Textual Awareness: A Genetic Study of Late Manuscripts by Joyce, Proust, and Mann

EDITORIAL THEORY AND LITERARY CRITICISM

!

TE X T UA L AWA RENE S S A Genetic Study of Late Manuscripts by

Joyce, Proust, & Mann

D IRK V AN H U L L E

Textual Awareness

Textual Awareness A Genetic Study of Late Manuscripts by Joyce, Proust, and Mann

DIRK VAN HULLE

THE UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN PRESS Ann Arbor

Le Temps perdu ne l’était pas. —Bernard Brun, Brouillons des aubépines

Copyright © by the University of Michigan 2004 All rights reserved Published in the United States of America by The University of Michigan Press Manufactured in the United States of America c Printed on acid-free paper 2007 2006 2005 2004

4 3 2 1

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher. A CIP catalog record for this book is available from the British Library. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Hulle, Dirk Van. Textual awareness : a genetic study of late manuscripts by Joyce, Proust, and Mann / Dirk Van Hulle. p. cm. — (Editorial theory and literary criticism) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0-472-11341-0 (alk. paper) 1. European fiction—20th century—History and criticism. 2. Joyce, James, 1882–1941. Finnegans wake. 3. Proust, Marcel, 1871– 1922. A la recherche du temps perdu. 4. Mann, Thomas, 1875–1955. Doktor Faustus. 5. Criticism, Textual. I. Title. II. Series. PN3503.H76 2004 809.3'0094'0904—dc22 2004004958

ISBN13 978-0-472-11341-5 (cloth) ISBN13 978-0-472-02495-7 (electronic)

Acknowledgments

It is dif‹cult to imagine what this book would have looked like without the eloquent intermezzi and mornings of excellence with Sam Slote, the helpful suggestions of Luca Crispi and Stacey Herbert, the refreshing talks with Bert Bultinck and Geert Buelens, the encyclopedic gravities shared with Luc Herman, the computational and other support from Edward Vanhoutte, the opportunities to present the results of these investigations offered by Daniel Ferrer, Almuth Grésillon, and Vivian Liska, the transcription sessions and advice from Nathalie Mauriac Dyer and Bernard Brun at the Centre d’études proustiennes, the ef‹cient assistance of Martina Peter and the whole staff at the Thomas Mann Archive in Zurich, the stimulating correspondence with Peter Shillingsburg, George Bornstein, Mats Dahlström, Hans Walter Gabler, Marcel De Smedt, Almuth Grésillon, G. Thomas Tanselle, and Hans Zeller, the encouragements of experienced Joyceans and scholars such as Joe Schork, Fritz Senn, Bill Cadbury, David Hayman, Robert Bertholf, Joris Duytschaever, Vincent Deane, the stimulating exchange of ideas with Ingeborg Landuyt, Wim Van Mierlo, Erika Rosiers, Laurent Milesi, Finn Fordham, Greg Downing, Mikio Fuse, Robbert-Jan Henkes, Erik Bindervoet, Liesbeth Van Gool, and Aida Yared, the interest shown by Bodo Plachta, Peter Robinson, H. T. M. van Vliet, the fruitful workshops with Adriaan van der Weel, the unparalleled support of my parents, the necessary distraction offered with great enthusiasm by Oscar and Lina, and the endless patience of the annaliviest of plurabelles, Isabelle Sevens. But one thing is certain: the resulting Textual Awareness would be inexistent without the interest in genetic criticism aroused by Geert Lernout’s radical love of the word, his truly Bloomian empathy, and his unremitting support and advice.

Contents

Abbreviations and Transcription Conventions

ix

Introduction

1

Part I. Traditions Chapter 1. Editionswissenschaft

15

Chapter 2. Textual Criticism and Scholarly Editing

21

Chapter 3. Édition Critique and Critique Génétique

29

Chapter 4. Interactions: Textual Nominalism and Editorial Realism

37

Part II. Transmissions Chapter 5. Marcel Proust’s À la recherche du temps perdu

51

The Albertine Tragedy 51 Proust’s Camera Obscura 60

Chapter 6. James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake

77

The Work’s Progress 77 Joyce’s Parlor Games 95

Chapter 7. Thomas Mann’s Doktor Faustus The “Making of” versus Die Entstehung Mann’s Art of the Fugue 133

115 115

viii / Contents

Part III. Transitions Chapter 8. Comparative Genetics: “a world of differents”

147

Chapter 9. Conclusion: “Allspace in a Notshall”

155

Notes

159

Bibliography

181

Index

213

Abbreviations and Transcription Conventions

MARCEL PROUST

RTP

Remembrance

Corr.

À la recherche du temps perdu. Quotations are taken from the second Pléiade edition, edited by Jean-Yves Tadié, 4 vols. Paris: Gallimard, 1987. Whenever comparisons are made with other editions, the full bibliographical reference is indicated. Remembrance of Things Past. Translated passages are quoted from the translation by C. K. Scott-Moncrieff, revised by Terence Kilmartin, 3 vols. London: Penguin, 1989. Marcel Proust. Correspondance. Ed. Philip Kolb. 21 vols. Paris: Plon, 1970–93.

THOMAS MANN

GW NK NB

TB

Gesammelte Werke in dreizehn Bänden. Frankfurt am Main: Fischer Taschenbuch, 1990. Notizenkonvolut: notes for Doktor Faustus preserved in the Thomas Mann Archive, Zurich. Notizbücher. Ed. Hans Wysling and Yvonne Schmidlin. 2 vols. Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 1991. The abbreviation is followed by the number of the notebook and the original page number. Tagebücher. Ed. Peter de Mendelssohn and Inge Jens. Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 1979–95. The abbreviation is followed by the date of the entry.

x

/

Abbreviations

JAMES JOYCE

FW

FDV

JJA

BL BL Add. Letters

Finnegans Wake. Quotations are taken from the ‹rst Faber and Faber paperback edition in which Joyce’s errata are incorporated (1975). The quotations are indicated by means of the abbreviation FW, followed by the page and line numbers. Whenever comparisons are made to the ‹rst edition (1939), the bibliographical reference is indicated. The ‹rst drafts of each section of Finnegans Wake were transcribed by David Hayman in his invaluable edition A First Draft Version of “Finnegans Wake.” London: Faber and Faber, 1963. The James Joyce Archive, facsimile edition of Joyce’s manuscripts, edited by Michael Groden, Hans Walter Gabler, David Hayman, A. Walton Litz, and Danis Rose. The abbreviation is followed by volume and page number. British Library, followed by manuscript number and, in some instances, a folio number. British Library, Additional Manuscript, followed by manuscript number and, in some instances, a folio number. Letters of James Joyce. Vol. 1, ed. Stuart Gilbert. Vol. 3, ed. Richard Ellmann. London: Faber and Faber, 1957, 1966.

TRANSCRIPTION CONVENTIONS

In spite of Jean-Louis Lebrave’s convincing arguments for diplomatic transcriptions (“L’édition génétique” 214), the purposes of this genetic study justify a “reduction to a textual model” in the form of a linear transcription, with a minimum of diacritical signs, indicating overwritings (immediately following the word or letter over which the substitution was written), ^additions^, [uncertain readings], or [illeg(ible words)]. The James Joyce Archive’s draft catalog system is used to refer to a speci‹c draft stage in Finnegans Wake: for example, I.5§2.*0 = book I, chapter 5, section 2, ‹rst draft; the asterisk indicates an autograph document. The transcription of Joyce’s notebook entries is based on the conventions of the edition of The “Finnegans Wake” Notebooks at Buffalo, ed. Vincent Deane, Daniel Ferrer, and Geert Lernout (Turnhout: Brepols, 2001–). A sample may help clarify these conventions: “randbut / randor (VI.B.46:48).” Each entry (andbut/andor) is followed by the number of

Abbreviations / xi

the notebook (VI.B.46) and the page number (48). The slash ( / ) indicates that words on successive lines are part of one and the same unit. Joyce used to delete an entry with a color crayon when he decided to incorporate it in the text of Work in Progress. The color of these cancellations is indicated by a superscript letter (b = blue, bk = black, br = brown, g = green, o = orange, p = purple, r = red, y = yellow) preceding the canceled unit.

Introduction

GENETIC CRITICISM AND THE “CRISIS OF THE NOVEL” We should be seriously disturbed by the lack of contact between literary critics and textual critics. Every practising critic, for the humility of his soul, ought to study the transmission of some appropriate text. —Fredson Bowers, Textual and Literary Criticism es hit neat zoo? —James Joyce, Finnegans Wake

Zeno’s paradoxes of movement have been refuted several times, yet it seems as if each of the refuters is like the Achilles who tries to catch up with the turtle. In order to do so he has to reach the place the turtle has just left, so that the latter always continues to have a lead. The same paradox applies to writing processes. A text’s publication suggests that at some point its writing process came to an end. Yet the closer it is examined, the more it looks as if this process never really caught up with the product. There is a constant tension between the ‹nished and the un‹nished, especially in modernist texts where the time lost in writing them becomes thematic, re›ecting a poetics of process—which is the central theme of this book. This poetics of process throws into relief the somewhat strained relationship between literary and textual criticism, and the mediating role of genetic criticism. For literary texts are marked by traditions, transmissions, and transitions of all kinds. Aristotle’s refutation of Zeno’s paradoxes is, paradoxically, the reason they have survived. Aristotle’s inevitably distorted presentation of Zeno’s paradoxes tells us as much about A. as about Z., or as James Joyce puts it: “For Ark See Zoo” (FW 104.19–20).

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Literary critics tend to take the text for granted by assuming that the words on which they base their interpretations are an unproblematical starting point. In reaction to Eco’s concept of “interpretation” Richard Rorty may argue that “all anybody ever does with anything is use it” (“Pragmatist’s Progress” 92), but even a pragmatist might want to know whether the text s/he is “using” has not been used before by another user, for instance an editor. Michael Groden has pointed out that in AngloAmerican criticism “there has been relatively little contact” between literary and textual critics (259). A rapprochement can be effectuated by genetic criticism, a form of literary criticism that tries to be as aware of textual uncertainties as textual critics are. GENETIC CRITICISM The term critique génétique was coined by Louis Hay in 1979 in the title of a collection of essays, Essais de critique génétique.1 Genetic critics focus on the temporal dimension of writing and regard a work of literature as a process rather than a product. The end result remains inextricably bound up with its textual memory, that is, the numerous textual transformations that preceded its publication. By coining a new term to denote what may seem an old critical activity, Louis Hay explicitly expressed the wish to distinguish genetic criticism from traditional philology. A major issue with regard to the positioning of this research method is the question whether genetic criticism is a break away from, or rather a return to, the kind of philological research practiced at the beginning of the twentieth century.2 Each new discipline tends to de‹ne itself ex negativo by reacting against previous approaches. French genetic critics emphasize the difference between philology (which aims at establishing a text) and critique génétique (which tends to destabilize it; Contat and Ferrer 8). Other critics, such as Antoine Compagnon and Jean-Yves Tadié (general editor of the second Pléiade edition of Marcel Proust’s À la recherche du temps perdu) emphasize the link, rather than the break, with traditional philology and the so-called études de genèse (genetic studies) of the beginning of the twentieth century. These studies, however, were mostly limited to stylistic analyses based on the most legible of manuscripts, such as fair copies, neglecting notes and rough drafts. The same applies to the Italian variantistica, instigated by Gianfranco Contini: although this form of research concentrates on variant readings between successive versions, it focuses on the ‹nal stages of the writing process. Whereas in Italy the rise of structuralism was to a large extent due to variantistica, French genetic criticism

Introduction / 3

was mainly a reaction against the structuralist approach to the text as a closed system, since it implied cutting off the text from its genesis.3 In order to de‹ne the historical and methodological position of genetic criticism, Daniel Ferrer and Michael Groden introduced the adjective postgenetic, a combination of the notions “poststructuralist” and “genetic,” suggesting that the relation between poststructuralism and structuralism is analogous to the one between genetic criticism and traditional genetic studies: “It does not reject them but subsumes them, and reinterprets them from a different point of view (which is precisely based on a poststructuralist conception of the text)” (500). Authors such as Louis Aragon, Elsa Triolet, and Francis Ponge gave an impetus to a renewed interest in manuscripts by presenting their works as a process rather than a product. From the critical side Julia Kristeva almost simultaneously rede‹ned the text as “productivity” (Semiotike 113) and in 1968, a small group of researchers under the direction of Louis Hay was charged by the French national research council (CNRS) to study Heinrich Heine’s manuscripts, which had been acquired by the Bibliothèque Nationale. Other groups, working on Marcel Proust and Emile Zola, were set up. This period was marked by an intensive collaboration between the different research units, resulting in the foundation in 1976 of the Center for the Analysis of Modern Manuscripts (CAM), which in 1982 became the Institut des Textes et Manuscrits Modernes (ITEM) with researchers working on Nerval, Flaubert, Joyce, Valéry, and Sartre. The main objective of the members of ITEM is to examine the writing mechanisms and to reconstruct the genesis of the literary work by studying notebooks, manuscripts, typescripts, and proofs, focusing on the “potentiality” of writing.4 The confrontation of a published text with all its previous versions gives the reader an idea of what it might have become. Genetic critics study the contingencies of the writing process as research objects in their own right, independent from the publication of a ‹nished product (a “corrected” text). Therefore it is necessary to present this genetic research as a separate form of literary criticism. Even though, in the last few decades, textual criticism and scholarly editing have changed due to “an increasingly theoretical self-consciousness,”5 Graham Falconer sees a clear difference with genetic criticism: Conservation, classi‹cation, and presentation of data are at one end, conventionally referred to as Textual Criticism (but which in the interests of international scholarly collaboration, we might be wise to relabel Textology, since that is what everyone outside the Anglo-

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American tradition calls it); critical commentary or interpretation based on what Jean Levaillant has rather grandly de‹ned as “the anthropology of the writing act”—Genetic Criticism—lies at the other. (“Genetic Criticism” 11) According to Daniel Ferrer, textual studies are concerned with “modalities of repetition,” whereas genetic criticism focuses on “invention” (“Open Space” 256).6 French genetic critics duly take the merit of having emancipated manuscript research as an interpretive method in and of itself, so that it is no longer entirely at the service of scholarly editing. On the other hand, genetic criticism cannot completely isolate itself from scholarly editing. Since access to manuscripts is dif‹cult, genetic critics are forced to think about ways to represent and publish the textual basis of their research in order to account for their conclusions. Moreover, manuscript research inevitably reveals several transmissional departures and is therefore nolens volens concerned with issues that used to end up in the mass grave of an apparatus variorum. During the writing process of Finnegans Wake, for instance, several words and even lines were lost due to the inaccuracy of typists and typesetters, or even the carelessness of the author himself. In the past few decades, several researchers have discovered hundreds of transmissional departures that were accidentally left out and did not make it into Finnegans Wake.7 As a result, the syntax is sometimes seriously damaged. The longer this list of missing lines becomes, the more it may seem necessary to restore the text. But restoration is not always the ideal solution. Often the omitted lines and the resulting syntactic problems have led to creative adaptations by the author himself during the text’s last stages of revision. In those cases, the missing lines are not merely textual oddities that should be corrected, but they have acquired a function in the creative process. From a genetic point of view it is more valuable to draw attention to the textual trouble-spots than to produce a restored text. The aim of genetic criticism is not the reader’s convenience but the awareness that the published text is less of a ‹nished product than it may seem. Hence the importance of linking it to its preceding versions, rather than separating the two. The transition zone between the published text and the preceding versions is not a sharp limit, but a no man’s land. METHODOLOGY To distinguish the published text from the preceding versions, Jean Bellemin-Noël introduced the notion of avant-texte (pre-text) in 1972.

Introduction / 5

Archives often arrange the manuscripts teleologically according to the ‹nal narrative structure. A genetic study, however, may require a chronological (re)arrangement of the manuscripts. In order to do so, a decipherment is necessary, and a transcription advisable, both to facilitate one’s own work and to make the material more accessible to others. All these acts of interpretation turn the documents into an interpretable complex or avanttexte. Pierre-Marc de Biasi de‹nes the avant-texte as the result of the critical analysis and organization of all the extant documents relating to the writing process one intends to examine (Génétique des textes 30–31). The avant-texte does not denote the materiality of the manuscripts nor their actual interpretation, but the critical reconstitution of the documents. These documents re›ect the type of the writing process, ranging from a carefully planned strategy to a gradual expansion of the manuscript without apparent preconception. Louis Hay and Almuth Grésillon characterized these two types as “écriture à programme” and “écriture à processus.”8 This dualistic typology is just a help to characterize the genesis; in reality every writing process is a hybrid. The same modi‹cation applies to Pierre-Marc de Biasi’s typology of compositional phases. In general, he distinguishes four phases (precompositional, compositional, prepublishing, publication) plus a postpublication phase, but again, in reality these are usually not clearly separated. Whatever precedes a ‹rst draft (reading notes, marginalia, plans, schemes) belongs to the precompositional phase, whereas the compositional phase is focused on structuring and “textualization.” In the case of Finnegans Wake, this typology seems to correspond roughly to the difference between the loose jottings characterizing Joyce’s notebooks and the more syntactic nature of the textual units in the drafts. But Joyce kept taking and processing reading notes during all the phases of the writing process. Moreover, this process did not take shape as one massive whole, but in several segments. Thus, for instance, there is a time span of a decade and a half between the precompositional phases of the ‹rst two sections of the last part. And while this part was being conceptualized, other parts had already reached the prepublishing phase. The division in four phases serves as a general guideline, but it may also create too orderly an impression of the average avant-texte, and obscure the fact that these phases often overlap. It is not unnecessary to emphasize the dangers of methodological rigidity and inappropriate positivism. Since researchers often have the advantage but also the disadvantage of hindsight manuscript studies may always involve some degree of genetic manipulation. The early-twentieth-century philological attempts to study writing methods were too much focused on ‹nding general

6 / Textual Awareness

“laws” of writing, so that they overlooked the contingencies and unique features of every single writing process. The interest in manuscripts is neither biographical, nor psychological. The idea that genetic criticism is a form of biographism is a tenacious misunderstanding. Evidently, there would not be any writing process without an author, and the concept of the author will occasionally be “useful” (as Fotis Jannidis writes in his reconsideration of this controversial concept, 389) to present a plausible historical contextualization of the texts and avant-textes. But as long as the author’s texts rather than his person or life are the subject of research, a reader’s image of the author is mainly a construction on the basis of his texts. These genetic investigations are not so much concerned with the author’s intentions, but focus on what might be called processio operis, by analogy with Umberto Eco’s notion of intentio operis.9 This intentio operis, Eco suggests, is to be taken into account in order to “interpret” a literary work or “opus.” But then arises the question of what is meant by the “opus.” Eco argues that “it is possible to speak of text intention only as the result of a conjecture on the part of the reader”; according to Eco, the only way to prove a conjecture about the text’s “intention” is “to check it against the text as a coherent whole” (Limits of Interpretation 58). A traditional approach to the inevitable hermeneutic circle consists in making a conjecture as to the meaning of part of the text, and subsequently considering the text as a whole, to see if the conjecture is either con‹rmed or challenged by other passages in the published text. By including the avant-texte in this research, genetic critics have a considerably larger amount of textual material (i.e., a vaster “opus”) at their disposal to check the probability of their interpretations, and to make them plausible. Genetic criticism presents an alternative to the New Critical machismo that refuses all extratextual help to interpret a work of literature. Even if all the manuscripts of a literary text are preserved, their existence is often neglected. These documents, however, can be an invaluable instrument to ‹nd out, for instance, what the author was reading at what stage of the writing process. The aim of this research goes beyond traditional source studies, and does not merely “fall in with the myth of ‹liation” (Barthes, “From Work to Text” 160). The discovery of a source text provides a context that does not only surround the work and delimit its meanings; it also opens it up. Just like the transition from the private avant-texte to the public text, the incorporation of extratextual material in the avanttexte is also a gradual process, a translation combining “domesticating”

Introduction / 7

and “foreignizing” strategies (Venuti 240–42): the author domesticates certain extratextual elements by appropriating them, but he also gives his text a foreign touch. This transition zone is another no man’s land between the public intertext and the private writing process. The processing of extratextual material can be subdivided into two movements, corresponding roughly to what Raymonde Debray-Genette has called “endogenetics” and “exogenetics” (“Génétique et poétique” 28).10 Before the author can process extratextual information in his writings, he has had to look it up in an encyclopedia, read articles, newspapers, books, be sensitive to his environment, and so on, in order to register, absorb, and process the things he wrote down.11 In botanical terms, as Thomas Mann puts it, the upward movement is only made possible by a preceding downward movement of the roots’ “drilling process” (Über mich selbst 488–89). The attempt to ‹nd the exact spot between positive and negative geotropism is not always a fruitful enterprise. Every writer has his or her own methods, and this division is merely a structuring device, for the exogenetic process contains within itself the principle of its own effacement. Documentation is often left unused or changed so thoroughly during the endogenetic incorporation that it ends up disappearing. But these transformations are precisely the reason why the study of this vague transition zone can be valuable, in particular for the interpretation of modernist texts. One of the characteristics of high modernism that has been criticized in retrospect is its elitism, its claim to “high art.” Intertextuality is an important factor in this elitism, as it increases the complexity of the literary work. Notebooks are an invaluable instrument to study the intertextual references in encyclopedic works such as Finnegans Wake or Doktor Faustus, and the manner in which authors have combined, reorganized, and added surplus value to extratextual material. Evidently, intertextuality is not an exclusive characteristic of modernism, but it is the combination with the self-re›exive nature of many modernist texts, the role of the author as a craftsman rather than a divinely inspired genius, and the problematization of the work of art as a ‹nished product that makes genetic research particularly relevant for modernist texts. “MATERIAL MODERNISM” Since genetic criticism involves the analysis of manuscripts, typescripts, notebooks, and other preparatory documents, this research is necessarily based on the material evidence of the creative process. Traditional philol-

8 / Textual Awareness

ogy was most concerned with ancient and medieval manuscripts. The analysis of scribal copies was part of a quest for an original. Whereas this urtext is usually lost and the author unknown, modern manuscripts often suffer from an overabundance of authorial documents. But the most fundamental difference between these two kinds of documents is the private nature of modern manuscripts. While scribal copies were a means of communication, written manuscripts gradually lost this public status, especially after the invention of print technology. Together with the rediscovery of individuality, the holograph increasingly became the imprint of an author’s signature, personality, originality, and even genius. Toward the end of the eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth century, a change is noticeable in authors’ attitudes toward their manuscripts. In Germany, writers such as Johann Wolfgang Goethe and Friedrich Schiller drew attention to the importance of studying the genesis of objects, both in nature and in art, in order to understand them. The idea of analyzing literary manuscripts was prompted by authors themselves around the middle of the nineteenth century. In his letters to Louise Colet, Gustave Flaubert promises to show her his manuscripts in order to lay bare the complex mechanics by means of which a sentence takes shape. Around the same time, Edgar Allan Poe demysti‹ed the idea of divine inspiration by emphasizing the craft involved in what T. S. Eliot would later call the métier of poetry. But as is evident from Poe’s “Philosophy of Composition” (1846), an author is not the ideal critic of his own works. Poe’s genetic analysis of The Raven is a retrospective construction in which he only tells as much as he wishes. The same applies to Thomas Mann’s Entstehung des Doktor Faustus. Hans Magnus Enzensberger points out that there are two methods to study a work’s genesis: from the outside and from the inside. The philologist who tries to reconstruct the genesis from the outside has the advantage of distance from the pretextual material, but this material is “poor” since there are no memories attached to it. These memories are the author’s, who is the only one who can study the work from the inside. But memory tends to correct history, and it is possible that the author creates, or even invents, the genesis a posteriori (8–9). To a certain extent, this is the case in Thomas Mann’s account of the genesis of Doktor Faustus, which is not so much a question of telling lies as of keeping silent about certain important source texts. But if Mann would have wanted to obscure certain aspects of the writing process, he could have destroyed the evidence, as he did with his ‹rst drafts. The fact that he erased some (not all)

Introduction / 9

of the marginal markings in the books he consulted, indicates that he was well aware of the semipublic nature of famous authors’ personal libraries, notebooks, and manuscripts. The documents he did preserve therefore acquire a less private status, and the preservation becomes a token of the author’s active concern about the future of his work after his death. Manuscript research and genetic criticism may create the feeling of trespassing a border, of entering a forbidden zone and rummaging in the author’s “scienti‹cally annotated waste-paper basket” (“Recherches sur l’enfance de l’oeuvre” iv). But this feeling can only be elicited because so many authors, especially modernist authors, have not thrown their manuscripts into the wastepaper basket. Even in moving from the United States to Switzerland, Thomas Mann carefully preserved all his manuscripts, all the articles, clippings, and other materials that were used during the composition of Doktor Faustus. Like many other modernist authors, he could not throw away evidence of a novel that had its own crisis as one of its main themes. What genetic criticism can yield—in general terms—with regard to the study of literary modernism is a revaluation of authors’ enhanced awareness of the text as a process. The literary atmosphere after the climax of naturalism was characterized by what Michel Raimond refers to as the “crisis of the novel.” One of the symptoms of this crisis was the roman du roman, the novel in which the act of writing becomes thematic (Crise du roman 243). After Doktor Faustus, Thomas Mann wrote his account of the writing process, Die Entstehung des Doktor Faustus, with the subtitle Roman eines Romans. Marcel Proust turned the slow process preceding the actual writing of a book into the very subject of À la recherche du temps perdu. After Ulysses, which had been called a “novel to end all novels,” James Joyce started his Work in Progress, which “tells a great deal about its own creation, and discusses its own manuscript at some length” (Atherton 61). In this respect A. Walton Litz remarks: “James Joyce’s desire to make the growth of Finnegans Wake part of its subject-matter, and his willingness to expose the book as a Work in Progress, were merely extreme examples of that self-consciousness which has characterized so much European literature since the Romantic period” (“Uses” 99). The pragmatic answer to the question why genetic criticism is speci‹cally relevant to literary modernism, is simply that so many manuscripts of modernist texts have been preserved. Florence Callu refers to the modernist period as “the golden age of manuscripts” (“Transmission” 65). Evidently, this preservation has more fundamental reasons, which

10 / Textual Awareness

may help elucidate some fascinating aspects of modernism in general. The “material modernism” to which George Bornstein’s book of the same title refers applies not only to published texts but also to what preceded their publication. In “The Originality of the Avant-Garde and Other Modernist Myths” Rosalind E. Krauss illustrates the modernist ambition by means of the emblematic structure of the grid, which opposes the reality effect and draws attention to the materiality of the work of art. With reference to literature, this focus on the arti‹ciality of the artifact results in a constant awareness of the textual aspects of the writing, which is understood as a process rather than a product. Proust, Joyce, and Mann tried to ‹nd new techniques to express the way they experienced reality. Especially the experience of time seems to have preoccupied these modernist authors. The combination of self-consciousness and the preoccupation with time is not only expressed by the content of their works, but is also noticeable in their form: the “permeable presence of the past” (Quinones 73), most poignantly conveyed in Proust’s idea of the mémoire involontaire, also applies to the past of the texts in which this idea was given shape. Proust thematizes the superposition of versions at several instances in his novel, searching for a way to “read simultaneously on different planes” (Recherche 4:503). Before he embarked on his encyclopedic project, Joyce said he wanted to write a history of the world, expanding what T. S. Eliot described as “the immense panorama of futility and anarchy which is contemporary history” (“Ulysses” 177). The avant-texte, and Joyce’s notebooks in particular, offer an even more immense panorama of futility and anarchy than the published text of Finnegans Wake. Thomas Mann thematizes both the underlying layers of time in general (in his novel Doktor Faustus) and the textual Zeitentiefe of his own novel (in Die Entstehung des Doktor Faustus), thus confronting an aesthetics of the ‹nished product with an alternative poetics of process. In their efforts to lay bare the deforming mechanisms of time, these modernist authors were not blind to the way these mechanisms also shaped the writing processes of their own encyclopedic works. As a consequence, the preservation of their manuscripts is only the most material manifestation of this poetics of process, which also implies the problematization of the work of art as a ‹nished product and an enhanced awareness of the paradox of every encyclopedic project: on the one hand the urge to grasp Everything (“Allspace in a Notshall,” FW 455.29) and on the other hand the awareness of the dangers of totalization. The study of the notebooks and manuscripts draws attention to this paradox as it shows the

Introduction / 11

arbitrary and arti‹cial nature of any structure imposed on the experience of reality. From this perspective, the textual process is not just a preparatory phase, but an essential part of the literary creation. The palpable evidence of the textual past’s “permeable presence” is the research object of genetic criticism, which is one of the reasons why this critical approach may be particularly relevant for the study of modernist texts. OUTLINE This comparative genetic research into the writing processes of Finnegans Wake, À la recherche du temps perdu, and Doktor Faustus is divided into three parts. In part 1, the relationship between genetic and textual criticism is studied on the basis of a survey of German, Anglo-American, and French editorial traditions. Instead of concentrating too exclusively on differences, making stereotypical divisions, or offering an exhaustive account of each separate tradition, this study outlines the cyclical ›uctuations, interactions, and constant tensions between textual nominalism and editorial realism that characterize all of these traditions. Part 2 focuses on the transmissions of the writing process and the genetic analysis of three major modernist works in the corresponding literatures. This section is called “Transmissions” because the reconstruction of these writing processes inevitably reveals instances where the documentary evidence contradicts the stories of the making-of as they were transmitted in letters or longer accounts, such as Mann’s Die Entstehung des Doktor Faustus. Each of the three case studies begins with a chronological account of the writing process; the second part of each case study zooms in on the documents in order to chart the textual side-paths and dead ends. The chronological account is based partly on circumstantial evidence such as letters and diaries. This circumstantial material, however, is used only to establish the chronology of the manuscripts. The more detailed study of the manuscripts shows that these genetic investigations are more than mere stories about how books come to be, and may contribute to their interpretation. These analyses focus on the transition zones between source texts and the avant-texte, between private manuscripts and preliminary contacts with the readership (such as the prepublications of Joyce’s Work in Progress in the journal transition), and between the three writing processes under discussion in the third part, “Transitions.” The writing process of À la recherche du temps perdu ended abruptly with Proust’s untimely death in

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1922, when Joyce started making the ‹rst notes for his Work in Progress. This process did not end in 1939, when Finnegans Wake was published, since Joyce continued making changes in his list of errata. When he died during the Second World War, Thomas Mann was already making reading notes and tentative plans for his Doktor Faustus project. These transitions are concluded with a comparison of the three authors’ writing methods. In “Genetic Criticism” Graham Falconer draws attention to the “virtually unexplored” ‹eld of research that is the comparison of writing methods. With reference to Dickens, Flaubert, and Zola, he suggests that “the similarities and differences between different writers’ habits of revision, would be highly pertinent to both the history and the poetics of nineteenthcentury ‹ction” (17). The juxtaposition of Joyce’s, Proust’s, and Mann’s compositional practices in part 3 is an attempt to apply this method of comparative genetics to early-twentieth-century ‹ction and explore the interesting border region between literary and textual criticism.

