d u c e d a very different, and lesser, work.

/// M c C l o u d has o t h e r things to say a b o u t the craft, the origins, and the def­ inition o f c o m i c s — a n d b e c a u s e h e d o e s n o t use the pages in w h i c h he

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says t h e m overtly to u n m a s k a n d demystify the contradictions i n h e r e n t in all three notions, his overall a r g u m e n t is m a r r e d — a n d m a r r e d seri­ ously. But it's a tribute to his critical intelligence that so m u c h of—and certainly the most interesting part of—what h e has to say lies outside these three essentialist b o g s , a n d is a n c h o r e d , rather, o n the g r o u n d i n g of his considerable analytical intellect. A t o n e point M c C l o u d writes (p. 1 6 3 ) , "Even today, there are those w h o ask the question, ' C a n c o m i c s be art?' It is—I'm sorry—a stupid question! B u t if we must answer it, the answer is yes. Especially if y o u r definition o f art is as b r o a d as m i n e . "

Illustration #8: McCloud, page 164 W h a t makes (or d o e s n o t m a k e ) the question stupid may not, how­ ever, be as self-evident as M c C l o u d suggests. A s R a y m o n d Williams ex­ plained in his b o o k Keywords ( O x f o r d , 1 9 7 6 ) "art" is o n e o f a n u m b e r o f terms ("civilization" is another, as are " m o d e r n , " "literature," "poetry" and, most interestingly, "definition" itself) that always have two m e a n i n g s that relate in a particular socially exploitable manner. O n e m e a n i n g is g e n e r o u s , inclusive, a n d largely value free: "Civilization" covers every­ thing that occurs in the range o f life in the d e v e l o p e d countries. "Art" is anything that a n y o n e , child or adult, skilled or unskilled, d o e s that is fo­ cused o n p r o d u c i n g an esthetic response, rather than fulfilling a func­ tional role. " M o d e r n " is the adjective for whatever is o c c u r r i n g in the world today. But each o f the terms also has a limited, value-bound m e a n i n g that re­ fers, not simply to different objects a n d materials (which w o u l d m a k e it a different word, or a h o m o n y m ) but rather to a limited (and, because o f the fuzzy nature o f those values, finally an impossible to define) subset o f what the larger m e a n i n g refers to. A l m o s t invariably, w h e n the limited

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m e a n i n g o f trie terms is invoked, it functions in the negative, as a means o f e x c l u s i o n . ' T h a t ' s n o t art. T h a t ' s just a child's scribbling," although the scribblings o f a c h i l d w o u l d b e easily i n c l u d e d in the n o t i o n o f art u n d e r the larger m e a n i n g . "People living like that in N e w York City in this day a n d a g e is j u s t uncivilized," t h o u g h what everyone does in New York, from the h o m e l e s s to D o n a l d T r u m p , is part o f civilization in the larger m e a n i n g . "What d o y o u m e a n , it's a c o m b i n a t i o n o f art and litera­ ture? It's a c o m i c b o o k ! " T h e fact is, until fairly recently for most p e o p l e "Can comics be art?" was n o t a stupid question. It wasn't a question at all. Rather it was what the split m e a n i n g s o f literature a n d art were there precisely to protect against: the serious consideration as art (in the limited, value-bound sense) o f any texts from any o f the paraliterary genres, SF, comics, por­ nography, mysteries, westerns . . . I n d e e d , the definition (and, t h o u g h I use the term rarely, h e r e I m e a n it in the limited, formal sense o f pre­ senting the necessary a n d sufficient conditions) o f "paraliterature" and "paraliterary" is specifically those written g e n r e s traditionally e x c l u d e d by the limited, v a l u e - b o u n d m e a n i n g o f "literature" and "literary." ( O n e o f the things M c C l o u d ' s analysis points to, t h o u g h it d o e s n o t say it outright, is that we n e e d c o m p a r a b l e terms, "art" and "para-art," to discuss with any precision the visual g e n r e s that are traditionally ex­ c l u d e d from the fine arts. A s M c C l o u d suggests, historically, in "para-art" a n d "paraliterature," words a n d images c o m b i n e easily [comics, advertis­ ing] , w h e r e a s in the fine arts a n d literature, t h o u g h from time to time they intersect [see M a r k V a r n a d e a u ' s extraordinarily informative High Art, Low Art], that intersection is m u c h m o r e anxiety-filled for middleclass a n d upper-middle-class audiences.) In short, the revolution in the value system o f c o n t e m p o r a r y art that M c C l o u d is so passionately p u s h i n g for is m u c h m o r e p r o f o u n d , com­ plex, a n d far-reaching than M c C l o u d ' s protestation o f the stupidity o f its central question takes a c c o u n t of. Calling that central question "stupid" is n o t the way to win that revolution; if anything, it u n d e r c u t s and even discredits the real advances M c C l o u d has m a d e in the sections o f Under­ standing Comics I've p o i n t e d o u t already. T h a t ' s a shame. B u t let us return to M c C l o u d ' s "definition" (when p e o p l e talk about multiple definitions o f the same topic, distinguishing some as "broad" a n d s o m e as "narrow," a n d w h e n these p r o p o s e d "definitions" are qual­ ified by phrases such as "to m e " a n d "as I see it," they are n o l o n g e r talk­ ing a b o u t formal definitions. T h e y are talking a b o u t the b r o a d e r mean­ i n g o f d e f i n i t i o n — s o m e f o r m or o t h e r o f "functional description." I h o p e , then, M c C l o u d m i g h t a c c e p t the less confusing term "functional

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description") o f art, expressed in the p a n e l o n the previous p a g e : "Art, as I see it, is any h u m a n activity that d o e s n ' t g r o w o u t o f either o f o u r species' two basic instincts: survival and r e p r o d u c t i o n . " O n e c a n only as­ sume, especially from the way the a r g u m e n t g o e s o n , that h e is using "re­ p r o d u c t i o n " as a m e t o n y m for "sex." O t h e r w i s e , we w o u l d have the im­ mediate p r o b l e m that everything h o m o s e x u a l s did that was o r i e n t e d toward sex w o u l d be art, while nothing heterosexuals d i d that was oriented toward sex w o u l d b e — e v e n if it involved the same actions. O r : A n y heterosexual b e h a v i o r that led to oral or anal sex w o u l d b e art, while, if the same behavior led to vaginal sex, it w o u l d n ' t b e . A n d so o n and so forth. T h a t , as I see it, just doesn't feel right. Readers familiar with a range o f esthedc speculation in the West will probably recognize, however, the g l i m m e r o f a useful idea in M c C l o u d ' s formation. Often t h r o u g h o u t the history o f criticism, the esthetic (not art) has b e e n described (not defined) as those aspects o f an object that are in excess o f the functional. (I've already used that description above.) Even t h o u g h it by n o m e a n s exhausts the topic, repeatedly this has proven to be a powerful a n d useful description o f the esthetic. B e c a u s e it is so m u d d l e d , however, it isn't, h e r e . If I may elaborate o n that strong form o f the description: A n y t h i n g designed to fulfill a task will have aspects that d o n o t directly contribute to the task's p e r f o r m a n c e . T h e s e aspects m a r k o u t the r e a l m o f the es­ thetic. Gross e x a m p l e s m i g h t i n c l u d e the designs o r scrimshaw o n the handle o f a knife; the paint c h o i c e o n a car; w h e t h e r o r n o t a m a c h i n e , whose cleanliness d o e s n o t effect its p e r f o r m a n c e , is k e p t shiny a n d pol­ ished or allowed to g e t dusty a n d dull. Fundamentally, these are esthetic aspects. T h e esthetic is (a further description) the realm in w h i c h art (in its large, value-free inclusive m e a n i n g ) takes place. T h e r e have b e e n powerful a n d incisive functional descriptions o f art that d o not so immediately stumble into the sort o f p r o b l e m s M c C l o u d ' s does. O n e was given by the a u t h o r o f Ada a n d Lolita, V l a d i m i r N a b o k o v : "Art is sensuous thought." O n e o f the pleasant things a b o u t N a b o k o v ' s description, not a c c o m p l i s h e d by M c C l o u d ' s (for w h o ' s to say that Under­ standing Comics was n o t a matter o f M c C l o u d ' s o w n intellectual survi­ val?) , is that it allows us to see M c C l o u d ' s own rich, sensuously visual, a n d passionate exegesis as art. A n d , for all my carping, it is. If, realizing the way in w h i c h the two m e a n i n g s o f definition (like the two meanings o f art) create an u n w i n n a b l e g a m e o f r o u n d - r o b i n chasing-after-one's-tail, critics o f the paraliterary c o u l d retire the n o t i o n of definition o n c e and for all, if they c o u l d restrict themselves to the far m o r e modest-seeming task o f describing o u r objects o f c o n c e r n (like comics, SF, p o r n o g r a p h y . . . ) , describing never-before-noticed aspects,

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p o i n t i n g o u t the m o s t interesting e x a m p l e s , describing the myriad and fascinating ways in w h i c h those aspects react with o n e a n o t h e r and how they interact with readers a n d the world, we w o u l d p r o d u c e a far less ar­ rogant, far m o r e interesting, far less self-crippling, a n d finally far m o r e powerful criticism—as d o e s M c C l o u d at his strongest—than we usually d o , a criticism that w o u l d g o far further toward effecting the revolution in esthetic values that M c C l o u d (and I) w o u l d like to see.

IV T h e i d e a o f "definition," with its suggestion o f the scientific, can be as­ sociated easily with the idea o f "mastery"—which, in turn, can be easily associated with the idea o f "origin" a n d "craft." B u t the fact is, we d o not master an art—and certainly we d o n o t master it t h r o u g h k n o w i n g the "the p r o p e r definition" or "mastering" its "origins" or simply learning its "craft." (Let m e reiterate: It is only the i d e a o f craft in opposition to art to w h i c h I object; in support o f the c o n c e p t o f art, craft is a useful and fine, e v e n necessary, c o n c e p t : B u t it is n o t sufficient to p r o d u c e art in the limited, v a l u e - b o u n d sense—as M c C l o u d h i m s e l f explains o n p. 1 7 1 . ) T h e m o r e w e study a n d dwell o n (and in) an art, the m o r e the art mas­ ters us. T h e clarity with w h i c h M c C l o u d reports o n the way the art o f c o m i c s has mastered h i m is a n o t h e r facet that gives Understanding Comics its brilliance. T h e p e o p l e w h o want to master an art, b e it comics, SF, pornography, or the various literary genres, are the gallery o f administrators and pro­ ducers, those w h o sink their m o n e y into its creation, its distribution, its sales; those w h o h o p e that, t h r o u g h such mastery, they can b e n d art to their own whims. T h e results are always broken-backed, limping, incoher­ ent pieces that, to the a u d i e n c e , are laughable and instantly forgettable. T h e reason for this is that, regardless o f h o w we like to talk about it, there is n o t h i n g there to be mastered. T h e r e are only things to be sub­ mitted to. T h e r e are at least three reasons to give u p the n o t i o n o f "definition" (and its a t t e n d a n t notions o f mastery, craft, a n d origins). O n e is logical; the o t h e r two are strategic. T h e logical reason, first: T h e o n e reason to keep using the w o r d defini­ tion w o u l d b e if o n e c o u l d form a definition in the limited, rigorous, for­ m a l sense o f the w o r d — o t h e r w i s e , to r e p e a t myself, we h a d better use the term "description" (or "functional description") to avoid confusion. T h e question then b e c o m e s , can w e create a limited, rigorous, formal definition o f a form o f art, a m o d e o f writing a n d pictures, a genre?

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Well, there is a certain o r d e r o f objects—ones that the late sociologist L u c i e n G o l d m a n n (in his brief b o o k , Philosophy and the Human Sciences, J o n a t h a n C a p e , 1 9 6 g ) called "social objects"—that resist formal defini­ tion, i.e., w e c a n n o t locate the necessary a n d sufficient c o n d i t i o n s that can describe t h e m with definitional rigor. Social objects are those that, instead o f existing as a relatively limited n u m b e r o f material objects, exist rather as an unspecified n u m b e r o f r e c o g n i t i o n c o d e s (functional descriptions, if y o u will) shared by an u n l i m i t e d p o p u l a t i o n , in w h i c h new and different e x a m p l e s are regularly p r o d u c e d . G e n r e s , discourses, and g e n r e collections are all social objects. A n d w h e n a discourse (or genre collection, such as art) e n c o u r a g e s , values, a n d privileges original­ ity, creativity, variation, and c h a n g e in its n e w e x a m p l e s , it should b e selfevident why "definition" is an impossible task (since the object itself, if it is healthy, is constantly d e v e l o p i n g a n d c h a n g i n g ) , e v e n for s o m e o n e w h o finds it difficult to follow the fine points. T h e strategic reasons are m o r e d o w n to earth. O n l y since the late six­ ties, with the advent o f the schools o f criticism k n o w n as structuralism, poststructuralism, a n d semiotics, have s o m e o f these limitations o f what is logically do-able a n d what is n o t b e c o m e generally k n o w n to a fairly large n u m b e r o f ( t h o u g h by n o m e a n s all) literary critics. In the 1930s, many A m e r i c a n critics w a n t e d to m a k e criticism m o r e scientific. Critical literature o f that time a b o u n d e d in attempts to define rigorously notions such as the epic, the novel, tragedy, poetry, the liter­ ary, the lyric. . . . Many o f these critics (they w e r e often o f a left political persuasion) b e g a n to l o o k at the p o p u l a r arts. Fields such as science fic­ tion, the mystery, a n d film b e g a n to c o m e u n d e r the critical spodight. A t the same time, m o r e conservative critics were b e g i n n i n g to dismantle the various p r o p o s e d definitional projects. T h e s e critics ( m o r e a b o u t t h e m later) were often hostile to the p o p u l a r cultural aspect o f w h a t their fel­ lows were d o i n g . B u t finally, in the forties a n d fifties, u n d e r the t r i u m p h of what was then called "the N e w Criticism," all b u t the last o f these defi­ nitional projects were generally given u p . Often they w e n t o u t with an ironic flourish: Randall Jarrell, an e x e m ­ plary N e w Critic, gave what may b e the last "definition" o f the novel in his 1 9 6 5 preface to Christina Stead's The Man Who Loved Children ("An U n r e a d B o o k " ) , "a novel is a prose narrative o f s o m e l e n g t h that has something w r o n g with it." G e o r g e Steiner, in his study The Death of Trag­ edy, e n d e d the search for a definition there, by resurrecting an a n c i e n t writer w h o h a d noted, a b o u t the form, " T h e best o f t h e m are sad." O n e would have h o p e d that, in the field o f p o p u l a r culture in those same years, D a m o n Knight's famous "ostensive definition" from p a g e 1 o f In Search of Wonder ( 1 9 5 6 ) m i g h t have s o u n d e d a similarly e l e g a n t death

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knell to the impossible task o f defining science fiction: " [ T ] h e term 'sci­ e n c e fiction' is a m i s n o m e r . . . trying to g e t two enthusiasts to agree on a definition o f it only leads to b l o o d y knuckles: . . . but that will d o us n o particular h a r m if w e r e m e m b e r that, like The Saturday Evening Post, it m e a n s w h a t w e p o i n t to w h e n we say it." For those w h o n e e d it spelled out, the h u m o r lies in the fact that it's u n d e c i d a b l e w h e t h e r that "when we say it" m e a n s "by saying it" o r "at the same time as we say it." O n e w o u l d have liked to have h e a r d a b i g laugh. T h e n w e m i g h t have g o n e o n to m o r e useful critical tasks. I n d e e d , it c o u l d have b r o u g h t to an e n d all the attempts to define the other paraliterary genres as well. W h a t that w o u l d have a c c o m p l i s h e d is the first step in putting the paraliterary g e n r e s o n the same level as the (now all-but-universally a c k n o w l e d g e d to be) undefinable literary genres. We h a d n o tradition o f a c a d e m i c rigor, however, to pressure us. O n c e the populist critics t u r n e d away from us, w e w e r e left with a g e n e r a l dis­ trust o f the a c a d e m y (that c a m e from o u r working-class roots), and be­ cause there was little pressure o n us to develop o u r own criticism (though in the fanzines a n d t h r o u g h c o n v e n t i o n panels w e have d o n e a great deal o f it—and m u c h o f it has b e e n powerful a n d i m p o r t a n t ) , in terms o f terminology, w e ' v e simply g o n e o n using o u r b o r r o w e d vocabulary a n d talking a b o u t definitions for the last sixty years. W h a t M c C l o u d a n d the o t h e r critics o f the paraliterary (e.g., James G u n n , in science fiction) d o n ' t s e e m to realize is that o u r very insistence that o u r g e n r e might be susceptible to "rigorous definition" functions today as a ready-made admission that the g e n r e must be substantially less c o m p l e x a n d vital than any o f the literary genres. O u r adversaries rea­ son: "Since their g e n r e is created only with craft (and not art—note here the two function in distinct o p p o s i t i o n ) , a paraliterary g e n r e can be art only u n d e r the larger a n d inclusive m e a n i n g . It can't b e art in the lim­ ited, v a l u e - b o u n d m e a n i n g : S c i e n c e fiction, comics, pornography, mys­ teries can b e c o n s i d e r e d art, at best, in the way Morris chairs or Wedg­ w o o d c h i n a (easily definable objects, by the bye) are art, b u t obviously n o t in the way that a p o e m (in the undefinable g e n r e o f poetry) is art. T h e fact that any given o n e a m o n g these g e n r e s is definable (or that its most interesting critical practitioners, such as M c C l o u d , k e e p insisting that it is) is p r o o f positive it must be simple a n d s e c o n d rate!" B e f o r e w e leave those thirties/fifties critics, with their desire to make literary criticism c o m p e t e with science by i m p o r t i n g the notion o f defini­ tion into it, a n d their o p e n n e s s to the paraliterary field o f (especially) mysteries a n d science fiction (most o f t h e m drew the line at comics; but b e c a u s e the c o m i c s w o r l d h a d so m u c h social i n t e r c h a n g e with these o t h e r g e n r e s , the critical vocabulary a n d c o n c e p t s spread), w e n e e d to

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make a final point, w h i c h will b e c o m e i m p o r t a n t later o n . A s m u c h as they favored p o p u l a r art, these critics w e r e also loudly o p p o s e d to the new w o r k that is today called H i g h M o d e r n i s m — t h e w o r k today repre­ sented by Eliot, P o u n d , a n d C r a n e in poetry in this country, a n d D . H . Lawrence, W y n d h a m Lewis, and Joyce in the British Isles. T h e i r reasons were clear a n d political. W h i l e a c k n o w l e d g i n g the range a n d vigor o f the n e w collage t e c h n i q u e s a n d anti-narrative struc­ tures with w h i c h these artists b r o a d e n e d the r a n g e o f their m o n o l o g u e s , they still realized that w h e n , in part II o f his first major p o e m , "For the Marriage o f Faustus and H e l e n " ( 1 9 2 3 ) , C r a n e wrote This crashing opéra bouffe, Blest excursion! this ricochet From roof to roof— Know, Olympians, we are breathless While nigger cupids scour the stars! it was n o t s o m e illiterate southern farmer w h o k n e w n o o t h e r term for black p e o p l e w h o was given voice in C r a n e ' s lines. Rather it was a trendy upper-middle-class white voice, that h a d m a d e a c h o i c e to i g n o r e the po­ litical politeness o f the day a n d w h o s e jazz-age allegiances C r a n e ' s p o e m was celebrating. W h e n , in a section P o u n d h a d e x c i s e d from The Waste Land a n d that Eliot published two years b e f o r e the l o n g e r p o e m , u n d e r the title Gerontion ( 1 9 2 0 ) , Eliot wrote My house is a decayed house, And the jew squats on the window sill, the owner, spawned in some estaminet of Antwerp, Blistered in Brussels, patched and peeled in London. (the lower-case ' j " there is Eliot's), o r titled his p o e m "Burbank with a Baedeker: Bleistein with a C i g a r " ( ' T h e rats are u n d e r n e a t h the p i l e s . / T h e Jew is u n d e r n e a t h the lot. / M o n e y in furs. T h e b o a t m a n smiles . . . " ) , he was e v o k i n g the most u n t h i n k i n g stereotype o f the m o n e y g r u b b i n g Jewish landlord, tourist, a n d businessman. I n d e e d , the latter p o e m operates within the most anti-Semitic o f m o d e l s for Jewish "deca­ d e n c e , " g o i n g at least as far back as W a g n e r ' s notorious anti-Semitic arti­ cle, 'Jewry in Music" ( 1 8 5 1 ) : the Jew can only receive cultural i n p u t but c a n n o t create valid w o r k because o f his c o m m i t m e n t to trade, money, and (as it is symbolized in the Ring) g o l d . P o u n d ' s years o f p r o p a g a n d a broadcasts for Mussolini e a r n e d h i m a

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conviction o f either treason or madness: P o u n d chose madness. But even the award o f the 1 9 4 7 B o l l i n g e n Prize c o u l d not erase the sour, treasonous taste o f those radio programs. T h e fascist ideas o f L a w r e n c e (with his love o f the idea o f racial m e m ­ ory a n d m e t a p h o r s o f b l o o d and soil) a n d Lewis were even clearer. T h a t Joyce's Ulysses can b e read as the celebration o f the daily heroism of an ordinary, working-class D u b l i n Jew is probably a larger reason than many critics w o u l d like to admit as to why it has floated to the top o f the H i g h M o d e r n i s t p o o l a n d stayed there. Similarly, D j u n a Barnes's astute a n d finally compassionate analysis o f the place o f the Jew in E u r o p e a n culture that forms the o p e n i n g m o v e m e n t o f Nightwood ( 1 9 3 6 ) may well a c c o u n t for why, slowly but inexorably, that novel has risen to take its well-deserved p l a c e h i g h in the m o d e r n i s t p a n t h e o n . W h a t can't be de­ nied, however, is that all these Protestant a n d Catholic writers were fasci­ nated with the p l a c e o f Jews a n d the 'Jewish p r o b l e m , " all t h r o u g h the course o f H i g h M o d e r n i s m . W h e t h e r well or badly, sympathetically or hostilely, they all wrote a b o u t it. T h o u g h Eliot's b r a i n - d e a d e n i n g w o r k in an English b a n k a n d C r a n e , in his six-dollar-a-week r o o m at 1 1 0 C o l u m b i a Heights in Brooklyn, lust­ i n g after the eight-dollar-a-week r o o m with a view o f the bridge, are both m y t h e m e s o f H i g h M o d e r n i s m , b o t h Eliot a n d C r a n e c a m e from money. B o t h their decisions to be poets m e a n t a g o o d l y a m o u n t o f family ten­ sion and, finally, financial a b a n d o n m e n t . (A candy manufacturer in Cleveland, C r a n e ' s father has the dubious distinction o f having invented the Life Saver.) In 1 9 3 4 Wallace Stevens b e c a m e a vice president o f the Hartford A c ­ c i d e n t a n d I n d e m n i t y C o m p a n y , w h e r e h e ' d w o r k e d since 1 9 1 6 . A l m o s t Byronically p o p u l a r in h e r time (and the only p o e t o f h e r times, claimed critic E d m u n d Wilson, whose w o r k felt like that o f a major p o e t while she was alive), only E d n a St. V i n c e n t Millay c a m e from m o r e h u m b l e begin­ nings, despite h e r scholarship to Vassar. She was the most esthetically conservative, a n d today is the least read, m o v i n g toward an obscurity in w h i c h she has b e e n p r e c e d e d by the o n c e extraordinarily p o p u l a r black poet, Paul L a w r e n c e Dunbar, a n d in w h i c h she is gradually b e i n g fol­ l o w e d by Jeffers, S a n d b e r g , R o b i n s o n — a n d even possibly Frost. Politi­ cally (with the e x c e p t i o n o f Millay), the A m e r i c a n poets o f the twenties were the most lackadaisical o f liberals, easily swayed by reactionary ideas, a n d even violently conservative ones, as in the case o f P o u n d . A m o n g the thirties A m e r i c a n critics, sympathy with the p o p u l a r and a c o r r e s p o n d i n g distaste for H i g h M o d e r n i s m ' s politics eventually coa­ lesced into what, sadly, was an all-too-easy a r g u m e n t . Since the workingclass a u d i e n c e for p o p u l a r culture so frequently f o u n d the esthetic

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pyrotechnics in these new works alien a n d off-putting, this was p u t for­ ward, by the critics, as the major sign o f h i g h art's esthetic (rather than po­ litical) failing. It was not a g o o d a r g u m e n t . T o o m a n y things lay repressed b e n e a t h it. But I said w e ' d c o m e back to these critics' critics. T h e Nazi persecutions in G e r m a n y p r o d u c e d a migration o f extraor­ dinary G e r m a n intellectuals, m a n y o f t h e m Jewish, into the U n i t e d States—novelists like T h o m a s M a n n a n d H e r m a n B r o c h , musicians like A r n o l d S c h o e n b e r g , a n d university figures like H a n n a h A r e n d t , H e r b e r t Marcuse, a n d T h e o d o r A d o r n o . T h e situation o f c o n t e m p o r a r y art in G e r m a n y and France was very different from that in A m e r i c a . In Ger­ many and France the avant-garde was solidly o n the left, a n d the left aca­ demics solidly supported them: A f o r m e r music student o f A l b a n Berg's, A d o r n o had already written his b o o k , The Philosophy of New Music, in which he d e f e n d e d S c h o e n b e r g ' s atonal works (and castigated the far m o r e p o p u l a r Stravinsky). Walter B e n j a m i n ( t h o u g h h e set o u t for A m e r i c a , h e c o m m i t t e d suicide w h e n the Nazis d e t a i n e d h i m a n d o t h e r refugees at the Spanish border, the vision o f c o n c e n t r a t i o n c a m p s t o o m u c h for h i m to bear) had already written the essays that w o u l d m a k e u p his Brecht b o o k . W h a t those w h o arrived h e r e f o u n d in the A m e r i c a n aca­ demic left was the vulgarest o f "vulgar" Marxism. In particular A d o r n o h e l d n o brief for p o p u l a r culture. In G e r m a n popular culture, the film industry h a d b e e n a m o n g the first institutions to be taken over by the Nazis. B u t m a n e u v e r i n g the prejudices o f the working class and lower m i d d l e class to g e t t h e m to d o what he wanted was the n a m e o f Hitler's g a m e . A l l A d o r n o c o u l d see in the A m e r i c a n radio shows and films o f the forties was patriotic p a b u l u m for the masses, which, if it h a d any liberal leanings at all, was only because it was n o t u n d e r any particular pressure to b e otherwise. (Nor w o u l d fifties McCarthyism and the H o l l y w o o d blacklists m a k e h i m any m o r e san­ guine. T h o u g h h e is not cited in their bibliography, A d o r n o ' s ideas o n popular culture are very close to those f o u n d in my o l d e l e m e n t a r y school friend Ariel D o r f m a n a n d A r m a n d Mattelart's How to Read Donald Duck [Valparaiso, 1 9 7 1 / N e w York, 1 9 7 5 ] . ) T h e s e thinkers and the schol­ ars w h o were i n f l u e n c e d by t h e m b e g a n to m o u n t their critique o n the A m e r i c a n a c a d e m i c populists. W h y n o t try a n o t h e r careful r e a d i n g o f the H i g h Modernists? Perhaps they c o u l d be r e d e e m e d — a s they already were in E u r o p e . B u t p o p u l a r culture was lost—a m e r e p u p p e t o f the d o m i n a n t ideology. A t least in E u r o p e it h a d b e e n . U n d e r the critique o f these n e w c o m e r s , the A m e r i c a n critics b e g a n to retreat from the popular. T h e b a d faith at their a r g u m e n t ' s h e a r t (the use o f the esthetic as a s m o k e screen to mask political disapproval)

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was u n c o v e r e d — t h o u g h in the realms o f the paraliterary, writers, edi­ tors, a n d o t h e r folk, left to themselves, still h e l d to the arguments and t e r m i n o l o g y a b a n d o n e d , as it were, in their yard, without ever m a n a g i n g to think t h r o u g h (or m o u n t for themselves) the critique that, in the uni­ versity, h a d d e m o l i s h e d many o f the ideas involved. Often w h e n w e l o o k at what cridcs in the paraliterary fields are doing, even today, w e see p e o p l e g o i n g t h r o u g h the empty gestures from the thirties (e.g., immediately trying to define their g e n r e as an o p e n i n g m o v e , before g o i n g o n to a discussion o f origins), gestures that were de­ t e r m i n e d by a g r o u p o f critics a n d ideas that, today, simply d o n ' t com­ m a n d m u c h respect. By the r e p e a t e d attempts to define this or that para­ literary g e n r e , instead o f j u s t g o i n g a b o u t the task o f describing what in the g e n r e interests t h e m , critically (I h o p e I've m a d e it clear) M c C l o u d a n d others shoot themselves in the foot. A n o t h e r strategic reason to give u p the n o t i o n o f definitions is because, to the larger world o f c o n t e m p o ­ rary criticism, save a m o n g the most reactionary forces still fighting some last-ditch holding-battle against m o d e r n i s m itself, we l o o k pretty silly, constantly r u n n i n g u p a n d b a n g i n g into a logical wall that everybody else l e a r n e d l o n g - a g o is n o t g o i n g to g o away, then, eyes still d a z e d and spin­ n i n g , l o o k i n g a b o u t for pats o n the h e a d for o u r stubbornness. T h e s e c o n d strategic reason is, however, m o r e important than what o t h e r critics will think o f us. It can be f o u n d in M c C l o u d ' s own passion­ ate t h o u g h t s a b o u t comics. (I h o p e h e will forgive m e for extracting this bit o f text from the several integral pictures w h i c h , in Understanding Com­ ics, l e n d it an entirely different o r d e r o f immediacy) : As comics grows into the next century, creators will aspire to many higher goals than appealing to the "lowest common denominators." Ignorance and short-sighted business practices will no doubt obscure the possibilities of com­ ics from time to dme as they always have. But the truth about comics can't stay hidden from view forever, and sooner or later the truth will shine through! Today the possibilities for comics are—as they always have been—endless. Comics offers tremendous resources to all writers and artists: faithfulness, con­ trol, a chance to be heard far and wide without the fear of compromise . . . It offers range and versatility with all the potential imagery of film and painting plus the intimacy of the written word. And all that's needed is the desire to be heard—the will to learn—and the ability to see. (Ellipsis McCloud's.) T h i s m a n passionately desires that comics c h a n g e and grow. Why should s o m e o n e with such desires attempt to strait his arguments and ob­ servations o f his cherished object within the restrictive wall o f definition?

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W o n ' t careful analytic description o f what is vital, intriguing, newly no­ ticed, and w o n d r o u s a b o u t c o m i c s (what they are; h o w they work) finally d o the j o b m u c h better? W h y d o we n e e d the a p p e a l to that extra, transcendental authority o f science that "definition" falsely holds out, but w h i c h , as we r e a c h for it, finally a n d only betrays (and, for certain critics, confirms the truth of) o u r own inferiority? Like M c C l o u d , I too want to see c o m i c s d e v e l o p a n d grow. L i k e M c C l o u d , I think the seeds o f that growth have l o n g since b e e n planted, have sprouted, and, t h r o u g h o u t the history o f comics, have already yielded fine harvests. B u t I w o u l d also like to see the criticism o f c o m i c s grow u p . A n d it will not, until it can a b a n d o n that galaxy o f notions, ori­ gins, mastery, craft—and definition. It must a b a n d o n t h e m b e c a u s e they represent the several s m o k e screens b e h i n d w h i c h false authority has al­ ways tried to h o l d back the d e v e l o p m e n t o f art. Traditionally "origins" and "definition" are the two that critics have used most widely to i m p e d e artistic c h a n g e : "Because y o u have n o t studied the p r o p e r origins o f the genres, y o u d o n ' t really know what the g e n r e is (its definition) a n d so are not qualified to w o r k in it." Two c o m m e n t s . First: In the paraliterary g e n r e s w e d o n o t have enough critics, o r a strong e n o u g h critical establishment, for this stance yet to b e c o m e a real p r o b l e m . B u t it has often functioned as a powerful stifling force in the literary and fine arts genres. But, within the d e a d t e r m i n o l o g y a n d empty concepts we can already find, h e r e a n d there, in M c C l o u d ' s b o o k , the basis for the p r o b l e m is already apparent, a n d it c o u l d easily g r o w into s o m e t h i n g sizable if those c o n c e p t s are n o t clearly a n d repeatedly ana­ lyzed and dismissed for what they are. A personal e x a m p l e : In 1 9 9 5 , the M u s e u m o f M o d e r n A r t invited m e to write an "Introduction" to the c a t a l o g u e for an u p c o m i n g exhibit, Video Spaces, that ran t h r o u g h the s u m m e r a n d a u t u m n o f that year, a n d I discovered a policy o f the M O M A ' s Publications D e p a r t m e n t : While y o u can state pretty m u c h any o p i n i o n y o u like, y o u are n o t al­ lowed to m a k e a factual statement a b o u t art o r its history in a M u s e u m publication unless y o u are a b o n a fide art critic with an a d v a n c e d d e g r e e in art history. Even statements such as "van G o g h w o r k e d o n Wheatfield with Crows only days before his suicide at the e n d o f July 1 8 9 0 , " verifiable from any standard biography, or " T h e d o m i n a n t colors in Wheatfield with Crows are yellow a n d b l u e , " verifiable by eye to a n y o n e , are strongly dis­ c o u r a g e d unless they c o m e from a c c r e d i t e d historians. T h e M u s e u m ' s editors constantly rewrite such statements from their g u e s t writers as, "To m e the main c o l o r o f this painting appears to b e yellow a n d b l u e , " or, "I

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s e e m to r e m e m b e r r e a d i n g s o m e w h e r e that van G o g h painted this pic­ ture shortly b e f o r e his death, b u t I can't b e sure." W h e n I asked about this, I was told: "Because this is a M u s e u m publication, we simply can't m a k e mistakes. So w e j u s t d o n ' t let the kind o f sentences o c c u r w h e r e factual mistakes m i g h t fall." A s a n o n e x p e r t writing for M O M A , y o u can have an o p i n i o n a b o u t anything; b u t y o u are n o t qualified to state any facts—at least a b o u t art. T h e policy extends, incidentally, even to those M O M A curators w h o d o n o t have a d v a n c e d d e g r e e s a n d are n o t them­ selves a c c r e d i t e d art historians. A t the same time, w h e n I was writing a b o u t science fiction, my o w n field o f expertise, the same editors w o u l d blithely insert o r subtract phrases that m a d e the accounts o f story plots or e v e n g e n r e history b o g g l i n g l y inaccurate. Also the initial contract of­ f e r e d for the p i e c e was a "work for hire" c o n t r a c t — w h i c h was only re­ p l a c e d by a better o n e w h e n I p o i n t e d o u t the first o n e was illegal. S o u n d familiar, guys? T h e p o i n t is n o t that M O M A is, somehow, an evil o r g a n i z a t i o n . Rather, the same forces are at w o r k in b o t h locations, p r o d u c i n g the same results. S e c o n d : T h e r e is an inverse o f the statement from four paragraphs above: "If y o u do study the always m a n y a n d c o m p l e x origins o f an art form, y o u are m o r e likely to have a b r o a d e r r a n g e o f notions o f what that art f o r m m i g h t b e (i.e., a richer set o f descriptions), and thus are m o r e likely to h e l p it g r o w a n d c h a n g e in interesting ways." T h i s statement is true—while the earlier statement is false. B u t I w o u l d h o p e that we c o u l d recall o u r first-term logic classes: R e a s o n i n g from the inverse (or the con­ verse) is false r e a s o n i n g . Frankly, I think every day before breakfast every critic o f the paraliterary s h o u l d b e o b l i g e d to c o p y out a d o z e n times: " T h e ' o r i g i n ' is never an objective reality; it is always a political con­ struct." ' T h e ' o r i g i n ' is never an objective reality; it is always a political con­ struct." ' T h e ' o r i g i n ' is never an objective reality; it is always a political con­ struct . . . " In the same way that origins a n d definitions form the usual smoke screen b e h i n d w h i c h critics h i d e their lack o f esthetic authority, craft a n d mastery f o r m the traditional s m o k e screen b e h i n d w h i c h producers, publishers, and, in g e n e r a l , p e o p l e with m o n e y w h o have b e e n trying to e x p l o i t art since the Renaissance u p to the latest i n c o h e r e n t l y scripted 5 0 - m i l l i o n - d o l l a r b l o c k b u s t e r h i d e theirs: "He's talented, certainly. His w o r k is very artistic. I j u s t d o n ' t think he's mastered the craft well e n o u g h to . . ." (note: A g a i n , h e r e craft is b e i n g opposed to art) w h i c h simply m e a n s h e w o n ' t d o what y o u tell h i m to d o b e c a u s e y o u ask h i m to, or be­ cause y o u ' r e signing the c h e c k s .

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V As I've said, w h e n M c C l o u d ' s topics are line a n d its function in c o m i c s , or the galaxy o f effects that line can p r o d u c e (unto the colors lines can h o l d within the shapes they f o r m ) , he is brilliant. B u t because o f his c o m m i t m e n t s to "origins" a n d "definitions," his ar­ g u m e n t s that lean o n c o n c e p t s o f history are a m a d d e n i n g a m a l g a m o f truth and absurdity. T h e sensitive r e a d e r must g o t h r o u g h t h e m in fulltilt opposition to m u c h that h e says, ready to a r g u e with h i m s e n t e n c e by sentence. M u c h of Understanding Comics's chapter 5, t h o u g h called "Living in Line," turns out to be about history, with a discussion o f prehistoric cave drawings o n page 1 4 1 , hieroglyphics and Chinese characters o n p a g e 1 4 2 , the development o f print o n p a g e 1 4 3 , and a discussion o f the relation between words and pictures from the fifteenth century to the n i n e t e e n t h o n pages 1 4 4 and 1 4 5 . O n p a g e 1 5 0 , we find a bit o f historical sleight o f hand. T o untangle it, we have to analyze b o t h words a n d pictures:

Illustration #9: McCloud, page 150 T h e picture that the five b a c k g r o u n d characters are c o m m e n t i n g o n parodies the paintings o f B a r c e l o n a - b o r n J o a n M i r ô ( 1 8 9 3 - 1 9 8 3 ) . T h e g r o u p i n g a r o u n d the painting is definitely w o r k i n g class, a n d their Phi­ listine responses are ironized by the ( h e m i ) h e a d o f the child (the least noticeable o f the five) in the middle, d e c l a r i n g in h i s / h e r small b a l l o o n : "Cool." Obviously the little o n e will g r o w u p to b e c o m e an alternative comics artist. O v e r the n e x t five panels, M c C l o u d tells us: "In fact, the g e n e r a l public's p e r c e p t i o n o f 'great' art a n d 'great' writing hasn't c h a n g e d

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m u c h in 1 5 0 years," w h e r e u p o n h e adds a footnote: "Not as m u c h as we like to think it has, anyway. " M c C l o u d g o e s on: "Any artist wishing to d o great work in a m e d i u m using words a n d pictures will have to c o n t e n d with this attitude," by w h i c h I assume h e m e a n s the incomprehensibility to the average viewer, "in others and in themselves . . . because, d e e p d o w n inside, many comics creators still m e a s u r e art a n d writing by different standards and act on the faith that 'great' art a n d 'great' writing will c o m b i n e harmoniously by virtue o f quality alone. T h e art form o f comics is many centuries old, b u t it's p e r c e i v e d as a r e c e n t invention a n d suffers the curse o f all new media, the curse o f b e i n g j u d g e d by the standards o f the o l d " (ellipsis M c C l o u d ' s ) . After some e x a m p l e s o f a new m e d i u m j u d g e d by standards o f an older o n e ( w r i t i n g j u d g e d as aide de mémoire, m o v i e s j u d g e d as plays, 3. T h e single quotes around 'great' in M c C l o u d above suggest that he knows, or at any rate is willing to suggest that he is aware of, how much of a revolution he is proposing. It is very likely that the idea of grarfart, as we have known it from the romantic period o n , will have to be dismantled as well, if the notion of an art that allows the art work from any group, central or marginal, to be seriously considered is to prevail. In what is certainly a too-abbreviated account, the reason The Iliad and The Odyssey were assumed to be 'great' f r o m the Renaissance o n is because it was assumed, in the period c. 800 B.c. when they were written, that they were the first major pieces written for the ruling class, to celebrate the ruling class, and that the ruling class approved highly of the way they had been cele­ brated. T h e classic was, then, invented as a model to imitate. (It was assumed that the Ro­ mans had assumed the same thing, so that even the attempt to imitate the model, as the Ro­ mans had, in Virgil's Aeneid, was, indeed, the imitation of an already extant model of imitation—as had Dante in his Commedia.) A r t becomes great when it becomes endowed with the national spirit, and the national spirit is one with the dominant ideology of the so­ ciety. This model fell to pieces as soon as the majority of intellectuals ceased to come from the ruling classes and could start to praise art that severely criticized, rather than cele­ brated, the dominant ideology. T h e next step—and the reason why it is a revolution—is the idea of analyzing, praising, and celebrating art that simply isn't concerned with the dominant ideology, one way or the other. T h r o u g h A d o r n o , it was assumed that all art must be focused there, and any art that appeared not to be was secretly, then, supporting it by covering it up. T h e notion that, within the realm of the esthetic, through a structure of ref­ erences and ironies, art can simply be d o i n g something else (Politically? Certainly. Ideologi­ cally? Inescapably. A n d esthetically interesting) is, I suspect, the gift—some will think it a catastrophe—the postmodern has to give. Society itself has become too complex for the notion of a single national spirit, bodied forth in the nation's great art, to endure. If any analysis is to take place at all, intellectuals from many classes and areas must begin to look at smaller, subnational units—and that is also, and relevantiy, the model for art that M c C l o u d (I suspect) and I (definitely) are put­ ting forward, which allows comics, as well as many, many other kinds of art, till now dis­ missed as marginal, to be considered in their full esthetic richness. That leaves excellent art and good art and bad art. A n d interesting art and uninteresting art. A n d , yes, the level of critical subjectivity and political bias involved in the judgments will have to be, at last, ac­ knowledged as far higher than they have been acknowledged up till now.

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TV j u d g e d as radio with pictures), M c C l o u d c o n c l u d e s : "Far too m a n y comics creators have n o h i g h e r goal than to m a t c h the a c h i e v e m e n t s o f other m e d i a a n d view any c h a n c e to w o r k in o t h e r m e d i a as a step u p . A n d , again, as l o n g as w e view c o m i c s as a g e n r e o f writing o r style o f graphic art this attitude may never disappear." N o w all o f this is s u c h an intricate interweave o f insight a n d idiocy, played o u t against a set o f wildly inaccurate historical assumptions, I d o n ' t k n o w w h e t h e r we can tease o u t all its strands h e r e . U n r a v e l i n g a few, however, m i g h t be instructive. T h e critical position M c C l o u d ' s p a n e l dramatizes is o n e tile in the larger mosaic o f the p o p u l i s t / a n t i - m o d e r n i s t critics' a r g u m e n t o f the thirties. T h e hostility o f the w o r k i n g class a n d m i d d l e class to m o d e r n art o n esthetic g r o u n d s is used to support these critics' disapproval o f what was often, i n d e e d , these artists' politics. T h e historical view that position is based o n is right there in M c C l o u d ' s words, with its 150-year p e r i o d w i t h o u t basic or f u n d a m e n t a l c h a n g e in the esthetic situation. Understanding Comics was written in 1 9 9 2 , so that 150-year p e r i o d e x t e n d s back to 1842 —the b e g i n n i n g s o f what, today, we call m o d e r n i s m , with its three continental giants, Flaubert, B a u d e ­ laire, a n d Wagner. (At o n e p o i n t in Understanding Comics, M c C l o u d cites them.) T h e transition b e t w e e n the generally figurative impressionism a n d post-impressionism o f the 1870s t h r o u g h the 1890s a n d u p to the ab­ straction that has c o m e to d o m i n a t e serious western art in the vast major­ ity o f its galleries and m u s e u m s today (and functions as a sign o f the transition b e t w e e n early m o d e r n i s m in g e n e r a l a n d H i g h M o d e r n i s m in particular) is usually ascribed to a 1 9 0 4 trip Picasso took with D e r a i n (some say Matisse) to the T r o c a d e r o , a Spanish fort j u s t outside Paris, used at the time as an e x h i b i t i o n hall. T h a t spring there was a large a n d impressive exhibition o f African masks. T h e French painters were hugely impressed by the expressive p o w e r and the sense o f p r e s e n c e g a i n e d t h r o u g h the figurai distortion a n d ex­ aggeration in these sculptural forms. T h e y b e g a n s e n d i n g all their friends to see the exhibition as well. F r o m this e n c o u n t e r o f F r e n c h art­ ists with the African esthetic o f "significant f o r m " (at least that's w h a t western critics have since called it), in the h a n d s o f Picasso, B r a q u e , a n d Gris resulted in cubism, w h i c h led shortly to expressionism a n d the g e n ­ eral turn o f serious art to the variety o f abstractions M c C l o u d places u n d e r the rubric o f "the picture plane." Joan Mirô, the painter whose work is p a r o d i e d in the picture, painted in this particular style in the 1930s a n d 1940s. T h e y a h o o s r e p r e s e n t e d

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in M c C l o u d ' s p a n e l evoke working-class characters from the post-World War II p e r i o d in the forties a n d fifties—when the transition from repre­ sentational to abstract h a d l o n g since o c c u r r e d . M c C l o u d posits an un­ b r o k e n 150-year p e r i o d in w h i c h , say, the protests o f the upper-middleclass M u n i c h c o n c e r t g o e r s in the early 1840s that B e e t h o v e n ' s Ninth Symphony was "mere n o i s e " is fundamentally the same p h e n o m e n o n as the non-art-buying lower m i d d l e class's dismissal o f the already 50-yearo l d m o v e m e n t toward abstraction that already d o m i n a t e d the world of art buyers a n d gallery owners in the p e r i o d after World War II. B u t the n o t i o n that the b o u r g e o i s revolution o f 1848 a n d the equivalent fracases over the rest o f the c o n t i n e n t in the years a r o u n d it spurred n o changes either in art or in the public's attitude to it w o u l d probably leave Flau­ bert, B a u d e l a i r e , H u g o , a n d Wagner, not to m e n t i o n C o u r b e t , Millais, a n d D a u m i e r (all o f w h o m lived t h r o u g h it, all o f whose major work c a m e after it a n d was often in response to it, a n d all o f whose reputations w e r e a direct o r indirect result o f it) at least a bit puzzled. World War I a n d W o r l d War II b o t h h a d equally p r o n o u n c e d effects o n art and the public. 4

T h e first thing I want to d o is to abstract M c C l o u d ' s specific statement about comics from all this. A s far as I can tell, what h e is saying is: T h e ad­ vent o f n e w art (i.e., art forms that have e m e r g e d in the 150-year period w h e n n o t h i n g c h a n g e d in the a u d i e n c e response to new artwork) has al­ ways b e e n decried at first by the Philistines. Because, however, comics are m u c h o l d e r than this 150-year p e r i o d a n d g o back, rather, thousands o f years, they should escape this Philistine response. U n i n f o r m e d about their origins, h o w e v e r , p e o p l e mistake c o m i c s for a young art. form (i.e., less than 1 5 0 years o l d ) . T h e y dismiss t h e m in the same way as they d o ab­ stract art. I n d e e d , the c o n t e m p o r a r y academic's dismissal o f comics is the same as the w o r k i n g class's mid-century dismissal o f m o d e r n art—which is, in turn, the same as the haute-bourgeoisie 's dismissal o f B e e t h o v e n ' s x

4. A situation which Richard Wagner, when he conducted the work i n M u n i c h in 1846 and again in 1848, overcame brilliantly by preceding the concert with extensive newspaper articles analyzing the piece and pointing out what the audience should be listening for and how the piece differed f r o m music that had gone before, along with extensive program notes waiting for the audience at the M u n i c h O p e r a House on the Easter eve performance night, and extra rehearsals to ensure that the difficult music was played particularly clearly, a n d even a new arrangement of the orchestra to foreground the strings and woodwinds and downplay the brasses, as well as a choir of three hundred (rather than the seventy-five the previous performance h a d used) in order to overwhelm the audience with the sheer richness of sound in the final choral movement. It worked wondrously well. For a while the Ninth Symphony — dismissed as "mere noise" three years before—became a concert favorite warhorse of the public that rivaled the already stunningly popular Fifth Symphony.

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late works in the early 1840s. T h e way to o v e r c o m e this for c o m i c s is to educate p e o p l e to the a g e o f the p e d i g r e e o f comics, at w h i c h p o i n t they will start to respect them. W h e n it is teased o u t a n d displayed in this form, I h o p e the argument's errors a n d inconsistencies b e g i n to a p p e a r self-evident. T h e dismissal o f c o m i c s today has n o t h i n g to d o , for e x a m p l e , with the pre­ s u m e d l e n g t h (or brevity) o f its historical p e d i g r e e . Films are j u s t as m u c h a c o m b i n a t i o n o f words a n d pictures as c o m i c s , and, in their talk­ ing form, they only g o b a c k to 1 9 2 9 . Since the mid-sixties, film has b e e n a c k n o w l e d g e d as the art o f the twentieth century. (Every major m u s e u m of m o d e r n art has a film curator. None o f t h e m has a c o m i c s curator.) T h e reason c o m i c s are dismissed is that, since their b e g i n n i n g s as we know them today, in the training strips for soldiers in W o r l d W a r I, they have b e e n c o n c e i v e d o f a n d p r o d u c e d to b e the art f o r m for the y o u n g children a n d adolescents of the w o r k i n g class. T h e y are a c a d e m i c a l l y dismissed n o t for the same reason the yahoos dismiss m o d e r n art, b u t for the same reason as we dismiss M c C l o u d ' s y a h o o s ' disparaging comments on J o a n Mirô. It is n o t that the w o r k i n g class's positive esthetic j u d g m e n t s are b e i n g a c c e p t e d a n d their negative j u d g m e n t s b e i n g i g n o r e d (as M c C l o u d ' s a r g u m e n t w o u l d have it). R a t h e r all working-class esthetic j u d g m e n t s , positive and negative, are dismissed—because the class is p r e s u m e d to b e u n e d u c a t e d and u n e d u c a b l e . N o matter w h e t h e r the art is representational or abstract, Titian or Picasso, working-class view­ ers (as a class—so runs the prevailing wisdom) are n o t g o i n g to pur­ chase any significant a m o u n t o f art anyway. W h o cares, then, w h a t they think—unless, n o w a n d then, w e w a n t to a p p r o p r i a t e their u n e d u c a t e d hostility briefly to resurrect a r e a r g u a r d action in an already long-lost battle against m o d e r n i s m , its political causes mystified b e h i n d a s m o k e screen o f esthetic questions. This is the ugly situation that k e e p s c o m i c s d o w n o n the scale o f es­ thetic value—because c o m i c s are p r e s u m e d to b e a working-class art form—a situation which, at this point, M c C l o u d d o e s m o r e tacitly to sup­ port than articulately to demystify. (Films m a d e it u p the scale b e c a u s e they involved m o r e a n d m o r e m o n e y ; and the fantasies c o n n e c t e d with them frequently a p p e a l e d across class lines.) T h e only way to c h a n g e the situation is t h r o u g h the e d u c a t i o n o f the esthetic sensibilities and, as far as criticism g o e s , a clear, constant, a n d demystifying critique o f what the actual politics o f the situation are. O n e o f my great r e c e n t pleasures has b e e n to lurk a m o n g the galler­ ies o f the Whitney M u s e u m o n W e d n e s d a y m o r n i n g s w h e n nineteen-, twenty-three-, a n d twenty-five-year-old art students take student g r o u p s

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from the N e w York City public e l e m e n t a r y schools a r o u n d to l o o k at the paintings. T h e youngsters are overwhelmingly black a n d Hispanic—and, incidentally, w o r k i n g class. T h e art student c o n d u c t i n g the g r o u p will often stop before o n e o f de K o o n i n g ' s swirling, abstract nudes. "All right," the student leader will ask. "What's the first thing y o u no­ tice a b o u t this picture?" Invariably, w i t h o u t raising his or h e r h a n d , to b e provocative some brave nine-year-old will blurt: "She's g o t real big breasts... !" or "tits." O r "boobs." O r "titties." F r o m boys and girls I've h e a r d it c o m e o u t all four ways, now. T h e rest o f the class will snicker. B u t the art student (who has b e e n h e r e m a n y times before) will de­ clare, loudly, "Yes!—that's right!" then l a u n c h into a clear and simple dis­ cussion o f sexuality a n d sensuality in art, from its w a r m a n d nurturing as­ pects to the anxieties a n d discomforts it causes, a n d even the playfulness about it, demonstrating h o w all three o f these are figured in de K o o n i n g ' s vigorous brush w o r k . . . Silent now, the children listen, fascinated. A n d they learn. Usually w h e n I leave the m u s e u m , I ' m in tears. S o m e h o w to watch w h a t a m o m e n t a g o was confused, alien, a n d off-putting to these kids, worthy only o f sniggers a n d laughter, o p e n u p a n d clarify for them, re­ vealing the sensuous t h o u g h t it represents a b o u t the world, is . . . Well, I ' m afraid, that's o n e o f my buttons. So is watching kids learn that a re­ sponse that b e g i n s in derision a n d hostility can pierce t h r o u g h to some­ thing fundamental a n d i m p o r t a n t that can b e a c c e p t e d a n d articulately discussed. ( T h e critic's own response, Walter Pater noted, was where all criticism starts. A g a i n , to cite it h e r e is a matter o f pleasure, not author­ ity.) I can't h e l p it. N o r d o I want to. It's probably why I'm a critic as well as a creator. A n d whatever historic blunders it gets snared into, M c C l o u d ' s b o o k p r o m o t e s b o t h orders o f e x p e r i e n c e : I find Understanding Comics deeply m o v i n g because again and again it accomplishes the same order o f clarification.

VI O n the b o t t o m o f p a g e 1 9 5 o f Understanding Comics, M c C l o u d gives us a d i a g r a m for the c o m m u n i c a t i o n b e t w e e n c o m i c s artist and a u d i e n c e . A n y c o n t e m p o r a r y critic will find it h a r d n o t to see M c C l o u d ' s diagram as r e s e m b l i n g b o t h the nineteenth-century Swiss-born linguist Ferdi­ n a n d de Saussure's f a m o u s s p e e c h circuit and twentieth-century linguist R o m a n J a k o b s o n ' s equally famous r e f i n e m e n t o f it.

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Illustration #10: Scott McCloud's communication circuit for comics (page 195)

Illustration #11: Ferdinand de Saussure's "speech circuit" from the publication of his Course in General Linguistics, 1916 (page 11) CONTEXT (referential) MESSAGE (poetic) ADDRESSER (emotive)

ADDRESSEE (conative) CONTACT (phatic) CODE (metalingual)

Illustration #12: Roman Jakobson 's language model (from The Framework of Lan­ guage, 1980) that first appeared in 1973 M c C l o u d follows his illustration with a statement o f his own p e r c e p ­ tion of his creative process. O n p a g e 1 6 9 , M c C l o u d writes: The comics I "see" in my mind will never be seen in their entirety by anyone else, no matter how hard I try. Ask any writer, or film maker, just how much a

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given project truly represents what he/she envisions it to be. You'll hear twenty percent, 10 . . . 5 . . . few will claim more than 30. The mastery of one's medium is the degree to which that percentage can be increased, the degree to which the artist's idea survives the journey [over the communication cir­ cuit]—or, for some artists, the degree to which the inevitable detours are made useful by the artist. If M c C l o u d says that's how h e perceives his o w n w o r k (not to m e n t i o n that most o f the artists a n d writers a r o u n d h i m also perceive it that way), I believe him. B u t I m e n t i o n in passing that, as a science fiction writer, I have never p e r c e i v e d m y o w n writing in this manner. My o w n c o n c e p t i o n s are com­ paratively dim, unfocused, a n d indistinct c o m p a r e d to the finished work. If the finished w o r k d o e s n ' t strike m e as a lot better than the c o n c e p t i o n , I ' m likely to a b a n d o n it. T h o u g h I plan a n d outline my work as carefully as possible, in a real sense I write my novels to find o u t what they're actu­ ally about. T h e b u l k o f the text always strikes m e as a gift from the lan­ g u a g e . A s Lévi-Strauss o n c e p u t it, I simply h a p p e n to b e the intersection o f a certain n u m b e r o f events w h i c h has allowed m e to take a certain o r d e r o f dictation. My p o i n t is not, however, that M c C l o u d a n d I p e r c e i v e the creation o f art in subjectively different ways. (Actually, I d o u b t w e do.) B u t the c r e a t i o n o f art has b e e n r e p e a t e d l y d e s c r i b e d in both ways at various times in history. F o r now, I'd like to l o o k at the part these two descrip­ tions play in the l a r g e r esthetic p i c t u r e into w h i c h from time to time they're incorporated. O n e m i g h t paraphrase M c C l o u d ' s account: A n y given art work is a fal­ l e n (or lapsed, o r i n a d e q u a t e ) version o f a g r a n d e r c o n c e p t i o n existing in its true form only in the artist's m i n d . O n e m i g h t paraphrase my account: A n y given art work is a creation o f the l a n g u a g e / t h e unconscious (which structuralist psychoanalyst Jacques L a c a n said "is structured as a l a n g u a g e " ) / s o c i e t y ( a m o n g humans, soci­ eties are stabilized in their specific forms by l a n g u a g e ) / G o d — i . e . , in all cases s o m e t h i n g other than the conscious m i n d . T h e artist is only a m o r e or less h a r d w o r k i n g amanuensis to this Other. We find b o t h descriptions from at least the Renaissance on. T h e p o e t Dante as well as many artists deeply involved with religious subject matter often described their work as dictation from an Other. ( A m o n g moderns, Yeats [and m o r e recentiy Jack Spicer] is the p o e t most closely associated with "dictation.") Many great Renaissance painters—Leonardo, Michelan­ gelo, Raphael—often proclaimed their work (rather, critics such as Vasari claimed it for them) inadequate representations o f a greater conception.

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W h a t h a p p e n s w h e n these ideas are fitted into larger c o n c e p t u a l schemes? W h a t d o they imply a b o u t art a n d the artist? L e o n a r d o (and other Renaissance artists) presented the w o r l d with a richly representa­ tional, highly finished, virtuoso painterly surface. T h e i r pictures fall far to the left o n the base o f M c C l o u d ' s triangle (see illustration # 7 ) . For many o f us, such painterly t e c h n i q u e s (until the advent o f the p h o t o realist painters in the seventies, e.g. A u d r e y Flack, J a m e s Valerio, a n d Richard Estes) were the left extremity o f that triangle. In their represen­ tational intensity, they created awe a n d admiration, e v e n a m o n g the un­ educated. N o w if these paintings were fallen, lapsed, i n a d e q u a t e versions of greater conceptions, then the artists themselves must have b e e n s o m e sort o f intellectual s u p e r m e n , able to c o n c e i v e o f visions far m o r e in­ tense, vivid, rich, a n d i m p o r t a n t than the actual paintings—and thus far m o r e intense, vivid, a n d rich than ordinary h u m a n b e i n g s are capable of. This i n d e e d fits closely with the Renaissance n o t i o n o f the great painter, w h o was at o n c e a p h i l o s o p h e r a n d often an influential cour­ tier/intellectual as well. If the pictures p r o d u c e d by an artist are located, however, to the far right o f M c C l o u d ' s triangle, such as a p a n e l from C h e s t e r B r o w n ' s Yummy Fur, or toward the u p p e r vertex o f abstraction, such as a canvas by H a n s Hoffmann (the same applies to poetry w h e r e verbal skill is n o t fore­ g r o u n d e d by rhyme, meter, or formal stanzaic patterns), so that, in any case, the u n e d u c a t e d response is likely to b e s o m e version of, "My twoyear-old d a u g h t e r can p a i n t / d r a w (or even write) better than that," if it's claimed that these works are fallen, lapsed, or i n a d e q u a t e versions o f a grander c o n c e p t i o n , the same u n e d u c a t e d response is likely to b e : "You're d a r n e d right they are! H e / s h e j u s t d o e s n ' t k n o w h o w to drawl" ( O r paint! O r write!) Regardless o f what they actually e x p e r i e n c e , artists w h o work at the right a n d u p p e r vertices o f the triangle will likely fare better in the public m i n d if they espouse s o m e form o f the esthetics o f dictation: "I did it that way because that's h o w I r e c e i v e d it from the lan­ g u a g e / t h e u n c o n s c i o u s / s o c i e t y / G o d . I find it j u s t as surprising a n d un­ usual" (and, o f course, rich, provocative, a n d fascinating) "as y o u d o . " (Easily this c o u l d be a paraphrase o f R o b e r t R a u s c h e n b e r g . ) T h e esthetic o f lapsed o r fallen c o n c e p t i o n tends to separate the artist off from society and posits h i m or h e r as intellectual s u p e r m a n . A t the same time, it urges the artist toward a glitzy, virtuoso, b u t (by c o n t e m p o ­ rary esthetic standards) conservative esthetic surface, w h i c h must c o n ­ stantly awe the g e n e r a l public. T h e esthetic o f dictation from an O t h e r tends to d e m o c r a t i z e the art­ ist, m a k i n g her or h i m just another h u m a n being, w h o h a p p e n s to have a line to the u n k n o w n . A t the same time, it e n c o u r a g e s variation, experi-

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mentation, a less virtuoso esthetic surface, a less conservative esthetic, a n d m o r e a c c e p t a n c e o f a greater range o f concepts and techniques. Till n o w I have purposely stayed away from e n g a g i n g with M c C l o u d ' s o p e n i n g chapter, "Setting the R e c o r d Straight," w h e r e h e presents his definition o f c o m i c s a n d discusses what h e takes to be their privileged or­ igins a m o n g Mayan a n d Egyptian b o u s t r o p h e d o n picture writing, Q u e e n Margaret's B a y e u x Tapestry, The Torture of St. Erasmus (c. 1 4 6 0 ) , H o g a r t h ' s e n g r a v i n g portfolios o f the 1 7 3 0 s (A Harlot's Progress, The Rake's Progress), R u d o l p h e Tôpffer's cartoons from the mid-nineteenth century, Frans Masereel's (Passionate Journey, 1 9 1 9 ) a n d L y n d Ward's (God's Man, 1 9 2 9 ) narrative b o o k s o f woodcuts, and M a x Ernst's surreal c o l l a g e novel, A Week of Kindness. N o r will I e n g a g e it directly here. In a paraliterary c o n t e x t to say in any way that I believe his definition to be w r o n g is to suggest that—somewhere—I think there's a better o n e . I don't. My feeling a b o u t his discussion o f origins is this: I see n o t h i n g w r o n g with c o m i c s artists or c o m i c s readers l o o k i n g at or studying as many works o f art o r historical d o c u m e n t s as they want. A n d if they c h o o s e to study t h e m because they have f o u n d — o r find in them, after they have c h o s e n to study them—similarities to comics, well a n d g o o d . T h e y s h o u l d talk a b o u t t h e m — a n d publicize them. B u t I believe that, l a c k i n g historical e v i d e n c e o f influence, critics must take the relationship b e t w e e n these historical texts and any given m o d e r n c o m i c s work as exactly the same as the o n e I set out between M c C l o u d ' s o w n Understanding Comics a n d L o n g i n u s ' s Trepi 'tjtjjouç. T o re­ iterate: It is a relation that, in the r e c o g n i t i o n o f similarities, can gener­ ate g r e a t r e a d i n g pleasure, richness, and r e s o n a n c e . B u t it is n o t a rela­ tion in w h i c h the earlier w o r k l e n d s force, quality, or some other transcendental authority to the latter. M c C l o u d ' s a r g u m e n t finally leads to a dismissal o f the idea o f g e n r e . As I have already q u o t e d : " . . . as l o n g as we view c o m i c s as a g e n r e o f writ­ i n g o r a style o f g r a p h i c art this attitude may never disappear," t h o u g h I h o p e I have d e m o n s t r a t e d that it is the c l i n g i n g to notions such as "defi­ nition" that fosters the r e d u c e d and d e a d e n i n g n o t i o n o f g e n r e for the paraliterary that M c C l o u d wants to escape. It m i g h t b e appropriate for m e to describe, then (I h o p e I n o l o n g e r have to insist, e a c h time I use the w o r d , that—again—I don't mean "de­ fine"), what I m e a n w h e n I use the term g e n r e : I m e a n a collection o f texts that are generally t h o u g h t similar e n o u g h so that, largely through an unspecified c o m b i n a t i o n o f social forces (they are sold from the same b o o k s h e l v e s in bookstores, they are p u b l i s h e d by the same publishers,

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they are liked by the same readers, written by the same writers, share in a range o f subject matters, etc.), most p e o p l e will n o t require historical ev­ idence to verify that a writer, p r o d u c i n g o n e o f those texts, has read oth­ ers o f the g r o u p written u p to that date. T h u s , w h e n E. C. B e n t l e y wrote Trent's Last Case, we can assume h e h a d read o t h e r English mysteries, without turning to D o r o t h y Sayers's well-known i n t r o d u c t i o n w h e r e she declares Bentley's intent a n d influences. ("He was sick to death o f the 'infallible sleuth' a n d m e a n t to show h i m u p for w h a t h e was." In such a sentence, "infallible sleuth" is a m e t o n y m for the assumption o f g e n e r a l reading a m o n g texts p e r c e i v e d at the time as mysteries.) W h e n Shake­ speare wrote his Sonnets, we c a n generally assume without specific histor­ ical evidence that h e h a d read o t h e r texts o f m e t e r e d lines with (often) e n d rhymes at the breaks. If I say that the mystery or that poetry is a genre, that's what I m e a n . I use the term as a virtual synonym for a r e c o g ­ nizable (not definable) practice o f writing. A s such, I find it useful a n d m o r e or less i n n o c u o u s . I n d e e d , the n o t i o n that writing exists w i t h o u t such perceivable categories strikes m e as counterintuitive. T h u s , for m e , literature is as m u c h a collection o f g e n r e s as is paraliterature. T h o u g h I've e n c o u n t e r e d a n u m b e r o f arguments against o t h e r uses o f the term g e n r e (and even, from time to time, a c c e p t e d t h e m m o r e o r less t e m p o ­ rarily) , I have n o t yet f o u n d an a r g u m e n t that's c o n v i n c e d m e m y intui­ tions are, in this case, w r o n g .

VII While the academics w h o had c o m e to p o p u l a r culture in the thirties were comparatively radical, the academics w h o first c a m e to the paralit­ erary genres, specifically science fiction, in the late 1950s (the critical j o u r n a l Extrapolation was f o u n d e d in 1 9 5 8 ) were, paradoxically, c o m p a r ­ atively conservative—even t h o u g h they h e l d m a n y o f the same ideas. W h a t m a d e t h e m conservative was the c h a n g e s that h a d o c c u r r e d in the greater field o f literary studies a r o u n d t h e m , the a s c e n d a n c y o f N e w Criticism, and, a d e c a d e later, the influx o f continental ideas. M u c h o f what was new a n d forward-looking in the thirties h a d b e e n , by the late fif­ ties and sixties, played out. T h e academics w h o e n t e r e d the field o f science fiction in the late fif­ ties and the early sixties loved the g e n r e . B u t they felt that their major task was to legitimate it in the face o f a larger a c a d e m i c situation that still dismissed most working-class art— not like M c C l o u d ' s working-class yahoos dismiss m o d e r n art, b u t the way academics w h o did n o t love t h e m and didn't see anything o f interest in t h e m dismiss comics. U m b e r t o

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E c o , a first-rate scholar w h o s e 1 9 6 2 essay "II mitto di Superman e la dissoluzione del tempo" ("The Myth o f S u p e r m a n " in The Role of the Reader, by U m b e r t o E c o , I n d i a n a University Press, B l o o m i n g t o n , 1 9 7 9 ) is a fine p i e c e o f w o r k o n a c o m i c b o o k ( n o w h e r e in it d o e s it define anything), tells an a n e c d o t e , w h i c h I r e c o n s t r u c t from b r i e f notes a n d memory, a b o u t p r e s e n t i n g the p i e c e in translation at a M o d e r n L a n g u a g e Associ­ ation m e e t i n g , a year o r so b e f o r e it was p u b l i s h e d in Italian. "I was a very p r o p e r y o u n g scholar in those days, w h o s e field was medieval Latin. T h e way I p r e p a r e d for ' T h e Myth o f S u p e r m a n ' was the way I w o u l d p r e p a r e , however, for any o t h e r scholarly paper: In this case, I read all the Superman c o m i c s ever p u b l i s h e d — i t t o o k m e a c o u p l e o f years. W h e n I s h o w e d u p at the M L A to give my paper, I arrived with a stack o f seventy-five o r a h u n d r e d o f what I t h o u g h t w e r e the most interesting is­ sues. W h e n I w a l k e d in carrying t h e m , p e o p l e really l o o k e d at m e as t h o u g h I w e r e crazy! I c o u l d n ' t u n d e r s t a n d it. I k e p t o n trying to figure o u t w h a t it was I h a d d o n e w r o n g . . . " F r o m time to time, forward-looking critics have involved themselves in the field. Usually, however, they d o n ' t stay l o n g . Possibly the reason they've left is b e c a u s e they did n o t find a tabula rasa waiting for the new­ est critical a p p r o a c h e s , b u t rather an insular field in w h i c h all these m u m m i f i e d half-ideas, ill u n d e r s t o o d — a b o u t origins, definitions, mas­ tery, a n d craft—were in circulation as t h o u g h they h a d life a n d value. O n the o n e h a n d , the a c a d e m i c s w h o have given a g o o d deal o f their intellectual life to science fiction must b e c o m m e n d e d for putting u p with a lack o f u n d e r s t a n d i n g from their fellows. O n the other hand, there are still forces at w o r k that m a k e the field o f science fiction schol­ arship a h a v e n for—while I will n o t call it the s e c o n d rate, nevertheless I will say—critical n o t i o n s that w o u l d b e l a u g h e d off the floor by a firstrate collection o f literary scholars. W h e t h e r it is "in-house" SF critic Darrell Schweitzer writing in a seven­ ties fanzine article that H e n r y J a m e s "had an absolutely tin ear for lan­ g u a g e , a n d few p e o p l e have b e e n able to finish his novels" (in a para­ g r a p h that g o e s o n to dismiss Finnegans Wake as "unreadable" and "dull") o r it is t e n u r e d English professor David S a m u e l s o n , a regular contribu­ tor to Science Fiction Studies, c o m m e n t i n g in a r e c e n t Chronicle of Higher Education article o n yours truly, that "James Joyce took an awful l o n g time to b e c o m e p o p u l a r — i f h e e v e n is n o w " (in a paragraph in w h i c h he goes o n to suggest c o n t e m p o r a r y literary theory is u n r e a d a b l e ) , regardless o f w h a t the i m m e d i a t e motivations o f either m a n w e r e , y o u can still hear, b e h i n d b o t h , the ghosts o f the thirties populist a r g u m e n t against mod­ ernism—a battle that, as I've said, was lost forty years a g o a n d w h i c h , frankly, it's simply silly to g o o n g r u m b l i n g about.

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Yes, either by m o d e r n standards or the standards o f their times, the politics o f many o f the m o d e r n i s t giants was appalling. B u t so w e r e the politics o f Jane A u s t e n a n d C h a r l e s D i c k e n s a n d Percy Bysshe Shelley and (for all her admirable feminism) V i r g i n i a Woolf. A n d in ten, o r thirty-five, or eighty-five years, so will b e the politics o f A n n e Beattie, D o n D e L i l l o , Jayne A n n Philips, R i c h a r d Powers, Jori G r a h a m , a n d William T. V o l l m a n . Doubtless so will b e m i n e a n d M c C l o u d ' s . T h e way critics have traditionally dealt with this p r o b l e m since the academization of literature shordy after W o r l d War I (which, for m a n y p e o p l e , m e a n s the invention o f literature as w e k n o w it today) is by a critical m o v e that M c C l o u d knows well. I n d e e d , it is necessary for a n y o n e w h o loves the po­ tential o f a g e n r e but wants to see it d e v e l o p , c h a n g e , a n d grow. I have q u o t e d it o n c e . I shall q u o t e it again:

Illustration #13: McCloud, page 199 T h e division o f c o n t e n t from form is a necessary (but only provi­ sional) critical fiction. T h e reason it is only provisional is b e c a u s e , at a certain point in the discussion, form begins to function as c o n t e n t — a n d c o n t e n t often functions as a sign for the i m p l i e d f o r m with w h i c h that c o n t e n t is conventionally dealt. If the critic c h o o s e s to focus his o r h e r observations in this delicate area for any l e n g t h o f time, the separation o f form and content, so useful in o t h e r situations, e n d s u p c r e a t i n g m o r e p r o b l e m s than it solves. W h i l e an analysis o f form apart from c o n ­ tent may be necessary for criticism, certainly it is n o t sufficient— n e i t h e r

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sufficient to distinguish criticism from what is not criticism n o r sufficient to distinguish g o o d criticism from b a d . Nevertheless, because o f the way so m u c h criticism has g o n e since the N e w Criticism, it has b e c o m e , at least in certain circles, a truism for the last forty years: T o be a critic o n e must b e a formalist. B u t r e t u r n a m o m e n t to the critics w h o e n t e r e d SF early in the bur­ g e o n i n g o f a c a d e m i c interest in "popular culture" d u r i n g the late fifties a n d sixties. In 1 9 6 8 I was invited to give my first presentation at the M L A Christmas m e e t i n g in N e w York City to the C o n t i n u i n g Seminar on Sci­ e n c e Fiction (the s e c o n d oldest c o n t i n u i n g seminar in the organization, at that t i m e ) . W h e n I f o u n d the hotel r o o m in w h i c h the seminar was m e e t i n g , a m o d e s t thirty o r thirty-five p e o p l e filled it. T h e familiar faces w e r e J o a n n a Russ, Frederik Pohl, Professor T h o m a s Clareson ( w h o ' d in­ vited m e to s p e a k ) , a n d a c o u p l e o f fans. Most o f the rest—the academ­ ics—were strangers. In the milling p e r i o d b e f o r e my talk, Clareson p o i n t e d o u t a n o t h e r professor: "That's D a r k o Suvin—from McGill. Really, he's very sharp." My presentation was an early version o f a paper that w o u l d eventually b e titled " A b o u t 5,750 Words. " After I'd read it, im­ mediately the pleasantly portly, affable-looking Suvin (he was perhaps a d e c a d e o l d e r than I) threw u p his h a n d for a question. I called on him. R e a r i n g b a c k in his chair, h e said: "I very m u c h enjoyed y o u r presenta­ tion, b u t . . . " h e r e h e p a u s e d significantly, "I think I disagree with every­ thing y o u said." L a u g h t e r rolled t h r o u g h the r o o m , then stilled. For a m o m e n t , I was disconcerted. (It was my first a c a d e m i c presentation. I was only twenty-six . . .) Suvin w e n t o n to m a k e a tiny point, referring to the last sentence o r two o f my paper, that, really, c o n t a i n e d n o disagreement at all with anything. I c o u l d only assume that h e ' d seen my confusion and h a d d e c i d e d to b e kind, rather than present the full battery o f his un­ d o u b t e d l y sharp disagreements. S o m e years later, Suvin published a widely read v o l u m e , The Metamor­ phoses of Science Fiction ( 1 9 7 7 ) . In its o p e n i n g pages, it states that n o area o f literature can b e discussed unless it is first defined, then goes on to pro­ pose (as locating its "necessary and sufficient conditions") a definition o f science fiction: Science fiction is the literature o f cognition and estrange­ ment. B e c a u s e o f the appeal to necessary and sufficient conditions, we must read definition h e r e in the strict, rigorous, a n d limited sense. Now, w h e n a p p l i e d o n e way, c o g n i t i o n a n d estrangement p r o d u c e sur­ realism a b o u t science; w h e n a p p l i e d a n o t h e r way, they p r o d u c e fantasies a b o u t science; w h e n applied still another, they p r o d u c e historical fiction a b o u t science. A little t h o u g h t will c o m e u p with several others—though any o n e e x p l o d e s its aspirations to definitional rigor. Suvin's b o o k was widely discussed for a time a n d is still, n o w a n d again, referred to.

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Today my reaction to this type o f d e m a n d for definition is p r o b a b l y hyperbolic. T u r n i n g a b o o k that begins like that loose in the paraliterary communities is the equivalent o f telling c h i l d r e n that the only way to dis­ cuss politics properly is first, before y o u m a k e any statement whatsoever, to fling u p y o u r right h a n d a n d shout "Heil Hitler!" T h e s e y o u n g p e o p l e may n o t even k n o w w h o Hitler was. S o m e may even have fine a n d impor­ tant things to say a b o u t a variety o f political situations. B u t as they m o v e out into and t h r o u g h o u r c u r r e n t world, they are n o t likely to g e t m u c h of a hearing. A t worst, they will b e discussed as n u t cases or neo-Nazis. A t best, they are g o i n g to be t h o u g h t . . . strange. A n d they will c o n t i n u e to be t h o u g h t strange until they a b a n d o n w h a t they have b e e n told is "proper"—or until s o m e o n e takes t h e m aside a n d tells t h e m to cut it out. W h e n y o u r behavior is strange e n o u g h , however, p e o p l e d o not take y o u aside and tell y o u . Rather, they leave y o u a l o n e a n d g o off to associate with m o r e civilized p e o p l e . Finally, all the "Heil Hitler!" p e o p l e c a n d o is talk to o n e another. T h a t strikes m e as a b o u t h o w the paraliterary m a n i a for always starting with a "definition" registers today in the larger field o f literary theory. T h e assertion that y o u c a n n o t discuss any topic in literary studies until you have defined it is b o t h practically a n d theoretically u n t r u e — a lie, if y o u will, and a lie (I h o p e I've m a d e it clear) associated with a particular critical a g e n d a from the thirties ( t h o u g h Suvin's b o o k a p p e a r e d in the seventies). My a n e c d o t e , however, is n o t d o n e . Ten years later, in 1 9 7 8 , 1 was n o l o n g e r a twenty-six-year-old first-time presenter at the M L A ; I was a thirty-six-year-old S e n i o r Fellow at a major research institution, the C e n t e r for 20th C e n t u r y Studies at the Univer­ sity o f Wisconsin. Annually, the C e n t e r hosts a large c o n f e r e n c e in w h i c h often upwards o f a h u n d r e d scholars participate. T h a t year's c o n f e r e n c e topic was T e c h n o l o g y a n d Imagination. D a r k o Suvin attended. H e was giving two presentations, o n e o n science fiction a n d o n e o n his central field o f scholarly c o n c e r n , the G e r m a n playwright Bertolt Brecht. T h e B r e c h t session c a m e first. After Suvin was introduced, I f o u n d myself listening to a j e j u n e expla­ nation o f the fact that w h e n Brecht, in his writings o n theater, used the term "alienation," he m e a n t a positive a u d i e n c e reaction, in w h i c h the au­ dience distances itself emotionally from what's g o i n g o n o n stage so that it can better grasp the abstract ideas the play is putting forth, a n d that this alienation is e n c o u r a g e d by various "epic" staging t e c h n i q u e s a n d stylization in the writing; and—this was a completely different m e a n i n g from Marx's use o f the term, "alienation," w h i c h m e a n t the situation in w h i c h

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workers h a d little or n o t h i n g to d o with what they were p r o d u c i n g , or with f u n d a m e n t a l h u m a n tasks such as g r o w i n g food, b u i l d i n g shelter, a n d the like. W h i l e I sat there, t h i n k i n g I'd never discussed either topic with a n y o n e over seventeen w h o ' d ever confused the two before, a y o u n g G e r m a n scholar at the C e n t e r sitting n e x t to m e , a J u n i o r Fellow at the time, A n d r e a s Huyssen, l e a n e d toward m e a n d whispered, somewhat, I think, in awe: "That m a n is a fool.. . ! " Later, in the science fiction session, w h e n a y o u n g w o m a n finished giv­ i n g h e r presentation (whether it was g o o d or bad, I d o n ' t recall) and she asked for questions, D a r k o ' s h a n d was the first to g o u p . She called o n h i m . D a r k o r e a r e d b a c k in his chair: "I rather enjoyed y o u r presentation. B u t . . . " a n d h e r e h e p a u s e d meaningfully: "I think I disagree with every­ thing y o u said." L a u g h t e r b l o o m e d t h r o u g h o u t the r o o m . T h e y o u n g w o m a n l o o k e d m o m e n t a r i l y flustered—then smiled. D a r k o w e n t o n to m a k e a m i n u s c u l e point, w h i c h only pertained, if it pertained at all, to h e r paper's last sentence o r two. A n d I u n d e r s t o o d , then, ten years later, that h e was n o t b e i n g kind. Rather, h e h a d n ' t b o t h e r e d to follow the presentation at all. His "question" was a purely c o m i c gesture, designed to entertain the a u d i e n c e , without any intellectual w e i g h t whatsoever. My overall point? Despite Huyssen's w o n d e r i n g c o m m e n t , D a r k o Suvin is nota fool. B u t t h o u g h , as h e d e l i v e r e d it that day, his B r e c h t p a p e r m i g h t have b e e n informative to u n d e r g r a d u a t e s or to p e o p l e for w h o m B r e c h t was a b r a n d n e w n a m e , it was a foolish p a p e r to deliver to a r o o m full o f lit­ erary scholars. If h e t h o u g h t that the majority o f p e o p l e in the r o o m w o u l d n o t r e c o g n i z e it as foolish (or if h e assumed that most w o u l d pay as little attention to his presentation as I n o w k n e w h e h a d paid to two others o n at least two occasions, so that it d i d n o t matter what h e said), h e was mistaken. T h e o p e n i n g assertion in The Metamorphoses of Science Fiction on the ne­ cessity o f "definition" is also mistaken. (It helps to describe things so that p e o p l e can r e c o g n i z e t h e m ; b u t that's a provisional task, a n d not defini­ tion.) O v e r the years, I have h a d m a n y interesting discussions with Darko a b o u t science fiction a n d o t h e r topics. A s intelligent as h e is, however, I c a n say that h e is n o t particularly attracted to what I feel are the most pressing questions in SF scholarship. Doubtless h e w o u l d say the same about me. Finally, however, e a c h o f us must d e c i d e w h e t h e r these incidents rep­ resent a failure o f sensibility o r o f intellect. T h e fact is, it's the rare aca­ d e m i c w h o reaches the a g e o f fifty w h o lacks for bizarre tales. T h e crea­ tors o f paraliterature, for all o u r professed hostility to mainstream critics, are usually flattered by the advent o f academic faces. B u t while it is by no m e a n s a g e n e r a l law, it's the case often e n o u g h to note: T h e academics

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w h o enter the field o f science fiction studies are n o t necessarily o f the first order, even w h e n , in o u r little p o n d , they occasionally m a k e a sizable splash. It g o e s a l o n g with their t e n d e n c y to b e m i r e d in o u t m o d e d criti­ cal concepts. T h e most i m p o r t a n t t r i u m p h o f the "origin" in SF studies o f the last twenty-five years is the sedimentation o f Brian Aldiss's p r o p o s a l that Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, or, A Modern Prometheus is the first science fic­ tion novel. Science fiction writers are as o d d a n d eccentric a lot o f readers as any other writers. T h e y have b e e n p r o p o s i n g origins for o u r g e n r e since the late thirties, w h e n the g a m e o f origin h u n t i n g b e c a m e i m p o r t a n t to the early critics first interested in c o n t e m p o r a r y p o p u l a r culture. T h e vari­ ous proposals m a d e over the years are l e g i o n : Wells, V e r n e , a n d P o e , in that order, have the most backers. T h e r e w e r e m o r e eccentric o n e s (my personal favorite is Edward Sylvester Ellis's The Steam Man of the Prairies, a dime novel from 1 8 6 5 , w h o s e fifteen-year-old inventor h e r o builds a tenfoot steam-powered r o b o t , w h o can pull a horseless carriage a l o n g be­ hind h i m at nearly sixty miles an hour. O u t in the Wild West, with a g o l d miner and an o l d h u n t e r as sidekicks, they kill lots o f Indians), a n d m o r e conservative o n e s (Francis B a c o n ' s The New Atlantis, 1 6 2 9 ; J o h a n n e s Kepler's Somnium [written 1609, p u b l i s h e d 1 6 3 4 ] ; Savinien C y r a n o ' s [de Bergerac] Voyage to the Moon a n d The States and Empires of the Sun [c. 5 ° ] ) » and slightly l o o p y o n e s (Shakespeare's Tempest; D a n t e ' s Commedia), and s o m e classical o n e s (Lucian o f Samosata's True History, from the s e c o n d century A . D . , w h i c h r e c o u n t s a v o y a g e to the m o o n ) . T h e r e were also backers for Wilkins's Discovery of a World in the Moon ( 1 6 8 3 ) , as well as Gabriel Daniel's Voyage to the World of Cartesius ( 1 6 9 2 , revised 1 7 0 3 ) , J o n a t h a n Swift's Gullivers Travels ( 1 7 2 6 ) , D a n i e l D e f o e ' s The Consolidator ( 1 7 5 0 ) a n d — a g a i n b a c k o n o u r side o f S h e l l e y — E d w a r d Bellamy's Looking Backward ( 1 8 8 8 ) . 1 D

W h e n Brian Aldiss's history o f science fiction, Billion Year Spree: The True History of Science Fiction, first a p p e a r e d from D o u b l e d a y in 1 9 7 3 (from p a g e o n e o f C h a p t e r O n e : "As a preliminary, w e n e e d a definition o f science fiction . . . " ) , o n e m i g h t have assumed that the a r g u m e n t fill­ ing its o p e n i n g chapter, p r o p o s i n g Frankenstein as o u r n e w privileged ori­ gin, was a n o t h e r eccentric suggestion a m o n g m a n y — a n d w o u l d b e p a i d about as m u c h attention to as any o f these others. T h e irony o f Aldiss's subtitle has b e e n n o t e d by at least o n e critic. 5

5. "[A] witty, ironic, iconoclastic knowledgeable history of the field that promulgates the theory that Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, rather than the works of Poe or Verne, is the first true work of SF, i n part because i t . . . leads up to h i m and his friends. T h e revised and expanded edition ( Trillion Year Spree) is augmented by many plot summaries but drops the ironic subtitle . . . " (David G. Hartwell, Age of Wonders, Tor, 1996).

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(If Frankenstein were the first SF novel, isn't it interesting n o b o d y no­ ticed it until 1 9 7 3 , while so m a n y p e o p l e were d i g g i n g a r o u n d for so m a n y years a m o n g all those other m o r e obscure titles . . . ?) T h e p r o b l e m with all these "origins" o f science fiction, even the ones from early scientists such as Kepler, is that, w h e n y o u read them, they d o n ' t feellike science fiction. T h e y feel like m o r a l or political parables in w h i c h the writer d o e s n ' t e x p e c t y o u to take the science even as seriously as y o u have to take B u c k R o g e r s ' force fields a n d ray guns. Aldiss argues that there are serious scientific ideas in eighteen-yearo l d Mary's novel, b u t they're n o t easily detectable by the m o d e r n reader. C l a i m s Aldiss, they c o m e from, a m o n g others, Erasmus Darwin ( 1 7 3 1 1 8 0 2 ) , grandfather o f Charles. A d o c t o r a n d eccentric inventor, Eras­ m u s d e s i g n e d a r o c k e t to b e p o w e r e d by h y d r o g e n a n d o x y g e n and wrote a l o n g poetic tract, Zoonomia, p u b l i s h e d in two v o l u m e s in 1 7 9 4 (the year Mary's father p u b l i s h e d his influential n o v e l Caleb Williams and A n n e Radcliffe p u b l i s h e d The Mysteries of Udolfo; Zoonomia also fascinated the y o u n g G e r m a n writer Novalis) a n d (posthumously in 1803) a v o l u m e called The Temple of Nature, in b o t h o f w h i c h h e presented some ideas n o t wholly u n r e l a t e d to his grandson's, w h i c h may even have g o t his grand­ son t h i n k i n g in the direction that led to the theory o f natural selection. A c c o r d i n g to Aldiss, Mary took t h e m in, a l o n g with the ideas from H u m ­ p h r e y Davy, J o s e p h Priestley, J o h n L o c k e , a n d C o n d i l l a c to give t h e m back to us in Frankenstein. T o give Aldiss his due, other than in the title o f his chapter ("The Ori­ gin o f Species"), h e does n o t use the w o r d "origin" in connection with Frankenstein in the b o d y o f his actual argument. B u t in the Introduction to the 1986 revision a n d e n l a r g e m e n t o f his b o o k Trillion Year Spree, he writes: [0]ne must stand by one's beliefs. Foremost among these beliefs is a certainty about the origins of SF. Of course it is a Stone Age truth to say that SF began with Mary Shelley's Franken­ stein (1818). [One assumes that by "Stone Age," he means 1973 when he'd first proposed the idea, thirteen years before.] The more we know, the less certain we can be about origins. [That incongruous admission is the starting point of the poststructuralist argument against privileged origins.] The date of the Renaissance becomes less clear decade by decade as research goes on. Nevertheless, bearing in mind that no genre is pure [another truism of lit­ erary theory that had entered Aldiss's argument over the intervening thirteen years], Frankenstein is more than a merely convenient place at which to begin the story. Behind it lie other traditions, like broken skeletons, classical myth, a continent full of Màrchen tales. But Mary's novel betokens an inescapable new perception of mankind's capabilities, as is argued in Chapter One. (18)

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T h e r e y o u have his c o m m i t m e n t to origins. I'm sorry. Anywherewe b e g i n such a critical story is always only m o r e or less convenient. T h a t c o n v e n i e n c e is d e t e r m i n e d by what we wish to highlight—or, i n d e e d , wish to cover u p . A careful r e a d i n g o f Aldiss's a r g u m e n t suggests that the "inescapable new perception o f m a n k i n d " was actually all over the place at the e n d o f the e i g h t e e n t h century, a m o n g p e o p l e like Erasmus Darwin a n d others. Mary only reflects it in her n o v e l — w h i c h seems to defeat his own claim for her originary newness. But the main p r o b l e m with Frankenstein as an SF origin is simply that, w h e n y o u read it, it d o e s n ' t feel like science fiction any m o r e than the others cited above. In this case, it feels like an early n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u r y take o n the g o t h i c novel, m u c h closer to M a t t h e w Lewis's The Monk ( 1 7 9 6 ) and the novels o f Mrs. Radcliffe—which w e r e , incidentally, a m o n g the novels that Mary read b e f o r e she wrote h e r o w n m o s t widely k n o w n work. My favorite discussion o f Frankenstein is in Chris Baldick's In the Shadow of Frankenstein's Monster ( O x f o r d : C l a r e n d o n Press, 1 9 8 7 ) , w h i c h e x a m ­ ines the g e n e r a l use o f the m e t a p h o r of monsters and the monstrous to characterize the w o r k i n g classes b e t w e e n the F r e n c h Revolution a n d the 1830s. H e relates his examination closely to the scientific and political ideas current at the time. A s h e spells it out, that relation is just n o t the same as we are used to in what most p e o p l e today r e c o g n i z e as science fic­ tion. T h e m o r e o n e reads a b o u t Frankenstein, the less it feels like a science fiction novel. In his Introduction, Baldick remarks, "I have read that Fran­ kenstein is supposed to be the first science fiction novel." In that "sup­ posed," it's not hard to hear a politely disingenuous b e m u s e m e n t . T h e academics ( a n d / o r science fiction writers) w h o have a c c e p t e d the notion o f Frankenstein as o u r most r e c e n t origin story are n o t the ones w h o have g o n e back a n d specifically r e r e a d Shelley's novel (or E. Darwin's p o e m ) in o r d e r to assess Aldiss's a r g u m e n t . T h o s e w h o d o , such as David Ketterer, tend to c o m e down o n the other side o f the fence. W h a t contributed m o r e than anything to the a c c e p t a n c e o f Aldiss's proposition, however, was a g e n e r a l situation a m o n g university critics in the early seventies. Fresh after the t r i u m p h o f the J o h n s H o p k i n s Semi­ nars o f 1 9 6 6 - 68 on the h u m a n sciences, d u r i n g those years structural­ ism (aka literary theory) was starting its e m b a t t l e d j o u r n e y a l o n g A m e r i ­ can university hallways. If literary theory had a battle cry at that time, it was: "The origin is always a political c o n s t r u c t . . . " M a n y academics felt radically threatened by the Gallic incursion. Still smarting from the N e w Criticism, too often m a n y thematic critics saw their f u n d a m e n t a l j o b as the tracing o f themes "back to their origins." T h e assumption h a d b e e n

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that those origins were n o t political constructs, c h a n g i n g w h e n one's pol­ itics c h a n g e d , b u t objective value-free facts. N o w this entire plank in lit­ erary criticism's platform was b e i n g splintered. In the midst o f this ferment, Aldiss p r o p o s e d his n e w origin for sci­ e n c e fiction. Aldiss was English. Aldiss's a r g u m e n t was reasonably put. A t the same time, if y o u d i d n ' t read it closely, it e v e n s e e m e d to exhibit s o m e feminist sympathy—Mary was a w o m a n , after all. T h e r e isn't m u c h , however, if y o u read the a r g u m e n t carefully. All the e l e m e n t s that figure in the originary i m p o r t a n c e o f Frankenstein for sci­ e n c e fiction pass from (Erasmus) Darwin a n d others, t h r o u g h a m o r e or less transparent Mary, to h e r text; t h o u g h today most o f the p e o p l e w h o cite Frankenstein as an origin o f science fiction have forgotten the pivotal part played by the Darwin c o n n e c t i o n a n d h e r other male progenitors— if they ever k n e w they existed. Frankenstein's originary p l a c e in the history o f SF may b e a cherished b e l i e f for Aldiss. B u t to most a c a d e m i c s w h o saw their own fields o f liter­ ary study r o c k e d by the advent o f theory, it was a weighty sandbag on a breakwater against the rising theoretical tide. For the rest, they t e n d e d to a c c e p t the a r g u m e n t simply b e c a u s e it r e c e i v e d a certain a m o u n t o f attention from these others. A m o n g writers a n d those n o t directly con­ c e r n e d with the theoretical debates, there was still a v a g u e presentiment that s u c h singular origins s o m e h o w a u t h o r i z e d a n d legitimated a con­ t e m p o r a r y practice o f writing, o r that its feminist implications m a d e it attractive. T h e way that, since 1 9 7 3 , the anti-theory forces in science fiction scholarship have taken u p Aldiss's proposal, a l o n g with the "feminist" as­ p e c t o f the c h o i c e (if anything, Aldiss's actual a r g u m e n t d o e s not allow Mary to b e the a g e n t o f anything significant to SF in her own book, other than that she h a d the vaguely a-specific g e n i u s to p u t t h e m in a novel), only seems to have p r o v e d the truth o f the insight that so upset them: " T h e origin is always a political construct." Certainly this o n e is—as m u c h as the c a m p a i g n platform o f any c u r r e n t political candidate. W h a t it masks is the situation I've tried to u n c o v e r h e r e . A s I d o from M c C l o u d ' s , I w e l c o m e the discussion o f any aspects o f sci­ e n c e fiction Aldiss's "definition" highlights, t h o u g h I insist on calling it a description. ("Science fiction is the search for a definition o f m a n and his status in the universe w h i c h will stand in o u r advanced but confused state o f k n o w l e d g e [science], a n d is characteristically cast in the Gothic or post-Gothic m o d e " [Aldiss, 2 5 ] ; "com-ics (kom'iks) n. plural in form, used with a singular verb. 1. Juxtaposed pictorial and other images in de­ liberate s e q u e n c e , i n t e n d e d to convey information a n d / o r to p r o d u c e an aesthetic response in the viewer" [ M c C l o u d , 9].) With b o t h M c C l o u d

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and Aldiss I object only to their attempt to appropriate a position o f mas­ tery for those m o r e or less interesting descriptions by c l a i m i n g for t h e m the authority o/definitions. It w o u l d be unfair n o t to p o i n t out, however, that even Aldiss's c o m m i t m e n t to the idea o f origins is l o o s e n i n g ("The m o r e we know, the less certain w e can b e a b o u t origins. T h e date o f the Renaissance b e c o m e s less clear d e c a d e by d e c a d e as research g o e s o n . . . " [Aldiss, 1 8 ] ) . T h e r e is a playfully self-subversive circularity in that Aldiss's "definition" is a search for a "definition"; a n d M c C l o u d , b e f o r e the p r o b l e m o f w h e t h e r or n o t cartoons can b e called c o m i c s art, is will­ ing to allow his o w n definition to b e g i n deconstructing itself: THIS S A M E smt&ie P/WfL MIGHT ALSO 8E LABELLED COMICS FOR ITS JUXTAPOSITION,

OF tYO/ePS AND

A G R E A T MAJORITY O F M O D E R N COMICS DO FEATURE WORDS A N D PICTURES IN COMBINATION AND IT'S A SUBJECT WORTHY OF STUDY, BUT WHEN USED AS A PBFVNmON FOR COMICS, I ' V E F O U N D IT TO B E A LITTLE

TOO &e&r/?fc7/VT FOR M Y TASTE .

OF C O U R S E , IF A N Y O N E WANTS TO W R I T E A BOOK TAKING THE OPPOSITS VIEW, YOU CAN BET I'LL 6 E THE FIRST IN L I N E T O BUY A COPY/ y

Illustration #14: McCloud, page 21 This essay is definitely n o t i n t e n d e d to fulfill the p l a c e o f the b o o k M c C l o u d proposes. R a t h e r than validating the system o f definition by posing o n e the "opposite" o f M c C l o u d ' s , I w o u l d like to step into a differ­ ent system entirely o f intellectual r e a d i n g pleasure (and p o w e r — t h o u g h we have n o t yet discussed that directly) ; a n d I w o u l d like to shrug off the system o f authority (the a c k n o w l e d g e d claim to power, w h e t h e r or n o t power is actually t h e r e ) , purely t h r o u g h g e n e r a t i o n a l ties, m a r k e d a n d straited by definition, mastery, a n d origins. T h e pleasure a n d insight to b e g a i n e d from formally c o m p a r i n g Fran­ kenstein (or Mayan picture writing), either text o r context, to any n u m b e r of m o d e r n science fiction (or c u r r e n t c o m i c b o o k ) texts o r contexts is a pleasure I b e g r u d g e n o o n e . (If Aldiss c o u l d see his way to c o m p a r i n g Frankenstein to a specific novel, I think his a r g u m e n t w o u l d have b e e n far richer, if n o t m o r e pleasurable.) I object only to the assumption o f the transfer o f some transcendental g e n e r a t i o n a l force b e t w e e n the two if they can be linked in a familial a n d g e n e t i c ( c o g n a t e , after all, with genre) relationship.

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It is n o t the c o n c e p t o f category, as carried by the metaphors o f family a n d o f g e n r e , that I object to. It is rather the imposition o f family values, if y o u will, that b e a r the b r u n t o f my critique: the assumption that family or g e n r e m e m b e r s must submit to these generational relations, in a field o f fixed authoritative forces. T h e fixing o f relations o f r e a d i n g pleasure a n d descriptive delirium within a critical o e d i p a l esthetic, conscious or u n c o n s c i o u s , too frequently leads to violent exclusions and stasis, w h e n , for the health o f the paraliterary g e n r e s , those relations should be p l a c e d in positions o f c o n f i d e n c e to w e l c o m e a n d celebrate. If w e r e a d Aldiss's definition o f science fiction in the c o n t e x t o f the ironies h e i m b e d s it in, if we read M c C l o u d ' s definition o f comics in the c o n t e x t o f the restrictions h e places a r o u n d it, w e see each writer indicat­ i n g w h e r e his o w n definition breaks d o w n . F r o m the texts alone it is und e c i d a b l e w h e t h e r these self-subversions are m o r e profitably read as res­ ervations only for the specific definition, o r w h e t h e r they sign a m o r e m e a n i n g f u l reservation with the overall system o f definition that straits so m u c h o f the paraliterary critical enterprise. B u t if we then turn from these particular self-crippled definitional projects to the discussion each writer m o u n t s u n d e r the c o n c e p t o f origins, it's h a r d n o t to hear as an originary impulse b e h i n d both: "These things are like comics—these like SF. B e c a u s e their similarities p r o d u c e a surge o f pleasure, I want to write of them." A b o v e a n d b e y o n d the insights the comparisons generate, the consid­ erations o f these similarities may e v e n p r o v o k e belief—a belief the writer c o m e s to c h e r i s h — i n s o m e vision o f the way the world is, was, or should b e . If w e c a n find internal a n d external evidence c o n n e c t i n g one o f these early texts a n d o n e o f the later, we can even posit influences. We still d o n ' t n e e d a shared identity. ( T h e r e is b o t h internal a n d external e v i d e n c e for the influence o f Joyce's Portrait oftheArtist [ 1 9 1 4 ] and Ulysses [ 1 9 2 2 ] o n Bester's TheStars My Destination [ 1 9 5 6 ] , a n d o f Huysmans's A Rebours [1884] o n [again Bester's] "Hell is Forever" [ 1 9 4 2 ] : but are these influences—or the evi­ d e n c e for them—less m e a n i n g f u l because neither Huysmans n o r Joyce wrote science fiction?) Often, however, certain o f o u r discussions are straited by a fear that without the authoritative appeal to origins and definitions as e m b l e m s o f s o m e fancied critical mastery, o u r observations a n d insights will not be w e l c o m e d , will n o t be taken for the celebrational pleasure that they are. W h a t can I say, o t h e r than that w e n e e d m o r e c o n f i d e n c e in the validity o f o u r own enterprise? I am n o t suggesting that by c h a n g i n g a few rhetorical figures old-style criticism will be automatically r e n d e r e d new a n d m o d e r n . T h e rhetorical

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traces I cite are, in themselves, traces o f a discourse—a discourse w h o s e h o l d o n the range o f paraliterary criticism, I h o p e I have shown, is neither inconsequential, n o r i n n o c e n t , n o r simple. T h e a r g u m e n t b e t w e e n M c C l o u d and m e over his view o f the history o f the g e n r e represents a conflict o f too discourses, o n e o f w h i c h (mine) is posited o n respect for, and celebration of, difference, a n d o n e o f w h i c h ( M c C l o u d ' s ) turns o n the dignity of, and, o n s o m e essential level, the identity of, the same. T o give an admittedly unsympathetic portrayal, however, o f w h a t I take to b e the discourse M c C l o u d inhabits, it m i g h t b e e x e m p l i f i e d thus: T h e G r e e k s o f the fifth century B.C. r e p r e s e n t e d a p e a k o f civilization. We represent a p e a k o f civilization. T h u s , b e c a u s e there is an essential identity between the two cultures, the G r e e k myths can be m a d e to stand in for the Christian karygma. Presented as such, this w o u l d p r o b a b l y strike most o f us as h u g e l y arrogant. B u t at the e n d o f the e i g h t e e n t h century and the b e g i n n i n g o f the n i n e t e e n t h , o u t o f this discourse grew some extraordinary works, e.g., H ô l d e r l i n ' s p o e m Brot und Wein ( 1 8 0 3 ) . T h e way in w h i c h this a n d similar works o r g a n i z e the p e r c e i v e d corres p o n d e n c e s b e t w e e n k a r y g m a a n d myth was i n t e n d e d to p r o d u c e mystical awe. It was assumed in the time w h e n this discourse was a living a n d vital o n e that these c o r r e s p o n d e n c e s functioned as conduits o f power, authority, greatness, a n d that it was the r e c o g n i t i o n o f these p o w e r corres p o n d e n c e s that p r o d u c e d the pleasure. O u r g e n e r a t i o n has to b e satisfied with the pleasure for its own sake. M c C l o u d ' s 1 5 0 years w h e n n o t h i n g c h a n g e d or the identity h e finds between Egyptian picture writing a n d c o m i c s is precisely the sort o f conceptual offspring the traces o f such a discourse still p r o d u c e today. T h e y attempt to operate in m u c h the same way as H ô l d e r l i n ' s continuity between fifth century G r e e c e a n d turn-of-the-(eighteenth-)century Germany. It is a v e n e r a b l e tradition a n d it has o r g a n i z e d m u c h beauty. B u t with Ulysses, as well as the F r e n c h e x p l o s i o n o f c o m i c plays a n d novels o n G r e e k t h e m e s — C o c t e a u ' s La Machine infernal ( 1 9 3 4 ) a n d Orphée ( 1 9 2 5 ) , Sartre's Les Mouche ( 1 9 4 3 ) , G i r a d e a u x ' s Elpénor ( 1 9 1 9 ) , Amphytrion-38 ( 1 9 2 9 ) , and Le Guerre le Trois n'aura pas lieu ( 1 9 3 5 ) , a n d G i d e ' s Œdipe ( 1 9 3 1 ) — f r o m the twenties t h r o u g h the forties, such c o r r e s p o n d e n c e s b e c a m e a site o f bathos, o p e n i n g u p the possibility for difference (similarities were s o u g h t o u t precisely to m a r k a field in w h i c h difference could be subsequently inscribed), a n d the relation was ironized precisely to highlight these differences, so that the G r e e k parallels critique the m o d e r n (as well as the discourse that p r e c e d e d it) in a way they c o u l d never do in Hôlderlin. A t the level o f the signifier, the way to effect the transition b e t w e e n discourses is, yes, a matter o f rhetoric. A t the level o f the signified, however,

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the only way to effect it is to d o s o m e serious thinking a b o u t the respec­ tive priorities o f pleasure a n d authority in o u r c u r r e n t critical undertak­ ings. W e m u s t b e willing to u n d e r s t a n d h o w cleaving to a certain d e a d rhetoric forces us to g o o n r e p e a t i n g empty critical rituals associated with past authority a n d p e r p e t u a t i n g the anxiety that what we take pleasure in will n o t b e sufficiently w e l c o m e d , the two interacting in a way that does n o t o v e r c o m e the p r o b l e m b u t only p r o d u c e s a self-fulfilling prophecy. T o all o u r critics, I offer the assurance: Vision, history, belief, as well as the operationalism o f the sciences are all w e l c o m e in c o n t e m p o r a r y crit­ icism. A l l they require is that, with enthusiasm a n d intelligence, y o u have s o m e t h i n g to say a n d c a n p u t it with g r a c e a n d insight. A n d in Aldiss and M c C l o u d , enthusiasm, intelligence, grace, a n d insight a b o u n d . But the thirties' pseudoscientific argumentative f o r m (start with a definition, t h e n g o o n to origins) is unnecessary a n d insufficient for criticism today, literary o r paraliterary. Let's lose it. — New York City & Wellfleet August 1996

12

Zelazny/Varley/Gibson—and Quality

This essay grows largely from my efforts over the last four years to de­ velop, teach, and refine a course called "Introduction to S c i e n c e Fiction" at the University o f Massachusetts at Amherst. T h e n o t i o n b e h i n d the course is simply that, today, in 1 9 9 2 , science fiction is such a b r o a d field that the idea o f "introducing" it over fourteen w e e k s to a g r o u p o f read­ ers largely u n a c q u a i n t e d with it, w h o will listen to two w e e k l y lectures and read the equivalent o f only s o m e twelve to f o u r t e e n b o o k s , is simply impossible—if w e try to select readings a c c o r d i n g to any sophisticated notion o f historical d e v e l o p m e n t o r any reasonably representative sur­ vey o f SF themes. T h u s , as I e x p l a i n to my students in the first lecture, if they c o m e to the SF field as readers m o r e or less unfamiliar with the g e n r e — a n d most o f t h e m d o — i t is precisely those SF writers w h o are m o r e or less w e l l - k n o w n — a t least as n a m e s — o u t s i d e the field (e.g., Bradbury, H e i n l e i n , Asimov, C l a r k e , L e G u i n , Dick) that w e will not b e reading in the course. T h e s e are the writers that the g e n e r a l social w o r k i n g s o f popularity and fame have already m a n a g e d to "introduce" to most p e o p l e . T h e s e are the writers w h o , as curious readers, my students are most likely to pick u p o n their own a n d r e a d — a n d even enjoy. A n d t h o u g h students can all profit from i n f o r m e d study a n d a m o r e sophisticated understand­ ing o f the SF c o n t e x t in w h i c h e a c h wrote or writes, it seems unnecessary to spend an introductory course o n t h e m . Instead, w e use the course to read works o f writers most o f my class will n o t have h e a r d o f before. T h e writers we read are writers to w h o m they c a n only b e i n t r o d u c e d by some­ o n e k n o w l e d g e a b l e in the b r e a d t h a n d history o f the SF world. A n d I only h o p e that the things I can a d d in terms o f c o n t e x t will b e o f use should their r e a d i n g then m o v e , o n its own, either to m o r e widely k n o w n SF writers (which is likely) or o n to SF writers even less well-known in the SF world than these (which will b e a rarer o c c u r r e n c e , b u t is certainly a possibility).

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O n c e w e have gotten t h r o u g h the barrier o f accessibility, my selection is based wholly o n a n o t i o n o f quality. Quality as I present the idea is n o t an unanalyzable absolute. Quality has to d o with a tension between rich­ ness and simplicity, as well as the g o o d o l d fashioned notions o f truth and beauty; above all, it is a social construct that exists as a recognizable as­ p e c t o f any art only t h r o u g h the interrogations and disagreements o f ed­ ucated m i n d s in a r g u m e n t — i n short it functions as a process, n o t a thing. (It is n o t a consensual construct, b u t a conflictual o n e ; t h o u g h it requires an educated, passionate field for that conflict to be at all productive.) T h e course is o r g a n i z e d as a series o f l o n g e r a n d shorter units, some two w e e k s l o n g , s o m e three. E a c h term I select b e t w e e n five and six o f these units, o u t o f a possible e i g h t — e n o u g h to fill u p fourteen weeks. T h e r e is a two-week short story unit, using two stories apiece by Lucius S h e p a r d , O c t a v i a Butler, a n d G r e g Bear. T h e r e is a n o t h e r story unit o f three weeks that utilizes two o r three stories a p i e c e by R o g e r Zelazny, J o h n Varley, a n d William Gibson. Various o t h e r units are organized a r o u n d single writers, usually c o m p r i s i n g at least two novels a n d a hand­ ful o f stories o f e a c h , i n c l u d i n g T h e o d o r e S t u r g e o n , Alfred Bester, T h o m a s Disch, J o a n n a Russ, Algis Budrys, a n d Barry Malzberg. M u c h o f the material in the following p a g e s is material used to i n t r o d u c e the Ze­ lazny, Varley, G i b s o n unit. For m a n y years, I've listened to p e o p l e — b u t especially p e o p l e in the sci­ e n c e fiction w o r l d o f readers a n d writers—declare that they are n o t so m u c h interested in "writing" as in "story"—a n o t i o n closely c o n n e c t e d with that o f "craft" a n d somehow, at least in the m i n d s o f the readers w h o declare it, o n e that sits in uneasy relation to "art." Stuck with the truism that there's n o way to acquire a story off a written p a g e without the m e d i u m o f l a n g u a g e — l a n g u a g e , moreover, s o m e b o d y else has writ­ ten—finally I find myself h a v i n g to say that to be c o n c e r n e d with story a n d n o t with writing is willfully to i g n o r e what is d o i n g the actual work. A n d to pursue craft w i t h o u t art is to pursue only those areas o f art that p r o d u c e n o p r o b l e m s , contradictions, o r tensions b e t w e e n the material a n d its e x e c u t i o n . It is to pursue only that part o f art w h e r e n o risk is per­ ceived, either in terms o f politics or aesthetics. T h e r e are readers a n d writers w h o are, nevertheless, comfortable r e a d i n g — a n d writing—wholly within this discourse o f story and craft. B u t my o w n analysis marks m e as clearly a n d committedly uncomfortable with it; a n d definitely outside their n u m b e r . S o m e o f y o u will have al­ ready figured o u t w h a t I a m saying in effect is that, in terms o f a writerly ontology, I d o n ' t even believe "story" exists—except as a c o n v e n i e n t way to talk a b o u t an effect o f writing; whereas readers a n d writers w h o are

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comfortable in that discourse are c o n t e n t with a c o n c e p t o f "writing" that makes it o n e with a n o t i o n o f "style," w h i c h they see as a variable as­ pect, like color, o f a solid, visible, a n d locatable entity called a story. Whereas for m e , words are the solid a n d locatable e l e m e n t s in a text, and m e a n i n g , story, style, a n d tone are all shifting a n d flickering aspects to various c o m b i n a t i o n s o f words that are, all o f t h e m , equally evanescent and intangible, intricately interrelated a n d inextricable—analyzable yes, but never simple or exhaustible. Ever since the early days o f science fiction in the p u l p magazines o f the thirties, there have b e e n writers w h o have achieved a certain o r d e r o f intense popularity—one that, to my m i n d , simply c a n n o t be e x p l a i n e d with anything like e l e g a n c e using only the discourse o f story a n d craft. Often the rhetoric that grows u p a r o u n d t h e m suggests the craft/story ontology. B u t I want to talk a b o u t some o f these writers in terms that make sense to me. T o d o so, I will eventually have to talk in s o m e detail about that term that is e v e n m o r e troubling in a populist discourse where "craft" and "art" are allowed to wrangle a n d "story" a n d "writing" to dialogize: A n d this is the a f o r e m e n t i o n e d n o t i o n o f "quality." T h e term is c o m m o n to the rhetoric o f b o t h discourses—but within each it means a very different thing. In the discourse o f craft a n d story, it refers to an important, presumably visible, and locatable aspect that is o n e with what is g o o d — b y consensus—in a g o o d story. B u t in the dis­ course o f "art" and "writing," quality is not a consensus entity at all; o n c e again, it is a social construct that c o m e s into b e i n g t h r o u g h the conflict a m o n g e d u c a t e d minds. What R o g e r Zelazny, J o h n Varley, a n d William G i b s o n share as writers is the extraordinary d e g r e e to w h i c h each, respectively in the sixties, seven­ ties, and eighties, excited the science fiction c o m m u n i t y o f readers, writ­ ers, and c o m m i t t e d fans. T o speak o f "the science fiction c o m m u n i t y " is to speak o f a r e a d i n g and writing c o m m u n i t y that, while it n u m b e r s in the thousands, is still small e n o u g h so that sales or mass popularity is n o t the only factor broadly meaningful to a writer's reputation. In that community, quality of writing is still—sometimes—capable o f g e n e r a t i n g m o r e e x c i t e m e n t than simple ubiquity o f copies spread about, w h i c h is finally what sales alone m e a n . Prefatory essays i n t r o d u c e their stories in the first short story collec­ tion by each: Zelazny's Four for Tomorrow ( 1 9 6 7 ) , i n t r o d u c e d by T h e o ­ dore Sturgeon; Varley's The Persistence of Vision ( 1 9 7 8 ) , i n t r o d u c e d by Algis Budrys; and Gibson's Burning Chrome ( 1 9 8 6 ) , i n t r o d u c e d by B r u c e Sterling. In a writing field w h e r e such introductions are not at all the

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rule for first story collections, all three introductions, then, are signs o f the greater than usual e x c i t e m e n t already in place a r o u n d each o f these writers by the time that first story collection was published. A t the 1 9 6 6 W o r l d S c i e n c e Fiction C o n v e n t i o n in Cleveland, during the o p e n i n g c e r e m o n i e s w h e n the n a m e s o f the various SF writers present were a n n o u n c e d , while o l d e r a n d m o r e p o p u l a r professionals such as Isaac Asimov, Frederik Pohl, a n d Poul A n d e r s o n drew a perfectly respectable a m o u n t o f applause, w h e n R o g e r Zelazny's n a m e was read out, it was g r e e t e d with a standing ovation in a hall filled with almost a t h o u s a n d attendees—an ovation w h i c h w e n t o n a n d o n and on! D u r i n g that same W o r l d SF C o n v e n t i o n w e e k e n d , Zelazny's first novel, This Im­ mortal, tied with Frank Herbert's Dune for the H u g o A w a r d as best SF novel o f the year. W h e n w e consider H e r b e r t h a d b e e n writing and k n o w n to the SF world since the early fifties, a n d that his giant novel had already a p p e a r e d in serial form as two individual novels, each o f which h a d already b e e n serialized in Analog m a g a z i n e over two three-month periods, a n d that already, in hardcover, it was b e g i n n i n g to cross over into the awareness o f the greater r e a d i n g public (where it w o u l d g o o n to sell s o m e twelve million copies in p a p e r b a c k and spawn a series o f se­ q u e l s ) , it's e v e n m o r e astonishing that Zelazny, w h o s e novel had ap­ p e a r e d only in a cut version s q u e e z e d into two issues o f The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, m a n a g e d to m a k e any showing at all against H e r b e r t in the voting, m u c h less p r o d u c e a tie. B u t all these were signs o f the extraordinary e x c i t e m e n t that the ver­ bal electricity o f Zelazny's prose h a d g e n e r a t e d in the three years since h e ' d b e e n publishing science fiction. W h i l e h e always s e e m e d to enjoy the attention lavished u p o n h i m in these years, Zelazny, a slim, dark m a n o f Polish-American extraction, was nevertheless quite h u m b l e before that attention. Certainly he never did anything that m a d e h i m a p p e a r to seek it out—outside o f p r o d u c i n g ex­ traordinarily fine SF stories. T h e same h u m o r o u s irony with which he c o n f r o n t e d the m o s t intense e x c i t e m e n t a b o u t his work—from 1963 t h r o u g h a p p r o x i m a t e l y i g 6 8 — h e w o u l d use to confront those p e o p l e w h o , a few years later, were to declare his newer work not as strong as his earlier p r o d u c t i o n , even as his g e n e r a l popularity grew on the purely sta­ tistical level with his various A m b e r b o o k s . Zelazny w e n t o n to write m o r e award-winning novels a n d stories, i n c l u d i n g Lord of Light a n d " H o m e is the H a n g m a n . " His A m b e r novels, w h i c h b e g a n a p p e a r i n g in '69, were unremittingly popular, as the individual v o l u m e s c a m e out, over the n e x t twenty years. B u t the e x c i t e m e n t a r o u n d Zelazny within the science fic­ tion c o m m u n i t y still centers o n the ten l o n g stories ("A Rose for Ecclesiastes" [ 1 9 6 3 ] , "He W h o Shapes" [ 1 9 6 4 ] , "The Graveyard Heart"

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[ 1 9 6 4 ] , "The D o o r s o f His Face, the L a m p s o f His M o u t h " [ 1 9 6 5 ] , " T h e Furies" [ 1 9 6 5 ] , " T h e Keys to D e c e m b e r " [ 1 9 6 6 ] , "For a Breath I Tarry" [ 1 9 6 6 ] , "This M o m e n t o f the S t o r m " [ 1 9 6 6 ] , "This Mortal M o u n t a i n " [ 1 9 6 7 ] , a n d — t h e o n e w h e r e the e n e r g y first fails and, somehow, never recovers—"Damnation Alley" [ 1 9 6 7 ] ) , c o u p l e d with a handful o f those early novels, This Immortal, The Dream Master (an e x p a n s i o n o f "He W h o Shapes"), Bridge of Ashes, Today We Choose Faces, a n d Doorways in the Sand— this last c o m i n g to be c o n s i d e r e d by m a n y his best novel, with This Immortal close b e h i n d . (Others w o u l d argue j u s t as intelligently and j u s t as pas­ sionately for Isle of the Dead a n d Lord of Light, p r o d u c i n g precisely the conflict necessary for the p r o d u c t i o n o f the idea o f quality this essay puts forth.) By the mid-seventies Zelazny was d e e p into his A m b e r series—commer­ cially successful but aesthetically lightweight. H e h a d publicly stated that he c o u l d not afford to write the k i n d o f b o o k s and stories h e o n c e had. T h o u g h his h i g h reputation rested o n t h e m , they t o o k t o o m u c h time for the m o n e y they b r o u g h t in, he c l a i m e d . A n d h e was now, by his o w n admission (reprinted in b o t h fanzines a n d p r o z i n e s ) , too f o n d o f the g o o d life. Sales were u p . A n d there was certainly n o fall-off in the a m o u n t o f fannish adulation he received. B u t that adulation simply n o l o n g e r carried the intensity a n d e d g e that it o n c e had, w h e n his w o r k had b e e n perceived as exhibiting u n e q u a l e d writerly invention—rather than the m u c h less c o m p l e x ability to please a statistically g r o w i n g audi­ e n c e . Now, in the science fiction field, the first stories o f J o h n Varley began to attract attention. By his first story collection, The Persistence of Vi­ sion, in 1 9 7 8 , the e x c i t e m e n t that h a d b e e n g a t h e r e d a r o u n d this tall, quiet West Coast writer, if it was n o t at the same pitch Zelazny h a d o n c e c o m m a n d e d , it was in the same ballpark. J o h n H e r b e r t V a r l e y — c a l l e d H e r b by his friends—was a g a n g l i n g y o u n g m a n , still in his m i d d l e twen­ ties w h e n his first story, a b o u t life o n the h u g e l y h o t surface o f the p l a n e t Mercury, "Retrograde Summer," a p p e a r e d in 1 9 7 4 . W o r k i n g as a welfare assistant for disabled p e o p l e in O r e g o n , Varley h a d b e e n assigned to as­ sist a y o u n g , w h e e l c h a i r - b o u n d w o m a n . T h e y ' d fallen in love; h a d mar­ ried; together, they had three children. A n d Varley h a d b e g u n to write. By the time his first collection o f stories had c o m e o u t in conjunction with his first novel, The Ophiuchi Hotline, three things w e r e obvious about Varley. Clearly, he had g o n e to school at the feet o f Russ a n d the other w o m e n SF writers o f this period, such as V o n d a Mclntyre, Ursula L e Guin, and James Tiptree, Jr. (Alice S h e l d o n ) . Varley's feminist sympathies were as evident as Russ's, if less analytically h o n e d . A s well, h e obviously enjoyed the possibilities o f technology. Also, h e was deeply c o n c e r n e d in

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all ways with the p r o b l e m o f prosthetics—and, by extension, the dignity a n d rights o f the h a n d i c a p p e d . T h i s c o n c e r n c l i m a x e d in his N e b u l a and H u g o A w a r d - w i n n i n g novella that gave his first story collection its title, " T h e Persistence o f Vision," a disturbing story—in many ways and on m a n y levels—about a sighted m a n w h o discovers a c o m m u n a l society o f the b l i n d w h i c h has set u p its h o m e away from the rest o f the sighted world, s o m e w h e r e in the southwest. Most o f Varley's stories ("The Persis­ t e n c e o f V i s i o n " itself a notable e x c e p t i o n ) take place in a m o r e or less c o h e r e n t universe (the E i g h t Worlds), in w h i c h the discovery o f a broad­ cast b a n d o f information originating from the area o f the constellation O p h i u c h u s has allowed h u m a n k i n d to m a k e a q u a n t u m technological l e a p in the n e x t century. W h i l e Zelazny's stories h a d b e e n the first o f his texts to excite SF read­ ers, his early novels h a d carried that e x c i t e m e n t to an even h i g h e r pitch. Varley's first novel, The Ophiuchi Hotline ( 1 9 7 8 ) , was satisfactory e n o u g h . B u t while it fleshed o u t a n d a d d e d i m p o r t a n t information to the Eight Worlds series, as a b o o k in itself it did not have the same formal perfec­ tion as s u c h stories as " T h e P h a n t o m o f Kansas" or "Overdrawn at the M e m o r y B a n k . " B u t n o w Varley l a u n c h e d into a massive trilogy, the first novel o f w h i c h was Titan ( 1 9 7 9 ) . As p e r c e i v e d within a discourse o f story a n d craft, especially as the first v o l u m e o f a projected trilogy (which, in such a discourse, c a n always b a n k o n the n o t i o n o f s o m e later events, or revelation that will m a k e the story m o v e into s o m e particularly satisfying d i r e c t i o n ) , the b o o k was also satisfactory—even popular. A n d w h e n Isaac A s i m o v i n t r o d u c e d Varley at P h i l c o n in '78 (as " T h e N e w H e i n l e i n " ) , the applause w e n t o n a n d o n in the way the SF c o m m u n i t y had not heard since Zelazny's i n t r o d u c t i o n at the '66 T r i c o n . A n d w h e n H e r b unveiled his m a p o f Titan, the applause b e c a m e a standing ovation. B u t for those p e o p l e w h o r e a d Titan within the discourse o f writing a n d art, two hun­ d r e d a n d fifty pages o f writing was still two h u n d r e d a n d fifty pages o f writing; and, having n o t h i n g to d o with w h e r e the story was g o i n g to g o , the micropleasures o f those two h u n d r e d fifty pages should have l o n g a g o b e g u n to c o h e r e into the greater vividness and intensity that marked the shorter works. B u t what those readers h a d generally found, however, was a rather l u m b e r i n g a n d s o m e h o w lifeless j o b , t h o u g h all o f Varley's c o n c e r n s , from his feminist sympathies to his scientific interest in pros­ theses, were further e x p l o r e d in the b o o k . T h e e x c i t e m e n t a r o u n d Varley's short stories was, however, still grow­ i n g . A s e c o n d c o l l e c t i o n o f earlier stories m a n a g e d to b e a r u p u n d e r the a p p a l l i n g title The Barbie Murders; it was, yes, the title o f o n e o f the stories c o n t a i n e d ; that still did n o t e x c u s e it. Several years later, The Bar­ bie Murders was reissued u n d e r the title Picnic on Nearside—another story

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from the b o o k : but n o t m u c h o f an i m p r o v e m e n t ! Still, Varley's stories were the most exciting SF b e i n g written in those years, with n e w tales such as "Press Enter • " clearly ranking a m o n g the best h e ' d ever d o n e . T h a t excitement c o n t i n u e d t h r o u g h still a third collection, Blue Champagne (1988). S o m e t i m e b e f o r e this, as fallout from the first surge o f e x c i t e m e n t , an early Varley story, "Air Raid," was b o u g h t for the m o v i e s . Varley was retained to d o the film script. H e e x p a n d e d his film t r e a t m e n t into a novel, Millennium ( 1 9 8 3 ; also the title o f the film); w h a t strengths Mil­ lennium (the novel) h a d w e r e formal. L i k e L e G u i n ' s The Dispossessed, it alternated c h a p t e r by c h a p t e r b e t w e e n two points o f view: that o f a time-traveling w o m a n from a p o l l u t e d a n d d e c a d e n t future w h o s e j o b is to g o back in time a n d rescue p e o p l e from air crashes a b o u t to occur, a n d a c o n t e m p o r a r y airlines crash inspector w h o b e g i n s to realize that s o m e t h i n g is p r o f o u n d l y w r o n g in o n e o f the accidents h e ' s b e e n as­ signed to cover. T h o u g h the novel's e n d i n g (first) violated its o w n for­ mal pattern a n d (second) fell very flat, it s e e m e d that careful scripting m i g h t save it. B u t the m o v i e that resulted—Millennium, with C h e r y l L a d d a n d Kris K r i s t o f f e r s o n — a b a n d o n e d any p r e t e n s e at structure; also, it p u l l e d in several u n r e l a t e d special effects s e q u e n c e s with n o c o n ­ cern for the action; generally Millennium (the movie) m a n a g e d to c o m e in as o n e o f the worst SF films o f the d e c a d e . ( T h e weakest o f Zelazny's early d e c a l o g u e o f tales, " D a m n a t i o n Alley," h a d also b e e n t u r n e d into an eminently forgettable picture [starring Jan M i c h a e l V i n c e n t ] o f the same name.) A g a i n , the e x c i t e m e n t a r o u n d these writers was initially based o n the h i g h skill a n d craft o f their action w r i t i n g — n o t the n u m ­ ber o f sales, the size o f their advances, o r the success o f the movies m a d e from their works. Nevertheless, that e x c i t e m e n t has often b e e n in­ j u r e d by a bad c o m m e r c i a l c h o i c e ; a n d all three o f the writers in this unit have m a d e c h o i c e s p e r c e i v e d by the g e n e r a l c o m m u n i t y as c o m ­ mercial and poor. By the first years o f the eighties, Varley h a d d i v o r c e d his wife; neither Wizard n o r Demon, the s e c o n d a n d third novels in his trilogy, h a d d o n e anything to ameliorate the sheer l u m b e r i n g quality o f the tripartite work. W h i l e "The Persistence o f V i s i o n " was Varley's most h o n o r e d a n d awarded story, it was n o t a characteristic tale. A n d certain writers, such as T h o m a s Disch, even f o u n d it r e p u g n a n t . T h e year the story took its awards, the country was s h o c k e d at the dark horrors o f the Jonestown massacre in G u y a n a , w h e r e s o m e three hun­ dred followers o f the white R e v e r e n d Jim Jones, m o s d y black A m e r i c a n w o m e n and children, were brainwashed into c o m m i t t i n g mass suicide by drinking cyanide-laced soft drinks. Disch's p o i n t e d c o m m e n t a b o u t the

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tale o f its self-blinding h e r o was: " T h e story m a d e m e feel that at any mo­ m e n t s o m e o n e was g o i n g to c o m e u p a n d offer m e a glass o f Kool-Aid." A n d , by the m i d d l e o f the d e c a d e , Varley's short stories had all but ceased. William G i b s o n b e g a n p u b l i s h i n g professionally in 1 9 8 1 , with a story— ' J o h n n y M n e m o n i c " — t h a t a n u m b e r o f readers have since claimed is his best. In G i b s o n , two o f Varley's c o n c e r n s s e e m to return, even if in a m u t e d , m i n o r key: forceful female characters ( t h o u g h often in secon­ dary positions) — a n d prostheses. Molly Millions, the lead action charac­ ter in "Johnny M n e m o n i c " a n d a major figure in Gibson's first novel, Neuromancer, seems like a direct rewrite o f Russ's Jael from The Female Man: B o t h w o m e n are o f n e a r s u p e r h u m a n efficiency, b o t h wear black j u m p s u i t s , b o t h have retractable blades h i d d e n in their fingertips, both enjoy their sex, a n d b o t h — t h o u g h for different reasons—have unset­ tling stares. T h e c o r r e s p o n d e n c e seems so c o m p l e t e , I o n c e asked Gibson if h e was aware o f the similarity. T h o u g h h e said h e a d m i r e d Russ as a writer, h e c l a i m e d to have b e e n unaware o f the parallel until I'd asked about it—a sign, I suspect, o f just h o w successful Russ (along with a n u m b e r o f o t h e r w o m e n SF writers o f the seventies) h a d actually b e e n in shifting the c o n v e n t i o n s o f the g e n r e toward an i m a g e o f female c o m p e t e n c e . B o t h s e e m to have b e c o m e shared g e n r e c o n v e n t i o n s rather than spe­ cific aspects o f specific writers' work. By the mid-eighties b o t h c o n c e r n s h a d s e d i m e n t e d e n o u g h in written SF to affect p r o m i n e n t l y the s e c o n d Aliens film—arguably superior to the first b e c a u s e o f those conventions. T h e A c e Specials p u b l i s h i n g line h a d b e e n quiescent for almost fif­ teen years, b u t in '82, A c e B o o k s revived the series, again u n d e r Terry Carr's editorship. Until his death from heart failure in 1986, Carr was able to publish m o r e than h a l f a d o z e n v o l u m e s . A m o n g the earliest o f the n e w series was Gibson's first novel, Neuromancer— w h i c h w e n t o n to win b o t h the N e b u l a A w a r d a n d H u g o A w a r d for best novel o f 1984. In 1 9 8 2 , a writer n a m e d B r u c e B e t h k e p u b l i s h e d a short story called " C y b e r p u n k " in G e o r g e Scither's Amazing Stories m a g a z i n e . A few months later, in 1 9 8 3 , G a r d n e r Dozois, the editor o f Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine, first used in print B e t h k e ' s tide to designate G i b s o n and a n u m b e r o f o t h e r SF writers, i n c l u d i n g B r u c e Sterling, J o h n Shirley, Rudy Rucker, T o m M a d d o x , Pat C a d i g a n (the only w o m a n writer in the g r o u p ) , a n d Lewis Shriner: T h e c y b e r p u n k s h a d b e e n n a m e d . ( T h o u g h B e t h k e ' s story h a d lent t h e m a n a m e a n d B e t h k e h a d occasionally m e t t h e m socially, paradoxically h e was never c o n s i d e r e d part o f the group.) Dozois doubtlessly f o u n d the term "cyberpunk" appropriate for these

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writers because o f their hard-boiled a n d cynical attitude, a l o n g with their interest in computers. T h e y were in their middle-to-late thirties, so that the suggestion o f y o u t h was ironic, rather than reflective: By the early eighties, the P u n k R o c k a n d N e w Wave Music p h e n o m e n o n was generally t h o u g h t to b e fast aging, if n o t over with. A n o t h e r thing some o f these writers h a d in c o m m o n was they occa­ sionally published in Sterling's Texas-based fanzine, Cheap Truth, w h e r e Sterling himself had a regular, raunchy, even frenetic c o l u m n u n d e r the o p e n p e n - n a m e V i n c e n t Omniaveritas—a Latin p u n suggesting some­ thing like "Truth c o n q u e r s all." A n interesting SF writer in his own right, Sterling h a d already m a d e s o m e attempts to start a m o v e m e n t a m o n g some o f these same writers—which h e ' d first designated simply as "the m o v e m e n t , " and later as "the mirror-shades g r o u p . " As in all such groups, n a m e d from the outside, all the writers involved w e r e s o o n pro­ testing publicly that they h a d n o t h i n g — a t least aesthetically—to d o with o n e another, while o t h e r readers in o t h e r fanzines b e g a n to a r g u e whether other writers, e.g., G r e g B e a r or Marc Laidlaw, really o u g h t to b e a d d e d to the g r o u p . Cheap Truth, with its fannish energy, h a d occasionally attacked a n u m ­ ber o f other new SF writers, i n c l u d i n g K i m Stanley R o b i n s o n , J o h n Kes­ sel, and C o n n i e Willis—all o f w h o m were talented, e x c i t i n g in their own ways, and generally m o v i n g toward popularity. N o w a n o t h e r SF writer, Michael Swanwick, in an article that a p p e a r e d in Isaac Asimov's SF Maga­ zine, located a n o t h e r g r o u p o f SF writers h e designated the humanists— a g r o u p c o m p o s e d largely o f those particularly p o p u l a r writers w h o m Cheap Truth attacked. T o a d d to the paradoxes, Willis's first collection o f SF short stories, Fire Watch, c o n t a i n e d an early story, "All My D a r l i n g Daughters," w h i c h , h a d she n o t written it in 1 9 7 9 , m i g h t easily have b e e n taken as a particularly effective parody, or e v e n pastiche, o f an eighties cyberpunk story. Within the SF community, the g e n e r a l level o f d e b a t e b e t w e e n the humanists a n d the cyberpunks—all o f w h o m w e r e busily protesting o n b o t h sides that n o such g r o u p s existed—was g e n e r a l l y lively a n d c a u s e d a lot o f p e o p l e to write a lot o f pages in a lot o f fanzines. T o the e x t e n t that it caused a n u m b e r o f readers to think a bit m o r e clearly a b o u t what was g o i n g o n within the g e n r e , it was u n d o u b t e d l y a healthy p h e ­ n o m e n o n . O u t s i d e the SF community, however, p e o p l e t e n d e d to see c y b e r p u n k as s o m e sort o f oppositional m o v e m e n t — w h i c h i g n o r e d the fact that what is generally c o n s i d e r e d the most characteristic c y b e r p u n k novel, Neuromancer, h a d swept u p b o t h the H u g o a n d N e b u l a A w a r d in its year, w h i c h suggests rather an almost b l a n k e t a c c e p t a n c e by b o t h readers (who vote for the H u g o ) a n d writers (who vote for the N e b u l a ) . M u c h o f the rhetoric was also silly a n d self-serving—such as Sterling's

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claim in his i n t r o d u c t i o n to G i b s o n ' s Burning Chrome that n o t h i n g o f interest h a p p e n e d in SF d u r i n g the seventies—as t h o u g h there had b e e n n o Russ, n o L e G u i n , n o r any Varley. (He was almost immediately taken to task for this by J e a n n e G o m o l l , in "An O p e n Letter to J o a n n a Russ," in h e r fine a n d intelligent fanzine New Moon.) S o m e t i m e in the m i d d l e o f all this, Rolling Stone Magazine ran an article o n cyberpunk, c e n t e r i n g largely o n G i b s o n — a n d i g n o r i n g any o f the writers o n the o t h e r side(s) o f the by-now multi-sided debate. T h e result was that G i b s o n was s o o n hired to write screenplays for Hollywood—first for his own novel, Neuromancer, t h e n for the third film in the S i g o u r n e y Weaver Alien series. T h o u g h G i b s o n c o m p l e t e d both scripts, the third Alien film d o e s n o t use Gibson's, and the Neuromancer film has, so far, c o m e to n o t h i n g — t h o u g h I spent an interesting after­ n o o n in L a w r e n c e , Kansas, at the h o m e o f William B u r r o u g h s , in 1986, b r a i n s t o r m i n g with h i m w h e n — b r i e f l y — h e ' d b e e n retained to write a script for the movie. Gibson's s e c o n d a n d third novels, Count Zero and Mona Lisa Overdrive (like Varley's, continuations o f a trilogy) were not able to generate quite the same e x c i t e m e n t as his first. T h e m o s t u n k i n d characterization o f the c y b e r p u n k g r o u p that o n e n o w b e g a n to h e a r was an a n o n y m o u s o n e that, nevertheless, carried a certain weight: " T h e c y b e r p u n k m o v e m e n t consists o f o n e writer (Gib­ s o n ) , o n e critic (Sterling), a n d a lot o f hangers-on." T h o u g h this slights considerable interesting work, b o t h fiction and n o n a c t i o n , by J o h n Shir­ ley, Rudy Rucker, T o m M a d d o x , Pat C a d i g a n , and Marc Laidlaw, it never­ theless c o n t a i n e d s o m e t h i n g to think about. In 1 9 8 6 , Sterling publicly p r o c l a i m e d the "death" o f V i n c e n t Omniaveritas, a n d ceased to p u t out Cheap Truth. In the same year, h e edited a cy­ b e r p u n k anthology, Mirrorshades, that a p p e a r e d from A r b o r H o u s e in 1 9 8 7 . W i t h the publication o f Mirrorshades: The Cyberpunk Anthology, within the SF c o m m u n i t y the c y b e r p u n k m o v e m e n t was n o w sufficiently m e m o r i a l i z e d a n d m o n u m e n t a l i z e d to be c o n s i d e r e d over with. A r o u n d this time, the first issues o f a new a n d impressive fanzine, ed­ ited by Steven P. B r o w n a n d D a n i e l Steffan o u t o f Washington, D . C . , Sci­ ence Fiction Eye, s e e m e d as if it m i g h t p u t s o m e energy into p r o l o n g i n g the m o v e m e n t . T h e Eye, as it c a m e to b e called, ran interviews with Gib­ son a n d a n u m b e r o f o t h e r c y b e r p u n k writers; as well, it regularly gave considerable p a g e space to b o t h Shirley and Sterling, cyberpunk's two most articulate critics. L o o k i n g back o n these issues, however, the Eye s e e m e d m o r e interested in preserving the recently c o m p l e t e d history o f c y b e r p u n k — r a t h e r than p r o p e l l i n g that history forward with active intervention.

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In o r d e r to cash in o n the e x c i t e m e n t and the term, N e w A m e r i c a n Li­ brary publishers contracted B e t h k e to e x p a n d his original story "Cyber­ p u n k " to novel length. W h e n the b o o k was c o m p l e t e d , however, they re­ j e c t e d it. (It was, apparently, n o t e n o u g h like the c y b e r p u n k w o r k o f Gibson or the work o f other writers in Mirrorshades.) Eventually, in 1 9 8 8 , it was published by B a e n B o o k s . R e c e i v i n g generally p o o r reviews, it quickly vanished. Its only effect seems to be that it e n c o u r a g e d certain paperback publishers to start putting c l o t h i n g a n d haircuts o n s o m e o f the characters pictured o n their covers r e m i n i s c e n t o f p u n k i s h styles from the mid-seventies. B u t since such p u n k p a c k a g i n g (which contin­ ues, by the bye) has never b e e n associated with G i b s o n , Sterling, Shirley, or, indeed, any o f the Mirrorshades writers, it finally did m o r e to disperse the cyberpunk p h e n o m e n o n than to solidify it. Because o f the inflationary e x c i t e m e n t g e n e r a t e d by the very n o n a c a d e m i c Rolling Stone p i e c e — n e i t h e r an i n f o r m e d n o r an insightful arti­ cle—and facilitated by the d o c u m e n t a r y e v i d e n c e p r e s e r v e d in the late eighties issues o f SF Eye, a n u m b e r o f a c a d e m i c s b e c a m e interested in c y b e r p u n k by 1 9 8 7 / 8 8 and c o n t i n u e even today to speak o f it as if it were a living c u r r e n t in c o n t e m p o r a r y SF p r o d u c t i o n . T h e y are still pro­ d u c i n g a series o f m o r e or less interesting special review issues a n d case­ books, in w h i c h they often try to link c y b e r p u n k with o t h e r currents in p o s t m o d e r n life. Because the c y b e r p u n k p h e n o m e n o n was always p e r c e i v e d within the SF c o m m u n i t y as an a r g u m e n t b e t w e e n g r o u p s a n d schools o f SF writ­ ers—cyberpunks, humanists, feminists (however ill-defined a n d overlap­ ping these g r o u p s m i g h t have b e e n ) —it doubtless p r o d u c e d m o r e p a g e s of fanzine writing (as well as m o r e articles in professionally p u b l i s h e d SF magazines) b e t w e e n '83 a n d '88 than any like p h e n o m e n o n in science fiction since the N e w Wave o f the 1960s. B u t it's also arguable that the intensity o f e x c i t e m e n t p r o d u c e d by the quality o f G i b s o n ' s w o r k — t h e writer whose texts were almost always at the c e n t e r o f the debates—while considerable, was n o t as great as that p r o d u c e d by Varley's w o r k in the seventies or Zelazny's in the sixties. O n e reason for m e n t i o n i n g the three introductions with these stories is because e a c h introduction attempts to address the question o f h i g h writerly quality, as the three different critics, SF writers all, perceive it for the writer in question. A n d e a c h addresses the p h e n o m e n o n from a dif­ ferent point o f view. In English the w o r d "quality" has at least two very different m e a n i n g s . T h e first m e a n i n g o f quality—the p h i l o s o p h i c a l m e a n i n g — i s assumed to be comparatively "value free" a n d refers only to p e r c e p t i b l e funda­ mentals: S o m e t h i n g has a quality o f whiteness, o r a quality o f largeness,

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or a quality o f heaviness. H e r e , the w o r d is a synonym for "aspect," with­ o u t the visual bias (i.e., the visual "quality") the term "aspect" (cognate, after all, with "spectacle") often assumes. T h e s e c o n d m e a n i n g o f the w o r d — t h e c o m m o n meaning—is com­ pletely s u b s u m e d by the n o t i o n o f value. T h i n g s are c o n s i d e r e d to be o f h i g h quality or o f low quality. T h a t is synonymous with saying that things have h i g h value or low value. B u t the b o u n d a r y b e t w e e n the two m e a n i n g s is never secure. It is pre­ cisely the places w h e r e quality c o m e s to suggest terms like bias (as it does two p a r a g r a p h s a b o v e ) , negative or positive, that the slippage is always taking p l a c e . B u t it is, o f course, the s e c o n d m e a n i n g that we are refer­ ring to h e r e . Writerly "quality"—what is it? A n d what is it specifically for science fic­ tion? It's certainly a difficult thing to discuss: A n d in the science fiction field, as an area o f c o m m e r c i a l writing p e r c e i v e d by most—both inside a n d outside the SF c o m m u n i t y — t o lie largely outside the precincts o f lit­ erature, quality is often a disturbing and even d a n g e r o u s topic to discuss. "Craft" is t h o u g h t to b e s o m e t h i n g a writer "learns"—and thus, o n c e l e a r n e d , is n o t s o m e t h i n g that can g o away. T h a t is precisely what makes it different from "art," a n d its sign, quality—which seems to lie some­ w h e r e b e t w e e n the n o t i o n o f talent a n d aesthetics, without b e i n g fully c o v e r e d by either. But, with a distressing n u m b e r o f writers, b o t h inside a n d outside SF, their highest quality w o r k is their earliest, or a m o n g their earliest, work. Similarly, there are a great m a n y writers whose middle pe­ riod w o r k is clearly their highest quality p r o d u c t i o n . B o t h these facts sug­ gest that s o m e t h i n g like simply energy—associated with youth a n d / o r maturity—may b e a factor in that elusive construct: quality. A n d there are distressingly few writers w h o s e late w o r k is c o n s i d e r e d to be their highest quality work; a n d w h e n (outside SF the p o e t William Butler Yeats is certainly the p r i m e a n d rare e x a m p l e ) a writer c o m e s a l o n g for w h o m that is true, t h e n w e must ask w h e t h e r w i s d o m also is a factor in high writ­ erly quality. B u t all o f these a n x i e t y - p r o d u c i n g anomalies are conveniently ig­ n o r e d , h e r e in the precincts o f SF, t h r o u g h the c o n v e n i e n t notion o f craft, w h i c h is seen as a quality ( m e a n i n g o n e ) that can only increase or r e m a i n stable. Y o u may gather that I suspect "craft" here is—like "story"—a consensus myth that flies in the face o f c u r r e n t fact and writ­ erly history, a fiction w h o s e single p u r p o s e is to allow SF writers to get a little m o r e sleep at night; or at least to claim they sleep. In that light, the intentional statements o f Zelazny—that he c a n n o t afford the time, and thus has conscientiously relinquished the pursuit o f quality—sound sus­ piciously as if they may b e part o f the same fiction.