PART I

Traditions

Chapter 1

Editionswissenschaft

Since Goethe is more or less to German Editionswissenschaft (editorial science) what Shakespeare is to Anglo-American scholarly editing, the publication of the monumental “Sophien-Ausgabe” of Goethe’s oeuvre (1887–1919) has had a considerable impact on German scholarly editing. As Bodo Plachta elucidates (“German Literature”), this edition re›ected the then prevailing view that considered the last version revised by the author (the so-called Fassung letzter Hand) as his last will. In an important article (“Grundsätze kritischer Ausgaben neuerer deutscher Dichtwerke,” 1921) Georg Witkowski was one of the ‹rst to argue that the apparatus of a critical edition should represent the “growth” of a work of literature (224). Nevertheless, he did regard the editor as the executor of the author’s last will (225). As late as 1964, even Friedrich Beißner, whose Hölderlin edition is the next landmark in the development of German editorial practice, gave little consideration to the rights of the younger Goethe because the changes the older Goethe made to his early poems were regarded not merely as corrections but as improvements (“Editionsmethoden” 95). This opinion corresponds to Beißner’s statement that he never meant to render or reconstruct the real genesis of Hölderlin’s works, but only its ideal growth (“Werkstatt” 260–61). For his edition Beißner based himself on the theoretical guidelines formulated by Reinhold Backmann in 1924. Backmann’s essay (“Die Gestaltung des Apparates”) is a strong plea in favor of a higher assessment of the apparatus, and against the privileged status of the edited text. The function of the apparatus is to reconstruct the textual development by means of the chronological presentation of all versions. Only in this man15

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ner can the apparatus acquire the importance it deserves, Backmann argues (638). Friedrich Beißner’s edition of Hölderlin’s works was an important moment in the German editorial tradition because it explicitly shifted the attention from genealogic to genetic research. Hans Zeller calls this edition the start of a second bloom in the neo-Germanic editorial tradition (“Fünfzig” 5). Ever since this controversial Stuttgarter Hölderlin-Ausgabe, the opinions swing between a so-called static and a dynamic editorial approach. The border between these two concepts, however, seems to have shifted in the meantime. While Beißner’s editorial concept was called “dynamic” by Hans Pyritz in 1943,1 it was later classi‹ed by Hans Zeller (“L’Édition génétique”) and Klaus Hurlebusch (“Deutungen”) among the comparatively static methods. In spite of the edition’s emphasis on the genesis of Hölderlin’s works, its concept is still teleological, which is illustrated by means of the organic metaphor of the “ideal growth” directed toward a ‹nal version.2 Not everybody was as enthusiastic about Beißner’s edition as Hans Pyritz. In 1956, Beda Allemann applied a new standard to the edition’s apparatus, arguing that it had to allow the reader to verify the editor’s decisions, and Beißner’s apparatus did not. In order to offer this opportunity to the reader, Beißner should have given a record of all the handwritten evidence (“den handschriftlichen Befund,” Allemann, 82). Hence the plea for a methodical separation of “record and interpretation” [Befund und Deutung], which is the title of an important article by Hans Zeller in the epoch-making collection of essays Texte und Varianten. Zeller argues that the editor is not the executor of the author’s last will and that the will of the author cannot be the leading principle upon which the constitution of the text is based (54). Thus, he radically opposes the tradition of the Sophien-Ausgabe of Goethe’s works, in which it was taken for granted that the ‹nal revised version had to be the basis for the edited text. Zeller’s views were corroborated in the same collection by Siegfried Scheibe. In his essay “Grundprinzipien einer historisch-kritischen Ausgabe,” Scheibe mentions Ernst Grumach, who showed that Goethe entrusted the ‹nal revision of his printed texts to an assistant. This assistant had far-reaching authority to correct or even change the text whenever he deemed it necessary, which meant that the method of using the ‹nal revised version as the basis for the edition of Goethe’s works became problematical. The self-evidence of this method was questioned by the team of the Deutsche Akademie der Wissenschaften which in 1952

Editionswissenschaft

/ 17

started to prepare a new complete edition of Goethe’s works, the socalled Akademie-Ausgabe. In the “Grundlagen der Goethe-Ausgabe,” this team de‹ned a number of notions that have determined the further development of German editorial theory, notably the concept of version (Fassung or Textfassung). In 1971 Siegfried Scheibe suggested that all versions of a text are of equal value (“Grundprinzipien” 33). Since the discoveries by Grumach had discredited the concept of the author’s will as the basis for the edited text, Scheibe noticed a new tendency toward the principle of the early version, or frühe Hand (“Grundprinzipien” 35), that is, the version that most closely corresponds to the author’s intentions during or just after the working process and that shows the direct result of this process. Nevertheless, Scheibe realized that a systematic preference for ‹rst editions3 would contradict his own starting point of the fundamental equivalence of all versions. He therefore added that, if necessary, the editor should not hesitate to print more than one version. This illustrates how Scheibe’s editorial concepts waver between static and dynamic representations. Since it becomes increasingly dif‹cult to draw a clear line between the written product and the production process, as Louis Hay notes (“Le texte” 154), the boundary between product- and production-focused editorial theories is not a distinct line either, and Siegfried Scheibe saw this at an early stage. Apart from Zeller’s and Scheibe’s articles in Texte und Varianten (which may be considered the point of departure for recent German editorial discussions and as such the theoretical counterpart of Beißner’s landmark in editorial practice), a third major contribution was made by Gunter Martens. His essay “Textdynamik und Edition” emphasized the dynamic character of texts and argued that a historical-critical edition is supposed to render the entire writing process, so that the apparatus, not the edited text, is the core of an edition. Martens admitted that, because of the complicated nature of many writing processes, it is often advisable to offer an edited text; but he suggested that this Klartext should be presented as an appendix to the apparatus, rather than the other way round (“Textdynamik” 171–72). The resulting documentary editions, such as the Frankfurter Hölderlin-Ausgabe edited by D. E. Sattler or Burghard Dedner’s edition of Büchner’s Leonce und Lena, are compared by Zeller to the kind of text that Umberto Eco described as “opera aperta” (“Fünfzig” 9). Another edition in which the reader has to play an active part is the Stroemfeld/Roter Stern edition of Kafka’s works. The editors (Roland Reuss, Peter Staengle,

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Michael Leiner, and K. D. Wolff, who published their introductory volume the day after the expiry of the copyright on January 2, 1995), adopt the editorial principles pioneered by Sattler. They, too, are faced with an un‹nished oeuvre, and will therefore offer facsimiles and facing transcriptions of the complete works with an absolute minimum of editorial interference, preferring the holograph to an edited text. Jeremy Adler compares the edition to a musical score, “registering the creative moment as when, for example, the number of lines per page suddenly shoots up in a crescendo during the composition of Before the Law, or Kafka’s inimitable letter-forms alter with his mood and meaning” (12). Adler concludes that “the project therefore deserves to be welcomed unreservedly as a magni‹cent new edition, which will signi‹cantly alter the way in which Kafka is read and interpreted” (12), that is, the manner implied in the title of Adler’s article: “Stepping into Kafka’s Head.” It is interesting to note that this title is used with reference to an edition that is not based on the notion of authorial intention. One of the most important arguments against the use of this notion is precisely that the author’s intended meaning can never be known with certainty since no one can ever step into the author’s head. Adler’s title suggests a—possibly unintended—association with E. D. Hirsch’s plea in favor of authorial intention as an interpretive criterion.4 In his essay “The Politics of Theories of Interpretation” (240) Hirsch made a distinction between an a priori approach (interpretation based on ad hoc reader preferences, the socalled self-governing or autocratic norm) and an a posteriori interpretation based on a cypher key chosen by somebody other than the reader (the allocratic norm). Among German editors, Siegfried Scheibe is probably the most outspoken advocate of the allocratic norm. In order to be able to reconstruct the writing process, the editor has to follow the evolution of the text from the viewpoint of the author and have an eye for the plurality of successive intentions. In 1982 he extended the concept of authorization with the notion of “authorial authorization” (Autor-Autorisation).5 In Scheibe’s de‹nition of 1971 authorized manuscripts of a work include all those to which the author contributed or that were produced under his authority, and all publications permitted by the author, based on one of his manuscripts, on his own revision, or on a revision under his authority during the publishing process (“Grundprinzipien” 28). The relevance of this concept has been questioned. Herbert Kraft suggested replacing the notion of authorization by the “Faktizität der Texte” [factualness of the texts]. After publication, it is the text, not the author, who communicates with the reader. In Kraft’s opinion, the question of autho-

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rization is therefore irrelevant; the relevant question focuses on what is at our disposal (“Aufgaben” 5). Scheibe admitted that the editor can only start from those ideas and thoughts that have materialized. Whatever the author might have thought or intended without ever putting it down on paper (or tape, ‹lm, etc.) cannot serve as the basis for the edition of texts. Still, in Scheibe’s opinion, this does not necessarily lead to the conclusion that the concept of authorization is irrelevant. On the contrary, he notes that until recently, the concept of authorization was understood from the point of view of the editor and approached counterclockwise. A clockwise approach to this concept (as seen from the author’s point of view) provides it with a slightly different meaning. Whenever the author replaces a certain version by another one, his opinion on what his work should look like changes with it. At any moment, the last version is usually the most valuable in the author’s view (otherwise he would probably not have felt the urge to change the previous one), and therefore it is momentarily the only authorized version. According to Scheibe, the editor should present all versions in their historical context. Since a version represents the author in a certain phase of the writing process, each version can serve as the basis for an edited text (“Grundprinzipien” 35). In the meantime, thirty years after the publication of Texte und Varianten, a younger generation of German scholars has formulated its views in an ambitious counterpart: the collection of essays Text und Edition, edited by Rüdiger Nutt-Kofoth, Bodo Plachta, H. T. M. van Vliet, and Hermann Zwerschina. Nutt-Kofoth points out that the concept of “authorial authorization” may be a guideline for authors, but not for editors, which does not mean it should be ignored, for it remains an important element in the textual genesis (Text und Edition 176). Hermann Zwerschina’s writings give evidence of an enhanced attention to the writing process as such, not from an exclusively representational perspective. As an editor of Georg Trakl’s works, he suggests to take off the “corset of the synoptic presentation” (Text und Edition 226) in an apparatus, and present versions in their entirety, preferably in facsimile with a diplomatic transcription, in order to gain a better understanding of the creative process. This view is based on the assumption that original manuscripts have been preserved, which could never be taken for granted in Anglo-American scholarly editing. The differences between both traditions are related to their major paradigms, Goethe and Shakespeare. As Peter Shillingsburg has pointed out (“Mirth” 49), contingencies such as the respective abundance and lack of preserved manuscripts have caused these traditions of scholarly

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editing to develop along completely different lines. As a result, “German textual scholarship, beyond taking marginal note of analytic bibliography, has remained oblivious of Anglo-American developments,” according to Hans Walter Gabler (Contemporary German Editorial Theory 15 n. 23) Some of the most memorable contacts were by no means attempts to ‹nd a consensus. In his articles “Struktur und Genese in der Editorik” and “A New Approach to the Critical Constitution of Literary Texts” (both published in 1975), Hans Zeller evaluated Anglo-American copy-text theory from a German editorial point of view, in order to stress the distinctive features. First, he compared copy-text theory with earlier German editions, focusing on the edition of Goethe’s works. Ernst Grumach’s “Prolegomena zu einer Goethe-Ausgabe,” which came out in the same year as W. W. Greg’s Rationale, was a critique of the preponderant authority attributed to the ‹nal revised edition in the Weimar Goethe-edition. Hans Zeller emphasized Grumach’s focus on authorial intentions (“New Approach” 233) and the resemblances with Greg’s principles, especially the fact that “the edited text appears as an eclectic (contaminated) text” (235). Zeller subsequently contrasted this practice with more recent German editorial methods (such as his own), showing crucial differences with respect to the notions of “authority,” “authorial intention,” and “version.” In Zeller’s opinion, the “eclectic editor contaminatingly synchronizes that which occurred diachronically” (237) and thus deprives the textual history of its historical dimension—the third dimension according to Louis Hay (“Die dritte Dimension”), the fourth dimension according to Pierre-Marc de Biasi (“What Is a Literary Draft?” 54). The decision about which version (Fassung) is to serve as the basis of the edited text is up to the editor, who is not bound by the author’s ‹nal intention. “He may, for instance, defend the young Goethe’s works against the revision of the 75year-old” (245). The notion of “version” is crucial in Zeller’s editorial method and an essential element in his understanding of the concept of text. By choosing one version as the base text for an edition (and emending only obvious textual errors) the editor may, but does not have to, establish an edited text. Whatever authorized version the editor chooses, he must reproduce it “without contamination.” The remaining versions are represented in an apparatus. This method of historico-critical editing is not strictly documentary since it allows a certain degree of emendation (“New Approach” 260), but Hans Zeller tried to avoid making use of the “ill-suited” (244) principle of authorial intention.

Chapter 2

Textual Criticism and Scholarly Editing

The danger of de‹ning one’s position by contrasting it to another approach—in casu the Anglo-American tradition—is that it may lead to oversimpli‹ed generalizations. G. Thomas Tanselle regrets that [d]uring the past two decades or so, a stereotype has arisen—among some of the writers on textual matters—in which an Anglo-American approach, characterized by the production of a single “critical” text for each work, is contrasted with a continental approach that emphasizes the multiple stages in the textual evolution of works. The former is supposedly associated with a focus on authors’ ‹nal intentions, the latter with a concentration on textual instability and the totality of textual variation. (“Critical Editions, Hypertexts, and Genetic Criticism” 581) The prominent role of the notion of “version” in German scholarly editing evidently does not make it an exclusively German point of interest. Several American scholarly editors have suggested a textual representation of more than one version of a work in a scholarly edition. In his edition of W. M. Thackeray’s The Newcomes, for instance, Peter Shillingsburg has proven that consideration of authorial intentions does not necessarily exclude a multiversional representation. Shillingsburg himself refers to a turnabout in editorial thinking during the 1980s, effectuated by textual scholars such as Paul Eggert, Donald Reiman, Michael Groden, and Jack Stillinger (Text und Edition 157). A more radical form of presenting multiple texts is “versioning,” the alternative to “editing” suggested by Donald H. Reiman. Although this approach was not developed from a genetic 21

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point of view, draft stages are also taken into account: “If holograph manuscripts or authoritative transcriptions of the work survive in suf‹ciently distinctive states, they themselves ought to be published as versions” (Reiman, “Versioning” 178). Probably the dualistic opposition of a “materialist” and an “idealist” approach is to a large extent the result of a reaction against what is often referred to as the Greg-Bowers tradition, which was in its turn a reaction against earlier editorial methods. This calls for a short ›ashback. At the end of the nineteenth century, professional textual criticism, the beginnings of which were marked by German stemmatology, gave rise to a revival of the “variorum edition.” This variorum edition was a product of eighteenth-century efforts by men of letters such as Nicholas Rowe, Alexander Pope, Lewis Theobald, William Warburton, and Samuel Johnson to edit (mostly Elizabethan) texts with a commentary on variant readings (cum notibus variorum).1 In many ways, Samuel Johnson’s Proposals for Printing, by Subscription, the Dramatick Works of William Shakespeare, written in 1756, are still topical: “In a language so ungrammatical as the English, and so licentious as that of Shakespeare, emendatory criticism is always hazardous. . . . There is danger lest peculiarities should be mistaken for corruptions” (55–56). James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake is a case where Johnson’s latter remark is still particularly relevant. The opinions on editing this text not only re›ect an age-old con›ict, but also illustrate the changes in the academic climate over the last few decades. In 1966, Jack P. Dalton wrote an “Advertisement for the Restoration” of Finnegans Wake, and in 1972, Fred Higginson took the view that “[a] Theobald is required” (“Text of Finnegans Wake” 129) to restore the “corrupted” text. The reference to Lewis Theobald implies a clear stand. Whereas Alexander Pope abhorred all “Innovation” to the text of Shakespeare’s works, Lewis Theobald (in Shakespeare Restored, 1726) called this abhorrence a form of superstition and inappropriate reverence. Interesting with regard to modern AngloAmerican textual criticism is Samuel Johnson’s subsequent reaction against Theobald, who “made no further enquiry after his authour’s meaning” (Johnson 56). The author and his intention have indeed been a major focal point in Anglo-American textual criticism ever since. A new awareness of textual corruption was the basis of the ‹rst real methodological approach to scholarly editing. When, in the beginning of the twentieth century, British scholars such as Ronald B. McKerrow, Walter W. Greg, F. P. Wilson, and A. W. Pollard came to see that not a single

Textual Criticism and Scholarly Editing / 23

version of a text is without transmissional departures, they tried to undo the corruptions in order to reconstruct the original as accurately as possible, using the study of the materiality of the book as a valuable tool providing important information for the reconstruction of the text. This “analytical” or New Bibliography remained a major methodological basis of Anglo-American textual criticism for more than half a century. The New Bibliographers were chie›y concerned with the edition of sixteenth- and seventeenth-century texts, of which the authorial documents are often lost. Since Shakespeare’s works have always been a major paradigm in Anglo-American editorial theory, the Lachmannian stemmatology—designed for texts of which no authorial documents have survived—was an adequate means to detect the corruptions that had occurred during the transmission. Considering the importance of the transmission in this kind of research, Ronald McKerrow made a crucial contribution to scholarly editing by applying his knowledge of Elizabethan printing processes. In his Introduction to Bibliography for Literary Students (1927), McKerrow used these practices as a means to detect the last edition to contain authorial corrections. This version was called the copy-text by McKerrow and served as the basis for his edition of Thomas Nashe’s works. McKerrow also prepared a new edition of Shakespeare’s works but died before the ‹rst volumes came out. His principles of editing, however, were published in 1939 in the Prolegomena for the Oxford Shakespeare, postulating that it is the duty of an editor to select for the basis of a new edition that text which in his judgement is most representative of the author and most nearly in accord with what, in view of his other works, we should have expected from him at the date to which the work in question is assigned. In the majority of cases this will mean simply that the editor must select the text which appeals most to his critical judgement, and this, in its turn, will as a rule be the one which appears to be the most careful copy of its original and the most free from obvious errors. (McKerrow in Greg, The Editorial Problem xxii; emphasis added) Walter W. Greg refers to this passage in his own “Prolegomena—on Editing Shakespeare” in The Editorial Problem in Shakespeare, a collection of his Clark Lectures, given at Trinity College in 1939 and published in 1942. Although he agreed with McKerrow on the concept of copy-text in general, he modi‹ed McKerrow’s method of choosing the copy-text,

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stressing that “while it is not possible in the last resort to avoid an appeal to the editor’s literary judgement, his choice should so far as possible be determined, and in fact normally is determined, by the theory he has formed of the character and relationship of the manuscripts” (Editorial Problem xxii). A few years later, in his famous “Rationale of Copy-Text,” Greg introduced a crucial novelty by making “a distinction between the signi‹cant, or as I shall call them ‘substantive,’ readings of the text, those namely that affect the author’s meaning or the essence of his expression, and others, such in general as spelling, punctuation, word-division, and the like, affecting mainly its formal presentation, which may be regarded as the accidents, or as I shall call them ‘accidentals,’ of the text” (22). As long as an editor fails to make this distinction and relies too heavily on the text chosen as the basis for his edition, he will be subject to “the tyranny of the copy-text” (27). Since Greg’s copy-text theory was mainly designed for sixteenth- and seventeenth-century texts, it is presented as a method to “represent most nearly what the author wrote” (22) or “come nearest to the author’s original” (30). In the case of most nineteenth- and twentieth-century texts, this original is not lost. Nevertheless, Fredson Bowers—as one of the ‹rst propagators of Greg’s copy-text theory in the United States—applied it to more recent texts as well: When an author’s manuscript is preserved, this has paramount authority, of course. Yet the fallacy is still maintained that since the ‹rst edition was proofread by the author, it must represent his ‹nal intentions and hence should be chosen as copy-text. Practical experience shows the contrary. . . . Thus the editor must choose the manuscript as his major authority, correcting from the ‹rst edition only what are positive errors in the accidentals of the manuscripts. (“Some Principles for Scholarly Editions” 225) Bowers’s in›uential article “Some Principles for Scholarly Editions of Nineteenth-Century American Authors” was published in 1964 in the journal Studies in Bibliography, founded by Bowers himself. The author’s intentions are the fundamental criterion of a scholarly edition, according to Bowers. Copy-text theory became the leading principle for the Center for Editions of American Authors (CEAA), founded by the Modern Language Association in 1963. In its guidelines, the CEAA worked out Greg’s

Textual Criticism and Scholarly Editing / 25

proposals in order to apply them not only to Elisabethan plays, but to literature from later periods as well. The systematization or standardization of critical editing that this institution aimed at inevitably involved a danger of generalization. The CEAA was criticized for the way it prescribed the methods of choosing the copy-text, a choice that should depend on the situation of every particular case, as James Thorpe remarked. But this critique did not affect the concept of copy-text, which Thorpe (in 1972) still regarded as “the basic principle of selecting the one [version] which—to the best of our knowledge— most fully satis‹es the intentions of the writer” (Principles of Textual Criticism 192). In his Re›ections on the Foundations of Modern Textual Editing Morse Peckham argued that no clear distinction between accidentals and substantives can be made, certainly not in the manner suggested in the following systematization of these notions in the CEAA’s statement: “‘Accidentals’ are the author’s spelling, capitalization, punctuation, paragraphing, and word-division; ‘substantives’ are the author’s words themselves” (2). When in 1976 the CEAA was transformed into the Committee on Scholarly Editions (CSE), this criticism was taken into account, and gradually the methodological distinction between accidentals and substantials was applied less rigidly by many editors, or even given up. In the same year, G. Thomas Tanselle, who is often referred to as the spokesman of the Greg-Bowers tradition since the seventies, published an important article in Studies in Bibliography, “The Problem of Final Authorial Intention,” which had been a widely debated issue since W. K. Wimsatt’s and Monroe C. Beardsley’s 1946 essay “The Intentional Fallacy.” According to Beardsley “texts acquire determinate meaning through the interactions of their words without the intervention of an authorial will” (The Possibility of Criticism 30). In spite of reactions by other critics, such as E. D. Hirsch (Validity 12), the concept of intentional fallacy left its mark on both literary and textual criticism. At ‹rst sight the Greg-Bowers tradition seems in ›at contradiction with New Criticism (although they are contemporaneous). But in order to interpret a text on the basis of nothing but “the text itself,” the New Critics generally took it for granted that there was a thing that could be called “the” text. That was what the New Bibliographers tried to offer: a critical, ideal text, often presented independently from its variants in a separate volume. Therefore, David Greetham argues, it is no accident that “the

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hegemony of the New Criticism and the New Bibliography were virtually coterminous” (“Editorial and Critical Theory” 12).2 In 1976 Tanselle suggested that the editor should “be turning to the text itself as his primary evidence” (“Final Authorial Intention” 47); a decade later, Hershel Parker referred to this statement in his article “‘The Text Itself’—Whatever That Is”: “In our New Critical mind-set we as editors have tended to forget that many literary works are not the result of a single, completed creative process in which there was a pervading thought that impelled the book” (51). As a consequence, rather than making presumptions about the author’s intention, Parker suggested using this notion only in the plural. Apart from the autonomy of the text, the autonomy of the author was also questioned by critics such as Jerome J. McGann and D. F. McKenzie, representing the sociological orientation in textual criticism. According to McGann the idea of “the autonomy of the isolated author” is “grounded in a Romantic conception of literary production” (Critique 8), and the author’s intentions should not be the ultimate criterion to determine the copy-text (Critique 122). Since McGann also recognizes the problematic nature of the “de‹nitive” text, he suggests a focus on the reader. In a continuing effort to reconcile the positive elements of Greg’s copy-text theory with new tendencies, G. Thomas Tanselle would certainly agree with McGann that a reader should be given as much evidence as possible to make her own choices and decisions, but he pushes the argument one step further by saying that presenting a critically reconstructed text in addition to the documentary texts only enlarges the range of possibilities to choose from. This way, readers are offered the possibility of consulting an expert’s opinion and are at the same time “free to ignore, if they wish, any alterations resulting from an editor’s effort to bring a documentary text more in line with what someone intended at some point in the past” (“Critical Editions” 592). One year after the 1984 Ulysses came out, the synoptic edition received Jerome J. McGann’s support because it presented Joyce’s novel in “a peculiarly appropriate Postmodern form” (“Ulysses as a Postmodern Text” 301), showing the compositional development of the work. Nevertheless, Gabler’s focus on Joyce’s private act of writing leaves out the collaborative aspects of the production process and does take authorial intentions into account. Any variant reading caused by a nonauthorial or collaborative act of transmission is excluded on principle. This aspect of Gabler’s approach did not escape McGann’s notice; in his division of types of editions (Textual Condition 29) he writes that the Gabler edition only

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“points toward” the second type of evolutionary text—not a “continuous manuscript text” but a “continuous production text” (Textual Condition 30).3 An important stage in this production process was the ‹rst edition, which is why “The 1922 Text” was published in paperback in 1993. This edition presents the reader—as Fritz Senn formulates it in his review— with “those words and phrases, misprints and all, that set the literary world astir” (461). These misprints were one of the main reasons for editing the 1984 Ulysses,4 which attempts to “uncover and to undo the ‹rst edition’s textual corruption”: “the act of publication is conceived of as an ideal act, to which the edition correlates an ideal text freed of the errors with which Ulysses was ‹rst published” (Gabler, “Afterword” 1892). This description does not differ that much from Cesare Segre’s concept of the virtual image, which is referred to by Paola Pugliatti in a review titled “The New Ulysses.” According to Segre, the text is “only an image: a virtual one if it is located at the end of stemmatic reconstruction; a real one if it results from a reading of its simulacrum, the autograph” (Analysis 315). On the basis of this starting point, Segre distinguishes two possible approaches, “to purify the utterance as far as possible or to take into account the rules of the algorithm. The two resulting images, virtual and real, can be brought to a maximum of correspondence, but they cannot be superimposed, given their heteronomy” (315). According to Paola Pugliatti, the “virtual image” of a text (“in which all the ‘disturbances’ have been eliminated”) is to be found ideally “in the space between the autograph and the printed copy” (“The New Ulysses” 124). That is exactly where Gabler’s approximation to this mental textual image is to be located. Yet according to Pugliatti and Segre this virtual image cannot be attained by any philologist; “however accurate his work of reconstruction may be, this cannot have as a result the presentation of ‘the original,’ but rather a text whose only condition of acceptability is its maximum possible approximation to that mental image” (125). The unattainable nature of this “virtual image” bears a resemblance to Tanselle’s de‹nition of the work as something that “lies behind” the physical texts (Rationale 18). Language is an intangible medium, Tanselle argues, and “words on paper are therefore not verbal works themselves but only guides to the reconstitution of such works” (Textual Criticism and Scholarly Editing xi).5 Given the fact that language is an intangible medium, a work can only be stored by converting it to another form. In this context it is interesting to note that the original title of McGann’s article on the Gabler edition of Ulysses, “Ulysses as a Postmodern Text,” was

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changed into “Ulysses as a Postmodern Work” when it was republished in a collection of essays. G. Thomas Tanselle argued that in many ways Gabler’s edition was not that revolutionary. But he agreed with McGann that with reference to copy-text, “Gabler’s usage is unconventional, since in the Ulysses edition ‘copy-text’ means the eclectic text that Gabler has constructed, not the documentary text (or texts) serving as the basis for that construction” (“Sociology” 106). This point of view differs from Pugliatti’s description of Gabler’s “complete and exclusive trust in a remarkably traditional philological school” (“The New Ulysses” 134), which according to the Italian scholar is in conceptual contrast with the decision to offer a “genetic text” (“The New Ulysses” 114). In this confusion of tongues, the same term, “genetic text,” is employed by McGann to denote a text “which mirrors the actual process of authorial composition” (“Ulysses as a Postmodern Text” 289). According to Tanselle, however, A distinction should be made between a “genetic” text and the kind of “synoptic” text that Gabler is recommending. A genetic text aims to show the development of the text or texts present in a single document by providing a running text that indicates cancellations, interlineations, and other alterations. Gabler’s synoptic text, on the other hand, aims to bring together in a single running text the authorial readings from all relevant documents. (“Historicism and Critical Editing” 38 n. 72) If Gabler’s edition is to be called postmodern, it is so, not because of its alleged reaction against the so-called Greg-Bowers tradition, but because of the paradoxical simultaneity of opposite and often seemingly irreconcilable concepts. The numerous contradictory reactions to Gabler’s Ulysses illustrate that this edition has uncovered a slumbering crisis in textual criticism. As Geert Lernout remarks in his study of the Ulysses controversy (“La critique textuelle anglo-américaine”), the very fact that Gabler’s edition has been attacked on grounds both of adhering, and of failing to adhere, to the Anglo-American tradition seems to prove that his work constitutes an innovative combination of European and American traditions.

Chapter 3

Édition Critique and Critique Génétique

As the preceding chapter concluded, the division between European and American editorial traditions is commonly drawn too starkly. There is, in fact, no such thing as a uniform European tradition. As chapter 4 elaborates, the controversies may be compared to the medieval debates concerning universals. The most consistent nominalists are probably the French genetic critics, as may be illustrated by means of Almuth Grésillon’s definition of a genetic edition. The continuous manuscript text such as the one suggested by Gabler presents the developmental and transmissional variation as pure succession. Whenever Joyce made a redraft or a new version, he rewrote the whole text, covering and subsuming the previous version. Gabler’s synoptic edition is not the kind of édition génétique the French genetic critics have in mind. The genetic edition in the true sense of the word, according to Grésillon (Éléments 189), should contain the reproduction of all the genetic documents, bibliographical descriptions, and an introduction regarding the location of the manuscript and the general history of its genesis, comprising letters and other relevant evidence. PierreMarc de Biasi distinguishes three kinds of scienti‹c genetic editions: the “horizontal,” the “vertical,” and the “transversal” edition (“Vers une science” 934–35). The “horizontal” edition reconstructs one particular phase in the writing process, such as the author’s notebooks of a certain period (de Biasi, “Édition horizontale” 174). The “transversal” edition is an attempt to present works that were left un‹nished (for instance because of the author’s sudden death). The “vertical” or genetic edition sensu stricto reconstitutes the complete textual history, and Grésillon readily admits that the best examples of this type of edition are German, for instance, Sattler’s Hölderlin edition (Éléments 194). 29

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An admiration for the thoroughness of the German historical-critical editions is coterminous with another, almost systematically skeptical attitude. This love-hate relationship seems to correspond with a discord among French scholars themselves. Michael Werner notices a sharp discrepancy between the “rhetorically brilliant interpreters” and the quiet researchers, who are easily pigeonholed as being old-fashioned positivists (“Edition und Kulturtradition” 141). According to Werner, it requires “a superhuman degree of masochistic self-denial” to call oneself a positivist in France (“Edition und Kulturtradition” 141). In this context it is signi‹cant that Grésillon anticipates the reproach of being positivist with reference to the diplomatic transcription she advocates, arguing that “this has nothing to do with positivism” (Éléments 129). The very fact that Grésillon feels compelled to account for her transcription method in this defensive way seems to indicate how deeply rooted the dichotomy between belles lettres and “positivism” is. This discrepancy often comes down to a discussion between taste and science, in which scholars relying on their own taste tend to look down upon researchers who try to establish a scienti‹c basis for literary interpretation. Yet, although the scienti‹c nature of German Editionswissenschaft is criticized, some French editors call in “scienti‹city” as one of the strongest arguments in favor of critical and genetic editions. Karl Popper’s concept of falsi‹ability (set forth in The Logic of Scienti‹c Discovery) is implicitly referred to by Antoine Compagnon (one of the editors of Proust’s Sodome et Gomorrhe in the Pléiade series) (“Ce qu’on ne peut plus dire de Proust” [What cannot be said about Proust any longer] 54–55).1 Raymonde Debray Genette falsi‹ed several overinterpretations of Flaubert’s Madame Bovary by showing that they are based on a copying mistake (“Hapax et paradigmes” 82). Faced with an editorial Babel, researchers such as Jean Varloot and Siegfried Scheibe made suggestions regarding a standardization of the apparatus that have led to a better contact between French and German genetic critics and scholarly editors. The title of the German publication Textgenetische Edition (Genetic Editing; Zeller and Martens, eds.) gives evidence of a rapprochement between German and French traditions. But in spite of the identical adjective, the difference between genetic editing and genetic criticism remains fundamental. Even in documentary editions such as the Frankfurter Kafka edition, conceived as an archive rather than as a critical edition, the main purpose is the presentation, not the critical study, of the genetic material.

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The French attitude toward German Editionswissenschaft has always been ambiguous. In the beginning of the twentieth century, French editorial theory was closely related to the German tradition. After the impulse given to Romance philology by Friedrich Diez, the ‹rst French response to the German philologists came from Victor Cousin. His report to the Académie Française, entitled Sur la nécessité d’une nouvelle édition des “Pensées” de Pascal (On the necessity of a new edition of Pascal’s Pensées) was published in 1842. Cousin argued that instead of copying the text of Pascal’s Pensées from former editions, editors should go back to the manuscript. He suggested applying a similar philological method to literary works of later periods. Although Jean-Louis Lebrave argues that current critique génétique cannot be presented as a “modern avatar of philology,” certainly not on the basis of Cousin’s work (“Avatar” 56f.), he does acknowledge Cousin’s role in drawing attention to the study of manuscripts. In 1856, Gaston Paris went to Germany to study the new science of Romance philology, which, together with his fellow student Paul Meyer, he helped introduce in France. Eight years later, Gaston Paris wrote an important article in which he urged the French to seek alliance with the philological practice in Germany. He advocated philology as a positive science, as opposed to the native belles lettres tradition. In 1862, in the wake of comprehensive editions in Germany, Hachette set up its collection called Les Grands Ecrivains de la France in which the works of—among others—Saint-Simon and Pascal were published, albeit not as thoroughly as in German editions. After the Franco-German war of 1870, two tendencies emerged: the study of ancient texts, on the one hand, was marked by an urge to outstrip the Germans in skill in their own specialty; in the ‹eld of modern texts, on the other hand, there was a reaction against philology—the “science of the enemy”—culminating in a pamphlet written by Henri Massis and Alfred de Tarde (under the pseudonym “Agathon”) in which they rejected the kind of positivist philology, practiced at the new Sorbonne, notably by Gustave Lanson. According to “Agathon,” Lanson’s method of collecting and arranging thousands of textual details would only stimulate mental laziness, at the expense of ‹ne style and real intellectual labor. Gradually, this return to the tradition of belles lettres also took place in the ‹eld of the edition of medieval texts, especially when Gaston Paris’s student and successor, Joseph Bédier (holding the chair in French medieval literature at the Collège de France) distanced himself from the editorial method of his

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predecessor. He argued that by means of this positivist method it was not possible to reconstruct a text that came close to the original. He therefore suggested choosing the “best text” from the manuscripts at hand to serve as the basis for a scholarly edition, using good taste as the ultimate criterion. According to Michael Werner, this is the reason why even today the notion of “philology” arouses contradictory feelings in French academic circles (“[Romanische] Philologie in Frankreich?” 43). This ambivalent attitude, however, did not imply a lack of interest in manuscripts and writing methods. In order to prepare a course on literature, Antoine Albalat made a study of literary styles (in 1903), based on manuscript corrections by great authors, comparing all the successive versions of a passage in Flaubert’s Madame Bovary. In 1906, Henri Massis studied Zola’s writing method, albeit rather wildly, as Claudine GothotMersch notes (“Études de genèse en France” 175). Two years later, Gustave Lanson analyzed Bernardin de Saint-Pierre’s manuscript of Paul et Virginie because he thought it was interesting to decipher the artist’s “effort” and to follow the slow process of invention, including the author’s research and hesitations. Michel Espagne approves of this early genetic research (“Référence allemande” 153), whereas Jean-Louis Lebrave emphasizes the teleological nature of Lanson’s study: it does not aim to reconstruct a genesis, but only to prove that Bernardin de SaintPierre was a mediocre writer (Lebrave, “Avatar” 52–53). In 1923 Gustave Rudler published a study (Les Techniques de la critique et de l’histoire littéraire) that contained a chapter titled “Critique de genèse.” Almuth Grésillon, however, argues that this cannot be confused with critique génétique as it is understood today (“Hasards” 51). Nevertheless, Rudler made a bold statement by questioning the self-evidence of the ‹nal revised edition as the basis for the edited text. This way, he made an important step toward the revaluation of versions preceding the ‹nal one. A theoretical work that has in›uenced many of the later genetic studies is Pierre Audiat’s La Biographie de l’oeuvre littéraire, which emphasized the search for the generating idea of a work of literature. Louis Hay (“Critiques” 14) and Claudine Gothot-Mersch (“Études de genèse” 186) both criticize his approach because it focuses too exclusively on the ideas preceding the ‹rst plan on paper. With regard to the actual editing of French literary works, an important date is 1931. In this year the famous Bibliothèque de la Pléiade was set up by the publisher Jacques Schiffrin, together with André Gide. It was

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taken over by Gallimard in 1933. From the start this collection had a clearly formulated aim: to offer a luxury product to an educated readership, with guaranteed “seriousness” (Grésillon, Éléments 183). But no matter how “serious” they were, the ‹rst volumes in this collection (such as the complete works of Rabelais, Molière, or Baudelaire) could not compete with the scholarly nature of the German historisch-kritische Ausgabe. The annotations and variants were not at all complete, and some volumes did not even contain an apparatus. Grésillon calls the Pléiade “une édition semi-critique” (184). The degree of “criticality” ›uctuates according to the spirit of the times, and seems to increase considerably over the years; the latest Pléiade edition of Proust’s Recherche, edited by Jean-Yves Tadié, offers numerous transcriptions of “esquisses,” and the ‹rst volume of Francis Ponge’s oeuvre even includes several facsimiles and invites the reader to have a look in the author’s “atelier.” In 1934 Albert Feuillerat tried to ‹nd the answer to the question Comment Marcel Proust a composé son roman (How Proust wrote his novel). His study is based on the galley proofs of the second volume of the Grasset edition, which he had rediscovered. Feuillerat compared its text to the “version dé‹nitive” (7), studied the modi‹cations applied by Proust, and tried to reconstruct the “première forme du roman telle qu’elle existait en 1912” (1), more speci‹cally the third volume as it would have been published by Grasset had Proust stuck to his ‹rst plan. Although he does not study the cahiers, he draws attention to the problematical nature of the notion of authorial intention, and concludes that in Proust’s case, only the plural intentions is appropriate. An interesting combination of textual genetics and scholarly editing is the 1949 edition of Flaubert’s Madame Bovary by Jean Pommier and Gabrielle Leleu. Although Grésillon notes the importance of Pommier’s plea to see things from the author’s point of view (“Hasards” 54), the reconstructed text is completely arti‹cial, composed of manuscripts from quite different periods. The main criticism against prewar genetic studies is that their interest in the manuscripts works in the reverse direction, that is, counterclockwise. This criticism also applies to most of the genetic studies between 1950 and 1960, reviewed by Claudine Gothot-Mersch in Genesis 5. In another essay, “L’édition génétique: Le domaine français,” GothotMersch contrasts the notion of a traditional critical edition with the notion of a genetic edition, which reproduces all the manuscripts, and in which

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the “de‹nitive” text is just another version, only a step in the history of the text. Even if one regards this step as a privileged one, it cannot always be presented as ‹nal.2 Evidently the French tradition of scholarly editing is not exclusively focused on textual genetics. There have been attempts to connect with the Anglo-American tradition of textual criticism, which corresponds to what Roger Laufer calls the “science of the text.” In Introduction à la textologie (1972) he de‹nes textology as the study of “texts’ general conditions of existence” (5). Laufer focuses on the material aspects of texts and regards “material bibliography” as the auxiliary science of textology (10). Laufer’s implicit reference to the Anglo-American tradition of textual criticism is made explicit in a footnote, where he refers to the notions of “copy-text” and “ideal copy” on which he has based his French adaptations, “texte de base” and “texte idéal.” From a genetic perspective, however, a critical edition is seen as a teleological enterprise, the telos being a “de‹nitive text” (Grésillon, Éléments 137). This approach reduces a complex chaos of manuscripts to a linear progression. Five years after he introduced the notion of avant-texte, Jean Bellemin-Noël called the manuscripts the witnesses of a process “from imperfection to perfection” (“Reproduire le mansucrit” 5). In his view, the drafts have not so much a testamentary as a testimonial function. Whether or not they reveal the author’s last will is left unresolved, but Bellemin-Noël is con‹dent that they give insight into the author’s intentions and that even if they do not contain a plan or a scenario, they indicate an evolution and suggest the direction of a project. It should be emphasized, however, that Bellemin-Noël does not speak of the author’s intention, but of his intentions. Research into manuscripts reveals the reorientations that, in the different stages of the writing process, seemed necessary from the point of view of the author.3 These reorientations are interpreted by Bellemin-Noël as a search for the “best state of the text,” assuming that that is the way an author looks at his writing process. He concludes that the manuscripts can reveal what the author meant by his work, and, by extension, what the act of writing meant to him (“Reproduire le manuscrit” 5). The literary critic Jean Starobinski draws attention to the retrospective illusion that the ‹nal text is some kind of Aristotelian entelechy, as if one initial intention became increasingly sure of itself until it ‹nally found its perfect shape (“Approches” 211). There is indeed a risk that later adjustments are interpreted as improvements, but according to Almuth

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Grésillon, this does not necessarily imply that one cannot organize the “genetic ‹le” without being accused of a teleological approach. She argues that every writing process is necessarily an act in time, and thus subject to the “law of successiveness” (Éléments 139). The act of establishing a chronology or even tracing out a stemma is only teleological if you leave it at that. As soon as the manuscripts have been arranged and transcribed, the work has to continue. It does not suf‹ce to retrace the author’s steps (from the last version to the ‹rst notes); one should also follow the writing process in chronological order and read the genetic ‹le in all directions, not only focusing on those elements that constitute a “necessary” order, but also on those that illustrate the many “possible” roads the writing process did not take (140). It may be a secret wish of manuscript researchers to reconstruct some kind of abstract moment in time when nothing has been read, chosen, linked, or interpreted yet, when no direction has yet been established and none of the multiple possibilities have been eliminated, yet according to Michel Espagne, the escape from teleology will always be futile (“Les études génétiques” 204). But there are different forms of teleology, according to Espagne (“Enjeux” 111–12). As an alternative to maintaining a clear distinction between the printed text and the preceding writings, which only rehabilitates the traditional notion of teleology rooted in Aristotle’s Poetics, Espagne suggests a “horizontal” teleology (“Les Enjeux de la genèse” 109). Sattler’s edition of Hölderlin’s works serves as an example: Hölderlin often wrote many different poems on one page, so that it becomes impossible to reconstruct the “vertical” teleological development of one single poem without the surgical operation of cutting it loose from the other poems/notes on the page. Jean Bellemin-Noël coined the term avant-texte in 1972 to describe all the material evidence of what precedes the moment when a (literary) work is ‹nally “treated as a text” (Le Texte et l’avant-texte 15). This raises the question of what is meant by the notion of text and treating something as a text. Some scholars fear that the reconstruction of the avant-texte will imply the destruction of the text.4 Others argue that one should not be focused too exclusively on a textual model. Grésillon suggests presenting the reader with a facsimile (to look at—“qui donne à voir”) and a diplomatic transcription (to read—“qui donne à lire”). According to Grésillon, the function of diplomatic transcriptions is “to help the researcher decipher the text” (Éléments 129). But if a diplomatic transcription is only a decipherment, it could be regarded as an intermediate stage between the

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facsimile and a transcription. As a consequence, the Proust center at ITEM has chosen, from the start, a linear transcription; the argument of Claudine Quémar was that a diplomatic decipherment of the documents abandons the reader in the “chaos of the pages” (“Problèmes du texte proustien” 65). As opposed to this view, Jean-Louis Lebrave supports Grésillon’s preference for a diplomatic transcription: he regards the linear transcription as a reduction of the manuscript to a textual format (Lebrave, “L’édition génétique” 214). Nevertheless, if the transcription is presented in combination with facsimiles, one might argue that a linear mode offers surplus value, precisely because it turns an image into a text. If this transcription is encoded in a markup language, the transcribed material can be presented in different ways. In “The Open Space of the Draft Page” Daniel Ferrer points out that the draft page signs are not only topo- but also chronosensitive, and that “the spatial layout can be partly translated in terms of temporal succession” (263). Every translation inevitably implies some degree of “treason” (“traduire c’est trahir”). Ferrer suggests regarding the draft page as a complex semiotic object, serving as an index rather than an icon, since iconicity implies similarity, which is an unrealistic aim. Of course this does not mean that similarity cannot serve as an ideal worth striving for. But even with this—probably romantic, because unreachable—ideal, transcriptions, reproductions, and other attempts at resemblance of one and the same manuscript will always show differences on a continuum of deviation. A draft page preserved in the British Library with the number BL 47471b, 30, embodying a version of part of a text by James Joyce, will be represented in as many different ways as there will be attempts to do so. Whether these representations can all be referred to as BL 47471b, 30 is another aspect of the nominalism/realism debate and a fascinating part of the sociology of the text.

Chapter 4

Interactions: Textual Nominalism and Editorial Realism

A work of literature is more than its ‹nal version, but is it more than the superposition of the preceding versions? In his essay “Proust palimpseste” (1966) Gérard Genette dreamed of an edition containing all versions and preparatory notes of Proust’s À la recherche du temps perdu (Figures I 64). Some thirty years later the metaphor of the palimpsest appeared as the title of an important collection of essays on editorial theory in the humanities edited by George Bornstein and Ralph Williams, emphasizing the different layers underlying each text. In his introduction, Bornstein draws attention to the “palimpsestic quality” of many major works we tend to regard as ‹xed or stable: “Increasingly, such works have come to seem contingent and constructed rather than unitary and ‹xed” (Palimpsest 2). In a review of Palimpsest, Ian Small focused on the ontological relation between a work and its versions. According to Small this relation is insuf‹ciently present in the metaphor of the palimpsest: “The palimpsest recognizes not the work, only its versions; moreover it takes the identity of those versions for granted” (“‘Why Edit?’” 198). Since a version is always a version of something, it implies some form of identi‹cation. No matter how objective the editor tries to be, this identi‹cation already involves a certain value judgment. A letter preserved in the William Andrews Clark Memorial Library was not recognized as the ‹rst version of Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest until 1991, when Peter Raby identi‹ed it as such—which is not evident, since this early version is quite different from the play as it was ‹rst performed (Raby 13). Ian Small suggested Wittgenstein’s notion of family resemblances as an alternative for the metaphor of the palimpsest. In the same paragraph (section 67) in which Wittgenstein introduces this notion of family resemblances, he immedi37

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ately adds: “But if someone wished to say: ‘There is something common to all these constructions—namely the disjunction of all their common properties’—I should reply: Now you are only playing with words.” This remark is interesting with regard to the difference between “work” and “text.” Controversies concerning these notions in editorial debates do not differ that much from the scholastic discussions between realists and nominalists. When Occam argued that there is nothing common between one thing and another, he realized that it is nonetheless remarkable that the human mind apparently does manage to create universal concepts that seem to apply to more than one individual. Immanuel Kant distinguished between, on the one hand, an empirical approach, emphasizing the differences, and on the other hand a speculative approach, focusing on the similarities and identical features of creatures in order to classify them in species (684). This distinction is applicable to a similar tension characterizing the history of scholarly editing, not only in Anglo-American, but also in German and French traditions. Different approaches to scholarly editing constantly oscillate between a materialist approach, emphasizing the differences between documents, and a more idealist approach, focusing on what “lies behind.”1 Marcus Walsh refers to Richard Bentley, who claimed that the “essential nature and meaning” of the Bible remained unchanged in spite of the thousands of variants that were discovered in the Greek New Testament during the seventeenth and eighteenth century: “We recognize the Bible when we see it, and we know at least in essentials what it means” (“Fluid Text” 33). But as Peter Robinson points out, this is only true from a distance: “The text itself changes depending on how closely we are looking at it,” for “the closer we look at a text, the more variation we see” (“Is There a Text?” 106). Thus the focus shifts from an emphasis on correspondence to differences, for instance in John Bryant’s version of the “›uid text” concept: “When we read a ›uid text, we are comparing the versions of a text, which is to say we are reading the differences between the versions, which is to say we are reading distance travelled, difference, and change” (Fluid Text 62). The tendency to focus on differences may have been stimulated by scholars and philosophers such as Gilles Deleuze, according to whom the essence (as it is revealed in art) is “the ultimate Difference” (41). In order to illustrate his statement, Deleuze quotes Marcel Proust: “La diversité que j’avais en vain cherchée dans la vie, dans le voyage . . .” [The diversity which I had vainly sought from life, from travel . . .] (Proust et les Signes

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54; Proust and Signs 41). It is unlikely that Deleuze deliberately altered the text to make his point, but it is a fact that the “diversité” in his quotation is “variété” in the edited text of the ‹rst Pléiade edition of À la recherche du temps perdu. The second Pléiade edition also offers the reader a transcription of the ‹rst draft of this passage in Cahier 73. According to this transcription, “variété” (variety) was “vérité” (truth) in Proust’s handwriting.2 Genetic research, however, reveals that no such “truth” is hidden in the manuscripts,3 only an even greater diversity of synonyms (“diversity,” “differentiation,” “variety”) among which Proust hesitated. The realistic editorial concern for a quotable text will always con›ict with the nominalist thesis that there is no text in the variants. According to the sociohistorical or “new historical” approach proposed by Jerome J. McGann, an editor must be equally interested in a work’s origin and in its reception, which in The Textual Condition is referred to as “the double helix of a work’s reception history and its production history” (16). This double helix is precisely the point to which the German editor Rüdiger Nutt-Kofoth draws attention in his “plea for a production- and reception-oriented edition” (Text und Edition 200). An interesting aspect of the socialization of texts is the prosperous life of certain textual variants without authority. Peter Robinson (“Is There a Text” 102) illustrates this issue with the famous line from Casablanca, “Play it again, Sam,” which Humphrey Bogart never utters in the movie. Similarly, nobody ever literally said, “Beam me up, Scotty” in Star Trek. Another famous “misquotation” that could be added to Robinson’s list is the endless discussion among Proustians concerning the little yellow wall (“le petit pan de mur jaune”) in Vermeer’s painting View on Delft. This is an important detail, since it is thanks to its texture that the ‹ctitious writer Bergotte ‹nally understands, just before he dies, how he should have written (RTP 3:692). There is absolutely no agreement as to the location of this yellow piece of wall in the painting. The traditional concept of editing as restoration may be compared to the viewpoint that this wall is only yellow because the varnish had turned yellow at the time Proust saw it, that is, before it was restored. With reference to scholarly editing, restoration was explicitly criticized in the early seventies. Alice Kaplan and Philippe Roussin describe a “changing idea of literature” by means of a comparison of the 1935 and 1976 editions of Balzac’s works. The 1935 edition had been established “according to the last text revised and corrected by Balzac himself”; in the 1976 edition the touchstone was “no longer Balzac’s ‹nal intention (‘the