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T h o u g h an absolutely necessary part o f h i g h writerly quality involves a skillfully w r o u g h t verbal surface, skill in writing m a y manifest itself in styles r a n g i n g from the simplicity o f a Beckett, Hemingway, or C a r v e r to the r e c o m m e n d a t i o n s o f a Joyce, Gass, or D a v e n p o r t . N o r d o e s the ver­ bal surface exhaust the c o n c e p t o f h i g h quality. S u c h quality w o u l d s e e m to be, rather, closer to the c o n c e p t o f a skillfully w r o u g h t verbal surface generated in a series o f narrative situations that clearly a n d greatly excite a small n u m b e r o f readers comparatively well-educated in the history, in the traditions, a n d in the c o n v e n t i o n s o f the particular g e n r e . O n e part of such e x c i t e m e n t must always b e subjective—or idiosyncratic—for the excited g r o u p , accessible only to m o r e or less historical analysis, a n d fi­ nally o f primarily political interest—precisely at the p o i n t w h e r e the quality ceases to excite other readers, other groups. T h e verbal surface is, o f course, easier to analyze than the subjec­ tive/historical/political. S u r f a c e — o r stylistic—elements usually involve at least three aspects. T h e first is a g e n e r a l e c o n o m y o f expression. T h e second is a range o f techniques for intensifying certain statements—and sometimes techniques that, say, in the case o f Proust, James, or Faulkner, seem to contravene all notions o f the e c o n o m i c a l ! T h e third usually reg­ isters as an oppositional quality a b o u t the text: A n o t h e r way to speak o f this last is the ability o f the writer to r e c o r d (often with e c o n o m y a n d / o r intensity) things a b o u t the w o r l d (qualities or structural relations) that other writers have not c a u g h t in the past—things that, by implication, have b e e n considered unwritable, at least till this particular writer b e g a n to write. T h e reason this last quality is p e r c e i v e d as oppositional is be­ cause—often—the most e c o n o m i c a l or most intense way to start produc­ ing such an effect is for the writer to declare that certain things in the world d o not c o n f o r m to the traditional way most p e o p l e write (or speak) about t h e m — a n d thus to set him- or herself in opposition to the general m o v e m e n t o f his o r h e r own g e n r e . T h u s , e v e n w h e n the writer does not e m p l o y such a strategy directly, the idea always lingers in the b a c k g r o u n d any time a writer writes s o m e t h i n g that appears, h o w e v e r momentarily, t h r o u g h its intensity o r acuity, to b e new; to say s o m e t h i n g new (or even to say it well) must always be p e r c e i v e d as oppositional to the thrust o f c o m m o n l a n g u a g e . In the literary precincts h i g h writerly quality is often discussed as if it were simply n o t p e r c e i v e d at all by readers outside the "happy" (read: ex­ cited) "few"—as Stendahl characterized t h e m in the eighteen-thirties. Often it's assumed that p e o p l e o t h e r than that few simply d o n o t per­ ceive high writerly quality at all. B u t the reality o f the situation is m o r e complex. Certainly there are socially limited readers, u n u s e d to the r a n g e o f

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writerly variation, for w h o m certain intensifying techniques will simply register as verbal clumsiness or writerly noise. O n e such intensifying t e c h n i q u e is to m a k e a sentence parallel, in its syntax, what it represents in its semantics. Readers u n u s e d to this rhetorical intensifying tech­ n i q u e — e s p e c i a l l y if the s e n t e n c e c o n c e r n s orders o f disruption rather than irruptions o f order—often find such sentences clumsy and confus­ ing—rather than vivid a n d brisk. A n d readers without wide e x p o s u r e to the ways written l a n g u a g e usually speaks o f most subjects are g o i n g to have considerable difficulty r e c o g n i z i n g a n e w statement or a new counterstatement—especially w h e n the fact that it is new is implied rather than declared. B u t t h e r e are o t h e r readers w h o d o p e r c e i v e all those stylistic effects a n d w h o , still, d o n o t find the w o r k e x c i t i n g — b e c a u s e o f a range o f pos­ sible c o m p l a i n t s having to d o with the narrative situations that generate the verbal surface—the w h o l e r a n g e o f subjective, historical, a n d politi­ cal reasons we s p o k e o f before, w h i c h are so difficult to pin down, espe­ cially in c o n t e m p o r a r y work. In Alfred Bester's final novel, The Deceivers, for e x a m p l e , the r e p e a t e d a n d constant intrusion o f sex into the narra­ tive, d e s c r i b e d r a t h e r gesturally a n d w i t h o u t any particular insight or in­ ventiveness, defeats all my interest in the b o o k from the first pages to the last. F o r y o u n g e r readers, in a society w h e r e c o m m e r c i a l pornogra­ p h y lies to h a n d in almost any a n d every direction, such passages seem ( o n e ) pallid a n d (two) pointless. O l d e r readers, such as I am, find our­ selves t h i n k i n g that the n o v e l inhabits an o u t m o d e d fifties sensibility: I n d e e d , h a d it b e e n written t h e n (and c o u l d it have b e e n published then: For w h a t s e e m the m o s t absurd reasons today, The Deceivers actu­ ally w o u l d have b e e n illegal to print in this c o u n t r y b e f o r e 1 9 6 8 ) , it m i g h t i n d e e d have b e e n amusing, by the same c o d e s that m a d e works such as Terry S o u t h e r n ' s Candy a n d The Magic Christian funny at that time in a w o r l d with p r i n t i n g c o n v e n t i o n s so strict that, today, they pro­ d u c e a c h u c k l e . T h e fact is, t h e r e is m u c h in The Deceivers, as there is in all three late Bester SF novels, that is at o n e with the verbal invention a n d b r i o o f his two fine earlier SF novels. B u t the narrative situations that d e v e l o p that invention a n d b r i o fall disastrously prey to what can only b e called a k i n d o f historical miscalculation. T h e narratives o f The Demolished Man a n d The Stars My Destination w e r e set at a pitch o f o p p o ­ sitional tension to the historical forces o f their day that still informs their texts with c o n s i d e r a b l e e n e r g y for the c o n t e m p o r a r y reader—and m o r e so for the r e a d e r willing to d o s o m e historical d i g g i n g into the time o f their a p p e a r a n c e . T h e three late novels s e e m , for all their ver­ bal (and visual) e c o n o m y a n d r e c o m p l i c a t i o n , to fall wholly into various narrative paths o f least resistance—when they are n o t busily e n g a g e d in

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o p p o s i n g historical forces that, for m o s t readers, are j u s t n o l o n g e r in evidence. As I said, the j u d g m e n t is political, historical—subjective. B u t the fact is, the SF c o m m u n i t y was p o i s e d with w h o l e r a n g e s a n d d e g r e e s and orders o f intelligence a n d sensitivity, waiting to r e a d these b o o k s as Bester—returned to the field after a fifteen-year a b s e n c e — w r o t e a n d published them. B u t w h e n they w e r e read, almost n o o n e was e x c i t e d by t h e m at all. Because the science fiction c o m m u n i t y is as small as it is, we can, how­ ever, say a few things a b o u t it. O n e large factor in the c o m m u n i t y is that it contains an extremely h i g h p r o p o r t i o n o f writers. It also contains an extremely h i g h p r o p o r t i o n o f editors. A n d the majority o f the rest o f the c o m m u n i t y consists o f readers c o m m i t t e d e n o u g h to the idea o f writ­ i n g — a n d science fiction writing, in particular—to publish fanzines a n d to organize SF conventions based largely on their e x c i t e m e n t a b o u t writ­ ing and reading. A t first this seems to suggest a perfectly i n n o c e n t a n d apolitically selfjustifying mise en abîme—the F r e n c h term for what h a p p e n s w h e n y o u look into a mirror w h e n a n o t h e r mirror is s u s p e n d e d b e h i n d y o u . T h e writers I have c h o s e n for this essay are the writers w h o most ex­ cited those few p e o p l e w h o are, themselves, the most e x c i t e d a b o u t the idea o f writing. ( T h e G e r m a n term for this e x c i t e m e n t is Begeisterung— usually translated "enthusiasm": It's w h a t poets presumably have for those o d d elements that p o p u p in b o t h life a n d literature, beauty a n d truth—or, if y o u ' r e m o r e comfortable with the terms: h i g h style a n d right-on politics, however y o u define them. Begeisterung sets off from the herd those w h o articulately manifest it.) T h a t e x c i t e m e n t w o u l d s e e m to be a reason for a g e n e r a l public, l o o k i n g for quality, to try those works that evoke it. But those p e o p l e most c o n c e r n e d a b o u t writing are not—politically and historically—really c o n g r u e n t to the g e n e r a l public. T h e g e n e r a l public tends to be c o n c e r n e d first with success—which, in o u r society, is a stand-in for the idea o f money. S t e p h e n K i n g b e c o m e s an interesdng— if not an enjoyable—writer precisely becausehe has b e e n as c o m m e r c i a l l y successful as he has, precisely becausehe has outsold Shakespeare a n d the Bible, precisely because so m a n y p e o p l e have paid so m u c h m o n e y for so many o f his v o l u m e s . (I recall a perfectly serious discussion I o v e r h e a r d between a U . Mass. u n d e r g r a d u a t e c o u p l e c o m i n g b a c k o n the bus from the Hampshire Mall, w h e r e they—and I—had j u s t seen Pet Semetary. (She: "Was that a g o o d movie?" (He: "Sure it was a g o o d picture. It was by S t e p h e n K i n g . " (She: "But some o f it d i d n ' t really seem like a g o o d m o v i e to m e . " (He: " O f course it was a g o o d movie. I w o u l d n ' t have taken y o u to see

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a m o v i e like that if it wasn't g o o d . It h a d all that advertising. You saw all those p e o p l e w h o ' d c o m e to see it, didn't you?" (She: "Yeah. Well, I guess it was, then. Maybe I j u s t have to see it again. S o m e t i m e s y o u have to see g o o d movies twice to really understand them.") W h a t w e have h e r e is, o f course, a n o t i o n even less refined than the idea o f "craft"—that is, an idea that sidesteps even m o r e contradictions a n d anxieties than the idea o f "craft," as the idea o f "craft" sidesteps so m u c h that troubles in the c o n c e p t o f "quality." T h e mise en abîme relationship m e n t i o n e d above actually distracts us from the political differences b e t w e e n the small g r o u p o f excited p e o p l e a n d the rest o f us. First o f all, that g r o u p tends to c o m e from back­ g r o u n d s that let t h e m afford to b e m o r e interested in writing than in money. Most o f t h e m are white. Most o f t h e m are m a l e . Most o f t h e m are heterosexual. B u t n o t all. I n d e e d , w h a t is characteristic o f such self-selected g r o u p s in the sci­ ence fiction c o m m u n i t y is that they usually contain a h i g h e r n u m b e r o f w o m e n , gays, a n d non-whites than there are likely to b e in a literarily selfselected g r o u p — i f only because the larger g r o u p from w h i c h the SF g r o u p starts to select itself is itself so marginal. A n d while this is not nec­ essarily reflected in the social b a c k g r o u n d s o f the three writers in this particular packet, it's certainly reflected, h e r e a n d there, in what these writers c h o o s e to write about, i.e., what excites that g r o u p : m e n w h o are poets rather than adventurers, adventurers w h o are deeply unsure o f themselves, o r m e n w h o are d e e p l y d e c e i v e d in w h a t sureness they pos­ sess, as with Zelazny; a n d w e have already discussed the range o f relation­ ships to b e f o u n d in Varley a n d Gibson. T h e r e are often to b e f o u n d in the science fiction field writers w h o are m o r e generally loved, perceived to be o n m o r e or less the same side polit­ ically, a n d w h o are m o r e p o p u l a r than the writers I've c h o s e n to present in my classroom units. T h u s , Ursula L e G u i n , certainly sympathetic to feminism, a fine craftswoman, the w i n n e r o f many awards in the field, a n d far m o r e generally p o p u l a r a n d well-known, m i g h t seem to b e a m o r e likely writer to present than J o a n n a Russ. I have great respect for L e G u i n . Pieces she has p u b l i s h e d in h e r b o o k o f essays, Dancing at the Edge of the World, for e x a m p l e , I feel are powerful, important, a n d immeasur­ ably brave. H e r novels are loved a n d respected b o t h within and without the field. T h e r e c e n t b r e a d t h o f h e r a c a d e m i c a c c e p t a n c e means that, h e r e in the academy, w e must m a k e special m e n t i o n o f her. Still, let m e state it bluntly: A m o n g an admittedly small g r o u p o f e d u c a t e d SF read­ ers, m a n y o f w h o m admire L e G u i n as I d o , the e x c i t e m e n t that Russ pro-

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duces t h r o u g h the clarity and invention in h e r writerly surface a n d the acuity o f h e r analysis is far m o r e intense than L e G u i n ever effected. Understand, in n o way d o e s this denigrate L e G u i n . B u t it is to state a fact. A n d , yes, it is certainly a small g r o u p , c o n c e r n e d with writing first. W h a t L e G u i n ' s popularity means, however, is that, b e c a u s e o f its m o r e g e n e r a l range, y o u are m o r e likely to e n c o u n t e r L e G u i n o n y o u r own than y o u are to e n c o u n t e r Russ. A n d if y o u were able to r e s p o n d to it, y o u m i g h t well have g a i n e d a m o r e intense o r d e r o f pleasure from her—without in a n y w a y d e n y i n g the pleasure from L e G u i n ' s work. Similarly, writers such as Asimov, Clarke, H e i n l e i n , a n d B r a d b u r y are widely p o p u l a r — a n d deservedly so. B u t the intense response a smaller g r o u p o f readers have had to Sturgeon, Bester, Russ, Disch, Zelazny, Var­ ley, and Gibson is a reason to u r g e new SF readers toward those lesserknown writers. T h r o u g h the e x c i t e m e n t they have p r o d u c e d , largely a m o n g their peers, all o f the writers h e r e have, in their d e c a d e s , c h a n g e d the face o f the field. Moreover, in a field that often speaks about itself as if there were only "craft"—and, m o r e a n d m o r e recently, speaks as if there were n o t even craft b u t only c o m m e r c i a l success—it is important to know that h i g h writerly quality can p r o d u c e the h i g h social e x c i t e m e n t that it has in science fiction, h o w e v e r m u c h difficulty we, in that field, have had in discussing it. If my selection o f SF writers by the particular standards I have set were g o i n g to be c o m p l e t e , not only w o u l d it i n c l u d e S t u r g e o n , Bester, Russ, and Disch, but also the three writers h e r e . T h a t list w o u l d most certainly start with the SF writer Stanley G. W e i n b a u m , a y o u n g m a n w h o b e g a n publishing SF stories in 1 9 3 8 , electrifying the small w o r l d o f c o m m i t t e d SF readers and writers with stories such as "A Martian O d y s s e y " — a n d w h o died tragically in 1 9 3 5 at a g e thirty-three o f l u n g cancer. Even as far back as W e i n b a u m , we are clearly d e a l i n g with a m a n particularly c o n ­ c e r n e d with the construction o f his female characters—at a time w h e n science fiction is generally c o n s i d e r e d to be almost wholly a "boys' club": W e i n b a u m p r o d u c e d a w h o l e series o f stories a b o u t the Black Flame, a kind o f future s u p e r w o m a n w h o has notable similarities with b o t h Russ's Jael and Gibson's Molly. T o move toward c o m p l e t i o n in its own terms, such a list w o u l d almost certainly have to i n c l u d e b o t h C o r d w a i n e r Smith a n d R. A . Lafferty; the first was the p s e u d o n y m o f an A m e r i c a n diplomat, Paul Linebarger, w h o wrote o n e SF novel (Norstrilia), three novellas (collected as Tales of Three Planets), a n d short stories e n o u g h to fill, finally, two v o l u m e s ( The Best of Cordwainer Smith, Lords of the Instrumentality) —only four SF v o l u m e s in all. In the course o f his career, however, h e also wrote b o o k s o f history, b o o k s on psychological warfare, a n d at least three non-SF novels

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(Atomsk, Ria, Carola). Lafferty is a southern A m e r i c a n writer, a Catholic, w h o s e w o r k is arch, borders o n the surreal, and—while almost u n k n o w n to any sort o f g e n e r a l public—has always h a d a small but c o m m i t t e d fol­ lowing, even a m o n g p e o p l e w h o d o not necessarily share his often eccen­ tric (and rather right-wing) political views. W i t h a very little adjustment such a list c o u l d b e e x p a n d e d to include the best works o f G e n e Wolfe, a midwestern e n g i n e e r w h o has p r o d u c e d an extraordinary e x c i t i n g tetralogy called The Book of the New Sun, com­ prised o f four novels The Shadow of the Torturer, The Claw of the Conciliator, The Sword of the Lictor, a n d The Citadel of the Autarch. Wolfe has also written m a n y o t h e r sensitive novels a n d short stories. It w o u l d have to include J o h n Crowley w h o s e n o v e l Little, Big is extraordinary a n d whose fictive enterprise is generally astonishing. By k e e p i n g the same standards b u t only adjusting the variables—ex­ p a n d i n g the size o f the g r o u p excited, adjusting b o t h the quality and the intensity to the e x c i t e m e n t — w e c o u l d include Ursula K L e G u i n , Robert A. H e i n l e i n , Stanislaw L e m (a Polish writer), Kurt V o n n e g u t , J. G. Bal­ lard, K a t h e r i n e M a c L e a n , Octavia Butler, A r k a d y a n d Boris Strugatsky (two Russian brothers w h o wrote t o g e t h e r ) , Fritz Leiber, Harlan Ellison, J u d i t h Merril, Frederik P o h l . . . B u t because the factors that generate such lists always have to d o with what are finally unmeasurables for any single observer (the e d u c a t i o n that finally defines the limits o f the g r o u p , the intensity o f the g r o u p r e s p o n s e ) , we are eventually thrown b a c k o n that last a n d most t r o u b l i n g non-stylistic criterion: the subjec­ tive. B u t from a list for w h i c h there is simply n o objective way to situate its e n d p o i n t or, really, to d o m o r e than guess at its p r o p e r order, I have cho­ sen those writers w h o m / f e e l best able to teach in the c o n t e x t o f a uni­ versity class, h e r e , today. A n d that is a factor o f my own highly idiosyn­ cratic a n d eccentric education. S t u r g e o n ' s introduction to Zelazny tries to talk a bit a b o u t h i g h quality in terms o f the invention w o r k e d into the verbal surface. Budrys' introduc­ tion to Varley leaves verbal surface "to speak for itself" and tries instead to analyze that aspect o f quality u n i q u e to SF: the historical relation o f the writer to c o n t e m p o r a r y currents in science. A n d Sterling's introduc­ tion to G i b s o n attempts to unravel a few o f the political strands that also, always, h e r e a n d now, constitute quality (i.e., m e a n i n g two). B u t all three introductions—all four, if y o u i n c l u d e this o n e — a r e still discussing as­ pects o f o n e c o m p l e x a n d volatile p h e n o m e n o n . For the last two h u n d r e d years (i.e., since the b e g i n n i n g s o f what we call romanticism) musicians, lyric poets, painters, and sculptors have realized

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something that narrative artists—novelists, dramatists, and filmmakers— have only b e g u n to c o m e to since the advent o f h i g h m o d e r n i s m in the twenties: S o m e t h i n g in the idea o f art j u d g e d solely in terms o f craft/ p o p u l a r i t y / c o m m e r c i a l success fundamentally a n d p r o f o u n d l y subverts the idea o f h i g h quality. Even t h o u g h individual j u d g m e n t s constitute it, such quality is still a social construct: T h u s n o o n e individual j u d g m e n t (such as m i n e ) c a n confirm—or deny—it. It takes a w e b o f e d u c a t e d / e x c i t e d responses. Because signs o f craft a n d popularity c a n b e signs o f quality, there is always g o i n g to be r o o m for confusion a b o u t how these signs—or their absence—can b e read. T h e sign o f quality is, o f course, h o w those other signs are d e p l o y e d within a far m o r e c o m p l e x galaxy o f signs: a skilled verbal surface in terms o f the narrative g e n e r a t e d ; popularity in terms o f the e x c i t e m e n t the w o r k p r o d u c e s a m o n g a limited g r o u p o f e d u c a t e d (in some as yet u n d e f i n e d way) readers. A n d since a larger c o m m e r c i a l g r o u p may contain those smaller subgroups, a small c o m m e r c i a l success can either be a sign o f a s u b g r o u p o f excited buyers o r a sign o f a small scattering o f u n e x c i t e d buyers. T h e s e are n o t the same t h i n g — t h o u g h marketing d e p a r t m e n t s have almost n o way o f distinguishing t h e m o r o f treating t h e m differently. T h e n there is the p r o b l e m specific to the paraliterary fields such as SF and comic books: W h a t o f the m o d e r a t e c o m m e r c i a l success within the genre by a high-quality work, a success nevertheless large e n o u g h to c o n ­ tain two subgroups, o n e o f w h i c h articulately supports the n o t i o n o f art as c r a f t / p o p u l a r i t y / c o m m e r c i a l success a n d vociferously o p p o s e s any­ thing that succeeds on any other terms—claiming in the course o f its ar­ g u m e n t special educational privileges having to d o with its m e m b e r s ' time in, understanding of, a n d sensitivity to the g e n r e ? Attacks o f this sort, I am sure, h a d far m o r e to d o with, say, driving J. G. Ballard from SF into the arms o f the mainstream than any positive allurements that beck­ o n e d from t h e r e — t h o u g h , there, o n c e h e arrived, h e f o u n d a g o o d many rewards waiting. B u t h o w is such a subgroup's response to b e distin­ guished from that o f a n o t h e r subgroup, claiming e q u a l educational priv­ ileges, w h o claims as well: "We were simply n o t excited by this work"? T h e signifiers involved are all ambiguously placed over various signifieds. R o b e r t Silverberg's science fiction novel Dying Inside (about a tele­ pathic man, w h o , with age, is losing the powers that m a d e his life worth­ while), as well as s o m e o f his short stories (e.g., "Schwartz B e t w e e n the Galaxies"), are as finely c o n c e i v e d a n d e x e c u t e d SF works as I k n o w of. T h e y are quite exciting e n o u g h to merit a h i g h place on a n y o n e ' s list. B u t the vast majority o f Silverberg's b i b l i o g r a p h y is not, by the same cri­ teria, e x c i t i n g — t h o u g h s o m e o f it has b e e n considerably m o r e popular.

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Like Zelazny, Silverberg has m a d e occasional public statements—not that he is e s c h e w i n g the pursuit o f quality, but that s o m e o f his works are in­ t e n d e d to b e ambitious a n d some are not. Silverberg's novel A Time of Changes was awarded a N e b u l a A w a r d by the S c i e n c e Fiction Writers of A m e r i c a . T h a t c o u l d , i n d e e d , b e a sign o f e x c i t e m e n t a m o n g a small, ed­ u c a t e d g r o u p . B u t as o n e — v e r y idiosyncratic—reader, I find in the b o o k n o particular surface skill n o r any particular contestatory energy. A n d a n u m b e r o f the b o o k s for w h i c h Silverberg has m a d e ambitious claims I find m a r r e d by the same surface clumsiness and path-of-least-resistance structure characteristic o f his least ambitious and least serious works. N o r can I see any reason to try a n d r e d e e m such works by saying—it's certainly not h o w they strike m e —that they are, nevertheless, "craftsmanlike." N o w I a m n o t widely acquainted with Silverberg's many, many SF nov­ els a n d stories. A n d part o f my particular e d u c a t i o n involves k n o w i n g that often an e x c i t i n g writer must teach us h o w to read his or her works before w e c a n really appreciate them: My e d u c a t i o n is wide e n o u g h to m a k e m e suspect places w h e r e that e d u c a t i o n is lacking. Still, I w o u l d find it h a r d to p u t t o g e t h e r a teaching unit o f Silverberg as I have d o n e for s o m e o f these o t h e r writers—two or three novels and a half d o z e n or so short stories. A g a i n , h i g h quality is not an individual j u d g m e n t , but a social construct. ( A n d a single person, like myself, ex­ postulating o n h o w h e o r she perceives it, can only articulate a single t h r e a d in the contestatory w e b that is the thing itself.) It is only the p e o ­ ple w h o have m e n t i o n e d Dying Inside a n d "Schwartz B e t w e e n the Galax­ ies" to m e — a n d the way w e have articulated o u r excitements about them back a n d forth to e a c h other—that lets m e m e n t i o n t h e m to y o u . But the greater discourse that has a c c r u e d to Silverberg's sprawling corpus, with its occasional c o m m e r c i a l popularity, its awards, a n d its h i g h d e g r e e o f variation, has n o t led m e o n to other o f his works—so far—that have fa­ cilitated the e x c h a n g e o f like excitements. T h e discourse has, rather, slowed the process d o w n . Very probably, it m e a n s readers other than I will have to d o a g o o d deal o f the w o r k before I can m o v e in and d o what, by t e m p e r a m e n t , I a m certainly i n c l i n e d to. A n d it is the discourse o f c r a f t / s u c c e s s f u l / c o m m e r c i a l , bolstered by praise a n d awards, which has o b s c u r e d a process that, without it, m i g h t have led m o r e quickly to greater r e a d i n g pleasure. T h e literary precincts certainly have in p l a c e a rule o f t h u m b w h i c h moves to avoid these confusions: T h e writer s h o u l d d o the first winnow­ i n g — b y n e v e r u n d e r t a k i n g any p r o j e c t that she or he d o e s n o t believe to b e , at least potentially, o f the h i g h e s t quality. O n c e , at the h e i g h t o f the N e w Wave in the sixties, I h e a r d New Worlds editor Michael M o o r c o c k express (as an ironic twist o n A r t a u d ' s great essay o f i g 3 8 , "No M o r e

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Masterpieces . . . ?"): "I can't think o f any reason to write anything we don'tbelieve is g o i n g to be a masterpiece!" In a marginal field o f writing such as science fiction, however, follow­ ing such a rule may n o t always be possible, if only b e c a u s e o f financial pressures—which the u p h o l d e r s o f the c r a f t / p o p u l a r / c o m m e r c i a l aes­ thetic are so fond o f citing a n d w h i c h I c a n certainly respect. B u t an­ other reason it may n o t b e possible, w h i c h w e should n o t discount, is be­ cause o f the temperaments o f those writers attracted to a g e n r e that defines itself so c o m p l e t e l y in terms o f the c o m m e r c i a l in the first place. A n d t e m p e r a m e n t may also involve matters o f e d u c a t i o n a n d / o r taste. In some respects—again h a v i n g to d o with the subjective—high writ­ erly quality is a p h e n o m e n o n b r o u g h t into b e i n g by the very fact o f o u r discussing it, a r g u i n g over it, a n d — m o s t importantly—disagreeing artic­ ulately about what texts evince it a n d what texts d o not. In that sense, what is most i m p o r t a n t a b o u t my list, in spite o f (or i n d e e d b e c a u s e of) all my analyses, lectures, a n d justifications for the writers a n d the works I've c h o s e n , is that s o m e o t h e r list, p u t t o g e t h e r with e q u a l analysis a n d c o m m i t m e n t — p e r h a p s , someday, yours—will be different from m i n e . SF writers w h o refuse to speak o f w o r k in any terms save the c o m m e r ­ cial—as I hear t h e m d o i n g m o r e a n d m o r e o n various panels at various science fiction conventions—seriously d a m a g e the n o t i o n o f quality o n which, I believe, far m o r e than o n popularity, the h e a l t h — t h e ability to grow, c h a n g e , and construct an exciting d i a l o g u e with the w o r l d — o f the g e n r e stands. If only because the c o n c e p t o f quality p r o d u c e s the anxieties it d o e s in the paraliterary, I think e n c o u r a g i n g discussions o f quality is particu­ larly i m p o r t a n t h e r e . A n d t h o u g h h i g h quality is a socially c o n s t r u c t e d p h e n o m e n o n as m u c h as any other, w e must still distinguish it carefully and repeatedly from b o t h popularity a n d sales—if science fiction is to re­ tain any sort o f life. It's particularly i m p o r t a n t for y o u n g readers (and y o u n g writers) to articulate clearly a n d vigorously, in fanzines, at conventions, in letters to friends, in conversations with all, e a c h other, a n d s u n d r y — a n d e v e n in science fiction classes—their responses, their j u d g m e n t s , a n d their ex­ citement at the writers w h o p r o d u c e a r o u n d them: T h a t m e a n s their ex­ citement over n e w writers, even over brand-new writers—even as these readers listen to, a n d contest with, r e c o m m e n d a t i o n s a n d j u d g m e n t s (such as mine) from a g e n e r a t i o n or so ahead. —Amherst igcji

13

Pornography and Censorship

In 1 9 4 7 , a Life Magazine r e p o r t e r interviewing W. H . A u d e n c a m e u p with the question: "But how, Mr. A u d e n , d o y o u k n o w what y o u ' r e read­ i n g is really p o r n o g r a p h y ? " "That's simple," r e p l i e d the poet. "It gives m e an erection." In the interview, A u d e n w e n t o n to d e c r y the p o r n o g r a p h i c . H e felt that physical arousal distracted the r e a d e r from any rich a n d c o m p l e x aesthetic response; thus, A u d e n felt, the p o r n o g r a p h i c was to be a v o i d e d by the serious writer. It's a reasonable a r g u m e n t and, in this age w h e r e license a n d repression are forever trading n a m e s a n d places, an a r g u m e n t we m i g h t review with s o m e profit, even if w e d o n ' t agree with it—and I d o n ' t . In the early eighties, s o m e years after A u d e n ' s death in 1 9 7 3 , in the gay press H a r o l d N o r s e p u b l i s h e d a j o u r n a i a c c o u n t o f an afternoon's sex with A u d e n . I d o n o t have the article to h a n d . B u t m e m o r y tells m e that the e n c o u n t e r involved a p o u n c e by the o l d e r poet; the c o u p l i n g was brief, desperate, a n d — w h i l e , by Norse's description, the e n c o u n t e r was consensual in that h e h a d k n o w n certainly that the pick-up was sex­ ual—nevertheless the physical e x c h a n g e b e t w e e n t h e m v e r g e d on rape. T h e w o r d that remains with m e from the writer is that h e f o u n d the ex­ p e r i e n c e "appalling. " My autobiography, The Motion of Light in Water ( P l u m e / N e w A m e r i c a n Library, 1 9 8 8 ) , gives an a c c o u n t o f a similar sexual e n c o u n t e r that hap­ p e n e d to m e a b o u t i 9 6 0 , w h i c h , to my m i n d , has m a n y things in com­ m o n with Norse's e n c o u n t e r with A u d e n . W h e n I was e i g h t e e n , while we were at the p i a n o b e n c h together, a musician friend in his late thirties, with w h o m I was collaborating o n an o p e r a , suddenly, and clearly in a state o f g r e a t distress, p o u n c e d o n m e a n d physically d r a g g e d m e to his b e d . So I k n o w first-hand the sort o f thing Norse was r e c o u n t i n g . We shall g e t b a c k to this in a bit. I d o n ' t believe we really have to dwell o n w h a t p o r n o g r a p h y is. It's a

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p r a c d c e o f wridng—i.e., it's a g e n r e ; a n d g e n r e s simply d o n o t yield u p their necessary and sufficient conditions, i.e., they c a n n o t b e defined. But they can be functionally d e s c r i b e d in terms clear e n o u g h for any given situation. A n d for o u r situation h e r e (that is, assuming w e are all b o r e d with, or u n h a p p y over, or simply angry at the mystifications that have c o m e a l o n g with the various p o r n o g r a p h y / e r o t i c a distinctions), we can probably describe p o r n o g r a p h y as those texts w h i c h arouse, either by auctorial intention o r by accident—if n o t those texts that are assumed to b e arousing, either to the r e a d e r currently talking a b o u t t h e m , o r to s o m e o n e else: T h a t is, p o r n o g r a p h i c texts are generally those that can b e organized a r o u n d s o m e elaboration o f the e m b l e m A u d e n set u p fortyfive years back. A r g u m e n t s over p o r n o g r a p h y — w h e t h e r p r o or c o n — s e e m m o s t in­ telligent w h e n the critic h i m - or herself admits to h a v i n g b e e n a r o u s e d (Auden; J a n e G a l l u p o n S a d e ) . T h o s e a r g u m e n t s b e c o m e their most lu­ natic w h e n the critic, u n a r o u s e d by a given text, starts speculating o n the results of possible arousal in other p e o p l e — t h e "general community," "ordinary m e n and w o m e n , " "children," etc.—and inveighs against the dangers that m i g h t result should s o m e o n e from o n e o f these g r o u p s — t o w h o m clearly the critic d o e s n o t b e l o n g — s t u m b l e over an arousing text on bookstore rack or library shelf. I m e n t i o n e d A u d e n ' s a n d my musician friend's sexual practices n o t to vilify them—unpleasant t h o u g h they w e r e . In either case it m i g h t simply have b e e n an a n o m a l o u s afternoon. B u t it's also possible that they weren't a n o m a l o u s at all. A n d if they weren't, they m i g h t tell us some­ thing o f the c o n t e x t that m i g h t cast meaningful light o n A u d e n ' s disap­ proval o f the p o r n o g r a p h i c . T h e c o n t e x t is, o f course, the way in w h i c h situations o f arousal generally fit into the rest o f o n e ' s life. If such desperate a n d n o n m u t u a l p o u n c e s were most o f A u d e n ' s sex, it m i g h t just give us pause. T h o u g h we have n o way to k n o w for certain (for such things were n o t generally c h r o n i c l e d ) , w e can still m a k e an e d u c a t e d guess that u p until fairly recently, a g o o d deal o f s e x — n o t only h o m o s e x u a l but heterosex­ ual—was m u c h like those precipitous e n c o u n t e r s . W e have the e v i d e n c e for it in the date rapes a n d the marital rapes that still too frequently m a r the sexual landscape today. In a population that basically feels that S e x Is B a d — o r at best a neces­ sary evil—often sex will occur, w h e t h e r within the b o u n d s o f marriage o r outside it, only at those m o m e n t s o f e x t r e m e n e e d , a n d t h e n in a parox­ ysm o f guilt, so that the sexual i n c i d e n t itself is likely to b e infrequent, desperate, brutal, and brief—and satisfactory, if such a w o r d c a n e v e n b e used for an act w h i c h , in their different ways, b o t h "perpetrator" a n d

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"victim" probably c o m e to dread—for only the most basal n e e d s o f the m o r e aggressive partner. W i t h i n such a p o p u l a c e , w h e r e this is the basic sexual m o d e l and w h e r e this is the sort o f act arousal leads to, it's small w o n d e r that situa­ tions o f arousal in g e n e r a l — w h i c h i n c l u d e the p o r n o g r a p h i c — a r e t h o u g h t by all c o n c e r n e d to be basically B a d T h i n g s . Straight or gay, most m e n d o n ' t "approve" o f this sort o f sex any more than straight or gay w o m e n — e v e n those a m o n g all four g r o u p s w h o are sure that this is the only sort o f sex there really is. A n d t h o u g h probably n o t the majority a n y m o r e , sadly there are still many o f those. T h e fear o f — o r a n g e r a t — p o r n o g r a p h y slated for m e n that many w o m e n feel may well have to d o n o t with any violence-against-women d e p i c t e d in the p o r n o g r a p h i c material as such; rather it may simply re­ flect the fact that m a n y w o m e n c o n s i d e r m a l e arousal outside the rela­ tionship the first step toward infidelity. A n d , for m a n y w o m e n , male in­ fidelity is a d e e p l y painful thing to c o n t e m p l a t e . T h a t pain may be the real "violence" against w o m e n i n h e r e n t in p o r n o g r a p h y . A n d if the sex­ ual act is itself associated with the brutal, if n o t the outright violational, t h e n the v i o l e n c e is e v e n m o r e s u p p o r t e d by the reality o f things— t h o u g h I p o i n t o u t that the a r g u m e n t in this p a r a g r a p h so far follows to the letter my o w n prescription above for the lunatic, since it involves my s p e c u l a t i n g in h o w others r e g a r d arousal—in ways I certainly d o n ' t re­ g a r d it myself. I n d e e d , I've always suspected that those w h o g e t too twisted out o f shape by w h a t possible arousal m e a n s for others (it's "frightening," it's "soul scarring," it "represents a loss o f control," it's a "violent incursion u p o n o n e ' s autonomy," it's "confusing a n d disorienting") are finally re­ vealing all t o o m u c h a b o u t the way they r e g a r d sexual arousal in their own lives. B u t with all respect to A u d e n , it is the rushed, the guilty, and the inarticulate that militate against the aesthetic—not arousal perse. Pornography is an i m p o r t a n t and potentially aesthetically rich and ex­ citing g e n r e . I've written two p o r n o g r a p h i c novels—that is, m u c h o f the writing a r o u s e d m e sexually while I was d o i n g it. T h e first o f t h e m , Equinox, has b e e n p u b l i s h e d (as Tides of Lust, L a n c e r B o o k s , 1 9 7 3 ) . T h e second, Hogg (finished 1 9 7 3 ) , has b e e n to a n u m b e r o f publishers, legitimate a n d p o r n o g r a p h i c . A l l have refused it. O n l y last m o n t h , the editor o f a c o m m e r c i a l h o u s e that p r o d u c e s por­ n o g r a p h y o f the sort that fills the racks o f adult bookstores a p p r o a c h e d m e a n d asked m e to tell h e r s o m e t h i n g a b o u t the b o o k . "Well," I told her, "the narrator o f the b o o k is an eleven-year-old boy— "

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She sat back and l a u g h e d . "That lets us o u t right there. T h e o n e thing everyone in the industry is afraid to t o u c h today is c h i l d p o r n o g r a p h y . Basically what my j o b entails is g o i n g over the manuscripts w e g e t a n d c h a n g i n g all the fifteen-, sixteen-, a n d seventeen-year-olds into e i g h t e e n year-olds a n d over. " As if—despite Freud's discovery o f infantile s e x u a l i t y — p e o p l e at every age did n o t have a real a n d e v e r - c h a n g i n g sexual c o m p o n e n t to their lives! I g o over the above only to p o i n t o u t that there is a real, material, a n d tangible industry o f p o r n o g r a p h i c p u b l i s h i n g in this c o u n t r y that n o t only has its values a n d standards (far m o r e conservative today than they were, say, in the 1960s), but also has quite an astonishing set o f rich a n d fascinating classics (e.g., M i c h a e l Perkins's Evil Companions, 1 9 6 7 ; A l e x ­ a n d e r Trocchi's Thongs [the O l y m p i a Press edition o f 1 9 6 5 , n o t the cur­ rently available M a s q u e r a d e edition that has b e e n p o s t h u m o u s l y editori­ ally rewritten]; Dirk Van d o n ' s I Want It All, Pat Califia's Macho Slut, 1 9 8 9 ; and Alice J o a n o u ' s extraordinarily stylish Cannibal Flower, 1 9 9 1 ) — a l ­ t h o u g h these and others such works are rarely discussed. Despite their possible aesthetic failures or successes, b o t h my p o r n o ­ graphic novels, the p u b l i s h e d Equinox (Tides of Lust) a n d the u n p u b ­ lished Hogg, were aesthetically serious u n d e r t a k i n g s — n o t in spite o f their p o r n o g r a p h i c aspects but b e c a u s e o f t h e m . ( O n e o f the selfimposed constraints o n the writing o f Equinox was that I w o u l d write n o n e o f it unless I was actually in a state o f sexual arousal, even for the nonsexual parts—an u n d e r t a k i n g I'd advise only for the y o u n g a n d / o r obsessive.) A n d t h o u g h I respect A u d e n ' s w a r n i n g a b o u t the possibly del­ eterious relation b e t w e e n p o r n o g r a p h y a n d art, I still disagree with it. But I am aware that o n e possible reason for my d i s a g r e e m e n t is that, de­ spite the a u t o b i o g r a p h i c a l accuracy I've almost n e v e r striven for in my fiction, the o v e r w h e l m i n g majority o f the situations o f arousal I've e x p e ­ rienced in the last thirty-five years have b e e n r e l a x e d , friendly (when other p e o p l e were involved), pleasurable—and largely free o f guilt. T h e vast majority o f my sexual partners have basically enjoyed themselves in their various sexual e n c o u n t e r s with me—as have I with t h e m . A n d for m e this forms the c o n t e x t that all new situations o f arousal enter, even w h e n , from time to time, in specifically p o r n o g r a p h i c texts, the material is violent or disturbing or generally unpleasant. B u t this brings us to the o t h e r topic in this discussion: c e n s o r s h i p . I w o u l d n o t think to use a term like c e n s o r s h i p for the t r e a t m e n t o f say, Hogg, if only b e c a u s e at various times I've e x p e r i e n c e d the political nig­ gling and pussyfooting in the n a m e o f the c o m m e r c i a l that is h o w a g o o d deal o f real censorship is e x e r c i s e d in this c o u n t r y (the editor w h o

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rejected a 1 9 6 7 n o v e l o f m i n e n o t because h e was b o t h e r e d by the fact that m y m a i n character was black, b u t because h e was sure his readers w o u l d b e — r e a d e r s w h o , incidentally, o n c e the b o o k was published a year later, k e p t the b o o k in print for the n e x t twenty-five years; the print run o n a 1 9 8 5 b o o k , third in a series, slashed in h a l f because the topic was A I D S ; a n d the m a n u s c r i p t o f the fourth b o o k in the series returned to m e by the same publisher, u n r e a d ) . A n editor's rejecting a b o o k because h e o r she d i d n ' t like it—whether the dislike was aesthetic, political, or sexual—doesn't, in a free e c o n o m y , fulfill my criteria for censorship. C e n s o r s h i p — f o r m e — r e q u i r e s that s o m e o n e b e c o m e deeply involved in d e c i d i n g w h e t h e r other p e o p l e will be offended, or dislike it, or be out­ r a g e d by a work—usually to the p o i n t o f wholly suppressing his or her own response. ( T h e editor w h o slashed my print run had g o n e out o f his way, three m o n t h s before, to tell m e that the b o o k was a m o n g the most powerful h e had ever read in his life, a n d h a d left h i m , in his own words, d a z e d — h o w e v e r h y p e r b o l i c the praise may have been.) It's that repres­ sion o f the self w h i c h creates the d a n g e r o u s and deleterious field o f pro­ j e c t i o n s , o u t o f control a n d wholly away from any possibility o f pursuing real profit o r e v e n c o m m o n sense. In this country, the c o m m e r c i a l terror o f the e x p e r i m e n t a l a n d the controversial has the same psychological structure—and finally m u c h the same effect—as the h a r d c o r e censor­ ship w e are so ready to c o n d e m n w h e n it h a p p e n s abroad. H a v i n g said that, I think that in sexual terms, those p e o p l e w h o share my basic c o n t e x t for arousal are precisely those w h o are inclined to say: L e t o t h e r p e o p l e d o w h a t they want, w h e t h e r it involves p o r n o g r a p h y or perversion or whatever—as l o n g as n o o n e is hurt or m a d e miserable. We feel this way b e c a u s e we are u n d e r the impression that such a c o n t e x t is pretty m u c h w h a t characterizes the c o n t e x t o f pleasure for everyone. Similarly, I suspect that those p e o p l e for w h o m a significant proportion o f situations o f arousal have led to pain, distress, guilt, a n d unhappiness are the p e o p l e w h o are likely to question seriously the advisability o f such a liberal attitude toward the arousal o f others. B u t that—as I said— is a question o f context, a n d it may never b e resolved until the context it­ self is interrogated, articulated, a n d u n d e r s t o o d in its o w n right. I think it is terribly i m p o r t a n t to have a g e n r e — o r genre-set—in w h i c h it is possible to say anything, true, untrue, or at any level o f fantasy, metaphor, v i o l e n c e , or simple outrageousness. A n d I w o u l d rather such a genre-set b e the genre-set o f art than that it be the associated texts o f re­ ligion, say (consider the hell-fire s e r m o n in c h a p t e r III o f Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man as an e x a m p l e o f a religious g e n r e repeatedly pre­ sented to y o u n g c h i l d r e n from the n i n e t e e n t h century on, if y o u want an e x a m p l e o f what I c o n s i d e r i m m o r a l religious license), o r those that

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comprise j o u r n a l i s m (consider the allegations o f supernatural h a p p e n ­ ings and the like that are the hallmark o f the "popular" tabloid press, The National Enquirer, The Sun, The Star). B u t there are social forces aplenty— and often the same forces that w o u l d take away the f r e e d o m o f s p e e c h we vouchsafe for the arts—that, as they w o u l d d e n y that f r e e d o m to the arts, w o u l d redistribute it to religion a n d r e p o r t a g e — g e n r e s w h o s e rela­ tion to that troublesome c o n c e p t "truth" I, at any rate, a m fairly g l a d to see a bit m o r e heavily scrutinized at the m o r e r e s p e c t e d levels than, cer­ tainly, they are on the lowest a n d least sophisticated planes. It is n o t only the f r e e d o m to suppress what others say that is wanted, b u t the f r e e d o m to lie as well w h e n necessary—because such lies are assumed s o m e h o w to be for "everyone's g o o d . " B u t w e c a n n o t forget those planes. T h e y are always there to grow, to take over, and to swamp what I am perfectly c o n t e n t to call m o r e respon­ sible attitudes in religious a n d reportorial practices. A r t seems the best genre-set in w h i c h to allow total f r e e d o m o f expres­ sion (the full range, as K e n n e t h K o c h put it, o f "wishes, lies, and dreams") because that genre-set is the symbol-making e n g i n e for the culture. If artists w h o wish to criticize o r even s h a m e the c o u n t r y for national acts they consider i m m o r a l are n o t allowed to set u p installations in which, say, A m e r i c a n flags are b u r n e d or otherwise desecrated, then it is precisely the r e s o n a n c e , significance, a n d l u m i n e s c e n c e o f the flag wav­ ing for the country's palpable a c c o m p l i s h m e n t s that are r e d u c e d by the proscription. (A symbol that is allowed to function only in o n e c o n t e x t , and that an uplifting o n e , invariably b e c o m e s trite—if n o t kitsch.) A n d necessary limitations o n the aesthetic presentation o f what the b o d y m a y u n d e r g o , either in pleasure o r in suffering, immediately a n d a priori re­ strict what the m i n d is allowed to c o n t e m p l a t e : For n o t h i n g e n c o u r a g e s the practice o f political torture a n d sabotages the pursuit o f happiness m o r e than blanket restrictions o n speaking, in precise, articulate, a n d graphic terms a b o u t either. —New York City August 1994

14

T h e Making of Hogg

Harold Jaffe thanks Stephan-Paul Martin and Mel Freilicher for editorial assistance with the questions for the interview.

The nameless narrator of Hogg [Normal, III.: Black Ice, 1995] is a Huck-like elevenyear-old caught in society's most sinister seams. Unlike Huck, though, Delany's nar­ rator passes nojudgments on the violent actions he takes part in. Becoming the sexual slave of truck-driver Franklin Hargus (a.k.a. Hogg), he wants only to suck on his master's penis, toes, and fingers, drink his urine, and eat his feces. Hogg is no ordinary teamster, however. Various disgruntled men (and women) hire him to rape and brutalize their out-of-favor lovers and wives. Over large sec­ tions of the book, the narrator describes Hogg and his gang terrorizing women, sex­ ually savaging them and theirfamilies. To relieve his perpetual erection, one gang member, teen-aged Denny, pushes a nail through his penis. Maddened by the pain, he goes on a mass-murder spree. About the same time, a local biker and another of Hogg's gang kidnap the narrator away and sell him (for ten dollars) to a brutal black fisherman on the Craiuhole docks. As Denny is about to be taken by the police, Hogg rescues the killer, spirits the narrator away, and the two smuggle the teen-aged psychopath into a neighboring state, where, after receiving the flimsiest of promises to behave, Hogg turns him loose to commit who-knows-what further mayhem. The novel ends in irony. For the first time Hogg admits he feels affection for his child companion, who has accompanied him on these horrific adventures. But now the narrator has decided to escape, seeking as new masters a pair of sadistic garbage men, Rufus and Red, who operate a scow out of Crawhole and whom the narrator met in passing when he was sold there. As the narrator plans his defection, Hogg asks him what's on his mind. The first he speaks in the book and the novel's last word, the narrator's answer is, "Nothin '. "* FI: Y o u c o m p l e t e d Hogg in 1 9 7 3 a n d p u b l i s h e d it twenty-two years later. C a n y o u detail s o m e o f the p r o b l e m s y o u h a d in finding a publisher? * This synopsis is modified f r o m one prepared by H a r o l d Jaffe for the original publica­ tion of the interview i n Fiction International 30.

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SRD: In the paraliterary field—e.g., science fiction, c o m i c b o o k s , por­ n o g r a p h y — t h e relationship b e t w e e n creation a n d p u b l i c a t i o n is so very different from the relation that obtains in the literary precincts, it m i g h t help, in u n d e r s t a n d i n g the b o o k ' s publication p r o b l e m s , if I spoke s o m e about the circumstances u n d e r w h i c h Hogg-was written. In the late 1960s, a c o m p a n y called Essex H o u s e b e g a n putting o u t a highly literate line o f p o r n o g r a p h y . Following the m o d e l o f M a u r i c e Girodias at O l y m p i a Press, instead o f e x h o r t i n g the cynical, if n o t subliterate, hacks w h o traditionally p r o v i d e d such textual fare to write for him, Essex editor Brian Kirby a p p r o a c h e d y o u n g poets a n d aspiring liter­ ary writers w h o were just n o t m a k i n g a living, m e n a n d w o m e n for w h o m a seven-hundred-fifty o r a thousand-dollar a d v a n c e was a major bulwark against eviction or starvation. Formal parameters w e r e r e l a x e d . T h e books had to focus o n s e x — b u t that's all. W h a t c a m e o u t was extraordi­ nary. P o e t David Meltzer p r o d u c e d 0 r / ( i g 6 8 ) a n d The Agency Trilogy (1968) ; M a r c o Vassi's works c a m e o u t o f this. T o my m i n d , however, the most remarkable o f these b o o k s was p o e t a n d critic M i c h a e l Perkins's Evil Companions ( 1 9 6 8 ) . I m e t Michael just after h e ' d c o m p l e t e d his extraordinary roman noir but before it was published. (See my "Preface" to the Rhinoceros edition reprint [ 1 9 9 2 ] o f Evil Companions.) T h e e n e r g y a r o u n d these b o o k s a n d writers was i m m e n s e , pervasive, a n d infectious. I was twenty-six years old—and it was hard n o t to b e c a u g h t u p in it. Within that field o f e n e r g y a n d e x c i t e m e n t I wrote my first p o r n o ­ graphic novel, Equinox. Kindly, Perkins read my b o o k in manuscript. O n e n i g h t in the first weeks o f D e c e m b e r '68 at Perkins's A v e n u e A apartment, we h a d a l o n g , boozy critical session over it that lasted till dawn. A s a n y o n e w h o has read his criticism knows (The Secret Record [ 1 9 9 2 ] ; The Good Parts [ 1 9 9 4 ] ), Per­ kins is an astute analyst o f texts. T h e session had at least three results. T h e first was a four-day hangover. T h e n , a b o u t ten days later, with a New Year's Eve flight, I m o v e d to San Francisco. T h e s e c o n d and third were two n e w passages I inserted toward the be­ g i n n i n g and e n d o f Equinox, ' T h e S c o r p i o n ' s L o g . " Finally, that spring, I was ready to submit the manuscript to K i r b y — o n l y to learn that Essex H o u s e had g o n e o u t o f business. T h e manuscript w e n t into the drawer. T h e last Essex v o l u m e s were, however, still m a k i n g their way to my wife's N a t o m a Street flat in San Francisco w h e r e I was t h e n living. T h e energy was still there. "The Scorpion's L o g " h a d b e e n an attempt to p a t c h u p Equinox in light o f Michael's criticism—criticism that b o i l e d d o w n to: Y o u d o n ' t

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have to sacrifice a rich relationship b e t w e e n character and landscape just b e c a u s e y o u ' r e writing a b o u t sex. A s a novel, Equinox is largely a collec­ tion o f set pieces. A s such, " T h e S c o r p i o n ' s L o g " only a d d e d some new o n e s to those already there. A t the same time, I was w o r k i n g o n a large novel, Dhalgren. After having put t o g e t h e r a fairly c o m p l e x outline for it b a c k in N e w York, I was having s o m e difficulty getting b e y o n d the open­ i n g chapter. In that way w e writers have, I was l o o k i n g for things to dis­ tract m e : O n e o f the things I did was to direct a little-theater production o f G e n e t ' s Les Bonnes—in F r e n c h . It played in o u r front hall for three w e e k e n d s , m o v e d to a c h u r c h b a s e m e n t for a c o u p l e o f months, and fi­ nally aired over KPFA-FM in Berkeley. A n d , because I w a n t e d to try my h a n d at writing a p o r n o g r a p h i c work m o r e f o c u s e d a n d with a greater psychological density, a n o t h e r thing I did (a fourth result o f the session with Michael, back in N e w York) was to b e g i n Hogg. O n a n d off, b e t w e e n M a r c h and July ' 6 9 , the novel's first, handwritten draft filled u p two, three, then four n o t e b o o k s . N e x t I took s o m e time to co-edit with my then-wife, Marilyn Hacker, four issues o f a quarterly called Quark. Finally I c o u l d turn my major energies to Dhalgren again; a n d this time it b e g a n to work. T h e Hogg n o t e b o o k s e n d e d u p in the b a c k o f a closet at N a t o m a Street. A n d Dhalgren was taking u p pretty m u c h all my time. In s u m m e r ' 7 1 , after t e a c h i n g at the C l a r i o n SF Writers' Workshop, I c a m e back to N e w York City and again g o t to work on Dhalgren. I'd already sent the manuscript o f Equinox to my agent, H e n r y Morri­ son, w h o b e g a n m a r k e t i n g it around. In the A l b e r t Hotel, w h e r e I was liv­ ing, a n o t h e r project i n t e r v e n e d — a film called The Orchid, p r o d u c e d by Barbara Wise, w h i c h I wrote, directed, and edited on an o l d "chatterbox" e d i t i n g m a c h i n e that was m o v e d into my tenth floor hotel r o o m . T h e eleven days o f filming took p l a c e in February. T h e editing w e n t on u p t h r o u g h A p r i l a n d into May o f ' 7 2 . Prints w e r e ready at the e n d o f J u n e . T h a t s u m m e r ' s C l a r i o n W o r k s h o p h a d three chapters, o n e in East Lansing, o n e in N e w Orleans, a n d o n e in Seattle: I taught at all three. After Seattle's C l a r i o n , with a student I'd m e t in the class, Pat Muir (grandson o f the naturalist J o h n Muir, Pat was an electronics repairman a n d b i k e r ) , I r o d e o n the b a c k o f Pat's motorcycle u p to some O r e g o n c o m m u n e s , t h e n to Vancouver, w h e r e we stayed with Russell and D o r a FitzGerald, saw G e o r g e Stanley again, and m e t p o e t R o b i n Blazer. After the trip was d o n e , I bussed d o w n from Seattle to San Francisco, where my friend Paul C a r u s o was n o w staying at N a t o m a Street. B e t w e e n the San Francisco G r e y h o u n d Bus Terminal and the house, I

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stopped at the E m p i r e T h e a t e r o n Market Street, in the b a c k b a l c o n y o f which I m a n a g e d to lose a n o t e b o o k containing s o m e forty-odd pages o f Dhalgren, so that w h e n I arrived at Paul's I was rather d o w n . B u t n o w Paul asked m e : "Do y o u want those o l d n o t e b o o k s y o u left in the b a c k o f the closet?" I pulled t h e m out, to realize I had the first draft o f an entire novel that I'd all but forgotten. It kind o f c h e e r e d m e u p . I reconstructed the lost Dhalgren pages. W o r k i n g o n things carefully, sentence by sentence, with lots o f notes (the way I'd b e e n writing Dhal­ gren), makes such reconstruction easier. By n o m e a n s is it fun. B u t it's only tedious—not impossible. A m o n t h or so o n , the Hogg n o t e b o o k s went with m e to N e w York. Later in ' 7 2 , b a c k at the A l b e r t , I finished a draft o f Dhalgren—just a b o u t the time H e n r y (my a g e n t ) , told m e h e ' d m a n a g e d to p l a c e Equi­ nox with L a n c e r B o o k s , a small p a p e r b a c k c o m p a n y — t h r e e - and-a-half years after the b o o k h a d b e e n c o m p l e t e d . T h e y w a n t e d to c h a n g e t h e title to Tides of Eros. W e c o m p r o m i s e d o n Tides of Lust. I n s p i r e d by the sale o f my first p o r n o g r a p h i c n o v e l , o n a p o r t a b l e e l e c t r i c type­ writer I b o r r o w e d from H e n r y ' s wife I t y p e d u p Hogg over the n e x t six weeks. "I think," H e n r y told m e , a w e e k later, w h e n h e ' d finished it, "you're g o i n g to have a bit m o r e trouble selling this o n e than y o u h a d with Equi­ nox." H e d i d n ' t even want to try Lancer. (Financially they w e r e pretty shaky; a w e e k after they published Equinox in ' 7 3 , they w e n t o u t o f busi­ ness.) A t my suggestion, w e submitted it to Girodias at O l y m p i a , w h i c h had o p e n e d u p A m e r i c a n offices. T h e result was a pleasant l u n c h with Henry, m e , a n d that u r b a n e a n d c h a r m i n g o l d scoundrel. Girodias was interested b u t n o n c o m m i t t a l . S o m e time later, after h e ' d rejected the novel, h e wrote m e : "Hoggis the only novel in my career that I have d e c l i n e d to publish solely b e c a u s e o f its sexual content. S h o u l d the b o o k someday appear, please feel free to use this as a blurb, if y o u think it will h e l p p r o m o t e sales." Alas, w h e n the b o o k did appear, twenty-odd years later, M a u r i c e was dead. U s i n g that blurb w o u l d have confused m o r e readers than n o t — t h o u g h I ' m still fond o f it. Days before Christmas '72,1 flew to E n g l a n d to rejoin Marilyn. D u r i n g the first half o f '73, in o u r P a d d i n g t o n Street flat, Dhalgren w e n t t h r o u g h another—and final—rewrite. I m p e l l e d by leftover energy, Hogg shot, o n c e more, t h r o u g h the typewriter—and received its final subscription date, O c t o b e r '73, t h o u g h my agent had b e e n sending a r o u n d earlier ver­ sions for the previous year and a half. In L o n d o n , editing a string o f Brit­ ish m e n ' s magazines, A m e r i c a n p o e t R i c h a r d D e u t c h read it a n d b e c a m e

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quite enthusiastic. H e p r o m i s e d to publish s o m e e x c e r p t s — b u t h a d a severe b r e a k d o w n at a b o u t that time. A pleasant y o u n g w o m a n I m e t t h r o u g h Richard, w h o w o r k e d out o f h e r kitchen while h e r kids played a r o u n d the table legs, typed the final manuscript. Besides typing, she wrote soft-core stories for British m e n ' s magazines. Supportive and en­ thusiastic a b o u t my novel, she was o n e o f Hoggs first fans. I b e g a n to realize the p r o b l e m s to b e s e t the finished b o o k w h e n the L o n d o n c o p y s h o p , w h e r e I t o o k Hogg to b e X e r o x e d , p h o n e d m e to say that they w o u l d n o t m a k e c o p i e s o f the text. T h e office m a n a g e r h a d l o o k e d at it, r e a d a p a g e or two, a n d told t h e m to r e t u r n it to the customer. A t a self-service m a c h i n e , I c o p i e d Hogg, f e e d i n g in a sheet at a time— a n d sent it to H e n r y Still n o t sanguine a b o u t publication possibilities, he told m e over the p h o n e h e ' d start s e n d i n g the n e w version around. I re­ t u r n e d from E n g l a n d the day before Christmas Eve 1 9 7 4 (I was now a father, with a d a u g h t e r almost a year o l d ) , to start teaching at S U N Y Buf­ falo in J a n u a r y ' 7 5 . Dhalgren h a d just b e e n published, a n d Trouble on Tri­ ton was in p r o d u c t i o n . A s Marilyn a n d I were c o m i n g t h r o u g h K e n n e d y Airport, I saw a newsstand rack full o f Dhalgrens, and—a few minutes later—a sailor in his blues sitting in a tubular chair, at o n e o f the gates, r e a d i n g a copy. T h r e e days later, B a n t a m B o o k s p h o n e d m e to say the b o o k h a d already g o n e t h r o u g h three printings before its official publi­ cation date (January 1, 1 9 7 5 ) . It was s c h e d u l e d for two m o r e : I had a m o d e r a t e l y successful n o v e l o n my hands. A w e e k or so later, Marilyn a n d I separated for g o o d . I d o n ' t really k n o w where H e n r y sent Hogg. I'm n o t particularly inter­ ested in w h o rejects my w o r k — o n l y in w h o accepts it. T h a t he tells me only o f the latter has always b e e n o u r a r r a n g e m e n t . I know, however, he was s e n d i n g it s o m e w h e r e . A year o r two on, I p i c k e d u p a y o u n g , stocky Irish-American ( c o m p l e t e with r e d hair, very thick glasses, and freckles) n e a r the city's d o w n t o w n waterfront, w h o took m e back to his apartment in the industrial streets west o f the Village. O u r after-sex talk turned to b o o k s . A t o n e point, getting u p from the futon and putting on a paisley r o b e , h e said: "Do y o u want to see the weirdest, most outrageous thing I've ever read? Just a s e c o n d . " H e w e n t to a drawer, p u l l e d it o p e n , took o u t a manuscript in a black spring binder, a n d b r o u g h t it back to me. "Read five pages o f that—any five pages. It doesn't really matter which ones—go on!" I o p e n e d b a c k the black cover a n d b e g a n to flip t h r o u g h what was ob­ viously a X e r o x o f a X e r o x o f a X e r o x — I c o u l d only guess at how many generations. T h e r e was n o title p a g e . It b e g a n simply at p a g e o n e . It was the manuscript o f Hogg.

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S o m e h o w , to say, "Hey, y o u know, actually / w r o t e this . . . " s e e m e d absurd. So I read a few pages. Yes, it was my novel. "That's . . . pretty amazing," I told him. " W h e r e ' d y o u g e t it?" H e ' d gotten it from a friend w h o ' d gotten it from a friend w h o ' d gotten it from a publishing company, w h e r e the manuscript, o n arrival, h a d created a small furor in the office. B e f o r e r e t u r n i n g it, s o m e o n e h a d m a d e a quick a n d u n a u t h o r i z e d X e r o x . . . "I'd like to read the w h o l e thing," I said. " C o u l d I g e t o n e ? " "I guess so. A l t h o u g h it's pretty d i m to c o p y o n c e m o r e . . ." Unfortunately we never ran into e a c h other again. B u t I d i d n ' t really need one. After the success o f Dhalgren in ' 7 5 (and the smaller success o f Trouble on Triton in ' 7 6 ) , in ' 7 7 B a n t a m B o o k s a g r e e d to buy u p all my earlier books, the rights to w h i c h had recently reverted to m e . L a n c e r had g o n e out o f business, so the rights to Equinox h a d also reverted. "You know," H e n r y told the folks at B a n t a m h e was n e g o t i a t i n g with, "Delany also has two 'erotic' novels, o n e o f w h i c h has b e e n p u b l i s h e d a n d o n e o f w h i c h is still in manuscript. You guys are d o i n g real well with things like A n a ï s Nin's Delta of Venus. D o y o u want to buy the rights to those as well?" S o m e b o d y said, "Sure. W h y not?" So HoggwiLS b o u g h t — i n a large p a c k a g e with a lot o f o t h e r b o o k s — and paid f o r — t h o u g h n o o n e at B a n t a m h a d actually read it. H e n r y felt that was the best h e c o u l d d o . O n e day at B a n t a m , however, I asked L o u A r o n i c a if there was any c h a n c e o f their p u b l i s h i n g Hogg—not to m e n tion reprinting Equinox. L o u l o o k e d at m e a n d l a u g h e d . "You know, I j u s t g o t a r o u n d to reading t h e m last m o n t h . T h e y ' r e extraordinary books, C h i p . B o t h o f t h e m . But will we publish them?" H e c h u c k l e d . "Not a snowball's c h a n c e in hell! " O f the twenty-odd years Hogg languished in L i m b o , B a n t a m accounts for ten. T h e b o o k was shown to a few o t h e r publishers d u r i n g that time. Five? Fifteen? I didn't know, because I was w o r k i n g o n o t h e r things, a n d (as I said) generally I'm n o t i n f o r m e d o f rejections. L o u said as s o o n as there was some interest from s o m e o n e else, certainly h e w o u l d n ' t stand in the way o f o u r b u y i n g b a c k the rights. B u t as the '80s rolled o n , with times b e c o m i n g m o r e and m o r e conservative, there s e e m e d less a n d less chance o f the b o o k s appearing. But those samizdat X e r o x e s were (I guess) still g e n e r a t i n g rumors: In 1 9 9 1 , a small publishing collective in Seattle, c e n t e r e d a r o u n d R o n D r u m m o n d , Randy Byers, a n d the p e o p l e at S e r c o n i a Press ( w h o ' d already d o n e a nonfiction b o o k o f mine, The Straits of Messina [ 1 9 8 9 ] ) p h o n e d m e . T h e y knew o f the existence o f Hogg.

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All the p e o p l e involved were pretty familiar with the range o f my w o r k — i n c l u d i n g Equinox. " T h e fact is, C h i p , " D r u m m o n d told m e over the p h o n e , "we can't conceive o f a b o o k by y o u , even if it's about the strangest sex in the world, that w e w o u l d n ' t want to d o . S e n d Hogg to us: We g u a r a n t e e y o u , sight u n s e e n , we'll publish it." "Don't d o that, R o n , " I told him. "If y o u ' r e interested, certainly I'll show it to y o u . If y o u guys d e c i d e y o u want to publish it, I'll be delighted. B u t it's unrealistic to c o m m i t yourself to s o m e t h i n g like that without r e a d i n g the manuscript first. T o o m a n y p e o p l e have f o u n d it too great a p r o b l e m . M a k e y o u r m i n d u p afteryou l o o k at it." B u t I a g r e e d to send it. T h e n w o r k i n g at Reflex Magazine, my friend R o b e r t Morales volun­ t e e r e d to scan the manuscript o n t o disk. Five years a g o optical scanning a n d character r e c o g n i t i o n w e r e not all that hot. Proofreading the text a n d putting in corrections t u r n e d into a far m o r e time-consuming j o b than I was ready for. T h r e e m o n t h s later, t h o u g h , a pristine manuscript w e n t to Seattle. A c o u p l e o f weeks later, D r u m m o n d p h o n e d again. "Well . . . eh, C h i p . Yeah. Y o u w e r e right. W e ' v e all g o t lots o f questions about the ad­ visability o f b r i n g i n g it out. " "I'm n o t surprised," I said. "What we want to d o , " R o n said, "is h o l d a m e e t i n g . W e want to have a few m o r e p e o p l e read it. T h e n w e want to have t h e m all discuss it seri­ ously." T h e y d e c i d e d to p u t t o g e t h e r a discussion seminar o f eight peo­ ple: two gay m e n , two straight m e n , two gay w o m e n , a n d two straight w o m e n — a l l p e o p l e w h o h a d read the b o o k a n d w h o were familiar with m y o t h e r work. T h e y d e c i d e d to r e c o r d the discussion, and R o n told me they w o u l d send m e a copy. A b o u t that same time, in his Guest o f H o n o r talk at R e a d e r c o n , speak­ i n g o f the p r o b l e m s h e ' d h a d with the publication o f some o f his own m o r e e x p e r i m e n t a l books, Barry M a l z b e r g e x p l a i n e d : "Some b o o k s are simply never g o i n g to be published by a c o m m i t t e e . " After seventeen years, I d i d n ' t have m u c h e m o t i o n a l investment in Hogg's publication. B u t o n the intellectual level, what I'd heard Malzberg say s e e m e d pretty m u c h to cover the situation. A c o u p l e o f m o n t h s later, at an SF c o n v e n t i o n h e r e o n the East Coast, V i c t o r G o n z a l e s j u s t in from Seattle h a n d e d m e a copy o f the tape. O n a w a l k m a n in my hotel r o o m I played it that afternoon. O n e or two o f the discussants, at the last minute, h a d n ' t b e e n able to m a k e it—at least one o f the gay m e n , I believe. O t h e r than that, it was what they'd said it w o u l d be. T h e tape was a b o u t an h o u r a n d a half.

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N o writer c o u l d have asked for a m o r e astute and sensitive discussion o f a manuscript. Listening to the d i a l o g u e , I felt that e v e r y o n e o n the panel had read the b o o k carefully a n d intelligently. T h e y ' d all taken in its intentions, its various and several points. N o n e o f t h e m h a d missed any subtleties or major moves in the text. All s e e m e d to have f o u n d m a n y sections m o v i n g . All agreed that the material was extraordinarily distaste­ ful: It is. T h e b r e a k d o w n as to w h i c h p e o p l e felt the b o o k should b e p u b l i s h e d and w h i c h p e o p l e felt it w o u l d b e d a n g e r o u s to publish (not b e c a u s e o f legal repercussions, but because o f what it m i g h t d o to unstable readers) was, however, interesting. T h e w o m e n — g a y and straight—felt that, as distasteful as it was, the b o o k o u g h t to be published. O n e even thought its publication imperative. T h e m e n — g a y a n d straight—felt that the d a n g e r to unstable m i n d s was simply too great a risk. Because the m o n e y for the venture was b e i n g p u t u p by o n e o f the straight m e n , however, finally it was d e c i d e d to f o r e g o p u b l i c a t i o n . W i t h many apologies, they r e t u r n e d the manuscript. R a n d y Byers sent m e a fine, thoughtful, a n d c o n s i d e r e d letter. I answered h i m with a letter o f my own. A t this point, Larry McCaffery b e c a m e aware o f the r e c e n t interest in the n o v e l — a n d the controversy it was causing. I ' m n o t sure whether h e actually h e a r d the discussion tape. (At o n e point, R o n said he was g o i n g to send it to him.) Larry asked to see Hogg and took it to Ron S u k e n i c k a n d C u r t W h i t e at Fiction Collective 2, w h o were just put­ ting together a new line, Black Ice Books. Did I want to see Hogg published? Yes. B u t I was n o w fifty and the a u t h o r o f m o r e than twenty-five b o o k s — most o f which h a d a p p e a r e d in several editions. T h e truth is, in m o r e cases than not, publication is painful e n o u g h to l e a c h all b u t the most fleeting pleasure from the printing o f a new b o o k . T o fixate o n the real­ ization o f a f o r t h c o m i n g v o l u m e only intensifies the pain from the inevi­ table defects marring its actual publication. F r o m time to time, yes, I've f o u n d myself l o o k i n g forward to the ap­ pearance o f a new v o l u m e . But I try n o t to. Since Fiction Collective 2 / B l a c k Ice are Hogg's c u r r e n t publishers, I feel a certain discretion is appropriate in talking a b o u t the p r o b l e m s that I had there. Most o f those p r o b l e m s turned, again, o n the c o m m i t t e e nature o f a collective publisher—and also o n the fact that they area small operation. T h o s e p r o b l e m s r a n g e d from s o m e u n a u t h o r i z e d last-minute "creative copy editing" that h a d to be u n d o n e , to a delay in the a p p e a r a n c e o f the

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b o o k (anyone w h o looks at the h a r d c o v e r copyright p a g e will see the b o o k is d a t e d 1 9 9 4 , t h o u g h it didn't a p p e a r until well into 1 9 9 5 ) , to the obligatory cover-confusion (it was s u p p o s e d to b e white d r o p o u t on black; not, as it is, black o n blue: It c h a n g e s considerably the reading o f that abstract b l o b — w h i c h is, yes, my significant other Dennis's seminal fluid), to a mix-up in the printing o f the first p a p e r b a c k edition, so that the printing h a d to b e p u l p e d : T h r o u g h d r o p p e d or d o u b l e d lines, m o r e than ten p e r c e n t o f the p a g e s d i d n ' t c o n n e c t to the p a g e following. It was u n r e a d a b l e . Suffice it to say, however, that the c u r r e n t p a p e r b a c k printing now out in stores is a fine a n d largely accurate edition o f Hogg. T h e press a n d I are p r o u d o f it. FI: Transgressive is a literary c a t e g o r y that perhaps has b e e n overused; still o n e c o u l d reasonably fit Hogg into that category. It is transgressive in terms o f its extensively elaborated scatology; a n d it is m o r e generally transgressive in that it is narrated from the p o i n t o f view o f the sexual re­ cipient, or "victim," as s o m e m i g h t c h o o s e to call your adolescent narra­ tor. T o what e x t e n t were y o u i n f l u e n c e d by the writings o f G e n e t and Ba­ taille, two notable literary prototypes o f so-called transgression? Did you have any o t h e r artistic m o d e l s in mind? SRD: T h a t ' s a c o m p l i c a t e d question. First, there are victims in the book: the w o m e n that H o g g is paid to rape, abuse, a n d brutalize. But the narra­ tor is not o n e o f t h e m . Perhaps that helps m a k e the b o o k as disturbing as p e o p l e so often find it. W e have an o v e r a r c h i n g sentimental m o d e l that says an u n d e r a g e child involved in sex mustbe a 'Victim"—or, if n o t (and this is the soiled, nasty u n d e r s i d e o f sentimentality), then some sort o f m o n s t e r o f the Bad Seed variety. B u t Hogg's narrator is neither, t h o u g h he takes part willingly in rapes, assaults, a n d brutalization. W h e n I wrote Hogg, the only Bataille I h a d read was the old Ballantine p a p e r b a c k edition o f Literature and Evil. A l t h o u g h Perkins was a great fan o f Bataille 's two p o r n o g r a p h i c novels, Madame Edwarda and Story of the Eye, a n d h a d r e c o m m e n d e d t h e m to m e highly, neither was then readily available in English. So, n o , I hadn't read t h e m . In 1 9 6 1 I'd read Our Lady of the Flowers in the 1 9 4 9 Editions M o r i h e n translation (under the title Gutter in the Sky). A n d , as I said, I was directing G e n e t ' s Les Bonnes j u s t before I started writing Hogg. A s it h a p p e n s , I first read Miracle of the Rose in the F r e c h t m a n translation while I was writing it. B u t t h o u g h I en­ j o y e d G e n e t ' s s e c o n d n o v e l immensely, if it was any sort o f influence, it was a negative o n e : G e n e t ' s h e i g h t e n e d rhetoric a-swirl all t h r o u g h the presentation o f a succession o f several objects o f desire, with w h o m

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there is all-but-no bodily contact, is precisely w h a t I didn't want to d o in Hogg. G u i l l a u m e A p o l l i n a i r e ' s surreal p o r n o g r a p h i c masterpiece The De­ bouched Hospodar (Perkins p u b l i s h e d the first English translation in his magazine Down Here) was very m u c h , a n d conscientiously so, a m o d e l for Equinox—though I w a n t e d to achieve s o m e o f the same effects w i t h o u t recourse to the surreal. (I used d r u g - i n d u c e d hallucinations instead.) B u t for Hogg there was n o conscious p o r n o g r a p h i c m o d e l at all. In an article o n my several sex novels that first a p p e a r e d in the New York Review of Science Fiction (reprinted in the J a m e s Sallis-edited v o l u m e Ash of Stars [ 1 9 9 6 ] ), writer Ray Davis m a k e s a p o i n t I, at least, f o u n d interesting: Hogg is a n o v e l — p e r h a p s , says Davis, the only such novel— that really is filled with precisely what conservative forces in the c o u n t r y claim is r a m p a n t in all p o r n o g r a p h y . . . violence against w o m e n , torture, murder, racism, filth, the exploitation o f c h i l d r e n , a n d o t h e r acts too perverse to n a m e . T h e only place it breaks with this (if we can call it such) classical a n d conservative description o f p o r n o g r a p h y is that it is carefully written, n o t sloppily h a c k e d out; a n d it e x a m i n e s those subjects n o t from the p o i n t o f view o f sociologists a n d psychologists with their ready-made categories o f "victims" a n d "monsters," but e x a m i n e s t h e m as seriously—and relentlessly—as the people caught up in such acts are ca­ pable of. T h a t it finds t o u c h e s o f h u m a n i t y h e r e a n d there e v e n a m o n g murderers and criminal psychopaths is, o f course, troubling. A t the e n d o f the b o o k , the r e a d e r should ask: W h a t p u n i s h m e n t should H o g g receive for what he's d o n e . . . ? W h a t p u n i s h m e n t should D e n n y receive . . . ? Is there s o m e unwarranted cruelty in the narrator's decision to leave H o g g for what is a comparatively domesticated version o f S / M with gar­ bage scow workers R e d a n d Rufus back o n the docks? A n d , o f course, the final question must be: Personally, how are you en­ g a g e d by these questions? FI: A m o n g the m a n y atypical aspects o f Hoggis the fact that it is n o t "nat­ uralized"; that is, n o w h e r e in the savage g o i n g s - o n is any n o r m posited. Rather there is a collective radical deviation from so-called n o r m a l c y in which every major character participates. T h e novel's e n d i n g reinforces the significance o f the destabilization o f all n o r m s , w h e n the adolescent narrator rejects H o g g ' s plan to domesticate their situation. W o u l d y o u c o m m e n t o n any o f these themes? SRD: H u m b l y I'd suggest that y o u ' r e o v e r l o o k i n g , a m o n g others, the "normal" c o u p l e , Harry B u n i m , M o n a Casey, a n d their infant son C h u c k ,

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living o n the b a r g e beside the scow b e l o n g i n g to Rufus a n d Red. But there are lots o f relatively "normal" p e o p l e in the novel: the hardware store o w n e r a n d h e r daughter, for e x a m p l e ; the bartender, Ray, at the Piewacket Bar; the harmonica-playing fisherman, A n d y ; and perhaps the most important, the director o f the radio show. Generally, the "normal" p e o p l e are the o n e s attacked a n d brutalized by H o g g — a n d , later, Denny. O n e o f the novel's tasks is temporally to n o r m a l i z e a m o r a l frame out­ side the e x p e r i e n c e o f most readers o f the b o o k : T h e frame that will tri­ u m p h in the b o o k is R e d a n d Rufus's, w h i c h the narrator will finally— a n d sensibly—choose over H o g g ' s . O n e strategy the b o o k employs to a c c o m p l i s h this n o r m a l i z a d o n is the m é t o n y m i e association o f R e d and Rufus with Harry a n d M o n a . T h e p r e v a l e n c e o f a n d the focus o n the deviant is h i g h e n o u g h , how­ ever, that, for the first r e a d i n g or two, readers are n o t likely to pay m u c h a t t e n d o n to the strands o f n o r m a l c y t h r e a d i n g the brutality and sexual excess. Nevertheless, those strands are as carefully woven as the "abnor­ m a l " ones. If they weren't, the b o o k w o u l d n ' t function. A m o n g the tasks the n o v e l attempts is to m a r k o u t a discursive field in w h i c h , by the e n d , the r e a d e r can n o l o n g e r even say the words "normal" a n d "abnormal" w i t h o u t putting t h e m in quotation marks, ironizing t h e m , or s o m e h o w or o t h e r p l a c i n g t h e m sous rature. FI: T h e narrator rarely addresses his o w n e m o t i o n a l state, yet his descrip­ tion o f the o t h e r characters a n d o f the frequent S / M and scatological sexual acts in w h i c h h e participates are exhaustively detailed, always pre­ cise, a n d often stylistically refined. T h i s s e e m i n g discontinuity between an adolescent, unself-conscious narrator w h o is also a k e e n and even ele­ gant o b s e r v e r / r e c o r d e r seems central to the novel's impact. C a n you dis­ cuss y o u r narrator's character a n d function? SRD: T o b e g i n with, the narrator is n o t an adolescent: He's ^rea d o l e s c e n t — h e ' s only eleven. H e is, however, p u b e s c e n t . That's n o t the same thing. A s a first-person narrator, h o w e v e r — l i k e H u c k l e b e r r y Finn, like E s p e r a n z a C o r d e r o in Cisneros's House on Mango Street, like H o l d e n C a u l f i e l d — m y narrator tells his tale from s o m e indeterminate future age. (Fourteen, seventeen, twenty, twenty-six . . . this last the age I was w h e n , j u s t before my twenty-seventh birthday, in San Francisco, I b e g a n drafting it.) T h i s signals to the reader that he's survived the story's events and, like Ishmael, lived to tell t h e m . Yes, h e attempts to narrate H o g g ' s story as it struck h i m at the time—but, o f course, there's a fibrillating qual­ ity to his sophistication, that registers (to you) as a discontinuity, or set o f discontinuities.

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Were the material m o r e traditionally associated with c h i l d r e n , y o u m i g h t be less aware o f those "discontinuities" that o f course exist between the character's various levels: the t o u c h e s that signal the elevenyear-old to w h o m the events h a p p e n e d , the verbal turns that signal the older personality l o o k i n g back o n the events, a n d those places w h e r e , as it must to those l o o k i n g for it, the "art o f the n o v e l " shows. E l : In a certain way, H o g g ' s c o m p l e x i t i e s s e e m c o m p l e m e n t a r y to the narrator's. A sexual torturer a n d murderer, h e p e r f o r m s the most de­ grading, even bestial, acts with a fiercely relentless exhilaration. A t the same time he is capable o f astute self-reflection a n d o f discoursing o n so-called n o r m a l c y and the social construction o f desire a n d identity in the m a n n e r o f a poststructuralist a n d g e n d e r theorist. D i d y o u have any literary or cultural p r e c e d e n t s in m i n d for the characterizations o f H o g g a n d / o r his m e n t o r - p r o t é g é relationship with the a d o l e s c e n t narrator? SRD: Sadism is classically k n o w n as "the perversion o f p h i l o s o p h e r s . " Presumably w h e n y o u realize that y o u gain real a n d d e e p l y desired pleas­ ure by d o i n g things that truly h u r t o t h e r p e o p l e , y o u face the sort o f aporia that must start y o u thinking about the nature o f the social w o r l d that defines g o o d and evil a n d y o u r own p l a c e — a n d the p l a c e o f o t h e r be­ ings—in it. T h e same imperative is just n o t there, say, with masochism: "You de­ rive pleasure from h u r t i n g yourself? G o o n , then. H u r t yourself—as l o n g as it doesn't b o t h e r m e . " You call H o g g a murderer. Buc while he's probably killed a few p e o p l e before the b o o k begins, in the novel proper, t h o u g h h e threatens m a n y and physically injures many more—injures t h e m to the p o i n t they will n e e d serious medical attention—the only murder h e c o m m i t s (some readers are surprised w h e n they're r e m i n d e d o f this) is that o f the m o ­ rally loathsome Jimmy. James B o n d , Snake Pliskin, Dirty Harry—all are far m o r e lethal than H o g g — i n films any eleven-year-old is energetically w e l c o m e d by o u r so­ ciety to view. To call H o g g a poststructuralist or a g e n d e r theorist is a hyperbole that, I take it, y o u offer as a c o m p l i m e n t . It's a hyperbole still. T h a t he's all but illiterate doesn't m e a n , however, H o g g can't think. Yes, he's smart. (Were he not, h e ' d have b e e n c a u g h t l o n g ago.) Also he's the most active o n ­ stage character in the novel. ( W h e n D e n n y briefly b e c o m e s more active than H o g g , he moves off-stage and his actions are only r e p o r t e d indirectly for the duration.) T h a t g o e s a l o n g way toward n e e d l i n g at the reader's sympathies. H o g g has a specific roster o f things h e wants to a c c o m p l i s h

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over the novel's c o u r s e — a n d h e puts a lot o f e n e r g y into achieving them successfully, w h i c h is, in c u r r e n t narrative discourse, a n o t h e r way o f e v o k i n g sympathy. T h e r e a d e r is u n c o m f o r t a b l e sympathizing with such a "monster." B u t w h e n , at the e n d , the narrator realizes h e can g e t the same sexual e x c i t e m e n t from R e d a n d Rufus, w i t h o u t the a c c o u t r e m e n t s o f m u r d e r a n d rapine, a n d so c h o o s e s to return to the g a r b a g e scow and a b a n d o n H o g g (a sane, logical decision, w h i c h — a t the level o f logic—all o f us have to c o n c u r with), m a n y readers—if only for a m o m e n t — a r e g o i n g to find themselves c a u g h t u p in the p o i g n a n c y o f H o g g ' s situation. T h a t s o m e o n e like H o g g c o u l d elicit o u r sympathy—that (even mo­ mentarily) w e s h o u l d find h i m p o i g n a n t , h u m a n , a n d struggling for hap­ piness (rather than m o n s t e r or victim) — is g o i n g to trouble. Well, Hogg is a story written to trouble. It's n o m o r e a f e e l - g o o d novel than Sentimental Education or Good Morning Midnight. Davis sees in Hogg a c o m b i n a t i o n o f M a r k Twain a n d Dashiell Hammett, with a g o o d l y d o l l o p o f Sade. B u t I'd rather let r e a d e r s — a n d / o r critics—speculate o n possible literary m o d e l s , precedents, or origins than try to u n t a n g l e t h e m myself. T o say that Hogg represents something n e w o r u n p r e c e d e n t e d simply flies in the face o f all we k n o w o f intertex­ tuality, o f the literary. Texts that are r e a d a b l e — a n d even texts that aren't—just aren't n e w in that t r a n s c e n d e n t way. I d o n ' t m i n d saying, t h o u g h , that two d o z e n years a g o w h e n I was writing it, Hogg certainly felt new. B u t that's the illusion all writers n e e d to p u t d o w n words and finish their novels. (To appreciate a b o o k richly, possibly readers n e e d it too.) If it h a d n ' t felt that way at the time, I w o u l d n ' t have b e e n able to write it. —New York City August io, 1996

15

T h e Phil Leggiere Interview Reading The Mad Man

Phil Leggiere: In y o u r critical analysis o f the subversive qualities o f sci­ e n c e fiction as a g e n r e , y o u ' v e e m p h a s i z e d the distinct c h a l l e n g e s the language o f science fiction (with its built-in c o n c e p t u a l conflict b e t w e e n habitual linguistic frames o f reference o f the reader's "present" w o r l d and those to b e inferred in the narrative) offers. The Mad Man seems to be a departure to s o m e e x t e n t from m u c h o f y o u r previous fiction n o t only in its setting in the c h r o n o l o g i c a l present b u t in its active e x p l o r a ­ tion o f o t h e r genres, such as p o r n o g r a p h y , mystery, "Gothic," a n d the traditional literature o f the fantastic a n d g r o t e s q u e . H a s y o u r w o r k o n the novel p r o m p t e d any n e w perspective o n the subversive c h a l l e n g e o f the l a n g u a g e o f these genres? Samuel R. Delany: Well, first I have to p o i n t o u t that n o g e n r e (or its lan­ guage) is necessarily subversive—or e v e n c h a l l e n g i n g — b y itself. T h e c h a l l e n g e — t h e subversion—is always in the way a specific text is read by a specific reader. T h a t ' s w h y readers—and articulated readings, in the form o f criticism—are so important. If anything has given m e a n e w p e r s p e c t i v e — t h o u g h it's n o t a very sanguine one—it's t e a c h i n g at the university level for the last five years. I've seen lots o f texts I c o n s i d e r e d h u g e l y subversive (some science fic­ tion, some literary) given the most conservative a n d n o n c h a l l e n g i n g readings by professors a n d students alike—readings I w o u l d often call blatant a n d self-evident misreadings. Usually this was b e c a u s e the readers involved just c o u l d n ' t c o n c e i v e o f a written text m a k i n g anything e x c e p t the most conservative statement. T h u s , they r e a d t h e m the way they p r e c o n c e i v e d t h e m — w h i c h is conservatively. Now, I've always felt that the most i n n o c e n t - s e e m i n g haiku, if read properly, can u n d e r m i n e the c h e r i s h e d assumptions o f the world's grandest imperialist g o v e r n m e n t s — w h i l e the most i m p a s s i o n e d diatribe

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against the exploitative evils o f the a g e can be read as an assurance that such evils will always b e with us a n d thus n o t h i n g can be d o n e to c h a n g e them. T h a t ' s w h y I've fallen b a c k o n q u o t i n g — a n d r e q u o t i n g — s o m e t h i n g that, years b e f o r e I started full-time teaching, I took from R o l a n d Barthes by way o f Barbara J o h n s o n for an e p i g r a p h to the final chapter in my novel Neveryôna: "Those w h o fail to reread are o b l i g e d to read the same story everywhere." You've m e n t i o n e d p o r n o g r a p h y a n d mysteries as two genres my new b o o k The Mad Man plays with. B u t the most i m p o r t a n t g e n r e — o r subg e n r e — i t takes to itself is the "academic novel." A n d , as academic novels g o , it's a pretty scathing o n e . It's a n o v e l that allegorizes—if y o u want to read it that way—the situation o u r c o n t e m p o r a r y graduate students (who, in most major research universities, teach 50 p e r c e n t or m o r e of o u r university classes) have to e n d u r e to survive. Jarrell's Pictures of an In­ stitution, A m i s ' s Lucky Jim, or Philip Roth's Letting Go are really the books it contests with. E x p l o d i n g , o r just messing with, the expectations o f the a c a d e m i c n o v e l is w h e r e it d o e s its most subversive w o r k — a n d , yes, I still believe that certain genres—especially the paraliterary genres, SF, por­ nography, c o m i c s , mysteries, o r n e w s p a p e r criticism—do offer certain possibilities for certain kinds o f readings m o r e than certain other kinds. B u t without the reading, n o t h i n g . . . L a n g u a g e always has two aspects: w h a t y o u talk about—and how y o u talk a b o u t it. S o m e o f the most n e r v o u s reviewers o f The Mad Man have said they've n e v e r seen some o f the things I've talked about in that b o o k talked a b o u t anywhere before! O n the o n e hand, this suggests these critics' r e a d i n g is pretty parochial. Still, if y o u ' r e talking about things that are n e w to most p e o p l e — w h a t it feels like to be urinated on, what's exciting a b o u t e x c r e m e n t to the p e o p l e it excites, what the life o f a h o m e l e s s c h r o n i c masturbator m i g h t b e like w h e n he's b e e n turned out o f a m e n t a l hospital o n t o the streets o f N e w Y o r k — y o u have to talk a b o u t such subjects as clearly and cleanly as possible. PL: H o w has the relationship b e t w e e n the science fiction c o m m u n i t y a n d the cultures o f the a c a d e m i c a n d "avant-garde" literary world c h a n g e d since y o u b e g a n publishing in the early '60s? SRD: W h a t the '60s was k n o w n for in SF was w h a t was t h e n called "speculative fiction"—which, back then, m e a n t a c o m b i n a t i o n o f science fiction, fantasy, a n d e x p e r i m e n t a l fiction: e x p e r i m e n t a l fiction that u s e d SF imagery, a n d SF a n d fantasy that e m p l o y e d e x p e r i m e n t a l writ­ i n g t e c h n i q u e s . L i k e m a n y n e o l o g i s m s , "speculative fiction" slipped

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a n d slid a r o u n d quite a bit—so m u c h so that, by 1 9 7 2 , m o s t p e o p l e g o t tired o f that s l i p p a g e a n d j u s t d r o p p e d it. I was o n e o f those w h o was happiest to see "speculative fiction" p u t o u t to pasture, w h e r e it be­ longed, and forgotten. B u t that was because too m a n y p e o p l e w e r e using it simply to m e a n "that science fiction I personally h a p p e n to approve of." A n d w h o n e e d s a term for that? " O h , but this is n o t really science fiction. It's speculative fiction." (Why? ' C a u s e I h a p p e n to like it.) I'd m u c h prefer to see y o u call it science fiction (or e x p e r i m e n t a l fiction) and spell o u t y o u r partic­ ular agenda. But, with time (and the t e r m ) , we also s e e m e d to lose a g o o d n u m b e r of the conduits b e t w e e n the two social worlds, science fiction a n d the avant garde. It's arguable that the c o n n e c t i o n b e t w e e n the w o r l d o f sci­ e n c e fiction writers and the w o r l d o f e x p e r i m e n t a l writers was main­ tained, back in the '60s, s o m e w h a t artificially—largely by the simple b u t real affluence o f so m a n y art p r o g r a m s back then. Today, o f course, is the era o f the artistic cutback. C o n d u i t s between areas like that have fallen away. I was recently at a writers' c o n f e r e n c e — h a v i n g n o t h i n g to d o with SF at all—where I h e a r d a b u n c h o f writers w h o c o n s i d e r e d themselves pretty serious a b o u t what they were d o i n g decry all e x p e r i m e n t a t i o n b e c a u s e it alienated readers! T h e y s e e m e d to think p a n d e r i n g to readers (which, in case they forgot, is what the alternative is called) was s o m e h o w the way, in an artistic enter­ prise, to g e t s o m e t h i n g o f i m p o r t a n c e d o n e . B u t clearly their n o t i o n o f seriousness a n d my n o t i o n o f seriousness were j u s t n o t the same. PL: You describe yourself in y o u r a u t o b i o g r a p h y The Motion of Light in Water (1988) as a y o u n g writer p r e o c c u p i e d by issues relating to the crea­ tion and portrayal o f characters in science fiction. H o w has y o u r u n d e r ­ standing o f the creation a n d e x p l o r a t i o n o f character in non-"realist" and non-conventionally psychological fiction evolved? H a s y o u r w o r k in a u t o b i o g r a p h i c a l narrative a n d literary t h e o r y i n f l u e n c e d y o u r subse­ q u e n t fiction? SRD: A g a i n , I d o n ' t b e l i e v e — n o r have I believed since I was twenty o r twenty-one—that even the most "realistic" character is a n y t h i n g m o r e than a learned m o d e o f r e a d i n g — a m o d e c o n t r o l l e d by a perfectly arbi­ trary set o f learned data expectations; that is, I d o n ' t believe there's any simple, transparent, and uncritical relation b e t w e e n "realism" as it's tra­ ditionally c o n c e i v e d in narratives a n d anything we m i g h t call "reality." Most o f my characters—those in The Mad Man, say—are quite conser­ vatively c o n c e i v e d . But I try to write the conservative character the same

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way I w o u l d follow s o m e mathematically e x p e r i m e n t a l template set out by the O u L i P o G r o u p . A n d I c h o o s e p e o p l e to subject to this wholly arbi­ trary r e g i m e w h o aren't usually its focus: a m a n w h o likes to stretch his foreskin o u t to extraordinary lengths with plastic rings, another man with n o c o n t r o l over his urinary practices. H a v i n g said that, I think there's s o m e t h i n g to b e said for that particu­ lar arbitrary m o d e o f r e a d i n g expectations we call "realism": W h e n I en­ c o u n t e r a character in a story, w h o m I have to live with for m o r e than a certain n u m b e r o f pages, by St. M a r x a n d St. Engels, I want to know w h e r e the m o n e y c o m e s from that buys the character's food and shel­ ter—if the character requires any. A n d I d o n ' t care if it's a wild and wacky surrealist tale by William T. V o l l m a n n o r Laurie M o o r e or if it's the densest sort o f verbally rich regionalism by C o r m a c M c C a r t h y or Randall K e n a n . T h a t ' s information I w a n t from Gabriel Garcia M a r q u e z or Mi­ g u e l A n g e l Asturias in their most magic realist m o d e s as well as from J a m e s M c P h e r s o n or Jayne A n n Phillips or Ethan C a n i n or Grace Paley at their most middle-class or working-class conventional. T h e r e ' s no class, from the u p p e r to the lower, that d o e s n ' t benefit from learning to ask that question. A n d there's n o writer w h o isn't m a d e a m o r e aware person by playing with the various ways o f suggesting the answer—and suggest­ i n g is far m o r e interesting than stating—in his or h e r texts. N o , it's not part o f characterization. B u t it's an e x p e c t a t i o n o f infor­ m a t i o n c o n n e c t e d with character initially set u p by the likes o f Austen, C h a r l o t t e B r o n t ë , Balzac, Sand, D i c k e n s , Flaubert and G e o r g e Eliot— a n d y o u mess with the very roots o f fiction w h e n y o u trifle with i t . . . no­ tice, I didn't say e x p e r i m e n t : I said "trifle." I ' m a poetry reader. A n d I like e x p e r i m e n t a l fiction. It's not often the k i n d o f fiction I write; b u t it's the k i n d I like to read: A new work by Lyn Hejinian or by R o n Silliman a n d I ' m o n my ear to g e t to the bookstore to p i c k it u p . T h a t e n j o y m e n t a n d sympathy informs the m o r e conserva­ tively n a r r a t e d fiction I d o write in comparatively subtle ways. Because it's w h a t I like to read, in a sense it k e e p s m e honest. If I have to p u t some G r e e k in my p o r n o g r a p h i c novel or wrestle with s o m e p r o b l e m that can only b e discussed in terms o f H e i d e g g e r , I certainly d o n ' t say: N o , I bet­ ter n o t d o that; it m i g h t alienate the readers! A n d , o f course, it makes m e pay lots o f attention to individual sentences. —New York City August 1994

16

T h e Second Science-Fiction Studies Interview Of Trouble on Triton and Other Matters

The following text did not originate as any kind of formal interview. Instead it grew out of an April 1986 session that Chip Delany had with me and my stu­ dents in a course I was teaching at Concordia University on Utopian and AntiUtopian (Science) Fiction. By the time this particular class meeting took place, we had already considered Stanislaw Lem's Future-logical C o n g r e s s and Ur­ sula Le Guin's T h e Dispossessed, and had turned our attention to Delany's Triton. Two of the students, Diane Illing and Peta Kom, recorded that session; and perhaps a year thereafter, my former assistant, Donna McGee, made a valiant ef­ fort to "decipher" their tapes. Her transcription sat atop one of my file cabinets until April of this year, when I finally found (or, rather, "made") time to verify and edit it. The resultant printout then went to Chip, who subjected it to substantial clarificatory revision. Except for Chip (SRD), the participants are all designated by an anonymous "Q"; but for the record, the questions not from me come mostly from Renée Lallier (of John Abbott College) and Robert Copp (now a doctoral candidate at McGill). —Robert M. Philmus Q: In Futurological Congress, L e m seems to b e suggesting that SF is gener­ ated from neologisms. H o w d o y o u react to that proposition? D i d Triton, for e x a m p l e , in any way arise from the term-concept, "un-licensed sec­ tor," say? SRD: Did it arise from the n o t i o n or f r o m the term "un-licensed sec­ tor"? N o .

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A s far as SF g r o w i n g from n e o l o g i s m s , however, I d o think there's a terribly i m p o r t a n t verbal side to SF, w h i c h y o u r question can b e used to f o r e g r o u n d . O f t e n , in SF, the writer puts t o g e t h e r two w o r d roots, and the resultant term p r o d u c e s a n e w i m a g e for the reader. Take Cord­ wainer Smith's "ornithopter." T o read the w o r d is to know what an ornit h o p t e r is—if y o u r e c o g n i z e the roots: helicopter and ornithos—a helicop­ ter is a helicopter, o f course, a n d ornithos is the Classical G r e e k word for bird. (In m o d e r n G r e e k , by the bye, ornithos]ust m e a n s chicken.) A n or­ nithopter must b e a small plane that flaps its wings—like a bird. But even if y o u h a v e n ' t seen o n e o f S c h o e n h e r r ' s fine illustrations (that h e pro­ d u c e d for Dune w h e n H e r b e r t b o r r o w e d Smith's term), or had it ex­ p l a i n e d to y o u , it still calls u p the image. T h i s verbal side to SF is very im­ portant. T h e r a n g e o f SF images is g o v e r n e d entirely by the sayable —rather than by any soft-edged c o n c e p t like the scientifically believable or even the possible. C o n s i d e r : " A n d there, j u s t before m e , I c o u l d smell the weight o f the note D-flat!" A t this point, o f course, the "image" (if we can call it that) is fantasy— or perhaps surrealism. O r simply speakable nonsense. B u t it's not yet SF. O n c e w e ' v e s p o k e n an i m a g e , however, it b e c o m e s the SF j o b o f the s u r r o u n d i n g rhetoric—especially the pseudo-scientific rhetoric—to m a k e the i m a g e c o g n i z a b l e , believable: It came from the alternate universe Dr. Philmus's new invention had opened up when I'd pulled the lever—I could smell its weight, ringing out at me, through the glimmering circles of the iridium coil that had opened a portal to a dimension in which such notions, philosophically absurd in ours, never­ theless exist, are common, and make sense . . . A t this point, the i m a g e has b e c o m e acceptable (conventional, hack­ n e y e d , e v e n p a r o d i e — b u t r e c o g n i z a b l e ) SF. T h e i m a g e is c o g n i z e d t h r o u g h a set o f c o d e s by w h i c h y o u entail the sayable a m o n g a further set o f i m a g e s a n d ideas that y o u can visualize a n d / o r conceptualize. A s I've said, the o n e I j u s t c a m e u p with (above) is b o t h parodie and parasitic (parasitic o n b o t h p h i l o s o p h y a n d SF—as well as o n o u r actual situation h e r e , with Dr. P h i l m u s standing right t h e r e ) , a n d thus brings u p a w h o l e further r a n g e o f questions a n d considerations. But y o u get the g e n e r a l idea. T h e r e ' s often a literal side to SF l a n g u a g e . T h e r e are m a n y strings o f w o r d s that c a n a p p e a r b o t h in an SF text a n d in an o r d i n a r y text o f nat­ uralistic fiction. B u t w h e n they a p p e a r in a naturalistic text we interpret t h e m o n e way, a n d w h e n they a p p e a r in an SF text w e interpret t h e m

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another. L e t m e illustrate this by s o m e e x a m p l e s I've used m a n y times before. T h e phrase "her world e x p l o d e d " in a naturalistic text will b e a m e t a p h o r for a female character's e m o t i o n a l state; b u t in an SF text, if y o u had the same words—"her w o r l d e x p l o d e d " — y o u ' d have to main­ tain the possibility that they m e a n : A p l a n e t b e l o n g i n g to a w o m a n blew u p . Similar is the phrase, "he t u r n e d o n his left side." In a naturalistic text, it w o u l d most probably refer to a m a n ' s i n s o m n i a c tossings. B u t in an SF text the phrase m i g h t easily m e a n a m a l e r e a c h e d d o w n a n d flipped the switch activating his sinestral flank. O r even that he attacked his left side. Often what h a p p e n s with specifically SF l a n g u a g e is that the m o r e literal m e a n i n g s are valorized. O f course this d o e s n ' t h a p p e n with every s e n t e n c e in an SF text. L e G u i n is an SF writer w h o uses far less "science fictionary" l a n g u a g e than most. But in most SF that most p e o p l e m e a n w h e n they speak o f SF—i.e., the SF written a n d released since 1 9 2 6 that a p p e a r e d in p u l p , o r p u l p inspired, magazines a n d p a p e r b a c k o r h a r d c o v e r b o o k s — y o u have s u c h language here and there all t h r o u g h it; it has a very literal quality to it that, even t h o u g h we w o u l d be h a r d p u t to call it referential, is neverthe­ less quite the opposite o f metaphor. T h e r e ' s a fine novella by V o n d a M c l n t y r e , called Aztecs, w h i c h o p e n s : "She gave u p h e r heart quite willingly." It's a b o u t a w o m a n w h o gives u p her f o u r - c h a m b e r e d heart to have it r e p l a c e d with a rotary b l o o d p u m p i n g m e c h a n i s m , in o r d e r to p e r f o r m a certain j o b a p e r s o n with a p u m p i n g heart can't. Well, this sort o f literalization runs all t h r o u g h SF, a n d is akin to the neologisms y o u were asking about. S o m e t i m e s , w h e n this literalization h a p p e n s within a single w o r d (between two r e c o g n i z a b l e roots, say, as in helicopter a n d ornithos with " o r n i t h / o p t e r " — o r " r a y / g u n , " or "visa/ p h o n e " ) , it p r o d u c e s a n e o l o g i s m . B u t it works at the level o f the sen­ tence as well (when disparate words fall into the same SF s e n t e n c e ) , and also at the level o f plot (when disparate events j o i n in a single diagetic l i n e ) . If y o u want to pursue this a r g u m e n t and are interested in a m o r e formal a c c o u n t o f it, b o t h in terms o f its applications a n d its limitations, look at section 7 o f an essay o f m i n e , "To R e a d The Dispossessed," in The Jewel-Hinged Jaw. Q: A r e there any other n e o l o g i s m s in Triton} I think there's "metalogic"; but I'm n o t sure . . . SRD: T h e term occurs in the b o o k , only it's n o t my n e o l o g i s m . O r rather, it's another case o f p h i l o s o p h i c a l parasitism. In the '60s, with the ascen­ dency o f terms like "metafiction" and "paracriticism," philosophers b e g a n

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to ask if there was perhaps a "metalogic"—i.e., a logic o f logic. A n u m b e r o f p h i l o s o p h e r s r e a c h e d the c o n c l u s i o n that logic was the logic o f logic. B u t a few others still c l u n g to the possibility that perhaps there was an extra-logical structure, or "meta-logic," to ordinary logic. O p p o s i n g their c o n t e n t i o n , Q u i n e says s o m e w h e r e that, really, if y o u believe y o u are talking a b o u t logic but y o u assume an extra-logical structure to it, all y o u ' v e really d o n e is c h a n g e the subject. I pretty m u c h concur. In Triton, metalogic, with its mathematical superstructure (the M o d u l a r Calculus), is j u s t g e n e r a l inductive r e a s o n i n g given a fictive mathematical expres­ sion. In Triton it "solves" p r o b l e m s I ' m perfectly aware general reasoning can't solve. Individual metalogics are d e s i g n e d for different situations. T h e kinds o f p r o b l e m s they solve in Triton (always off stage a n d o f a complexity that m a k e s the solution really too hard to follow) are a n a l o g o u s to the following. Y o u ' r e in a r o o m with a d o o r l e a d i n g to a n o t h e r r o o m . T h r o u g h the door, s o m e o n e c o m e s in from the other r o o m , b r i n g i n g a collection o f four or five objects. F r o m a consideration o f those four or five objects alone, y o u n o w reason out—rigorously a n d with certainty— w h a t all the r e m a i n i n g objects in the other r o o m must be. Intuitively, we r e c o g n i z e there is n o way to find a g e n e r a l solution for such a p r o b l e m , rigorously a n d for all cases. T h e pseudo-scientific rationale (in Triton), however, is simply that if we h a d a mathematical r e d u c t i o n whose mathe­ matics were "strong" e n o u g h , we j u s t might b e able to c o m e u p with a general-case solution. T h e attraction to this bit o f logical nonsense is, o f course, that we rea­ son o u r way t h r o u g h similar p r o b l e m s all the time. B u t precisely the part that can b e d o n e rigorously is logic. A n d the rest is hit-or-miss—and pro­ d u c e s hit-or-miss results. T h a t ' s w h a t real e x p e r i e n c e tells us—if w e ' r e honest. B u t a real n e o l o g i s m from Triton? Well, let's see . . . Q: "Cybralogs"? SRD: Cybralogs, yes. I have n o i d e a w h a t cybralogs are or what they c o u l d possibly b e . B u t they have s o m e t h i n g to d o with the control o f words, obviously. . . . F r o m the c o n t e x t , they're probably some sort o f sub-program, either in R O M or R A M form. Q: T h e "sensory shield"? SRD: T h a t w o u l d b e a n o t h e r one. A s w o u l d "un-licensed sector." T h e y b o t h pull together two ideas a n d restructure them, by semantic intrusion.

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With "un-licensed sector," the c o n t e x t u a l fact that y o u k n o w it's an area of the city pretty quickly gives y o u an idea o f w h a t must b e g o i n g o n there, what it must b e basically like. T h e rest j u s t e n r i c h e s it with details. S o m e others . . . ? Well, the b o o k was written m o r e than ten years a g o , so y o u ' l l have to allow for my forgetfulness. B u t to g o back to y o u r original question: D i d Triton arise o u t o f o n e specific neologism? N o . Did it arise o u t o f several? N o . Basically it arose o u t o f s o m e social ideas. T h e first thing actually written—before I was e v e n sure I was g o i n g to write a n o t h e r SF novel — was, oddly, the kiss-off letter that the Spike sends to B r o n in chapter 5 — or, at any rate, a v e r s i o n o f it. I was sitting in H e a t h r o w Airport, with my then-wife, Marilyn Hacker. A couple o f things were devilling my memory, i n c l u d i n g a r e c e n t d i n n e r at a F r e n c h restaurant n o t far from o u r flat in L o n d o n , w h e r e I'd watched some p e o p l e b e h a v e with what h a d struck m e as u n t h i n k a b l e insensitivity to s o m e o n e else at their table. Marilyn a n d I were waiting for a plane to Paris, w h e r e she was g o i n g to p u r c h a s e s o m e b o o k s o n textiles and printing for h e r rare-book business. T h e conversation b e t w e e n us had fallen off. S u d d e n l y a n d impulsively, I o p e n e d my n o t e b o o k to a fresh p a g e and b e g a n writing this fictive letter a w o m a n m i g h t write to tell a truly unpleasant boyfriend it was all over. T h a t was the start o f the b o o k . From then on, I had to figure o u t a w o r l d — a n d the events taking place in it—in which this (or such) a letter c o u l d b e sent. I say "figure out." A c ­ tually it all c a m e rushing in o n me, almost faster than I c o u l d p u t it d o w n . Q: Certain parts o f Slade's philosophy carry with it radically skeptical im­ plications about the difficulty, not to say the impossibility, o f translating system-A, the world o f e x p e r i e n c e , into system-B, the universe o f dis­ course. Also o f translating, or transferring, the universe i m b e d d e d in o n e discourse into the universe i m b e d d e d in a n o t h e r — w h i c h is to say, the dif­ ficulty o f speaking about Triton, for e x a m p l e , a n d its universe o f dis­ course. S R D : I should have t h o u g h t it carried great h o p e for o u r eventually understanding such a process—rather than radical skepticism a b o u t its possibility. After all, it h a p p e n s in the real world. I h o p e it may e v e n h a p p e n — a t least in some small part—tonight. How can one relational system model another? . . . What must pass from system-A to system-B for us (system-C) to be able to say that system-B now

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contains some model of system-A? . . . Granted the proper passage, what must be the internal structure of system-B for us (or it) to say it contains any model of system-A? (Triton, "Appendix B," p. 356 [of the 1976 Bantam edition]) T h e question e n c o m p a s s e s the semiotic situation, since the answer to the s e c o n d part o f the question ("What must pass from system-A to system-B . . . ? " ) is clearly s o m e form o f the answer, "signs"; and the answer to the third part o f the question (". . . what must the internal structure o f system-B b e for us [or it] to say that it contains any m o d e l o f system-A?") is clearly: It must b e o f a structure able to interpret signs—i.e., its inter­ nal structure must b e o n e that allows it to p e r f o r m some sort o f semiosis. B u t the first part o f the question sets it in an e x p a n d e d c o n t e x t that d e m a n d s an actual algebra o f response. A l t h o u g h we are certainly n o t g o i n g to answer t h o r o u g h l y such a question h e r e , it's still instructive to l o o k at h o w the question arose. W h e n I initially f o r m u l a t e d it, there was n o system-C. A n d my image o f system-B was, o f course, a living subject. I (known to my friends as system-B) l o o k across the r o o m and see the desk there, with the g l o b e sitting o n its corner, and two pieces o f chalk, a n d several p a p e r b a c k SF novels piled there in the center—the w h o l e c o m p l e x better k n o w n as system-A. L i g h t waves pass from system-A to system-B; those waves are o p e r a t e d u p o n neurologically, and the brain o f system-B n o w contains a m o d e l o f system-A. O r : A c o m p u t e r (called system-B) p h o n e s u p o n a m o d e m to another c o m p u t e r ( n a m e d system-A) a n d asks for a directory o f all the programs system-A has on file. System-A sends a list o f the p r o g r a m names in its di­ rectory back to system-B, w h i c h then contains a m o d e l o f (some of) the information available in system-A. B u t already the c o m p u t e r version has alerted us to things a bit h i d d e n in the "live subject" version. T h e r e has to b e an expectation of information, w h i c h c o u l d b e b r o a d e n e d to i n c l u d e the g e n e r a l range o f familiarity with the possibilities o f things system-A may exhibit. T h a t ' s a basic part o f the necessary structure o f system-B, for the m o d u l a r transfer to take place. ( T h a t expectation of information we m i g h t call discourse.) B u t the c o m p u t e r version also raises a n o t h e r p r o b l e m : O n c e the transfer has o c c u r r e d , in w h a t sense d o e s the computer, system-B, known contains a m o d e l o f system-A? T h e easiest way to resolve the p r o b l e m is for us to b r i n g in system-C. If s o m e b o d y else can say she or h e knows that the m o d u l a r transfer has taken place, then it's okay. B u t what has hap­ p e n e d , really, is that system-B has split (or multiplied) into two necessary systems: system-B, w h i c h "knows"; a n d system-C, w h i c h knows system-B k n o w s — t h e s e c o n d a r y system that can n o w take the quotation marks

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from a r o u n d the "knowing" that system-B was d o i n g , a n d pin it d o w n , fix it, and validate it. This splitting o f the subject recalls two things: O n e is the "split subj e c t " that organizes m u c h o f Lacanian psychoanalysis. A n d the other is a famous fallacy that too often stymies progress in the p h i l o s o p h y o f mind—the " h o m u n c u l a r fallacy." I'll assume y o u all have at least a passing familiarity with L a c a n . T h e h o m u n c u l a r fallacy is, however, what toostrict functionalists, or organicists, tend to fall into if they're n o t very careful w h e n they try to explain consciousness. O n e assumes a brain, with all its neural sensors—eyes, ears, nose, t o n g u e , skin—is c o l l e c t i n g information a n d sorting it, processing it, associating it with o t h e r data. T h e n , at the very center o f the brain, sits this litde transcendental human-form w h o receives it all a n d actually is the consciousness that understands, perceives, knows . . . A n d y o u have to start all over again: Well, h o w d o e s this little h o m u n culus perceive, understand, k n o w . . . ? You haven't really g o t t e n anywhere at all. W h a t does this all m e a n ? D o e s it m e a n that the L a c a n i a n split subject is only another version o f the h o m u n c u l a r fallacy? O r d o e s it m e a n (and this is certainly the way I lean) that the h o m u n c u l a r fallacy is as seductive as it is because it is so close to a reality the L a c a n i a n "split subject" explains without falling into h o m u n c u l i s m ? B u t this is to m o v e away from Triton and to start e x p l o r i n g questions raised in the later "Informal Remarks Toward the M o d u l a r Calculus"—i.e., in the N e v è r y ô n fantasy series to which Triton is the SF p r o l o g u e . Q: But the skepticism (perhaps it's all m i n e ) — t h e impossibility o f understanding t h o r o u g h l y the process by w h i c h such transfers work— applies as a caveat to anything y o u are even n o w g o i n g to say in response to o u r questions a b o u t Triton—or anything else. A l t h o u g h , m i n d y o u , that skepticism perhaps applies least—that's a relative term h e r e — t o my next question. O n its last p a g e before the a p p e n d i c e s b e g i n , Triton is subscribed: "London, November '73—July '74'.'Now, it's subtitled "an ambiguous heterotopia." Before writing Triton, h a d y o u read L e G u i n ' s Dispossessed—which carries the subtitle "an a m b i g u o u s Utopia" a n d was published in the U S in the s u m m e r o f ' 7 4 ? SRD: N o t before writing the first draft. I believe I read The Dispossessed s o m e w h e r e either b e t w e e n the first draft o f Triton a n d the s e c o n d , o r perhaps between the s e c o n d a n d the third—so that Triton was basically finished before I b e c a m e aware o f L e G u i n ' s novel. H a v i n g read The Dispossessed after I'd finished a first or s e c o n d draft—was I halfway t h r o u g h

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the s e c o n d w h e n a c o p y o f L e G u i n ' s b o o k from H a r p e r & R o w r e a c h e d m e in L o n d o n by mail?—I t h o u g h t I c o u l d probably m a k e that dialogue m o r e p o i n t e d by c h a n g i n g a few things h e r e a n d there—or, better, by clarifying a few things here a n d there that L e G u i n ' s b o o k directed me to think about. W h e n I first l o o k e d t h r o u g h The Dispossessed, it o c c u r r e d to m e that the two b o o k s g e n e r a t e d an interesting d i a l o g u e with each other. My a d d e d subtitle was an attempt to put the two novels clearly into a d i a l o g u e I already felt was implied. Q: Y o u ' r e saying, then, that to a large extent the dialogue was accidental? SRD: It b e g a n accidentally, certainly. Q: Y o u ' r e still sidestepping the question to some extent. SRD: Right [laughter]. S o m e o f H . G. Wells's novels were conceived and written as direct answers to other novels by other p e o p l e , written and pub­ lished earlier. Dostoyevsky wrote Crime and Punishment after reading H u g o ' s Les Misérables. It greatly impressed him; nevertheless Dostoyevsky felt that H u g o , in pursuit o f the social dimensions o f delinquency, had o v e r l o o k e d s o m e dark a n d unsettling factors in its psychological dimen­ sion that had to b e e x p l o r e d . T h e r e ' s a very direct dialogue g o i n g on b e t w e e n these books. I n d e e d , my trilogy The Fall of the Towers— like so m a n y other SF novels—is a direct answer to Heinlein's Starship Troopers. A n d that direct d i a l o g u e d o e s exist between, say, the treatment o f the Freddie a n d Flossie characters in the m e n ' s co-op in Triton and the treat­ m e n t o f the Leslie character in the cooperative marriage in J o a n n a Russ's anti-utopian short story, "Nobody's H o m e . " But, n o , that's not the sort o f direct e n g a g e m e n t that h a p p e n s between Triton and The Dispossessed. Q: H a d y o u written y o u r article o n The Dispossessed a r o u n d the same time as y o u were w o r k i n g o n Triton} SRD: "To R e a d The Dispossessed" was written m u c h later—a year or m o r e after I finished writing Triton. T h a t essay is dated A p r i l 1 9 7 6 . By the time I b e g a n it (and it only took m e three weeks or so to write), I'd already re­ t u r n e d to the U . S . from L o n d o n , taught for a term at S U N Y Buffalo, then m o v e d b a c k to N e w York City. Triton was, n o t only written but h a d al­ ready b e e n p u b l i s h e d — t w o m o n t h s before, in February. Q: In the d i a l o g u e with The Dispossessed, if B r o n were r e m o v e d from the b o o k , w o u l d the w o r l d o f Triton still be a heterotopia? B r o n seems to be

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a kind o f anti-hero in a critical stance towards the w h o l e world h e exists in. If h e were r e m o v e d , w o u l d Triton perhaps b e a Utopia? C o m p a r e d to B r o n , n o b o d y else seems to have too m a n y p r o b l e m s with that world. SRD: N o , certainly it w o u l d n o t be a U t o p i a — t h o u g h clearly I think its social system represents an i m p r o v e m e n t o n o u r o w n . As she o r h e moves t h r o u g h the novel, I'd h o p e d C o m m o n R e a d e r w o u l d progress, in his or h e r responses, t h r o u g h a series o f stages. In the first chapter, w h e n y o u see the E g o Booster B o o t h s , predicated o n the idea that the govern­ m e n t is collecting information o n everybody, a n d h e a r their history, I wanted C o m m o n R e a d e r to feel that B r o n is a pretty average Joe, but that the society must b e hugely repressive. T h e n , as the b o o k g o e s o n , I wanted C o m m o n R e a d e r slowly to shift that o p i n i o n : S o o n it s h o u l d be­ c o m e clear that B r o n is a despicable m a n — b u t the society a r o u n d h i m is actually fairly g o o d . Finally, however, with the s e c o n d a p p e n d i x , I w a n t e d C o m m o n R e a d e r to g e t still a n o t h e r take on the tale: Since other p e o p l e from Mars seem to b e having p r o b l e m s very similar to Bron's, I w a n t e d to leave the suggestion that there is a political side to these p r o b l e m s that the rest o f the narrative—at least as it's b e e n told from B r o n ' s p o i n t o f view—has u p till n o w repressed or b e e n blind to. T h e fact is, I d o n ' t think SF can b e really U t o p i a n . I m e a n U t o p i a pre­ supposes a pretty static, u n c h a n g i n g , a n d rather tyrannical world. Y o u know: "I know the best way to live, a n d I ' m g o i n g to tell y o u h o w to d o it, and if y o u dare d o anything else . . . " Q: Even an anarchistic U t o p i a ? SRD: Even an anarchistic U t o p i a . Q: T h a t b e c o m e s a contradiction in terms. SRD: N o t really. A p r o b l e m Ursula makes all but vanish by setting h e r "anarchistic U t o p i a " in an e x t r e m e scarcity e n v i r o n m e n t (and I ' m sure it was what she wanted) is the p r o b l e m o f surveillance et punir. W h e n the landscape is as harsh and u n g i v i n g as A n n a r e s ' a n d y o u r laws are set u p in ecological accord with it, y o u d o n ' t have to worry too m u c h a b o u t indi­ viduals—or groups—deviating too far from these laws. T h o s e w h o devi­ ate, the landscape itself punishes—if not obliterates. In scarcity societies, y o u j u s t d o n ' t have the same sort—or fre­ q u e n c y — o f discipline p r o b l e m s as y o u d o in an affluent society. In a scarcity society the landscape itself b e c o m e s y o u r spy, y o u r SS, a n d y o u r jailer, all in o n e .

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But if the O d o n i a n s h a d set u p their "non-propertarian" Utopia on Urras (and L e G u i n says as m u c h in the n o v e l ) , y o u ' d simply have too m a n y individuals—and groups—saying: "Look, since there's all this stuff, why can't I o w n s o m e o f it?" A n d the expulsions a n d disciplinary actions w o u l d b l o o m all a r o u n d — n o matter h o w anarchistic they started out! T h e "ambiguities" L e G u i n w a n t e d to e x a m i n e in h e r a m b i g u o u s Uto­ pia are not, I believe, the internal contradictions o f a f o u n d e r i n g U t o p i a . Rather, she w a n t e d to e x p l o r e the bilateral contradictions highlighted b e t w e e n two very different societies, o n e harsh and spiritual, o n e rich and d e c a d e n t , but e a c h o f w h i c h considers itself the best o f all possible worlds. I've always seen SF t h i n k i n g as fundamentally different from U t o p i a n thinking; I feel that to force SF into U t o p i a n templates is a largely unpro­ ductive strategy. Further, I think that possibility is w h a t L e G u i n is raising by calling The Dispossessed "an a m b i g u o u s U t o p i a . " It's only by p r o b l e m a t i z i n g the Uto­ pian n o t i o n , by r e n d e r i n g its hard, h a r d perimeters s o m e h o w perme­ able, e v e n u n d e c i d a b l e , that y o u can m a k e it yield anything interesting. R. A . Lafferty b e g a n the process with his satirical r e a d i n g o f T h o m a s M o r e in Past Master ( 1 9 6 8 ) . Ursula and I shared a publisher with him, and we w e r e b o t h sent readers' galleys. In o u r turns, we simply followed suit. In a c o u p l e o f essays a n d the o d d p o e m , W. H . A u d e n makes the point that y o u have four m o d e r n i s t world-views: O n e A u d e n called New Jerusa­ lem. N e w Jerusalem is the t e c h n o l o g i c a l super-city w h e r e everything is b r i g h t a n d shiny a n d clean, a n d all p r o b l e m s have b e e n solved by the be­ neficent application o f science. T h e u n d e r s i d e o f N e w Jerusalem is Brave N e w W o r l d . That's the city w h e r e everything is r e g i m e n t e d and standardized a n d w e all wear the same uniform. T h e two may just be the same thing, l o o k e d at from different angles. It's n o t so m u c h a real dif­ f e r e n c e in the cities themselves as it is a t e m p e r a m e n t a l difference in the observers. In the same way, A u d e n p o i n t e d out, y o u have a rural counter­ part to this pairing. T h e r e are p e o p l e w h o see rural life as what A u d e n called A r c a d i a . A r c a d i a is that w o n d e r f u l place w h e r e everyone eats nat­ ural foods a n d n o m a c h i n e larger than o n e person can fix in an h o u r is allowed in. T h r o u g h o u t A r c a d i a the b r e e z e s blow, the rains are gentle, the birds sing, a n d the b r o o k s g u r g l e . B u t the underside o f A r c a d i a is the L a n d o f the Flies. In the L a n d o f the Flies, fire and flood and earth­ q u a k e — a s well as famine a n d disease—are always shattering the quality o f life. A n d if they d o n ' t shatter it, t h e n the horrors o f war are always in wait j u s t over the hill to transform the village into a cess-ridden, c r o w d e d , pestilential medieval fortress-town u n d e r siege. But o n c e again, A u d e n points out, fundamentally we have a tempera­ m e n t a l split h e r e . T h o s e p e o p l e w h o are attracted to New Jerusalem will

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always see rural life as the L a n d o f the Flies, at least potentially. T h o s e p e o p l e w h o are attracted to A r c a d i a will always see u r b a n life as s o m e form o f Brave N e w World. For s o m e years, I t h o u g h t SF c o u l d generally be l o o k e d at in terms o f a c o n c e r t o f these four images: All four, either t h r o u g h their p r e s e n c e o r absence, always spoke from every SF text. T h a t interplay is what k e p t SF from b e i n g U t o p i a n — o r dystopian, for that matter. You'll find the argu­ ment, at least as it progresses u p to this point, detailed in an early essay o f mine, "Critical M e t h o d s / S p e c u l a t i v e Fiction," finished in M a r c h o f 1969, the s e c o n d year in w h i c h (after fanzines like The Australian SF Re­ view a n d Lighthouse c o n v i n c e d m e that the enterprise was worthwhile) I was seriously writing SF criticism. To take the a r g u m e n t a bit b e y o n d that essay, however, I think the post-modern c o n d i t i o n has a d d e d at least two m o r e i m a g e s to this gal­ axy—if it hasn't just b r o k e n d o w n the w h o l e thing entirely. O n e o f these is the u r b a n i m a g e o f J u n k C i t y — a very different i m a g e from Brave N e w World. J u n k City begins, o f c o u r s e , as a working-class suburban p h e n o m e n o n : T h i n k o f the car with h a l f its m o t o r a n d three wheels g o n e w h i c h has b e e n sitting o u t in the yard beside that doorless refrigerator for the last four years. A s a kid I e n c o u n t e r e d the first signs of J u n k City in the cartons o f discarded military e l e c t r o n i c c o m p o n e n t s , selling for a quarter or 7 5 cents, all a l o n g C a n a l Street's R a d i o Row. B u t J u n k City really c o m e s into its own at the h i g h - t e c h m o m e n t , w h e n all this invades the h o m e or y o u r own n e i g h b o r h o o d : the coffee table with the missing l e g p r o p p e d u p by the stack o f v i d e o - g a m e cartridges, o r the drawer full o f m i s c e l l a n e o u s w a l k m a n e a r p h o n e s , o r the b u r n e d o u t b u i l d i n g o f the inner city, outside o f w h i c h last year's $5,000 c o m p u t e r units are set o u t o n the street c o r n e r for the g a r b a g e m a n (or w h o e v e r gets there first), b e c a u s e the office struggling o n h e r e for the c h e a p rent is r e p l a c i n g t h e m with this year's m o d e l that d o e s five times m o r e and costs a third as m u c h : H e r e w e have an i m a g e o f t e c h n o - c h a o s en­ tirely different from the r e g i m e n t a t i o n o f Brave N e w W o r l d — a n d o n e that neither H u x l e y in the early '30s n o r O r w e l l in the late 40s c o u l d have envisioned. J u n k City has its positive side: It's the Lo-Teks living in the geodesic superstructure above Nighttown in Gibson's 'Johnny M n e m o n i c . " You can even see it presaged a bit a m o n g those w h o enjoy the u r b a n c h a o s in my own Dhalgren—or the un-licensed sectors in the satellite cities o f Triton. T h e country landscape p o l l u t e d with t e c h n o l o g i c a l detritus is perhaps the c o r r e s p o n d i n g rural i m a g e . A n d there is e v e n a positive tradition growing u p within this essentially horrific 'scape; I m e a n such h a u n t i n g works as M . J o h n Harrison's " V i r i c o n i u m " series, in w h i c h the polluted,

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p o i s o n o u s landscape b e c o m e s a p l a c e o f extraordinarily delicate and d e c a d e n t beauty, a m o n g the "cultures o f the afternoon." But n o matter h o w w e c o g n i z e a n d contrast t h e m , the range o f these dispositions is w h a t k e e p s SF from rigidifying into the idealism (in the Marxist sense) a n d the large-scale social e n g i n e e r i n g fallacies that char­ acterize U t o p i a n t h i n k i n g — a n d w h i c h , in practical terms, lie in wait to turn U t o p i a n applications into oppression. T h e p r o b l e m with this extension o f the a r g u m e n t is the p r o b l e m with all thematics: T h e m e s always muldply, if only to c o m p e n s a t e for the reductionism that first f o r m e d t h e m . T h e a r g u m e n t b e g a n as a Cartesian space o f two coordinates, at w h i c h p o i n t it was fairly wieldy. For most p e o p l e , however, a Cartesian space o f four coordinates (which is w h e r e the e x p a n d e d a r g u m e n t n o w leaves us) is j u s t too c o m p l i c a t e d really to see. I suppose, at this point, I'd have to j u n k the w h o l e thing—however illuminating it was for a while. Finally I have to stick it out o n the side­ walk in the J u n k City o f o u r own endlessly a b a n d o n e d critical detritus. It's always possible s o m e o n e will c o m e a l o n g and find s o m e o d d and interesting use for it—or a p i e c e o f it. Q: W h e n y o u call Triton a heterotopia, d o y o u m e a n it has all four—or all e i g h t — o f those images? SRD: I suppose so. It's certainly o n e thing I meant. Q: "Heterotopia" gave m e the idea that Triton is m e a n t to c h a l l e n g e L e G u i n b e c a u s e there's obviously a m u c h greater diversity o f c h o i c e in the way o n e lives in Triton than in The Dispossessed. SRD: O n Urras? I d o u b t it. B u t the variety o f c h o i c e s m e a n s that novelistically the b o o k can also deal with a variety o f p r o b l e m s — c a n show how they interrelate. By m a k i n g h e r spiritual Utopia a society based o n scarcity and her d e c a d e n t society o n e based o n u n e q u a l distribution o f riches in a very rich world, L e G u i n swallows u p several p r o b l e m s in The Dispossessed— and, while that d o e s n ' t h u r t it as a story o f a physicist torn between two cultures, p e r h a p s it s o m e w h a t limits the b o o k as a novel o f ideas. L e t m e state, by the bye, that t h o u g h I've criticized it at great (even ex­ cessive) l e n g t h , The Dispossessed is a rich and w o n d r o u s tale. It's a boy's b o o k : a b o o k to m a k e boys b e g i n to think a n d think seriously about a w h o l e r a n g e o f questions, from the structure o f society to the workings o f their o w n sexuality. O u r society is often described as patriarchal—a society r u l e d by a g i n g fathers c o n c e r n e d first a n d foremost with passing

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on the patrimony. A t the risk o f b e i n g glib, however, I'd suggest that it m i g h t be m o r e accurate to say that we have a filiarchal society—a society ruled almost entirely by sons—by very y o u n g m e n . Certainly boys—espe­ cially white h e t e r o s e x u a l boys—are the most privileged creatures in the Western social hierarchy. T h e y are forgiven almost everything in life— and are forgiven everything in art. I n d e e d , if the society w e r e a bit more patriarchal instead o f b e i n g so o v e r w h e l m i n g l y filiarchal, it m i g h t func­ tion j u s t a bit more sanely. B u t since it doesn't, there's still a great deal to be said for a g o o d boy's b o o k . A n d for a w o m a n ' s writing it. A n d n o t h i n g stops w o m e n and girls from r e a d i n g boys' b o o k s a n d l e a r n i n g from them. I m e a n The Dispossessed is a boy's b o o k the way Huckleberry Finn is a boy's book; and, unlike H u c k l e b e r r y Finn, the boy in The Dispossessed is h e l d u p to the m a n he will b e c o m e again a n d again, c h a p t e r by chapter, b e g i n n i n g to e n d . ( T h e real tragedy o f H u c k l e b e r r y is that the best h e can h o p e to g r o w u p into, personally and historically, is the sociopathic narrator o f Springsteen's "Born in the U.S.A.") Huckleberry Finn a n d The Dispossessed are b o t h flawed. (What is it Randall Jarrell said? "A novel is a prose work o f a certain l e n g t h that has s o m e t h i n g w r o n g with it.") B u t all t h r o u g h both, richness flows, surges, sings. Q u i t e apart from any criti­ cisms I've m a d e o f it, The Dispossessed has beauty a n d richness. Q: I find it curious that the U t o p i a n possibilities o f Tritons social d i m e n ­ sion, or the w h o l e d i m e n s i o n o f the b o o k that g o e s a l o n g with U t o p i a , seem to be d e c e n t e r e d , to b e in the b a c k g r o u n d . O n e o f the things that genuinely surprised m e was the passage w h e r e S a m gets into a d i a l o g u e with some Earthlings o n the respective merits o f their two systems. T h e r e o n e gets the longest a n d most exclusive passage in the b o o k o n the Tritonian social set-up. B u t what o n e doesn't g e t is the sense o f Triton's dys­ topian possibilities. B e c a u s e , after all, what w e ' r e allowed to k n o w is that this perhaps " U t o p i a n " social system d e p e n d s u p o n s o m e t h i n g called the "computer h e g e m o n y . " T h a t term seems, again, to figure as a k i n d o f neologism; but unlike s o m e others, its full m e a n i n g is not i m m e d i a t e l y intelligible. It has to be t h o u g h t about. A n d e v e n after o n e thinks a b o u t it, there's a certain vague area, at least in the U t o p i a n d i m e n s i o n , for cer­ tainly " h e g e m o n y " m e a n s s o m e t h i n g m o r e than a trust o r a cartel—is something m o r e awful a n d powerful than t h a t . . . SRD: I think it's reasonable to suggest that "the c o m p u t e r h e g e m o n y " states articulately a n d clearly—complete with unsettlingly negative impli­ cations—the function that c o m p u t e r s will play, m o r e or less h i d d e n , m o r e or less off stage, in L e Guin's n e x t b o o k , Always Coming Home. T h e dialogue, o f course, must g o on.

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Still, y o u may have hit u p o n o n e o f the things that makes SF, or this SF novel, recalcitrant—I m e a n , why y o u have to squeeze it to fit u n d e r a Uto­ pian rubric. T o have a term such as " h e g e m o n y " — n o t to m e n t i o n the surveillance implications b e h i n d the E g o Booster B o o t h s — r i g h t in the midst o f such a "utopian" society, for m e , at any rate, leaves the very no­ tion o f U t o p i a pretty m u c h shattered. T h e s e — a n d m a n y other—linguis­ tic turns are used in the b o o k precisely f o r their negative implications. T h i s is very different—I h o p e — f r o m the rhetorical strategy shared by H e i n l e i n a n d the Stalinists: "These curtailments o f freedoms, these mo­ m e n t s o f oppression, are justified, purified, d e c o n t a m i n a t e d by the greater g o o d they serve." (Either: " T h e e n d justifies the m e a n s " or "You can't m a k e an o m e l e t t e w i t h o u t b r e a k i n g eggs"—it d o e s n ' t matter how you articulate the principle.) Y o u asked w h e r e the "dystopian" implica­ tions were: Well, that's certainly w h e r e they start. Y o u ' r e n o t g o i n g to g e t the dystopian i m p l i c a t i o n s in the discussion f r o m a h i g h - p l a c e d political functionary a r g u i n g for the superiority o f his welfare system. Y o u ' l l find t h e m , rather, in details, d r o p p e d h e r e a n d there, in suggestions a n d discrete rhetorical m o m e n t s scattered a b o u t . A n d I've already talked a b o u t the political d i m e n s i o n s to his own p r o b l e m s that B r o n h i m s e l f is b l i n d to a n d that only e m e r g e in the s e c o n d a p p e n d i x . B u t , a g a i n , to l o o k for any critique in the b o o k in U t o p i a n / d y s t o p i a n terms will, I suspect, d o o m y o u to d i s a p p o i n t m e n t a n d / or distortion. I simply couldn't tell y o u h o w Triton, as a detailed political system, functions. B u t its f u n c t i o n i n g can b e t h o u g h t about. Its functioning can be interrogated by i n t e r r o g a t i n g — a n d by manipulating—the text. (Eric Rabkin has p o i n t e d o u t that a fundamental difference b e t w e e n SF and literature is that SF is always inviting the r e a d e r to manipulate the text: "Suppose it was different? S u p p o s e it didn't h a p p e n that way but this? W h a t if . . . ?" W h e r e a s literature—especially Great Literature—all but d e m a n d s to b e left inviolate. Well, I want readers to play with my text in that way.) E v e n m o r e than the Brave N e w W o r l d / N e w Jerusalem inter­ play, w h a t basically sets SF apart from Utopian thinking is a fundamental fictive a p p r o a c h . By a n d large, U t o p i a n t h i n k i n g starts with a g e n e r a l political idea, in the service o f s o m e large a n d o v e r a r c h i n g notion such as "freedom," "happiness," or "equality"; the writer o f a U t o p i a then works down and in, to d e t e r m i n e w h a t the texture o f life m i g h t b e for the individual in a w o r l d run a c c o r d i n g to such ideas. B u t what practice often reveals is that, w h e n we start from full-scale politics, the resultant life-texture ends u p as far away from the ideal as it can possibly get. By a n d large today, in SF, y o u start with the texture o f life a r o u n d

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some character. N o r is that texture necessarily c o n c e i v e d o f as "the g o o d life." Rather, y o u say, what w o u l d b e an interesting life-texture? If y o u have to have bad things, what bad things m i g h t y o u b e able to stand? Y o u l o o k at the specific texture o f the character's everyday w o r l d — n o t the greater political structure his o r h e r bit o f life is e n m e s h e d in. T h e n , in the course o f the fictive interrogation-of-the-material that m a k e s u p the rest o f the b o o k or story, y o u m o v e — f u n d a m e n t a l l y — u p a n d o u t . . . towards the political. W h a t larger structures, y o u b e g i n asking as y o u m o v e outward, m i g h t p r o d u c e such a life-texture? B u t the wise SF writer doesn't try to answer those rigorously. Rather, she or h e decides: W h a t ballpark w o u l d those structures lie in? Speaking o f Triton, personally I k n o w perfectly well I can't detail the g o v e r n m e n t that w o u l d p r o d u c e that c o l l e c t i o n o f c o m m u n e s a n d c o ­ ops, with family units at the o u t e r rim a n d singles in the i n n e r city, with the social interplay b e t w e e n a licensed a n d an un-licensed sector . . . b u t the b o o k makes some guesses. A n d o n e guess is that the g o v e r n m e n t a l structure will have to b e at least as rich and imaginative a n d plural as the life-structure o f the citizens. B u t I can't—nor w o u l d I try to—specify that political structure in a novel, d o w n to every g o v e r n m e n t a l office a n d h o w it relates to every other. To find such a political structure, w e ' d have to try things out—and, far m o r e important, be ready to revise o u r political structure w h e n it d i d n ' t work out the way w e wanted. A n d that, m o r e than anything else, is what m a k e s the enterprise fun­ damentally anti-utopian/-dystopian. B e c a u s e a Utopia (or dystopia) starts with a political structure that is self-evidently—at least to the archi­ tect—superior (or inferior) to the existing o n e . W h a t I start from is the fictive e l e m e n t , c o n s i d e r e d in terms o f a series of questions. W h a t w o u l d y o u like the effects o f the g o v e r n m e n t to be? W h a t w o u l d y o u like the w o r l d to l o o k like as y o u walk d o w n the street? W h a t unpleasant things c o u l d y o u tolerate in that world? W h a t others d o you simply n o t want to be there at all? W h a t kind o f things w o u l d y o u like to spend your time doing? Well, the SF writer sets these u p and then g o e s as far outward into the political as she or h e can. I can probably extrapolate two o r three layers b e y o n d what I've directly described—frankly, I'd h o p e any r e a d e r really interested in the novel w o u l d d o some extrapolating on h e r or his own as a matter o f course. P e o p l e often criticize the b o o k by saying, "Well, y o u haven't told us how the g o v e r n m e n t actually worksl " True! I w o u l d n ' t pre­ sume to tell y o u such a thing. B u t I h o p e I've suggested a lot a b o u t the ways in w h i c h it has to function.

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N o , y o u ' r e n o t g o i n g to learn w h i c h office is o n what floor o f City Hall a n d w h a t its official relation is with the offices either side o f it—the way y o u w o u l d in a U t o p i a . / don't know that; m o r e important, I know the prac­ tical political principles that m e a n / can't k n o w that. A n d if I were setting u p the real place, that's precisely why I'd have to k e e p certain govern­ mental areas o p e n , flexible, a n d révisable, until we hit o n an administra­ tive structure that f u n c d o n e d reasonably in terms o f the life o f the p e o ­ ple o n the street. Q: Thirty-seven politicians reside in a m a d h o u s e ? SRD: Certainly Triton is run by sets o f c o m m i t t e e s a n d individual ad­ ministrators—somehow. M a n y o f t h e m are e l e c t e d . But, again, you start from the effects y o u want. I think that's the politically wisest thing to do. We k n o w that what's w r o n g with U t o p i a n thinking in g e n e r a l is that largescale social e n g i n e e r i n g just doesn't work. Everybody w h o tries it botches it royally. If y o u take a g r o u p o f even 25,000 p e o p l e ( m u c h less millions) and y o u set u p an administration system for them—with offices, housing, var­ ious j o b s for t h e m a n d w o r k spaces in w h i c h to p e r f o r m them, all p l a n n e d o u t from A to Z before y o u i m p l e m e n t any o f it—you can be sure that, o n c e the w h o l e structure has b e e n r u n n i n g a year, a third o f your administrative system will be useless a n d there will be a w h o l e set o f n e w offices, new j o b s , a n d new structures that will have to b e set u p in their place for the system to function efficiently—or at all. T h e n e w a n d u n f o r e s e e n n e e d s will be created by conjoined factors like the frequency o f east winds c o m b i n e d with the existing h e i g h t o f the buildings in the Physical E d c o m p l e x a n d the n u m b e r o f p e o p l e in the p o p u l a t i o n w h o have hay fever—and the n e x t thing y o u know, y o u will (or w o n ' t , as the case may be) n e e d a special detail o f twelve mainte­ n a n c e m e n w h o s e full-time j o b it is to k e e p the trees to the west o f the in­ firmary buildings regularly p r u n e d . A n d the difference b e t w e e n having a n d n o t having such a g r o u p o f m a i n t e n a n c e m e n may m a k e a difference o f 10 to 1 5 p e r c e n t in the overall productivity o f the community. T h e r e ' s n o way to p r e d i c t all such n e e d s that will arise. T h e r e ' s no way to m a k e sure similar factors w o r k i n g t o g e t h e r w o n ' t r e n d e r some pre­ c o n c e i v e d administrator, c o m m i t t e e , or functional g r o u p unnecessary. T h a t can only be l e a r n e d by trial-and-error—along with careful, analyti­ cal observation o f the real workings o f the realized community. T h o s e n e e d s are g o i n g to b e different in every case, even w h e n the

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basic designs a n d organizational structures have b e e n tried o u t a d o z e n times successfully in a d o z e n o t h e r locations. We now know this is h o w h u m a n social systems f u n c t i o n — w h i c h is why the "good life" simply c a n n o t b e m a p p e d o u t wholly within the r a n g e tra­ ditionally prescribed as "the political." I n d e e d , the p o s t - m o d e r n n o t i o n of the range o f the political has probably c h a n g e d as m u c h as anything else since 1 9 6 8 . We've g o t h e r e , o f course, the o l d bricolage/engineering dichotomy, first raised in the early days o f structuralist cridcism. (Critically t o o , as I've already suggested, we live in J u n k C i t y — a n d it's a very rich town.) T h e difference b e t w e e n the bricoleur a n d the e n g i n e e r is n o t j u s t a differ­ e n c e in scale and style. T h e r e ' s also a difference in the m o v e m e n t o f the thinking. T h e bricoleur starts with a local p r o b l e m , t h e n looks a r o u n d a m o n g existing materials for things to fix it with, m o v i n g o n to m o r e c o m p l e x solutions only w h e n the simplest o n e s are clearly n o t w o r k i n g as well as they should. T h e e n g i n e e r d o e s n ' t really feel she's started to work, however, until she's g o t an o v e r a r c h i n g principle to apply to the solution o f the prob­ lem, which she then i m p l e m e n t s as carefully a n d accurately as possible by precise technical means, m o v i n g in to take care o f finer a n d finer problematic details—until, hopefully, principle wholly absorbs p r o b l e m . As each moves towards h e r or his separate solution, the bricoleur a n d the e n g i n e e r are b o t h l o o k i n g , h e r e , forward, there, backward. T h e r e ' s al­ ways some c o n c e p t u a l m o v e m e n t in b o t h directions with e a c h . B u t the fundamental m o v e m e n t s are, overall, different. A n d that difference in m o v e m e n t is very m u c h the difference I've n o t e d b e t w e e n the way the SF writer works and the way the utopianist works. S o m e o n e o n c e said: "A politics that doesn't address itself to y o u r par­ ticular problems a n d my particular p r o b l e m s is j u s t n o t a politics for y o u and me." A n d I think this is n o t a b a d p l a c e to start a critique o f the political as­ p e c t o f the situation a r o u n d us. B u t it's in J u n k City that bricoleurs flour­ ish at their happiest a n d most efficient—though it's often the e n g i n e e r s w h o provide the j u n k the gomi no senseiworks with. Q: It seems to m e that in Dhalgren y o u were after a c o m p l e t e l y different effect on the reader. SRD: That's true. Dhalgren a n d Triton are two very different b o o k s . Q: S p e a k i n g about effects, I ' m an average reader. I d o n ' t k n o w too

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m u c h a b o u t scientific t e r m i n o l o g y — a b o u t how the sensory shield works, for e x a m p l e , o r h o w to interpret the mathematics o f the game-scoring system that w e g e t in c h a p t e r 2. W h a t k i n d o f impact d o y o u think such sections in the b o o k have o n the average r e a d e r — w h o definitely does n o t u n d e r s t a n d any o f it? Like me, for e x a m p l e . SRD: Well, I think it's fair to assume that the average SF reader is g o i n g to have some kind o f p o p u l a r science b a c k g r o u n d . A n d if you don't, then—while y o u may b e an average r e a d e r — y o u ' r e not an average SF reader. Now, n o b o d y expects the r e a d e r to be an e x p e r t in any b r a n c h of science. T h e science in SF is mostly d o u b l e t a l k anyway—like the "metalogics" a n d "modular calculus" I s p o k e o f before. T h e r e ' s a passage in The Dispossessed w h e r e Shevek solves his p r o b l e m o f r e c o n c i l i n g the s e q u e n c y a n d simultaneity theories o f time by assum­ i n g that the p r o b l e m s have already been resolved, then p r o c e e d i n g as if there were n o contradiction b e t w e e n t h e m . . . . You j u s t can't read the passage too closely. If y o u d o , it falls apart into the circular a r g u m e n t that it is. B u t for better or worse, all the science in SF is ultimately like that. O n the o n e h a n d , SF p r e s u m e s an a u d i e n c e w h o can at least catch the j o k e s — w h e n they g o by. B u t in g e n e r a l I d o n ' t think the science perse s h o u l d g o too far b e y o n d what y o u ' d g e t in most p o p u l a r science b o o k s — m o s t o f t h e m by Isaac A s i m o v a n d written for bright fourteenyear-olds. It's the pseudo-science that keeps g o i n g m u c h further—not the sci­ e n c e . B u t the p s e u d o - s c i e n c e g o e s further precisely because it is always assuming that large patches o f the u n k n o w n are, in fact, knowable. Q: D o e s the j o k e also apply to the math for scoring vlet? SRD: T h e scoring m o d u l u s is c o m p l e t e g o b b l e d y g o o k . T h e irony is that the b o o k calls it "rather difficult." T h e r e a d e r is supposed to find it daunt­ ing. In fact, it's so daunting, y o u should l a u g h . A n d say s o m e t h i n g to the effect of: "Yeah. Right. 'Ratherdifficult.' Sure!" T h e n y o u will have appre­ ciated the irony. N o w if the reader h a p p e n s to be mathematically literate e n o u g h to realize, after trying to u n t a n g l e it (for s o m e o n e familiar with a d v a n c e d calculus, it takes a b o u t ten s e c o n d s ) , that not only is it daunt­ ing, it's also meaningless, all well a n d g o o d . T h e n there should be a sec­ o n d laugh. B u t that level is, i n d e e d , s e c o n d a r y — a n d really just an exten­ sion o f the first. Q: Your style o f parentheses in parentheses almost has the same effect. Very daunting. W h a t w e r e y o u trying to d o here?