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last text revised’), but the entire creative process over time” (Kaplan and Roussin 257). The authors of the article notice an evolution from “the work—the work of art, that sure esthetic entity produced by an author” to “a series of texts” (258). A crucial turning point in this evolution is marked by Jean Starobinski’s comparison of traditional scholarly editing with the restoration of paintings. The rationale behind this approach was that the text would ‹nally appear “in its integrity”4 as soon as the layers of darkened varnish were removed. Nevertheless, even though Starobinski regards this restorative approach as obsolete, both Marcel Proust and Thomas Mann have implicitly compared their works to paintings and the way they are treated. In Der Zauberberg, Hofrat Behrens describes his painting technique, more speci‹cally his “technique of layers” (Schichtentechnik). Behrens argues that the “depth” of a painting is just as important as its surface. As a doctor, he is able to paint his patient so well because he knows her “under her skin” (Magic Mountain 257): “What is in your mind as you work runs into your hand and has its in›uence—it isn’t really there, and yet somehow or other it is, and that is what gives the lifelike effect” (259). The genetic analysis of Doktor Faustus shows a few aspects of this invisible subtext, such as Mann’s re›ections on Johann Sebastian Bach’s music, aspects most of which—as we shall see—have become invisible in the varnished version of the second edition. This kind of analysis is akin to infrared photography as it was applied recently to a self-portrait of Thomas Mann’s favorite visual artist, Albrecht Dürer. Infrared photographs reveal that Dürer was in the ‹rst place a graphic artist who thought in terms of lines rather than colors. Dürer conceived his paintings in black and white; the colors were only “‹lled in” afterward, possibly by assistants (Warnke 5). In his self-portrait, painted in 1500, the underlying drawing is so detailed that it is possible to see a clear difference between the large nose he originally sketched and the idealized, perfectly shaped olfactory organ of the ‹nal version. Evidently, the purpose of genetic criticism or infrared photography is not to reveal the real proportions of Albrecht Dürer’s nose or, for that matter, the real persons behind the characters in Doktor Faustus. Genetic research is an attempt to understand and appreciate the skillful “magic” that takes place between reality and ‹ction, in the transformation of source material and drafts into a new creation. From this perspective, Behrens’s explanation of his painting may serve as a plea in favor of genetic editions:

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If a man knows a bit about what goes on under the epidermis, that does no harm either. In other words, if he can paint a little below the surface, and . . . has his own little way of thinking about the under sides of things . . . (Magic Mountain 259) The 1988 Pléiade edition of La Prisonnière is a great help when one tries to retrieve what is “below the surface” of Proust’s description of the “yellow” wall. The notes in the Pléiade edition (RTP 3:1740) mention that, before he went to see the painting at an exhibition in Jeu de Paume, Proust—like Bergotte—read an article by an art critic, who drew his attention to a few details (RTP 3:692). In Proust’s case the critic was Jean-Louis Vaudoyer, the title of the article “Le mystérieux Vermeer.” The narrator’s description of the painting contains several elements that correspond almost literally to the second part of Vaudoyer’s article, where he discusses the “precious matter” with which the walls are painted and Vermeer’s ability to hide the meticulousness of the working process (RTP 3:1740). Even though Proust shuddered at the thought that anyone might compare his manuscripts to the “de‹nitive text” to draw (always false) conclusions about his way of writing (Corr. 21:372–73), Vaudoyer’s analysis of Vermeer’s painting technique gives us an idea of what might be “below the surface” of Proust’s description of the yellow wall. As Jean-Yves Tadié explains, the secret behind Proust’s own “precious matter” is the superimposition of different “layers” of text (“Introduction générale” cv–cvi). The way in which this text is written is at the same time its subject; the manner is the matter, or as Beckett wrote about Proust: “[H]e makes no attempt to dissociate form from content. The one is a concretion of the other” (Proust 88). In his plea for “‘process’ editions” Paul Eggert refers to infrared photography and X-radiographs, which “have made it possible to create images of the early versions of well-known paintings which lurk beneath the visible surface” (“Document and Text” 7; emphasis added). The study of underlying versions, however, is not the same as attempting to retrieve an author’s intentions. The versions that “lurk beneath” the surface are not identical with the work that “lies behind,” as G. Thomas Tanselle puts it (Rationale 18). Applied to scholarly editing, the intentionalist orientation may result in what Jack Stillinger calls “‘ideal’ texts that never previously existed” or the “Platonically perfect realization of an author’s ‹nal intentions in a work” (Multiple Authorship 290). According to Tanselle, however, a distinction should be made between Platonism and “editorial

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idealism.” As Tanselle suggests in his article “Textual Instability and Editorial Idealism,” the confusion of these two principles may be caused in part by the double meaning of the word ideal: “The use of the word ‘ideal’ is itself part of the problem. Sometimes it seems to mean something like ‘best’ or ‘perfect’; at other times it means ‘not real’ in a physical sense— that is, not extant in a document. The ‹rst sense (not often used by critical editors) implies singleness; the second is fully compatible with textual instability” (Tanselle, Idealism 53). According to Tanselle, editorial idealism is not to be labeled Platonic for it certainly does not imply a depreciation of the physical documents.5 Peter Shillingsburg makes a clear distinction between the physical documents (the “Material Text”) and the reading experience (the “Reception Text”), which is “the only ‘thing’ that a reader can refer to when making comments about a work” (Resisting Texts 60). The material text, Shillingsburg emphasizes, is not identical with, but merely a representation of, the work (75). Since even the author’s manuscripts are only the result of her attempt to record a mental process, the subsequent galleys and publications are all results of printers’ and proofreaders’ mental reconstructions of the author’s mental conception. As a consequence, whether one decides to treat the actually written texts (the material objects) as a more or less adequate representation of the work, or tries to discover what “lies behind,” the only thing that is at our disposal is a representation of something else, which Schopenhauer would refer to as “Wille.” If Schopenhauer’s idea of the “World as Will and Representation” can be applied to a work of literature, the will corresponds to the entirety of an author’s intentions, not only to the ‹nal one. To a certain extent the text is the reader’s representation,6 but that does not mean it is not real.7 Although a text is an abstract concept (as opposed to the documents in which it can be contained) it also exists independently of the reader’s reading as the result of the attempt to “objectify” the author’s will at a particular moment in time. This “objecti‹cation” is merely a Schopenhauerian term for the subject of recent textual research, such as the studies collected by George Bornstein and Theresa Tinkle under the title The Iconic Page in Manuscript, Print, and Digital Culture. This focus on the material aspects of the text (the “bibliographical code”) has enriched the traditional discipline of textual criticism to such an extent that, whereas in 1986 Peter Shillingsburg distinguished four editorial orientations (the documentary, the aesthetic, the authorial, and the sociological), a ‹fth (bibliographical) orientation was

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added in a later edition of Scholarly Editing in the Computer Age. This bibliographic orientation may be regarded as “an extension of either the documentary or the sociological” approach, which “enlarges the de‹nition of text to include all aspects of the physical forms upon which the linguistic text is written” (23). Especially ‹rst editions—whether censored, corrupted, authorized, or not—have functioned as historical material and have in›uenced the reception of the literary work of art. Therefore, D. F. McKenzie suggests that “it would now be more useful to describe bibliography as the study of the sociology of texts” (Sociology of Texts 5). In 1991 G. Thomas Tanselle argued that “editors who have contemplated the con›icting demands of the social and the authorial theories of the production of texts are still confronted with the old choice between documentary and critical editions” (“Literary Sociology” 143). But the conditions on which this old choice has to be made change rapidly. The technological development of electronic editing has made it possible to include critically reconstructed texts in addition to the documentary texts. In 1995 Tanselle consequently stressed “the inseparability of the two allegedly con›icting editorial emphases” (“Critical Editions” 581). In the euphoric mood that characterized the rhetoric of hypertext theory during the 1990s, hypertext may have appeared to offer a way out of the “crucial impasse” (Cohen, Devils xiv) in textual criticism, but although it proves to be an adequate tool for the representation of texts and enables editors to combine different approaches, the theoretical debate concerning such crucial notions as “text” or “work” has not fallen silent. Since texts are produced and reproduced under speci‹c social and institutional conditions, Jerome McGann de‹nes the notion of text not as a “material thing” but as “a material event or set of events, a point in time (or a moment in space) where certain communicative interchanges are being practiced” (Textual Condition 21).8 The work, then, is “a series of speci‹c ‘texts,’ a series of speci‹c acts of production, and the entire process which both of these series constitute” (McGann, Critique 52). In A Rationale of Textual Criticism G. Thomas Tanselle suggests another distinction between work and text: A work, at each point in life, is an ineluctable entity, which one can admire or deplore but cannot alter without becoming a collaborator with its creator (or creators); a reproduction is an approximation, forever open to question and always tempting one to remedial action. (13–14)

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Not only chronologically, Tanselle’s Rationale (1989) takes up an intermediary position between the Rationales of Greg (“The Rationale of Copy-Text”) and McGann (“The Rationale of HyperText”). According to Jerome J. McGann readers do not need an editor to guide them through the manuscripts. They should be enabled to follow their own path in an electronic hypertext edition, which “is ‘hyper’ exactly because its structure is such that it seeks to preserve the authority of all the units that comprise its documentary arrays” (“Rationale,” n.p.). With reference to the nominalism/realism or materialism/idealism debate, it is interesting to note that this remark is left out in the printed versions of “The Rationale of HyperText” (in TEXT 9 [1996], Electronic Text [1997}, and radiant textuality [2001]), which is in itself a reminder that the notion of “work” is a universal that does not correspond to any reality in the sense of a material document. In Scholarly Editing in the Computer Age Peter Shillingsburg de‹nes a work as “[t]he message or experience implied by the authoritative versions of a literary writing” (176).9 As a mental construction based on implication, the work has appreciable pragmatic advantages, even if it is a universal. In spite of his criticism of (medieval) realism and its belief in universals, Occam had to admit that he could not answer the question how this principle of universalization worked. How it worked in the case of the discovery of the ‹rst version of The Importance of Being Earnest, mentioned before, is explained by Ian Small: The only reason I know that an article in a nineteenth-century periodical is not a version of a particular Wilde play is because I carry in my head a concept of the work (the play) which allows me to generate a closed set of the features which de‹ne it. Of course it is possible that my concept of the work will change over time because there is a dynamic relationship between the work and versions. (“Why Edit?” 202) Thus, the relationship between a work and versions appears as a large-scale equivalent of optical character recognition (OCR), based on the principles of pattern recognition (using a database of known images) and feature extraction (analyzing the shape of a character). A t is recognized as a t because it differs from other letters and because it has a number of characteristic features that correspond with the features of the other specimens of a t in the database (to which this new specimen may be added). Similarly,

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a text or manifestation of a version of a work may differ from that of another version, but in spite of their differences, there are also correspondences that suggest they may be subsumed under the same title. Whether or not the work this title refers to is the sum of all its variants is a matter of interpretation.10 Ian Small regards the attempt to reproduce every single variation as a pointless enterprise. According to Small, editors should produce “works” because “[a]rt and literature cannot have social functions unless . . . they exist as works, and not as versions” (“Why Edit?” 203). Interesting attempts to combine documentary and critical editorial methods are Peter Robinson’s editions of The Wife of Bath’s Prologue and the General Prologue of the Canterbury Tales on CD-ROM. Robinson emphasizes that offering facsimiles and transcriptions of the manuscripts in such a way that they can be read simultaneously is only one aspect of the edition; an editor is more than “a compiler of texts and a distributor of computer programs” (“Rede‹ning Critical Editions” 282). In the case of the dozens of witnesses of The Wife of Bath’s Prologue, it is not inconceivable that some readers will “feel lost in so many manuscripts, so many pages, so many words” (“Rede‹ning” 282). Robinson emphasizes the countless differences between versions, but nevertheless he regards the editor’s task as more than “the gathering of manuscripts” (“Is There a Text?” 112). Therefore, the reader is offered an edited text with regularized spelling and modern punctuation, which nobody calls de‹nitive, and which has the advantage that it is presented in combination with the electronic images, so that anybody is free to ignore the editors’ decisions. In “The One Text and the Many Texts” (published in 2000) Robinson goes even further. Instead of taking the Hengwrth manuscript as a base text, Robinson admits: “I now think we should have incorporated all these corrections in our base text, with a hypertext link to the discussion of each correction” (13). In the debate between editorial nominalists and realists, the Canterbury Tales project thus evolves in a “realist” direction—not so much in the medieval, but in a contemporary sense of the word. An edited text is presented, not as “the” de‹nitive text, but as a useful tool for the reader to understand how certain variations came into being. By analogy, the notion of “work” may be a universal, but it is also a convenient instrument. This perspective nuances the traditional dichotomy between editorial “materialism” and “idealism,” for paradoxically the “idealist” eclecticism is presented as a “realist” approach, in contrast with the “theoretical purity in unedited, unreconstructed texts” (“One Text” 13).

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Although Robinson refers to McGann (13), his approach is quite different from McGann’s idea of a “decentered text,” which is based on a principle similar to the equality of versions advocated especially by German scholarly editors such as Hans Zeller, even though the resulting archives or editions are quite different. In his article “L’édition génétique” Zeller makes a distinction between two German “schools”: on the one hand teleological editing (practiced by editors such as Beißner and Seuffert) and on the other hand “version editing” (which is applied by Sattler, Martens, and Zeller himself). Unlike Hans Zeller, who regards both tendencies as two currents that still coexist, Hans Walter Gabler sees the evolution of the German editorial tradition as a successive movement from an author-oriented to a textoriented approach. As a consequence, Gabler focuses on Zeller’s second group when he, in his turn, (sub)divides contemporary German editorial theory into two distinct attitudes: One, represented by Scheibe (and essentially shared by Zeller), organizes an edition hierarchically around the “Edited Text.” The other, mainly postulated by Martens (whose views draw support from Cervenka’s as well as, mediately, Boetius’s theorizings), reverses the viewpoint and sees the apparatus at the center of a scholarly edition. (Contemporary German Editorial Theory 12) In spite of this centralist description, the second group of documentary or “apparatus-only editions”11 comes closest to McGann’s idea of a decentered text or electronic archive. Apparently Gabler’s own position inclines toward the realist approach suggested by Peter Robinson, with whom he edited a special issue of Literary and Linguistic Computing on “Making Texts for the Next Century” (July 2000). In his article “Towards an Electronic Edition of James Joyce’s Ulysses” Gabler explains that “the basis for the electronic edition is the book edition’s left-hand pages,” but also that “[t]he electronic edition’s basic reference grid is the episode/line/[word] numbering of the book edition’s (right-hand page) reading text” (118). This combination of the one text and the many texts comes close to the conclusion of G. Thomas Tanselle, who sees no logical reason why a critically edited text should be banned from an electronic edition: “Critical editing is the natural complement to the presentation of documentary texts, and hypertext admirably supports both activities” (“Critical Editions” 592).

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Neither a nominalist, nor a realist approach (in the medieval sense) seems to be totally satisfactory, but their age-old con›ict may be an interesting guideline, so that the tension between “the one text and the many texts” becomes an integral part of the scholarly edition. A similar tension is intrinsic to genetic criticism. Ideally a genetic critic would start his research by reading only the many texts of the avant-texte, but in practice most readers, including genetic critics, read “the one text” (an edited publication) before starting a genetic analysis. As a consequence the ‹nal structure is always at the back of one’s mind, no matter how hard one may try to deny it. Bellemin-Noël claims that he introduced the concept of avant-texte in order to leave behind the “perfectionist” notion of a ‹nished, self-contained work of literature (Le Texte et l’avant-texte 15). Still, Louis Hay notes that Bellemin-Noël created the concept of avanttexte in contrast to the ‹nal text (“Le Texte n’existe pas” 153). This contrast seems to be fading. Texts that in previous centuries would have been considered rough drafts are now presented and published as literary products in their own right (for instance by Francis Ponge). This does not imply that the notion of text no longer exists, but that it becomes increasingly dif‹cult to de‹ne it in absolute terms. As a consequence, Hay uses the plural textes instead of le texte. He prefers to de-emphasize the border between avant-texte and texte and instead examine the relationship between l’écriture and l’écrit. Having abandoned the romantic idea of the divinely inspired genius, many modernist authors emphasized “writing” as a verb rather than a noun, the hard work preceding the publication. The fact that so many of them carefully preserved their manuscripts and donated them to archives implies a wish that their texts be studied as more than ‹nished products. That is precisely the emphasis in the following genetic investigations, focusing on Proust’s, Joyce’s, and Mann’s preoccupation with time and their poetics of process.

PART II

Transmissions

Chapter 5

Marcel Proust’s À la recherche du temps perdu

THE ALBERTINE TRAGEDY: CHRONOLOGICAL ACCOUNT OF THE WRITING PROCESS In 1899, Marcel Proust (1871–1922) abandoned Jean Santeuil. Several passages and themes from this novel in spe, such as the magic lantern, the scene of the good-night kiss, the holiday in Illiers, the “petite phrase” of the sonata, are echoed in what would later become À la recherche du temps perdu. The fact that so many passages found their way into the Recherche shows that the problem with Jean Santeuil did not relate to the descriptions of scenes and characters as such, but rather to the way they interrelated. The static and descriptive nature of the early project may have been one of the reasons why Proust abandoned it. Another reason is suggested by Jean-Yves Tadié in the introduction to his edition in the Pléiade series. According to Tadié, several blanks in the drafts of Jean Santeuil suggest “lacunae in the author’s competence and imagination” (RTP 1:xxi). This competence, however, grew steadily when Proust, after having abandoned his early novel, started translating two works by John Ruskin in 1904 and 1906. Partly on the basis of Ruskin’s ideas, partly as a reaction against his aestheticism (which tends to equate beauty and truth), Proust started developing his own poetics. The pastiches of Balzac, Flaubert, Régnier, Goncourt, Michelet, Faguet, Renan, and Sainte-Beuve, which were published in February and March 19081 may have played a similar role in the development of Proust’s aesthetics. But undoubtedly the most important element in this process is his Contre Sainte-Beuve project. Although A la recherche du temps perdu was composed on the basis of several older texts, this material was thoroughly transformed by Proust’s 51

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work on Sainte-Beuve. In December 1908, Proust asked his friend Georges de Lauris whether he should write a critique in the form of an article or in a more narrative shape.2 This is only the ‹rst of many bifurcations in the writing process—to use Jorge Luis Borges’s metaphor. The path Proust eventually chose was much longer than he originally expected. Starting from the Contre Sainte-Beuve project, the writing process of the Recherche can be roughly divided into four stages (respectively corresponding to the years 1909, 1911, 1914, and then from the First World War onward) according to the classi‹cation suggested by Bernard Brun (“Histoire d’un texte” 40). For the Contre Sainte-Beuve project—a critique of the literary critic Sainte-Beuve’s views—Proust compiled a carnet (Carnet 1, also called Le carnet de 1908), some thirty unbound sheets and several notebooks3 (Cahiers 3, 2, 5, 1, 4, 31, 36, 7, 6, and 51—following Florence Callu’s classi‹cation). On page 7v of Carnet 1 (Carnet de 1908 6), Proust has drawn up a list of the pieces he had already written,4 featuring such descriptions as “Le côté de Villebon et le côté de Méséglise,” “je ne peux m’endormir,” or “La déception qu’est une possession.” These early themes would ‹nd their way into the Recherche. Apparently, these writings were meant to constitute a ‹rst part, to be followed by a second one, for on page 3 Proust mentions: “In the second part of the novel, the young girl will be ruined; I’ll support her without any attempt to possess her” (Carnet de 1908 49). Signi‹cantly, Proust does not use the term étude or essai but already speaks of a roman (novel). The ‹rst ten cahiers were compiled by August 1909. Several elements of the later novel (scenes at Combray, Paris, the seaside, as well as one of the cities of the plain, introducing the theme of sodomy) were already present in a set of cahiers (8, 9, 10, 63, 12, 25, 26, 27, 29, 32), the chronological order of which is uncertain. Although they do not contain one continuous narrative but only separate textual units, Proust already wrote a letter to the publisher Alfred Vallette in August 1909 to ask him whether he would agree to publish his project by way of ten installments (of thirty pages each) in the magazine Mercure de France. Together, these installments would constitute “the novelistic part,” which was to be followed by the critical discussion concerning Sainte-Beuve, Baudelaire, Nerval, and aesthetics in general.5 Vallette’s subsequent refusal to publish the project, followed by the equally negative reactions of the publishers Calmann-Lévy and Calmette (Le Figaro) (Tadié, Marcel Proust 629), may have been one of the causes of the many transformations that would fol-

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low. The already drafted episodes were further developed in what Bernard Brun calls complementary cahiers (28, 64, 65, 14, 66, 67, 37, 30, 38, 13, 11, 68), compiled in 1910 and 1911. The original impulse, Sainte-Beuve, gradually vanished, but the effects were enormous. The apparent lack of a goal to write toward may be merely an impression caused by the fragmented nature of the narrative entities in the cahiers, for the 1909 version of the “novel” was to end in much the same way as the Contre Sainte-Beuve project, with a critical discussion on aesthetics.6 As the immediate cause for this discussion grew fainter during the process of writing, the novel underwent a metamorphosis at the end of 1910 or the beginning of 1911, when the idea of a Temps retrouvé took shape (partly already in Cahier 11). According to Bernard Brun, several early passages of what would become Le Temps retrouvé were drafted before “Un amour de Swann” (“Histoire” 47). The “bal de têtes” had already been written during the spring of 1910, and the aesthetic re›ections were drafted as early as 1910–11 in Cahiers 11, 13, 50, and especially 58 and 57. A transcription and critical edition of the “Cahiers du Temps retrouvé” was published by Henri Bonnet (in collaboration with Bernard Brun) under the title Matinée chez la princesse de Guermantes. During this matinée, the revelations caused by several instances of involuntary memory are accompanied by a performance of part of Wagner’s opera Parsifal. The texts of Cahier 57 closed the so-called “1911 novel,” replacing the previous ending of the Contre Sainte-Beuve project. The danger of overloading the narrative with aesthetics may have prompted Proust to postpone the poetics and save them for the end. As a result, passages that Proust considered ready for publication in 1909 were taken apart again. For instance, the episodes regarding François le Champi in Du côté de chez Swann and Le Temps retrouvé were originally drafted as one entity in Cahier 10, but separated just before the publication of Du côté de chez Swann.7 As a result of the gradual disappearance of Sainte-Beuve and other authors that were to be discussed in Contre Sainte-Beuve, the ending started to change, and the real-life artists were replaced by fictional representatives of different artistic disciplines. The characters of Vinteuil, Bergotte, Elstir, and Berma, representing respectively music, literature, painting, and drama, gradually made their appearance. Originally, the focus was on literature, and Bergotte was the ‹rst ‹ctitious artist with a name. In the shadow of this character, a musician and a painter only

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appear anonymously. Elstir was introduced in the cahiers containing the ‹rst drafts of what was to become Le côté de Guermantes (Cahiers 39 to 43 and 49); Vinteuil made his appearance somewhat later. By the beginning of 1911 the text was still conceived as a one-volume novel, albeit with a binary structure. “Le côté de Villebon” and “le côté de Méséglise,” which were already mentioned in the Carnet de 1908, were to become the Guermantes and Swann’s way. While the episode that would become Le côté de Guermantes was still in a very early phase of composition,8 the manuscripts of “Un amour de Swann,” “Noms de pays,” and “Autour de Mme Swann” (contained in Cahiers 22, 69, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 24, 23) were much further developed. A ‹rst typescript of “Combray” had already been made in 1909, featuring the following title in Proust’s hand: “Le Temps perdu. Première partie, Combray.” The evolution of the titles re›ects the development of the novel’s structure. This paratextual history, analyzed by Gérard Genette, is in its turn closely related to Proust’s search for a publisher. In the spring of 1912, Proust was still reluctant to divide (for quantitative reasons) what he had conceived as a novel in one volume.9 In October 1912, he suggested that Fasquelle publish two volumes, Le Temps perdu and Le Temps retrouvé, under the general title Les Intermittences du coeur.10 The ‹rst page of the typescript that Proust presented to Fasquelle features the title “Marcel Proust. Les Intermittences du coeur. Le Temps perdu. 1re partie.”11 This ‹rst part was followed by a second, “Un amour de Swann,” and the typescript of “Noms de pays” (the story of a trip to Bricquebec, which was to become Balbec). A month later, he also sent his work to Gaston Gallimard. The latter explained to Proust that he could publish about 550 pages per volume.12 In response, Proust suggested dividing the novel into three volumes.13 Nevertheless, by the end of 1912 both Fasquelle and Gallimard almost simultaneously refused to publish the novel.14 Early in 1913 a third publisher, Ollendorff, even refused to publish it at Proust’s own expense. On the same conditions, Grasset ‹nally agreed to draft a contract, which was signed on March 11, 1913. A month later Proust was already apologizing for the great number of corrections he kept adding, and suggested he pay extra.15 In May 1913, he informed Grasset that the title of the two volumes would be respectively Du côté de chez Swann and Le Côté de Guermantes, and the general title À la Recherche du Temps perdu.16 “Les intermittences du coeur” was to become the title of an episode in the second volume. This episode (preceded by “Mort de ma grand-mère”) was