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SRD: That's a different matter. Probably I was trying to say too m u c h at once. Q: I liked the parentheses. I f o u n d that the device really h e l p e d m e understand the way s o m e o n e like B r o n w o u l d think, b e c a u s e he's so de­ fensive a n d he rationalizes everything. H e works a t h o u g h t t h r o u g h be­ fore h e thinks o f some defensive way o f w o r m i n g his way o u t o f the situ­ ation. O r justifying the way he thinks or perceives . . . SRD: That's kind o f what I was trying for. B u t I k n o w — s i m p l y b e c a u s e I've talked to e n o u g h p e o p l e — t h a t for some readers it d o e s n ' t work. T h e parentheses only g e t in the way. Well, they do ask a lot o f y o u . Perhaps too m u c h . I write with far fewer parentheses today. B u t it was my c h o i c e at the time—and it may have b e e n the w r o n g o n e . Still, some p e o p l e s e e m to be able to g e t with it. W h e n y o u m a k e a stylistic c h o i c e like that, this is the c h a n c e y o u take: S o m e p e o p l e are j u s t g o i n g to find it tedious a n d balk. Well, they have every right to. T h e r e are two kinds o f characters, I think, in most m o d e r n fiction: O n e is the character y o u ' r e s u p p o s e d to identify with. T h a t character is like a suit o f clothes y o u p u t o n in o r d e r to have the e x p e r i e n c e s the character g o e s t h r o u g h . T h e other character is, rather, a case study. T h o u g h y o u can feel sorry for—or be a m u s e d by—this character (and even r e c o g n i z e aspects o f yourself in the c h a r a c t e r ) , if y o u identify with h e r or h i m b e y o n d a cer­ tain point, y o u ' r e misreading the b o o k . Q: In Dhalgren, which would b e the suit o f clothes, would y o u say? N o t Kid? SRD: N o . A s in Triton, in Dhalgrenyou're n o t s u p p o s e d to identify. T h e r e too, y o u ' r e supposed to l o o k at the protagonist from the outside. It's amazing, o f course, how m a n y such b o o k s backfire. Flaubert t h o u g h t E m m a was a pretty, i m m o r a l f o o l — a n d wrote Madame Bovary to e x p o s e her. A n d Tolstoy did not want his readers to identify with Natasha o r A n n a : H e felt they were c h a r m i n g , b u t fundamentally i m m o r a l w o m e n , w h o destroyed the p e o p l e a r o u n d t h e m until they destroyed, o r all b u t destroyed, themselves; o n c e his b o o k s were published, h e was horrified w h e n p e o p l e were "taken in" by that c h a r m a n d fell in love with his lead­ ing ladies. Well, a few p e o p l e — b o t h m e n a n d w o m e n , incidentally— have c o m e u p to m e a n d confided: "Bron Helstrom—c'est moi. " [Shrugs.] Q: Dhalgren is very d e t a c h e d . It's all from Kid's p o i n t o f view. B u t it would be hard to p u t yourself in his place.

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SRD: Right. A l t h o u g h I think it's easier to identify with Kid than it is with B r o n , I suspect [laughing] it d e p e n d s o n w h o y o u are. W h e n a character is l o o k e d at constantly from the outside—when even his o r h e r m o s t subjective responses are analyzed objectively— things tend to g o m o r e slowly. In some ways the parentheses were also an attempt to slow d o w n the real r e a d i n g time o f the novel. It's a pacing thing. If y o u can let a parenthesis slow y o u d o w n a n d not lose the first half o f the previous clause before y o u c o m e out the other side, then the parentheses will probably work for y o u . If y o u r attention is such that you can't quite d o that—and there's n o particular reason why y o u should be able to—then they're p r o b a b l y not g o i n g to work. T h e reading experi­ e n c e b e c o m e s a n n o y i n g , a n d y o u ' l l s p e n d all y o u r time r u n n i n g back a n d forth from the b e g i n n i n g to the e n d o f the sentence, mildly con­ fused. It's n o fun. Q: T h e war w h i c h g o e s o n in the b o o k is always in the b a c k g r o u n d . A t o n e point, I think, it's m e n t i o n e d — t w i c e — t h a t there are n o soldiers. It seems to b e the p r e t e x t for lots o f goings-on a n d restrictions. Is that in any way c o n n e c t e d with the p e r p e t u a l war that g o e s o n in 1984} O r is that a c o i n c i d e n c e ? B e c a u s e it seems there is a parallel there. SRD: In 1984, it's rather different—and in 1984 there are soldiers. Q: Well, y o u ' r e told there are soldiers, but y o u never really know. SRD: T h e war in Triton, however, is a purely t e c h n o l o g i c a l war: a war that consists o f years o f d i p l o m a c y — f o l l o w e d by forty-five unthinkable minutes. D u r i n g those minutes, technicians merely push buttons. T h a t doesn't involve soldiers. Q: In Triton's final vision, I still can't u n d e r s t a n d w h y B r o n lied to A u ­ drey. T h a t seems very i m p o r t a n t in the b o o k . SRD: Yes, that was very important. B u t I'd have to g o back and look at the text again to explain to y o u just why. Q: H e c o n c o c t e d the w h o l e story about— Q: H e totally reverses the situation. Q: H e finally realizes he's thinking like a male.

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Q: You have to realize that this is a kind o f protective reaction o n B r o n ' s part. SRD: Yes. T h e story h e tells is what h e wished h a d h a p p e n e d . Y o u have to remember, what B r o n usually d o e s to justify his b e h a v i n g in the selfish and hateful ways that m a k e h i m such a hateful m a n is manufacture per­ fectly fanciful motivations for what e v e r y o n e else is d o i n g — m o t i v a t i o n s which, if they were the case, w o u l d m a k e his actions a c c e p t a b l e . (In that way, h e can ignore the fact that his own motivations are simply a n d wholly selfish.) O f course, h e ' d only have to listen to w h a t p e o p l e w e r e actually saying a r o u n d h i m to realize that the motivations h e ascribes to them are impossible. B u t h e forgets—or represses—the parts o f their conversation that w o u l d inform h i m o f that. O r h e assumes the p e o p l e were simply lying w h e n they said those parts. Well, Freud a n d L a c a n b o t h have b r o u g h t us the u n h a p p y news that this is, in effect, the way we all m o v e t h r o u g h o u r lives. W e h e a r a b o u t a tenth o f what is said to us; w e repress the rest; a n d in the resultant si­ lences, we write o u r own scenarios a b o u t what the o t h e r person is think­ ing about us, feeling a b o u t us, j u d g i n g us to be. It has a v e n e r a b l e n a m e in psychoanalysis: transference. A n d o n the strength o f o u r fancied re­ construction o f other p e o p l e ' s i n n e r feelings a b o u t us, w e r e s p o n d to them and the world. R e m e m b e r that "expectation of information "? O n e c o m p u t e r calls u p the other to g e t a list o f p r o g r a m s . . . ? B u t that m e a n s the information that c o m e s over from system-A is all g o i n g to b e read as p r o g r a m n a m e s . If what system-A actually sends (either by a c c i d e n t or design) is t e l e p h o n e numbers o r the o p e n i n g lines o f 'Jabberwocky," system-B is still g o i n g to treat t h e m like p r o g r a m n a m e s — d u e to the p r o g r a m m i n g it r e c e i v e d somewhere in its c o m p u t a t i o n a l c h i l d h o o d . Transference, again. Unless, o f course, it gets s o m e t h i n g that's j u s t so far from a p r o g r a m name it simply can't handle it at all. That's what h a p p e n s to B r o n in the final A u d r e y situation. B r o n hon­ estly likes Audrey. A n d A u d r e y loves B r o n . B u t in o r d e r to maintain his facade, it's n o t j u s t a matter o f repressing things the Spike said a n d remotivating others; B r o n must actually say that the Spike did things that B r o n did, a n d that B r o n did things the Spike did. T h i s sort o f direct a n d overt lie is not the kind B r o n has told in the past. Till now, a m o r e subtle sort o f lie has passed for the truth with him. B u t his prior p r o g r a m ­ ming—the facade—has really b e e n in control. If that facade can only sur­ vive by a direct lie, it will m a k e B r o n lie directly—even while h e tries to speak honestly to s o m e o n e h e likes a n d values. Well, this lie h e finally

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hears h i m s e l f speak. A n d it's too m u c h for him. H e can't surround this o n e with p s e u d o - p s y c h o l o g i c a l rhetoric a b o u t what other p e o p l e are really t h i n k i n g a n d feeling a n d d o i n g that renders it into Truth for him. T h e system can't h a n d l e it. T h e w h o l e m e c h a n i s m starts to break down. A n d w h e n it does, it isn't fun. Q: T h e o t h e r thing that g o e s a l o n g with that is that it's not so m u c h that he's lying to A u d r e y as that he's lying to himself. SRD: Certainly that's so w h e n h e k e e p s insisting that h e never lied be­ fore. B e c a u s e he's suddenly blurting this to s o m e o n e he actually has feel­ ings for, he's b r o u g h t u p sharp before the fact: "Hey, wait a minute! T h e m a c h i n e is c o m i n g to pieces . . . ! " In o n e sense, it's the triviality—more than the directness—of this lie that e v e n allows h i m to obsess over it as m u c h as h e does. We know he's told m u c h worse lies, lies that have p r o d u c e d m u c h m o r e hurt—all t h r o u g h the b o o k a n d w i t h o u t his ever noticing. H e lied to A u d r e y be­ cause that was what h e w o u l d really liked to have h a p p e n e d — o r , perhaps m o r e accurately, b e c a u s e that is w h a t w o u l d have had to have h a p p e n e d in o r d e r to justify what h e actually did. Q: E x c e p t that, o f course, h e never realizes even that m u c h . SRD: N o . B u t he's still b r o u g h t u p short. I think I s h o u l d say, y o u know, that e n c o u r a g i n g a writer to speak this m u c h a b o u t his o w n b o o k is a very o d d a n d awkward situation. I should p r o b a b l y b e the last p e r s o n to talk a b o u t Triton at all. I'm only o n e r e a d e r o f the b o o k — a n d , in this case, a r e a d e r w h o last read it quite a w h i l e a g o . W h a t I say a b o u t it really is n o t privileged—as they say in C o m p . Lit. j a r g o n . Q: O r in law courts. SRD: Yes. I ' m only giving o n e very, very subjecdve view o f the book. A n d in a way, h e r e , b e f o r e y o u , I ' m j u s t a bit like B r o n : W h a t I'm m u c h m o r e likely to d o h e r e , u n d e r the local pressure o f y o u r questions, is to speak o f the b o o k I wish I'd written rather than the text y o u — o r you, or you— j u s t read. Q: A r e y o u saying y o u can't really e x p l a i n s o m e o f the motives b e h i n d w h a t the characters d o a n d stuff like that—but you c o u l d still defend y o u r fiction?

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Q: N o , what he's saying is that, contrary to what w e m i g h t ordinarily sup­ pose, w h e n a writer talks a b o u t h e r or his o w n work, h e o r she is talking as a critic. SRD: M o r e to the point, perhaps, talking as a critic w h o is n o t necessar­ ily identical with the writer. I usually tell p e o p l e that I live in a world w h e r e S a m u e l R. Delany-thewriter d o e s n ' t exist. I've never really read anything he's written. I k n o w a lot about him. I've even l o o k e d over his s h o u l d e r while h e was w o r k i n g . But there's a veil lying b e t w e e n m e a n d his actual texts—it lets m e see let­ ters h e puts down, but c o m p l e t e l y blocks the words. A l l I finally g e t to d o is listen to him subvocalize a b o u t a text h e hopes he's writing—and, w h e n I try to reread it later, again I only hear his subvocal version o f the text he wished h e ' d p e n n e d . W h e n y o u ' r e inside the b a l l o o n , trying to p u l l it into shape from within, y o u just can't see it from the outside. A l l y o u have is o t h e r p e o p l e ' s reports—that, yes, y o u ' r e s u c c e e d i n g in m a k i n g it l o o k like a camel, or y o u ' v e g o t a p a n d a now, or, n o , y o u h a v e n ' t quite yet m a d e a k a n g a r o o . A n d those reports, most o f t h e m , are pretty inarticulate at that. But it's all the novelist ever knows o f his o r h e r o w n work. Finally, y o u know, y o u must take any a n d every thing I say h e r e with many, m a n y grains o f salt. Q: G r a n t e d your caveat, what's y o u r subjective o p i n i o n o f Triton's w h o l e emphasis o n "subjective inviolability"? SRD: I think it's rather a nice n o t i o n . I w o n d e r h o w far y o u c o u l d take it as the major political tenet per se o f a w h o l e society. B u t I'd like to see a society try it. But, n o , I'm n o t sure how, in the l o n g run, it w o u l d work. Q: A r e we m e a n t to give B r o n some credit at the e n d w h e n h e — o r s h e has the t h o u g h t that five out o f six o f the p o p u l a t i o n o f Earth have b e e n killed in the name of Triton's subjective inviolability? SRD: W h a t I'd h o p e d at that point—again, a subjective reaction—is that the reader w o u l d have twigged by n o w to the fact that B r o n is j u s t n o t a nice m a n . B u t in terms o f w h e t h e r he is r e d e e m a b l e or not, w h e t h e r h e m i g h t someday be able to pass muster as a h u m a n b e i n g , I w a n t e d to have all the e l e m e n t s o n a b a l a n c e — a n d I w a n t e d to maintain that bal­ ance u p to the novel's last sentence. W i t h the last s e n t e n c e o f the n o v e l proper, with the last phrase o f that sentence (the o n e b e f o r e the placedate subscription), I'd h o p e d finally to upset that b a l a n c e , o n e way o r

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the o t h e r — t h o u g h j u s t whichway, I wanted to leave moot. I won't tell you w h i c h direction / w a n t e d it to fall. B u t I think s o m e p e o p l e may figure it out. What's h a p p e n i n g at his recall o f subjective inviolability is that that political tenet is b e i n g p r o b l e m a t i z e d . B r o n , for a few m o m e n t s (thirtyseven s e c o n d s ) , has slipped over the wide a n d muzzy b o r d e r between or­ dinary self-deceiving neurosis a n d real psychosis. A n d it's possible that he will c o n t i n u e slipping. A t the p o i n t y o u m e n t i o n , the surface question raised is fairly simple: H o w inviolable should the subjectivity o f the truly m a d b e — t h e subjectivity o f those w h o really believe, as B r o n does for that l o n g half m i n u t e , that "the dawn will never c o m e " ; o f those who've taken a simple cliché a n d let themselves a c c e p t it as fundamental and re­ vealed truth (which an astonishing a m o u n t o f madness actually is)? T h e w o r l d o f Triton is very different from o u r world today. I don't k n o w a b o u t h e r e in C a n a d a , b u t I d o k n o w a b o u t the U.S. A n d the fact is, a g o o d p e r c e n t a g e — e v e n a majority—of the p e o p l e really d o n ' t live in w h a t y o u a n d I w o u l d c o n s i d e r the last quarter o f the twentieth century. T h e r e are many, m a n y o v e r w e i g h t p e o p l e w h o believe, down to the b o t t o m o f their souls, that if y o u eat two or three teaspoons o f sugar, you will p u t o n two or three p o u n d s in the n e x t c o u p l e o f hours-to-days. And they believe that the w e i g h t will generate from the sugar itself. A n d that it has n o t h i n g to d o with retaining liquid later drunk, or with the sugar m a k i n g y o u eat m o r e o f o t h e r foods. T h e y believe that "sweets put on weight"; a n d they believe it n o t in the metabolic terms that you or I m i g h t u n d e r s t a n d it, b u t rather in defiance o f the laws o f the conserva­ tion o f matter a n d e n e r g y — o f w h i c h they've never heard. A n d if you tell t h e m h o w those laws set an u p p e r limit o n their weight-gaining process (so that y o u can't gain m o r e w e i g h t than the w e i g h t o f the food you actu­ ally ingest), they will a r g u e that y o u are just w r o n g . It's h a p p e n e d to t h e m , they will tell y o u , too many times. T h e r e are many, m a n y p e o p l e w h o believe that the electricity running a l o n g the powerlines is at its highest at the pylons, and that that explains why the grass a n d shrubbery tend to b e thin or die u n d e r a n d a r o u n d the p y l o n legs: It's the c o n c e n t r a t i o n o f electricity at the pylons that kills the grass b e l o w it. A n d they will argue with y o u for an h o u r that they know what they're talking a b o u t — a n d you don't! A n d there are p e o p l e w h o believe that lighting a cigarette at the bus stop really initiates a process (a process n o t in the least mystical, but nev­ ertheless u n e x p l a i n a b l e ) that, often, will m a k e the bus c o m e — a n d not that starting a pleasurable process makes y o u m o r e aware of a process that interrupts that pleasure, so that y o u r e m e m b e r those situations and n o t the o n e s w h e r e the pleasure c o n t i n u e d to its natural completion.

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A n d w h e n it c o m e s to n u c l e a r power, w e m i g h t as well b e d e a l i n g with medieval magic. B u t that's n o t even to b r o a c h topics like astrology, fun­ damentalism, various forms o f spiritualism, a n d U F O s . T h e s e beliefs are n o t neuroses. T h e y are i g n o r a n c e . B u t they are i g n o r a n c e s tenaciously h e l d to, a n d s u p p o r t e d by consen­ sus belief. T h e s e i g n o r a n c e s place these p e o p l e o u t s i d e — n o t the majority, b u t rather—the minority consensus reality o f some e d u c a t e d p e o p l e , w h o hap­ p e n to i n c l u d e y o u a n d m e , h e r e in the twentieth century. (You are de­ luded if y o u think the majority o f the N o r t h A m e r i c a n p o p u l a t i o n shares what, in many college classrooms, I a m probably safe in calling "the c o n ­ sensus scientific world-view." In fact, I suspect, that "consensus scientific world-view" is finally a hypostatization that no o n e fully possesses.) B u t these are ignorances that are h e l d to the way y o u a n d I m i g h t h o l d to the science that contravenes t h e m . A n d the p e o p l e w h o believe t h e m d o so because there's a vast a m o u n t o f folklore that tells t h e m they are right— the same folklore that tells t h e m to b a t h e in b a k i n g soda baths w h e n they get sunburn, or to p u t calamine lotion o n a m o s q u i t o bite that itches: folklore that, in those cases, h a p p e n s to b e correct. Perhaps an e x a m p l e closer to h o m e : U p until my late twenties, I h a d a real fear o f nuclear war. It wasn't obsessive. B u t it was constant, a n d it was annoying. I was n o t afraid o f a political decision to start the ultimate war. T h a t didn't m a k e sense. B u t what if, I used to wonder, s o m e t h i n g w e n t w r o n g with the very c o m p l e x defense system itself: S u p p o s e s o m e b o d y p u s h e d the w r o n g switch a n d started the War by accident? It m i g h t e v e n involve s o m e b o d y g o i n g b o n k e r s to b o o t — a s h a d b e e n d r a m a t i z e d in any n u m b e r o f movies a n d b o o k s . Eventually, w h e n I was talking quite jokingly about my worry to a friend in the U . S . A i r F o r c e , h e e x p l a i n e d to me the difference b e t w e e n a "systems-off" system a n d a "systems-on" system. A systems-on system m e a n s that y o u have vast n u m b e r o f processes, all o f t h e m functioning all the time, a n d y o u only have to flip o n e switch, say, to b r i n g t h e m all t o g e t h e r to m a k e the greater system function. In such a system, an a c c i d e n t mitigates in favor o f the w h o l e system's start­ ing to work. Today, for e x a m p l e , h u m a n r e p r o d u c t i o n is a systems-on system. It's terribly c o m p l i c a t e d . B u t thoughtlessness a n d a c c i d e n t are likely to lead to pregnancy, n o t prevent it. A systems-off system is o n e in w h i c h y o u have a lot o f c o m p l e x systems, most o f t h e m currently n o t functioning. A l l sorts o f guards a n d checks are built in against their t u r n i n g o n accidentally: Subsystem-D can only be t u r n e d o n if subsystem-A a n d subsystem-B a n d subsystem-C,

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all in different buildings, have all b e e n t u r n e d o n previously—and what's m o r e , they have to have all b e e n t u r n e d o n in the p r o p e r order. If they w e r e n ' t , t h e n subsystem-D simply w o n ' t start u p . A n d without subsystem-D, as well as a w h o l e lot o f others, the defense system will not start. T h e n u c l e a r defense systems o f b o t h the U . S . a n d the U S S R are a pair o f vast a n d c o m p l e x systems-off systems. ( O n Triton, the universal birth-control system effectively m a k e s h u m a n r e p r o d u c t i o n a systemsoff system. T w o p e o p l e — a n y m a n a n d w o m a n w h o w a n t to—can d e c i d e to have a c h i l d by taking anti-birth-control pills at the same time. W h e n they t h e n have sex, p r e g n a n c y will e n s u e . B u t in such a situation, acci­ d e n t , laziness, or thoughtlessness mitigates against p r e g n a n c y ' s occur­ r i n g — n o t for its o c c u r r i n g , as such flukes d o in o u r c u r r e n t systems-on h u m a n r e p r o d u c t i v e situation. C h a n g i n g h u m a n r e p r o d u c t i o n from a systems-on to a systems-off system, Triton suggests, is e n o u g h to reverse the c u r r e n t runaway p o p u l a t i o n g r o w t h . Is that correct? I d o n ' t know. B u t I'd like to give it a try.) A l s o , there is simply n o p l a c e in the nuclear defense system that is so critical that an a c c i d e n t there w o u l d m a k e the w h o l e t h i n g g o off. If, for instance, the p r e s i d e n t o f the U . S . w e n t batty a n d s u d d e n l y pressed " T h e B u t t o n , " a c o u p l e o f bells a n d lights w o u l d g o o n in a n o t h e r several buildings, s o m e s c r e e n i n g devices w o u l d prob­ ably c h e c k to see w h a t was h a p p e n i n g ; a n d n o t finding what they were p r o g r a m m e d to find in case o f attack, the rest o f the system w o u l d shut d o w n — a n d that's a b o u t it. O n l y w h e n the w h o l e system is operating can it p e r f o r m its i n t e n d e d j o b : delivering a n u c l e a r w a r h e a d to Russia—or the U . S . In such a system, an a c c i d e n t mitigates for the system's not per­ f o r m i n g , for its shutting d o w n . For the nation's defense system to g o o n accidentally, y o u ' d have to have 500 to 1,000 very specific accidents, all h a p p e n i n g in the right o r d e r in h u n d r e d s o f buildings at h u n d r e d s o f levels. A n d any o n e o f those "accidents" h a p p e n i n g at the w r o n g time o r in the w r o n g o r d e r w o u l d b r i n g the w h o l e system to a halt. W h i c h is to say, the system c o n t r o l l i n g the b o m b ' s g o i n g off is a systems-off system, n o t a systems-on system. T h e r e ' s far m o r e statistical reason to fear the defense system won't work w h e n it's called o n than that it'll g o off accidentally o f its own accord. O n c e I l e a r n e d this, my fear o f a t e c h n o l o g i c a l accident vanished ( t h o u g h I still d o n ' t think the threat o f n u c l e a r war is any less serious a political p r o b l e m ) . T h a t is to say, the fear was not neurotic. It was ignor­ a n c e . A n d k n o w l e d g e c u r e d it. In contrast to this, I have an occasionally r e c u r r e n t fear o f flying. It manifests itself as a simple a n d vague anxiety a b o u t crashing. T h e en­ g i n e m i g h t fail a n d the plane m i g h t fall. It's likely to c o m e on w h e n I've h a d to fly a lot, in a brief time, and—as a result—have gotten tired and

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had my general life-schedule highly disrupted by all the flying I've re­ cently d o n e . This anxiety is neurotic; I a c k n o w l e d g e that. A n d the p r o o f that it's neurotic is simply that ( 1 ) it's intermittent, a n d (2) it isn't re­ lieved by k n o w i n g the very reassuring statistics o n p l a n e flights o r the very simple and almost u n s t o p p a b l e w o r k i n g o f the turbojet. K n o w l e d g e — and k n o w l e d g e that I ' m quite ready to believe—has n o effect o n it. N o w this intermittent anxiety has n o t b e e n particularly debilitating. Never has it prevented m e from taking a really necessary flight. So what has this all g o t to d o with Triton? O n Triton, the first sort o f i g n o r a n c e has b e e n all b u t abolished. T h a n k s to c h i l d h o o d e d u c a t i o n in the c o m m u n e s , the public c h a n n e l education o f adults, and the curtailment o f the p o p u l a t i o n e x p l o s i o n , the entire populace by a n d large really lives in the consensus scientific present—and a consensus scientific present s o m e w h a t a h e a d o f ours. Now, o n Triton they have not g o t t e n rid o f the s e c o n d sort o f anxiety. But because they d o n ' t have to worry a b o u t the first sort, they can let the p e o p l e w h o say, "I'm sorry, but today I just d o n ' t feel like flying; I ' m wor­ ried about crashes," have their way. Or, as the case may b e , they c a n let t h e m have a d r u g that will banish the anxiety if the p e r s o n wants it—be­ cause most o f the p o p u l a c e will b e able to r e c o g n i z e a n e u r o t i c anxiety for what it is. T h e y can respect the subjective reality o f their p o p u l a c e be­ cause they've solved so m a n y o t h e r p r o b l e m s already. In that sense (like the privileging o f f r e e d o m o f s p e e c h ) , subjective inviolability is an i n d e x to the general health o f the society. B u t the real question a b o u t B r o n is: A r e his p r o b l e m s j u s t a c o m p l e x and remediable form o f ignorance? O r are they s o m e t h i n g m u c h d e e p e r and less accessible to ordinary social measures o f correction? Q: O n e u n d e r s t a n d i n g I h a d o f h e t e r o t o p i a y o u n o t only h a v e n ' t m e n ­ tioned but s e e m to d i s c o u r a g e by y o u r r e m a r k s a b o u t U t o p i a . It s e e m s to m e that o n e m e a n i n g the w o r d takes o n in Triton is s o m e t h i n g like: "Designer U t o p i a . " E v e r y o n e o n T r i t o n d e c i d e s o n h e r o r his p e r s o n a l Utopia.

SRD: T o the e x t e n t that—say—there are several sets o f laws a n d re­ straints and y o u can c h o o s e , by vote, w h i c h set y o u w a n t to b e b o u n d by, yes, I suppose that's accurate. B u t the p r e s u m e d irony was that these variations are probably very slight. T h e p e o p l e w h o vote for tax-system-P, administered by c a n d i d a t e Joey, pay three-quarters o f a p e r c e n t m o r e taxes, but w o r k a quarter o f an h o u r less p e r day than the p e o p l e w h o voted for tax-system-Q, a d m i n i s t e r e d by c a n d i d a t e Suzy. T h i n g s like that. My assumption was that all these systems c a m e o u t m o r e or less

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even in the e n d . A n d it was a matter o f w h i c h was m o r e i m p o r t a n t to y o u personally, a c c o r d i n g to y o u r own t e m p e r a m e n t : In terms o f the c h o i c e I j u s t outlined, say, it w o u l d b e time versus money. But it c o u l d j u s t as easily c o m e d o w n to time versus the a m o u n t of g r e e n e r y in the n e i g h b o r h o o d w h e r e y o u live. O r the a m o u n t o f greenery versus the variety o f f o o d s h i p p e d to y o u r c o - o p u n d e r ordinary circumstances, w h e n y o u w e r e n ' t g o i n g o u t for a special meal. T h a t sort o f stuff. But t h o u g h such differences m i g h t b e quite i m p o r t a n t to various individuals, I ' m n o t ready to designate t h e m as U t o p i a n . It's merely a set of social options a n d m i n o r i m p r o v e m e n t s w e haven't as yet b e e n able to institute. I can only call that "utopian" in the most metaphorical way. I m e a n t to contrast any social m e a n i n g "heterotopia" has to the idea of "utopia," n o t to absorb that idea. "Heterotopia" is, after all, a real English word. It's g o t several meanings. Y o u c a n find it in the OED. If y o u d o , y o u ' l l find it has some meanings that, I'd h o p e , apply quite directly to the b o o k . W o u l d y o u like m e to tell y o u one? Q: Tell us o n e m e a n i n g n o t evident from the etymology. SRD: Well, a major definition o f "heterotopia" is its medical m e a n i n g . It's the removal o f o n e part or o r g a n from the body a n d affixing it at ano t h e r p l a c e in o r o n the body. That's called a heterotopia. A skin graft is a heterotopia. B u t so is a s e x - c h a n g e — o n e o f the meanings o f the word. So there. Q: In r e g a r d to vlet, I feel as if I'm in s o m e t h i n g o f the situation described in o n e o f Tritons epigraphs f r o m — w h o is it? N o t Quine—Wittgenstein, I think: the quotation a b o u t the spectator w h o doesn't know the rules o f chess, w a t c h i n g a chess g a m e . Is that the way it's supposed to be, or is this g a m e already o n the m a r k e t — o n the basis, say, of s o m e o n e ' s having read the b o o k ? SRD: T h e n a m e c o m e s from a story by J o a n n a Russ, "A G a m e o f Viet" ( 1 9 7 4 ) . It's part—or almost a part—of h e r Alyx series. T h e g a m e in her story is n o t quite so c o m p l i c a t e d as m i n e ; but in Russ's tale, at o n e point, y o u realize that the world o f the story is actually controlled by the game: y o u can't really tell w h e r e the g a m e ends a n d the world takes up. T h e three b o o k s I've written since Triton, set in ancient Nevèryôn, are basically the g a m e o f vlet writ l a r g e . V i e t is a g a m e o f sword-and-sorcery. In s o m e ideal future world, with ideal readers, the b o o k s m i g h t all be

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considered part o f a larger a m o r p h o u s work, "Some Informal R e m a r k s Toward the M o d u l a r Calculus," to w h i c h Triton is the SF p r o l o g u e . Q: Did y o u intend that business about metalogics to b e part o f the scientific g o b b l e d y g o o k ? I sense that's very important. SRD: Well, y o u can g o with it as far as y o u want. D u r i n g the e x p l a n a t i o n that B r o n gives to M i r i a m n e [pp. 3 6 0 f f ] , I really felt I h a d a p o i n t to make about the relation b e t w e e n logic a n d l a n g u a g e . I w a n t e d it to b e followable—again, at the popular-science level. S o m e o n e o n c e asked m e , "What is the M o d u l a r C a l c u l u s ? " Well, if you think about what it d o e s in the novel (we're really g o i n g back, h e r e , to some o f what we discussed earlier), y o u realize that the M o d u l a r Calculus is basically a set o f equations that will take any description o f an event, however partial, and elaborate it into a reasonable, accurate, a n d complete explanation o f that event. This means it will take a sentence like "I saw a plane fall o u t o f the sky and burst into flames o n the runway," a n d by a r c a n e d e e p g r a m m a t i c a l transformations, transform it into a full r e p o r t o f w e a t h e r conditions, m e c h a n i c a l p r o b l e m s , and the pilot's responses that interacted to prod u c e the particular and specific air crash the speaker m e n t i o n e d . ( T h a t is, it can see the objects in the other room.) This is, o f course, m a g i c — a n o t h e r way o f saying it's impossible. Still, that's what the M o d u l a r C a l c u l u s w o u l d b e if there w e r e such a thing. (In the A p p e n d i x to Flight from Nevèryôn [ 1 9 8 5 ] , I have a rather detailed discussion o f the M o d u l a r Calculus.) It turns any description into an explanation by extrapolating from it. T h e point, o f course, is that some descriptions really d o have explanatory force. O t h e r s , as y o u extend t h e m in o n e direction rather than in another, gain e x p l a n a t o r y force. This raises the question: W h a t is the difference b e t w e e n a description and an explanation. A n d it asks w h a t sort o f e l e m e n t s they m i g h t have in c o m m o n . Q: G o i n g back to the c h r o n o l o g i c a l - g e o g r a p h i c a l subscription to Triton: "London, November '73-July '74." T h i s is a constant practice o f yours—giving the time a n d place o f c o m p o s i t i o n . I'm w o n d e r i n g w h e t h e r that has some organic significance? SRD: Well, it's b e e n my c o n t e n t i o n for s o m e time that SF is n o t a b o u t the future. SF is in d i a l o g u e with the present. It works by setting u p a dialogue with the here-and-now, a d i a l o g u e as intricate a n d rich as the writer can make it.

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T h e detail y o u ' r e referring to, at least as it sits at the e n d o f a farfuture SF novel, such as The Fall of the Towers, Babel-ij, The Einstein Intersection, Nova, or Triton (or, i n d e e d , at the e n d o f a tale set in the distant past, such as those in the N e v è r y ô n series), is also a way to j a r the reader. It's a way o f saying: "Look, this fiction is a p r o d u c t o f a specific place, a specific time." For quite a while I've b e e n a great respecter o f history. A n d I don't think such a historical n u d g e hurts a story in any way. A published piece o f m i n e that omits the terminal subscription, y o u can be sure, is suffering from an editorial decision carried out over my objection. O n a less g r a n d i o s e level, I subscribe my manuscripts so that, ten years later, I have s o m e i d e a w h e r e I was, w h e n . But the reason I leave those dates a n d places o n for p u b l i c a t i o n — a n d p u t t h e m back in galleys (when editors have d e l e t e d t h e m in the c o p y e d i t i n g ) — is because I think they serve a real function, n o t only for the writer but for the serious reader. It's a writerly tradition, after all. Q: I was w o n d e r i n g w h e t h e r there was a n y t h i n g from your e x p e r i e n c e o f L o n d o n that figured in Triton. I can't i m a g i n e the b o o k ' s b e i n g written by s o m e o n e w h o h a d n ' t lived s o m e p l a c e like L o n d o n or N e w York. SRD: W h e n all is said a n d d o n e , Tethys is pretty m u c h m o d e l l e d on New York. ( A l t h o u g h it's certainly n o t as large as N e w York. T h e population is really closer, at least in m y m i n d , to San Francisco's.) A t a certain point, y o u n o t i c e that most large cities d o d e v e l o p areas kind o f like the "unlicensed sector": L o n d o n ' s S o h o , San Francisco's N o r t h B e a c h , New York's Village (East a n d West), N e w Orleans's F r e n c h Q u a r t e r (which b e g a n at Storyville a n d m o r e recently has shifted away to Fat City), Paris's Quartier Latin (or cinqième), or the F r e e m o n t in Seattle. B u t I was w o n d e r i n g what w o u l d h a p p e n if u r b a n planners formalized this, e v e n carrying it a few steps further. T h e p a r a d o x about these areas is, o f course, that p e o p l e w h o d o n o t live there frequently assume, " O h , my g o s h ! It must b e d a n g e r o u s there," w h e n there's so m u c h pressure on the p l a c e not to b e d a n g e r o u s , if only because the areas are such tourist attractions. If the real d a n g e r s were m o r e than n o r m a l , tourists w o u l d stop c o m i n g . So constraints o n the "dangerous" street life finally grow u p automatically. A successful red light district simply can't tolerate too many street m u g g i n g s , night or day, because then the prostitution on w h i c h the econo m y o f the area is b a s e d w o u l d b e fundamentally e n d a n g e r e d . So, while y o u may lose y o u r m o n e y to an over-enthusiastic hooker, y o u ' r e probably n o t g o i n g to b e m u g g e d in an area o f the city with a h i g h n u m b e r o f streetwalkers.

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Such, or similar, principles, operationalized by the city builders (it's a Jane Jacobs kind o f t h i n g ) , were the basic notions b e h i n d the "u4." Q: W h e n I was last in L o n d o n , I n o t i c e d that a "micro-theater" p h e n o m ­ enon—particularly in the entrances to the U n d e r g r o u n d (strolling min­ strels, violin players, a n d so forth) —was m o r e c o n s p i c u o u s than the first time I was there or than it is in N e w York. Was that a source o f inspiration for Triton? S R D : I ' m not sure o f everything that w e n t into the micro-theater no­ tion. W h e r e we SF writers g e t o u r crazy ideas from, w e d o n ' t really know. S o m e o n e o n c e told m e there was a g o o d idea s h o p d o w n o n F o u r t e e n t h Street. . . . A nurnber o f SF writers, in response to the question, "Where d o y o u g e t your ideas from?," have taken to answering, "Schenectady." [Laughter.] Q: O n e o f these days, s o m e o n e may o p e n a store there. Your response reminds m e of M a r g a r e t A t w o o d ' s answer to r e p e a t e d queries a b o u t why she b e c a m e a poet: "I h a d an u n c l e in the poetry business." [Laughter.] Q: I want to ask y o u about the B r u c e C o c k b u r n lyrics in Triton. S R D : Well, w h e n I was in E n g l a n d , s o m e b o d y b r o u g h t m e C o c k b u r n ' s then-new album, Night Vision. A n d it was d e d i c a t e d to m e ; it read some­ thing like: "To the author o f Driftglass." "Well," I thought, "what a surprise! That's very g e n e r o u s o f h i m . " I like C o c k b u r n ' s music. So I d e c i d e d , "I'll surprise h i m back," a n d took some o f the lyrics off the a l b u m a n d used t h e m for C h a r o ' s songs. I thought: "If h e c o m e s across it, he m i g h t be tickled by the idea o f his lyr­ ics surviving a h u n d r e d or so years o n . " C o c k b u r n and I have still never met, t h o u g h w e s p o k e o n the p h o n e o n c e . We've h a d trouble getting t o g e t h e r because w h e n e v e r he's in N e w York I ' m usually o u t o f town, off teaching. D o y o u have any questions a b o u t SF in general? I c a n b e m u c h m o r e illuminating a b o u t other things than my o w n w o r k . T h e fact is, talking about my work this m u c h in a public setting m a k e s m e rather uncomfort­ able. So I'd like to o p e n u p the discussion a bit if I can. Q: I've read somewhere that y o u d o n ' t refer to y o u r w o r k as science fiction. S R D : O n the contrary. W i t h the e x c e p t i o n o f a p e r i o d a b o u t six m o n t h s long, starting at the e n d o f 1 9 6 8 , I've always referred to m y w o r k as SF.

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Unfortunately, that was the six m o n t h s w h e n the manuscript o f my story collection Driftglass w e n t to press—so that it bears the e g r e g i o u s subtitle, "Ten Tales o f Speculative Fiction." ( A n d there was that essay I men­ t i o n e d earlier, "Critical M e t h o d s / S p e c u l a t i v e Fiction," dating from the same period.) B u t o n b o t h sides o f that six-month anomaly, I've used the term "science fiction" or "SF" and b e e n c o n t e n t with it. Q: W h y not "speculative fiction"? SRD: "Speculative fiction" was a term that h a d a currency for about three years—from 1 9 6 6 t h r o u g h 1 9 6 9 . Q: Y o u didn't c o i n it? SRD: G o o d n e s s , n o ! R o b e r t H . H e i n l e i n first used it in a G u e s t of H o n o r S p e e c h h e gave at a W o r l d S c i e n c e Fiction C o n v e n t i o n in 1 9 5 1 : h e said that "speculative fiction" was the term h e felt best fit what he was d o i n g as a writer: w h e r e u p o n e v e r y o n e i m m e d i a t e l y forgot it for the n e x t 1 5 years—until 1 9 6 5 o r '66, w h e n a g r o u p o f writers c e n t e r e d a r o u n d the British SF m a g a z i n e New Worlds resurrected it and b e g a n to use it for a very specific k i n d o f thing. Basically, as these writers—the N e w Wave—first u s e d the term, it m e a n t a n y t h i n g that was e x p e r i m e n ­ tal, a n y t h i n g that was science-fictional, or a n y t h i n g that was fantastic. It was a conjunctive, inclusive term, w h i c h e n c o m p a s s e d everything in all three areas. I used it for the subtitle o f Driftglass because that collection g r o u p e d a c o u p l e o f fantasy tales in with the SF stories—the third relevant category, e x p e r i m e n t a l writing, wasn't represented in the b o o k at all. B u t the only thing the term m e a n t in the subtitle o f Driftglass was that the b o o k con­ tains b o t h SF and fantasy. T h a t ' s simply what "speculative fiction" m e a n t b a c k then. By the e n d o f 1 9 6 9 , in the w o r l d o f p r a c t i c i n g SF writers, editors, and fans, speculative fiction (like most conjunctive terms) h a d d e g e n e r a t e d into a disjunctive, exclusive term (rather like the honorific "Ms.," which b e g a n as a conjunctive t e r m m e a n i n g any w o m a n , married or single, but w h i c h today, t h r o u g h use, has d e g e n e r a t e d into a disjunctive term used [almost] exclusively to m e a n an u n m a r r i e d w o m a n w h o ' s also a femi­ nist) : By the e n d o f '69, "speculative fiction" m e a n t "any p i e c e that is ex­ p e r i m e n t a l and uses SF i m a g e r y in the course o f it." (By that definition, the only p i e c e o f speculative fiction / ' w written is a story called " A m o n g the B l o b s , " w h i c h , to date, has only seen p u b l i c a t i o n in a fanzine. O h , y e s — a n d possibly Dhalgren.) A year later, the term simply d r o p p e d out

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of the v o c a b u l a r y o f w o r k i n g SF w r i t e r s — e x c e p t to refer to p i e c e s writ­ ten within that ' 6 6 - ' 6 g p e r i o d , to w h i c h (usually) it h a d already b e e n applied. A t about the same time, various a c a d e m i c s b e g a n to take it u p . Most o f them had n o idea either o f its history or o f its successive uses; they em­ ployed it to m e a n s o m e t h i n g like "high-class SF," or "SF I approve o f a n d wish to see legitimated." N o w that's a vulgar a n d i g n o r a n t usage o f the worst sort. T h e way to legitimate fine quality SF is by fine quality criticism of it—not by b e i n g historically obtuse a n d rhetorically slipshod. I de­ plore that particular use o f the t e r m — a n d t h o u g h I s u p p o r t y o u r right to use any terms y o u want, i n c l u d i n g "fuck," "shit," a n d "scumbag," I sim­ ply won't use the term in that way. It's u n i n f o r m e d , anti-historical, a n d promotes only mystification—all three o f w h i c h I feel are fine reasons to let this misused term die the natural death it actually c a m e to fifteen years a g o . Q: W h e r e d o y o u see SF g o i n g now? I see a present t r e n d toward Sword and Sorcery, a new sort o f classicism à la Asimov, a n d what's left o f the NewWave. SRD: I think that any g r o u p o f writers w h o c o u l d reasonably b e called the New Wave had m o r e or less dispersed—as a g r o u p — w i t h i n a year o f speculative fiction's ceasing to b e a m e a n i n g f u l term for c u r r e n t SF pro­ duction. I d o n ' t like to use the term N e w Wave for anything, h o w e v e r meta­ physical or material, that m i g h t be present in the w o r l d o f SF today be­ cause it obscures the very real, hard-edged, and extremely influential his­ torical m o v e m e n t , called the N e w Wave, that existed t h r o u g h the late '60s—a m o v e m e n t that i n c l u d e d a n u m b e r o f very specific writers (as it e x c l u d e d a n u m b e r o f others, m e a m o n g t h e m ) , w h o wrote specific sto­ ries and novels that we can still enjoy today, w h o m a i n t a i n e d specific re­ lations with o n e another, a n d w h o f u n c t i o n e d within a galaxy o f specific ideas, which have h a d a lasting influence o n the SF field. But if you use the term to indicate a fuzzy-edged n o t i o n suggesting some sort o f u n d e f i n e d opposition to a set o f equally u n d e f i n e d "conser­ vative" notions, what y o u lose is any possibility o f retrieving—research­ ing— that so important historical specificity (of writers, texts, readers, and events) actually b e h i n d the term. It's particularly d e p l o r a b l e w h e n academics use l a n g u a g e that subverts research, that cuts off the possibil­ ity for o u r thinking o u r o w n SF history—which is always so in d a n g e r o f b e i n g forgotten anyway. Certainly o n e o f the most exciting islands o f c u r r e n t p r o d u c t i o n in

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the sea o f SF p r o d u c t i o n is w h a t has b e e n t e r m e d the c y b e r p u n k move­ m e n t , or the Mirrorshades g r o u p . It includes writers like William Gib­ son, w h o s e Neuromancer w o n the H u g o a n d N e b u l a Awards last year [ 1 9 8 5 ] . It's really quite a p e r f o r m a n c e . G i b s o n has recently published a s e c o n d b o o k , Count Zero, a n d a very exciting collection o f short stories, Burning Chrome. O t h e r writers associated with this g r o u p i n c l u d e B r u c e Sterling, the a u t h o r o f Schismatrix a n d several o t h e r novels a n d the editor o f the g r o u p ' s c h i e f critical o r g a n , the fanzine Cheap Truth; also Rudy Rucker, J o h n Shirley, Pat C a d i g a n , and Marc Laidlaw. B u t just as (and sometimes m o r e ) interesting are s o m e o f the writers the cyberpunks often see themselves in opposition to: K i m Stanley R o b i n s o n , M i c h a e l Bishop, J o h n Kessel, C o n n i e Willis, and Terry Bisson. T h e c y b e r p u n k s — t h e y d o n ' t use a capital c, incidentally—were n a m e d by G a r d n e r Dozois, the editor o f Isaac Asimov's SF Magazine. T h e y ' v e b e e n g r u m b l i n g a n d g r o w l i n g u n d e r it ever since: "We're not a g r o u p . W e ' r e e a c h j u s t d o i n g o u r own thing." B u t if o n e may hypostatize t h e m as a g r o u p a m o m e n t longer, theirs is a very intense sort o f writing; it's very p r o - t e c h n o l o g y ; at the same time, it's very streetwise, very cyni­ cal. T h e w r i d n g itself tends to be highly polished—at its best. W h i c h m a k e s it very different from p u n k music, w h e r e the surface is—well— n o t polished.

Q: You've dealt a lot in y o u r writing with the questions o f sexual identity generally, a n d also with the i m a g e o f w o m e n . Obviously there are many w o m e n SF writers w h o are d o i n g the same thing. B u t what about other m a l e SF writers? S R D : Well, J o h n Varley is at least as obsessively c o n c e r n e d with the sub­ j e c t as I am. H e ' s d o n e several novels, but I d o n ' t find his full-length works as strong as his short stories. His short works are tremendous, t h o u g h ; a n d there are three collections o f them. O n e is called The Persis­ tence of Vision; a s e c o n d was published u n d e r the awful title, The Barbie Murders (after the Barbie dolls), b u t was r e p u b l i s h e d a few years later as Picnic on Nearside— w h i c h is not much o f an i m p r o v e m e n t ! (I'm g o i n g to b e t e a c h i n g a seminar o n Varley's w o r k a n d G i b s o n ' s — G i b s o n has his own interesting relation to w o m e n , w h i c h seems, to m e at least, highly in­ f l u e n c e d by Russ, as well as in reaction to m u c h in L e Guin—this c o m i n g S e p t e m b e r at C o r n e l l University's Society for the Humanities.) Varley also has a third c o l l e c t i o n , as yet available only in hardcover, called Blue Champagne.

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Q: W h a t are y o u w o r k i n g o n now? S R D : A n o t h e r novel, a n o t h e r n o v e l . . . Q: T h a t makes two? S R D : O n l y o n e , alas. B u t sometimes it feels like two. —Montréal 1986/New

York City 1990

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Antonia Byatt's Possession: A Romance

H e r e is a novel o f j a d e , j e t , a n d apricot, in w h i c h a n u m b e r o f b a t h r o o m s are wondrously described. A fantasy? N o t exactly. B u t two o f its major characters, a mid-Victorian poet, R a n d o l p h H e n r y A s h (who, in the world o f the novel, h a d some fame in his day, t h o u g h his reputation in ours has fallen into the purely a c a d e m i c ) , a n d his all-but-unknown con­ temporary, Christabel L a Motte (who m a n a g e d to publish a few v o l u m e s , but w h o has only j u s t b e e n u n e a r t h e d by diligent feminist critics), write works steeped in myth, fairy lore, and the supernatural. Christabel is s o m e t h i n g o f a believer in things spiritual. R a n d o l p h a p p r o a c h e s such topics with the attitude o f a d e b u n k e r in his solid n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y c o m m i t m e n t to scientific rationalism. Scattered t h r o u g h o u t the novel's 550-odd pages is a considerable a n t h o l o g y o f b o t h p o e t s ' p o e m s (and, in L a Motte's case, s o m e tales) m o r e than sixty-five p a g e s ' w o r t h — t h r o u g h which beneficent a n d maleficent fairies flitter, knights fare forth to m e e t e n c h a n t e d maidens (who c o m e b o t h singly a n d in triplets), a city sinks into the sea, a n d a glass key o p e n s a magic coffin releasing a princess from a century-long spell: T h i s novel has e n o u g h o f the d é c o r a n d rhet­ oric o f h i g h fantasy to intrigue, if n o t wholly to delight, any tradidonal fantasy lover. Ash's major work is a twelve-book blank verse epic called Ragnarok—a Norse-style cosmogony, in w h i c h A s h identifies with the slain g o d Baldur. L a Motte's is a n o t h e r twelve-book epic called The Fairy Melusina, based o n a horrific folktale from Brittany, in w h i c h a beautiful fairy, spied on in her bath by the k n i g h t w h o falls in love with her, is revealed as a serpent-tailed d e m o n , w h o eventually orders h e r h u s b a n d to m u r d e r some o f their m o r e monstrous children. S h e is also a fine architect, how­ ever (what first attracts Christabel to the tale), w h o builds h e r castles

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"foursquare a n d solid." F r o m Byatt's description, it's s o m e t h i n g we m i g h t i m a g i n e the Christina Rossetti o f "Goblin Market" to have written h a d she n o t v e e r e d off into consolational verse. Possession b e g i n s w h e n a timid b u t w i n n i n g research assistant, Roland Mitchell, discovers a pair o f letter drafts by A s h to an u n k n o w n w o m a n w h o m h e m e t at a breakfast party a n d with w h o m h e was clearly taken. T h e w o m a n is, o f course, Christabel L a M o t t e — w h o has established a Boston marriage with an aspiring Victorian w o m a n painter, Blanche G l o v e r (Christabel's G é r a l d i n e ? ) , after the two artists, painter and poet, m e t at a lecture by Ruskin. R o l a n d fails to tell his boss, Professor B l a c k a d d e r (the editor o f Ash's c o m p l e t e w o r k s ) , a b o u t his discovery, because . . . well, because R o l a n d is curious. (It's a w o r d we find a n u m b e r o f times in the book.) H e wants to find o u t w h a t h a p p e n e d for himself. T o this e n d , h e seeks out Maud Bailly, a feminist L a Motte scholar, w h o is also a distant relative o f Christabel's family. T h e two b e g i n to c o m p a r e scholarly notes and set out o n a h u n t for further e v i d e n c e . A l o n g the course, the simple—or not so simple—desire to know eventually infects most o f the c o n t e m p o r a r y char­ acters a n d impels b o t h the V i c t o r i a n tale a n d the c o n t e m p o r a r y o n e to their intertwined conclusions. E n route, an u n s u s p e c t e d c o r r e s p o n d e n c e b e t w e e n L a Motte and Ash is discovered in a secret c o m p a r t m e n t in an u n o p e n e d r o o m in a decay­ i n g family m a n o r house; j o u r n a l s — n o w by B l a n c h e Glover, n o w by Ash's wife, Ellen, n o w by a y o u n g cousin o f Christabel's, Sabine, on the selkieh a u n t e d coast o f Brittany—pop u p all over the place, e a c h supplying pieces to the nineteenth-century mystery. A s well, w e g e t several ac­ counts o f a séance, h e l d by Mrs. H e l l a Lees, at w h i c h all sorts o f things m i g h t have b e e n g o i n g o n . It all climaxes in rousing fashion at m i d n i g h t in a rain- a n d storm-lashed churchyard replete with grave robbers. T h e portraits o f the various academics (and their bathrooms!) w h o h u n t , or p r o t e c t from hunters, the various d o c u m e n t s w h i c h form our center o f interest are well-observed a n d often funny. T h e r e are a few mo­ ments, however, w h e n the satirical thrusts—at an ambitious A m e r i c a n ac­ a d e m i c (with his "bottomless c h e c k b o o k " ) a n d at an enthusiastic Ameri­ c a n w o m e n ' s studies professor (who offers herself for a consoling tumble to w o m e n a n d m e n alike—and always at the absolutely w r o n g time) —threaten to b r e a k o u t o f the whimsical, w h e r e they work, into the ugly, w h e r e — f o r m e , with this b o o k — t h e y don't. Lady J o a n Bailly, in her wheelchair, is wonderfully accurate, d o w n to every over-starched colla­ tion she serves h e r visiting scholars in the frigid halls o f Seal C o u r t (sau­ sages, m a s h e d potatoes, and turnips). B u t Sir G e o r g e Bailly, blustering a b o u t a n d r u n n i n g pushy A m e r i c a n s off his land with a shotgun, is, for

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all his c o n c e r n with his wife's health, p u r e cardboard; a n d while, it's true, some m e m b e r s o f this antiquated English class today really are b e y o n d satire, that d o e s n ' t free the novelist from the task o f m a k i n g the impos­ sible believable. It's d o n e by s h o w i n g h o w a character cares for some­ thing in excess of the plot (but n o t o f the structure) o f the n o v e l — o r by showing what has h a p p e n e d so that h e or she can't care. If we d o n ' t see o n e or the other, what we notice instead is the c o r r u g a t i o n s o n the character's backing. By Possessions end, however, heroes a n d villains alike are b o t h revealed to be obsessed with the same desire to know; a n d by its c o n c l u s i o n all have more or less j o i n e d to c o m p l e t e the story with their o w n puzzle pieces. For such a b o o k to c o h e r e , it must establish parallels b e t w e e n its his­ torical narrative a n d its present-time tale—as well as b e t w e e n its realistic passages and its fantastic interpolations. O f t e n this is what Byatt d o e s . O n e side o f a most effective parallel is the relation b e t w e e n R o l a n d a n d Maud, the c o n t e m p o r a r y " r o m a n c e " referred to in the subdtle; for m o s t of the b o o k that relation is, while passionate a n d d e e p , sexless. A n d in our sex-obsessed world, the misunderstandings this evokes a m o n g b o t h friends and e n e m i e s , as well as the confusion it e n g e n d e r s in the two scholars themselves a b o u t their o w n e m o t i o n s , gives p o i g n a n c y a n d quiet c o m e d y to the story. Eventually, w e learn that the relation b e t w e e n Ellen A s h a n d her h u s b a n d , R a n d o l p h , was m u c h the same as that between R o l a n d a n d M a u d — t h e other side o f the parallel. It's an effec­ tive—and e c o n o m i c a l — w a y to l e n d believability a n d sympathy to the Victorian relationship w e m i g h t otherwise distrust, v i e w i n g it t h r o u g h o u r c o n t e m p o r a r y F r e u d - c o l o r e d glasses. ( W h o d o you think is the father in the case o f the p r e g n a n t servant girl Ellen must dismiss to the u n w e d m o t h e r s ' h o m e ? ) B u t the b o o k has shown us beautifully h o w such a rela­ tionship can work in present times, despite o u r prejudices. A n o t h e r parallel accomplishes, however, litde or nothing. O u r m o d e r n heroine, Maud, is distantly related to Christabel, a n d the novel's d e n o u e ­ ment involves an intriguing twist to this aspect as well as a payoff in inheri­ tance rights (as all g o o d Victorian r o m a n c e s o u g h t t o ) . But M o r t i m e r Cropper, an obsessed A m e r i c a n academic, A s h ' s biographer, editor o f Ash's letters, and the closest thing Possession has to a villain, is also de­ scended from a nineteenth-century A m e r i c a n fan o f Ash's; and the rela­ tion provides us with another important letter, that gives us A s h ' s attitudes toward spiritualism—an attitude w h i c h figures in interpreting that séance. But the e n d i n g does n o t h i n g with this particular relationship, though all our sense o f novelistic symmetry has led us to e x p e c t that it will. Why, then, d o u b l e the theme—i.e., m a k e this o n e letter in C r o p p e r ' s multi-volume collection just h a p p e n to be to his great-great-grandmother?

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It w o u l d have b e e n as easy, or easier, simply to m a k e it o n e letter in the v o l u m e , rather than give it this a d d e d significance suggesting a plotting r e c o m p l i c a t i o n we never get. T h i s is p r o b a b l y the p l a c e to state: S e n t e n c e by sentence, scene by scene, Byatt's writing is lush, light, witty, and—sometimes—swooningly lovely. B u t m u c h o f the progression o f i n c i d e n t seems provisional; and in passages w h e r e we want e l e g a n c e a n d exquisitely careful structuring (à la Barth's The Sot-Weed Factor) to m a t c h the exquisite prose, finally things m o v e o n m o r e or less by the seat o f Byatt's pants. R o l a n d Mitchell is characterized as an old-fashioned textual critic, for e x a m p l e , trained in an earlier tradition a n d generally, if gently, bewil­ d e r e d by the newfangled criticism—deconstruction, feminist theory, and L a c a n i a n psychoanalysis a-swirl a b o u t h i m in an a c a d e m y h e never m a d e — a s are many, m a n y literature professors, graduate students, and u n d e r g r a d u a t e s today, s o m e o f w h o m c r e e p timidly t h r o u g h academe's halls, trying n o t to b e n o t i c e d in their i g n o r a n c e , and some o f w h o m bluster loudly, if ineffectually, against the F r e n c h a n d Frankfurt tsunami. M a u d is presented, however, as comfortable with b o t h critical worlds (as she is, unlike R o l a n d , comfortable with several social levels). Byatt her­ self is clearly comfortable e n o u g h with today's critical trends to give us several p a g e s from a feminist/psychoanalytic p a p e r o n L a Motte's work that m a n a g e s , at o n c e (a) to catch the tone o f such pieces perfectly, (b) to b e funny, (c) to b e critically interesting in a n d o f itself; and (d) to re­ late to the p l o t — n o m e a n feat o f literary ventriloquism. (Mortimer C r o p p e r ' s biography o f A s h is called The Great Ventriloquist.) Later in the novel, w e find, however, a passage w h e r e o n e o f the char­ acters reflects o n life a n d history in largely poststructuralist terms . . . I t h o u g h t I was r e a d i n g a b o u t M a u d — a n d was halfway t h r o u g h it before I realized the character was Roland! Possibly, o f course, this represents an irony. But, equally possibly, Byatt simply forgot that, three h u n d r e d p a g e s earlier, s h e ' d characterized h e r gentle textual detective as some­ o n e w h o felt e x c l u d e d by this sort o f rhetoric a n d w h o therefore is not likely to have his m o s t p r o f o u n d thoughts using its terms and concepts w h e n surveying his tentative position as a subject in history. It seems to m e that, in this rhetorical miscalculation, Byatt's own novelist ventrilo­ quism has faltered. In the midst o f these quibbles, Byatt must b e forever praised for hav­ i n g solved a p r o b l e m that has defeated novel writers from Sir Walter Scott a n d Novalis u p to N a b o k o v a n d o u r own Ursula L e G u i n : A major success o f Possession is that it m a n a g e s to integrate poetry—great stretches o f it, too—quite comfortably in with the narrative. Byatt accom­ plishes this by never trying to c o n v i n c e us that A s h o r L a Motte was, in any objective way, a great, or even a very g o o d , poet. Various professors

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are greatly taken with the personalities o f these two V i c t o r i a n figures. A n d L a Motte a n d B l a n c h e Glover, at least in the b e g i n n i n g , believe wholly in the worth o f their own talents—more than a n y o n e I've ever met, save a c o u p l e o f really appalling writers. (Such b e l i e f allows the art­ ist n o r o o m to grow!) But, if anything, this adds a c o m i c p i q u a n c y to their characters—and, in B l a n c h e ' s case, s o m e p o i g n a n c y . T h e presentday lay o p i n i o n is, however, that b o t h poets wrote over-complicated, highly affected, mid-Victorian clap-trap, a n d that any interest we have in either o n e is a case o f special p l e a d i n g . B u t isn't special p l e a d i n g what all novels finally are? Still, w h e n we g e t a one-to-ten-page poesy-passage by o n e or the o t h e r of them, a n d we find it e v e n readable, it's a pleasant surprise. A n d the poetic narratives usually reflect pretty directly o n the m a i n actions. For some reason, m u c h o f Christabel's poetry uses the Erratic capitaliza­ tion—and D a s h e s — o f Emily Dickinson—as Well as o u r D i c k i n s o n ' s Fa­ v o u r e d tetrameters. Possibly because of, possibly in spite of, this, L a Motte c o m e s off better than A s h . A n d o n e o f h e r p o e m s , ' T h e City o f Is," a b o u t the nondistressed Q u e e n o f a very distressed town sinking u n d e r the waters, really is special. B u t Byatt knows that we all want to dis­ cover o u r own stories (or o u r own great p o e m s ) — a n d that n o t h i n g is duller than b e i n g told o n e a b o u t w h i c h all is already k n o w n . B u t to unseat what is already known—that's why criticism exists. H e r e a n d there, especially in the novel's final third, bits o f informa­ tion c o m e almost out o f the b l u e — s u c h as the fact that the b o x b u r i e d with A s h (Box? W h a t b o x ? N e v e r mind. H e r e w e learn there was o n e ) was still intact w h e n his wife Ellen was interred beside h i m a n u m b e r o f years later. O t h e r things—what really h a p p e n e d , for instance, w h e n p r e g n a n t Christabel disappeared from h e r cousins' for three days o n the d o u r coast o f Brittany—could have used s o m e foreshadowing. W i t h o u t it, it seems as if Byatt g o t to the p o i n t w h e r e she n e e d e d a revelation, so sat down a n d m a d e o n e u p — r a t h e r than that she h a d o n e in m i n d all along. T h e r e ' s n o t h i n g wrong with d o i n g it that way. B u t if y o u d o , y o u have to g o back and d o the rewriting that will m a k e it look as if y o u knew what y o u were u p to all along. O n the emotional level w h e r e novels are e x p e c t e d to satisfy most, at least one loose e n d still worries m e : W h a t is the fate o f B l a n c h e ' s paint­ ings? I was as c o n c e r n e d about those as about any o f the questions over Christabel or Ash. Possibilities are, at o n e point, speculated on; but, if nothing else, Byatt's own talent as a visual writer, expert at visual set-pieces, makes us yearn for a direct sighting by o u r m o d e r n scholars (the point-ofview characters, in old-fashioned p u l p terms) o f these Victorian visual fantasies. O n the same note, there's a postscript to the novel, whose intention,

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I'm sure, was to tie u p a n o t h e r emotional loose e n d and, incidentally, pro­ vide a glowingly, dazzingly, mindlessly h a p p y e n d i n g (that, nonetheless, remains h i d d e n from o u r c o n t e m p o r a r y researchers) ; but it also makes a b o u t a third o f the novel irrelevant, b o t h in terms o f plot (which may, in­ d e e d , just b e m o r e irony w h i c h escapes m e ) and also morally—which, to m e , feels like an off-note in an otherwise very smartly written book. O n e o f Possession's finest m o m e n t s is a subjective description, toward the e n d , o f R o l a n d ' s r e a d i n g (in a n o v e l w h e r e most o f what the charac­ ters do is r e a d a n d r e r e a d p o e m s , letters, a n d j o u r n a l s ) ; Byatt sets it in the c o n t e x t o f all the things writers usually shy away from describing because they are t o o personal. By the e n d o f it, in the most gloriously selfreflective m o m e n t , however, the r e a d e r is n o l o n g e r watching Roland possessed by his V i c t o r i a n text, b u t rather w a t c h i n g her- or himself pos­ sessed by Byatt's novel. Byatt is clearly a lover o f Iris M u r d o c h . (She has published a study of M u r d o c h ' s novels, Degrees of Freedom: The Novels of Iris Murdoch. A n t o n i a Byatt is English novelist Margaret Drabble's sister.) It's possible that what strikes m e as awkward m o m e n t s are i n t e n d e d to recall some o f the semiabsurdist o c c u r r e n c e s in M u r d o c h ' s intriguing, but finally rather clum­ sily written, early works, such as The Unicorn or Flight from the Enchanter. B u t I j u s t d o n ' t feel that such a fragile and—yes—delightful creation as Possession can h o l d u p to such intentional false notes. It's as if W a n d a L a n d o w s k a , in the midst o f a B a c h toccata for harpsichord, now and again t u r n e d to the a u d i e n c e a n d m u g g e d like A n n a Russell. Possession w o n last year's B o o k e r Prize for fiction in G r e a t Britain. It's certainly a rich, ambitious, a n d enjoyable read. A n d it's a b o o k that seems e v e n m o r e interesting a day after y o u p u t it d o w n than in the days y o u w e r e living with it. B u t it's a b o o k that, truly to live u p to the stan­ dards it m o s t ambitiously sets itself by p a g e o n e h u n d r e d , w o u l d have to have b e e n e x e c u t e d as a wholly c o m m i t t e d tour de force— s o m e t h i n g at o n c e a bit m o r e limited than it is and, thus a n d at the same time, a bit m o r e ambitious. W h a t w e have is rather a virtuoso p e r f o r m a n c e with, every so often, s o m e really sour notes. I confess, I can't tell w h e t h e r the writer is snickering over t h e m or not. But, by the end, there've b e e n e n o u g h o f t h e m so that I ' m n o t sure if w e are to i g n o r e t h e m and try to enjoy the show anyway (it's really rather w o n d e r f u l ! ) — o r are to take t h e m as p o s t m o d e r n (if n o t punkish) markings that purposely mar the surface's h i g h luster. I a m curious to k n o w the o u t c o m e : Will it all seem m o r e — o r less—interesting in a year, or five, or fifteen? — New York City IÇ)Ç)0

Neil Gaiman, I, II, & III

A Walk Where the Wild Things Are Written with R o b e r t Morales

Neil Gaiman's hair is l o n g and dark, his face stark against it, with the stub­ born pallor o f many E n g l i s h m e n w h o stay u p late. Sunglasses h i d e his hazel eyes; and u n d e r his leather jacket, he's wearing a black T-shirt. L i k e an ex-punker turned family m a n , his b e a r i n g is poised b e t w e e n c o m f o r t and calculation. As we walk G a i m a n over to his suite at the Royalton, w e see a N e w York c o p hassling an ancient black guy w h o ' s lying in a doorway, obviously homeless and out o f it. "Let's g o , m a n , " the c o p says, a n d his nightstick's rap to the sole o f the guy's r u n n i n g shoe is notably t o o hard. N o w the c o p gives h i m a extra w h a c k o n the shin—then o n the o t h e r shin—trying to position himself in front, so that this bit o f street cruelty m i g h t escape notice in the rush hour. Neil stops, points a finger, a n d intones loudly: "FoMwill g o to sleep— and d r e a m dark dreams forever! " His concentration b r o k e n , the c o p turns to us, frowning, like a pit bull assessing new targets—one with an English accent. But Neil's already walking on, l a u g h i n g . "Really, guys," h e tells us, as we break away from the c o p ' s rule-book stare, "don't l o o k at m e as if I ' m crazy: Isn't that exactly the sort o f the thing p e o p l e e x p e c t the S a n d m a n to d o ? " Okay, h e has a point: Neil G a i m a n is the thirty-two-year-old w r i t e r / creator o f Sandman, D C C o m i c s ' extraordinarily successful adult fantasy

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title, with m o n t h l y sales o f over 100,000 c o p i e s in the U n i t e d States alone, right u p there with Superman a n d Batman. In fact, the Sandman p h e n o m e n o n is half the reason D C killed off the M a n o f Steel last year a n d has recently given the C a p e d C r u s a d e r a crippling spinal injury: be­ cause Sandman is a c o m i c for adults. In o n e o f the Royalton elevators, three p r e t e e n F r e n c h girls inexpli­ cably d e l i g h t in Neil's p r e s e n c e , probably mistaking h i m for a musician, so w e ask w h a t k i n d o f fan mail h e gets. "Stockbrokers, witches, minis­ ters, d o m i n a t r i c e s — " h e n o d s shyly at the girls; we've r e a c h e d his floor— "artists, c o l l e g e professors; many, m a n y students." H e tilts his h e a d to­ ward the closing elevator doors: "And we g e t kids, certainly, and they tend to be very bright ones. T h e average c o m i c s reader is between twelve a n d fourteen, y o u k n o w — b u t from the mail I g e t I'd assume the average Sandman r e a d e r is closer to twenty-five o r thirty." A Sandman story is likely to b e set anywhere: the h e i g h t o f the French Revolution, a c o n t e m p o r a r y L o w e r East side t e n e m e n t , B a g h d a d at the time o f the A r a b i a n Nights. T h e only constant t h r o u g h o u t is the Sand­ m a n a n d his n u m i n o u s siblings, all o f w h o m flicker in a n d out at the e d g e s o f these stories—much like the g o d s in a G r e e k tragedy, rather than r e c o g n i z a b l e , c o m i c b o o k superheroes. T h e series is a mythic family epic—its h u m a n characters u n c o n s c i o u s pawns in the service o f some mysterious p o w e r struggle, presumably to b e revealed at the conclusion o f its run, in a b o u t a year a n d a half. M u c h like PBS's p h e n o m e n a l l y sucessful I, Claudius, then, Sandman is p e r c e i v e d as a soap o p e r a for the right p e o p l e . T h e idea o f adult c o m i c s had b e e n around—as an idea— in the com­ mercial c o m i c s business since the late sixties. B u t w h e n Neil (following o n a n o t h e r English writer, A l a n M o o r e o f Watchmen fame) b e g a n to write stories that p u l l e d in h u g e n u m b e r s o f readers clearly o l d e r than the n o r m , D C realized there j u s t w e r e n ' t any rules for this g a m e . So writers w h o crossed over into the adult m a r k e t — c r e a t i n g that market for the first time, really—have b e e n pretty m u c h left alone by D C and other pub­ lishers to d o whatever they want. "I eagerly w e n t into c o m i c s straight o u t o f j o u r n a l i s m — I was a terrible journalist," Neil admits cheerily. "Inevitably I'll c h o o s e truth over facts, a n d editors hate that. Anyway: In the eighties the field u n d e r w e n t a sig­ nificant evolution (adolescent p o w e r fantasies were, in the main, up­ g r a d e d to adult p o w e r fantasies) — y o u h a d the r e v a m p i n g o f Batman a n d y o u had A l a n M o o r e , a n d there was a then-thriving market for inde­ p e n d e n t , e x p e r i m e n t a l c o m i c s as well. So there was a lot o f vitality there, a n d I l u c k e d out. I did s o m e initial s u p e r h e r o stuff for D C — a t the time they w e r e s p e a r h e a d i n g a sort o f 'British invasion' w h i c h , o f course, was vainly all a b o u t replicating A l a n ' s genius. W h e n I was given my c h a n c e to

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create a series, I figured w h a t the hell—it'll fail anyway, so let's try to d o all the things that I've always w a n t e d c o m i c s to d o , a n d k e e p it in the realm o f the fantastic." S t e p h e n K i n g was initially irked by the c o m i c ' s c o m p l e x i t y w h e n his kids presented h i m the first b o x e d set o f c o l l e c t e d S a n d m a n v o l u m e s some Christmases back, seeing it as pretentious—but s o m e t h i n g n a g g e d at h i m to try again: "Reading m o d e r n c o m i c s is like r e a d i n g m o d e r n poetry," K i n g told us. "You have to b e able to set aside part o f y o u r time and b e able to g o back a n d re-rig the way y o u see things, b e c a u s e they're laid out in a way that's c h a l l e n g i n g to an eye that's used to linear progres­ sion. Neil's a great storyteller a n d he's always f u n — h e puns, he's allu­ sive— " [note the faint e c h o o f Neil's n a m e in A Game of You, the latest S a n d m a n story arc] "—he d o e s all the things that serious writers d o , be­ cause that's what he is, basically: a serious writer w h o h a p p e n s to b e work­ ing this g e n r e . " "He's very brave," Clive B a r k e r says o f G a i m a n , a friend o f Neil's for over a d e c a d e , "because w h a t h e constantly d o e s is fly in the face o f ex­ pectation, and in a p o p u l a r m e d i u m that's a t o u g h thing to d o . " A l ­ t h o u g h he's just b e e n to the dentist, his face half-dead from N o v o c a i n , Barker is nonetheless e a g e r to shed light o n G a i m a n i a : "You know, he's g o t a u n i q u e vision, a n d o n e o f the things he's d o n e is prove that there is a life for comics w h e r e p e o p l e d o n ' t run a r o u n d with their u n d e r w e a r o n the outside, saving the planet. H e brings a k i n d o f intelligence a n d poetry to his work w h i c h is by a n d large missing in comics; beautiful writ­ ing—I think he's at the cutting e d g e . " However, the majority o f C a i m a n ' s fans aren't focusing o n his techni­ cal ability. Tori A m o s c a m e u p o n o n e o f the collections while writing h e r Little Earthquakes album, a n d w o r k e d Neil a n d "the D r e a m K i n g " into h e r song "Tear in Your H a n d . " ("It really stood out," says Neil, w h o r e c e i v e d an early d e m o version,"—people usually t e n d to send m e m u d d l e d death-metal tapes.") T h e two m e t in L o n d o n , radical classicists b o t h , a n d fast b e c a m e pals—she w o u l d be the m a i n inspiration for D r e a m ' s y o u n g e r sister, Delirium. A m o s is q u i c k to sum u p Neil's appeal: "Well, Neil is o u r s u b c o n s c i o u s — h e g o e s l o o k i n g for the dark. A n d , a l t h o u g h he's g o t his version o f a flashlight—whether that b e florescent tassels o n a belly dancer's m e l o n s , whatever he takes with h i m — h e has his way o f il­ luminating what w e ' r e hiding. I think Neil expresses w h a t w e , society, re­ press. O n so many levels, h e is trying to tell us w h o w e really are, w h e r e we really c o m e from—he's laying it o u t for us, a n d h e m a k e s us remember. So h e is m u c h closer to the truth than anything we d o o f the day." "I didn't mean for it to b e controversial," G a i m a n explains b a c k in his suite, taking a sip o f his Royalton martini. (A specialty o f the hotel bar, it's blue.) "It" (A Game of You), he suspects, has polarized readers by (a)

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introducing lesbians, abordon, and transgendered folk into the hermeti­ cally sealed world of fantasy comics with (b) a story that's as much about unfulfilled wishes as it is about the shallowness of the social roles we play and the dream roles we want. "Tn dreams begin responsibilities,' Yeats is said to've written; that's largely what this has been about." Neil frowns ir­ ritably, and continues: "Untethered to reality, what passes for popular fantasy has really gone soft—by which I mean, become useless in our daily lives." Then what does he make of the fact that Sandman's most be­ loved character is Dream's older sister, Death—a cocky punkette who comes off as the ultimate veejay in a recent DC Comics AIDS educational insert Gaiman wrote? "Well, she's the only character in the series that's totally self-aware, that totally accepts who she is and what the conse­ quences of that are; I think that kind of acceptance makes one all the more vivid." Roles, acceptance, responsibility, dreams—Sandman's practically a cel­ ebration of Gaiman obsessions. That's probably why Neil seems to es­ chew the inevitable commercialism surrounding the series. There are posters and statuettes, a Death watch; we'll probably see a Despair mug soon and Delirium 3-D glasses. Neil manages a wan grimace when in­ formed an MTV Top 20 Countdown was hosted by a guy sporting a Sand­ man T-shirt throughout. It's funny, because Gaiman openly idolizes his personal heroes (most notably Lou Reed), yet he can't make the leap to­ ward people's idolizing him. We watched, a few nights before our interview, as Gaiman ran into a Lower Manhattan performance space to give a reading of one of his prose pieces, straight from the airport on a snowy evening. He tore off his leather jacket, yanked off a heavy black sweater—then put the jacket back on, with sunglasses—and read. And that's when we finally under­ stood: For Neil, rather than an affected gesture toward image-building, wearing a leather jacket is the closest he gets to a security blanket. — New York City March J 9 9 3

Miracleman (Book Four, The Golden Age) If you read the previous three Miracleman collections, you probably felt like me. Where could things possibly go? Their inspired writer, Alan

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Moore, had upped the ante so far—cleverly, skillfully, and with a writerly craft at once consummate and daring—that surely now it had to be a downhill plummet and plunge. The swing and glitter, of words, images, and plot-strands, that led us through Nemesis to Olympus—how could you ask anybody to follow the act writer Moore and artist Totleben had just pulled off? You do it, of course, by passing the torch on to a writer with the same distaste for the formulaic and the easily fashionable. You do it by getting an artist with the deftness of touch, the suggestive line, and the range of textures of Mark Buckingham. You do it by getting writer Neil Gaiman— Let me pause: Gaiman is one of two writers (yes, the other is Moore) who has done more to change the idea of what comics are and can be, among that strange and anomalous group, serious and informed comics readers, than anyone since . . . well, certainly since I started reading them in the 1940s. I've loved them since I discovered them; and in the sixdes and seventies I was quick to say I thought you could do things in comics that could be done in no other medium; that as an esthetic form, comics were irreplaceable—not always that popular an opinion. How have Gaiman and Moore changed the concept of the comics? Steve Gerber says in his introduction to Miracleman, Book One: "Com­ ics are a visual as well as literary medium, of course . . . " But not so very long ago I would have argued with that. For me, till recently, comics were a visual medium—period. As far as I was concerned, in comics the writer worked forthe artist. Sometimes the writer's job (I felt) was to inspire the artist. Sometimes it was to give words to the artist's vision. Sometimes it was to provide a story if a talented artist didn't happen to have one just then. But it was still the artist's game. When, occasionally, I wrote them, that's the way I wrote comics. That's the way I looked at comics. And that's how I conceived of and criticized comics. I'd even gone so far as to say that comics were fundamentally to be looked ai—rather than read. You looked at the panels—in a given order. You looked at the words—and took in what they said. But people who read comics were basically as misguided, I felt, as people who went to see an opera. No matter how lavish the production, you still go to hear an opera. And if you do go to see an opera, you're bound to be disappointed by what you see. The soprano will be too fat. The tenor will be too old. And while the words—and the stage directions—make it perfectly clear that the heroine is supposed to leap on the back of her horse, grab up a burning torch, ride to the funeral pyre, spur the horse to leap into it, light it, and as the flames rise up, she, the horse, and the corpse of her

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lover are all finally consumed, what you see is a rather heavy woman in a white shift, who, after her final D-flat, picks up a torch and walks hur­ riedly off the stage. Who wouldn't be disappointed? But if you're willing basically to hear. .. I was sure it was the same with comics. To grab the glory of this soar­ ing medium, you looked—and read only in the interstices of looking. Certainly, there had been important comic book writers. Still, there was always a sense that what made a comics writer important was that the writer could lead artists to where they'd really wanted to go all along. And then—into the world of commercial comics—came Moore, fol­ lowed by Gaiman. And for the first time, I found myself deeply, consis­ tently, intensely interested in these comic book writers as writers. With that interest came a revision in the idea of what comics could be: They could be written—written not just adequately, not just in a clear and coherent manner, more or less adequate to the more or less brilliant vis­ uals. The writing could be brilliant in itself. Here were writers who saw themselves with the range of language, from silence (and where earlier writers had struggled to keep the writing down to thirty-five words a panel, these writers were happy to have three, four, or five panels with no words at all) to song—the whole of language with which to put across their stories. And the stories themselves... ! Neil Gaiman's Sandman comic books—well, you all know them; and those of you who don't are going to learn about them soon. (I know the kind of people who read these introductions. You will.) Sandman is so far and above the most inventive and most human comic of the decade, I can simply and patently say that, eventually, everyone who loves comics will know it. Then, with his astonishing mythic sense, Gaiman took the age-old idea of Magic and, in four "prestige" format books, made it inter­ esting again by rigorously holding it up against the realest of real worlds. And in Miracleman, Book Four, The Golden Age, Gaiman has engineered the most delicate and touching tales of some half-dozen very human men and women (and children, and creatures that could only live in a children's storybook, I think. . .), all in a world where gods are real—sto­ ries of men and women who, once they come to terms with their past, can celebrate the possibilities of a glorious future. The last movement of the previous Miracleman book was a raging pan­ egyric, a dithyramb, a jeremiad dancing, hot and searing, right up off the sizzling griddle of language. There was no place to go—so Gaiman threw the whole machine into reverse. His six entwined tales here come like sapphires afloat on a super-cooled liquid, like shards of sea-ground

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glass, shadow-cooled; these understated stories almost hide their theme: For Miracleman is a book that is largely, generously, compassionately about mourning. Their diction is measured. The voices they speak with are real. The tales unfold like haiku. Their endings remain open, still breathing, alive. Their lambent characters, yearning both for bits of yes­ terday and portents of tomorrow, will linger with you long. What could possibly happen that was true and real in a world like Miracleworld? Go ahead: You have to ask it. But Gaiman goes so easily into that world, to overhear the after-love conversadon of a young man with memories of a meeting with divinity, or the indiscreet revelations a superbaby might make to her all-too-human mother, that, when the per­ formance is over, the reader can hardly remember why the task once seemed so daunting. We emerge from these six saying, rather, "But of course. Why didn't / think of that? The stories I've just watched and heard are real and right—and the way they've set me to thrill, though the vibrations may fade, they'll never wholly cease." And, friends, that takes a writer. —Amherst April 1992

III Skerries of the Dream When asked to introduce A Game of You, a Neil Gaimon Sandman series, the first thing I did was turn to the Oxford English Dictionary and look up "skerry," where I found: A rugged, insulated sea-rock or stretch of rocks, covered by the sea at high water or in stormy weather; a reef.

It's quite a resonant image, those distant, only partially visible solidities, now and again drowned in dreams—temporarily lost in them. Gaiman plays with it elegantly in the writing; and Shawn McManus (as do Doron, Talbot, and Woch) plays with it equally elegantly in the drawings. The Sandman is one of the most popular comics of our day—and pop­ ular with the oddest lot of people. We're all used to the idea of comic books resonating with elemental mythic patterns: the late lamented Superman, the currently thriving Batman, and Wonder Woman. But,

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when all is said and done, as such myths go, they're pretty brutal things. The Sandman, under the writerly direction of Neil Gaiman, does its work delicately, probing in areas where, often, we might not have even sus­ pected anything mythical lay. It explores always with an ironic cast to the lips. The eyes are narrowed. The approach is always skewed. Again and again, what it discovers shocks, chills, catches at the heart. It sends us to strange places, to the most distant shores of the imaginative, the mystical, to explore the stuff that can only be figured in dreams . . . Caiman's Game of You—this particular Sandman series—begins in the snow: Need we note that for the comics colorist, depicting snow requires the minimum amount of ink? Take a look: Color there is all but re­ stricted to the shading over the caption boxes. (And that color says: Look at the language in this tale . . .) What we have in the opening three pages is two streams of information, all but unconnected, one verbal, one visual. The visual one, by the bottom of the first page, has become shocking: a desiccated corpse . . . At the same time the words provide a strangely distanced, even ele­ gant, colloquy between speakers named Prinado and Luz about the Cuckoo, the Princess, and the Tantoblin—carrying us right past that shock, into the second page, toward a spot of black: a hole in the snow— a hole, a blackness, that grows larger and larger, till, by the bottom of page three, it engulfs the reader, filling its panel. Need we note that an all-black panel requires the most ink possible from the comics inker? (The only color there is restricted to the shading over the caption boxes: Look at the language . . .). But here two eyes blink in that darkness, to look, indeed, in the direction of the words . . . What's happening in this three-page prologue is that we are given two simultaneous worlds, as it were, both highly subjective, one represented by words, one represented by pictures. Both are highly formalized—the one represented by words through the deeply conventionalized diction associated with high fantasy, the one represented by pictures through the formal progression from white to black. Both contain violences. The shocks in one information stream—the starkly drawn ribs of the corpse at the bottom of page one, the verbal shock of "The Tantoblin will not come. I felt him die. The Black Guard found him in the night," even as they fall within the same panel—jar with one another; as we move our attention back and forth between one stream and the other, there is impingement, distortion, and interaction that all but obliterates the distinctions the formalities set in place. And that—in case you're wondering—in spite of the abstract language, is a description of what is going to go on all through the rest of A Game of You. It's our opening example of how the game will be played:

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Two worlds—and elements from each will constantly impinge, cross over, to shock and distort what goes on in the other. Also, we're going to get, just incidentally, a tale that covers just about the range of what comics can do—from panels almost pure white to pan­ els almost pure black. The way to become really frustrated with A Game of You is, however, to read one world as reality, the world of Barbie, Wanda, Hazel, and Fox­ glove, and one world as fantasy: the world of Prinado, Luz, Wilkinson, and the Cuckoo. If you try to read one as a simple allegory for the other—if you look to one for an extensional explanation of the other— you will not be a happy camper. Clive Barker, in his introduction to the penultimate Sandman collection, The Doll's House, noted that Gaiman's tales tend to take place not in a world where fantasy invades the real, but rather in what Barker called a "far more delirious" form: "In these narra­ tives, the whole world is haunted and mysterious. There is no solid status quo, only a series of relative realities, personal to each of the characters, any and all of which are frail, and subject to eruptions from other states and conditions." The visual shock that comes as the reader leaves page three of A Game of You to turn to page four—the transition from the snow-and-shadow world of the Land, where death is an ugly splatter of ink at the bottom of the page in the progression from white to black, to the sheer messiness of Barbie's room (a chaos of clothing and wall photos and rumpled bedding wholly organized around the sexuality of Barbie's buns) immediately suggests this is going to be a two-tiered fantasy, of the real and the imagined. But hold on to Barker's point. He's been there before . . . Consider: In the world that we—certainly—start to read as real, the sullen top-floor neighbor harbors a horde of malignant crows inside his rib cage; the quiet girl upstairs with the oversized glasses who drinks soy milk is hundreds of years old; here, it turns out, the moon cares whether or not you have a "y" chromosome, and punishes you accordingly. No, this is a fantasy world, too. The world of the Sandman comics finally takes its power from its in­ tense saturation of irony. Here, the Lord of all Dream has a smart-alec crow for a sidekick called Matthew who calls his boss "Boss." It's a world where a stuffed toy animal can scare an old homeless woman into a nearheart attack—or betray you to the point of death. In the Sandman a mourner draws the threads of a veil on her face in a restroom with an eyebrow pencil—and, because it's a comic book, we, the readers, can't tell the difference between it and a "real" veil—but all the characters can and comment on it constantly. ("What's that on your face?") It's a world where a "Wundabud" commercial (that's a brand of cotton swab) plays

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through a storm that all but destroys a neighborhood—in short, it's a world almost as heavily laced with ironies as our own. The key to this fantasy is Wanda's troubling death (alongside the death of the single black character in the tale) —which drew a whole host of very concerned ideological criticisms, when readers first encoun­ tered it in issue 3 6 , part 5 . (And, I confess, Hazel's ignorance of the me­ chanics of female reproduction seemed to me something one would be more likely to find in the suburban heartland, even at the center of Barbie's Florida childhood—rather than on the third floor of a Lower East Side tenement. But the same reading applies . . .) Wanda's initial biological sex is of the same visual status as the aforementioned ironic black mourner's veil at the final Kansas funeral: The biologically naive (Hazel), as well as the forces of religion (Thessaly) and the family (Alvin's) now and again speak about it. But we, the readers, just can't see it. (The veil is simply erased at the end . . .) And because the comics are a fundamentally visual medium, that ultimate invisibility may finally be the strongest statement the story has to make about the topic to the common (comics) reader. It seems to me, as I was saying, that the key to this partic­ ular fantasy world is precisely that it is a fantasy world where the natural forces, stated and unstated, whether of myth or of chance, enforce the dominant ideology we've got around us today, no matter what. (The dominant ideology is the collection of rules and regulations that in­ cludes, among many other things, the one that says that in popular nar­ ratives, like the Dirty Harry films, say, all the members of oppressed groups, blacks, women, Asians, gays, or what have you, have to be killed off at the end, no matter how good and noble they are—so that we can feel sorry for them, then forget about them. The dominant ideology is what's challenged by, among many other things, something like the ACTUP slogan: "We're here. We're queer. We won't go 'way! Get used to us!") Making the supernatural forces in the tale the enforcers of the domi­ nant ideology is what makes it a fantasy—and a rather nasty one at that. And it remains just a nasty fantasy unless, in our reading of it, we can find some irony, something that subverts it, something that resists that fantasy, an array of details that turns the simple acceptance of that ideol­ ogy into a problem—problematizes it, in Lit. Crit.-ese. But, as we said, al­ most everything in the Sandman has its richness, its ironic spin. I'll men­ tion a couple. But look for more. They're there. Taking the time to tease such subtleties out (and the problem with political readings is precisely that the large and general tend to overwhelm the subtle and specific) makes us stronger readers in the end, not because it makes us «ccM.se such political patterns, but because we have to become even more sensitive to them, if we are to see how they are affected by the subtleties (which are,

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themselves, just as political). In life, it will be the subtleties that start to wear away at the major social patterns of oppression, after all. It's the range of subtle subversions that set them up for the big changes that come by as better legislation, economic freedoms, and their material like. (Notice when major social changes are finally legislated and formal­ ized, they tend to surprise everyone except those who were paying atten­ tion to the details. That's why, in life and on the page, specific details are a good thing to pay attention to.) Just as George's death (he will be called back to speak by Thessaly) will mirror Wilkinson's death (he will be called back to speak by Thes­ saly), Wanda's death at the end mirrors the Tantoblin's death at the be­ ginning. What—? You don't know what sort of a goblin a Tantoblin is? Well, neither do I. What's more, the OED won't help us: A tantoblin (or tantadlin) is a fruit tart, or a lump of excrement. (And a "tanton" is an inmate of a hospital dedicated to St. Anthony . . .) The point is, as is made explicit in the dream in part 1, Wanda doesn't really know who she is either. And since this has seldom been the problem of most of the would-be transgendered men and women of my acquaintance (if any­ thing, it's quite the opposite), it's simply one more thing that weights the reading of this particular dream world toward a mode of the fantastic. The question that A Game of You puts is: Given a fantasy world in which, among other things, the dominant ideology is not socially con­ structed but is rather enforced by the transcendental order of nature, what will happen when an even wilder and more delirious order of fan­ tasy is let loose in it? It's a reasonable question, because, as we all know ( 1 ) people like Wanda's family, whom we will meet in part 6 , are quite convinced that God is precisely what keeps the dominant ideology in place and working, and (2) sometimes very bad things do happen to otherwise very nice, even heroic, people—like Wanda. So the tale is not without its relevance. What is to be done? For one, Barbie will be restricted to a nominal rebellion—which, per­ haps, doesn't seem like much. The first rain will obliterate it, and likely no one in Kansas will ever know. But the idea of the nominal (in name only, having to do with names) is a big factor in A Game of You. While a name is always something you can choose, it only functions socially as long as / call you by it. (And try calling people names that they don't choose to be called by, if you want to see some real social unrest.) The power to choose one's own name is finally the major playing piece in the power game with which the story closes. But let's look for a moment at another instance of parental naming in

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the story. Here's Wilkinson on his family's naming practices, during the journey through the Land, in part 4: I loved bein' a kid. I was one of seventeen children. We were all named Wil­ kinson—I suppose it was roughest on the girls, but we all got used to it in the end. I blame the parents, really . . . I would have liked to've bin an only child. That way when someone shouts Wilkinson, you know if it's you or not. Mustn't grumble. Our parents were the salt of the earth. Lovely people. It was just when they found a name they liked, they stuck with it.

In short, the Land is a fantasy world where there is no necessary distinc­ tion between male and female names for children—but, apparently, par­ ents are just as sticky about preserving the name they pick as Wanda's parents turn out to be in part 6. What we have here is an interesting satir­ ical commentary, given in advance, on the closing moves of the game. (We won't even speculate on what prompted Barbie's parents to name her. . . And when she got together with her disastrous ex-boyfriend Ken, wasn't that just too cute? . . .) This is not to say that life in the Land is all skittles and Courvoisier. The god the Land is sacred to is "Murphy," which, before we find out his real name, suggests nothing so much as the Murphy of Murphy's Law—that most pessimistic of observations on the Human Condition: "Anything that possibly can go wrong, will." But there're other interesting correspondences between the two lev­ els of fantasy. Take the idea of "cute." In Gaiman's fantasy New York, "cute" is Hazel and Foxglove's "cute frog mug" in which Wanda, utterly against all her own social and aes­ thetic leanings ("This?" she says to George, passing him on the stairs. "Oh, don't worry. It's not my cute frog mug. I'm carrying it for a friend"), must take the milk down for Barbie's coffee. In the Land, however, being "cute" is the very survival mechanism of the Cuckoo—the principle of evil. Says the Cuckoo to Barbie, in their part five encounter: "I've got a right to live, haven't I? And to be happy? . . . And I'm awful sweet, aren't I? I'm awful cute." And Barbie's capitula­ tion comes with the admission: "You're . . . cute . . . as a . . . button." From here, if we turn back to Wanda's encounter in part one with George on the stairs—George, with his crows, is, after all, an agent of the Cuckoo (who, once again, survives because the cute, the kitschy, the aesthetically impoverished and hopelessly sentimental hide her murderous impulses toward the stuff of fantasy that she appropriates by moving into the fan­ tasies of others) —suddenly that encounter is given a second-reading res­ onance, a resonance, finally, essential to what Gaiman, I suspect, is all about in his Sandman stories . . .

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For all we can get out of a careful rereading of Gaiman, the immedi­ ate pleasures of these stories to the first-time reader are many. It's the rare reader who does not respond to Gaiman's imaginative breadth, coupled with his simple accuracy of observation. The guarded caring with which his characters live with one another ("Don't take too much," Hazel warns Wanda, giving her the milk for Barbie's coffee) is comic and winning—and, of course, wholly recognizable. But this is a largely linear, melodic pleasure. There is also, however, a harmonic pleasure that accrues as detail resonates with detail. It is a pleasure that increases with careful, multiple readings. It is what makes these stories, in a word, art. Gaiman's delirious world is held together always by reladonships. Nor is his a world of relationships between fixed, solid egos, sure of them"selves" and clear in their "identity." Each of those relationships, no mat­ ter how positive, always has its moment of real anxiety—what relation­ ship doesn't? And all of Gaiman's selves are split, if not deliriously shattered. What he has to say about those relationships is what makes him an artist particularly interesting to our time. The Game of You is, after all, not the Game of I. (That's the "me-first" game—most of us know it only too well—where what /want is wholly above all other consid­ erations and has to be pursued at any cost to anyone else.) It seems to me what Gaiman is saying, with the help of the artists who draw the pictures, is that, in the rich, complex, and socially constructed world around us, you cannot ultimately be what—or who—you want to be without some support from me. Wanda supports Barbie at the beginning of the story. At the end of the story, even though posthumously, Barbie supports Wanda. The element of death, however, makes it a much darker tale than that simple and rather Pollyannaish reduction presupposes. We're not talking simple altruism here. We're talking about some­ thing much deeper, that allows individuals to exist; we're talking about the hidden, shifting, undersea reefs on which every individual s t a n d s rocks that so rarely show clear above the tides of illusion and desire. That's the support we mean, and it always begins in something outside the self. Gaiman is also saying that, because of death—even a fantasy death that allows articulation and information to come from beyond its bor­ ders, when magicked up by a centuries-old moon witch—no one can win the Game of I. Wanda cannot win it. Barbie cannot win it. (Morpheus tells Thessaly that, for all her longevity, she cannot win it either: Take a look at the various "immortals'" deaths in Gaiman's more recent Sand­ man series, brief lives . . .) Nor will I. Nor will you. (Also take a look at Gaiman's moving meditation on the last days of an artist, in his powerful

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work with Dave McKean, Signal to Noise.) Thus, for Gaiman, A Game of You is the only game worth playing—because it is the only game where, in the end, there's any chance of coming out ahead. Even if one wins only by a name written on a stone that will wash away with the next shower, at least that allows something to persist in mem­ ory—and thus may lead to something else. But without even the name preserved momentarily in the real world by real action (and here, as I hope we can see, "real" is not the catch-all antonym for fantasy but rather a specific synonym for the political—as it is whenever it's used intelli­ gently), there's no hope at all. Gaiman shows us the most marginal win possible in A Game of You. But it's still won by moments, however small, of real social bravery. Arid that's what, at the end of A Game of You, Gaiman portrays. Thus, in a fantasy world whose tragedies are not real (i.e., not political) but are, nevertheless through that fantasy, deeply recognizable (and readable in any number of real ways), he has given us a triumph. —Amherst January iy, 1993

19

A Tribute to Judith Merril

This piece was read at the tribute to Judith Merril, sponsored by the Harbourfront Festival of Authors, held at the premiere Dance Theater at 8:00 p.m., on Thursday, October 15, 1992, in Toronto. Other speakers that night in Merril's honor were John Robert Columbo, Katherine MacLean, Elisabeth Vonarburg, Frederik Pohl, Pierre Berton, Spider Robinson, and Michael Moorcock. The Trib­ ute was hosted by Greg Gatenby. It concluded with an interview of Merril by Susan Crean. Judith Merril died in September 1997.

Traditionally, "tribute" is what we pay to those who have conquered. And in the case of art, such conquest is presumed a happy thing. The first works by Judy I read—and they wholly conquered me—were Gunner Cade ( 1 9 5 2 ) and OutpostMars ( 1 9 5 2 ) , which Judy wrote in collab­ oration with Cyril Kornbluth under their collaborative pseudonym, Cyril Judd. Brutal and authority-fixated Cade's transformation, as he learns compassion, to understand human rights and a higher sense of ethics, was as powerful to me as a thirteen-year-old reader as anything I'd read. Then an adolescent friend, more aware of the workings of the science fiction world than I, explained to me that Cyril Judd was, indeed, a shared pen name. Immediately I hunted up stories by both writers. I found them. And I didn't like them—what thirteen-year-old reader would? For both writers, on their own, were working in the front rank of the genre, producing the most mature and measured work—and in Kornbluth's case, the most mordantly satirical work as well—of the day. I was, after all, only thirteen. When I came back to Merril's stories, however, as a reader on the slightly saner side of twenty-one, I began to see how extraordinary these stories were and how much—especially Merril's, for all their imaginative material—they clung to the nuance and articulation of the real and rec­ ognizable world.

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For Merril's science fiction purposely eschewed the luxuriant exotica promising the adolescent mind the longed-for, and often needed, es­ cape for which science fiction is so notorious. Rather, here was a progres­ sion of sentences as clean and as balanced as sentences could be in the English of that decade, totally dedicated to the precise evocation of their object. And they were welded together into deeply wise stories, like "Peeping Tom" ( 1 9 5 4 ) , and into wonderfully moving ones, like "Dead Center" ( 1 9 5 4 ) . James James Morrison Morrison Weatherbee George Dupree Took great care of his mother, though he was only three.

My own mother had read me that A. A. Milne poem many, many times; perhaps there was no way I could fail to identify, then, with six-year-old Toby, the bright, articulate child who views the desperate action around his father, the stranded astronaut Jock Kruger, and his mother, the engi­ neer, Ruth. But I point out that when it was first published, "Dead Center" was chosen for the prestigious Martha Foley Best Short Stories of 1954 an­ thology—the only story from the science fiction community to be so hon­ ored. I reread the tale last night. Its accuracy and its orchestration sounded out as truly and as tragically as they did in the year of its writing. Some time later, Merril would begin a glitteringly incisive essay on the SF writer Theodore Sturgeon, with the ringing constative: "The man has style. . . . " But one need only read a page of that same essay, or, indeed, practi­ cally any of her other works to realize (as an English friend of mine put it when, to his delight, I first passed him the piece) : "So has the lady. . . . " For Merril was reconquering me—like a general who, having swept the land in one direction, sweeps back, securing this or that stronghold on the way, reinforcing this or that border. Many people have written about science fiction. But few have written about it as continuously and as intelligently as Merril. Because we are writers, our major life experiences are often caught between the covers of a book. It was my first visit to the Milford Science Fiction Conference (which Merril helped found, with writers Damon Knight and James Blish). Gra­ cious and generous Kate Wilhelm had let me sleep in one of the empty rooms occupied during the school year by one of her adolescent sons, on the top floor of the cavernous Anchorage where the conferences then met. My first afternoon I had walked into the workshop and found myself confronted by more of my fellow SF practitioners than I'd ever realized could occupy a single room. But now both the workshop and the socializ­ ing were over. And I was attempting to get to sleep—and, with the excite-

A Tribute to Judith Merril 3 7 5 ment of the day, finding it impossible. That year, Merril was not in atten­ dance at the conference—perhaps the only disappointment for me to that extraordinary week. But now I decided, as so many sleepless readers, sleepless writers have done, to step outside and find myself a book. On a hall shelf, I saw a row of volumes—the Merril Year's Best Science Fiction anthologies, unto the first paperback. I was familiar with them— had read in one or two before. Now I pulled one out at random—then two more—and went back to my room. The Year's Best anthologies were extraordinary. That the selection of the stories was excellent and imagi­ native goes without saying. But science fiction, in those years, was a genre with almost no historiography. So Merril had taken it upon herself to create one. The stories were embedded in commentary, forward and be­ hind. These mini-essays were accounts of current politics, science, and the ways the stories responded to both. And that night, somewhat to my surprise, I—among all those writers who prided themselves on never reading an introduction before reading the book—found myself read­ ing along through Merril's commentary to the tales, first to last. Then I was back in the hallway to get more volumes. I read no fiction that night. But I read the introductions and the commentary and the conclusions from all eight volumes published to that date. When I'd fin­ ished, outside the screen window beyond the maple leaves the Septem­ ber sky had gone from black to indigo. But as I finally drifted off, I did so with the troubling realization that, before I had gone through this mate­ rial, even though I'd had been reading science fiction since I was a child, even though I'd now published a handful of novels in the genre, I simply had not known anything of my genre's history and present reality. And now I did. What's more, as I have written many times, and told many students who have come to me to learn about science fiction, and will repeat here: Without reading that meticulously wrought, incredibly economic, and brilliantly ranging commentary from those volumes there is no way to know the genre for those years. A few years later, when I'd met Judy, and we'd become friends, I dropped in on her at the hotel where, with her young then-secretary James Sallis, she was working on the notes to what would be the last of those anthologies, SF-12. There I got some idea of the endless succession of eighteen- and twenty-hour days that went into the commentary for those volumes. Merril's criticism of the genre has not been collected. And that means we, who still work in that genre, do so more or less blind to a whole aspect of our history and our reality. And I cannot say how much I hope that lack will be soon mended. As a writer, Judy had to struggle under one of the greatest curses that can befall you. From time to time she balked at it. More often, she

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accepted it with humorous goodwill. But let me interject here that when I was taking the local transport service to Bradley Airport this morning to be here in Toronto tonight, I found myself sitting next to a professor far better known in academia than I shall ever be, who explained during our polite converse that she was teaching a course on women and the body. When, to her friendly inquiry as to what I did, I told her I wrote science fiction, she told me: "We use some science fiction in my course." "Judith Merril's 'That Only a Mother'?" I asked. "Why, yes!" she said. "However did you know?" For—despite the critical approbation of Merril's later works and the fact that, inarguably, other stories have out­ stripped it in art, imaginative strength, and insight—her first-sold sci­ ence fiction tale, "That Only a Mother" ( 1 9 4 7 ) , became an instant clas­ sic. It was, and probably still is with some readers, her best-known piece—though the upsurge of feminist interest during the seventies and eighties has thrown a warm and luminous light over those longer and richer tales such as "Daughters of Earth" and "Shrine of Temptation." And that's something those of us who love her work can only welcome. Still, the encounter with Professor Daphne Patai this morning struck me as the fondest of ironies and, at once, only fitting it should take place as I was on my way to this happy, happy tribute. As you might gather, I have been deeply lucky in that Judith Merril, the name on the spine of the anthologies, the name on the early novel and collection of her own stories, Shadow on the Hearth and The Tomorrow People, somehow made the transition—one I've found again and again astonishing—to my friend, Judy. It's my critical position that the best science fiction has import far be­ yond the borders of the genre—or of the ghetto, as it's sometimes styled—even while a rich and informed reading of it requires a deal of understanding of what life in the ghetto is all about. Merril's fiction is inchoate to the extra-generic import the best sci­ ence fiction has established, as her criticism sustains the possibility of a sophisticated access to the genre's richness. Merril's work after her science fiction and science fiction criticism ex­ panded to an astute exploration throughout society and technology. Two years ago, she came to the University of Massachusetts where she gave the best-attended talk in the Comparative Literature Department we had ever sponsored, on the concept of Gaia and world-ecological consciousness. I am conquered and—yes—happily so. Judy—thank you! — Toronto 1992

20

Michael Perkins' Evil Companions

Evil Companions is a meticulous miracle of language and observation— an energetic and idiosyncratic vision of the interface between sex, pain, and the quotidian day-to-day of what, at the time it was written, would have been called "bohemian life": the lives of young writers, poets, ac­ tors, and people who liked their company, living out of each other's pockets—in which there was seldom more than loose change anyway. But it can also be argued that this slim, intense volume, which first ap­ peared from Essex House in November 1 9 6 8 (while its twenty-five-yearold writer was in the hospital, recovering from a stab wound in the stom­ ach sustained at an October party in a small East Village bookstore . . .), is a roadmark at the terminus of an extraordinary moment in history—a document lucid in its imaginative presentation of what had gone before, indispensable for an understanding of what would come after, in that odd phenomenon usually called the Sexual Revolution. Michael Perkins grew up in Portsmouth, Ohio, a small town overlook­ ing the Ohio River into Kentucky. His first wife, the talented painter Renie Perkins, was from Dayton, where the two met. For five years they had been living in New York. Renie was expecting their second child in months. The 1960s, when Evil Companions was written—the decade of "loveins," "flower-power," and the Beatles—was paradoxically a decade of ex­ traordinary political violence. The country was at war in Vietnam—and many of our population were furious about it. The decade had been ushered in with a handful of political assassinations, most notably those of black leader Medgar Evers and President John Fitzgerald Kennedy. And in the young couple's St. Marks Place apartment, Michael began the novel—his first—in early March 1968. On the mild Thursday evening of April 4th, moments before seven

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o'clock, black men and women rushed out into and through the city streets, uptown and down, stopping others to declare, shocked: "Martin Luther King's been killed . . . !" And at four minutes after seven, the first TV and radio reports confirmed what had been phoned across the coun­ try from around the Loraine Motel in Memphis, where the shoodng had occurred on the balcony outside room 3 0 6 near six o'clock, and from around St. Joseph's Hospital, where King was pronounced dead at seven, in an amazing web of phone calls to all and sundry. Soon black students were sitting in at New York City's Columbia Uni­ versity to protest both James Earl Ray's assassination of the Nobel Peace Prize-winning leader and their university's racist admission policies. White students joined them. Then, on a mid-April night, a police at­ tempt to end the student demonstration turned into a long night of beatings, brutalities, and riots—broadcast live over WBAI-FM to millions of New York City listeners till five o'clock in the morning. The broadcast was the result of an accident that began when, shortly after nine o'clock at night, the police jammed the Columbia University Radio Station, which the protesters had been using to organize their now campuswide activities. With the communications center out, the police had hoped the demonstrations would fall apart. But the protesters phoned 'BAI, which volunteered its services to them. Thus, when the police became vi­ olent, in millions of apartments throughout the city and environs, peo­ ple heard students phoning in descriptions of the beatings going on around them, heard the thud of clubs on bodies and the screams of pro­ testers, heard the hooves of a police horse smash through the glass walls of a phone booth, from which a young man was trying to describe the mayhem outside it—and the phone go dead. Moments later another phoned-in description from another part of the campus began. It went on like that for hours. Violence was still going on after one. Live reports still emphasized the tension and fear that covered the campus after three. At five in the morning, having stayed on the air several hours beyond its usual shut-off time, WBAI-FM finally closed down for the night, leaving millions of numbed listeners questioning what exactly could have caused this in a land that vouchsafed political freedom and freedom of speech. And when, a few hours later—many people did not go to sleep at all that night—the seven A.M. news on the commercial stations around the city reported, "There was some trouble among the protesters up at Co­ lumbia University last night. But police had everything under control by nine-thirty . . . ," one felt the combined bewilderment and outrage of a character in a Kafkaesque dream from which there could be no awakening. Between a week and two weeks on, Perkins finished his first draft of

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Evil Companions—on April 2 1 . (By then there were student demonstrations in sympathy with the Columbia students all over the country—all over the world.) Sixteen days later, on May 7 , he mailed the manuscript off to his editor, Brian Kirby, at California's Essex House. It was probably sometime in mid- or late May that I first met Michael (in that month, across the sea in France, the violence in New York in April had now, along with developments in Tunis, generated a sympathy strike among French students, joined there by workers, whose own violences and glories have gone down in history ever since as "May '68"). As two local writers in the East Village, we were introduced in the recendy opened Earley by the Park bookstore by the owner Jack Earley, who was also Michael's brother-in-law. Michael was a tall, lanky young man with a roundish face and a soft-spokèn manner. At the time, I didn't know that he had already edited the magazine Down Here, which had been the first U.S. publisher of Guillaume Apollinaire's surreal erotic masterpiece, The Debauched Hospodar. At our introduction, we smiled and made two minutes of pleasant conversation. Then one or the other of us went on his way. Sometime in the same weeks, I recall coming home from dinner on Sixth Street at comic book-writer Dennis O'Neils, and having to wait for twenty-odd minutes before the police let me cross Avenue B. When, finally, I and the half-dozen people waiting at the corner with me were allowed to hurry over, we had to hold ashcan covers over our heads, since neighborhood snipers on the roofs were hurling bricks into the street. On May 20, Renie delivered the couple's second daughter. Two weeks later, on the evening of June 4, Andy Warhol was shot by radical feminist Valerie Solanis—author of The S.C.U.M. Manifesto. Only two or three months before, Solanis had called Michael at his office at the small alternative publisher Croton Press, looking for a publisher for her book. Renie and Michael heard about her shooting of Warhol the morning of the fifth on the radio. Both of them recognized Solanis' name—and Renie mentioned that, had things gone differently, it might have been Michael who was shot. Michael went off to his main job—teaching remedial reading in a Catholic school in Brooklyn. That day, the Warhol incident filled the headlines of the city papers; the shooting was not fatal, but Warhol was hospitalized. And painter Renie, still in postpartum depression exacerbated both by the general climate of violence in the city and this most recent shooting of an artist, went into her studio and drank a can of turpentine. Taped to the window of Earley by the Park, Michael's sister left a handwritten note: Mike, Renies in Bellevue

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Perhaps another sentence suggested that things were under c o n t r o l Coming home early that afternoon, Michael went first to the Village to look in on the Croton Press office, then walked back to the East Side— to learn of Renie's condition through the note. He has no memory of the note's last line: The moment he read it, he ran first to his apartment, then to the hospital. Later that afternoon, I passed by the store, realized it was closed, saw the same note, and, unaware of what had happened, jotted down a men­ tion of it in myjournal for that month. Shortly after midnight the same day, Robert Francis Kennedy, who had announced his candidacy for president back on March 16 and who had just won the California primary (his fifth win out of six), finished up a speech in a Los Angeles hotel and was ushered out through the kitchen—where he was shot to death by a Jordanian, Sirhan Sirhan. Follow-up headlines on the Warhol shooting were wiped from the front pages of the nation's papers the next morning by the assassination of the late president's younger brother. Renie died at Bellevue Hospital the next day, June 7 . A widower now with two daughters, one not six weeks old, Michael signed the contracts for his novel three weeks later on June 28. My first encounter with the text of Evil Companions came some weeks after Renie's death. At this distance, my general recollection is that at least one reason Jack Earley arranged to have Michael read at the book­ store was to give him something to take his mind off the recent tragedy. Jack asked me to be a second reader with Michael. My then-wife, poet Marilyn Hacker, had recently returned from San Francisco and came with me that night. I read a section from my newest science fiction novel, Nova. And Michael read the extraordinary post-climactic chapter from Evil Companions, "Blood Country Explored." When the reading was over and the applause stopped (were there twelve people in the audience that night? there were certainly no more than eighteen), we broke up to fill paper cups from the gallon of Inglenook Chablis on the table beside the wall shelf: My memory is that for the first few minutes there was less talk than is usual on such occasions, as we recovered from the electric energy of Michael's chapter. The summer rolled over into warm autumn. And on September 9 , ed­ itor Brian Kirby sent a letter to Perkins from California: . . . And Evil Companions, believe it or not, is finally about to come out (in Oc­ tober) , with only very few emendations and an incredible cover by Leonor Fini. The attorney was impossible on this but I out-maneuvered him. His main objection was that it was too well written!

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Evil Companions did not come out till November. Between two and three weeks before copies were available, on October 1 9 , there was an­ other evening wine party at Earley by the Park. There'd been a dinner beforehand at Michael's house, with booze, pot, and peyote. A couple of people had brought their kids. Among those in the bookstore that night was a Ukrainian painter, who played the accordion—to which everyone, including Michael, was dancing. At about ten o'clock, from outside, came the sound of running feet and voices. Michael and Jack, with some of the others, went to the door to look. Some twenty or more Puerto Rican young men were coming down the street, some of them with base­ ball bats. Earley, who felt that he'd developed some rapport with the neighbor­ hood adolescents, some of whom were in the gang, started out—over Michael's restraining advice—to talk to them. Earley sported a short blond beard at the time and someone in the gang shouted: "Dirty hippie, look at his beard . . . ! " Just then the accordion player stumbled out in front of Jack—and went down with two baseball bats to the head. Earley got the next blow, and Michael grabbed him to protect him—to receive a knife in the side that cut through to his stomach. Describing it later, Mi­ chael wrote that it felt like "a soft punch." It was only when they were back in the store, with the accordion player lying in the corner, his skull seeping blood, that Michael realized he'd been stabbed. Children were crying, grown-ups were terrified, and the gang outside was throwing things at the store windows—till a window broke! Repeated calls to the police brought no response for more than an hour. At one point Michael went to the door and, shouting and brandishing a knife at the men now waidng across the street ("I was practically berserk," he described him­ self, at that point), he broke the last of the baiters up—as the ones with the baseball bats had moved on. Michael went to the hospital, where he was admitted—and was on the critical list at Bellevue for the next two weeks. An intern told him that it was only because he had eaten so little that day and had so much alcohol in his stomach that he lived. Michael still carries an eight-inch scar from that night. Novelist Donald Newlove lived next door to Earley by the Park: His novel The Painter Gabriel (McCall Publishing Company, New York, 1 9 7 0 ) contains a fictionalized but generally accurate account of that night's oc­ currences across Avenue B from the southeast corner of Tompkins Square. And Perkins himself wrote an article around it about a year-anda-half later. When, in November, copies of Evil Companions arrived in New York City (and I purchased my first of several, at Earley's bookstore—for soon

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the volume was one I was giving away with great enthusiasm to my friends), the writer was in the hospital, recovering. But Earley placed copies in one of the cracked-across bookstore windows, above a sign that declared, for the whole neighborhood to read: Perkins Lives!

I go into the violence, political and personal, surrounding the writing and publication of Evil Companions only to point out that the extreme vi­ olence informing the text itself has its correspondences both in the poli­ tics of the times—and in the life of the writer. The fundamental conceit of Evil Companions is simple: Suppose the new breed of pot-puffing, longhaired young people—beatniks or hip­ pies—really were as perverted and sexually dangerous as a hypostasized American middle class and working class then claimed to fear. . . . The book was written at a time when long hair and beards on men were far rarer than they are today—and usually confined to a single neighborhood of any given city. And anyone whose clothing or hair re­ flected that lifestyle often thought twice about the consequences of leav­ ing that neighborhood. The class divisions that made that aspect of the novel comprehensible in 1968 have, since, shifted decidedly—so that where one is most likely to see, say, long hair on men today is precisely in those working class ve­ nues that, in 1968, would have been the source of the imprecations shouted at the narrator in chapter 12: "Why don't you get a haircut?" "They ought to put him in a zoo!" "Hey, pussy face!" Still, the shifting of those social configurations leaves Perkins' specifically sexual vision, if anything, the more intense. Evil Companions takes its power from a combination of its milieu and its anger. The only place in the novel we must move the suspension of disbelief to a new order is in chapter 14, when the action leaves the East village for the House of the Surgeons on the Jersey Palisades. But its re­ turn in the next chapter to the milieu from which the novel takes its strengths registers like Antaeus once more setting foot upon the earth, more than making up for the brief defection. And the novel's finale, fit­ tingly enough on a train that travels to and from the city, is truly frighten­ ing—for those who have followed the book on a deeper level than that of a simple sexual picaresque. The anger in Evil Companions is always and unremittingly directed at the "self"—as a necessary stimulus to pleasure. Perkins—along with his narrator's mentor, Anne—never forgets that love is a sensation. Others of them include hunger, pain, and fear.

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One of the secondary messages of Evil Companions is that we may learn far more, far more clear-sightedly, about love by looking closely at these others. For it is among these that Perkins' lancet prose always probes for its models and metaphors. Perkins would go on to write many more erotic novels. The invention in them is constant. Their insights are many. All are shot through with sexual understanding and littered with brilliant passages. And in 1 9 7 6 Perkins would turn his many reviews and articles about contemporary American erotic writing into that extraordinary survey and critique, The Secret Record: Modern Erotic Literature, reprinted by Rhinoceros Books ( 1 9 9 2 ) . But there is a coherence and intensity to the first of them—Evil Companions—that makes its combination of observation and outrage (if the word existed, "inrage" would be the better term) a particularly pow­ erful amalgam. Evil Companions is a dark jewel on the erotic landscape that has contin­ ually drawn attention back on itself for twenty-five years now—and back to the astonishing and dangerous moments of its making. It is a book that again and again throws into question the boundary between fantasy and reality. ("[limitations," writes Perkins in chapter 8 , about a pair of would-be bikers, "if they fantasize enough, can overtake their originals in vital aspects.") A quarter of a century after the book's initial publica­ tion (for the Rhinoceros edition, the "very few emendations" have been put back), I don't doubt that this generation can still learn something from it—of the limits of pleasure, of fantasy, and the inextricable inter­ weaving of both with human pain. It may not be a pleasant lesson. But it is a powerful one. And throughout, that lesson is strangely, insistently, and vividly close to something we—now and again—must call the beautiful. — New York City August 1992

21

Now It's T i m e for Dale Peck

In a hundred-sixty-one chapters distributed among seventeen charac­ ters, fourteen of whom speak in first person, Now It's Time to Say Good-bye (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, New York, 1 9 9 8 ) , Dale Peck's third novel, de­ scribes a racially split Kansas town, by the end of which description, with lynchings and retribudve murders, we have a picture of Galatea (the town's white side)/Galatia (the black side) and have encountered at least one affecting love story between an effeminate black twelve-yearold, Reggie Packman, and a slightly older redneck sociopath, Lemoine Weibe (aka Ratboy). The affair ends two years later when, hustling at the Big M truckstop, the now sixteen-year-old Ratboy is brutally beaten and eventually dies. Some symmetrical development occurs: Fleeing urban AIDS, writer Colin Nieman and the twenty-year-old New York hustler he brings with him to Galatea, Justin Time, and local artist Wade Painter with his local lover (Reggie P. a few years on, now aka Divine), change partners after the town has traumatized both boys. When white teenager Lucy Robinson is raped and kidnapped, the town tries halfheartedly to pin the crime on Colin. Mysteries, arsons, and murders proliferate; and after a catastrophic Founders' Day picnic, the main question (who raped Reggie and Lucy and beat Jusdn into psychotic aphasia) resolves. Once, however, minister Greevin's daughter, Webbie, suggests out of the blue someone we've thought dead for the novel's first three hundred fifty-odd pages is alive, for the concluding hundred it's not much of a mystery. Now and again, however, Peck informs passages with impressive narrative life. If it all sounds satisfying, you may well like the book. I found it rough reading, however. Multiple viewpoints work in Faulkner's As I Lay Dying because Faulkner's fifteen narrators (at less than half the length!) aim their observations at one intense and human situation: Addie Bundren's protracted death. They don't work here be­ cause Peck's plot lolls over twenty years and as many major incidents

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(Eddy Comedy's murder, Noah's Ark's burning, Eric Johnson's lynching, Divine's suicide attempt, Webbie's flight to Wichita . . . etc.) till the shift­ ing viewpoints and narrative voices (from Reggie's jiving to Rosemary's Whartonesque periods to Justin's Fitzgerald-like detachment to Thelma's Faulknerian eruption; Peck is quite a stylistic ventriloquist) only disperse the focus. And because so many of our informants know so much, for all its mysteries Peck's novel is without suspense. A greater problem is, however, that, with plot enough for six novels, Peck's hasn't much structure: In the MEA programs that produce more and more of them, our novelists never seem to learn that the order in which they think up the incidents for their tales is not privileged or even, necessarily, interesting. If handled well, our learning about a character's history first can sensitize us to his or her latterly presented injury or pain, if that later injury is rendered meaningfully in terms of the history al­ ready given. But (numbed by the notion of the commercial "hook"? It's only a sign of genre and accomplishes nothing more) too many writers be­ lieve a violence that befalls an otherwise unknown character will subse­ quently interest us in that character's past life, when, if anything, the op­ posite is true: In a novel, a violent occurrence to a character armors us against further emotional involvement, despite anything of their former life we learn about them later. In brief, if I'm telling you about Joe's adult doings, and I realize things would make more sense with some back­ ground on Joe's upbringing, the fact that I (the writer) only noticed it then is no reason to put it next in the book. It was already a narrative problem when I noticed. It should be addressed in the text beforehand. Had we seen Myra's childhood relationship with Lucy before her daughter's abduction (instead of having those memories dragged in later, like the novelist's—not the character's—sentimental afterthoughts), Myra's subsequent breakdown would have felt to the reader as human as we all know it is. Had the fill-in narratives about Rosemary, Myra, and the Kenosha fire that produced Galatea's present-day tensions, along with the childhood tales of Eric and Lucy, all of which come in the final hun­ dred pages, been given us instead in the first hundred, the ending would have arrived with far greater narrative velocity—and that opening hun­ dred would have been lots more interesting. Though, for me, the Packman/Ratboy story was the book's emotional high point, it would have been even more affecting if the half-dozen-odd chapters devoted to it had arrived in chronological order (and in real time), rather than as a random set of disarranged flashbacks scattered throughout the text. Here, however, the mosaic form, rather than generating a clear and vivid pattern, only facilitates the author's telling us, when it occurs to him, what he should have told us fifty or a hundred-fifty or three hundred

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pages back. Succinctly: Peck is really a short story writer. His most suc­ cessful epiphanies have always been short-story epiphanies, not novelistic ones. His talent is enough to make one start looking for historical comparisons: Katherine Mansfield, Flannery O'Connor . . . Easily he could leave the novel alone—and lose the cutesy names. When Henry James used them in his early novels ("Isobel Archer," "Casper Good­ wood," "Henrietta Stackpole" . . .), it was a dying Victorian affectation. When William Gaddis parodied that affectation in The Recognitions ( 1 9 5 5 ) , with a literary agent named "Agnes Deigh" and an art critic named "Rectal Brown," it still conveyed a tint of wit by deploying a whiff of the outrageous. Peck's ("Rose Etta Stone," "Norman Never," 'Justin Time" . . .) don't work, because the characters themselves feel obliged to talk about how clever and wacky their names are (which neither Gaddis nor James would have even considered), knocking us out of the realm of suggestion and nuance by the undergraduate elbow in the ribs, to look, look, loohl—in case we'd somehow missed it. Genres, like genders, are to be bent—not mixed. The reason you don't have to mix them is because, as Derrida pointed out, in "The Law of Genre" (Parages, 1 9 8 6 ) , they are never pure in the first place. In terms of practical aesthetics, this means: You'll do better with a mystery that is so well written and cleverly structured it aspires to the level of literature than you will with a literary novel that again and again sinks to the absur­ dities of your average whodunit. One or two such absurdities may even be forgiven the former. The same one or two—not to mention d o z e n s cripple the latter. A skewly doofus humor sometimes surfaces among Peck's horrific happenings. A villainous redneck is eaten alive by pigs. Caught on the top of a forklift in a fire, a seven-hundred-pound mailman falls—twelve feet—to his death. Once Colin burns the retrieved manuscript of his previously stolen novel, Xerox after Xerox turns up and is subsequently presented to him, each copy read by more townspeople, each copy to be burned anew. Peck drags most of these comic/poetic turns in, however, by the seat of the pants. They just don't relate to each other or do any­ thing for the novel as a whole. Climaxes I felt should have been intensely dramatic (Justin's retreat from language; Colin and Johnson's encounter over the still living Lucy) are given in archly fay dialogue. The coy refer­ ences to Peck's earlier work were better omitted. Characters always arrive at the scene morally paralyzed, so that, unable to respond, repeatedly they fall victim to any ensuing violence. And while larger social motives abound, personal ones remain hazy. Peck's gay characters include (in Ratboy's words) only "faggots and fag­ got lovers," which finally seems a distressing parody of the most tragically

Now It's Time for Dale Peck 3 8 7 dimorphic heterosexuality—though, I must say here with undiluted praise, the extraordinary méditations from Justin and Divine on getting fucked are, both of them, each worth the price of admission. "People don't want to know the truth," says Sheriff Eustace Brown in the book's penultimate chapter. "They just want a explanation" (sic). Well, here are explanations a-plenty. Still, /said good-bye hungry for some richer ones with greater believability, stronger veracity, and placed more dramati­ cally: Why (just one possible example) would mailman Daniels want to read out Divine's letters to Ratboy over the megaphone at the town's an­ nual Founders' Day picnic if he hadn't read them already? And if he had, why didn't he just destroy them—since he's among the men the let­ ters incriminate? Some vivid set-pieces aside, for me, finally, things didn't cohere in any Satisfying novelistic shape—unless that was the point and, gazing at Peck's ironies with too long a face, I just missed it. — New York City April 1998

22

Othello in Brooklyn . . . let us admit that while Shakespeare was an Elizabe­ than playwright he was—and now is to us—predomi­ nantly something much more. Therefore we had better not too unquestioningly thrust him back within the con­ fines his genius has escaped, nor presume him to have felt the pettier confines of his theater sacrosanct. Nor can we turn Elizabethans as we watch the plays; and every mental effort to do so will subtract from our enjoyment of them. —Harley Granville-Barker, Prefaces to Shakespeare

Certainly the ultimate compliment to this small but energetic and inven­ tive production of Othello, which played through February at the Trian­ gle Theater at Brooklyn's Long Island University, was paid it by my volu­ ble thirteen-year-old. Having come with me to see the play once, when I was making ready to go for a second evening two days later, she came running up to me in our apartment hall and demanded, 'You mean I can't go see it again?" Well, she did see it again. And she enjoyed it very much. I'm sure, if we wanted, we could end this review right here and not feel we had slighted the play in the least. But critics will go on. Othello is a particularly straightforward play in Shakespeare's canon. While here and there it has its comic relief, such as the carryings-on of Brabantio before the duke, or the jesting of Iago, Desdemona, and Emilia as they wait at the dock for Othello to arrive in Cyprus, by and large Othello's tragic deception, which turns him from lover and general to murderer and suicide, moves at a dramatically breakneck clip. Donald Lee Taylor's Moor is emotionally clear and hugely committed. The play

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can easily turn into a monologue by Iago, interrupted by mere blurts from the other characters. It falls to the actor playing Othello to provide the difficult and complex weight that opens up the play and gives it bal­ ance. Mr. Taylor accomplishes this by means of some real actorly strengths: He can be truly charming on stage; he can be believably pained. And he is a very handsome man. But he also has a heavy West In­ dian accent that made many lines incomprehensible to an American au­ dience. If he wants to continue to do ambitious theater in the U.S., this is something he'll have to work on while acting here. His general stage skills and clear, strong talent suggest that this is a problem that will take only a little time and study to overcome. It would certainly be worth his while to invest them both. Richard Dent is one of the more technically accomplished actors in the cast. He plays Iago as a dauntingly nasty—and occasionally a really creepy—man. As my thirteen-year-old put it during the intermission, with a small shudder: "He isn't very nice at all\" Yet, because he is so good, that may be the reason I find myself want­ ing even more from him. I would have felt more comfortable if I'd had a greater sense of psychological "core" to the character—or, lacking that, if the absence of core itself had been the character's center. What does that mean? I'll return to it in a moment. In this production, Cassio is played with great sympathy, goodwill, and likability by John Duke. Blond, open-faced and openhearted, Duke also is the one in the cast (next to Alison Holt's winning and moving Desdemona) most capable of making his lines sound speakable in contempo­ rary accents. Indeed, the only thing I can chide him for is adding the odd line. I don't believe, "Iago did it!"—which Mr. Duke cried out in the final scene on both evenings that I saw the play—is either by Shakespeare or necessary! Other than that, he was a joy. I pose the following to throw light on what may (or may not) be a psychological problem that (only slightly!) mars this production—and that may also clarify what I mean by "core" when speaking of Mr. Dent's Iago. I never saw the following production. But it was once described to me in great detail by an older actor friend, who, himself, played Cassio in the Paul Robeson/Uta Hagen/José Ferrer Othello that electrified New York back in the late 1940s. In this particular production (not the Robeson production that my friend took part in), instead of the usual open-faced innocent he is traditionally portrayed as, Cassio was played by a blackhaired, weaselly young man, who acted him as a lecherous juvenile delin­ quent, always in trouble somewhere, who surprised us whenever he was not at the root of any problem that came up. In the same production,

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Iago was portrayed as the blond, open and aboveboard charactersteady, loyal, friendly, efficient, everyone's friend and confidant, the man all people trusted, the man no one would ever think was lying—but who just happened to cherish a tiny "core" (there's that word again) of unex­ plained, psychotic hatred for his boss. At the same time, while Desdemona was as innocent in fact as she is in traditional portrayals, neverthe­ less she was played as a hopeless flirt, a giggler and a tease, not only with Othello but with every guard, passing soldier, and visiting diplomat, so that the Moor had good reason to believe in his wife's infidelity, if only from her character—if not from the facts. "And what did you think of this approach?" I asked my friend. "Well," he said, "it was certainly a far more believable production than you usually get. It was more believable than we were, back on the stage of the Metropolitan. Iago, whose evil only came out in little psychotic ex­ plosions in an otherwise unruffled show of loyalty and goodwill, was par­ ticularly chilling. The problem with it, however, was what it did to Othello as a character. Much of what Othello comes to believe is already pretty unbelievable. But when everything is adjusted in the performance to give those beliefs a reasonable cause—what T. S. Eliot called an 'objec­ tive correlative'—Othello lost all his nobility and grandeur. He seemed, on that stage, like a complete dupe of circumstances—rather than one who had 'loved, not wisely, but too well.' Finally, it just didn't seem very interesting—and not at all noble or tragic." In this anecdote we have, if not a definition of "psychological core," at least a description of what having one accomplishes: believability. And we also have an indication in it of such a "core's" dangers. As it makes the characters more real, it makes them—especially the tragic heroes—less tragic, more pathetic. Believability and nobility. These are certainly the theatrical poles that pull us this way and that in any contemporary Shakespearean produc­ tion. Actorly and directorial inventions succeed or fail as they support now this one, now that. Part of the problem is, as Francis Barker has argued so convincingly in The Tremulous Private Body (New York: Methuen, 1 9 8 4 ) , that Shakespeare's world was one "of relentless surfaces, with­ out depth or mystery"—which is to say the whole notion of subjectivity, mental life, and psychological interiority, which is the space in which that "core" must be positioned by the actor (and which space today's actor is so busy making visible on the stage, screen, and tube), simply hadn't been formed to its present state when Shakespeare wrote—before the novel, before Freud. By lack of depth and mystery, Barker only means that characters in Shakespeare never ask each other, "How are you feeling?" "Are you all right?" "Do you really love me?" That is to say, in

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Shakespeare and his fellow dramatists, feelings are there; they are dis­ played; they are hidden; or they are—sometimes—lied about. But there is no essential mystery to a shimmering, slippery, uncertain concept of feelings themselves, a mystery there to be endlessly interrogated, as we have had since the nineteenth century and Romanticism, a mystery that has produced, among attempts to solve it, both psychoanalysis and most of modern narrative. This core, then, would manifest itself in an actor's performance as one, two, or a few carefully considered and repeated signs of personality in a field of largely open interpretive play—those fixed points having been left up to actor and director between them to choose. This "core" I am asking for in Iago is, Mr. Dent could easily argue, (first) just not there in the text and (second) inconceivable before the nineteenth century—the century that gave us Ibsen, Chekhov, and Freud, as well as Marxism, a score of Republican revolutions right after the War of 1812 through the Dresden Uprising and the Paris Commune, not to mention concepts of social reform and a personal relation of individual distrust of the social, of language, and of appearances that are the mod­ ern concept of subjectivity, the modern measures of "person-ality." Well, what is the actor—or the director—to do? Do we try to be Eliza­ bethans? Do we play the larger than life "characters" that Shakespeare wrote—which are, finally, for all their poetry, not very lifelike? Or do we add a specific "personality" (a missing "core," whether it leans in tradi­ tional or anti-traditional directions), a personality always smaller than the elevation, poetry, and grandeur of the text? It's arguable that putting the question thus, however real a question it is, just doesn't help the contemporary dramaturge who has to create per­ formances meaningful to modern actors and audiences. It obscures the fact that we miss the core, not because it belongs there, or is more "realis­ tic," or completes something Shakespeare left unfinished, but because it is simply one of the things that lets us recognize what's before us as thea­ ter. Well, then, let's take another—and perhaps more theatrical—tack. The nitty-gritty problems with contemporary productions of Shake­ speare are of two sorts. The first is simply the difficulty of making the language—which is the English (and the highly conventionalized poetic English) of four hundred years ago—make sense to a contemporary au­ dience. At almost all points the cast and the director in this production triumphed over this greatest hurdle. There were only two places where they failed. One was in the aforementioned comedy scene on the Cyprus dock. And all one can say there is that it is almost impossible to make such old jokes understandable, much less make them sparkle, without distorting things with so much business that one is really only disguising

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them. The other place where there seemed to be some problem was with Iago's famous "Put money in thy purse" speech to young, eager Roderigo. In this production, Roderigo (a whiny, white-haired, and pusillani­ mous Michael Skinner: Bravo!) has a transparent plastic pouch filled with blue marbles. Each time Iago tells him, "Put money in thy purse" (as he does some half dozen times during the scene), Roderigo takes out a marble or two and hands it to Iago, who pockets them. It's visually interesting. It certainly underlines the fact that Roderigo is paying off Iago to plead his cause with Desdemona. But in terms of what Iago is actually sayingat the moment ("Put money in thy purse"—not my purse), it's baf­ fling! And, I suspect, because of it, it's a dramatic miscalculation—or, as my otherwise enthusiastic daughter demanded of me after the show: "Why were they doing that, Daddy?" But despite these difficulties, the production was full of truly illumi­ nating invention. The Venetians wore white and transparent plastic, while the Cypriots came in colorful gym pants and print capes. When Iago prompted Roderigo to call up to Desdemona's father's window (father Brabantio was played with wonderful splutterings and ditherings by Tony Kish), Iago got behind him and maneuvered a surprised Rode­ rigo like a giant hand puppet! Bianca was played broadly and adroitly by Janet Geist as an actual—rather than a metaphorical—whore, which gave Cassio, who is indifferently in love with her, a complexity missing in most productions. Clown (a teenage juggler, Greame Sibirsky), Montano (Larry Walton), Lodovico (John Saxton), and the Duke (Joseph [Hussain] Syracuse) were played by actors who clearly ranged from excellent and experienced to new and enthusiastic. But each performed with con­ viction up to the level of his own obvious skill limits. (In the case of Syracuse's Duke, that's a skill with almost no limits to it at all!) In such a production, no one can ask for more. The second problem I spoke of is simply the one posed by contempo­ rary acting styles (or, perhaps more accurately, the contemporary audience's expectation of acting styles) brought about by the intimate "realism" of movies and TV. While Shakespeare's plays are full of psycho­ logical insights about the human condition, these insights are largely of­ fered as epigrams. Neither the plots nor the characters are particularly realistic or believable. And the moral center of his plays—in Macbeth, Lady Macbeth, in Hamlet, Fortinbras, and in Othello, Emilia—is seldom the dramatic center. The coincidence of dramatic center and moral cen­ ter is, of course, what we've come to expect of the well-crafted play after Ibsen. But because contemporary audiences find main characters thin when moral and dramatic problems do not dovetail in one person, we

Othello in Brooklyn 3 9 3 will always, in theaters today, sense a slight emptiness loose amidst all Shakespeare's rhetorical lushness and social range. This may be another reason why actors are so eager to fill up—or fill out—the character with a sense of modern psychological depth and space. It may be another reason why audiences require them. I have said Emilia is the moral center of Othello. Her unthinkingness in picking up the handkerchief and giving it to her husband brings on the tragedy; and her bravery alone is what reveals the final, ugly truth— and for her bravery, she is stabbed to death most cruelly by Iago. Barbara Wise played her with a wonderful alternation between naïveté and courage; she found just the right emotional directions in which to pitch her aging, somewhat flirtatious, but generally great-hearted Emilia, in order to make that moral centrality sound its proper, tragic note. If this were a play by Ibsen instead of by Shakespeare, it would have been called Emilia. If Emilia is the play's moral center, Desdemona is the play's spiritual center. In a world as distrustful of the spiritual as ours is, that's a very difficult position for any actress to command—which is to say, sweet, innocent, sympathetic heroines who die in the end are awfully hard to make come off as anything more than mawkish. Ms. Holt used her considerable sensitivity, in directions very different from her (equally fine) portrayal of Lucasta in last year's Confidential Clerk, to hold the play to shape, so that the good can appeal to her with expectations of true sympathy at the same time as the evil baffles her and finally destroys her. She had dignity. She had charm. And her love for Othello was convincing. It was a pleasure to watch her perform. But a consideration of the spiritual brings us to that problematic area again. Shakespeare's plays are poetry; they are artificial; they are declamatory; their notions of spirituality and nobility are largely foreign to us; and the style they use to convey those notions is elevated, extreme, gorgeous, and unusual. For all their psychological sensitivity, we must always remember neither their audience nor their author ever saw a psychological state portrayed—well or badly—by a movie close-up, or even by a news photograph of a mother weeping beside an apartment building fire, or in a black-and-white half-screen of the numb face of a bystander beside an industrial accident. With the exception of perhaps the upperincome ten percent, most of the audience had never even seen a painted portrait of another person: The Elizabethan age leaves us neither cartoons nor caricatures among its art works. (There were neither museums not art galleries in London at the time.) This means we are dealing with plays from an age when the simple representation of other persons,

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other places, other times and situations were, in themselves, new and exciting. But there were no audience demands on the richly costumed spectacles for either accuracy or nuance—at least as far as the visual went. Thus, situations perfectly acceptable to an Elizabethan audience simply "look wrong" to us again and again. So many of the assumptions Othello makes, for example, are so hopelessly over-hasty by modern standards that it's surprising just how much of the Elizabethan analysis of the machinery of jealousy does ring true. In an age when pictorial reproductions of one sort or another con­ front us during most of our public and private lives, postmodern acting is visual, down to the contortions of the facial muscles that create the unre­ alistic and overwrought speech patterns we have learned to hear today as "realistic" line readings: visually real speech—before everything else. What our actors try to convey today by the actorly craft of "showing the emotions" was all left up to the words by Shakespeare and his contempo­ raries—which may be why the Elizabethan period was a period of great poetry . . . and was also such an impoverished period for those arts ex­ hausted almost wholly by outline and ornament. It's doubtful any actor in an original production of Shakespeare (except the clowns) ever crouched, jumped, cringed, or staggered. What the actors most probably did was stand and declaim their lines very slowly, in something resem­ bling the heaviest of today's Scottish brogues, which is what linguists have more or less decided a middle-class London accent resembled during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. The swordfights were fought by (and watched by) people who had never stayed up late to see an Errol Flynn re-run—or gone off to a Rung Fu movie on Saturday morning. And the deaths were died by actors who did not feel, deep inside, that they had to do something to keep the audience from recalling the selfparodying excesses of nineteenth-century grand opera death scenes. This is not a reason in itself that our postmodern actor shouldn't leap about the set so entertainingly. It might, however, be a reason to find a postmodern "core" that lends itself to a more staid—and less athletic— visual presentation of actorly T i g h t n e s s and theatrical truth. If we did not mention Mary Alice Miller's glorious costuming of this production, we would be doing it a disservice. Shakespeare's plays were performed, at the Globe and the Blackfriars theaters, with elaborate cos­ tumes—and almost no scenery. This is, basically, how Ms. Belgrave has mounted her contemporary production. Wisely, there is nothing specifi­ cally Shakespearean about Ms. Miller's costumes. But they establish the necessary tension between a parade of brilliantly outlined and orna­ mented subjects and a shadowy background existing, finally, almost all in the mind's eye—a tension that was the visual reality to a Shakespearean

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spectacle at the time these plays were first written and produced. I con­ fess, I was phoned up a couple of times to make suggestions. And for it, I received generous billing as a "consultant." But Ms. Miller's costume re­ alizations are all far beyond anything I'd conceived of. Highest praises to you, Ms. M.! In his famous Prefaces to Shakespeare, which he began writing in the '20s (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1 9 4 6 ) , Harley Granville-Barker started to wrestle with the problems of producing theatrically vital Shakespeare on the post-Edwardian stage. Granville-Barker was a scholar and a man of the theater—actor, playwright, producer, director—at a time when English literature had only been taught at Oxford and Cam­ bridge for less than ten years, and when the actorly problems we've noted above had not been brought to their present pitch by movies and TV. But the precept I've taken from him to head this piece seems to me still very much to the point. Granville-Barker's larger point was that, while we should not try to imitate Elizabethan productions, we should know something about the Elizabethan world and how it—and its thea­ ter—worked, so that we can use contemporary theatrical practices to achieve a somewhat historically sensitive, if not a photographically simi­ lar, set of theatrical effects. It seems to me this is an idea Ms. Belgrave has followed very much in spirit. Without eschewing the contemporary demands for a nuanced psychology, she has allowed her directorial invention to shoot off in won­ derfully Brechtian and Artaudian directions. She's not afraid of the big gesture on the small stage, when it makes things clear. She brings the au­ dience in close, when her actors have found something at once intimate, meaningful, and appropriate to display. But when distancing effects are called for, she sets them out on the boards with energy and authority. This is wonderful theater. I can attest that this production has de­ lighted an audience from thirteen to eighty-three, inclusive. But wonder­ ful theater is what Shakespeare (and director Cynthia Belgrave!) has al­ ways been about. —New York City November 198 7

23

A Prefatory Notice to Vincent Czyz's Adrift in a Vanishing City

Like every one of the last three dozen MFA theses I've read, Adrift in a Vanishing City (Rutherford: Voyant Publishing, 1998) is neither a novel nor, really, a collection of stand-alone stories. Familiar characters— Zirque (rhymes with Jerk), Blue Jean, the Duke of Pallucca—disappear or are abandoned, reappear or are revisited tale to tale. But equally clearly these are not novel chapters. Our young writers seem unhappy with the strictures of both genres and are struggling to slough them. If you are a reader convinced of the irrevocable sociality of fiction, I warn you: By and large, the text won't linger on how characters manage to pay for their various flights from Pittsburg, Kansas, to Paris, France, from Kansas to Amsterdam, how most of them make their living, or even scrounge up change for the next pint of booze, not to mention make the rent on an apartment in Budapest—another trait writer Vincent Czyz shares with many of his contemporaries. In their conviction that the world's socioeconomic specificities are every self's necessarily distinctive background, neither Austen nor Flaubert, Knut Hamsun nor James Joyce, Virginia Woolf nor Henry Miller could have let such an omission by in their successive attempts to delve more and more deeply into some more and more highly foregrounded presentation of the subject. But the clash of micro-class and micro-class, macro-class and macro-class, that makes fiction interesting, or even useful, to the average Joe or Sue (not to mention to the commercial editors riding shotgun on the stop­ cock of the smoky trickle of confused tales—overplotted, understructured, and as incoherent and mixed in metaphor as the images within these parentheses, outside these dashes—throughout our Barnes & No­ bles, onto our Big Name bookstores' shelves) are simply not in focus on Czyz's screen. They are bracketed along with all notion of labor.