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indeed announced when Du côté de chez Swann came out in November 1913, albeit not in the second (Le Côté de Guermantes) but in the third volume (Le Temps retrouvé). At this stage “À l’ombre des jeunes ‹lles en ›eurs” was announced as just another episode of the third volume, Le Temps retrouvé. As soon as this announcement was published, however, Proust considered using “À l’ombre des jeunes ‹lles en ›eurs” as the title of his second volume.17 In June 1919, this volume was released by Proust’s new publisher, Gallimard,18 with an announcement of three other volumes to come (Le côté de Guermantes, Sodome et Gomorrhe I, and Sodome et Gomorrhe II—Le temps retrouvé). This structure differs thoroughly from the arrangement announced in 1913. One of the new elements is the introduction of a second “Intermittences du coeur” episode, in which the narrator suddenly leaves Balbec with the intention of marrying Albertine. This character is the major new element in the post-1914 novel. Proust’s relationship with Alfred Agostinelli, the young taxi driver whom Proust ‹rst met in Cabourg and took in his employment at the boulevard Haussmann in May 1913, is generally regarded as the biographical basis for the character of Albertine. This biographical background, however, is put into perspective by the editors of the second Pléiade edition. The early Cahier 12 already contains drafts of the second stay at Balbec and mentions the narrator’s interest in the young girls, especially the “brune espagnole” to whom he is introduced at Elstir’s. This girl is called Maria, and her character is further developed in several cahiers (12, 29, 27, 28, 30). On page 28r of Cahier 13, the name of Maria is replaced by “Albertine.” According to Pierre-Louis Rey (RTP 2:1328), this substitution predates Agostinelli’s “escape”: in December 1913, Agostinelli went to his family in Monaco. He died in a plane crash as he was ›ying over the Mediterranean on May 30, 1914. Whether the quasi-simultaneity of the affair with Agostinelli and the appearance of Albertine is a coincidence or not, it is remarkable that as early as 1908, in his ‹rst carnet, Proust already planned an Albertine-like episode—which raises the question what came ‹rst, reality or ‹ction. It is possible that Alfred Agostinelli (the man who named himself after a ‹ctional character and its author when he signed up for the aviation school at Antibes under the name of Marcel Swann)19 was not so much a model for the Albertine episode, but rather the real-life performer of a ‹ctitious scene that Marcel Proust had already drafted. Still, as Jean-Yves Tadié argues (Marcel Proust 715), the ›irtations with girls in the original plan would never have reached the depths of the Albertine episode without the

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Agostinelli experience. No matter what came ‹rst, once the two-part fugue between reality and ‹ction had begun, their interplay caused an unlimited ›ow of creativity. The ‹rst stage in the transition from the 1913 plan to the new arrangement announced in 1918 is marked by Cahiers 71 and 54, compiled in 1914. Cahier 54 already features the ‹rst version of Albertine’s death (Cahier 54, 29r–35r and 60r–64r), drafted shortly after Agostinelli’s death (Compagnon, “La ‘danse contre seins’” 84). The crucial passage prefacing the content of La Prisonnière is drafted in Cahier 71, one of the most important cahiers in the writing process of the Recherche, compiled shortly after Agostinelli’s departure.20 This pivotal scene, usually referred to as “Désolation au lever du soleil,” in which Albertine reveals that she knows Mlle Vinteuil (followed by the narrator’s decision to leave Balbec and to take Albertine with him to Paris)21 starts on page 58r. The importance of this passage is emphasized by Proust’s own numbering of the pages of Cahier 71, which starts on this very page (58r «1»).22 In a résumé for Mme Scheikévitch, Proust described Albertine as the character that brings about the peripety.23 The use of Aristotle’s term, denoting a reversal in the protagonist’s fortunes, suggests that the Recherche is structured according to the principles of ancient Greek tragedy. The Albertine episode, then, may be regarded as a tragedy within the tragedy. The last part of the Recherche was written immediately after the ‹rst part; the ‹ve central volumes were “inserted” afterward. Their narrative structure may be elucidated by means of the dramatic structure of the Albertine tragedy. Albertine’s name occurs for the ‹rst time in À l’ombre des jeunes ‹lles en ›eurs (RTP 1:503), which serves as an exposition. The refused kiss (RTP 2:285) sets off the “rising action,” developed in Le côté de Guermantes. The “climax” is reached at the end of Sodome et Gomorrhe (RTP 3:499), when Albertine reveals that she knows Mlle Vinteuil. This scene leads to the “falling action” or the imprisonment of La Prisonnière, whose escape marks the catastrophe of Albertine disparue. As if the narrator were merely a spectator of this tragedy, he appears to undergo a catharsis in the last volume, when he realizes that Albertine, by making him lose his time and causing him pain, has enabled him to become a writer (RTP 4:488). Apart from her structural function, Albertine’s thematic role is to introduce the theme of female homosexuality to counterbalance the male variant, which had already been elaborated.24 Proust’s sense of symmetry

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is noticeable on all levels and also ‹nds expression in the titles. To the pairs of Temps perdu/retrouvé and the two côtés, he added Sodome et Gomorrhe. Although it was a new element in the announcement of 1919, Proust had already informed Gallimard in May 1916 about an extra volume he intended to add (Proust and Gallimard, Correspondance 35). “Sodome et Gomorrhe” was to become a cycle, whereas Albertine’s appearance (and disappearance) in the narrator’s life is only modestly referred to as an “épisode” in a letter to Mme Scheikévitch.25 In the résumé Proust made for her, he explains how Albertine gradually becomes a prisoner (Corr. 24:281). The theme of imprisonment was further elaborated and the title La Prisonnière is mentioned for the ‹rst time on May 15, 1922 (Corr. 21:197), around the time Sodome et Gomorrhe II was published.26 Its counterpart was to be called La Fugitive, but since this title had recently been used for a translation of a work by Rabindranath Tagore, Proust had to ‹nd an alternative, which meant that the symmetry was lost. No escape is possible without previous imprisonment, but in this case the opposite applied: no prisonnière without fugitive.27 And by the end of September, he suggested Gallimard use no other title than “Sodome et Gomorrhe III” for the forthcoming volumes.28 Proust kept adding passages to the typescripts of La Prisonnière that were made during the summer. By the beginning of September, he commissioned Yvonne Albaret, Céleste’s niece, with the preparation of a third typescript of La Prisonnière. To this document, Proust added—among other things—the famous passage of Bergotte’s death. The night before Proust’s own death, he was still working. According to Céleste Albaret (Monsieur Proust 421), he dictated some passages to her, notably a description of the doctors gathering around the dying writer Bergotte (RTP 3:1667 n. 4) and a re›ection regarding the way one is suddenly treated differently as soon as it is clear that one is dying anyway (RTP 3:1739 n. a). Another of these dictated passages (RTP 3:1742) makes a link between the re›ection on the names of the worldly bourgeois, “melting” (RTP 3:705) when they die, and Albertine’s eloquent description of beautifully shaped and molded ice-cream (RTP 3:636)— which Gérard Genette regards as a self-critical “autopastiche” (Genette, Palimpsestes 169). The fact that even on his deathbed Proust kept making such metatextual remarks may be regarded as symptomatic of his extremely self-conscious writing. In a way, Proust’s deathbed was his “writing desk” during the working process of the Recherche. It was also the scene of a remarkable

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structural rearrangement during the last ten days of Proust’s life. Until November 6, 1922, Proust had been revising La Prisonnière (Milly, “A propos d’Albertine disparue” 66). The third typescript of La Prisonnière ends on page 526; the ‹rst words of the next page are “est partie.” The continuation of the pagination con‹rms the fact that La Prisonnière and La Fugitive/Albertine disparue were conceived as a whole. On November 7, Proust started with the revision of Albertine disparue. Until the beginning of the 1980s, only one typescript of this sequel of La Prisonnière was known to exist. This typescript, containing four chapters, corresponds more or less with the text of the manuscript in Cahiers XII through XV from which it was copied, and was the basis for the 1925 edition of Albertine disparue. The same title appears on the typescript, not in Marcel Proust’s hand, however, but in that of his brother Robert.29 It does appear in Proust’s own hand on another typescript, discovered shortly after the death of Suzy Mante-Proust in 1986 by her son-in-law, Claude Mauriac (Mauriac, Le Temps immobile 332ff.). The typescript on which the editions had been based until then, appeared to be a copy of the Mauriac typescript. In the top margin of page 527 of the Mauriac typescript Proust wrote: “Ici commence Albertine disparue, suite du roman précédent la prisonnière” [Here begins Albertine disparue, the sequel to the preceding novel la prisonnière].30 Only 120 pages further (Mauriac typescript 648), the text is interrupted by the word “Fin” (end), and the last eight lines are crossed out, as well as the text on the next pages. This considerably shortened version of Albertine disparue may have been designed by Proust as a kind of coda to La Prisonnière in a one-volume “Sodome et Gomorrhe III.” This hypothesis, suggested by Jean Milly (“A propos d’Albertine disparue” 67), seems to be con‹rmed by the advertisement published in the Nouvelle Revue française on December 1, 1922, less than two weeks after Proust’s death. Apart from “Sodome et Gomorrhe, III. La Prisonnière—Albertine disparue,” the forthcoming volumes “Sodome et Gomorrhe en plusieurs volumes (suite)” and “Le Temps retrouvé (‹n)” are announced.31 Nevertheless, this was probably not Proust’s ‹nal scenario, for the word “Fin” on page 948 of the Mauriac typescript was crossed out and replaced by “‹n du 1er chapitre d’Albertine disparue,” chronologically corresponding to an extra addition (“ALBERTINE disparue chapitre I”) preceding the new opening “Ainsi ce que j’avais cru . . .” on page 527. This implies that at least a second chapter was to follow. And indeed, in the top margin of page 648, Proust wrote: “NB. The 1st chapter of ‘Albertine dis-

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parue’ ends at the bottom of this page. From 648 to 898 nothing, I have deleted everything. So we jump from 648 to chapter 2 of Albertine disparue. Let us jump immediately to chapter two 898.” The end of this chapter is followed by a note in Proust’s hand: “Fin d’Albertine disparue.” Two hypotheses have been suggested concerning the purpose of this textual rearrangement by Proust. According to Pierre-Edmond Robert (“L’édition des posthumes”) and Giovanni Macchia (“Le roman d’Albertine”), the Mauriac typescript was the preparation for a prepublication in Les Oeuvres libres of almost the same length as other publications in the same magazine, such as “Jalousie” (November 1921) or “Précaution inutile” (February 1923, submitted shortly before Proust’s death).32 The other hypothesis has found its expression in the edition of À la recherche du temps perdu in the “Livre de poche” series. The editor, Nathalie Mauriac Dyer (who also coedited, with Etienne Wolff, the Albertine disparue published by Grasset one year after the discovery of the Mauriac typescript), was the ‹rst to publish “La Prisonnière suivi de Albertine disparue” under the title Sodome et Gomorrhe III—even though the publisher (most probably for commercial reasons) preferred not to put this title on the cover, so that it only features on the title page. The second part, Albertine disparue, is based on the Mauriac typescript. One of the arguments against Robert’s and Macchia’s hypothesis is based on a remark in the margin of (the same) page 648 of this typescript, written by Céleste Albaret and most probably dictated by Proust: “Fin d’Albertine disparue, ou si M. Gallimard aime mieux avoir un volume plus long. Fin de la première partie d’Albertine disparue” [End of Albertine disparue, or if Mr. Gallimard prefers a longer volume. End of the ‹rst part of Albertine disparue].33 The mention of Gallimard and the notion of a “volume” seem to exclude the ‹rst hypothesis, since a “volume” does not denote a prepublication in a magazine, certainly not in Les Oeuvres libres, a magazine published by Henri Duvernois, not Gaston Gallimard. Nevertheless, Céleste Albaret’s remark was crossed out and replaced by yet another remark in Proust’s own hand: “N.B. Décidément non. La Prisonnière fera un tout et Albertine” [N.B. De‹nitely not. La Prisonnière will be one entity and Albertine]. No matter how decisive the remark begins, the sentence is not completed and crossed out as well. Page 648 gives evidence of Proust’s extreme indecisiveness concerning Albertine disparue. It is not clear whether this indecisiveness is due to his imminent death or rather to a conscious refusal to ‹nish his novel. In any case, the deletion of more than two chapters (2 and 4) seriously destabilizes the novel, for it interrupts the nar-

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rative continuity and dissolves the transition between the Albertine episode and the last part, Le Temps retrouvé. According to Nathalie Mauriac Dyer, this transition was to be elaborated in the “Sodome et Gomorrhe in several volumes” announced by the Nouvelle Revue française on December 1, 1922. The day after Proust’s death, François Mauriac discovered an envelope on which Proust had jotted down—on the last night before his death—what seems to be an outline for this transition, combining elements of the deleted chapters in the Mauriac typescript: the morning when the narrator’s article appears in Le Figaro, the subsequent visit to the Guermantes, and the unexpected meeting with Gilberte Swann, now Forcheville, as she has married Robert de Saint-Loup, with whom she lives in Tansonville.34 Since Proust suggested in his last letters to Gallimard that he could publish the last part of his novel on the basis of his cahiers, and since several of the passages alluded to in the outline are contained in these cahiers, Nathalie Mauriac Dyer has edited the “Cahiers d’Albertine disparue” under the title of La Fugitive. This way, the two côtés are joined after all and—to use Mauriac Dyer’s implicit reference to Borges—in spite of all the bifurcations, the reader is nevertheless offered a narratively uninterrupted path to reach Le Temps retrouvé and the deceptive “last” word, “Fin.”35 PROUST’S CAMERA OBSCURA In the very ‹rst drafts of the last morning scene in La Prisonnière, as analyzed by Almuth Grésillon (“Proust ou l’écriture vagabonde”), the combination of the words “chambre” and “obscure” may have been accidental. In Cahier 4, Proust wrote: “Ma chambre est encore obscure parce que les rideaux sont fermés” [My room is still dark because the curtains are closed] (Cahier 4, 5v).36 In Cahier 45, the noun and the adjective were placed next to each other: “Dans la ma chambre obscure encore . . .” But Proust subsequently deleted the adjective and chose another one: “Dans la ma chambre obscure encore toute noire . . .” (Cahier 45, 7r). In the earliest versions of this morning scene, the adjective was not yet present. The sensation caused by the smell of petrol is described several times in Cahier 4 (1908–9) used for Contre Sainte-Beuve; on page 4r the “chambre” is followed by the adjective “noire,” but elsewhere the room is simply mentioned without further speci‹cations (RTP 3:1174–77).

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It is interesting to note that the subordinate clause “bien que je fusse dans ma chambre obscure” [even though I was in my dark room] was inserted in the description of the most volatile of phenomena (the smell of petrol), calling all kinds of images to the narrator’s mind. The reference to photography as the preeminent metaphor for the attempt to capture the momentary and volatile,37 is a perfect ending for La Prisonnière. If the volatile phenomenal world is nothing but representation, as Schopenhauer argues, it seems a vain attempt to try and capture its essence in photographical terms. That is precisely the paradox Proust attempts to convey. If it were possible to take a snapshot of the “essence of things,” Proust would not have needed thousands of pages. What is essential is neither the past, nor the present, but a correspondence between them. Any attempt to capture this moment of correspondence reduces it to just another moment of the past. The only thing a writer can do, then, is to create the conditions for his readers to discover a similar moment for themselves. Developing a theme is to envelop it. As a result, the Recherche is not an endless series of variations on the theme of involuntary memory; the variations are the theme, just as cognition is a moment of recognition. The narrator only realizes that cognition is intuitive at the moment he stops wanting to know, just as he realizes that he only starts appreciating the time lost with Albertine as soon as he stops trying to capture her, as soon as his captive is fugitive again. This chapter is an attempt to enter the darkroom in which Proust developed this idea. The feeling of entering a forbidden zone by studying the avant-texte of a literary work is less awkward in the case of Proust’s Recherche than it might be in other cases. During the writing process of À la recherche du temps perdu several extracts were published in different magazines. The series of prepublications (starting in 1912) is abruptly interrupted by a period without publications between the summer of 1914 and June 1, 1919, which suggests that, were it not for the war, Proust would have continued to present his work to the public. In the writing process of the Recherche, this period is characterized by Florence Callu as “Le grand développement du roman” (RTP 1:clx). The impossibility of seeing the immediate result of his work in published form seems to have had an effect similar to the one described in the novel by Françoise when she compares the preparation of her “boeuf à la gelée”38 to the methods of other cooks (RTP 1:476). This explanation is preceded by a delightful linguistic mistake: when Françoise tries to explain the secret of her recipe, she says she

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does not know where it “becomes” from (“Je ne sais pas d’où ce que ça devient” [RTP 1:476]), which may be interpreted as a reference by Proust to his own work’s genesis. The preparation of Françoise’s linguistic mistake39 is retraceable to page 5v of Carnet 3: “Je ne sais pas d’où cela devient” [“I don’t know where that becomes from” (Proust’s emphasis)]. This short sentence prefacing Françoise’s revelation of her culinary secrets contains several elements that characterize the genesis of the Recherche, which has not just come but rather “become” into being by way of a long and laborious process of writing, and above all rewriting, passages. The difference between Françoise and her spiritual father Marcel Proust is that the latter did not have to be asked to explain the slow process of “becoming” that characterizes his working method; he thematized it in several metaphors distributed over his work, inviting the reader to take a look into his kitchen, as well as shuf›ing them to other places. This kind of shuf›ing is referred to as “écriture vagabonde” by Almuth Grésillon, who has illustrated (by means of the geneses of the ‹rst and the last morning scene in La Prisonnière) how Proust prepared textual entities, designed in such a way that they could easily be adapted to, and integrated in, any new context (“Écriture vagabonde” 122). The ›exibility of this system appears in the cut-and-paste method applied to the prepublications. Quite often Proust seems to have been uncertain as to where he was to incorporate a particular textual unit in the narrative, since many textual units in the cahiers are accompanied by notes such as “Mettre quelque part” [Put somewhere] (Cahier 71, 90r), “Quelque part ^important^” [Somewhere ^important^] (Cahier 71, 94v), or “Quelque part dans mon amour pour Albertine” [Somewhere in my love for Albertine] (Cahier 71, 66v). As a result of this cut-and-paste method, certain episodes keep coming back in the avant-texte the way certain motifs recur in the ‹nal text. This effect becomes thematic in La Prisonnière, when the narrator is suddenly reminded of a theme from Tristan und Isolde while playing the Vinteuil sonata on the piano. This Tristan scene, and more speci‹cally the act of placing the score of Wagner’s opera on top of the Vinteuil sonata (RTP 3:664), is interpreted by Luzius Keller as a thematization of Proust’s working method of superimposing new versions on older ones. With reference to the macrostructure of the avant-texte the image of different versions as layers covering each other occurs frequently in editorial theory, most notably in Hans Zeller’s essay “A New Approach to the Critical Constitution of Literary Texts,” in which he compares the different versions of a literary work to horizontal planes.40

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Textual Nodes The following analysis focuses on three musical scenes in La Prisonnière: the Tristan scene (RTP 3:664–66), the Vinteuil Septet (RTP 3:753–68), and the pianola scene (RTP 3:873–78). In the genesis of La Prisonnière, the musical re›ections were originally not divided in this way. They were developed on the basis of several textual nodes or “lexias” (Barthes, S/Z 20). Most of these units can be retraced to a series of notes on a few pages in Carnets 3 and 4,41 which Proust elaborated in Cahiers 57, 73, and 55, and subsequently shuf›ed to distribute them over the three scenes. An analysis of these operations shows how “hyper”42 the pretext of À la recherche du temps perdu is. In “Vinteuil ou la genèse du Septuor” Karuyoschi Yoshikawa demonstrates how the character Vinteuil was given shape by the fusion of two different characters: (1) a scientist called Vington, living in Combray, author of “une oeuvre scienti‹que admirable” (RTP 3:1143, Esquisse 13) and (2) the composer of the sonata, called Berget (Yoshikawa 290–91). This fusion took place around May 1913 (Yoshikawa 294) when Proust was correcting the second galley proofs of Du Côté de chez Swann for Grasset, where the inconspicuous scientist Vington becomes a piano teacher,43 the esteemed artist Berget becomes “Vindeuil,” and in a second movement both become the same “Vinteuil.” Yoshikawa’s genetic analysis reveals that Vinteuil could have been someone else, or in fact is someone else, since he is (at least) two different persons in one.44 In this context, Michael André Bernstein notes that the correspondence between different periods in the characters’ lives always emphasize the awareness that a character’s evolution is not predestined but only one of many possible developments or “sideshadowed possibilities” (Bernstein 116).45 As a consequence, the course of the narrator’s life and at the same time the very subject of his work depend on a coincidence. In the typescript of Le temps perdu—which Proust considered as “‹nished” and ready to be published at the time it was presented to, and refused by, Fasquelle and the Nouvelle Revue française in 191246—Vington and Berget are still two different characters. Yoshikawa duly notes that in retrospect the idea of fusing both characters may appear a necessary development, but it is important to know that the character of Vinteuil (and his septet) might never have been created if Le temps perdu had been published in 1912. Yoshikawa suggests that this fusion of characters was the reason why Proust had to invent an alternative for Vington’s scienti‹c study.

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Another consequence was that Proust had to compose a ‹ctitious piece of music instead of the performance of Wagner’s Parsifal, which in the 1911 version of the Recherche was to take place in the last part of the novel. In Henri Bonnet’s and Bernard Brun’s edition of the Matinée chez la Princesse de Guermantes, the narrator (who is waiting in the library of the princesse de Guermantes) hears a performance of the third act of Wagner’s Parsifal, the “Enchantement du Vendredi-Saint” (Bonnet 172; Cahier 57, 29r), through a half-open door. Apparently, Wagner’s Parsifal served as a scaffolding in order to write a ‹ctitious composition. On page 13v of Cahier 57, Proust refers to the sequence of involuntary memories in Le Temps retrouvé as an illumination, to be followed by a second one, “à la Parsifal”—not the opera itself.47 The function of this second illumination is described in a short introduction by Proust, preceding the sketch on page 13v: after the experiences revealing the common essence of memory, this discussion of what at that time was still a quartet was to elucidate that such a revelation was also possible through art. The form of art to which Proust, as a reader of Schopenhauer, chose to allot this task was, not surprisingly, music; for music, according to Schopenhauer (Die Welt 1:375), is the only form of art that expresses “the essence of things” (RTP 4:450). A palpable trace of the decision to create an oeuvre for Vinteuil appears in a note on page 4r of Cahier 57, mentioning “a concert with music by Vinteuil” with the explicit addition “car il vaut mieux que ce soit Vinteuil” [for it would be better if it were Vinteuil]48 rather than Wagner’s Parsifal. Originally, Proust planned to create a cantata (RTP 3:1686), but on the basis of the notes in Carnets 3 and 449 (often referring to existing compositions), he created an imaginary quartet. The performance of this quartet is drafted in a “Note” on pages 2v, 3r, 3v, 4r of Cahier 57. This important four-page “Note” in Cahier 57 is dated “around 1914”50 by Karuyoschi Yoshikawa; Henri Bonnet assumes it must have been written in the fall of 1914 (Matinée 277), but certainly after May 1913, since before that date the character of Vinteuil did not yet exist. Whereas the notes in the carnets mention the names of several composers (César Franck, Robert Schumann, Richard Wagner, Franz Schubert, Frédéric Chopin, Ludwig van Beethoven, etc.), their names are carefully omitted in the note. The last part of the note indicates that the performance of this quartet was meant to take place after the series of involuntary memories in Le Temps retrouvé. Cahier 73 contains a more concrete description of the performance of the quartet, but several instances indicate that Proust also considered the

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possibility of a symphony instead of a piece of chamber music.51 The question of why Proust decided to compose a piece of chamber music in the end has led to numerous speculations. The fact that, after several hesitations, it eventually became a septet prompted Michel Butor to see a link between the seven instruments and the seven parts of the Recherche (282), so that the septet appears as a “microcosm” (Nattiez 133) of the work as a whole.52 According to Jean-Jacques Nattiez, the correspondence between the numbers of instruments and volumes53 may be of editorial interest, for if the septet symbolizes the work as a whole, an editor might decide to replace all the “quatuors” and “sextuors” in the ‹nal text by “septuors,”54 for instance in one of the very ‹rst sentences of the Recherche: “it seemed to me that I myself was the immediate subject of my book: a church, a quartet, the rivalry between François I and Charles V.” This sentence on the ‹rst page of the Recherche is indeed important because of its selfreferential nature. The fact that the writing process has left its traces in the form of a piece of chamber music that changes from a quartet to a quintet, sextet, septet, and even a “pièce pour dix instruments” [piece for ten instruments] is a crucial aspect of the Recherche, a work that, as its title indicates, is essentially “in progress.” Therefore, even if Michel Butor and JeanJacques Nattiez are right, it would be a loss rather than a gain for Proust’s work if all the quartets, quintets, and sextets were changed into septets. Instead of pushing the analogy between the piece of chamber music and the work as a whole to radical editorial consequences, it seems more useful to concentrate on the genre rather than on the exact number of instruments. Given the fact that Proust wrote almost the complete Recherche in his room, it seems only appropriate that he decided to write a piece of chamber music. This decision is closely related to his aesthetics, formulated in the preface of Les Plaisirs et les Jours, where he argues that Noah could not have seen the world any better than from his ark, even though, or precisely because, he was imprisoned in it and surrounded by darkness. From the moment he tried to “‹x” the morning55 until his death, Proust has applied this idea as a working method by locking himself up in his dark room and re-creating the world in bed, believing that looking at the phenomenal world would only prevent him from really seeing it. Cut/Copy-Paste A note on page 43v of Cahier 73 indicates how these texts were conceived as mobile units. Here, Proust reminds himself that he has not yet incorporated several of the units from the carnets, and considers inserting them

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into the different musical scenes in La Prisonnière. The distribution of the textual material over these three scenes is referred to in French criticism by means of the term éclatement, denoting the shuf›e of textual units characterizing Proust’s writing method. There are, however, two kinds of éclatement: (1) the shuf›e or “cut and paste” variant and (2) the bifurcation or “copy and paste” variant. An example of the ‹rst kind is the Fortuny theme, which was written as a whole and subsequently divided into separate sections (Milly, Avant-texte 162) to be dispersed over the text, and sewed as a thread through the Albertine espisode.56 An example of the second kind of éclatement is the development of one single unit from Carnet 3:57 a comparison of music with spectral colors,58 which bifurcated during the writing process. As a result, the comparison with spectral colors reoccurs both in the Tristan scene (RTP 3:665)59 and the septet (RTP 3:762).60 These internal rhymes and echoes at the level of the published text are, in turn, a re›ection of another internal recurrence within the avant-texte. What seems to be a simple repetition in the published text is based on the bifurcation of one single unit in one of the underlying layers of the textual development. In the general introduction to the second Pléiade edition, Jean-Yves Tadié describes the primitive narrative of La Prisonnière and La Fugitive in Cahiers 53, 73, 55, and 56 as a layer, “superimposed” upon the previous layer in Cahiers 54 and 71, thus creating two “successive” versions in 1914 and 1915 (RTP 1:lxxxvi). Tadié’s vocabulary clearly echoes the constantly recurring notions of “superposition” and “succession” in the Recherche, suggesting that the text’s development is analogous to any individual’s, being the superposition of its successive states (RTP 4:124). But this superposition, as Proust is quick to add, is not immobile: old layers appear at the surface from time to time (RTP 4:125). The textual history of À la recherche du temps perdu shows that old fragments of text, such as the fragment on the spectral colors, continually rise to the surface, as a kind of textual “intermittences.” Elstir’s Darkroom and the Memory of the Text It is signi‹cant that the secret of Elstir’s art is revealed to the narrator in the “clair-obscur” of the artist’s darkroom: The blinds were closed almost everywhere round the studio, which was fairly cool and, except in one place where daylight laid against the wall its brilliant but ›eeting decoration, dark; one small rectangular window alone was open. (Remembrance 1:893; RTP 2:191)

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The image the narrator captures in this more than life-size camera obscura is none other than that of Albertine.61 The manner in which the narrator tries to ‹x the instantaneous exposure of Albertine is by asking Elstir whether he knows the girl. Against this background, the evolution of the scene in which Elstir introduces the narrator to her is particularly interesting. In a sketch from 1909 in Cahier 12 the narrator comes back in his room and thinks, “I know her” (RTP 2:991); four years later, Proust added a remark in Cahier 33, specifying that the narrator does not immediately recognize Albertine during this introduction (RTP 2:992–93). It is remarkable that the narrator says he knows her when she does not have a name yet and is simply referred to as the Spanish girl or “Mlle X” (RTP 2:991), but that he does not recognize (re-connaît) her as soon as she has a name. This scene already anticipates the Prisonnière/Fugitive theme. Knowing how a person’s name is written is like immobilizing motion and believing one has captured it. Proust explicitly compares this misunderstanding to photography (RTP 4:153). What he is interested in is not so much the ‹nished product, but the potential to develop the latent images we all preserve (RTP 4:621). When the narrator discovers that Miss Sacripant, portrayed by Elstir, is in fact Odette, he explains why Odette did not want to keep the painting: The portrait dated from before the point at which Odette, disciplining her features, had made of her face and ‹gure that creation the broad outline of which her hairdressers, her dressmakers, she herself—in her way of holding herself, of speaking, of smiling, of moving her hands and eyes, of thinking—were to respect throughout the years to come. It required the vitiated taste of a surfeited lover to make Swann prefer to all the countless photographs of the “de‹nitive” Odette [l’Odette ne varietur] who was his charming wife the little photograph which he kept in his room62 and in which, beneath a straw hat trimmed with pansies, one saw a thin young woman, fairly plain, with bunched out hair and drawn features. (Remembrance 1:920; RTP 2:216) The photograph preferred by Swann is part of Odette’s avant-texte, dating from before “the systematisation of [her] features” (RTP 2:216), before the generalization of the particularities, before she became the Odette whom he marries. This discovery is followed by a second one. The narrator suddenly realizes and almost cannot believe that Elstir, “this man

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of genius, this sage” is the same person as “the ridiculous depraved painter who had at one time been adopted by the Verdurins” (RTP 2:218). According to Elstir, these earlier versions should not be denied or forgotten: There is no man . . . however wise, who has not at some period of his youth said things, or lived a life, the memory of which is so unpleasant to him that he would gladly expunge it. . . . I can see that the picture of what we were at an earlier stage may not be recognisable and cannot, certainly, be pleasing to contemplate in later life. But we must not repudiate it, for it is a proof that we have really lived. (Remembrance 1:923–24; RTP 2:219) Therefore, just as Swann preferred the photograph of the imperfect Odette to the impeccable “Odette ne varietur,” Claudine Quémar preferred an edition that would provide access to the pre-text, rather than ‹x an immobile, de‹nitive text, a “texte ne varietur” (“Problèmes du texte proustien” 64). The second Pléiade edition already offers a huge amount of early snapshots in the form of sketches (esquisses); one may expect that in the near future Proust’s readers will be able to discover even more particularities and metamorphoses of his work in a searchable Recherche, an electronic edition that offers them an optical instrument instead of a photograph of a “Proust ne varietur.” Textual Development According to the narrator, the writer has to make visible what other mortals do not notice, the way a photographer has an eye for things other people do not see. Hence the omnipresence of the motif of the veil and other textile fabrics, which may have been inspired by Thomas Carlyle.63 The theme of the “vesture” of the visible world, as Carlyle calls it (313), recurs several times through various motifs such as the famous Fortuny dresses, each of them serving as a text in which a whole history has been woven. The paradox of writing is contained in the etymology of the verb to reveal 64 (Lat. velum, “veil” > revelare, “to uncover, reveal,” from re- velare “to cover again”). Proust was well aware that in order to be able to unveil his ideas, he had to veil them ‹rst by means of a few thousand pages of text. The narrator, in his turn, plans to weave his own textus or make his own dress (RTP 4:610) the way life “continually weaves a web of memories between human beings and events” (RTP 4:607).

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It is not a coincidence, then, that the description of the septet, as a mise en abyme of the Recherche as a whole, begins with a comparison between Mme Verdurin and one of the “Nornen” (RTP 3:753), the goddesses of fate in Germanic mythology who weave the threads of the action at the beginning of Wagner’s opera Die Götterdämmerung. In an interview published in Le Temps on November 12, 1913, Proust compared his work to a tapestry (Proust, Textes retrouvés, ed. Kolb, 288), and Walter Benjamin was certainly correct in noting that few texts are woven so tightly as Proust’s (“Zum Bilde Prousts” 166). The Carlylian philosophy of clothes is elaborated most explicitly in the “Bal de têtes” episode in Le Temps retrouvé, where M. d’Argencourt is dressed as a “marchand d’habits” (RTP 4:503). The habit was already announced by the brief mention of the priest in Jupien’s hotel, whom the narrator initially mistakes for a woman, because of his clothes (RTP 4:503). This “habit,” which also occurs in the last morning scene of La Prisonnière (RTP 3:912), may be regarded as the linguistic stem linking two important notions: on the one hand “habit” (l’habitude), veiling the essence of things, and on the other hand “the permanent and habitually hidden essence” (RTP 4:451) which “lives” (habite) inside each one of us: Real life, life at last laid bare and illuminated—the only life in consequence which can be said to be really lived—is literature, and life thus de‹ned is in a sense all the time immanent [habite] in ordinary men no less than in the artist. But most men do not see it because they do not seek to shed light upon it. And therefore their past is like a photographic dark-room encumbered with innumerable negatives which remain useless because the intellect has not developed [“développés”] them. (Remembrance 3:931; RTP 4:474) The quotation marks (in the French version) emphasize the double meaning of the verb to develop. Nevertheless, the narrator does not see the role of the writer as a supplier of developed photographs; he imagines his readers as “reading themselves” (RTP 4:610),65 and the writer can only offer them a magnifying glass. The idea of art as an optical instrument (RTP 4:489–90)—hinted at by the subtle references to the “chambre obscure” [darkroom]—may have been inspired by Schopenhauer. In the chapter on music in The World as Will and Representation, Schopenhauer writes: If the whole world as representation is only the visibility of the will, then art is the elucidation of this visibility, the camera obscura which

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shows the objects more purely, and enables us to survey and comprehend them better. It is the play within the play, the stage on the stage in Hamlet. (1:266–67) Another optical instrument, the magic lantern (to which Proust gives even more prominence by introducing it in the opening scene of the Recherche) is also inspired by his reading of The World As Will and Representation. Schopenhauer employs the laterna magica as a metaphor to elucidate the principle of the “objecti‹cation of the will”: Just as a magic lantern shows many different pictures, but it is only one and the same ›ame that makes them all visible, so in all the many different phenomena which together ‹ll the world or supplant one another as successive events, it is only the one will that appears, and everything is its visibility, its objectivity; it remains unmoved in the midst of this change. It alone is the thing-in-itself; every object is phenomenon, to speak Kant’s language, or appearance. (1:153) Since this principle is also the cause of our imperfect perception of the world, the same image of the magic lantern is used in chapter 15 of the second volume, “On the Essential Imperfections of the Intellect”: We can know everything only successively, and are conscious of only one thing at a time. . . . In this our thinking consciousness is like a magic lantern, in the focus of which only one picture can appear at a time. (2:137–38) Proust was well aware of these imperfections. He even called life a perpetual error (RTP 4:154). Since, according to Schopenhauer, we can only perceive things successively, Proust’s famous discussion of the metaphor in Le Temps retrouvé may be read as an answer to this contention.66 This passage on metaphors starts with the sentence, “Une heure n’est pas qu’une heure” [An hour is not merely an hour (Remembrance 3:924)]. Genetic research shows that originally this sentence was slightly different: “Une lueur [shine, light] n’est pas qu’une lueur” (Cahier 57; RTP 4:818), which is more than merely a textual curiosity since the form of time is compared to the projection of a magic lantern (RTP 4:503). This minor, yet remarkable, change illustrates how the internal rhymes analyzed by Jean Milly (La Phrase de Proust) and Adam Piette (Remembering 82) not only ‹gure

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within one version, but also between versions, so that they serve as a reminder that it is not so much the projected image that interested Marcel Proust, but rather the act of development. In the “Bal de têtes” sketch in Cahier 57 the famous passage on style and the use of metaphors differs somewhat from its ‹nal version. In this Cahier 57, the paragraph ends as follows: Truth can be attained only when the writer takes two different objects, states the connection between them, and encloses them indestructibly in an indestructible link [lien], an alliance of words. The connection may be of little interest, the objects mediocre, the style bad, but as long as that is missing, there is nothing [rien]. (RTP 4:818; emphasis added)67 By putting “rien” at the end of the paragraph, Proust emphasizes the rhyming notion of “lien.” By means of this repetition of homophonous sounds Proust stresses key words, and at the same time creates the effect of a mémoire involontaire on a linguistic microlevel. The effect of this internal rhyme is that the reader is more likely to remember the crucial word “lien.” Unfortunately, the “lien indestructible” [indestructible link] has vanished in the ‹nal text, at least in the Pléiade edition. As a consequence, the internal rhyme is also lost. What happened is this: when Proust made a fair copy of this passage, he decided to insert an important addition of about ‹fteen lines. The ‹fteen-line addition is written in the margin with an indication that it should be inserted after the ‹rst comma in the passage quoted above. This creates a serious problem for editors: for syntactical reasons, the tail of the sentence (containing the word “lien”) cannot simply be pasted to the ‹fteen-line addition. Therefore the editors of the Pléiade edition decided to drop it, referring the reader to a textual note at the back of the volume. In the Flammarion paperback edition however, the editor Bernard Brun has solved the problem differently: he presents two versions, both starting with “La vérité ne commence . . .” The ‹rst ends with the ‹fteenline addition and the second ends with the “lien indestructible,” followed by the sentence with “rien,” so that the internal rhyme is preserved. The Pléiade text gives the impression that it is more genetically inspired, because it offers the reader an enormous amount of manuscript material, but the establishment of the text is much more in accordance

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with a traditional aesthetics of the ‹nished product than the Flammarion paperback. By repeating the opening of the sentence “La vérité ne commence . . .” the Flammarion edition signals a problem, makes the reader aware of the fact that what he is reading is not evidently “the” text. In the case of Le Temps retrouvé there is no ‹nal text, no ‹nished product. Nevertheless, one may not forget that Proust was prevented from ‹nishing his work by death; he did try to ‹nish his work. In a paradoxical way he needed an end to write toward, in order to keep on writing. The awareness of this tension between trying to ‹nish and refusing to end is inextricably bound up with the tension between the past and the present in the Recherche and with Proust’s plea for metaphors. Therefore, the word that is lost in the Pléiade edition (“lien”) is one of the most important words in Proust’s work. Metaphor of Metaphors Proust did not only theoretically emphasize the importance of the metaphor, he also brought his theory into practice, one of the most powerful examples being the image of the glass jars in the Vivonne river and the “container/content” effect described in Combray: I enjoyed watching the glass jars which the village boys used to lower into the Vivonne to catch minnows, and which, ‹lled by the stream, in which they in their turn were enclosed, at once “containers” whose transparent sides were like solidi‹ed water and “contents” plunged into a still larger container of liquid, ›owing crystal, conjured up an image of coolness more delicious and more provoking than they would have done standing upon a table laid for dinner, by showing it as perpetually in ›ight between the impalpable water in which my hands could not grasp it and the insoluble glass in which my palate could not enjoy it. (Remembrance 1:183–84; RTP 1:166) This image is particularly applicable to scholarly editing, which used to be focused on the establishment of a stable text, bottling68 “the” text “like solidi‹ed water” behind the label of its title. But as Proust argues, the image of the freshness and vivacity of its content is conjured up in a “more delicious and more provoking” way when the container does not only contain but is in its turn contained by its content. To a certain extent, this effect is realized in the second Pléiade edition, in which the bottled text is immersed in, and surrounded by, its pre-

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texts. These reveal that, originally, the carafes scene took place at the source of the river—which makes it an interesting starting point to investigate the relationship of genetic criticism with traditional source studies. Only four pages further on, it is followed by a passage in which the ›uvial scenery reminds the narrator of a description by “one of [his] favourite writers” (RTP 1:170). Gérard Genette has analyzed this passage in answer to Michael Riffaterre, who is convinced that the “favourite writer” referred to is Virgil. In order to refute this interpretation, Genette has retraced the genesis of the passage, which led him to two sources, Ruskin and Flaubert. In the current climate in which the web metaphor is clearly favored at the expense of “old-fashioned” source studies, it is symptomatic that Gérard Genette almost apologizes for using the word sources by emphasizing it with italics and immediately adding between parentheses “there is no other word for it” (“Favourite Writers” 218). In the same paragraph, Genette emphasizes that “an ‘in›uence’ is only undergone when it is named, called upon, that is, when it meets and reinforces an autonomous tendency: a reader indifferent to this type of setting would take no notice of these descriptions, no matter who the author” (218). Therefore, genetic criticism should not be regarded as a way to ‹nd a “key to a work that is not a roman à clef ” but as “a trailmarking of the transformative process by which various elements from reality have become elements in ‹ction” (220). The strange relationship between reality and ‹ction in the Recherche, such as the translation of “Illiers” into “Combray” or the Loir into the Vivonne, is a literal illustration of the de‹nition of Elstir’s metaphors as metamorphoses, his practice of re-creating things by taking away their names or giving them other names (RTP 1:191). In analogy with the narrator’s retrograde excursion “du côté de Guermantes” upstream along the Vivonne69 one could try to retrace the successive textual modi‹cations of the walk along the Vivonne itself, starting with a passage from Cahier 11 (1911). The narrator’s account of his ‹rst walk upstream to the sources of the Vivonne ends with a sore disappointment when the idealized image of the source is confronted with its banal reality (RTP 1:877). A continuation of the retrograde excursion through the avant-texte, however, shows that originally the discovery of the sources of the Vivonne (when it was still the Loir) was less disappointing. In Cahier 4 (1909) the emphasis was precisely on the immateriality of the sources, in spite of their material surroundings: a small square washbasin (RTP 1:809).

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In an even earlier version of the walk (one of the “Textes retrouvés”70 edited by Philip Kolb and Larkin B. Price), the same washbasin was rectangular and ‹lled with thousands of tadpoles. Joan Rosasco makes a link between this basin and conception. In this sense, the passage corresponds with “The Muddest Thick” episode in Finnegans Wake in which Euclid is applied to describe the geometry of the brothers’ (Dolph and Kev) triangular origin, in the form of their mother’s vagina. Rosasco’s interpretation seems to be con‹rmed both by the use of the word “conception” in the Cahier 11 version, and by the ‹nal version where the adjective “ovoïdes” (ovoid) is used in connection with the “têtards” (tadpoles) when the narrator throws some pieces of bread into the river: I procured some bread from our picnic basket, and threw pellets of it into the Vivonne which seemed to bring about a process of supersaturation, for the water at once solidi‹ed round them in oval [ovoïdes] clusters of emaciated tadpoles, which until then it had no doubt been holding in solution, invisible and on the verge of entering the stage of crystallisation. (Remembrance 1:184; RTP 1:166) Signi‹cantly, this scene (in the ‹nal version) does not take place at the source, but is shifted to the place where the children are playing with the bottles. If the “carafes” scene may be interpreted as a metaphor for the work of art, the idea of the conception being moved from a source to another place, may in its turn be regarded as a metaphor for the metamorphosis of any source text into a new text. As a consequence, ‹nding a source is in itself just as unsatisfactory for a literary critic as it is for the narrator at the end of Albertine disparue: One of my other surprises was that of seeing the “source of the Vivonne,” which I imagined as something as extra-terrestrial as the Gates of Hell, and which was merely a sort of rectangular basin in which bubbles rose to the surface. (Remembrance 3:710–11; RTP 4:268) Genetic criticism is more than knowing that the source of these “sources de la Vivonne” is indeed a square washbasin in front of the church of Saint-Éman from which the river Loir springs (Quémar, “Sur deux versions” 242); it is about following the transformations this source underwent during the writing process.

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This process is described by Joyce with reference to Proust. According to Arthur Power, Joyce told him that Proust’s innovations were necessary to express modern life as he saw it. As life changes, the style to express it must change also. Take the theatre: no one would think of writing a modern play in the style the Greeks used, or in the style of the Morality plays of the Middle Ages. A living style should be like a river which takes the color and texture of the different regions through which it ›ows. The so-called classical style has a ‹xed rhythm and a ‹xed mood which make it to my mind an almost mechanical device. Proust’s style conveys that almost imperceptible but relentless erosion of time which, as I say, is the motive of his work. (Power, Conversations 79) Since Joyce read (at least two volumes of) Proust’s work during a creative lacuna shortly after the publication of Ulysses, it is not inconceivable that Proust’s elaborations on the superposition of personalities may have inspired him at the moment when he started conceiving the characteramalgams of what was to become Finnegans Wake.

Chapter 6

James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake

THE WORK’S PROGRESS: CHRONOLOGICAL ACCOUNT WRITING PROCESS

OF THE

When Marcel Proust died on November 18, 1922, James Joyce attended his funeral (Ellmann 509). Although two years earlier Joyce claimed he could not see any special talent in Proust,1 he apparently did read more than a few pages of the Recherche while he was still working on corrections for the third edition of Ulysses. In a letter to Sylvia Beach Joyce wrote that he read the ‹rst two volumes of “A la Recherche des Ombrelles Perdues par Plusieurs Jeunes Filles en Fleurs du Côté de chez Swann et Gomorrhée et Co. par Marcelle Proyce et James Joust.”2 In her analysis of numerous contradictory accounts of Joyce’s only encounter with Proust, Elisabeth Ladenson concludes that “Joyce’s relation to Proust was one of uncomfortable identi‹cation and rivalry” (“A Talk” 157). It is therefore not insigni‹cant that Joyce read (at least parts of) Proust’s work at a moment when he did not yet have a clear idea of what his new project would look like. In his notebook referred to as Scribbledehobble,3 Joyce jotted down the note: “Proust reader ends sentence before him” (118; VI.A:721). Another note concerning Proust (“Proust—max text—min action / cine X”) is located on page 42 of notebook VI.B.10, which is most probably the earliest Finnegans Wake notebook.4 A few entries on this notebook’s ‹rst pages are excerpted from issues of the Irish Times of October 1922.5 Other entries in this notebook were excerpted from different kinds of newspapers and journals, apparently without a clear purpose. In the December 14 issue of one of these newspapers, the Daily Sketch, Joyce found a “Petition for Reprieve of Bywaters.”6 Danis Rose suggests that 77

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this source text, discovered by Vincent Deane, may have been the “hoppingoffpoint” for Finnegans Wake (Textual Diaries 46). Parts of this street interview are incorporated almost literally in the ‹rst draft of chapter I.3 (section 1): “Three soldiers of the Coldstream Guards were walking in Montgomery street. One gave an opinion in which all concurred. It was the women, they said; he showed himself a man afterwards” (FDV 71).7 At the time when Joyce took the Bywaters notes, he probably did not know yet what he would do with them, and during the ‹rst years following the publication of Ulysses, he continued making random notes. The ‹rst draft of a syntagmatic textual unit was a sketch on King Roderick O’Conor, the last king of Ireland, going round the tables “after the socalled last supper” (FDV 203) and drinking whatever is left in the glasses of the guests after they are gone. This sketch was probably written on March 10, 1923, for the next day Joyce wrote to his Maecenas, Harriet Shaw Weaver: “Yesterday I wrote two pages—the ‹rst I have written since the ‹nal Yes of Ulysses” (Letters 1:202). Apparently, Joyce already had a larger concept in mind, for a week later he mentioned in a letter to Weaver, dictated to his son Giorgio, that it was a sketch for the end of the book.8 It is unclear what was meant by the “book” Joyce had in mind at that time. Danis Rose assumes that the sketches Joyce wrote during the following months were originally meant to form a work that differed thoroughly from what eventually became Finnegans Wake. The intended title for this collection of stories would have been “Finn’s Hotel.”9 Until the end of March, Joyce continued writing what he called “passages,”10 but during the following months his eyes and his teeth caused him so much trouble that he had to undergo several operations and could neither read nor write. At the end of May and during the following months, he mainly collected notes.11 During the second half of July, when Joyce was on a holiday in Bognor, he started writing again and asked Weaver: “Pour commencer may I have recourse to your offered aid and ask you to type the enclosed (2 copies)?”12 This ‹rst politely asked favor would be followed by a long series of others, starting the next day, when he asked Weaver to make three copies of what Richard Ellmann identi‹es as the Roderick O’Conor sketch (Letters 3:79). An analysis of the drafts, however, suggests that it was most probably the second fair copy of the “Kevin” sketch13 (JJA 63:38f; BL 47488, 27v), on the back of which this short letter was written.14 At the end of July, Joyce was pleased to receive the ‹rst typescript,

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even though it was not yet “de‹nitif .”15 In the same letter he mentions that, while he accumulated more notes and books in Bognor, he also sifted out “several square feet of material” and “catalogued another ‹fty pages,” the result of which is contained in notebook VI.A. The ‹rst time Joyce revealed the content of his writings regarded the St. Patrick episode, sent to Weaver on August 2, 1923: “I send you this as promised—a piece describing the conversion of S. Patrick by Ireland. You may keep the other rough drafts” (Letters 3:79). By that time, the Kevin sketch had already been typed,16 and probably the “Tristan & Isolde” episode as well. Many entries in early notebooks such as VI.B.3, VI.A, and VI.B.25 contain abbreviated forms and initials of Tristan and Isolde, and occasionally Mark (“M”) as well. David Hayman suggests that “Joyce was contemplating using the Tristan tale much as he had the Odyssey, as a template for his new novel” (The “Wake” in Transit 58), thereby pursuing the themes of exile/return and in‹delity/adultery that had already preoccupied him during the composition of Exiles. Danis Rose interprets the “Tristan and Isolde” material in the light of “Finn’s Hotel”: “The Tristan and Isolde it [“Finn’s Hotel”] portrays are essentially the heroine and her beau as they appear in that work. Her father, Pop, is sketched out, yet not ›eshed out. By the time he entered Finn’s hotel, the name ‘Pop’ had been abandoned and replaced by ‘Earwicker’” (Textual Diaries 49). Nevertheless, the question remains whether what Danis Rose calls “Finn’s hotel” was what Joyce had in mind whenever he used this word book.17 During his holiday in Bognor, Joyce came across the name of Earwicker, possibly in A Pictorial and Descriptive Guide to Bognor: “Sidlesham Church is an Early English Structure worthy of notice, and an examination of the surrounding tombstones should not be omitted if any interest is felt in deciphering curious names, striking examples being Earwicker . . .”18 HCE made his ‹rst appearance in textual format in a sketch “Concerning the genesis of his ^Harold or^ Humphrey Coxon’s agnomen” (JJA 45:2; BL 47472, 97). This “extract of earwigs,”19 or the “Earwicker absurdity,”20 as Joyce called it in his letters to Weaver, was drafted at the beginning of September 1923. It is signi‹cant that Earwicker is referred to as the father of Isolde,21 which seems to suggest that at the time this sketch was drafted, he was not the main protagonist yet. Although, according to the same letter, Joyce had by then “paged ten pieces . . . into a folder,” the structure of his book was not fully worked out, and he hoped his work would shape itself. He already announced the next piece, “another part of the Tristan part.” This is the “Mamalujo”

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sketch, which is indeed connected with the “Tristan and Isolde” passage, since the two lovers are being watched by the Four Masters (Matthew, Mark, Luke, John). A week later, Joyce informed Weaver that his “four evangelists’ episode (or sketch)” was ‹nished but that he was still “‹ling the edges off it.”22 The “Mamalujo” episode was the ‹rst piece of Joyce’s Work in Progress to be published. Ford Madox Ford, in his capacity of editor of the new monthly transatlantic review that was to appear in January 1924, asked Joyce for a contribution. Joyce’s answer indicates how anxious he must have been to outstrip his only rival for the title of greatest modernist author. According to Ford’s account, Joyce said to him that it was a pity he had not been in time to ask Proust, for he had been told that a single sentence of Proust would ‹ll a whole magazine. “Not that I have read any of him to speak of” (Ellmann 558), Joyce added, pretending that he did not care about Proust, whereas apparently he was still preoccupied by his French colleague almost a year after the latter’s death. Although Joyce admitted to Weaver that he thought it was a bit premature to publish,23 he promised a contribution. When it was ‹nally published as Work in Progress, Joyce liked the title proposed by Ford and adopted it for the subsequent prepublications until the book was published as a whole. Although “Mamalujo” was the ‹rst episode to be published, it was the “Earwicker” sketch that gave one of the most decisive impulses to the writing process of Finnegans Wake. From the start, Earwicker is presented as an ambiguous character, for although he is a respected citizen and is said to have received his name from the king himself, there are rumors that he suffers from a “vile disease” (FDV 63) and that he was involved in some obscure incident. The main elements are already present in this short sketch: the rumors of an incident (the park, the girls, the soldiers, etc.) and the defense, which only makes the situation worse. These themes were elaborated in the texts contained in the so-called “red-backed notebook.”24 The ‹rst word, “Guiltless,” marks the start of an extremely creative period from November 1923 to March 1924, of which this redbacked notebook is the palpable evidence. During the last six weeks of 1923, Joyce wrote at least two, sometimes three drafts of almost all sections of chapters I.2, I.3, I.4, and I.5. But even during this period of intensive creative work, the writing was sometimes interrupted by moments of “despair.”25 By mid-January, Joyce had probably fair-copied all the sections of I.5 and already decided that the “Revered Letter” (I.5§2), in which ALP

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defends her husband,26 would be removed from its surrounding philological commentaries and shifted to the rear.27 As he had announced to Weaver, he started writing about Shem, the Earwickers’ eldest son. To what extent Joyce identi‹ed himself with this character is illustrated in two letters to Sylvia Beach and to Harriet Weaver. To the latter he wrote that the enclosed photograph was taken for a passport;28 to Sylvia Beach he sent the same photograph with the comment: “Here is a passport photo of Shem the Penman.”29 According to a letter to Robert McAlmon, Joyce worked very hard and conscientiously during the ‹rst months of 1924, “never stopping from 8 a.m. to 12.30 and from 2 to 8 p.m.” (Letters 1:208). The palpable result of this hard work is the second half of the red-backed notebook, containing ‹rst and second drafts of chapter I.7, sections 1 and 2, composed during the ‹rst half of February 1924,30 as well as the ‹rst two versions (texts A and B in Fred Higginson’s edition) of the ALP chapter. Although Joyce proudly announced to Weaver on March 7, 1924, “I have ‹nished the Anna Livia piece” (Letters 1:212), he kept making changes and adding more names of rivers to it, even after the end of 1927, when it was published in transition 8. In the meantime, Joyce had been making changes to the Mamalujo episode (promised to Ford Madox Ford for the Transatlantic Review) and corrected the proofs, which apparently contained several misprints (Letters 1:212–13). On March 24, 1924, Joyce informed Weaver about the sigla he used in his manuscripts: “In making notes I used signs for the chief characters. It may amuse you to see them so I shall write them on the back of this” (Letters 1:213). On the back, he wrote the following list: F (Earwicker, HCE by moving letters round) / Δ Anna Livia / E Shem-Cain / V Shaun / < snake / P S.Patrick / T Tristan / T Isolde / X Mamalujo / □ this stands for the title but I do not wish to say it yet until the book has written more of itself. The writing of book III, which Joyce often simply refers to as V, was marked by several false starts. On March 15, 1924, he announced to Harriet Weaver that he would “try to start Shaun the Post” (Letters 3:90). Nine days later, he foresaw that “Shaun [was] going to give [him] a very great deal of trouble” (Letters 1:213). While Shaun caused him trouble, so did his eyes. In June he had an eye operation, at the end of November another one, in February 1925 he had an eye infection, this time on the