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If you feel art is an enterprise in which, when you have found an artist doing what every other artist is doing, you have necessarily found an art­ ist doing something wrong (yet another story or poem voicing its appeal to aesthetic distance in that artificial and so-easy sign of the literary, the present tense: Yawn... ), some of the elements—or absences—I've high­ lighted here, in a book such as this, might give you pause. What's extraordinary here, however, what recommends and finally makes such work more than commendable, what renders it a small land­ mark in the sedimentation of new form in fiction, is a quality of lan­ guage, a surface that signals that the structure of anything and every­ thing that surface evokes beyond it is simply other than what we have grown used to. Finally such a surface signs to the astute that the reduc­ tions our first three paragraphs suggest are, in this case, wildly off the mark. (Czyz is not an MFA product.) Such language as we find here pro­ jects an aesthetic conciousness, rather, it might be more profitable to read as interested in other things, and not as one merely slovenly, un­ thinking, or ignorant of the tradition. Nothing is careless about this writing at all. Poetry is about the self, as it is defined in the response to love, death, the changing of the seasons . . . However indirectiy, however mutedly, tra­ ditional fiction has always been about money. I could speak easily, and easily speak honestly about how much I admire Czyz's considerable talent, his fictive range, his willingness to plunge naked into the gutter, to leap after stellar contrails, his grasp of how ravenously one body grasps an­ other, or of how his impossible apostrophes out of the night are the nec­ essary utterances that make life possible, confronted with the silences of the day. But this is still a more or less rarefied, a more or less dramatic bit of lit. crit. It only becomes a recognizable "story" when I write that Vin­ cent Czyz is a longhaired, newly married taxi driver living in New Jersey, who wants to publish his first book and, as such, has sought my help—a gay, gray, pudgy professor with income tax problems, who commutes to work in Massachusetts by Peter Pan (cheaper than Amtrak), and who has published thirty books over as many years with various presses, commer­ cial and university. . . . But Czyz's are not traditional stories. Indeed, they are part of a counterfictive tradition that attempts to appropriate pre­ cisely the substance of poetry for prose: Novalis's Heinrich von Ofterdingen (1802), Rilke's Die Aufzeichnungen des Malte Laurids Brigge ( 1 9 1 0 ) , Toomer's Cane ( 1 9 2 3 ) , Keene's Annotations ( 1 9 9 5 ) . . . . Average Joes and Sues are just not Czyz's concern. He's fixed his finger, rather, on yearn­ ingly romantic figures who combine rough American—or foreigntinted—dialect with pristine insight; men and women who, clawing at the evanescent tapestry of perception as it unravels madly from the loom of

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day, are as concerned with myth and cosmology as they are with moment and the night, and who now and again have more consonants in their names than vowels, many of those names not commencing till the termi­ nal handful of letters flung from the alphabet. . . . Though they fixate on indirectly answering just such questions as Czyz here sets aside, not Proust, not Musil, not Ford of Parades End or The Fifth Queen is "easy read­ ing" either; and finally for much the same surface reasons. Though the sexuality is more or less normal, the poedc method is closer to Genet's— another writer whose novels tends to ignore those grounding questions, unless the characters are pimps (i.e., living off prostitutes of one sex or another) or in jail (i.e., living off the state). As an appendix to his 1 9 3 4 collection of essays, Men Without Art, Wyndham Lewis proposed "The Taxi-cab Driver Test" for good fiction. Sug­ gested Lewis: Open the text to any random page and give it to any average cab driver. (Fascist Lewis assumed the driver's first language would, of course, be English; Czyz speaks several—besides working as a cab driver, he's also been an English teacher. He has lived in Poland, Turkey, Lyndhurst.. .) Tell him to read it. Then ask: "Is there anything here that seems strange or unusual or out of the ordinary for a work of fiction?" If he an­ swers, "Yes," then you may have some extraordinary fiction. If he answers, "No," then you don't. Lewis went on to apply his test to, respectively, a Henry James short story and a banal society novel by Aldous Huxley (Point Counter Point, which was thought much of back then because it was a roman à clef about the Lawrences and the Murrys—I remember reading it when I was around seventeen. I said, "Huh . . . ?"). James certainly wins; Huxley doesn't. (Today, does anyone read anythingehe he's written other than Brave New World, possibly Island?) I don't think the Taxi-cab Driver Test is 100 percent reliable. Still, it's a good one to keep in mind; and it's a salutary corrective to today's mania for "transparent prose," even (or es­ pecially) among our most radical experimenters. I mention it, because Czyz's work (as does Melville's, Joyce's, Hemingway's, Woolf s, Faulkner's, Patrick White's, William Gass's . . .) passes the Driver Test admirably. The work of the vast majority of Czyz's contemporaries does not. That is to say: Czyz is telling stories many of his contemporaries are trying to tell—and telling them much better! If you are a reader who can revel in language—in the intricate and in­ tensely interesting "how" language imposes on its "what"—then, however skew his interests are across the fictive field (and how refreshing that skewness!), Czyz is a writer rich in pleasures; it's a pleasure to recommend him. — New York City May 1998

24

Under the Volcano with Susan Sontag

"I looked out the window. Two of the engines were on fire on one wing. Then the pilot announced, 'We're going to make a crash landing.' He was going to dump the fuel. . . . You felt this animal terror. People were screaming; some people were in the aisles praying; two tried to assault the captain's cabin—get into where the pilot, co-pilot, and the navigator were. As to what they thought they were going to do—take over the plane . . . ? I was in my twenties then, feeling really terrible, because it's so humiliating thinking, 'This is not the way I want to die'—not that any way is nice. It was December. There was a terrible storm and no heat— imagine how cold it was! They had four usable toilets and they were all unusable. And you can't master your terror—all these people are scream­ ing. I was sitting next to this guy my own age, and he was screaming: 'Well, when you gotta go, you gotta go! Well, when your number's up, your number's up!' And I thought: T cannot believe this crap!' He even called out to one of the flight attendants—who was white as a sheet and trying to help somebody who'd fainted: 'If we all die, do we get our tick­ ets refunded?' "It was Pandemonium. "It's not that I think it's so horrible what he did to master his fear. But I just didn't want to hear it while I'm doing my best to . . . " When she paused, I offered: "—maintain what dignity you could?" "Yes." Sontag went on: "We were over Nebraska, and we ended up in a cornfield. It turned out okay. Nobody was killed." What changes, I wondered, do such catastrophic experiences pro­ duce deep in the soul? Some people report profound changes. Others simply accept them as part of the progression of life. What they do do, however, is give a certain authority to what those who've lived through them have to say about the catastrophic: "But there was that fifteen min­ utes of the plane on fire and going like this and all that." Her hand

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swooped and banked above her kitchen table. "And let me tell you, it's really..." "Scary?" "It's more than scary—it's humiliating." In Susan Sontag's new novel, The Volcano Lover, A Romance (Farrar Straus Giroux), midway through the story, the major characters—the Cavalière, his wife, and her lover the hero—must help evacuate the King and Queen from Naples to Palermo. The boat is caught in a storm, which yields up one of the novel's myriad fine set pieces—this one a masterly bit of high adventure. "Do not be afraid, my lord," the hallucination of a fortune teller tells the Cavalière, while he is trapped in his swaying cabin, as the wind and water howl outside. "I'm not afraid," thinks the Cavalière. "I'm humiliated." Like the whole scene—indeed, like the entire novel—it rings with a certain authority. Susan Sontag is the author of two other novels, The Benefactor ( 1 9 6 3 ) , and Death Kit ( 1 9 6 7 ) , as well as an extraordinarily fine collection of experimental fictions. I, etcetera ( 1 9 7 9 ) ; and her 1 9 8 7 story about AIDS, "The Way We Live Now," is a moving exploration and dramatization of AIDS anxiety that circles about, but will not state, the dreaded name itself. She's written and directed four films: Duet for Cannibals, Brother Carl, Unguided Tour, and Promised Land. She directed as well Milan Kundera's dramatic adaptation of Diderot's Jacques the Fatalist. And two years ago she received a MacArthur Foundation "Genius Award." But Sontag is generally known as an essayist. Her "Notes on Camp" (1964) was singlehandedly responsible for moving the word from the marginal realms of gay slang into the esthetic vocabulary of the nation. And she is the best known of a number of critics who, between them, made respectable the idea of dealing seriously and critically with works outside the accepted canon of Great Art—in her case, works by avant-garde filmmakers, such as Jack Smith in the '60s and Hans Jûrgen Syberberg in the '70s. But rock critics, such as Richard Goldstein and Greil Marcus, who have turned real esthetic insight on pop music, started by taking advantage of the climate of broad esthetic acceptance whose creation Sontag is most generally associated with. As she wrote of the critic's j o b in an essay on her friend, the late French critic Roland Barthes ("Writing Itself: On Roland Barthes") a decade ago: Though work of every form and worth qualifies for citizenship in the great democracy of "texts," the critic will tend to avoid the texts that everyone else has handled, the meaning that everyone knows. The formalist turn in modern criticism—from its pristine phase, as in Shklovsky's idea of defamiliarizing,

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outward—dictates just this. It charges the critic with the task of discarding worn-out meanings for fresh ones. It is a mandate to scout for new meanings. Etonne-moi!

Viktor Shklovsky was a Russian formalist critic from the '20s who be­ lieved one purpose of art was to make the familiar seem strange, weird, and interesting. With that last French phrase, she's quoting Shklovsky's only slightly younger contemporary, the French poet, novelist, and film­ maker, Jean Cocteau: Astonish me\ But the establishment of "the great de­ mocracy of 'texts'" that's been the general critical strategy for helping to bring about that astonishment since the 1960s can be generally laid at Sontag's doorstep as much as it can be laid anywhere. On a bright, breezy day in late June, in the kitchen of Sontag's West Side penthouse apartment, while her assistant worked at the word proces­ sor in the other room, Sontag told me of the origins of The Volcano Lover. "It started with those images." She pointed to the reproductions of eighteenth-century paintings on the front and back cover of the book: a daylight scene and a night scene, across the Bay of Naples, with the erupting cone of Vesuvius. "About twelve years ago, I was browsing hun­ grily in a print store near the British Museum, on a brief trip to Lon­ don—I always like to hang out in that neighborhood with all those book­ stores and printshops. "And I saw these images—that I couldn't identify. 'There were a whole bunch of them—some two dozen for sale. Some were of this volcano exploding. Others were just weird rocks—burning landscapes. But clearly they were all by the same person. There were about twenty-four of them. "I had already begun collecting architectural prints from the eigh­ teenth century (I had fallen in love with Piranesi), so I knew that every time you see an eighteenth century print, you're not seeing a print made to be sold separately. You're seeing a plate from a book which has been ripped apart by a bookseller. He might buy this old, eighteenth century folio volume for five thousand dollars, but it has thirty plates in it, that he sells for three hundred dollars a piece; and he makes a huge profit! But they're just pages torn from a book. "I asked what the book was. It turned out to be by Sir William Hamil­ ton—about volcanoes. And who was Sir William Hamilton? I couldn't re­ member. So they brought out The Dictionary of National Biography, that they had in the back of the shop. They showed me the entry on Hamil­ ton, and I thought, 'Ohhh, that Hamilton man!' because I'd seen the fa­ mous movie with Laurence Olivier and Vivian Leigh when I was a child, That Hamilton Woman.

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"That's the husband." Most of us, if we know anything about him—Sir William Hamilton— we know him because of his second wife, the notorious Emma, Lady Hamilton, and her fabulous—the only word for it—love affair with Ad­ miral Horatio Nelson, that ignited the European imagination and fasci­ nated writers up till (Robert Southey was the first writer to try Emma's bi­ ography) , well, up till Susan Sontag. "Then I found out that Hamilton wasn't just a famous cuckold. He was a famous collector and connoisseur of art—and almost the first person to write about volcanoes. There had never been a book just about volca­ noes before—any kind of scientific book, anyway. Of course there's all sorts of myths and things. But I just fell in love with the images. "I've had these prints on the wall for almost ten years. But the actual origin [of the novel] is looking at that." Again, she indicated the pictures reproduced on the book cover. "And because I'm a writer, I thought: I should do something with this. Should I write about somebody interested in volcanoes? First I fooled around with an idea for a story. Then I thought. What the hell—why not write about him?" Hamilton died (in the arms of both Emma and Horatio) on April 6, 1803, in London. Nelson was finally killed at the Battle of Trafalgar, on the October 2 1 , 1805. Always a vain man, he insisted on wearing all his ribbons and medals as he strode up and down the deck of the Victory— and so was an easy mark for Napoleon's sharpshooters. After a year in debtors' prison, Emma died in January of 1 8 1 5 , in a seedy hotel in Ca­ lais, with her fourteen-year-old daughter by Nelson in attendance. (Emma had two daughters by Nelson; but one, who died in infancy, Sontag elides from her tale.) Daughter of an English blacksmith, Emma was born Amy Lyon, some­ time around 1 7 6 1 . During her teens she may well have been a street­ walker in London's Vauxhall Gardens: She would be accused of that and much worse. A pretty, intelligent, and vivacious young woman, she even­ tually became a favorite model for English painter George Romney and came under the protection of young Charles Francis Greville, who, in 1 7 8 6 , four years after the death of his Uncle William's first wife, Cathe­ rine, sent the pretty, twenty-one-year-old Emma—and her mother—to Hamilton in Naples, where he was British envoy. Charles sent her quite explicitly to be his uncle's mistress—in ex­ change for some debts of his the older man had recently paid. Sir William was already an intimate of the King of Naples, Ferdinand II. Very soon, Emma was a favorite of Ferdinand's queen, the sister of Marie Antoinette, Queen Maria Carolina ("one of Maria Theresa's

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hellish brood," writes Sontag). But what was shocking was when, in 1 7 9 1 , Hamilton actually married Emma: She was now a twenty-six-year-old "fallen woman" of no family or connections, who, though she'd finally achieved reasonable mastery of Italian and French, still spoke English with traces of an East End accent; and he was an English aristocrat and ambassador of sixty-one. Though they returned to England for the ceremony, it was a very small one. As soon as it was over, they went back to Italy. It could have only happened to an affair that had blossomed in a foreign land. It could only have happened in the eighteenth century. The Hamiltons first met Nelson in 1 7 9 3 . Five years later, after his triumph against Napoleon at the Battle of the Nile (August 1st, 1 7 9 8 ) , Nelson (who had now lost his right arm and most of the vision in his right eye) was—after Napoleon—the most famous man in Europe, and, amidst the generally rising tide of republicanism that, by the 1850s would become a maelstrom, was the hero of the conservative side. There were Nelson medals, Nelson mugs, Nelson plates, Nelson scarves. And for Nelson's fortieth birthday, Emma—and Sir William—threw him a party (in Naples) for 1,800 guests, complete with food, bands, and fireworks. Somewhere just before or after the fête, the love affair between Nelson and Emma began. In general, it seems to have been carried out with all the privacy and reticence of the marriage of John and Yoko or the breakup of Sonny and Cher. Sontag: "My original idea was just the opposite of the usual version. I was going to write a novel about a collector. And it was going to be the other view—the reverse-angle view. Everybody else thinks of Hamilton as the husband of Emma, who fell in love with Nelson—the great romance of popular imagination. But in my story that would just be a very tiny thing. Emma and Nelson would be off there in a corner. I'd mention them because everybody knows that story. But I would focus in on the psychology of the collector." But that's not the way the book turned out: "Well, I have to tell you, I did fall in love with Emma as the book progressed. Once she came into the story, she took over in a way I never expected." Though The Volcano Loveris Hamilton's story, it gives a pretty complete portrait of the Emma/Nelson affair, as well as Hamilton's life in Naples, from his relations with his first wife, Catherine, his obsession with art and volcanoes, the politics of the day, to his final disillusionment—and even more impressive, his ways of dealing with that disillusioning—when his second wife, a young woman who loves him and whom he loves, finally—

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he is forced to see—has found something in the arms (arm?) of another man that there simply is no way he, thirty-one years older than Nelson and thirty-six years older than Emma, can provide. In that extraordinary essay on Barthes, already mendoned, Sontag locates the two contemporary strategies that control a good deal of what goes on under the current rubric "Literature": One is to abolish some or all of the convendonal demarcations or separations of discourse, such as chapters, paragraphing, even punctuation, whatever is regarded as impeding formally the continuous production of (the writer's) voice. The other strategy is the opposite one: to multiply the ways in which discourse is segmented, to invent further ways of breaking it up. . . . To write in fragments or sequences or "notes" entails new, serial (rather than linear) forms of arrangements. For example, they may be numbered—a method practiced with great refinement by Wittgenstein.

Sontag's novel manages to encompass both strategies. Reading it, we soon become aware that the prologue, part 1 (with its seven chapters) and part 2 (with its seven), do not give us the real parddoning of the book. The prologue is really three sections: in the first, Sontag ("In my jeans and silk blouse and tennis shoes: Manhattan, spring of 1992."), merely to check out "what's in the world," walks into a flea market to be seduced, not by collecting but by the "pure possibilities" collecting has to offer; in the second, the Cavalière—Sir William—laments to his nephew Charles that he has been unable to sell a much-loved painting hard financial times had forced him to put up for auction; and three gives an account of the last, 1 9 4 4 eruption of Vesuvius. But all the other macrodivisions of the novel quickly come apart into smaller sections, an array of set pieces, none less than interesting, many of them brilliant. Now we get a dinner party at which the Hamiltons entertain the poet Goethe, that turns into a disquisition on the arrival of the stone guest in Mozart's Don Giovanni, here with a nod toward The Terminator, now with a dialogue line cribbed from Thelma and Louise. There's the plot of Verdi's Tosca, as a gracenote to the Queen's counter-revolutionary activity. Now Nelson and Emma make love in a truly voluptuous piece of writing. Now the trio visits the bizarre palace of the Prince of Palagonia. Here's a fascinating account of the fate of the lost manuscript of Piranesi's autobiography. And there, in passing, is the tale of the student in the British Museum who smashed the Portland Vase. Now we stand with Marie Antoinette herself on the guillotine platform; now we are with Emma, lasciviously dancing the tarantella before her guests in an English drawing room . . .

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In a bow to strategy two, it's easy to reformat the novel for oneself into numerous, smaller sections that cry out for numbers. But because the book comes marked only by the traditional parts and chapters, the final sense we have of it is of something rich and crowded with wonders, like the wares displayed, cheek-a-jowl, on a particularly fascinating flea mar­ ket counter. The formal irony is that a novel, written according to strat­ egy two but presented in traditional chapters and parts—as is The Volcano Lover—finally effects the unpunctuated rush of strategy one. We've mentioned Sontag the essayist. Her achievement in the genre is large enough and generous enough so that it is worth noting the great ones: "Against Interpretation" ( 1 9 6 4 ) , "Spiritual Style in the Films of Robert Bresson" ( 1 9 6 4 ) , "On Style" ( 1 9 6 4 ) , "The Aesthetics of Silence" ( 1 9 6 7 ) — all essays, incidentally, that proceed as a series of separate and, usually, numbered notes or fragments; then, "Thinking Against Oneself: Reflections on Cioran" ( 1 9 6 7 ) , 'Theater and Film" ( 1 9 6 6 ) , "What's Happening in America" ( 1 9 6 6 ) , "Bergman's Persona" ( 1 9 6 7 ) , "Godard" ( 1 9 6 8 ) , "On Paul Goodman" ( 1 9 7 2 ) , "Approaching Artaud" ( 1 9 7 9 ) , "Syberberg's Hitler" ( 1 9 7 9 ) , "Mind as Passion" ( 1 9 8 1 ) , and "Writing It­ self: On Roland Barthes" (1981)—this last is particularly maddening to those academics who study Barthes in the context of poststructuralism, because Sontag goes to such lengths to de-contextualize him from that debate and deal with him purely as reader encountering writer. And there are her book-length meditations, On Photography ( 1 9 7 7 ) and Illness as Metaphor ( 1 9 7 8 ) .

If you have read even a handful of the above, you might wonder why a writer of such extraordinary intellectual strength should want to go back to fiction: "When I was writing those essays, in the early '80s, I realized I was out­ growing the form. The essays were getting to be like masks. More and more they came to seem indirect, impacted ways of talking about things that I wanted to talk about much more freely and directly. Where I really realized it was the Canetti essay and the long essay on Roland Barthes I wrote after he died. The essays are incredibly hard to write. It's much easier to write fiction. Why was I torturing myself when I could just say all this straight out, front and center—when I could perform it, instead of assume it and argue with it and transpose it and do all these much more complicated things that were really hard? Each of those essays took any­ where from six to nine months; but with hard work, I can write fiction much faster. I enjoy writing fiction more." As a performance, The Volcano Lover is as exciting, exacting, and as en­ ergetic as any of her essays—a judgment some readers, less comfortable with the fiction of ideas (for that has always been Sontag's fictive genre),

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have withheld from her earlier novels. They will have a hard time withholding it from this one. Much in those essays is both illuminated by and, in turn, illuminates, The Volcano Lover. Besides "Writing Itself," another 1981 essay, 'The Mind as Passion," which deals with the writer Elias Canetti, reads practically like a blueprint for the novel finished ten years later. Sometimes Sontag's novel trumpets its sources, such as Goethe's autobiographical memoir, Italian Journey, most readily available in a graceful translation by W. H. Auden and Elizabeth Meyer. But just as interesting in terms of the novel is another Journey to Italy, Roberto Rossellini's 1 9 5 4 film of that title (also released as Strangers), in which George Sanders and Ingrid Bergman come to Naples to spend their time at a villa from whose terrace you can see pretty much everything—Vesuvius, Capri—that you can from the Hamilton's in The Volcano Lover. And Rossellini's heroine Catherine, mooning about her Charles, sounds a lot like Sontag's Catherine going on about her William. By the end of part 2, with the deathbed monologue of the Cavalière, we've finished a very satisfactory novel. We've watched and been, most readers I suspect, mightily moved by the traditional Oedipal drama, only in which all three players are just too civilized to let it spiral down into any of the traditionally ugly Oedipal ends. But the book still has two parts to go—a brief part 3 and a part 4. Another writer might easily have called these parts "Appendices," "Epilogues," or distinguished them in some other way—because they do not take the story forward. Rather, they turn around and look at what's gone on up till now—in a harsher and harsher light as they progress, from a set of diverse and unexpected positions. Part 3 is still a second deathbed monologue by the Cavalière! And part 4 is four more, posthumous monologues by four of the women characters, including Emma and her mother. In life, Emma came in for a good deal of criticism. And in Sontag's novel, she gets her share from the other characters. Toward the close of The Volcano Lover we have the reflections on Emma by a woman revolutionary, poet, and newspaper publisher, Eleanora de Fonseca Pimentel, who fought for the five-month-lived Italian Republic and was executed for her pains. Says Eleanora of Emma, she was ". . . another talented, overwrought woman who thought herself valuable because men she could admire loved her. Unlike her husband and her lover, she had no genuine convictions. She was an enthusiast, and would have enlisted herself with the same ardor in the cause of whomever she loved. I can easily imagine Emma Hamilton, had her nationality been different, as a republican heroine, who might have ended most courageously at the foot of some gallows. That is the nullity of women like her." The irony, of

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course, is that Eleanora delivers her pronouncement after having mounted just those gallows steps herself. Said Sontag, though: "I really liked Emma a lot. But that is the one thing wrong with her. All the other criticisms of Emma I think are con­ temptible: that she's an upstart—I feel, 'Good for her! More power to her.' I love self-made people—I'm self-educated—going someplace that's completely different from where you come from; I think Emma's fabulous. And the way that people sneered at her because she lost her looks, you know, is—it's the Beauty Police. I mean, that's all terrible. But Eleanora doesn't criticize Emma for being vulgar or for being fat or for being a drunk or for being an exhibitionist or for being a vamp. What Eleanora says at the end—well, ideally I'd like the reader to ask, 'What is true in this criticism?'" "Eleanora," I mentioned, as the afternoon drew on, "ends as a very im­ pressive character, and her judgment of Emma and the rest is pretty damning—and a risky thing to conclude your performance with." Sontag sat back in her chair. "Yes, I know. But I don't want people to think, 'That's the judgment of the book.' I think a lot in cinematic terms, and it's rather like pulling back. A very standard end of movies is the characters going toward the end of the landscape, down the street, and away from the camera; and the camera at the same time is pulling or zooming back, so that you get this wider and wider shot and the charac­ ters look smaller and smaller in the frame. But I don't want the reader— I hope the reader won't think that's what I, the author—she, the a u t h o r really thinks. Of course I think Eleanora's is the most distant view. It's that kind of thing—so it is an end." Some readers, of course, are going to wish the novel had set them down with the more or less untroubled resignation closing out part 2. For them, the extensions, revisions, and dissociations that intrude, knock things around, and shake things up in parts 3 and 4, however briefly, will seem a bumpy, if not catastrophically turbulent, ending to the flight. Said Sontag: "How do you end? What's closure? I mean, it's difficult to begin, and it's difficult to end. It's difficult to end well. You can do all these pirouettes but you have to—" under the kitchen table, I heard her stamp— "land on your feet! " For readers who like to use "the tales of the tribe" to think with, how­ ever, The Volcano Lover will end them up precisely the way it ought to. It's an elegant, wise, and rewarding novel. — New York City September 1 9 0 2

2 5

Some Remarks on Narrative and Technology or: Poetry and Truth

1 . Science and Poetry are my concerns here. I do not mean the poetry of science. Still less do I mean some mistily envisioned science of poetry. Poetry and Science. But we must approach the topics cautiously, even circuitously. It is customary to say, in a presentation such as this, that the following remarks are not systematic. They are not. But I would like to specify here—and narrativize—the nature of their asystematicity: I suspect many readers will see all sorts of relationships among them, some inter­ esting, some troubling. But the status of many of those relationships is— I feel, as someone who has considered them at length and with some care—highly problematic. 2. When this essay was published originally, my university press publisher informed me (I paraphrase): "It's our house style not to use i.e. (for id est), or indeed to use any other abbreviations of Latin phrases, such as et al. (for et alia), e.g. (for exempli gratia), viz. (for videlicet), id. (for idem), ibid, (for ibidem), cf. (for conferre), or n.b. (for nota bene). Our only excep­ tions is etc.—which we don't italicize—for et cetera." The lack of italics in­ dicates, presumably, that it has been absorbed into English and is now considered an English term. "But what," I asked, "if the writer wants to use them?" "We explain to him—or her—that it violates house style. As far as we're concerned, using them in scholarly writing is no longer correct." "Do you know where this house style comes from?" I asked. "I imagine it's just that we don't want to appear too pedantic and court lots of people not knowing what the writer is talking about."

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"But you know what those Latin phrases mean," I said. "And so do I. And most large dictionaries will give you a list of such frequently used phrases and many more besides—should one of them escape you. And there's always Mary-Claire Van Leunen's Handbook for Scholars. "They don't present any practical stumbling blocks. Besides, your ac­ knowledged audience for the sorts of works in which such abbreviations might appear is overwhelmingly academic. That means—at least in the humanities—these works will be read by people used to researching in scholarly texts written before World War II, which means they have to know such Latin tags as a matter of course." There was a moment's silence. "Well," said the voice from the editorial office, that, whatever else one might say of it, was certainly from some­ one ten to fifteen years younger than I, "that's just not the way we do it." "I suspect you do it," I said (I paraphrase freely), "as a holdover from the resurgence in the movement just after World War II to remove an­ cient languages, Latin and Greek, from high-school and college curriculums in order to accommodate the returning soldiers, for whom it was clearly a barrier to graduation—that whole movement itself was a revitalization of the movement just after World War I to democratize higher education by making Latin and Greek take a back seat to the study of En­ glish language texts, such as the English novel, which, for the first time had been brought into the purview of university studies via the academic establishment of such then-new disciplines as English Literature. All of this, including, in many ways, the Great War itself, was a response to the rising population and to the growing amount of printed matter that began in the 1880s, when people began to take seriously the recommen­ dations of Matthew Arnold and other educational reformers to bring 'sweetness and light' to the common man. "But that same rise in printed matter—" (I now paraphrase wildly—) "while certainly Latin and Greek literacy has not kept up with it, has also obviated the need for such retro-pedantic gestures as forbidding schol­ arly abbreviations in scholarly texts." My friend on the other end of the phone laughed. "In other words," she said, "it's not very modern at all." "It's quite modern," I said, "for 1888, the year Arnold died, the year the New York Tribune first began using the linotype, and the year the En­ glish decided to make their spelling look more sophisticated and up-todate by Francophizing it, while leaving the earlier and older spelling forms in the first editions of such authors as Dickens and George Eliot to the barbaric, backwards United States." After another moment, there was a sigh. "If you really want to write 'i.e.,' I suppose you can."

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"Thank you," I said. "I've been doing it for years. It's part of my lan­ guage. It would be as difficult for me to excise it from my writing and thought as it would be for me to start writing 'different than' for 'differ­ ent from,' or putting commas before restrictive clauses." "What's wrong with 'different than'?" "Today, nothing. But thirty-five years ago, when I was in high school, 'different from' was considered correct, while 'different than' was con­ sidered a solecism—and you were marked 'wrong' for it on any English test. Twenty-five years before that, when my mother was in high school, you were marked wrong if you wrote 'X is not as good as Y ' The proper positive form was 'as good as.' But the proper negative form was, 'not so good as.' If you confused them, you were mistaken—though, by the time I was in school, 'not as good as' had become acceptable." "Now what's a 'solecism,' again?" "A barbarism considered unacceptable among educated people." 3. I pause here to consider my parenthetical comments: When, in the conversation above, I said T paraphrase' (or "I paraphrase freely," or "wildly"), in what way did my words model the situation they purported to describe? In what way was I rewriting or revising the incident (or inci­ dents) I was presumably describing? Well, to begin with, it was not just one conversation that yielded the above, but several—one of which was with someone not involved with the press at all. But my paraphrase in­ volves considerable shortening, as well as condensing the conversations into one. The young woman on the other end of the phone in the major conversation certainly did not have a handle on all the abbreviations I have included—nor, indeed, did I. (I will let you guess in what scholar's handbook I looked them up.) But the anecdote seemed more effective when I cited a somewhat greater number of abbreviations than we had actually first mentioned. And though the outcome of the several conver­ sations was more or less as I have recounted, rest assured that I was no­ where near as eloquent or succinct in my historical rundown, the first time I had to marshal it. My reason for such revisions? The historical insight that I took from the situation—and even dare to call its "truth"—is more strongly foregrounded in the more (I confess) imaginative version of the narrative, even though, knowingly and with intent, I violated the letter of the versions one might have retrieved from tape recordings of the contributing incidents, had such tapes been made. And I wanted to stress and give a narrative articulation to relations that, now and again, had been only implicit, and whose status—while they were happening—I was not so sure of; though, with thought, I am

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surer of that status now. Again: I have called it "truth." Perhaps more to the point, while the parent incidents were occurring, it was a "truth" I in­ tuited and articulated rather clumsily; in the narrated version, it is a "truth" stated—narrated—as such. (Now even though it holds a place in our subtitle, we will not mention this "truth" again; hold on, then, if you can, to the slippery, imaginative, and generally problematic notion of it presented in the paragraphs above.) It is interesting that such violation is traditionally referred to as "poetic license," rather than, say, "narrative license." 4. In 1882, Ottmar Mergenthaler patented the linotype that was to revo­ lutionize printing in both Europe and America. Ten years earlier, the Remington & Sons Fire Arms Company took its considerably refined bal­ listics technology and applied it to a new machine, the Remington type­ writer. Along with other technological developments in everything from transportation to papermaking, these were to mean that, by the end of the eighties, something like five times as much material was being printed as had been printed at the beginning of that decade. The upsurge in printed material in the 1880s has been historicized by many scholars. In her study, The Origins of Totalitarianism, Hannah Arendt attributes to this astonishing growth—coupled with the rise of popula­ tion—the modem forms of both anti-Semitism and (South African and Rhodesian) racism: While both racist and anti-Semitic rhetoric had stayed pretty much the same between the sixteenth and the twentieth century, including the decade of the 1880s, Arendt points out that the referents for this rhetoric changed their form so totally during the 1880s that one could say anti-Semitism was "invented" in that decade. Before the 1880s, incidents of anti-Semitism were small, local phenomena. While, indeed, pogroms, stonings, and virulent social prejudice certainly existed, vis-à-vis what was to come they were comparatively rare, with relatively low death rates and damages. Anti-Semitism was the largely theoretical hobbyhorse of a number of eccentric intellectuals such as Wagner, who, throughout the 1870s, even as he wrote and argued heatedly for his belief in the decadence and racial degeneration of the Jews, was nevertheless friends with Jews, entertained them—sometimes royally, as in the case of Her­ mann Levi, with whom he pleaded (and finally won over) to conduct the premier of Parsifal But when—even at the beginning of the 1880s, it was clear that forces were in place that were changing anti-Semitism from a "theoretical" question into a political movement—Wagner wrote that the Jews were "the only free people in Europe," and wrote to his friend, the conductor Angelo Neumann, himself a Jew, in February 1 8 8 1 :

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I wholly dissociate myself from the present "anti-Semitic" movement: An arti­ cle by me, soon to appear in the Bayreuther Blatter [Wagner's own, often selfauthored newspaper], will proclaim this in such a way that it should be impos­ sible for persons of intelligence to associate me with that movement.

Arendt argues that it was the growth of print that was to raise antiSemitism from an eccentric social anxiety, with occasional violent out­ breaks, to a major plank in the political platforms of several political par­ ties (not just National Socialism), all with major, material, aggressive plans for action. The quote above is not to excuse Wagner for his antiSemitism, but simply to point out that changes in the nature of the beast (that Arendt cites, largely in pamphlets and newspapers) were apparent and troublesome—even to a Wagner—as far back as the first year of that decade in which the technological revolution that was to exacerbate the situation really got under way. By the middle of the 1890s (a dozen years after Wagner's death in February of 1 8 8 3 ) , that movement was to take up and disseminate the Dreyfus Affair, which would polarize the West. Modern comparisons of the Dreyfus Affair with Watergate do not even suggest how pervasive that political scandal was during the years between 1896 and 1900. While it is arguable that the working classes were not deeply affected by the Dreyfus Affair (viz. the French peasant who, when questioned at the height of the affair, is supposed to have answered, "Dreyfus, qui ça?"), nevertheless the middle classes were exercised over it throughout Europe: Not only were there Dreyfus pamphlets, posters, banners, and books (the best remembered among them, Emile Zola's J'Accuse); there were Dreyfus (and anti-Dreyfus) paperweights, letter openers, vases, beer mugs, scarves, furniture, and china service! 5. The rise in the amount of printed material also produced a change, if not a crisis, in the realm of the literary as well: How to organize so much new writing, how to store it, how to treat it both physically and conceptu­ ally? The trace of that change can be retrieved from the shift over time in the meaning of the word "literature" itself. In the eighteenth century, "literature" functioned largely as a com­ panion term for "literacy." Someone who had "literacy" knew how to read and write. Someone who had "literature" had used that knowledge and read broadly over the whole range of what had been written and published. Literature meant an acquaintance with what had been writ­ ten in the language. In short, literature was a species of knowledge. In the eighteenth century, someone "had broad literature," while someone else "had no literature at all." By the nineteenth century, the word had come to mean the "profession of writing." Someone might be "in litera-

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ture," in the same way that someone might be "in law," or "in medicine." It is only after we get well into that groundswell of printed material in the 1880s that we find what had formerly been a secondary or even ter­ tiary meaning of "literature" coming to the fore and suppressing these other meanings: literature as a set of texts of a certain order of value. This rise to primacy of an until-now secondary definition has its underside: the conceptual creation of a vast reservoir of texts outside lit­ erature that has come to be called, in recent years, "paraliterature," i.e., centering on the concept of those texts not of that order of value. Simply in the area of fiction, in order to deal with the growth in the amount of it, categories of fictions—genres—became far more impor­ tant than they had been before: penny dreadfuls, dime novels, mysteries, Westerns, children's books, adventures, scientific romances, ghost sto­ ries, poetry, and literature per se. Literature was, of course, the privileged genre (or genre collection). Meanwhile, other genres were dismissed out of hand: Nor is it innocent happenstance that those genres dismissed tended to be those most pop­ ular with working people—the adventure, the Western, the mystery. Nor is it an accident that the genres that actually made it into the category of literature were those that accrued to themselves a certain cachet among the middle classes and their extension, the intellectual classes of the day—the genres that are finally valorized as "literary" per se: the novel, the short story, the drama, the history, the epic, and the lyric. Just as the technological revolution in printing was a cause of the po­ litical alignments of the Great War, it was also a cause in the creation of literature, as we know it, during and just after that war. In his survey, Lit­ erary Theory, An Introduction, Terry Eagleton quotes from the inaugural lecture of Professor Gordon, the first professor of English Literature at Oxford, appointed to his chair just after the start of World War I: England is sick, and . . . English Literature must save it. The Churches (as I understand it) having failed, and social remedies being slow, English Litera­ ture has now a triple function: still, I suppose to delight and instruct us, and also, and above all, to save our souls and heal the State.

And healing the state, in the first decades of the twentieth century, when these words were spoken, meant specifically proofing the state against the sort of workers' revolutions that had already erupted in Rus­ sia in 1906 and 1908, and would explode again in 1 9 1 7 . 6. Reading widely on a daily basis, in the eighteenth century, a Doctor Johnson could consider himself familiar with the range of what had

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been written in the English language until that time. Nor did he have any need of high genres or low. Reading widely on a daily basis, in the twentieth century, a Harold Bloom, who claims (however playfully) a Johnsonian range to his read­ ing, must have recourse to the modern concept of literature (and by ex­ tension, that which is not literature), as well as—to use terms he has put forward in his most influential book, The Anxiety of Influence— "strong poets" and "weak poets." A "strong poet" is a poet to whom we must pay attention; a "weak poet" is one there is no necessity to bother with, even though we may dip into his or her work, and even find pleasure there, now and again. "Strong poets" rewrite the works of earlier "strong poets" in ways that produce new and interesting reading experiences; "weak poets" simply do the same things previous poets have done, however well or skillfully. I do not doubt for a minute that, in the range of the texts he has encountered, Bloom finds criteria sufficient to justify these catego­ ries. But the condition of their necessity—what makes them indispens­ able—is simply that there is too much to read. (Even on first hearing the terms, does anyone need to be told that there are far fewer strong poets than there are weak ones?) Without these categories there would be no way to decide what to read at all, and even more important, to justify what not to read. While the ostensible purpose of the categories "strong poets" and "weak poets" is to judge an aspect of critical interest (call it quality), its necessity is simply that there are too many poets today for any one critic possibly to give the careful and considered reading to their complete works that is finally and actually what is required to make the quality judgment that "strong" and "weak" imply. And a reader or two away from Bloom, "strong" and "weak" dissolve back into the same unlocatable, rather arbitrary social consensus that constitutes "important" and "unim­ portant" writers, at least among the writers of today, and more and more among the writers of yesterday. 7. Two models—at least—contest for primacy in describing the humanities' encounter with itself and the world. They contest today. They have contested for years, at least at the rhetorical level. One sees the world as a series of narratives: linear, systematic, more or less ra­ tional, more or less negotiable. Technology itself is one conceptual area that is easily represented as a set of highly operationalized narratives about materiality. The operations are called science. Their material fall­ outs are the artifacts of technology. 8. When, in his essay, "Epic and the Novel," Mikhail Bakhtin wrote: "By

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1900, all genres had become novelized," he was responding to the his­ torical situation of the rise in primacy of the narrative model for gener­ ally organizing our experience—and its settling into place by 1900. 9. The model that contests with the narrative model, however, sees the world as a series of poems. This model has never been the dominant one in our culture. But it has never been completely suppressed, either. And there are certain periods when it is far more forcefully in evidence than in others. In the 1890s, again in the 1920s, and arguably in the 1960s, this marginal model moved forward in the general conscious­ ness, and commanded more intelligent attention than it had at other times. To take the twenties as the most arbitrary of examples, one thinks—at one end of the spectrum—of Cocteau's perhaps glib categorization of all the arts as a species of poetry—poésie du roman, poésie du musique, poésie du cinema, etc.—and, at the other end (scholars of the period will realize there is a much closer connection than there is an opposition) Heidegger's enterprise of the period to repoeticize the modern world. American literature's Beat Generation movement of the fifties and sixties, with its concomitant foreground of the poetry first of the Black Mountain School and then of the San Francisco Renaissance, as well as its privileging of spontaneity in art (with the novels of Kerouac, typed out in the first draft on endless paper rolls) can be looked back on as an appeal to the poem as the privileged model with which to encounter life, rather than the more acceptable and recognizable systematicity of the narrative. When the poet Charles Olson said, in the first of his trio of 1 9 6 7 Beloit Poetry Lectures, which shares my subtitle with the title of Goethe's 1809 autobiography, "poetry . . . especially by or in our language . . . is so different from the assumptions that poetry has had in our language . . . " he was citing the fact that the chose poétique—what poetry is—had shifted mightily from the 18gos. Yet the assumptions about what poetry is had re­ mained remarkably stable, which resulted in Olson's difference. 10. A critical assessment that looked at the relation between Goethe's Dichtung und Wahrheit, Olson's lecture trio, "Poetry and Truth," and say, this current paper, and proceeded on the assumption that all the rela­ tions ascertained by the critics were signs of a movement through time and of an influential status—with Goethe influencing Olson and Olson influencing Delany (with any influences from Goethe on Delany having to have been filtered through Olson) —would more than likely be con­ trolled by a fundamentally narrative model. A critical consideration that

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looked for relations not only between Goethe and Olson, between Olson and Delany, but equally between Goethe and Delany, and that assumed that any and all of these relations could run either forward in time or backward in time, and that the determination of their status was proble­ matic, would, most likely, be controlled by a fundamentally poetic model. I must say, "most likely," rather than "definitely," because it is not the idea of a unidirectional temporal linearity that defines the narrative model, and distinguishes it from the poetic. Rather it is the idea of the problematic status of the relations that defines the poetic model, and distinguishes it from the narrative. Many critical studies cite relations in which the status of the relations is presumed to be known, even though it is never stated in the critique. Similarly, in many studies the status is presumed to be problematic, even when the status is not stated. Thus, it is often possible to read narrative critiques as poetic—or indeed, to read poetic critiques as narrative. 1 1 . Longinus's On the Sublime ( T R E P I 'tjtjjos) from third-century Greece, whose author was educated in Alexandria, then taught at Athens, and was finally executed (it is widely presumed) by order of the Roman Em­ peror Aurelian in 2 7 3 for having acted as aid and advisor to the rebel­ lious Queen Zenobia of Palmyra, is a critical treatise in which a great many critical relations are foregrounded among a number of texts (De­ mosthenes, Plato, Sappho, The Iliad, Herodotus . . .), and in which the status of those various relations is left more or less tacit. (Are they merely descriptive? Are they fictive? Do they imply influence? Or are they as­ sumed to be at some other level of causality?) It is possible that, at the time Longinus wrote that address to Postumius Terentianus critiquing Caecilleus's monograph of the same name, the status of all such rela­ tionships was presumed common knowledge among the intelligentsia; thus there was no need to specify. But because we do not have such knowledge today (nor have we had it at least since the eighteenth cen­ tury when Longinus first became widely read), we read and traditionally have read Longinus's as the most poetic of critiques.

12. A kind of countercanon of works runs parallel to the canon we tradi­ tionally think of as the literary. Often its works are ones for which a more or less massive critical attempt was mounted to enter them at respectable places in the traditional canon; and usually most literary historians would have to say that, for whatever reasons (usually because other crit­ ics resisted), the attempts have failed. These works are in a very different position from those that, for a sea­ son or even for a decade or more, achieve a general public popularity

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because the authors are well spoken and because there is nothing in the works so aesthetically offensive that literary critics feel called upon ac­ tively to denounce them. Often these works would appear to have joined the ranks of the immortals, only to be forgotten after still another decade or so, when their simple banality finally subverts all actual critical interest: One thinks of Archibald MacLeish's silly play J.B. ( 1 9 5 8 ) , Rob­ inson Jeffers's mawkish redaction (another wildly free paraphrase, from Euripides this time) of Medea ( 1 9 4 6 ) , or even Tony Kushner's AIDS fairy tale Angels in America, Parts /and / / ( 1 9 9 3 ) . All three have been declared, in their moments, icons of culture; but, stripped of the artful perfor­ mances that briefly enlivened them, all three are less than memorable. Works in the countercanon retain their interest, however. They are constantly being rediscovered. The 18gos is famous for a whole string of such works, though, indeed, to limit the ones associated with the nineties to that decade in any strict way would be far too absolute. It must go back at least as far as 1 8 8 1 , when twenty-six-year-old Olive Schreiner decided to leave South Africa with the just completed manuscript of her mysti­ cal—in the best sense—novel, The Story of an African Farm. The book was published in England in 1883, when she was twenty-eight. But during the nineties it was the most talked-about novel of the decade, at least among the poets of the Rhymers' Club—and rightly so. Now one stum­ bles across excited encomia about it in the letters of Ernest Dowson, now one uncovers an account by Arthur Symons, some few years before his final breakdown in Italy, enthusiastically urging it on the author of Marins the Epicurean ( 1 8 8 5 ) , Walter Pater. Indeed we might even want to extend this line back to James Thomson's City of Dreadful Night, which appeared over four numbers of the National Reformer between March and May of 1 8 7 4 — a work that grows from the same failure of organized Christianity that produced Shreiner's account of her characters' moral ordeals (with its uncanny, transvestial ending) on another continent in the year before Thomson died from tuberculosis in London, complicated by advanced dipsomania, on June 2 n d of 1882. The poems of Dowson (Verses, 1 8 9 6 ; The Pierrot of the Minute, 1 8 9 7 ; and the posthumous volume Decorations), with their unarguable verbal beauties, belong to this same line of works—if not the equally delicate tales he produced and published in the volume Dilemmas: Stories and Studies in Sentiments ( 1 8 9 5 ) and in The Yellow Book. So do the more de­ manding—for the modern reader: because of their religious w e i g h t poems of Lionel Pigot Johnson and Francis Thompson, if not the works of Alice Meynell. Indeed, the "productions of the nineties" continue on at least through 1904, when "Frederick, Baron Corvo" published his ex­ traordinary novel, Hadrian the Seventh, a year after Samuel Butler's novel

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The Way of All Flesh saw posthumous publication in 1 9 0 3 . Indeed, Butler's novel, which he began in 1 8 7 3 and completed in 1884, is a work contemporary with Shreiner's novel. The Way of All Flesh, with its iconoclastic satire, was taken into the canon almost immediately, while Hadrian, with its far more conservative politics, its wildly erudite reli­ gious superstructure, and its barely suppressed fantasy—the writing is simply gorgeous—has led a far more problematic life at the margins of the literary, despite the praise of everyone from D. H. Lawrence to W. H. Auden. Looking at the range of such counterworks, one notices first the cat­ astrophic lives their writers tended to live: The artists who produced them do not lend themselves to any easy version of the literary myth that art ennobles the artist's life—at least not in any nonironic and socially ev­ ident manner. If anything, they suggest that art is a bitch goddess who ravages the creator and leaves a distressing, pathetic ruin behind. It would seem that the canon can absorb a bit of such pathos, but in no­ where near the amounts that predominate in this range of highly tal­ ented creators; and it is rare that (with a lot of posthumous critical help) a John Keats, a Percy Shelley, an Edgar Allan Poe, or a Hart Crane makes it across the canonical border. In terms of the reception of all of these, all are poets who, at one time or another, verged on being confined to the countercanon. (How interesting it is to observe the posthumous crit­ ical reduction currently going on of W. H. Auden from the poetic giant he was during the last thirty years of his life to a "more or less interesting poet," for no other reason that I can discern—in the half-dozen recent studies and biographies of him I have read—than that [it does not even seem to be his homosexuality] he occasionally neglected his clothing, his St. Marks Place apartment was a mess, and he drank.) As a group, how­ ever, the countercanon poets tend toward a brilliance of surface that suggests an excess of aesthetic relations in their texts constituting both their enjoyment and the permanence of their aesthetic interest despite their regular canonical exclusion. This is why the American writer Stephen Crane joins them. Crane's Red Badge of Couragewas briefly popular, first in its 1896 newspaper serial­ ization, then in volume form from Appleton over the following year. But by the year Crane died, aged twenty-eight, in igoo, it had been all but forgotten. Despite the fact that, in his final trip to England, he became a friend of James, Wells, and Conrad, Crane was not taken into the canon—nor did he come anywhere near it—until Thomas Beer's (wildly fanciful!—though the extent of that fancy has only come to light in re­ cent years) biography became a bestseller at the start of the next poetic decade, in 1 9 2 3 .

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13. Now, to say that science is the theory of technology is not to say very much until we have clarified some assumptions about the relation of the­ ory to the situation it is presumed to be the theory of. The question is: Is science a set of immutable rules, laws, and univer­ sal facts, of which any specific experiment or observation is only a partic­ ular manifestation, and often a fallen or inexact manifestation, at that? (Think of all those times in Chem. Lab when our experimental results were so far off textbook prediction.) Or is science a kind of averaged de­ scription of experiments and observations that at any moment may be catastrophically revised by unexpected experimental results not funda­ mentally different from our lab student anomalies? (Think of Einstein's General Theory of Relativity, confirmed by the anomaly of Mercury's in­ evitably early appearance from behind the sun—finally explained by the idea of the sun's gravity actually bending the light waves of which the image was composed, rather than the sun's considerable atmosphere de­ flecting those rays—which, till then, had been the traditional, but finally mathematically inadequate, answer.) Indeed, to glance at examples like the ones in parentheses here suggests that science partakes of both. In practical terms, certainly, that is the working assumption most practicing scientists go on—in hope that they will not mistake evidence of a funda­ mental paradigm shift for a simple measurement inaccuracy (or, per­ haps, more embarrassingly, vice versa). I hold that science is aestheticized technology. However, it is also and at the same time the political aspect of technology—as it is the theoreti­ cal aspect. The working part of this suggestion is that science bears the same relation to things in the world as an aspect bears to an object. Thus, though it may be represented as a rule or set of rules governing objects, strictly speaking it is not the rules that constitute science but the explana­ tions for those rules—nor is science, speaking equally strictly, a reduc­ tion of an object. (As with an aspect of an object, a representation of that aspect cannot totalize the object, by definition, the way science is presumed to totalize technology.) Thus the relation between science and technology is very different from either of the ones suggested above, even as it explains particular effects or appearances of that relation. But, yes, the status of that relation is and always has always been problematic. 14. Aspects of objects depend mightily on human biology. It is absurd (i.e., away from reason towards stupidity) to speak of colors that are not colors we or some living creature can see; or of notes and harmonies that, similarly, cannot be heard. That is to say, such concepts do not eas­ ily fit into most current logical narratives about the world. (Should we

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speak of such sounds or colors, because we will be in the realm of meta­ phor, the status of the relation between word and world will be thrown into question.) And colors and sounds are aspects of objects par excel­ lence. Aspects are the ability of objects to excite the biological subject in a particular way. Science, then, might be called the ability of the object world to excite explanations in the reasoning body that, through their coherence and iterability, allow (or suggest) a greater and greater control over the ob­ ject world. 15. The object world, controlled or uncontrolled, maneuvered or unmaneuvered, is technology. To pull an apple from a tree and eat it is as much a technology as to hunt through a garbage can, find half a hot dog, and eat it. And there is a science to both. 16. Aspects, to speak figuratively, tend to sit on the surface of objects. That is to say, they are the first things about the objects that interact with us. In a cultural field given over to essentialism, we are very likely to as­ sume that the aspect represents some sort of essence of the object. I hold that poetry is an aspect of narrative. I hold that science is an aspect of technology. But the fact that aspects have perceptual priority explains why it seems to so many of us (including me) that poetry precedes the functional use of language: Clearly, in language, relationships whose status we are not sure of (relationships whose signification/status is unknown or proble­ matic) must precede relationships whose status we believe we know (re­ lationships whose signification/status we can follow). A little thought will show that this makes the historical question: Which came first, poetry or narrative? a chicken-and-egg question. But in terms of the his­ tory of any given individual, from infancy to adulthood, poetry must come first. 17. But let us switch topics once again: to narrative and narrativity. Nar­ rative exists as an extraordinary complex of expectations. As soon as we write, "The marquis went out at five o'clock . . . " the problem is not then that we do not know what to write next. Rather, we have an immense choice of things we can follow it with. But there is an equally immense or even greater number of things that would produce a tiny, almost minus­ cule feeling of upset, violation, and the unexpected: "An anvil fell on his head from the roof and killed him." Or: "At that moment the Titanic sank." To the extent that a narrative is supposed to produce various sorts of pleasure, the sense of expectations violated can be just as pleasurable,

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or even more so, than the sense of expectations fulfilled. And as soon as one choice is made (whether the writer goes with fulfillment or with vio­ lation), a new set of expectations opens before the reader/writer. Which will the writer—say, the writer of what we usually call "narrative fiction" —choose to develop: the sense of violation or the sense of fulfillment? But, like a tree-search lying in front of every writer (and reader), at the beginning (and all throughout, unto the closing sentence) of every tale, the expectations are always there. That tree underlies every text. Any text represents only a specific path through it. One argument posed by people who claim genre fictions are aestheti­ cally valueless per se is that, to be recognizably of a genre—science fic­ tion, Western, horror, mystery—the text must fulfill so many expecta­ tions that there is no room for the necessary violations that characterize great literary works. The counterargument is that, first, literary fiction entails just as great a set of expectations as any genre does, and requires just as much conformity to expectations to write it. (People who argue against this often see mundane fiction as simply "mirroring the world," rather than negotiating a complex set of writerly expectations in the same way genre fiction does.) Second, the greater emphasis on expecta­ tions fulfilled that indeed characterizes what we traditionally call genre fiction means that, when violations are worked into traditional genre tales, they register more forcefully on the reader than similar violations in tales belonging to the literary genres. Conversely, literary modernism, with its emphasis on violation of expectation, has produced an expectational field where violation is so expected that the differences in effect between expectation met and expectation violated are minimal. Thus, as an effective field, modernism (and by extension, postmodernist writing) is affectively moribund. Well, I believe both arguments underestimate just how rich, complex, and vast the expectational field actually is. They are confining their view to the tiny range of expectations we call "plot," "character," "style," "theme," and "setting." The fact is that there have al­ ways been moribund spots at every level: They're called clichés, and they have been with us at least since French printers coined the term in the eighteenth century. (The original "cliché," which means "clamp," was a length of preset type of frequently used words and phrases, held in a clamp and stored on a special shelf, that the seventeenth-century printer could slide into his type tray, instead of having to set that length of text letter by letter.) But the dismissal of entire genres as cliché rests on a blindness to the complexities of what it takes to ignite a genre and make it take life in the first place. In any genre, literary or paraliterary, texts that go along merely fulfill­ ing expectations register as moderately good or mediocre fiction: the

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sort one reads, more or less enjoys, and forgets. What strikes us as ex­ traordinary, excellent, or superb fiction must fulfill some of those expec­ tations, and at the same time violate others. It is a very fancy dance of ful­ fillment and violation that produces the "Wow! " of wonder that greets a first-rate piece of writing—the inarguably wonderful story—no matter the genre it occurs in. The expectations I am talking of cover everything from the progression of incidents that, in the course of the story, regis­ ters as plot, to the progression of sounds that, in the course of its sen­ tences, register as euphony. Such expectations occur at the level of meta­ phor and form, just as they occur at the level of character and motivation, and at many, many other levels besides. The notion that plot (or character) exhausts what we can say about expectations across the whole range of narrative fiction, among all the various genres, literary and paraliterary, is about the same as the notion that, in music, the most expected note is always a fifth, fourth, or tonic up or down within the same scale; thirds and sixths are also expected notes; seconds and sevenths are less expected; and notes that lie outside the scale are unexpected. Now, with that as our only principle, we must create a rich subject for a Bach fugue, a pleasing melody for a Verdi aria, a satisfying row for a Schoenberg chamber symphony . . . Taking off from Pater's formalist dictum, "All art aspires to the condi­ tion of music," philosophers like Rorty and Davidson are showing us that language is not less complex than music, but more so. 18. Whether fulfilled or violated, each expectation citable in a narrative is the sign of a relationship between what comes before it and what comes after it. Not all of these relationships are necessarily consecutive, nor do they all run only from the past to the future. Something happen­ ing on page ten of a text may charge or recharge with meaning some­ thing we read on page two. And this can happen at any level. In short, we do not know the critical status of every narrative relation. Often these re­ lations are pleasurable simply in themselves. But what we are doing here is recomplicating narrative itself into a poetic model. From here on, I am going to try to achieve another level of narrative clarity on top of my fundamentally poetic model of narrative. 19. It is easy to get too caught up in the notion of a tree-search. As early as 1 9 5 7 , in his groundbreaking little book Syntactic Structures, Noam Chomsky showed that the "end-stopped" (really, just another name for a "tree-search") model of language was simply inadequate to generate all the well-formed sentences in a language. To counter this model, Chom­ sky produced the model of "deep grammar," where complex sentences

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were generated on the surface of layers of vertical development. In terms of current computers, that means a tree-search with a whole lot of loops, flags, go-tos, and recursive features. But the fact is that we still do not have computers that, in a free dialogue situation, can generate origi­ nal sentences of the range and complexity your average six-year-old speaks easily. That suggests that even the deep grammar model is not ad­ equate to language. Indeed, it is the notion of language as "well formed" that seems to be the problem. While a lucky few of us may write using only well-formed sentences more or less exclusively, none of us speaks using only wellformed sentences. In ordinary speech, some of us may come up, now and then, with three or four well-formed sentences in a row. But most of us, in actual dialogue situations, generate far more fragments and runons than we do well-formed sentences, with disagreements between verbs and nouns and incorrect tense progressions the norm rather than the rule, even though, if one of our ill-formed sentences is pulled out of context and we are asked to examine it carefully, we can usually tell something or other is wrong with it—and often even what it is. "Gram­ mar," even the most carefully constructed spoken grammar, as put to­ gether by the most careful linguists is, in most actual speech situations, something that actual language aspires to, something that it approxi­ mates, but that actual language is always falling short of, rather than something that controls language in some masterful way. And that goes for the language of "competent speakers" as well as for people just learn­ ing it. (Of course the mistakes competent speakers make routinely are very different from the mistakes new learners make. But that is another topic.) Another way of saying the same thing is: A grammar can never be a complete description of an actual language but must always be a reduc­ tion of it. One might go so far as to say: If you have a complete descrip­ tion of it, "it" is probably not a language at all but rather a much simpler communication object—a code. Still another way of saying much the same is: It is only after we have an algorithm that can generate both wellformed and ill-formed sentences that we can likely develop a superalgorithm from that earlier algorithm that can distinguish between them (i.e., a grammar); for, contrary to much linguistic speculation, a gram­ mar is not something that, on some ideal or Platonic level, is prior to lan­ guage, and can be recovered by an examination of specific language sit­ uations. If we ask a native informant what another native speaker means by a particular utterance, we will be given some translative paraphrase, or possibly be told, "I don't know." If we ask, "Did the second speaker say what she or he said correctly?" we will be told, "Yes," "No," or, "I'm not sure." It is from the second set of questions, or from the assumption that

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we know that the speaker was not making a mistake, that we put together our grammar. But it is the idea of grammar that brings the idea of cor­ rectness and incorrectness to the language; the language is not founded on this idea. And the native interpreter will be able to paraphrase—that is, to tell us the meaning of—many more utterances than those that, to a later quesdon, he or she may deem correctiy uttered: The interpreter will be able to give us at least some of the meanings of the pregrammatical requests of little children, the slurred demands of the drunk, and the heated boasts or the enthusiasdc gossip or those speaking too quickly to care about the fine points of expression. The ability to understand a great deal of ill-formed language is not the accidental fallout of linguis­ tic competence (i.e., the ability to speak in well-formed language), but is rather the anterior state necessary to have any concept of the wellformed at all. Rather, grammar always follows language and is generated as an always-partial description of what is actually there (i.e., a descrip­ tion of the parts there that are particularly useful in ways the concept of grammar defines). Thus, by extension, an algorithm that can generate only well-formed sentences but cannot generate both comprehensible (and incomprehensible) ill-formed sentences is simply not a complete language algorithm. (In terms of science: The ability to generate incorrect explanations necessarily precedes the ability to operationalize our way into correct ones.) I may not be able to give you an immediate paraphrase of the mean­ ing of these lines from Hart Crane's "Atlantis," which closes his poetic se­ quence The Bridge. Swift peal of secular light, intrinsic Myth Whose fell unshadow is death's utter wound— O River-throated—iridescentiy upborne Through the bright drench and fabric of our veins . . .

But to ask whether, as a sentence, it is well-formed or ill-formed— whether it is "correct," or contains any mistakes of grammar, syntax, or diction—is simply hopeless. And it is still poetry. More to our point, it is certainly still language, and language at a high and (and to me and many other readers) highly pleasurable level of expectational viola­ tion. Indeed, the only way to begin talking about it productively as poetry is to read carefully the precise ways in which the language resists the fulfillment of expectations: "Swift peal of . . . " makes us expect, of course, "thunder," thunder being the mythic mode in which the god Zeus traditionally demonstrated his sacred, religious power. But rather

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than religious thunder, instead we get "secular light." And it is precisely the difference between the expected "thunder" and the violational "sec­ ular light" that starts to make the line, and, indeed, other words and phrases in the lines, signify, as it allows us to experience the specific play of differences that is Crane's vision. An even more extreme example, however, might be taken from Crane's friend, black writer Jean Toomer, who, at the start of the twen­ ties, experimented by writing a poem organized around a single letter ("Poem inC"): Go and see Carlowitz the Carthusian, Then pray bring the cartouche and place it On this cashmere, while I tell a story. The steaming casserole passed my way While I reclined beneath Castalay, Dreaming, ye Gods, of castor o i l . . . .

Toomer also wrote, in a wholly invented language, "Sound Poem (I) ": Mon sa me el karimoor, Ve dice kor, korrand ve deer, Leet vire or sand vite, Re sive tas tor; Tu tas tire or re sim bire, Razan dire ras to por tantor, Dorozire, soron, Bas ber vind can sor, gosham, Mon sa me el, a som on oor.

To argue whether the first of these is well-formed or not, or whether the second is actually language, is to miss the point: There is no way we can respond to them other than as language. (In "Sound Poem (I)" there is no way to avoid hearing "wind" in the Germanic 'Vind," the French forms "mon" (my), "tire" (pulls), and "dir" (to say) in "Mon," "tire," "dire"—and a Hispanic form of the same in "dice"; the Latin "basia" (kisses) in "bas," and Spanish and French "el" (he) and "tasse d'or" (cup of gold) in "el" and "tas tor." The English "paramour" and "rai­ sin" linger behind "karimoor" and "Razan," as well as dozens of other se­ mantic conceptions. No, we establish easy narrative relations here neither in Toomer nor in Crane. But that is what Crane's and Toomer's poems have been carefully crafted to do. And they do it not by avoiding language but by maneuvering—in all cases—fundamental language elements.

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In all three cases, language expectations are being violated to high­ light various poedc effects. Robert Graves' ( 1 8 9 5 - 1 9 8 7 ) delightful poem "jWelcome to the Caves of Artâ!" plays with the English/non-English all travelers in Eu­ rope are familiar with from local tourist brochures. ("jYou tell me are you capable to make precise in idiom / Considerations magic of illu­ sion very wide!") And dialect poems from America's James Whitcombe Riley ( 1 8 4 9 - 1 9 1 6 ) , writing of Little Orphant Allie in the urban Irish dialect of the mid-i88os, and Paul Lawrence Dunbar ( 1 8 7 2 - 1 9 0 6 ) , writing of Malindy and the effects of her singing in the black speech of the century's turn, to Canada's William Henry Drummond ( 1 8 5 4 1 9 0 7 ) , meditating on "Leetle Bateese" and "The Wreck of the 'Julie Plante'—A legend of Lac St. Pierre" in the heavily accented English of the Québequois, have all forced both meaning and emotion from the tensions in the speech of those challenged by one form or another of what is generally taken to be some form of linguistic failing. Aestheti­ cally (if not linguistically), how does one finally and ultimately distin­ guish the enterprises of such poets from, say, that of Robert Burns ( 1 7 5 8 - 1 7 9 6 ) , writing in what is admitted to be a disparate dialect of En­ glish (rather than in the pidgin of "non-native" speakers—a category put in question by the very enterprise): Certainly the effect on the aver­ age "competent English" speakers, who judged him one of the great poets of his century, was much the same—even among those readers armed with a Scottish glossary and thus able to give more meaning than most to specialized terms, "a-glay," "brattle," etc. Much linguistic work in the past has occurred within a paradigm that sees well-formed sentences as language but ill-formed sentences as, somehow, outside language (work that would certainly place Toomer's "Sound Poems," if not much of Crane, beyond the linguistic border); it sees them as some sort of non-language, when, on the one hand, the most cursory observation of actual language as it is spoken (or, with a poet such as Crane as a prime example, written) reveals that ill-formed sentences are just as much "within language" as are well-formed sen­ tences and are equally a part of the language process, while, on the other hand, the meticulous and careful readings by deconstructive critics of written language (writing: that bastion of the well-formed; but, as well, the classical way to preserve the "ill-formed" for study) reveal that the ideal derived from (but on which, rather, we mistakenly tend to ground) the whole notion of the "well-formed"—the sentence whose logic and clarity precludes all ambiguity, all semantic slippage—is itself an impos­ sibility: that, indeed, if such an ideal were achieved, rather than produc­ ing the phantasm of a perfect and mastered meaning, immediately

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present both to sender and to addressee, it would bring the communica­ tion process to a dead halt. The slippages, the ambiguities, the mistakes are, finally, what make language function in the first place. But even with this much of an overview of the ubiquity and utility of "mistakes," some will see that we are back at that very important notion of the violation of expectations, purposeful mistakes, if you will, that must reside in higher-level narrative grammars (even as slippages and ambiguities re­ side in well-formed sentences), if the narratives are to be in any way richly satisfying. Both through its exceptional formalities and through its pursuit of "the language used by men," poetry regularly seeks its material "outside language," that is to say, outside proper language as theorized by any number of different grammarians with an extraordinary range of ap­ proaches. The linguists—if not the grammarians—might take a lesson: Well-formed language is a subset of a more fundamental notion of lan­ guage in general. And linguistics should be concerned with language. My suspicion is that a model of language that sees (instead) the wellformed as fundamental and ill-formed as an excess and theoretically dis­ posable supplement is hamstrung from the start. The much beleaguered project of deconstruction (whose history and elaboration, as much as a view of the range of poetry, certainly suggest the above) can be looked at as a way of foregrounding the necessary and unavoidable "mistakes" (read: ambiguities, slippages) that reside in even the most well-formed sentences—and that must reside there if those sen­ tences are to exist in time—and are to communicate anything at all over the time it takes to utter them. With the acknowledged failure both of the end-stopped (or treesearch) model of grammar as well as the deep (or vertical) model of grammar, it seems clear that, to describe actual language more precisely, we need another model. More to the point, we need another sort of model—one that is looser, more flexible, that allows us to retain the in­ sights of the previous models until someone generates a better technical description, even while our new order of model acknowledges that the ways of talking about those insights, from both earlier models, are now metaphors and, as such and despite their insights, are themselves viola­ tions of an expected, more exact model, a more poetic model, i.e., an ex­ pectation as yet unfulfilled . . . But to return to our topic of fictive narrative: No one sits down and teaches you what fictive expectations are, much less which ones to con­ form to and which ones to violate. Rarely have I been in a creative writing class that has even mentioned them, much less talked about them at any length.

428

Shorter Views

We learn them from reading other fiction—other truly good fiction; and equally, or possibly even more, from reading bad fiction. Because violation has as much to do with success as does fulfillment, there can never be one "great work," or even a group of ideal "great works," that can teach you all the expectations at once. The artist, T. S. Eliot wrote in "Tradition and the Individual Talent" ( 1 9 1 9 ) , must "famil­ iarize himself with the tradition." In today's computer-oriented world, we might put it (metaphorically): The artist (along with the critic) must, through broad exposure, become familiar with the overall structure of the possibilities of the tree. And the tree (or the tradition), remember, produces not only the good pieces but the bad pieces as well. We learn those expectations not as a set of rules to follow or to b r e a k though after a while, some writers may actually be able to list a number of them in that form. Rather, we learn them the way we learn a language when we live in another country. We learn its grammar and syntax; we learn what is expected of a competent speaker of that language. And just to up the ante, languages change, including the language of fiction. What was perceived as a violation yesterday is today a sedimented expectation. What was once an expectation is now honored only in the breach—or people just giggle. The language of fiction is not quite the same today as it was eighteen or twenty-five years ago. It is certainly not the same as it was sixty or seventy-five years ago. And it is almost entirely different from what it was a hundred or a hundred-fifty years ago. So while it is always good to know the history of the language you are speaking, and while that history will often tell you the reason why certain expectations are (or are not) still in place today—where, in effect, those expectations started out—the great stories of the past hold the key to writing the great stories of today no more than an oration by Cicero will tell a modern poli­ tician the specifics of what to mention in his next sound bite, even when Cicero and the modern politician can be seen as having similar problems. All we can ever learn is what the language—of fiction, say—has been in the past. But every time we sit down to write a new text, we become in­ volved, however blindly, in transforming the language into what it will become.

20. As science is an aspect of technology, poetry is an aspect of narrative: It is such an evident aspect of narrative that, from time to time, it has been foregrounded and highlighted and hypostasized, at least on the so­ cial level, into a thing in itself, just as, in the same manner, science has been so hypostasized.

Some Remarks on Narrative and Technology 4 2 9 21. When poetry is separated from narrative, as it is in much language poetry, i.e., where the coherent narrative units (as in, say, the works of Silliman or Hejinian) are kept down to a sentence or less, the poetic rela­ tions foregrounded are much quieter, subtler, and—for the reader used to taking his or her poetry with greater dollops of "argument"—more difficult, at least for a while, to recognize. Yes, it is a reduced aesthetic field that such poets are asking us to concentrate on: But the reduction also represents an aesthetic refinement. And the fact is, there is simply no way to experience those particular poedc effects (read: verbal relationships of a problematic status) at such an intensity and purity in a more narratively saturated field. 22. The hypostasization of aspects into (conceptual) states that, at least socially and linguistically, are treated as though they were actual objects in themselves would seem to be a constant function of language. We not only talk of "yellowness," "largeness," "smallness" (even "size"), "heat," or "cold" as though they were actual things (rather than aspects of things), but by treating them thus verbally, we allow ourselves to study them and to create explanatory models of them, models that are counterintuitive precisely to the extent that they deny their object status and return them to their aspective states. It is arguable that such hypostasization is a poetic function of lan­ guage, and one that, we can easily see, makes science (which is, after all, a similar hypostasization of aspects) possible. If poetry is cut off too rigorously and permanently from all narrative, in that it represents another such hypostasization, the division may lay out a locus for aesthetic abuse. (At least every time, usually at those his­ torical moments that the poetic model itself has come to the fore­ ground, and poetry itself has taken the occasion to make another lurch away from traditional narrative in order to repurify itself, there have al­ ways been critics standing about to shout "Abuse! Abuse!") So can sci­ ence, when it forgets the complex material world, the technology, if you will, of which it is an aspect, also lay out such areas, and for the same rea­ sons. But I do not think that such hypostasizations are necessarily abusive in themselves, for if they were, we would have to dismiss both science and poetry out of hand. And, myself, I would rather see more of both, conducted at a high and refined level, than less.