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right eye, followed by another operation in April and two in December. In the meantime he wrote chapters III.3 and III.4 (Letters 1:236), and after he sent the manuscript of the whole of book III to Weaver in early June 1926 (Letters 1:241), his tenth eye operation followed during the same month (Ellmann 579). Although this period (mid-1924 to mid-1926) was much less creative than the ‹rst year of the writing process, another aspect of Joyce’s Work in Progress became more important: the revision and elaboration of already drafted episodes in view of (pre)publication. In February 1925, Joyce had started to revise I.5 for publication in Criterion, which came out in July 1925, one month after the publication of I.2§1 (“Here Comes Everybody”) in Contact Collection of Contemporary Writers, edited by Robert McAlmon. On April 4, 1925, Joyce wrote to McAlmon: “I should like very much to revise my contribution now that I am between two operations” (Letters 1:226), which illustrates the dif‹cult circumstances in which Joyce had to work at that moment. Nevertheless, he wrote to Weaver in June: “I am working hard at Shem and then I will give Anna Livia to the Calendar.”31 The English Calendar of Modern Letters was to publish I.8, but when the “printers ›atly refuse[d] to compose Madame Anna Livia,”32 Joyce withdrew the piece and made an arrangement with the Navire d’Argent, which published it in October 1925. One month later, chapter I.7 came out in This Quarter. In the meantime, Joyce was also concerned with the pirate editions of Samuel Roth, who reprinted parts of Joyce’s new work in his magazine Two Worlds Monthly between September 1925 and September 1926.33 A “Statement regarding the piracy of Ulysses” was signed by writers all over the world (Letters 3:151–53). One of the signers was Wyndham Lewis, with whom Joyce had been on friendly terms for several years. In 1926 Lewis published his book The Art of Being Ruled which contains some critical remarks on Joyce’s work. In spite of the hostility, Wyndham Lewis asked Joyce for a contribution to his critical review The Tyrocritic, as is evidenced in a letter to Weaver (May 21, 1926). In the same letter, that is, more than two and a half years after the ‹rst sketches, Joyce announced that his book was “fairly well planned out” but he was not sure yet which section he would write ‹rst. He decided to start with “a piece of the studies, E coaching V how to do Euclid Bk I,1”34 which he later referred to as “the triangle” (Letters 1:243). Joyce ‹nished this piece during his holiday in Belgium in the summer of 192635 and sent it to both Sylvia Beach and Harriet Weaver on

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September 16. When Wyndham Lewis received the text, he neither published nor returned it. Instead, he integrated elements from Joyce’s text in his own novel, The Childermass, which came out in June 1928. Although the typescript of Joyce’s episode that was sent to Lewis in 1926 ended up among Lewis’s papers, the episode did come out as a prepublication (under the title “The Muddest Thick That Was Ever Heard Dump” in Tales Told of Shem and Shaun). This was not the case for the other pieces that Joyce announced together with the triangle in July 1926: “I will do a few more pieces, perhaps u picture-history from the family album and parts of O discussing . . . A Painful Case and the F-Δ household etc.”36 Apart from the picture history, these ideas were aborted almost simultaneously with their conception, which raises the question how de‹nitively the structure of the book had taken shape in Joyce’s mind when he announced in May 1926 that it was “now fairly well planned out.” It is not clear, for example, whether the circular structure was already conceived at that moment. If it was, it certainly remained a well-kept secret, for not until early November did Joyce inform Harriet Weaver that “[t]he book really has no beginning or end. (Trade secret, registered at Stationers Hall.) It ends in the middle of a sentence and begins in the middle of the same sentence.”37 Moreover the ‹rst “layer” of the ‹rst draft apparently started as follows: “Howth Castle & Environs! Sir Tristram had not encore arrived” (JJA 44:3; BL 47482a, 83), to which “brings us to” was added as an overlay, while “arrived” became “rearrived.” In the second draft, the “brings us to” became “brings us back to” (JJA 44:45; BL 47471a, 2). This version corresponds with the text that was sent to Weaver on November 15, 1926, accompanied by a key. The famous “riverrun” appeared in the fair copy (JJA 44:105; BL 47472, 4), originally simply as “river” to which “run” was added subsequently. In this context it may be of interest to draw attention to the following passage from Wyndham Lewis’s The Art of Being Ruled: “Bergson is throughout recommending capitulation to the material in struggle against which the greatest things in the world have been constructed. This fashionable, unskeletal, feminine philosopher of the ›ux wished . . . to deliver all this up to the river-god, to the god Flux, once more” (391). At the time Joyce read The Art of Being Ruled (late March 1926), he had already written the ‹rst drafts of I.8, but he still had to write the ‹rst chapter, and probably did not have the circular structure in mind yet. The hypothesis that The Art of Being Ruled might have served as a direct source of inspiration for the famous “riverrun” may be disputable, but Lewis’s

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criticism has undeniably had a stimulating effect on Joyce’s creative work in this period. The opening of Finnegans Wake is the result of an idea that was inspired by Joyce’s holiday in Belgium. While the family stayed in the Hôtel Astoria and Claridge in Brussels, Joyce wrote to Weaver on September 24, 1926: “A rather funny idea struck me that you might ‘order’ a piece and I would do it. The gentlemen of the brush and hammer seem to have worked that way” (Letters 1:245). Weaver played along and on the ‹rst of October she asked to “[k]indly supply the undersigned with one full length grave account of his esteemed Highness Rhaggrick O’Hoggnor’s Hogg Tomb . . . Such is my ‘order’ for this book” (Ellmann 582). Nevertheless, she added: “But what I would really like is to place an order well in advance when another book is under contemplation!” Joyce ignored the latter remark and “set to work at once.”38 In the same letter, he told her that he would give her piece “the place of honour, namely the ‹rst pages of the book” and subsequently outlined the book’s structure as he saw it at that time: “Your piece is the prelude to the Contact piece [I.2§1] which is continued by the MS you have, the Criterion, This Quarter and Navire d’Argent [I.5, I.7, I.8] where the ‹rst part of the book ends. The third part you have also V abcd. I have written only a small part of the second, ending with Roderick O’C. The fourth will be shorter than the others.”39 A week later, Joyce sent the opening paragraph to Weaver, together with a key that is about four times as long as the piece itself. This was precisely the main point of Weaver’s reaction two days later: “the worst of it is that without comprehensive key and glossary, such as you very kindly made out for me, the poor hapless reader loses a very great deal of your intention; ›ounders, helplessly, is in imminent danger, in fact, of being as totally lost to view as that illfated vegetation you mentioned” (Ellmann 584). This mild criticism arrived only a few days after Ezra Pound’s more direct reaction to the typescript of Book III, which Joyce had sent to him. Pound’s opinion was quite clear: “I will have another go at it, but up to present I make nothing of it whatever” (Ellmann 584). In reaction, Joyce showed Pound the manuscript of the poems he had written since the publication of Chamber Music. Although Pound thought they belonged “in the Bible or in the family album with the portraits” (Ellmann 591), they were published by Shakespeare and Company as Pomes Penyeach40 in July 1927. Joyce was quite disturbed by all the criticism, but argued that “[o]ne great part of every human existence is passed in a state which cannot be

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rendered sensible by the use of wideawake language, cutanddry grammar and goahead plot.”41 The contact with Eugene and Maria Jolas, and the agreement to publish the book serially in their newly founded review transition, may have helped Joyce to face up to the criticism during the next few months. As Work in Progress proceeded, the number of collaborators increased. Eugene Jolas, in his capacity as editor of transition, was one of the main witnesses of Joyce’s working method during the years of the prepublications in his journal (1927–38). According to Jolas, All his friends collaborated then in the preparations of the fragments destined for transition: Stuart Gilbert, Padraic Colum, Elliot Paul, Robert Sage, Helen and Giorgio Joyce, and others. He worked with painstaking care, almost with pedantry. . . . He would work for weeks, often late at night, with the help of one or the other of his friends. It seemed almost a collective composition in the end, for he let his friends participate in his inventive zeal, as they searched through numberless notebooks with mysterious reference points to be inserted in the text.42 Joyce continued his work on chapter I.1,43 for which he made use of notebook VI.B.15 and the impressions gathered in Belgium (noted down in VI.B.12 and the missing notebook D.5).44 The Waterloo Museum and the broken English of the old guide (Ellmann 581n) seem to have inspired Joyce for the Museyroom episode. Harriet Weaver, however, continued to express her dissatisfaction, to which Joyce replied: “Your letter gave me a nice little attack of brainache. I conclude you do not like the piece I did? I have been thinking over it. It is all right, I think—the best I could do. . . . It is possible Pound is right but I cannot go back” (Letters 1:249). Joyce was seriously thrown off his balance and asked other people, such as Robert McAlmon, whether they also thought he was on the wrong track with his Work in Progress (Ellmann 590). In his defense letter of February 1, 1927, he seemed determined to go on, but Weaver’s lack of support kept worrying him, and on May 20 he wrote that he considered asking the poet James Stephens to ‹nish Work in Progress (Letters 1:253). He asked Sylvia Beach to look up the date and place of James Stephens’s birth in Who’s Who, and was struck to learn that the poet was born in Dublin on the same day as Joyce himself, February 2, 1882. These coincidences, together with the fact that James Stephens’s name was a combination of

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the ‹rst names of both Joyce and his protagonist in A Portrait, stimulated the author’s hyperactive mind. Although Joyce had a few appointments with Stephens after his holiday in Holland (May 21–June 20, 1927), he eventually decided to continue his work on his own. In February 1927, the ‹rst issue of Lewis’ review The Enemy had come out, without the triangle episode but with a long essay by Lewis. This essay, “The Revolutionary Simpleton,” was reprinted in Time and Western Man as “An Analysis of the Mind of James Joyce,” and contained serious criticism on Joyce’s work. When Joyce came back from Holland and continued to revise the episodes of book I for transition, he wrote to Sylvia Beach: “I would like to reread ‘The Enemy’ tomorrow before I correct the ‹nal revise for transition 5 [I.5].”45 And on August 14, 1927, he informed her that he had “allowed Shaun to speak with the voice of The Enemy” (129) in the eleventh of the twelve questions in chapter I.6, containing the fable of “The Mookse and the Gripes.” According to Eugene Jolas, this episode was inserted in transition 6 at the very last moment: I recall . . . one particular case, when a four-page addition had to be made after the ‹rst four hundred copies of the review had already been stitched. Everything was held up. The addition that had been announced by telephone came by the early mail and was rushed to the composing-room. During the day the completed copies were ripped apart, and by evening a suf‹ciently clean proof of the new text had been obtained for us to feel we could call it a day. (“Homage” 252) The other fable in the Wake, “The Ondt and the Gracehoper,” is one of the few new episodes written between 1927 and 1932. During this period, Joyce mainly revised and elaborated the pieces he had already written, such as “Anna Livia Plurabelle,” to which he added “[h]undreds of river names,”46 in the hope that Weaver would like it and write him about it as he was “considerably wound up.” Two months earlier, he had already uttered the same complaint: “I wish I could get away. In fact I need months and months of rest as I am wound up. . . . I am more and more aware of the indignant hostility shown to my experiment in interpreting ‘the dark night of the soul.’”47 The clippings that Joyce sent to Weaver in early 1928 give an idea of the gossip in Paris during this dif‹cult period in the writing process. The following “Random Note” appeared in the Paris Times of December 14, 1927:

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Table-talk on the Left Bank has a new and absorbing topic. The rumor is that one of the high priests of modernism is weakening in his faith—that he may even recant. A short time ago he had a vision that perhaps after all, the literary style which he evolved and which has given rise to a whole new school of writers, may not be art. A friend in whose literary judgment he has con‹dence frankly con‹rmed his suspicion. The blow was a hard one. What he is going to do about it the Left Bank does not know. It may be signi‹cant, or it may be coincidence, but the December number of transition does not contain a further instalment of his work. (BL Add. 57349, 104) This note did not remain unnoticed. The next day, the editors of transition replied with a letter to the editor of the Paris Times: In particular do we object to the baseless gossip about Mr. James Joyce reported in a veiled fashion under the heading “Random Notes” in the issue of 14 December. In this paragraph your Latin Quarter editors hint that, because his present writing means nothing to some readers, Mr. Joyce has come to the conclusion that he is in error and is now seriously considering the relinquishment of his life work. That insinuation is cowardly and false. . . . There is no question, and never has been any, of this work being discontinued in transition, and publication will be resumed in the February issue. / Yours very truly, / The Editors of transition. (BL Add. 57349, 106) This kind of gossip was less of a concern to Joyce than Weaver’s lukewarm support. The experimental nature of the project apparently irritated her, for according to Richard Ellmann, she suggested to Joyce in 1927 not to “waste [his] time on a mere curiosity of literature” (Ellmann 599). Joyce was exhausted after the revision of I.8. On November 14, 1927, Sylvia Beach sent a letter to Harriet Weaver, informing her that Joyce had been staying in bed for a few days, “quite worn out after the terrif‹c [sic] labours of re-writing Anna Livia. He seems to be very unhappy because the new work doesn’t please you for whom it is being written. He wouldn’t mind about anybody else not liking it” (BL Add. 57349, 93). After having sent his Christmas and New Year’s wishes to Weaver, Joyce wrote her a rather desperate New Year’s message, which did not contain many good intentions. He even considered abandoning the project (BL Add.

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57349, 98) and informed her about his plans to come to London and discuss the matter of Work in Progress with her. Eventually, Weaver crossed the Channel instead and paid a visit to the Joyces during the second half of January and the beginning of February 1928. According to Ellmann’s account, “Joyce spent long hours explaining the book to her, and she became much more sympathetic to it than she had thought possible” (599). Shortly after her visit, Joyce started revising chapter III.1 for which he had to “struggle through 16 notebooks.”48 By the end of March, he also incorporated the fable of “The Ondt and the Gracehoper.” Apart from this new episode, however, Joyce’s attention turned away from the actual writing to the writing about the writing. One of the results was the collection of essays called Our Exagmination round His Facti‹cation for Incamination of “Work in Progress,” which came out in May 1929. One of the twelve contributors was Samuel Beckett, who lectured at the École Normale Supérieure in Paris at that time. The collection of essays was to a certain extent orchestrated by Joyce. According to Richard Ellmann, “Joyce saw to it that one or another of the twelve answered the chief critics of the book, at that time Sean O’Faolain, Wyndham Lewis, and Rebecca West” (613). In the same period, Joyce also helped Stuart Gilbert with his book James Joyce’s “Ulysses” (616). When Joyce agreed with the Black Sun Press (owned by Harry and Caresse Crosby) to publish the two fables and “The Muddest Thick That Was Ever Heard Dump” as Tales Told of Shem and Shaun, C. K. Ogden49 agreed to write an introduction, which suggests that at that time Work in Progress was primarily regarded as a linguistic experiment, although Joyce’s wish for Ogden also to comment upon the book’s structure indicates that, from his point of view, his work was more than a purely linguistic curiosity. In November 1929, the last part of book III was published in transition 18. After this one, no new issues were published for two years because of ‹nancial problems. During this period, Joyce extended the episode “Haveth Childers Everywhere” (FW 532–54). Because his eyes were extremely bad in the spring of 1930, several people helped him with the revisions of his manuscripts and typescripts. According to Padraic Colum, the helpers’ task also included typing and even making suggestions, some of which were indeed incorporated by Joyce.50 As a reward, Colum’s ‹rst name was inserted into the text. Another helper was Helen Fleischman, Joyce’s daughter-in-law. She and Gilbert had to read articles on several

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cities from Joyce’s copy of the Encyclopaedia Britannica (Ellmann 628n). Notebooks VI.B.24 and VI.B.29 contain notes on dozens of metropoles (with names of streets, monuments, city founders, etc.) in different hands, taken during these reading sessions for the composition of “Haveth Childers Everywhere.” After two more eye operations in 1930, Joyce summoned up his courage to continue his Work in Progress. More than four years after he wrote to Weaver that he was on the verge of starting the piece “on the twilight games of E , V and u which will follow immediately after Δ ” (May 21, 1926), he ‹nally wrote this episode of the children’s games, which may have been inspired indirectly by one of Samuel Beckett’s early writings. During the summer of 1930, Beckett wrote his essay Proust, in which he draws attention to the abundance of botanical metaphors in À la recherche du temps perdu. In Beckett’s opinion, Proust’s preference for botanical images accords with the absence of any moral judgement in the Recherche: in a way Proust’s characters do what ›owers do, “exposing their genitals” (Beckett, Proust 89). Shortly after Beckett’s essay was ‹nished, Joyce’s ›ower girls performed this quite literally (FW 236.33–237.03) in the new episodes, written during the autumn of 1930 (II.1§2 and II.1§3). About this children’s games section Joyce wrote to Weaver in November 1930 that it was “the gayest and lightest thing I have done in spite of the circumstances” (Letters 1:295). The circumstances, however, did not improve, and about ‹ve months later, when Joyce moved to London in April 1931, several new books had been read to him. He had ‹lled a few notebooks, but the writing of II.1 had proceeded by only a few more pages. With the help of a new friend, Paul Léon, he worked harder on his image than on his writing. By the end of 1930, he found Herbert Gorman willing to write an (authorized) biography. He also supervised the French translation of Anna Livia Plurabelle, which was published on May 1, 1931, in the Nouvelle Revue française. Joyce devised a rough scheme for book II: “8–9 Children’s hour / 9–10 A little learning / 10–11 hist. survey / 11–12 open air debate” (notebook VI.B.31:269). But instead of continuing his work on II.1, he kept revising book I with the help of Paul Léon and others. Early in January 1932, Stuart Gilbert reported to Weaver that he went to Joyce “twice a week now to help in the progress of ‘W. in P.,’ which is advancing rapidly.”51 If the latter remark was not meant as an ironic euphemism, it re›ects a much too optimistic view on the situation. Less than two weeks

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later, Joyce wrote to Weaver: “I am thinking of abandoning work altogether and leaving the thing un‹nished with blanks” (January 17, 1932; Letters 1:312). During the next months and years, Paul Léon increasingly served as a real-life Shaun the Post, informing those concerned about Joyce’s condition: “Mr Joyce has been unwell this last week,” he wrote to Weaver on February 28, 1932. The sequences of “Moansday / Tearsday / Wailingsday / Thumpsday / Frightday / Shatterday / Fear of the Law”52 which had started in the beginning of 1928, lasted until August 1932, when Joyce’s aches were temporarily counterbalanced by Eugene Jolas’s encouragement to ‹nish the children’s games episode for a new issue of transition. The work, however, did not proceed as swiftly as it did during the ‹rst years of Work in Progress. Joyce wrote several shorter fragments that only gradually grew into one whole by means of a new compositional process. During the 1930s, Joyce created an intermediate stage between the short notebook entries and the textual units in the manuscripts, compiling loose notesheets for the composition of II.2, for the revision of certain episodes of II.1 (revision for transition) and book III (revision, correction of, and additions to transition pages), and for some late additions to books I and III. The ‹rst set of notesheets was compiled for the revision of the so-called transition pages of book III (the pages of the episodes of book III as they were published in transition) shortly after Mme Raphael had copied the undeleted entries of notebooks B.16, B.11, B.34, B.2, D.1, B.6, B.1, D.2, B.20, B.5, B.9, and D.3 in the ‹rst four C-notebooks.53 Joyce recopied the entries that interested him on a set of notesheets. He marked each of these notesheets with one of the sigla V a, V b, V c, and V d in order to distribute the entries over the four chapters of book III. These loose notesheets are not preserved in the chronological order in which they were compiled and need rearrangement. For instance, in order of composition the VI.C.01-based entries for chapter III.1 are on notesheets 6, 4, 7, . . . ; the entries for chapter III.2 on pages 26v, 11, 11v, 10, 10v, 30, . . . ; the entries for III.3 on pages 54, 41, 41v, 39v, . . . ; the entries for III.4 on pages 59, 56, 60, . . . of the first set (BL 47486a).54 By the time the episode of the children’s games was published in transition 22 (February 21, 1933), Joyce had also added an opening section (II.1§1), introducing the dramatis personae of The Mime of Mick, Nick, and the Maggies. While Joyce was increasingly concerned about his daughter’s mental condition, he slowly turned to chapter II.2. Although a large part of this chapter, “The Muddest Thick,” was already ‹nished, it

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took Joyce almost ‹ve years to give it roughly its ‹nal shape. The indecisiveness characterizing this period of the writing process as a result of his physical and familial worries is re›ected in Paul Léon’s hesitation to describe it: “Dear Miss Weaver, I feel very guilty indeed for not having written to you before but I ‹nd it very dif‹cult also owing to Mr Joyce’s distrustful attitude to give you a correct picture of the situation which varies almost from hour to hour.”55 This lack of determination is also apparent in the complex textual history of the composition of chapter II.2, the chronology of which has been outlined by Danis Rose (Rose 119) and ‹ne-tuned by Luca Crispi in “The Mechanics of Creativity.” The piece with which Joyce originally planned to open this chapter (section 4 in JJA) is a short text that signi‹cantly starts with the words “Scribbledehobbles are at bent on their pensums,” for it is written on the basis of several notes from the “Scribbledehobble” notebook (VI.A). A similar “amalgamation of textual elements”—as Danis Rose calls this compilation method (118)—was applied to an external source, Thom’s Dublin Directory, for the composition of section 2. Subsequently, Joyce drafted section 1, which opens the chapter in the published versions of Finnegans Wake. The ‹rst draft of section 3 was appended to the carbon of the third typescript of the original opening, section 4. As opposed to the dating of the James Joyce Archive (“probably 1934”; JJA 52:147), Danis Rose suggests that this took place during the summer of 1933, around the same time as the composition of sections 6, 7, and 9. The work was then left un‹nished for about one year. During this period, Joyce revised book III, making use of the notesheets. But, apparently, the further composition of II.2 was still at the back of his mind, since some of the notesheet material was used in II.2 (JJA 61:115). Again, the impulse to continue his work on the “studies” chapter came from Jolas. For the next transition issue (no. 23), Joyce took the fragments he had already written, omitted sections 4, 6, and 7, and added the children’s “nightletter.” This piece was partly written when Joyce returned from a trip to Zurich (to consult Dr. Vogt for his eyes) and it was sent to Weaver on April 24, 1934: “I enclose a prospectus of a new fragment which should be out in a forthnight now. Also a thing I wrote in the train partly returning from Z’ich.”56 The “fragment” mentioned in the letter is probably The Mime of Mick, Nick and the Maggies, published by the Servire Press in the beginning of June 1934. By that time, Joyce had devised the plan for the marginalia and footnotes. This typography was also applied

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(JJA 53:197) to the footnoteless version of section 8 (“The Muddest Thick That Was Ever Heard Dump” as published in transition 11 and Tales Told of Shem and Shaun). The new transition piece (consisting of sections 1, 2, 3, and 9) came out in early July 1935. While Mme Raphael continued her transcriptions, Joyce also kept taking notes himself. On the basis of an analysis of notebook VI.B.40 and VI.B.38, Danis Rose suggests an alternative dating for the composition of the ‹rst section of II.3. Whereas according to the Archive “The Norwegian Captain” was written in early 1935 (JJA 54:1), Rose assumes that an early draft of II.3§1 was composed one year later, and that the earliest surviving draft was written during the summer of 1936 (Rose 121–22). At the time he started composing chapter II.3, Joyce was revising book I. In notebook VI.B.38, he even excerpted bits from his own creation. As a result, some of the earlier episodes, such as the Mutt and Jute dialogue or the “Museyroom” reverberate in the ‹rst sections of II.3. In December 1936, section one was ready to be published in transition 26. When the issue came out in May 1937, Joyce had already drafted sections 2 and 4. The C-notebooks played a major role in the composition of chapter II.3. While most of the entries in the B-notebooks and the earliest C-notebooks served as extra material to be added to already drafted episodes,57 several pieces in chapter II.3 are based on an assembly of just a few entries from the C-notebooks. Such a compact textual core could easily grow into a passage of two or three pages in the published version.58 The creation of new episodes was interrupted during the spring of 1937 when Joyce had to correct the galley proofs of books I and III. In December 1937, this work was still going on, and according to Paul Léon, Joyce had suf‹cient assistance: [I]t takes some ‹ve or six other people to check the corrections, verify the additions and read the proofs. Himself, he does the composing part quite alone and from what I hear of Mr. Joyce, he works daily to about ‹ve in the morning. (Letter to Weaver, December 18, 1937; Letters 3:409) Joyce had hoped to publish his book on his birthday, 1938 (Ellmann 705), but there was still an enormous amount of work to be done. Chapter II.2 did not have its ‹nal shape yet. By the end of 1937 (Rose, Diaries 120) Joyce rediscovered sections 4, 6, and 7, which he had omitted for the

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publication in transition 23. He therefore composed a new section (5) on the basis of section 4 (“Scribbledehobbles . . .”), incorporated section 6 (Issy’s letter) as a footnote, and appended section 7 (with the quotation from Quinet). During the winter, he also continued the composition of chapter II.3. On January 20, 1938, Joyce wrote to Helen and Giorgio that he had “‹nished the piece for Transition” (Letters 3:412). This was the “Butt and Taff” dialogue (II.3§4–5), the last episode to appear as a “Continuation of a Work in Progress” (in May 1938) before Finnegans Wake came out. The latter title, however, was still a secret Joyce refused to disclose even to his publishers (Faber and Faber and Viking Press). To the “Butt and Taff” dialogue (section 4) he added a coda (section 5), parts of which were drafted immediately in notebook VI.B.45,59 which was also used for the composition of book IV. The fact that he was writing the opening of book IV, did not mean he considered book II to be ‹nished. Since it had become impossible to publish the book on his own birthday, Joyce had suggested July 4, his father’s birthday, as a new deadline. He had been working on a piece that had to become II.4 and in which HCE admits that he is “[g]uilty” (FW 363.20) but apologizes and defends himself. As it became clear that the new deadline was too close, Joyce gave himself some more breathing space. During this extra time, he made an interesting discovery. According to Danis Rose, Joyce searched through his papers in July 1938 to ‹nd the very ‹rst sketch for Work in Progress (the “Roderick O’Conor” sketch), with which he planned to round off book II, and discovered three other pieces, “St Kevin,” the “Revered Letter” (which he had withdrawn from chapter I.5), and the “Mamalujo” sketch. The “St Kevin” piece reminded him of “St Patrick and the Druid.” Weaver still had a copy of this sketch and drew Joyce’s attention to yet another unused piece, the “Tristan and Isolde” sketch. This treasure hunt took place during the month of July 1938 (Rose, Textual Diaries 130–31). Joyce subsequently reorganized II.3 and II.4. What he had planned to be II.4 (the “Guilty but” episode) became II.3§6 instead, and to this episode he appended a new one, II.3§7, partly based on the “Roderick O’Conor” sketch. The new chapter II.4 was a combination of the “Tristan and Isolde” and “Mamalujo” sketches. Meanwhile, Joyce continued his work on book IV. That any external source could still be integrated, even at this late stage in the writing process, is evidenced by Joyce’s (and Samuel Beckett’s) notes on a book by Heinrich Zimmer. A student in Paris had drawn Joyce’s