— New York City

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Shorter Views

WORKS

CITED

Arendt, Hannah (1951). The Origins of Totalitarianism. New York: Harcourt, Brace, Jovanovich. Bakhdn, Mikhail (1981). "Epic and the Novel," in The Dialogic Imagination, ed. Michael Holquist, trans. Caryl Emerson and Michael Holquist. Austin: Uni­ versity of Texas Press. Butler, Samuel (1964). Ernest Pontifex, or The Way of All Flesh, ed. with intro. by Daniel F. Howard. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Riverside Editions. Chomsky, Noam (1957). Syntactic Structures. The Hague: Mouton & Co., N.V., Publishers. Crane, Hart (1986). The Complete Works of Hart Crane, ed. Marc Simon. New York: Liveright. Dowson, Ernest (1919). The Poems of Ernest Dowson, with a memoir by Arthur Symons. New York: The John Lane Company Ltd. (1947). The Stories of Ernest Dowson, ed. Mark Longaker. Philadelphia: Uni­ versity of Pennsylvania Press. ( 1967). The Letters of Ernest Dowson, eds. Desmond Flower and Henry Mass. London: Cassell & Company Ltd. Eagleton, Terry (1983). Literary Theory: An Introduction. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Gregor-Dellin, Martin (1963). Richard Wagner, His Life, His Work, His Century, trans. J. Maxwell Brownjohn. New York: Harcourt, Brace, Jovanovich. Johnson, Lionel (1982). The Collected Poems of Lionel Johnson, Second and Revised Edition, ed. Ian Fletcher. New York: Garland Publishing, Inc. Leunen, Mary-Claire van (1979). Handbook for Scholars. New York: Knopf. Longinus ( 1991 ). On Great Writing (On the Sublime), trans, with intro. by G. M. A. Grube. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Co. Olson, Charles (1979). "Poetry & Truth," in Muthologos, The Collected Lectures and Interviews, Vol. II, ed. George Butterick. Bolinas: Four Seasons Foundation. Pater, Walter ( 1986). Marius the Epicurean, His Sensations and Ideas, ed. with intro. by Ian Small. First published 1885. Reprinted New York: Oxford University Press. Schreiner, Olive (1939). The Story of an African Farm, intro. by Dan Jacobson. First published 1883. Republished London: Penguin Books. Toomer, Jean (1988). The Collected Poems ofJean Toomer, eds. Robert B.Jones and Maregery Toomer Latimer, intro. by Robert B. Jones. Chapel Hill: The Uni­ versity of North Carolina.

Some Notes for the Intermediate and Advanced Creative Writing Student Write as simply as you can for the most intelligent person in the room. —Blanche McCrary Boyd, OutWrite, Boston, 1 9 9 8

You write simply, we might add, so that your hypostasized intelligent other can more quickly catch you out when you write down idiocies— and, if that intelligence is imbued with enough generosity, so that it can bracket those idiocies and go quickly to what's interesting among the suggestions in your work. From time to time (or again and again) the writer must write directly against that simplicity to enhance and to con­ trol just the suggestiveness in which, for such an intelligence, much of the work's worth will reside. This tension between clarity and connota­ tion is why so many writers have two voices—I first heard Dudley Fitts put forward the notion from his wheelchair at a poetry seminar at the Bread Loaf Writers' Conference in the summer of i960—often in evidence and in tension in the same text. Fitts used Henry Reed's moving poem on Adamic pretensions in the light of World War II, "The Naming of Parts," as a particularly clear example, more than half a dozen years be­ fore anyone this side of the herring pond had even considered the Laca­ nian notion of a split subject. I have written the following notes as simply as I can. But what use they may have, if any, will be entirely in what they can suggest—as much as if I had written them with the recomplications of some of my examples. What is literary talent? To what extent should it be treated as a skill? A skill may or may not be something to be mastered. Certainly the physical ones require strength, muscles, and, in general, those facilities that must be built up by repetition.

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My feeling is that literary talent is definitely not something that in­ volves mastery in any way, shape, or form. Thus, the treatment appropri­ ate to the mastery of a skill is wholly inappropriate to the training of lit­ erary talent. Both encouragement and the proffering of judgmental criticism in the early stages are equally out of place—though the student may desperately want one, the other, or both. As far as I can see, talent has two sides. The first side is the absorption of a series of complex models—models for the sentence, models for nar­ rative scenes, and models for various larger literary structures. This is en­ tirely a matter of reading and criticism. (And, yes, that means criticism of the writer's own texts as well as the criticism of others.) Nothing else af­ fects it. To know such models and what novels, stories, or sentences employ them certainly doesn't hurt. Generally speaking, however, the sign that the writer has internalized a model deeply enough to use it in writing is when he or she has encountered it enough times so that she or he no longer remembers it in terms of a specific example or a particular text, but experiences it, rather, as a force in the body, a pull on the back of the tongue, an urge in the fingers to shape language in one particular way and not in another. The only way to effect this is to encounter that model or structure again and again in other texts and to experience it. . . well, through the body. Clumsy, inadequate, and not quite accurate, that's the only way I can say it. These models must be experienced through what the early German Romantics called Begeisterung—the sine qua non for the artist, more im­ portant than intelligence, passion, or even imagination and the founda­ tion for them all. Literally "in-spiritedness" and often translated as "in­ spiration," it carries just as strongly the sense of "spirited," so that it is more accurately designated by the English word "enthusiasm." Begeiste­ rung—inspiration/enthusiasm—can alone seat these models in the mind at the place where they can, with like energy, forget their sources, seize up new language, and reemerge. The training of literary talent requires repetition of the experience of reading, then: But it does not require repetition of the experience of writing (other than that required to achieve general literacy) in the same way that piano playing or drawing does. Far too many writers have writ­ ten fine first novels without ever having written much of anything of par­ ticular value before—Jane Austen, Emily and Anne Brontë, J. D. Salin­ ger; but the list goes on. A number of writers who did write one, two, or a handful of comparatively mediocre works before they started producing much better ones—Woolf, Lawrence, Balzac, Cather, Faulkner—fre­ quently tell of a sea-change in their conception of what the novel actually

Appendix

435

was or could be that is responsible for the improvement. They realized there were more complex models to submit to. But once they had them, submit to them they did. In none of these cases was it just a matter of the simple improvement or strengthening of a craft or skill. Which brings us to the second side of talent. The second side is the ability to submit to those models. Many people find such submission frightening. At the order, even from inside them: "Do this—and let the model control the way you do it," they become terrified—that they'll fail, fall on their face, or look stupid. If the body could do it entirely on its own, we'd all be very lucky. But, though, sometimes for a passage or—more rarely—even for a story or an entire book, your body seems to take over and all-but-does the writing for you (it's called inspiration; it's called self-expression—but what it is is submission), fundamentally writing is done with the mind. To say it seems unnecessary—but the mind plays an active, complicated, and in­ tricate part in the process, a part far more complex than simply thinking up what to write about. Most of what the mind does is think about and give instructions for controlling the conditions under which we do our writing. This is where, frightened or made anxious by aspects of the writ­ ing process, your mind will repeatedly sabotage your writing project. If it does go with the project, probably it's because your mind becomes, as it were, addicted to the pleasure of writing—but that addiction, devoutly to be wished, only happens if you consciously and carefully put writing first before all other responsibilities; which is to say, while the pleasure is there (it's unique, very real; all writers experience it), the truth is, it isn't that great. You need lots of it to effect the "addiction" that will keep you at it. Though the practice of writing has the structure of an addiction, it's a mild one—one remarkably easy to wean yourself away from, even acci­ dentally or through inattention. Thus, count on internalization of mod­ els rather than addiction to the process; addiction without the proper internalized models explains why bad writers often write so much. Acknowledging that there are models to submit to is much the same as realizing: There are standards to be judged by. That you yourself must exercise the first and possibly harshest rounds of judgment on your work is not a situation most of us would characterize as fun. Rather it's a situa­ tion most people find endlessly anxiety-producing and unpleasant. But the writer must revel in it and grow. This takes a particular personality type most people just don't have. If you don't get some major satisfaction from such auto-lacerations, however, you might as well try something else which does not demand such constant self-critique. This is (only) one reason why, ten years after every creative writing class, most (often, all) of the participants have given up writing for a less taxing profession.

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When people have not internalized the models at the bodily level, often they develop a stubborn streak, usually based on insecurity and fear: While they have a recognition awareness of the models, they're afraid they'll lose something of themselves if they give in to them. This is especially true when someone else with a sense of what might be done to help a piece of fiction makes a suggestion to them for improving it: The writer knows his critic is right—but would rather do anything in the world than follow the suggestion. Well, for them, stubbornness and fear must be taken as one with lack of talent. A teacher can do only so much to allay them—although we do what we can. When the writer does have a deep sense of the model that's controlling her or his work, however, and someone makes a criticism that points up where the model has, for a mo­ ment, not been followed, often the writer can hardly wait to make the suggested change. (I've seen writers sit down on the classroom floor to correct a manuscript before leaving the workshop.) Having made these points, however, I must also stress: Most criticism is not so dead-on. The writer should respond enthusiastically to that which is useful. Still, most (and often all) of the criticism the writer gets has to be ignored. Though models are rarely referred to directly by either writers or their critics, it is the deep sense of the model that tells the writer what criticism is useful and what is not. For many years, I have told creative writing classes that the writer must be able to hear the criticism if it is to be useful. But, clearly, when the writer "hears" it, something so much more active than just hearing is going on, it would be unfair not to point it out. Similarly, when the writer does not hear it, and there is no deeply internalized model to guide him or her, the confusion, resistance, and hostility is often great enough to note. To write a novel or a story means that one takes one of these internal­ ized models and adjusts it, often with a good deal of thought, to the mate­ rial at hand. That, yes, means changing the model somewhat. This is what produces new work. Sometimes it even produces new kinds of work. But it is not an accident that so many of the writers we associate with the pro­ duction of whole new kinds of writing—Gertrude Stein, Virginia Woolf, T. S. Eliot, Ezra Pound, James Joyce—were articulately aware of the tradi­ tion they were developing from/breaking with. (We shall come back to this notion.) The sad truth is, there's very little that's creative in creativity. The vast majority is submission—submission to the laws of grammar, to the possibilities of rhetoric, to the grammar of narrative, to narrative's vari­ ous and possible structurings. And in a democratic society that privileges individuality, self-reliance, and mastery, submission is a frightening thing. When looked at in terms of the submission to internally absorbed models, only a few things can go wrong with writing. Maybe you've never

Appendix

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absorbed the particular model you need. Sadly, that too is tantamount to having no talent—or not having enough talent or the right sort of talent. If that's the case, you have to give it up. Sometimes one has absorbed a model, but it needs time to come forward and take over the material. Time, then, can help. But many people read widely and voraciously with­ out ever absorbing the models from the fiction they read at a depth that will allow them to write any fiction of interest on their own. They might store those models in recognition memory, so that they recognize the patterns that fiction makes and enjoy them immensely as readers. But that doesn't mean they have necessarily internalized them to the extent needed to become creators. We recognize our friends' faces. Few of us, however, can produce a likeness on paper—though we recognize it when someone else does. In this one sense, then, the creative writer is closest to the concert performer playing a composer's score and making it sound out at its most beautiful. For the writer, the model comes forward in the mind as a kind of vaguely (or, sometimes, very strongly) perceived "temporal shape" that seizes up the "material"—whatever it is the writer is writing about—and organizes it, organizes it rigorously. These models function on several "levels" at once. They are there to organize the words (the sounds and multiple meanings associated with the words) into sentences. They are there to organize the different kinds of sentences into scenes. They are there to organize the different kinds of scenes into subsections (chap­ ters or parts). They are there to organize the chapters or parts into a novel. I say, "They are there . . . " But if they are not there, then the novel stalls at a certain point; and unless the writer can summon forth the proper model, the work will get clunky and awkward from that point on—if it progresses at all. Sometimes the model is clearly expressible: "The book will begin with three chapters devoted to the main characters, in the central one of which they encounter or observe some minor char­ acters; then a fourth chapter will be devoted to those minor characters alone; the next three chapters are devoted to the main characters (with, again at the middle of those three chapters, the main characters encoun­ tering the minor characters); then, yet again, another chapter gets de­ voted to the minor characters alone. Then there will be still three more chapters devoted to the main characters (with, again, the middle chap­ ter of those three linking major and minor characters), followed by a minor-character chapter once again; the book will close with three chap­ ters, in the first of which the actions of the main characters will resolve; again the center piece of these three chapters will resolve the minor characters' story in terms of an encounter with the major characters, and, in the final chapter, the emotional fall-out of the whole story is

438

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resolved among the main characters. End of novel. That's fifteen chap­ ters all together, with four devoted directly to the minor characters and three devoted to tying them in with the main characters, who in turn command eight chapters by themselves." Let's look at a chart of this narrative structure where represents a chapter about the major characters, / / / / / / / represents a chapter about the minor characters alone, and represents a chapter about the major and minor characters interacting:

•

(one) (two) (three) /////////(four) (Ave) — - ( s i x ) (seven) /////////(eight) (nine) (ten) (eleven) /////////(twelve) (thirteen) (fourteen) (fifteen)

f

j [

•

.

Charted out, we see that the narrative progresses in four three-chapter units devoted to the major characters, punctuated with three chapters devoted to the minor characters alone. The chapters that deal with the minor and major characters together nevertheless produce an overall structure in which the minor characters are on stage every other chapter, starting with chapter two and ending with chapter fourteen. The chap­ ters themselves, of course, are going to have to be structured, since most novel chapters usually contain more than one scene. The progression of scenes within chapters will also have to be taken into consideration and structured. Possibly every chapter contains three scenes. Or five. Or every other chapter contains three and the alternate chapters contain only two . . . in which case we have to figure out, in the chapters, which scenes get devoted to the minor characters and/or to major char­ acters, etc. At this point, someone may say: "Look, just tell your story." But the sense that you are telling a story and not just presenting a ran­ dom progression of incidents is controlled by (among other things) such patterns.

Appendix

439

Rarely, however, does narrative structure (another name for those models we began by discussing) manifest itself even this clearly; and this is already fairly complex. The all-important social range over which the novel takes place has to be structured as carefully as any other element. (Is the book about a young man or woman's rise [or fall] in society? Do the minor characters move in the same direction, up [or down] the social scale as the main characters? Or do they move in the opposite direction?) At the same time, like a through-composed opera, leitmotivs consisting of repeated phrases, parallel incidents, running metaphors, and the like must be carefully placed throughout this dual story, so that each can recall and mirror one another. Only a certain amount of this structuring can be externally imposed on the fictive material. The material must call up an appropriate struc­ ture, rather, that is already inscribed, as it were, wherever the writer keeps his or her inner feel for fiction. Yes, there can be a certain amount of conscious adjustment. But if the writing strays too far from the model, there may just be no other one there to catch the material up and con­ trol it—and the result will be either stasis (that awful thing, writers' block) or chaos. Notice that not once, in all this, have we spoken of what a given novel is about. This is not because the structure must precede the novel's sub­ ject matter. But the structure certainly can precede much of the plot— and also control it. Our democratic society believes strongly in educational opportunities made available over the range of our country. All people should have the opportunity and education needed to enjoy the variety of art. Another idea, however, has grown up along with this: As many people as possible should be given the chance to make art themselves. In terms of writing, we've seen the last twenty-five years' explosion of writers' workshops and MFA programs. But there's a possible built-in failure in this program: While many—or even most—people can internalize a range of literary models strongly enough to recognize and enjoy them when they see them in (some) new works that they read, very few people internalize them to the extent that they can apply them to new material and use them to create. Lots of people want to. But not many people can. Most of you who read these notes—the vast majority—will discover, sometime fairly soon (that is, in the next three, four, or six years), that you are not really writers. The very few who do not discover this then, w i l l sometime around the age of fifty-five, sixty, seventy, or seventy-five—dis­ cover that, with the general deterioration of the mind that accompanies

440

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the second half of our lifetime, you are no fonder a writer. (So no one es­ capes.) It is not a pleasant discovery no matter when, in life, it comes. The only consolation anyone can give is: There is nothing wrong with not being a writer—that is, not being one who has, however briefly, been able to submit. It doesn't help that, among people who control the machinery of narrative dissemination, most editors, all publishers, and especially TV and film producers, no one wants to speak of the reality of artistic submis­ sion. All "professional" rhetoric about writing is organized, rather, around an illusory phantom called artistic mastery, which involves meeting dead­ lines, being totally "in control" of one's "craft," and making anything hap­ pen in a story you want (or anything that anyone who can pay you tells you that he or she wants), however externally imposed or at odds with any particular model that happening or incident is. These same people are then willing to lie through their teeth (and often pay exorbitant amounts of money for it), declaring that the product is great—when the actual re­ sult, visible to everyone in the audience, is that nothing either believable or interesting is happening at all in the butchered narrative. By and large, because she or he must work constantly against this rhet­ oric of mastery, the writer must be someone who can be more or less satisfied with the pursuit of personal excellence at the expense of per­ sonal happiness when the two, as they will again and again, conflict. There are, of course, a few exceptions to this rule of thumb: Most of those are truly tragic. If you're going to write well, you will do a lot better if your prose models are F. Scott Fitzgerald, Vladimir Nabokov, late Dickens, Raymond Chan­ dler, Virginia Woolf, Nathanael West, Theodore Sturgeon, William Gass, Ethan Canin, Guy Davenport, and Joanna Russ (with a few reminders from E. B. White thrown in) —certainly you'll do better than if your models are James T. Farrell, Theodore Dreiser, Pearl Buck, John Dos Passos, Sidney Sheldon, or John Grisham; or even Henry James or William Faulkner. (From the last two you might absorb other, higher-level liter­ ary models.) If your models have come only from the ironic experimenters and minimalists in short fiction of the last thirty years, who run from Donald Barthelme and Raymond Carver up through Ann Beattie and Lorrie Moore, whose work exists only as delightful and graceful—and some­ times poignant—commentary directed in delicate pinpricks against the foibles of the Great Tradition, when you try to write a serious novel about topics of social import, you will come out with a disaster which doesn't even make it to the level of good TV sitcoms or comedy sketches (the best of which are also instructive).

Appendix *

*

441

*

Things to remember about some common criticisms: 1. If your character is thin, the character is thin now. What the char­ acter does in the next chapter or scene is not going to help that current thinness. 2. If your plot is incoherent, what happens in the next chapter or scene is not going to make it suddenly cohere. Incoherence is neither mystery nor suspense. (These are controlled responses that the writer evokes.) Incoherence is produced by the writer's losing control of the material. 3. A bad or incoherent short story will not make a good opening novel chapter. Rewrite that short story and try to make it better. Don't just keep maundering on, hoping that, somehow, later material will re­ pair the damages readers have noted earlier. It doesn't work that way. 4. Stories (and plots) emerge from novels. But novels are not primar­ ily stories. They are ragbags of various discourses (descriptive, dramatic, narrative, reflective, analytic) structured in some inventive and interest­ ing way against a matrix of rhetorical expectations. 5. It is almost impossible to write a novel any better than the best novel you've read in the three to six months before you began your own. Thus, you must read excellent novels regularly. 6. Excellent novels set the standards for our own. But bad novels and bad prose are what teach us to write—by setting strong negative examples. You must read both, then—and read them analytically and discriminatingly. 7 . Much of good writing is the avoidance of bad writing. (Most bad writing by people who write easily comes from submission to demonstra­ bly poor models.) Get together a list of prose-writing errors that you re­ fuse to make any more. Choose them, perhaps, from the most common errors people make in your writing workshop. Before you hand anything in or send it out, read your work over for your own personal list of errors. When you inadvertently fall into them (and you will), correct them. (This is the best example I have, by the way, of what I mean by "submission to an aesthetic model." It also explains why such submission is work.) 8 . The novelist who wants to do anything more than paint a portrait of a contemporary character or a more or less limited situation—who wants to show the effect of a situation over a range of social conditions— but has only read the short fictions of the last fifty years with any care starts with four strikes against him or her. 9 . The San Francisco renaissance in poetry of the middle fifties and sixties was predicated on the aesthetic principle: "Good art makes great art look even better. Thus, it benefits the great to encourage the good."

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10. You need to read Balzac, Stendhal, Flaubert, and Zola; you need to read Austen, Thackeray, the Brontes, Dickens, George Eliot, and Hardy; you need to read Hawthorne, Melville, James, Woolf, Joyce, and Faulkner; you need to read Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, Turgenev, Goncherov, Gogol, Bely, FOebnekov, and Flaubert; you need to read Stephen Crane, Mark Twain, Edward Dahlberg,John Steinbeck, Jean Rhys, Glenway Wescott, John O'Hara, James Gould Cozzens, Angus Wilson, Patrick White, Alexander Trocchi, Iris Murdoch, Graham Greene, Evelyn Waugh, An­ thony Powell, Vladimir Nabokov; you need to read Nella Larson, Knut Hamsun, Edwin Demby, Saul Bellow, Lawrence Durrell, John Updike, John Barth, Philip Roth, Coleman Dowell, William Gaddis, William Gass, Margarite Young, Thomas Pynchon, Paul West, Berthe Harris, Melvin Dixon, Daryll Pinkney, Daryll Ponicsin, and John Keene, Jr.; you need to read Thomas M. Disch, Joanna Russ, Richard Powers, Carroll Maso, Ed­ mund White, Jayne Ann Phillips, Robert Gluck, and Julian Barnes—you need to read them and a whole lot more; you need to read them not so that you will know what they have written about, but so that you can begin to absorb some of the more ambitious models for what the novel can be. The first move the more experienced creative writer can make toward absorbing these models is to realize that "plot" is an illusion. It's an illu­ sion the writer ought to disabuse her- or himself of pretty quickly, too, at least if he or she ever wants to write anything of substance, ambition, or literary richness. (There is no plot.) That is to say, plot is an effect that other written elements produce in concert. Outside those elements, plot has no autonomous existence. What there is is narrative structure. Here is a formal statement of the reason plot doesn't exist: No narrative unit necessarily corresponds to any textual unit. Plots are always and only composed of synoptic units. I'll try to demonstrate with examples. Again: What we call "plot" is an effect produced by (among other things) structure. But many, many different structures can produce the same "plot." (Structure does have textual existence: You can point it out on the page: "See, this comes first. This follows it. This takes five sentences to 1

l . A recent riddle demonstrates what analysis can also reveal—why plot has no defini­ tive existence n o r indicates any necessary information about its text: F r o m the following account of the plot, identify this classic American Depression film: " A n unwilling immigrant to a New L a n d of Opportunity, a dissatisfied young foreign woman kills an older woman whose face she never sees. After she recruits three equally dis­ satisfied strangers, together they go o n to kill again . . . " [' 0/° V \k\ H1 -MMsuy] 2

xm

3

Appendix

443

say. This takes two. This sentence concerns the character's action. This subordinate clause gives the character's thoughts . . . " These are all com­ ments on narrative structure. Structure exists because a given narrative text exists in its actual and specific textual form.) All of the following: (A) through (G), have the identical plot. All of them have radically different structures: (A) Joe woke. He tossed the covers back. A moment later he was standing by the bed on the rug. The plot might be synopsized here: 'Joe gets up in the morning." A dif­ ferent type of story—with a different intent, a different focus, and a dif­ ferent development—might take any of the three micro-incidents in the above mini-narrative, however, and atomize one or another of them. One of the most important things that such atomizing does is accent the crispness and brevity of the presentation of the other textual units: (B) Waking assailed Joe and retreated, a wave foaming up and sliding from the sands of day. At its height, there was a sense or a memory of dark green sheets beneath his belly, his knees, the pillow bunched under his shoulder, the quilt across his ear. Rising and retreating at an entirely different oscilla­ tion was sexual desire, now an unfocused and pulling emptiness, now a warm fullness in the groin, a sensitivity within his slighdy parted lips under the su­ surras of breath. Somehow the cycles met. He opened his eyes—aware of the room's silence. (But what had he been aware of before . . . ?) He could feel the dawn moisture drying along his lower lids. Dragging one hand from be­ neath the covers into the chill, he twisted the heel of his thumb against one eye socket. Then he tossed the covers back. A moment later he was standing by the bed on the rug. (C) Joe woke. Dragging one hand from beneath the covers into the chill, he twisted the heel of his thumb against one eye socket. Then he snagged his fingers around the coverlet's edge. He raised it—and the chill slid down his arm, along his side some eighteen inches. Dragging in a breath, he raised the covers further. Somewhere below, something put two cold palms over his kneecaps. He heard breath halt a moment in his throat. The bedding beneath his shins was suddenly so warm. He gave the quilt's rim a toss and began to kick free even before it fell, off below the bottom of the t-shirt he slept in these November nights. One foot made it from the mattress edge, then the other—as the first slid from under the blanket to hang an instant, an isolate entity out in the

444

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cold room. He pushed into the pillow with his fist, so that his shoulders rose; his feet lowered. A moment later he was standing by the bed on the rug. (D) Joe woke. He tossed the covers back. He pushed into the pillow with his fist, so that his shoulders rose; his feet lowered. The shag rug's nap tickled his soles, till the weight of his legs crushed it away beneath. Every damn bone in his feet had to move this way or that a couple of millimeters, it seemed, to get into the right position—and in the left foot, that hurt! He pushed himself forward, the hem of his limp t-shirt swinging over his upper thighs. As his body lifted, a cold blade of morning slid beneath his buttocks and down toward the back of his knees. (Some­ where the springs clashed, muffled below the mattress.) It felt as if someone were shoving at his right kidney with the flat of a hand. He put his own hand there to rub the feel away. He blinked, standing in the silent room, flexing chill toes on the rag, aware (or was it more a memory of something he'd been half conscious of before waking?) he had to go to the bathroom. A, B , C , a n d D g e n e r a t e identical plots, b u t in e a c h case the elements that d o the g e n e r a t i n g are structured differently. ( T h e i r c o n t e n t is, o f course, different too. B u t right n o w that is n o t o u r c o n c e r n . ) T h e r e are still o t h e r effects to b e achieved, however, by the use o f these same struc­ tural variants. For e x a m p l e : (E) Waking assailed Joe and retreated, a wave foaming up and sliding from the sands of day. At its height, there was a sense or a memory of dark green sheets beneath his belly, his knees, the pillow bunched under his shoulder, the quilt across his ear. Rising and retreating at an entirely different oscilla­ tion was sexual desire, now an unfocused and pulling emptiness, now a warm fullness in the groin, a sensitivity within his slightly parted lips under the su­ surras of breath. Somehow the cycles met. He opened his eyes—aware of the room's silence. (But what had he been aware of before . . . ?) He could feel the dawn moisture drying along his lower lids. Dragging one hand from be­ neath the covers into the chill, he twisted the heel of his thumb against one eye socket. Then he tossed the covers back. The shag rug's nap tickled his soles, till the weight of his legs crushed it away beneath. Every damned bone in his feet had to move this way or that a couple of millimeters, it seemed, to get into the right position—and in the left foot, that hurt! He pushed himself forward, the hem of his limp t-shirt swinging forward over his upper thighs. As his body lifted, a cold blade of

Appendix

445

morning slid beneath his buttocks and down toward the backs of his knees (somewhere the springs clashed, muffled below the mattress). It felt as it someone were shoving at his right kidney with the flat of a hand. He put his own hand there to rub the feel away. He blinked in the silent room, flexing chill toes on the rug, aware (or was it more a memory of something he'd been half conscious of before waking?) he had to go to the bathroom. A n d finally: (F) Waking assailed Joe and retreated, a wave foaming up and sliding from the sands of day. At its height, there was a sense or a memory of dark green sheets beneath his belly, his knees, the pillow bunched under his shoulder, the quilt across his ear. Rising and retreating at an entirely different oscilla­ tion was sexual desire, now an unfocused and pulling emptiness, now a warm fullness in the groin, a sensitivity within his slightly parted lips under the su­ surras of breath. Somehow the cycles met. He opened his eyes—aware of the room's silence. (But what had he been aware of before . . . ?) He could feel the dawn moisture drying along his lower lids. Dragging one hand from be­ neath the covers into the chill, he twisted the heel of his thumb against one eye socket. Then he snagged his fingers around the coverlet's edge. He raised it—and the chill slid down his arm, along his side some eighteen inches. Dragging in a breath, he raised the covers further. Somewhere below, something put two cold palms over his kneecaps. He heard breath halt a moment in his throat. The bedding beneath his shins was suddenly so warm. He gave the quilt's rim a toss and began to kick free even before it fell, somewhere below the bottom of the t-shirt he slept in these November nights. One foot made it off the mat­ tress edge, then the other—as the first slid from under the blanket to hang an instant, an isolate entity out in the cold room. He pushed into the pillow with his fist, so that his shoulders rose; his feet lowered. The shag rug's nap trickled his soles, till the weight of his legs crushed it away beneath. Every damned bone in his feet had to move this way or that a couple of millimeters, it seemed, to get into the right position—and in the left foot, that hurt! He pushed himself forward, the hem of his limp t-shirt swinging forward over his upper thighs. As his body lifted, a cold blade of morning slid beneath his buttocks and down toward the backs of his knees. (Somewhere the springs clashed, muffled below the mattress.) It felt as if someone were shoving at his right kidney with the flat of a hand. He put his own hand there to rub the feel away. He blinked, standing in the silent room, flexing his chill toes on the rug, aware (or was it more a memory of something he'd been half conscious of before waking?) he had to go to the bathroom.

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Still an entirely different structure (with an entirely different affect) can be achieved by casting the whole "story" so far into the mode of indirect discourse: (G) Earlier that morning, Joe had waked, tossed the covers back, and stood up by the bed on the rug. Now he . . .

None of these versions is necessarily any better—or any worse—than the others. While each highlights different and particular details, strives after a different sense of immediacy, presents a different pacing of sensa­ tions and incidents, with different juxtapositions (all structural qual­ ities) , none is more narratively accurate than any of the others. The only thing that will decide which approach you use in a particular tale is what else is going on—structurally, not plotwise (for, again, all seven plots are identical) —in the remainder of the narrative. When we write a story, we often (though not always) start with a more or less vague sense of "what happens" in it. Writing the tale out, however, is a matter of modulating that "what happens" into a specific structure. (And not into various other structures!) The structure, finally, is the story—even if a reader, asked to synopsize it, can come up with more or less the same "what happens" that you went into it with when you began writing. The overall aesthetic pleasure the reader takes from the story is going to depend largely on how pleasing the reader finds the story's overall structure. A story or a novel has an overall structure as well as smaller structural patterns. The repetition—or variation—of small structural elements is what produces the overall structure. In general, structure will always pro­ duce s o w sort of plot—coherent or incoherent, interesting or dull. Plot is no guarantee, however, of any sort of structure, pleasing or otherwise. Be aware of the "plot," sure, in the back of your mind as you write. But be aware of it as you are aware of an illusion you are creating. Don't think of it as a reality out there that will somehow write the story for you. The particular problems you write through, as it were, while you are actually first drafting a text in your notebook or typing at your word processor, are the structural elements and their relations. Also, there are a lot more kinds of elements to be shaped into a struc­ ture than simply detailed observation vs. synoptic account. Here is another example of narrative structure, in this case juxtaposing a series of sequential present actions with a series of equally sequential memories:

Appendix

4 4 7

(H) Under a bruised aluminum sky, Joe hurried along the November pavement. Last night, bundled in blankets on the couch, Margery had coughed and coughed, till finally he had been able to pay no attention at all to the TV sitcom. At the corner, he looked down from the light as it changed to green, then started across for the far curb. Where in the world was it? (There was the leather bag store. And the bodega just after it. And down there was the blue and white marquee of the Greek coffee shop.) It couldn't be more than three streets from the house. He'd passed it hundreds of times—only now that he was actually looking for it, it seemed to have moved, or secretly slid further off by a couple of city blocks. Last night, when, at last, he'd phoned Mark—Mark, his cousin: Mark the doctor—he'd felt like a fool. But Mark, who was basically a good guy, had said: "If it's a dry cough and she's not bringing anything up, then it's just a little flu. Get her some Cloraseptic. It comes over the counter—and it's good stuff. It'll cut the soreness." Waving an arm from her plaid cocoon, Margery had in­ sisted, still coughing, that he not go out for it that night but—it was past eleven and the drugstore was closed—wait till morning. There it was—at the corner where it had always been! Hands deep in his anorak, Joe hurried by the window, filled with pale plastic shampoo bottles, a bronze pedestal of nail polishes and lipsticks, and a mannequin arm lying across crumpled Mylar, its elbow in an Ace bandage. He pushed through the door: Warmth puffed against his face—and a bell rang. The structure of his narrative is: Present, past, present, past, present . . . where each of the first four elements is slightly longer than the element before. They converge in the final present element in a particularly satisfying way: One of the pleasures of this particular structure is the mystery, very soon resolved, of what Joe is looking for and why. There are a number of ways we could restructure this, for different ef­ fects—again, depending on the rest of the story development. (And if we do decide to restructure the elements, we will lose the micro-pleasure of that little mystery, finally resolved.) We could, for example, put everything in chronological order: (I) Bundled in blankets on the couch, Margery coughed and coughed, till fi­ nally he could pay no attention at all to the TV sitcom. When, at last, Joe phoned Mark—Mark, his cousin: Mark, the doctor—he felt like a fool. But Mark, who was basically a good guy, said: "If it's a dry cough and she's not bringing anything up, then it's just a little flu. Get her some Cloraseptic. It comes over the counter—and it's good stuff. It'll cut the

448

Appendix

soreness." Waving an arm from her plaid cocoon, Margery insisted, still coughing, that he not go out for it that night but—it was past eleven and the drugstore was closed—wait till morning. The next day Joe woke. He tossed back the covers. A moment later he was standing by the bed on the rug. From the far side of the bed, Margery coughed. Minutes on, under a bruised aluminum sky, Joe hurried along the Novem­ ber pavement. At the corner, he looked down from the light as it changed to green, then started across for the far curb. Where in the world was the drugstore? (There was the leather bag store. And the bodega just after it. And down there was the blue and white marquee of the Greek coffee shop.) It couldn't be more than three streets from the house; he'd passed it hundreds of times—only now that he was looking for it, it seemed to have moved, or secretly slid fur­ ther off by a couple of city blocks. There it was—at the corner where it had always been! Hands deep in his anorak, Joe hurried by the window, filled with pale plastic shampoo bottles, a bronze pedestal of nail polish and lipsticks, and a mannequin arm lying across crumpled Mylar, its elbow in an Ace bandage. He pushed in the door: Warmth puffed against his face—and a bell rang.

I've used the initial example, "Joe woke. He tossed the covers back . . . " as a subnarrative within this larger one, to remind us that the material of any subsection can be structured in any number of ways. Note that, struc­ tured as it is here, the same textual unit plays a much smaller part in the plot than it would if it introduced the story. What would happen if we used one of our first six (A to F) struc­ tures? Basically, if the remainder of the story is going to focus on the re­ lation of Margery and Joe [and/or Mark], we probably want what we have now or something close to it. That is to say, we want to get Joe back to Margery as quickly as possible, so they can start interacting. If, in the remainder of the story, however, Joe is deflected from returning home from his drug-store mission and the major events happen outside, away from the house, with new characters whom we have not yet met, one of the other more detailed renderings of Joe's waking, throwing the covers back, and standing—depending on the nature of that adventure to come—might work better to focus us on Joe's internal state and prepare us for his responses to these nondomestic happenings; also, the nondomestic story might well be considerably longer than the domestic one, so that it admits of more development all through it. But all of these are structural decisions. Plot will depend on which ones the writer makes. Whether one goes with a story about Margery, Mark, and Joe, or a

Appendix

44g

story about what happens to Joe outside the house while he's going to pick up some cough syrup for Margery, there is, however, another way beginning writers often structure the sort of material in the narrative above. It is one of the most common and the weakest of narrative structures for the opening of stories or scenes. It should be avoided like the plague: (J) Under a bruised aluminum sky, Joe hurried along the November pavement. Last night, bundled in blankets on the couch, Margery had coughed and coughed, till finally he had been able to pay no attention at all to the TV sitcom. When, at last, he'd phoned Mark—Mark, his cousin: Mark, the doctor— he'd felt like a fool. But Mark, who was basically a good guy, had said: "If it's a dry cough and she's not bringing anything up, then it's just a little flu. Get her some Cloraseptic. It comes over the counter—and it's good stuff. It'll cut the soreness." Waving an arm from her plaid cocoon, Margery had insisted, still coughing, that he not go out for it that night but—it was past eleven and the drugstore was closed—wait till morning. The next day Joe woke. He tossed back the covers. A moment later he was standing by the bed on the rug. From the far side of the bed, Margery coughed. Minutes on, Joe had on his anorak and was outside. At the corner, he looked down from the light as it changed to green, then started across for the far curb. Where in the world was the drugstore? (There was the leather bag store. And the bodega just after it. And down there was the blue and white marquee of the Greek coffee shop.) It couldn't be more than three streets from the house; he'd passed it hundreds of times—only now he was looking for it, it seemed to have moved, or secretly slid further off by a couple of city blocks. There it was—at the corner where it had always been! Hands deep in his anorak, Joe hurried by the window, filled with pale plastic shampoo bottles, a bronze pedestal of nail polish and lipsticks, and a mannequin lying across crumpled Mylar, its elbow in an Ace bandage. He pushed in the door; warmth puffed against his face—and a bell rang. This structure is 50 common among young writers, I've given it a name: "The false flashback." What's wrong with it? The opening element ("Under a bruised aluminum sky, Joe hurried along the November pavement") is simply wasted, functioning only as a distraction from the far more logical purely chronological version. The transition points—first from present to past, then from past to present— are particularly weak. What's happened, in this third and weakest ver­ sion, is that likely the writer began to imagine Joe on the street and only filled in the back story in his/her imagination moments later—then wrote it down in the same order he or she thought it up.

45°

Appendix

(Possibly the writer had some intimation of the possibilities of our first, five-part structure, but lost it while actually writing the opening sentence. ) Well, the order in which you figure out what's going on in your story is not privileged. If you came up with a good twist for the ending of a mystery, and only later figure out how to set it up and make it function, you wouldn't start your story off by telling the end. The same goes for a scene that you sud­ denly realize needs something before it—even if that scene is only a sen­ tence, or a paragraph, or indeed a page or two, long. You shouldn't do it there, either. Generally speaking, it's best to tell your story from beginning to end— unless there's a clear structural reason to tell it otherwise. Make your structural choices because they provide a more economical way to tell the story, and because they add certain pleasures (mystery, humor, sus­ pense [notincoherence]) to the tale. In our first version, there was a clear and distinct structural pleasure to be gained by telling the story in two small flashbacks interspersed among the three sections of present narrative: the creation of a small mystery (what is Joe looking for?) resolved by the convergence of past element two with present element three. Also it's more economical—i.e., it's shorter than versions two or three: In version one you don't need the transitional wake-up scene, which would be missed in version two. (If the bulk of the story is set outside the house, without Margery, and is funda­ mentally humorous, and itself involves a larger mystery to be eventually solved, version one might well be the best opening—because, highly eco­ nomically, it prepares us for what is to come.) But in neither our second nor our third version can the mystery be maintained. So the single flash­ back of version three is purely superfluous. The initial element ("Under a bruised aluminum sky, Joe hurried along the November pavement") is just not long enough or weighty enough to create any sense of fictive presence. Nothing is gained in the third, flashback version that isn't there in the second, chronological version. The displacement in time is unnecessary and confusing. So don't do it. Other fictive elements that must be structured into a tale include: Dialogue. Directly described first-level foreground action. Revery. In­ direct reportage of action. Analytic thought. Emotional description of responses. Exposition. Social information. (An action described directly and the same action reported indirectly often generate the same plot— but they produce vastly different reading effects!) One reason structure is so important is because it creates expectation:

Appendix

451

If a reader reads a novel, and chapter 1 is told from Joe's point of view, then chapter 2 is told from Margery's point of view, then chapter 3 is told from Joe's point of view again, already there is an expectation that chapter 4 will be told from Margery's. The writerly fulfilling of readerly expectations—especially at the structural level—is pleasurable to the reader. (From one point of view, a novel is nothing but a concatenation of structural readerly expectations. The writer's task is to fulfill those ex­ pectations at the structural level in such a way that nevertheless lets the text generate an unexpected plot or story.) If the reader is right and chapter 4 turns out to be from Margery's point of view, the reader will experience a bit of structural pleasure. As well, this will strengthen the expectation that chapter 5 will be told from Joe's point of view. Here is the place to remind the writer of a terribly important reality: Writing takes longer than reading. A novel can take six months, a year, or five years to write. The same book can be read over two to ten hours. In six months, not to mention five years, you may grow tired of the structu­ ral pattern you have committed yourself to. Nevertheless, if suddenly— in a novel that's been going along in alternating chapters between Joan and Jim—a chapter comes up from Billy's point of view, the reader— surging through the text in an evening—is going to experience a stretch of structural displeasure. Plot developments or other things may lay other pleasures over it; but that displeasure is still going to be there. And it's going to mar the reading experience that finally is the novel you write. There are more complicated structures than simple alternating chap­ ters. For example, in a novel of thirteen chapters, chapters 1 through 6 might alternate between Joe and Jane. The seventh, central chapter might be told from Frank's point of view. Then the final six chapters might al­ ternate between Joe and Jane once more—or even, perhaps, between Mike and Milly. You still have a formal, symmetrical apprehensible struc­ ture that the reader can pick up on. Nevertheless, to abandon your struc­ ture in the midst of your story or novel—or to change it radically, with­ out going back and restructuring what has occurred up to that point—is simply to write a badly structured book, no matter how interesting the plot (or plot synopsis: I believe the two are synonymous) is. Almost as common as the false flashback among young writers is the story or novel that begins by exhibiting a perfectly lucid and clear struc­ ture that, after a third or a half of the tale is done, then throws it away. Again and again, when questioned about it, young writers have ex­ plained to me: "Well, I just got tired of doing it that way. I wanted to try something different." However sympathetic one is with the tired writer, such derelictions still produce bad work. Your job as a writer is to write a good story, a good

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book. Don't abandon your structure midway. To think you can get away with it (or that the reader will be just as tired of it as you are and welcome the change) is to confuse writing with reading. It's to forget that a story or a book is to be read—and the much briefer time that the reading takes. (The poet Valéry once remarked, "All art is a disproportionate act." It's the name of the game. If, in practice, the fact upsets you too greatly, it only means you should take up another line of work.) One of the most important pieces of advice a young writer can receive is: Choose material—and work toward a structure—that is rich, varied, and complex enough to sustain your interest, if not your enthusiasm, for the extended time it will take to write the work in question. If you don't, the writing itself will be painful to undergo, and you will be tempted to cut corners and go off in directions that will only weaken the work. Or, if they are actually more interesting than the original con­ ception, you still have the problem of reconceiving the beginning mate­ rial to bring it in line with where you've decided to go. Now of course the reader can get tired of a structure too—one that isn't doing anything in terms of the material—alternating chapters, say, that still don't throw new and interesting light on what's going on. But if the reader is going to get tired of it, the answer is not to change it mid­ stream. The answer is to go back, start over again, and choose a different structure that is richer and works better with the material. Writing fiction is work. And hard work, at that. If you're not prepared to work hard, think seriously about doing something else. Many writers structure their narrative in the following manner or something close to it: a sentence of action, followed by a sentence of emotional response, following by a sentence of action, followed by a sen­ tence of emotional response . . . and they continue on in this way for large blocks of text, now and again breaking things up with passages of dialogue. (An even more prevalent structure is: a sentence of action, three sentences of emotional response, a sentence of action, three sen­ tences of emotional response . . .) Generally speaking, this is not a very interesting narrative structure. (And page after page of the one, three, one, three narrative structure is deadlyi) Even if, sentence by sentence, the writing is clean and polished, the overall effect tends to become gray and homogenized because of the fundamentally boring and repetitive structure. Writers can produce more varied and far stronger effects if they will work with larger rhetorical units, as well as structuring those larger units in more interesting and imaginative ways. We spoke of structure as a way of creating expectation, a few pages back. This may be the place to note that, to the extent that the novel and

Appendix

453

the short story are forms (that is, structures), each exists as nothing but various sets of structural expectations. These expectations have been set in place by the history of the genre. One of the strongest structural ex­ pectations shared by both short story and novel is that, somewhere at the beginning of the text or comparatively near it, the writer will let us know what economic bracket the main character is currendy in (and what bracket that character has come from). This expectation has been set up by three hundred years of novels that have answered this question within the first few pages. Because this expectation is so strong in fiction, the ways a writer can answer it have become very subtle. The kinds of para­ graphs that are obligatory toward the start of any Jane Austen novel ("A single man of large fortune; four or five thousand a year. What a fine thing for our girls! ") need not occur in every novel today. It can be done by the mention of a manila envelope from the VA (Veterans' Administra­ tion) or Social Security sticking out from under the coffee grounds in the garbage pail. It can be done by the mention of a bunch of checks stuck in a Savings Bank passbook on the back of the kitchen table. It can be suggested by the clothing someone wears, by the kind of house a character lives in, the mention of a profession or a line of work, or any of hundreds of other devices. But if that information is not stated or im­ plied—and stated or implied clearly—the reader will feel the same sort of structural displeasure as he or she does when an internal set of struc­ tural expectations is violated. The notion of structure runs from how words and phrases are orga­ nized within the sentence (even how sounds are organized throughout various phrases), to how sentences are organized within the narrative, to how larger units such as chapters are organized to make up the overall tale. It even covers the larger question of what fiction, what a story, what the novel actually is. Edgar Rice Burroughs, in Tarzan novel after Tarzan novel, adhered to a simple and clear chapter structure: chapter 1 told about the villains of the story; chapter 2 told about what Tarzan was doing; chapter 3 told about the doings of the villains again; chapter 4 went back to Tarzan, who now discovered what the villains had done in chapter 1 ; chapter 5 went back to the villains, who by now were aware of Tarzan and were try­ ing to trip him up; chapter 6 showed Tarzan again righting what the vil­ lains had set wrong two chapters before and going on to find what they'd done in chapter 3 ; chapter 7 showed the villains at it again; chapter 8 showed Tarzan straightening out the mess of chapter 6 and pursuing the villains, only to encounter the results of chapter 7 . . . This alternating chapter structure went on throughout the novel, back and forth between Tarzan and the villains, until the last chapter, in

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Appendix

which Tarzan gets to fight the villains directly—and triumphs. The struc­ ture supported Burroughs through dozens of Tarzan novels—and made him a millionaire several times over. It was simple and effective; suspense was built into it—and the readers never tired of it. But while the structure of the novels was the same, the plots of all the Tarzan novels—what the villains are after, who they are, the various ways Tarzan foils them and cleans up their mess—are as different as can be. It's a lot easier to talk about plot than it is to talk about structure. Plot ex­ ists as a synopsis that often has no correspondence to text. (Where, among the pages of Kafka's Metamorphosis, can you point to the deaden­ ing, boring routine of Samsa's work? or to Samsa's character? or to his sister's? or to his father's? or to his family's decisions to take in boarders? But it would be hard to discuss the plot in any detail without reference to all of these.) Structure exists, however, only in terms of a particular text, so that to talk about it in any specificity or detail you must constantly be pointing to one part of a page or another, these words or those: Struc­ ture is specifically the organization of various and varied textual units. Structures are there, certainly, to be talked about. But if they are to be useful to the writer, they must befell (We find out that Samsa's family is now taking in lodgers in the last clause of the third sentence of the ninth paragraph of The Metamorphosis's third chapter—suddenly and without any access to the decision itself, as Gregor must have discovered it: That is to say, the structure of the narrative parallels the experience of the Point of View character [without directly re­ counting it] —and as such represents the smallest of structural elegances in the many that comprise that extraordinary narrative performance.) As hard as structure is to talk about, when actually writing the writer must accustom him- or herself to thinking about structure—and to thinking about it constantiy. I don't mean that the word "structure" must be in your mind while you write. But, while writing, the writer must con­ stantly be thinking such thoughts as: As I write this section of my story, is there another section that must be more or less the same length (or much shorter; or much longer) in order to balance it? Given the feel of this section, is there another section that, for the story to be satisfying, should have the same feel? Is there a section that must have a markedly different feel? How does this section differ in feel from the previous sec­ tion? How should the next section differ in feel from this one? Finally, and perhaps most important, how does a previous occurrence cause the reader to regard the one I'm currendy writing about? These are all structural questions—and are the questions the writer has to ask while writing. You have to hold on to the answers, too. In my

Appendix

455

experience, mulling on these questions during the writing process often precedes any knowledge I have of what, specifically, is actually going to happen in a given scene or section later in the tale. (Often deciding on the answers leads to a decision about what happens.) These kinds of ques­ tions must be wrestled with, usually while the pen is in hand or the fingers are knocking at the typewriter keys, if the story is to come out with a sense of shape, provide readerly pleasure, and project writerly wholeness. In the canon of great nineteenth-century European novels, the most pyrotechnically structured is Flaubert's L'Education sentimentale. The novel begins and ends with comparatively benign anecdotes, both orga­ nized around the adolescent protagonist, Frédéric Moreau. The first de­ tails of Frédéric starting out on a steamer journey from Paris, a tradi­ tional ship of fools, returning to his provincial home, Nogent-sur-Seine. The last, recounted by the now-middle-aged Frédéric, is a reminiscence of an incident that takes place even before that initial journey home— and describes Frédéric and his somewhat older friend Deslaurier's at­ tempt to visit a provincial bordello, a visit that goes awry because Frédéric is too embarrassed and, at the last moment, runs away; and Deslaurier has no money of his own for the adventure so must flee as well. In between, Flaubert recounts half a lifetime of Frederic's (and Deslaurier's) adven­ tures that carry him through the republican revolution of 1848, during which Frédéric would seem to be an up-and-coming young man, cutting a swath among Parisian women, both in the central light and on the out­ skirts of French society. Because of his hopeless love for Madame Marie Arnoux, however, Frédéric never gets what he wants. Each triumph is soured at its high point through the interplay of chance, half-understood malice, and misdirection from others. But to speak of the book on such a level is to speak of it in terms of plot—rather than structure. In terms of plot, Sentimental Education moves from social success to social success. It climaxes when Frédéric refuses to marry an unbelievably vicious—if ex­ tremely wealthy—woman, Madame Dambreuse, and gains his freedom as a man. In terms of structure, it moves from failure to failure, each new one more devastating than the last, each demanding a greater accommo­ dation and deformation of Frederic's soul for him to endure. Although, by the end, Frédéric is a free man with a good house and a place in Pari­ sian society—and at least some of his fortune intact—one can only as­ sume, from his last encounter with Madame Arnoux, that perhaps his ear­ lier encounter with Madame Dambreuse at the auction house has left him wounded in ways that put him finally and wholly outside the possibil­ ity of receiving the benefits Madame Arnoux's love might have given him had he and she been able to come together. If Flaubert had simply ex­ plained how each social triumph was in reality a failure, the novel would

456

Appendix

have been banal: Again and again, its structure justifies Robert Baldick's claim at the opening of his introduction to the Penguin edition that the book is "undoubtedly the most influential French novel of the nine­ teenth century" and makes it the novelists' novel from its time. That structure is what makes the book about so much more than the social ad­ ventures of one moderately callow youth and turns it, rather, into the analysis of the dilemmas of an age. Most people who write novels—that is to say, people who write and publish the workaday novels, the mysteries and romances, the best-sellers or, among the more adventurous readers, the science fiction and the oc­ casional "serious fiction" that, from time to time, falls into the lap of the fiction reader and makes up most of our reading—absorb a few, simple novelistic structures. And they can submit to them. Rarely have they ab­ sorbed the range of structures, however, from the possible play of sounds in sentences, to the necessary structures for a variety of scenic resonances, to the structures for the interplay of text and counter-texts in tension with one another that make the novel into the richest of sym­ phonic art forms. Usually the structures they've absorbed are at the midrange, and are just visible enough to keep us reading through reams of unbelievable dialogue, pointless internal "characterization," and the like, under the illusion we are trying to find out "what happens." We aren't. We are following a mid-range structure that promises that "what happens" at a certain level will be revealed. And, in one form or another, usually it is. These particular structures can best be characterized as "formulaic." Indeed, the vast majority of fiction that we read is formulaic. And formu­ laic fiction is rarely good fiction. Constructing a new model is always a matter of revising an old model. Certain elements are adjusted. Others are negated. (What happens if, for example, one abolishes the tyranny of the subject [Robbe-Grillet], radically displaces the position of irony [John Ashbery, Kenneth Gememi, James Schuyler], rebels against the tyranny of reference [Hart Crane, Charles Bernstein], the tyranny of narrative progression [Ron Silliman, Lyn Hajinian, John Keene], or even the tyranny of the letter [Richard Kostelanetz] . . . ? In such enterprises poetry and prose, as well as literature and pictorial art, begin to lose their hard and bounded dis­ tinctions.) But if, for fiction, say, you were to construct an entirely new model, the chances are overwhelming you'll come up, rather, with an awk­ ward (and probably old-fashioned) model for dry cleaning, for archaeo­ logical research, or for political lobbying before you come up with one for fiction. The fact that you—and possibly a very few aesthetically sophis­ ticated members of whatever limited audience you might command—

Appendix 4 5 7 can recognize the results as belonging to the realm a/fiction (or art—or whatever) in the first place means you have retained some signs—if only a label, if only the placement of the object in a context (publishing it in ajournai, scrawling it on a wall)—that bespeak it a text. And "text," as most of the readers of this essay will know, already has a distressingly wide interpretation—far beyond what can fit on walls, screens, pages, or stages. Nonsense is conservative. If your wish is to be radical, think about that. Radicalism resists aesthetic entropy in the same way it resists the for­ mulaic and the cliché. Through irony, there are radical ways the cliché can be welcomed into art. But irony requires more, not less, thought to respond to than ordinary humor, sentiment, or any of the last three millennia's narrative tropes. To extend our discussion beyond this point, however, where cliché and formulaic structures are distinguished from the relatively neutral struc­ tures of genre and the more ambitious sort of good art, we would have to enter a discussion about the violation of structural expectadons—a viola­ tion which is finally just as important as cleaving to them. (Advice: If it strikes you as well, as clearly, or as interestingly structured, go with it. If it strikes you as cliché and formulaic, avoid it.) Indeed, it is the combination of fulfilling and violating structural expectations that makes fiction not just a craft, but an art. If there is a distinction to be made between good art and art that we think of as great, often it lies in the area of what struc­ tural expectations to violate. But the violation of expectations very quickly, over a period of ten or fifteen years, can turn into an expecta­ tion itself—one reason it is so hard to talk of, when negativities turn out to be positivities after all. These questions are, however, beyond the scope of such limited notes as these, even though they are just as impor­ tant—and just as intimately bound up with the idea of narrative. —New York City February 1996

continued from page iv "Neither the First Word nor the Last on Structuralism, Deconstruction, Semiot­ ics, and Poststructuralism" first appeared over three issues of The New York Review of Science Fiction, edited by David Hartwell et al., no. 6, February 1989; no. 7, March 1989; no. 8, April 1989, Pleasantville, New York. "Inside and Outside the Canon: The Para'doxa Interview" first appeared as "Para'doxa Interview with Samuel R. Delany," in Para*doxa, Studies in World Liter­ ary Genres, ed. Laurie Guillard, vol. 1, no. 3, 1995, Vashon Island, Washington. ' T h e Politics of Paraliterary Criticism" first appeared over three issues of The New York Review of Science Fiction, edited by David Hartwell et al., whole no. 98, Oc­ tober 1996, vol. 9, no. 2; whole no. 99, November 1996, vol. 9, no. 3; whole no. 100, December 1996, vol. 9, no. 4, Pleasantville, New York. "Zelazny/Varley/Gibson—and Quality" first appeared over two issues of The New York Review of Science Fiction, edited by David Hartwell et al., whole no. 48, August i g g 2 , and whole no. 49, September 1992, Pleasantville, New York. Part of "Pornography and Censorship" appeared in Fiction International (22/s special issue on Pornography and Censorship, 1992, edited by Harold Jaffee, Larry McCaffery, and Mel Freilicher, San Diego; part appeared the same year in the Pacific Review of Books, edited by Ronald Sukenick. "The Making of Hogg" first appeared in Fiction International, edited by Harold Jaf­ fee, 1997. A brief section of "The Phil Leggiere Interview" appeared as "Diary of a Mad Man" in Paper, eds. Kim Hastreiter and David Herskovitz, October 1994, New York. "The Second Science-Fiction Studies Interview: Trouble on Triton and Other Mat­ ters," first appeared as "An Interview with Samuel R. Delany" in Science Fiction Studies, vol. 17, 1990. "Antonia Byatt's Possession: A Romance" first appeared in The New York Review of Sci­ ence Fiction, edited by David Hartwell et al., no. 6, February 1989; no. 7, March 1989; no. 8, April 1989, Pleasantville, New York. "Neil Gaiman": §1 was written in collaboration with Robert Morales and appears here for the first time. §2 first appeared as the Introduction to Miracleman Book

Four, from Dark Horse Comics, 1993; §3 first appeared as the Introduction to A Game of You, by Neal Gaiman, New York City: D. C. Comics, 1995. "Michael Perkins's Evil Companions" first appeared as "Preface" to Evil ionsby Michael Perkins, Rhinoceros edition, 1992 New York.

Compan-

"And Now It's Time for Dale Peck," first appeared in a slightiy different version in The Lambda Books Report, #12, Washington, D.C. "Othello in Brooklyn" first appeared in the CBA Newsletter, 1987, Brooklyn, New York. "A Prefatory Notice to Vincent Czyz's Adrift in a Vanishing City" first appeared in Adrift in a Vanishing City by Vincent Czyz, Rutherford: Voyant Publishing, 1998. "Under the Volcano with Susan Sontag" first appeared in Reflex Magazine, edited by Lou Stathis, September 1995.

Index Adorno, Theodore, 23, 177 AIDS, 34, 36-39, 43-48, 5 0 - 5 6 , 94, 108, 123-26, 132, 135-37 Aldiss, Brian, 263-65, 266-70, and the definition of comics art, 267 Althusser, Louis, 151-52, 157-58, 173; "Ideology and Ideological State Appa­ ratuses," 157 American Shore, The (Delany), 216 Anti-Oedpus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia (Deleuze and Guatarri), 180 Asimov, Isaac, 165 As Is (William F. Hoffman), 94 Auden, W. H., 324- 25 Auerbach, Erich, x Aye, and Gomorrah . . . (Delany), go Aztecs (Mclntyre), 317 Babel-iy (Delany), 344 Bachelard, Gaston; Poetics of Space, 161; Psychoanalysis of Fire, 161 Baldick, Chris, x Barker, Francis, x Barnes, Steven, 116 Barthes, Roland, 133, 159, 160-62; The Elements of Semiology, 159; TheFashion System, 162; Empire of Signs, 162; Roland Barthes by Roland Barthes, 162; A Lover's Discourse, 162; S/Z, 176-77; The Pleasure of the Text, 177-78; Writ­ ing Itself: On Roland Barthes, 400 - 401 Bachelard, Gaston, 161 Bakhtin, Mikhail; "Epic and The Novel," 4!4"!5 Baudrillard, Jean, 35 Bear, Greg, 272 Belgrave, Cynthia, 338-95

Benjamin, Walter, vii-viii, ix, 211 Bester, Alfred; The Deceivers, 284; The Demolished Man, 284; The Stars My Des­ tination, 183 Bierce, Ambrose, 12 Billion Year Spree: The True History of ScienceFiction (Aldiss), 263, 264-65 Bloom, Harold, 112,414 Bob (friend), 85-87 Browne, Howard, 93 Browne, Sir Thomas, 14 Bohannan, Laura, 28-35 Brave New World (Huxley), 325 Buder, Octavia, 116, 272 Byatt, Antonia, 353-58 Campell, Joseph, 31 Carr, Terry (as editor at Ace Books), 278 Chaos (Gleick), 149 Crane, Hart, 418, 426; "For the Mar­ riage of Faustus and Helen," 241 ; "The Bridge," 424 Crane, Stephen, 190-202; TheRedBadge of Courage, 190, 418; Maggie, A Girl of the Streets, igo; The Third Violet, igo Culler, Jonathan, 17g Czyz, Vincent, 396 - g8; Adrift in a Vanish­ ing City, 396 Dahlgren (Delany), 214, 300, 331 Davenport, Guy, 112-14 da Vinci, Leonardo, 3 - 6 , 8, 15, 22, 23; and visual perception, 27 Debouched Hospodar (Apollinaire), 307 Deja, Tom, 115-22 Deleuze, Gilles, 161 Derrida,Jacques, 35, 129, 133, 146-48,

462

Index

Derrida,Jacques (continued) 158, 163, 174, 180, 181, 184, 185; and Foucault, i 6 6 - 6 g ; Glas, 175-76; Of Grammatohgy, 141, 174; The Postcard, 176; Writing and Difference, 166; "The Cogito and the History of Madness," 166 Dick, Philip K , 225 Dispossessed, The (Le Guin), 321-22, 324, 326, 332 Douglas, Mary, 131 Duberman, Martin, 112-14 Dunn,J. R., 8 - 1 1 , 14 Dying Inside (Silverberg), 289, 290 Eagleton, Terry, 177; Literary Theory, An Introduction, 413 Eco, Umberto, 178; A Theory of Semiotics, 162 Einstein Intersection, The (Delany), 344 Eliot, T. S., 241 Equinox (a.k.a. Tides of Lust) (Delany), 294. 295 Evil Companions (Perkins), 299, 377-83 Fall of the Towers, The (Delany), 344 Fallopio, Gabriello, 5, 8 Fellman, Shoshna, xi, 153, 179; The Literary Speech Act: Austin and Molière, 180 Fire Watch (Willis), 279 First Three Minutes, The (Weinberg), 149 Flame Wars: The Discourse of Cyberculture (Dery), 213 Flaubert, Gustave, 24 "For the Marriage of Faustus and Helen" (Crane), 241 42nd Street (Times Square, N.Y), 58, 77-81, 84 Foucault, Michel, 23, 31, 34, 35, 36, 75, 163-73, 75> ^3~^5> The Archeology of Knowledge, 163, 171, 172; The Order of Things, 163,170; Madness and Civilization, 164; "My Body, This Paper, This Fire," 167; Birth of the Clinic, 169, 171 ; Discipline and Punish, 171 - 7 2 ; The Will to Knowledge, 172, 173; "What Is an Author," 18 l

1

Foundation (series) (Asimov), 165 Frankfurt Group, The, 23 Frazier, Sir James George, 35 Freud, Sigmund, 15, 19, 21, 24, 25, 34, 129, 153-55. 165. 176 Gaiman, Neil, 359-72; Sandman (series), 359 Gale (friend), 80, 84-85, 87 Gallop, Jane, xi, 153 Gass, William, x, 113 Gay Fathers group, 95-96 Gibson, William, 153, 213-15, 272, 278, 348; contemporaries of, 214; and cyberpunk, 279-80; "Aliens," 213; Burning Chrome, 273; 'Johnny Mnemonic," 213; Neuromancer, 182, 213 "Girl With Hungry Eyes" (Leiber), 158 Goffman, Irving, 50 Greece: and discursive structures, 31; trip to, 101; as postcolonial country, 101-6; and homosexuality, 107 Greenblatt, Stephen, x Guin, Ursula Le. Seehe Guin, Ursula Hacker, Marilyn, 80, 87-88 , 90, 91-92, 95.3*9 Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 12 Hamlet, 28-29 Heidegger, Martin, 141, 146, 173 Heinlein, Robert, 119 Hitchcock, Alfred, 24 HIV/AIDS. S^AIDS Hogg (Delany), 294, 295, 296 Holland, Sean, 43 Hopkinson, Nalo, 116 Huxley, Aldous; Brave New World, 325 Irigaray, Luce, 155, 179 Jakobson, Roman, 17g JAMA (Journal of the American Medical Association), 50 Jameson, Fredric, 158, 178 Jewel-Hinged Jaw, The (Delany), 317 Joel (summer camp friend), 71 - 73, 74 Johnson, Barbara, x, 168, 174, 179; The Critical Difference, 180

Index Jonas, Gerald, 127 Judy (friend), 80, 85, 86, 87, 88 Jung, Carl Gustav, 24 Kermit, S. L., 125 Kristeva, Julia, 155 Kundura, Milan, 112 Lacan, 15, 151-53, 156, 158, 163, 170, 173, 179, 184; on the phallus, 15256; Ecrits, 153; "The Function and Field of Speech and Language in Psycholoanalysis," 155; "Seminar on 'The Purloined Letter," 153, 179 Le Guin, Ursula, 6, 8-11, 277, 286-87, 315; Always Coming Home, 327; The Dispossessed, 321-22, 324, 326 Leiber, Fritz: "Girl With Hungry Eyes," 158 Lesbianism, g5 Levi-Strauss, Claude, 151-52, 158, 173, 178-79 Literary Theory, An Introduction (Eagleton), 413 Literature and Evil (Bataille), 306 Long, Thomas, 123-38 Lowe, John Livingston, x MacCannell, Juliet Flower, 153 McCloud, Scott, 224-38; on a definition of comics art, 267-70; Understanding Comics, 224, 244-45, 4 7 - 5 > 25258, 259 McLuhan, Marshal, 158 Mad Man, The (Delany) ,126, 128-33, 136; reviews of, 128; 311 - 12 Man, Paul de, 112 Man Without Qualities, The (Musil), 206 Mapplethorpe, Robert, 24 Marilyn (friend). See Hacker, Marilyn Marx, Karl, xxx, 157, 158 Merril,Judith, 373-76; GunnerCade, 373; Outpost Mars, 373; Shadows on the Hearth, 376; "That Only A Mother," 376; The Tomorrow People, 376 Metamorphoses of Science Fiction (Suvin), 260 3

1

463

Michel, Jean-Claude, 116 Mine Shaft, The, 49, 50 Mirrorshades: The Cyberpunk Anthology (Sterling), 280 Monad, 8 - 9 , 11 Morrison, Toni, 6, 9, 10 Motion of Light in Water, The (Delany), 87, 3!3 Myth of Superman, The (Eco), 178, 258 Nevèryôn (series) (Delany), 127-28; reviews of, 127 Nebula Award, 90, 117 Nemesis Affair, The (Raup), 149 Neuromancer (Gibson), 182, 213 New England Journal of Medicine, 43 New Worlds (Moorcock), 164 New York Review of Science Fiction, 173 New York Times, 43 Nova (Delany), 344 O'Hara, Scott, 136 Origins of Totalitarianism (Arendt), 411 Othello, production of, at Triangle Theater, 388-95 Paglia, Camille, 35 Palmer, Ray, 93 Peck, Dale, 384-87; Now It's Time To Say Good-Bye, 384 Peirce, Charles Sanders, 159, 160 Perkins, Michael, 377-83 Plato, 8, 24 Poe, Edgar Allen, 153 Poetics of Space (Bachelard) ,161 Pornographic publishing, classics of, 295 Possession (Byatt), 353-58 Pound, Ezra, 241-42 Psychoanalysis of Fire (Bachelard), 161 Purloined Poe: Lacan, Derrida, and Psychoanalytic Readings, The (Muller and Richardson), 153 QED (Davis and Brown), 149 Quine, W. V. 57 Rampersad, Arnold, xi

464

Index

Reading by Starlight (Broderick) ,213 Red (street person), 5 9 - 6 5 Red Man (Robinson), 225 Robinson, Frank; The Power, 92-93 Robinson, Kim Stanley, 120; The Novels of Philip K. Dick, 225; Red Mars, 225 Rose (prostitute), 5 8 - 6 5 Rousseau, Jean Jacques, 174 Roussel, Raymond, 14, 15, 18, 31, 36, 173 Russ, Joanna, 286 Saunders, Charles, 116 Saussure, Ferdinand de, 158-59 Shakespeare, William, 28 Shaw, George Bernard, 22 Shepard, Lucius, 120, 272 Silent Interviews: On Language, Race, Sex, Science Fiction and Some Comics (De­ lany), 135 Smith, Cordwainer, 287 Sontag, Susan, 137; Illness as Metaphor, 403; "Notes on 'Camp'," 8g; On Pho­ tography, 405; The Volcano Lover, A Ro­ mance, 399-407 Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty, g8, 148, 169; In Other Worlds, 180 Spinrad, Norman, 92 Stars My Destination, The (Bester), 183 Starboard Wine (Delany), 216 Stephen Crane (Beer), 201 Sturgeon, Theodore, 33, 207-8 Suvin, Darko, 261-62, The Metamorphoses of Science Fiction, 260 Tale of Plagues and Carnivals, The (De­ lany), 123-24,125,126

Terminal Identity (Bukatman), 213 Toomer, Jean, 425 Tom (street friend), 4 6 - 4 7 Tourist, A New Theory of the Leisure Class (McCannell), 188 Trouble On Triton (Delany), 315 - 44 Understanding Comics (McCloud), 22425, 244 Understanding Media (McLuhan), 158 Utopia and Revolution (Lasky), 181 Volcano Lover, A Romance, The (Sontag), 399-407 Varley, John, 272, 348; The Barbie Mur­ ders (a.k.a. Picnic on Nearside), 276; Blue Champagne, 277; Millenium, 277; The Ophiuchi Hotline, 275; The Persis­ tence of Vision, 273; Titan (trilogy), 276 Wagner, Richard, 22, 131,411-12 Watt, Ian, x Whitman, Walt, 134 Wilson, Edmund, 17g Willis, Connie, 120 Wolfe, Gene, 288 Zelazny, Roger, 272, 282, 286; Bridge of Ashes, 275; Doorways in the Sand, 275; The Dream Master, 275; Fourfor Tomor­ row, 273; "He Who Shapes," 182; "Home is the Hangman," 274; Lord of Light, 274; This Immortal, 274; Today We Choose Faces, 275

About the Author Samuel R. Delany is a professor of English at the State University of New York at Buffalo. His many books include the Return to Nevèryôn series, Dhalgren, and Trouble on Triton, reissued by Wesleyan University Press; Atlantis: Three Tales ( 1995), and The Motion of Light in Water ( 1987). His most recent books include Time Square Red, Time Square Blue (1999), and a graphic novel with artist Mia Wolff, Bread & Wine ( 1999).

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication

Data

Delany, Samuel R. Shorter views: queer thoughts & the politics of the paraliterary / by Samuel R. Delany. p. cm. i s b n 0 - 8 1 9 5 - 6 3 6 8 - 4 (alk. paper). — i s b n 0 - 8 1 9 5 - 6 3 6 9 - 2 (pbk.: alk. paper) 1. Delany, Samuel R.—Authorship. 2. Homosexuality and literature—United States—History—20th century. 3. Gay Men's writings, American—Histoty and criticism—Theory, etc. 4. Science fiction, American—History and criticism—Theory, etc. 5. Politics and literature. I. Title P S 3 5 5 4 . E 4 3 7 Z 4 7 5 6 1999 814'.54—dc2i

99-16781

LITERARY

CRITICISM

/

CULTURAL

THEORY

I n Shorter Views, H u g o a n d N e b u l a a w a r d - w i n n i n g a u t h o r S a m u e l R. D e l a n y b r i n g s h i s r e m a r k a b l e i n t e l l e c t u a l p o w e r s t o b e a r o n a w i d e r a n g e o f t o p i c s . W h e t h e r h e is e x p l o r i n g t h e d e e p l y felt issues o f identity, r a c e , a n d sexuality, u n t a n g l i n g the intricacies o f l i t e r a r y t h e o r y , o r e x p l i c a t i n g t h e w r i t i n g p r o c e s s itself, D e l a n y is o n e o f the m o s t l u c i d a n d insightful writers o f o u r time. T h e s e essays cluster a r o u n d t o p i c s r e l a t e d to q u e e r t h e o r y a n d q u e s t i o n s c o n c e r n i n g t h e p a r a l i t e r a r y g e n r e s o f s c i e n c e fiction, p o r n o g r a p h y , c o m i c s , a n d o t h e r s . R e a d e r s n e w t o D e l a n y ' s w o r k will find this collection o f shorter pieces an especially g o o d introduction, w h i l e t h o s e a l r e a d y f a m i l i a r w i t h h i s w r i t i n g will a p p r e c i a t e havi n g t h e s e essays b e t w e e n t w o c o v e r s f o r t h e first t i m e . "This important collection demonstrates [Delany's] passion and intelligence, a n d his d e d i c a t i o n to p u r s u i n g difficult questions a b o u t w r i t i n g , t h e o r y , t e a c h i n g a n d s e x u a l i t y . " — P u b l i s h e r s Weekly " D e l a n y always s e e m s to b e e v e r y w h e r e at o n c e . A t o n e m o m e n t writing s o m e o f the m o s t fulfilling prose ever a c h i e v e d by an A m e r i c a n s p e c u l a t i v e fiction w r i t e r , at a n o t h e r t a c k l i n g t h e m o s t k n o t t y t h e o r e t i c a l i s s u e s w i t h i n d e c o n s t r u c t i o n , a n d at y e t a n o t h e r p r o d u c i n g f r a n k , h o t , o u t r a g e o u s l y d e l e c t a b l e essays o n h i s life as a N e w Y o r k e r , a g a y m a n , a n d a B l a c k A m e r i c a n . D e l a n y ' s n e w e s t c o l l e c t i o n , Shorter Views, g i v e s o n e p e r h a p s t h e c l e a r e s t s e n s e o f h o w all t h e s e a s p e c t s o f D e l a n y ' s w o r k o p e r a t e b o t h w i t h a n d against o n e another." — R o b e r t F. R e i d - P h a r r , J o h n s H o p k i n s U n i v e r s i t y Samuel R. Delany, b e s t k n o w n as t h e a u t h o r o f s c i e n c e fiction a n d fantasy novels, has also p u b l i s h e d m a n y b o o k s o f nonfiction, including semiotic studies o f literature a n d a v o l u m e o f memoirs. H e is c u r r e n t l y P r o f e s s o r o f C o m p a r a t i v e L i t e r a t u r e at t h e University o f Massachusetts, A m h e r s t .

Wesley an University Press P u b l i s h e d bv University Press o f N e w E n g l a n d Hanover and L o n d o n

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