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attention to the works of Heinrich Zimmer senior, a linguist and professor of Celtology at the University of Berlin who lived from 1851 to 1910. Joyce was interested in his Keltische Beiträge60 because they con‹rmed his own theories about Finn MacCool’s Scandinavian origin. Heinrich Zimmer junior, a professor of Sanskrit at the University of Heidelberg, made a summary of his father’s works.61 In early October 1938, he sent a dedication copy of his book Maya: Der indische Mythos to Joyce, who read at least parts of it and made two pages of notes in notebook VI.B.41 (288–89). Beckett also read Maya and made notes for Joyce that differ in nature from Joyce’s own reading notes (Van Hulle, “Beckett” 148–49). Beckett marked all the page numbers and even the number of the paragraph to which each note corresponds, probably to facilitate Joyce’s subsequent reading and processing in the late stages of Work in Progress. After Eugene Jolas had guessed the title in the summer (Ellmann 708), the last section, ALP’s monologue, was written during the months of October and November 1938. On November 13, Joyce wrote to Paul Ruggiero: “Hurray! I have ‹nished this blasted book.” (Letters 1:403) This moment of euphoria was followed by several weeks of proofreading, but on January 30, 1939, a few days before Joyce’s birthday, he received the ‹rst copy of Finnegans Wake from Faber and Faber. The ‹rst edition came out on May 4, 1939. The American edition was published by the Viking Press (New York). An unbound copy of the ‹rst edition is preserved in the Poetry/Rare Books Collection of the Lockwood Memorial Library in Buffalo.62 This copy contains several corrections and additions by Joyce and Paul Léon in ink and pencil. These corrections were typed out and gradually integrated in subsequent editions. The corrections (twenty-four pages) are bound into the back of a second printing of the ‹rst Faber edition (1945). The 1950 second edition is reset with corrections made on the text, but there is still a (considerably shorter) list of misprints (two pages) at the back of the volume. Only in the third edition of 1964, all the errata were corrected in the text. Six years after the ‹rst American edition in May 1939, Viking published a pamphlet with the “Correction of misprints for Finnegans Wake” (1945). In the same year, the fourth printing came out, which includes an appendix with the errata; the corrections were inset into the text from the eighth printing on (1958).63 Clive Hart has compared the typescript of the errata list to the unbound copy with corrections and concludes that “the typescript differs from the ms. corrections in several important respects”:

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Three corrections, which should have been included, were omitted, and at least ‹fteen others were so mistyped that the original intention was altered in the published list. The question as to whether we should treat these corruptions any differently from the others depends on whether or not Joyce checked and approved the typescript. If he did not (and there is no evidence that he did) then the last stage of composition, which, according to my present proposition, is what we might reasonably accept, would be represented by the unbound copy with the ms. corrections. (“Hound and the Type-bed” 80) Hart has drawn up a list of the instances where the typescript differs from the unbound copy (“Hound and the Type-bed” 81). He also indicates those cases where Joyce made changes which he subsequently deleted, showing that at this very late stage in the writing process (even after the ‹rst publication) Joyce could still change his mind. In answer to the question what should be regarded as the text of Joyce’s last work, Hart’s conclusion is unequivocal: “Since Joyce’s last bout with his book as a whole seems to be the unbound copy, that, I suggest, is Finnegans Wake” (83). JOYCE’S PARLOR GAME Joyce’s well-considered choice to conclude his novel with a de‹nite article seems to be anticipated in book I, chapter 5 of Finnegans Wake, where the letter and its envelope are compared to a lady, wearing for the space of the time being64 some de‹nite articles of evolutionary clothing, . . . full of local colour and personal perfume and suggestive, too, of so very much more. (FW 109.22–27) The aim of this chapter is to investigate to what extent this passage may be regarded as a self-referential metadiscussion of the Wake and its writing process. As time is a central aspect of genetic criticism, this chapter will not only focus on passages in which time becomes thematic, such as “The Ondt and the Gracehoper,” but also on “the enveloping facts themselves” (FW 109.14), that is, the different draft stages, and their prehistory (Wyndham Lewis’s criticism and Joyce’s reaction), in order to try and show how the space/time controversy and more speci‹cally the reactions to Joyce’s earlier work became a major stimulus to write his last work; how

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this work took shape by means of the addition of ever more “de‹nite articles” such as the insects in “The Ondt and the Gracehoper”; how Joyce’s creation evolved according to pseudo-Darwinian principles of descent with modi‹cation and (un)natural selection; and, ‹nally, how Work in Progress could become Finnegans Wake only thanks to the many dead ends, which all deserve to be mapped. The Encyclopedic Recycling of Wyndham Lewis’s Early Joyce Criticism As we have seen, the year 1926 must have been one of the toughest for Joyce, since several of his supporters openly expressed their doubts concerning his linguistic experiment. Shortly after Ezra Pound’s and Harriet Weaver’s almost simultaneous comments around Christmas 1926 (Ellmann 584), the ‹rst issue of Wyndham Lewis’s review The Enemy came out, without the “Muddest Thick” episode that Joyce had written at Lewis’s request. In place of a contribution by Joyce, the journal contained Lewis’s long essay “The Revolutionary Simpleton,” which was later reprinted in Lewis’s Time and Western Man. That work, especially chapter 16, “An Analysis of the Mind of James Joyce” (91–130), contains the most extensive, but not the ‹rst, critical analysis of Joyce’s work by Lewis. Early in 1926, Lewis had published The Art of Being Ruled.65 Although Joyce’s work is not analyzed in great detail in this earlier book, its disapproving, sharp-tongued tone did not escape Joyce’s notice.66 On March 30, 1926, Joyce mentioned in a letter to Weaver that he was replying to Lewis’s criticism by adding a grotesque piece to chapter III.2,67 the episode known as “Dave the Dancekerl” (FW 461.33–468.19; III.2B). The relationship between Lewis and Joyce has been investigated from different perspectives,68 with a main focus on the fables, the time/space dichotomy, Lewis’s extensive criticism in Time and Western Man, and references to the titles of Lewis’s books in the Wake. After reading The Art of Being Ruled, Joyce twisted Lewis’s words against him and neutralized his criticism by absorbing its vocabulary in his Work in Progress. This recycling of highly poisonous textual material is one of the most remarkable characteristics of Joyce’s textual economics. In The Art of Being Ruled, Lewis’s criticism on Joyce is concentrated in the section entitled “Mr. Jingle and Mr. Bloom.” Here, Joyce is compared to Gertrude Stein, “the best-known exponent of a literary system that consists in a sort of gargantuan mental stutter” (400). Lewis regards

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Stein’s writing technique as “a photograph of the unorganised worddreaming of the mind when not concentrated for some logical functional purpose.” He subsequently makes a direct link between the two modernists’ techniques and that of the nineteenth-century novelist Dickens: “Mr. Joyce employed this method with success (not so radically and rather differently) in Ulysses. The thought-stream or word-stream of his hero’s mind was supposed to be photographed. The effect was not unlike the conversation of Mr. Jingle in Pickwick” (400). This remark seems to have been the trigger for the incorporation of several more explicit changes in the phrasing of the “Dancekerl” episode. For instance, Joyce added the following sentence to the third draft (III.2B.*2): “Can you jingle sing us a shive now encore on your jubalharp, eh ^Mr.^ jJingle^joys^?” (JJA 57:188b; BL 47483, 123v; FW 466.18). But Joyce read more than just this single chapter of The Art of Being Ruled. Most of Lewis’s references to Joyce’s work are located in the section called “The ‘Intellectual,’”69 in which Lewis expresses his more general objection that “[w]e are all the patients of a great cult” centered around “The Great God Flux” (Art 387), with Henri Bergson as one of the high priests. Joyce jotted down a few notes from this part of Lewis’s work in notebook VI.B.20. One entry, “b›ux” (69), found its way into the ‹rst fair copy, in the form of “Flu Flux Fans” (JJA57:199; 47483–126). Among the devotees of the Great God Flux “are to be found”—according to Lewis—“the psycho-analysts, futurists, dadas, proustites, etc” (Art 397). Although no “proustite” appears in “Dave the Dancekerl,” Joyce wrote down this word in notebook VI.B.20 (page 73); and the ‹nal version does contain the warning: “Watch the swansway” (FW 465.35). Another “proustite” is C. K. Scott-Moncrieff,70 the English translator of the Recherche, who is referred to as Schott in the introduction to the fable of the Mookse and the Gripes, where apart from the bergsonian “sophology of Bitchson” (FW 149.20) several references are made to Proust, “who the lost time we had the pleasure we have had our little recherché brush with, what, Schott?” (FW 149.23–24). Several entries in notebook VI.B.20, such as “rTime up / g, this end / a ruling” (4), “F HCEnemy” (11), “bin the name / bof space” (77), and “blast out” (106), refer to Lewis and his work in general. But they do not necessarily imply that Joyce carefully read Lewis’s texts. The nature of Joyce’s note-taking during his reading of The Art of Being Ruled is rather unsystematic. The entries directly derived from Lewis’s text are inter-

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spersed with other notes and ideas. Although Joyce seems to have taken some interest in the content of the work,71 his attention was particularly caught by special vocabulary, phrasings, or linguistic oddities. An example of this focus is the entry “bblepharospasm” (VI.B.20:73), derived from Lewis’s chapter on “The Great God Flux”: The Relativity theory, the copernican upheaval, or any great scienti‹c convulsion, leaves a new landscape. There is a period of stunned dreariness; then people begin, antlike, the building of a new human world. They soon forget the last disturbance. But from these shocks they derive a slightly augmented vocabulary, a new blind spot in their vision, a few new blepharospasms or tics, and perhaps a revised method of computing time. Time, especially, has received a very severe shaking from Einstein. (Art 388) Whereas the “theorics of Winestain” (FW 149.28) are more extensively dealt with in the fable of “The Mookse and the Gripes,” the blepharospasms were used in one of the four old men’s questions during their interrogation of Yawn in chapter III.3: “Happily you were not quite so successful in the process verbal whereby you would sublimate your blepharospasmockical suppressions, it seems?” (FW 515.16) In The Art of Being Ruled, Lewis has drawn up a short table of the principal forms of what he calls an “anti-intellect campaign” (397), divided into four groups: “The Child,” “The Amateur,” “The Demented,” and “The Pragmatic.”72 These categories are explained subsequently; especially the third may have drawn Joyce’s attention: “Under the heading of the Demented you get Miss Gertrude Stein and the various stammering, squinting punning group who follow her.”73 The epithet “stammering” is recognizable in an addition to the ‹rst fair copy (III.2B.*3): “And I hear see he has is stop dropping the stammer out of his bladder” (JJA 57:200; BL 47483, 127; FW 467.19). While in its third draft the episode started with the words “Well, ladies & gentlemen,” and in the ‹rst fair copy with “Well, ladies on gentlemen,” the gentlemen became “gentlermen” in the second fair copy, and the ladies not only came ‹rst but were even placed “upon” the other sex. Lewis’s text offers an explanation for this evolution. A large part of The Art of Being Ruled is about the disintegration of the family, the rise of feminism, and the so-called sex war, which according to Lewis is a consequence of sexual inversion. Chapter 10, “The Matriarchate and Feminine Ascendency,” opens as follows:

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orthodox opinion—that is, to-day, “revolutionary” opinion either of the pure or the impure variety—is anti-man. Its terms are those of a war or insurrection still, although theoretically the war is over and the position gained. But subtly and in the nature of things, it is no longer a question of adjusting an inequality, but of advancing (as of a superior nature) the qualities of the “down-trodden,” of the “weaker” sex. . . . Such a war as the “sex war,” as was to be expected, does not end in a stabilization in which the man and the woman exist on equal terms. It necessarily ends in a situation in which feminine values are predominant. (Art 223) ALL

As an example of a book in which this tendency is noticeable, Lewis mentions “The Dominant Sex, by Matilda and Mathias Vaerting” (223). This reference also occurs in Joyce’s notebook: “The Dominant Sex / Vaerting” (VI.B.20:49). Joyce most probably copied it from The Art of Being Ruled, since a number of surrounding entries refer to subjects discussed by Wyndham Lewis, whose initials appear on page 48: “Melo = W.L.” The next entry, “erect,” as well as the note “menkind” on the previous page, probably refer to another chapter with the title “‘Call Yourself a Man!’” (part 9, chapter 3). On the opening page of this chapter (Art 279), Lewis discusses the strange use of the term man to denote all human beings, male or female.74 To the second fair copy, Joyce provocatively added a short introduction, using the same typography as in The Art of Being Ruled, in which the ‹rst word of every chapter as well as the words emphasized by Lewis are in capitals: —MenEN! Jaun responded fullchantedly to her sororal sonority ^, with his ^chalished^ drink now well in hand^. Ever gloriously kind! And I truly am obligated. Well, ladies upon gentlermen . . . (JJA 57:242; BL 47483, 152; FW 461.33) It is remarkable that in order to emphasize man’s “erectness” (Art 281) Lewis employs the “erect” typography of capitals. The position of the male to-day, and the symbolism of the word MAN, are purely arti‹cial. . . . The male has been persuaded to assume a certain onerous and disagreeable rôle with the promise of rewards— material and psychological. Women may in the ‹rst place even have put it into his head. BE A MAN! may have been, metaphorically, what

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Eve uttered at the critical moment in the garden of Eden. (Art 282–83) The irony of this tension between Lewis’s message and the way it is expressed and represented is something James Joyce, being an excellent “craftsman,” may have spotted immediately. For after all, according to Lewis’s own analysis in “The Revolutionary Simpleton,” “that is what Joyce is above all things, essentially the craftsman.” Lewis’s main criticism is that Joyce’s writing is dictated by techniques, by “ways of doing things” instead of “things to be done,” and that it does not matter to Joyce what worldview he expresses; or even worse: “Strictly speaking, he has none at all, no special point of view, or none worth mentioning” (Lewis, “Simpleton” 109; Time 106–7). Some of Lewis’s own points of view were quite “special” indeed, such as his ›irtation with fascism (Art 370–71). Instead of this outspoken “blinkpoint of so eminent a spatialist” (FW 149.18–19), Joyce—“with his blackguarded eye and the goatsbeard in his buttinghole of Shemuel Tulliver” (FW 464.12–13)—apparently preferred a more Swiftian attitude. In “A Voyage to the Country of the Houyhnhnms” Gulliver remembers “it was with extreme Dif‹culty that I could bring my Master to understand the meaning of the Word Opinion, or how a Point could be disputable; because Reason taught us to af‹rm or deny only where we are certain; and beyond our Knowledge we cannot do either” (241–42). Lewis remarked in “The Revolutionary Simpleton” that “Joyce is not a homologue of Swift. That is a strange mistake. . . . He is genial and comic; a humorous writer of the traditional English School—in temper, at his best, very like Sterne” (“Simpleton” 96; Time 92). Possibly by way of refuting Lewis’s comment, Joyce added a clause to the ‹rst fair copy: “after he earned the reputation of being swift,” based on the blue-deleted entry “breputation for / bbeing Swift” (in notebook VI.B.20, p. 37). To the same ‹rst fair copy Joyce added: “The misery billyboots I used to lend him before we split” (JJA 57:200; BL 47483, 127; FW 467.1–2). This is probably a reference to the pair of old brown shoes, sent to Joyce by Ezra Pound in an act of pity of Joyce’s poverty and delivered in Paris by T. S. Eliot and Wyndham Lewis.75 Joyce seems to have been quite embarrassed by this delivery, for not only did he pay all his visitors’ expenses during their stay, the incident also became a leitmotiv in the Wake. To the next draft stage (the second fair copy, III.2B.*4), Joyce added more references to the brown shoes and to Swift. Apart from a reference to Lewis’s review

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The Enemy (“Here goes the enemy!”; JJA 57:248; BL 47483, 158), the paragraph—especially the mention of “wings” and “freeboots’ advice”— provides the connection between the anecdote of the old brown shoes and several phrases from Swift’s Battle of the Books. In the latter work, the spider replies to the bee: “What art thou but a Vagabond without House or Home, without Stock or Inheritance? Born to no Possession of your own, but a Pair of Wings and a Drone-Pipe. Your Livelihood is an universal Plunder upon Nature; a Freebooter over Fields and Gardens” (149). This allusion sheds light upon the relationship between Joyce and Lewis. For both writers undoubtedly regarded themselves as “Moderns.” Even at the end of the writing process, Joyce called his Work in Progress a “wordspiderweb.”76 In chapter I.7 (JJA 47:359; BL 47471b, 64) he had presented Shem as a spiderlike writer, producing the material of his writing out of his own entrails, as moderns tend to do according to Swift’s account of the Battle of the Books. Nevertheless, there is a difference. After the generous donation of the free boots by three of his greatest colleagues, two of them (Lewis and Pound) became increasingly skeptical with regard to Joyce’s work. Consequently, from Joyce’s viewpoint, the free boots gradually became a humiliating gift by those who regarded themselves as “moderns,” and therefore a symbol of how they saw his writings: the work of someone who did not write in their manner, a “Freebooter” like the bee. Indeed, at least in comparison with Lewis’s work, Joyce’s writing corresponds to that of the ancients, summarized by Aesop in The Battle of the Books: As for Us, the Antients, We are content with the Bee, to pretend to Nothing of our own, beyond our Wings and our Voice: that is to say, our Flights and our Language; For the rest, whatever we have got, has been by in‹nite Labor, and search, and ranging thro’ every Corner of Nature (Battle 151) Joyce’s reaction to Lewis’s early criticism in the “Dave the Dancekerl” episode was only a prelude to the “Freebooter’s” extensive answers to “The Enemy”: the fables of “The Mookse and the Gripes” and “The Ondt and the Gracehoper.” Against the background of the donation of the free boots and the battle between the moderns and the ancients, summarized by Aesop, it is not inconceivable that the idea to react to Lewis in the form of a fable was inspired by Swift, and not directly by Aesop or La Fontaine. With his analysis, Lewis tried to provoke a counterattack. That at least appears to be how Joyce interpreted his criticism, in response to which he

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wrote in his notebook: “bregard me / bas an / benemy” (VI.B.20:76[i]) and “bregard me / bas enemy” (VI.B.20:77[a]; JJA 57:248; BL 47483, 158; FW 469.23). But instead of allowing Lewis to force him into the position of the enemy’s enemy, Joyce nuanced both his and Lewis’s position.77 He employed his superb “craftsmanship” as a means of checkmating Lewis. After reading the critic’s “Analysis,” Joyce jotted phrases in his notebook and added reactions at various draft stages, such as the “diarrhio” in the sentence already cited: “And I see ^by his diarhio diarrhio^ he’s dropping the stammer out of his silenced bladder” (JJA 57:415; BL 47483, 21; FW 467.19).78 David Califf suggests that this Greco-Spanish hybrid is a loose reference to Pound’s frequent use of excremental imagery (Califf 134). Since the phraseology of the rest of this sentence came into being in response to Lewis’s attacks, it is also possible that this late addition was another reaction to Lewis. After having de‹ned Ulysses as “the very nightmare of the naturalistic method” and a “stupendous outpouring of matter, or stuff ” (Time 108), Lewis goes on to characterize the work: It is like a gigantic victorian quilt or antimacassar. Or it is the voluminous curtain that fell, belated (with the alarming momentum of a ton or two of personally organized rubbish), upon the victorian scene. So rich was its delivery, its pent-up outpouring so vehement, that it will remain, eternally cathartic, a monument like a record diarrhoea. (Time 109) Joyce cunningly replied to Lewis by making him the very supplier of the monumental “matter” of the Wake. He did so by redeploying the vocabulary of The Art of Being Ruled, and by adding to the Dancekerl episode when Lewis produced more “stuff” in The Enemy and Time and Western Man. No matter how outspoken Lewis’s opinions were, Joyce dismantled them in his notebooks and subsequently recycled the neutralized fragments in his own encyclopedic work. “oSobeit,” Joyce concluded in his notebook (VI.B.20:29), only to distort it immediately into “osoveit” and “Soviet!” (JJA 57:309; BL 47483, 91v), which announces the start of the fable of “The Ondt and the Gracehoper” (FW 414.14). “Some de‹nite articles of evolutionary clothing”: Joyce’s Literary Biology As Joyce suggests in his comparison of the letter with a lady, it is not interesting to “vision her plump and plain in her natural altogether.” At several

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instances in the Wake, Joyce appears as a truly Carlylian “sartor,” not only in the tale of Kersse the Tailor and the Norwegian Captain but also in other “taylor’s fablings” (FW 61.28) such as the fable of the Ondt and the Gracehoper. In answer to the question “how comes ever a body in our taylorised world” (FW 356.10–11), Joyce re-created the “veiled world” (FW 139.01) as “an outer husk” (FW 109.08): “It darkles, (tinct, tint) all this our funnaminal world. . . . We are circumveiloped by obscuritads” (FW 244.13–15). This way, “sartor’s risorted” (FW 314.17) and the “carlysle touch” (FW 517.22) are noticeable everywhere in the Wake—“Tawfulsdreck!” (FW 68.21). The most fascinating aspect by which Finnegans Wake distinguishes itself from most ‹ction is its irresistible “Silks apeel” (FW 508.29). If HCE has committed any “crime” at all, it must be voyeurism, and in this respect Finnegans Wake almost seems to be a continuation of Gerty McDowell’s performance in Ulysses as “she stripped teasily for binocular man” (FW 68.1–2). Every sentence, every single Wakean word that Joyce has woven, immediately incites the desire to see through it. It should not surprise us then that the Wake is a favorite subject for genetic criticism. Joyce, always keeping in mind the rule of thumb that the teasing part is much more exciting than the stripping, continued to add more articles to keep the professors busy for three hundred years, as he once claimed, according to the same network of rumors on which his book is based. Whereas Proust tried to see through the phenomenal world by locking himself up in his “ark” to ‹nd the essence of things, Joyce’s writing is essentially a re-creation79—“For Ark see Zoo” (FW 104.19–20). In order to make his work an Erscheinung, Joyce re-dressed it by making sure it was wearing “some de‹nite articles of evolutionary clothing.” Apparently, Joyce had a special interest in philosophies concerning illusion and representation. George Berkeley’s postulate that esse est percipi underlies one of the ‹rst sketches for Finnegans Wake, Kant’s concepts of “Erscheinung” and “Ding an sich” reappear several times in the Wake, and the idea that “the world’s a stage” is rightly mentioned by James Atherton as “one of Joyce’s favourite images for the world” (The Books at the Wake 149). How Fritz Mauthner—whose Critique of Language certainly deserves a place among the Books at the Wake80—‹ts into this list of philosophers is evident from the following passage: The human being ‹nds himself in the world as a spectator, as if in a theatre. And analogous to the special way of looking in a theater due to which the illusion on stage creates the effect of reality, we owe our

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illusion of knowledge to the special way of looking of the mind. Thought is man’s instrument of illusion. (Kritik 3:12) As early as 1903, Joyce wrote the following re›ection about Aristotle’s famous dictum, e tekhne mimeitai ten physin: “This phrase is falsely rendered as ‘Art is an imitation of Nature.’ Aristotle does not here de‹ne art; he says only, ‘Art imitates Nature’ and means that the artistic process is like the natural process.”81 This interpretation sheds light on Joyce’s apparent interest in the evolution of language. “That (1st word)” and “in beginning was / the sentence” (VI.B.46:55) are two notes among the entries in notebook VI.B.46 corresponding to Mauthner’s Kritik (3:47–48) and one of the Mauthner notes in notebook VI.B.41 is “in the word / was no beginning” (VI.B.41:269). In his attempt to carry empiricism to its ultimate conclusions, Mauthner argued that the evolution of our senses (which he calls Zufallssinne) is a coincidence and that our so-called laws of nature are valid only because the Zufallssinne of all human beings happen to have developed in the same way. As a consequence, our knowledge is inevitably anthropomorphic and so is our language, which Mauthner—and subsequently Wittgenstein82—compares to the rules of a game. The application of these rules is based on the assumption that the experience expressed for example by the word sweet is the same for all people participating in the game.83 Joyce’s interest in the evolution of language was not a late whimsical impulse. Among his Jespersen notes in notebook VI.B.2, the entry “good old days” (VI.B.2: 73) relates to a passage in Language: Its Nature, Development, and Origin, where Jespersen notes that some people tend to see language evolution as a corruption of the “good old” forms, whereas others regard it as a progress: People will often use the expressions “evolution” and “development” in connexion with language, but most linguists, when taken to task, will maintain that these expressions as applied to languages should be used without the implication . . . that there is a progressive tendency towards something better or nearer perfection.84 One of Joyce’s interests both in Jespersen and in Mauthner was their discussion of the hypothesis that an individual’s ontogenetic linguistic development re›ects the phylogenetic development of language. This interest is evidenced by several notes on children’s language. Both Jespersen and

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Mauthner also make a link between the development of language and Darwin’s theories on the origin of species and evolution by natural selection.85 Joyce noted for instance “struggle for / existence” (VI.B.41:235), corresponding to the following passage: Under the in›uence of currently prevalent ideas, we have come to the conclusion that the struggle for life . . . is responsible for the genesis of words and consequently for the development of language or thought. (Mauthner, Kritik 1:33–34) This connection between biological and linguistic evolution offers an interesting perspective in view of the references to Darwin’s ideas in Finnegans Wake86 and is compressed in the portmanteau “entymology” (FW 417.04). The development of this portmanteau can be retraced in the notebooks, starting from the Jespersen notes in notebook VI.B.2 (“knew his etymologics” (VI.B.2:73) to notebook VI.B.21: “etym / entomology / entymology” (VI.B.21:183). A masterly example of applied “entymology” (FW 417.04) in the Wake is the fable of the Ondt and the Gracehoper. One of the very ‹rst insects in this fable is based on a note from Jespersen’s chapter on children’s language, “›utterby” (VI.B.2:63)—a species that was present in the ‹rst draft but disappeared in the course of the writing process, while many other kinds of insects continued to be added to the manuscript.87 Since apparently one has to be a kind of entomologist or “curiosing entomophilust” (FW 107.12), rather than a “naif alphabetter” (FW 107.09) to understand the “proteiform graph,” it may be of interest to any reader of Finnegans Wake to study the insects in the fable of the Ondt and the Gracehoper, most of which were added in the spring of 1929.88 By means of these additions Joyce re-veiled the original versions of the fable so thoroughly that he wrote to Harriet Weaver on April 26, 1929: “You will scarcely recognise my fables now” (Letters 3:189). Signi‹cantly, Joyce read Otto Jespersen’s An International Language89 almost simultaneously with Mauthner’s critique of language. The combination of Jespersen’s optimistic “plea for an arti‹cial auxiliary language” and Mauthner’s sceptical nominalism re›ects the ambiguous nature of Joyce’s undertaking. Joyce saw Mauthner’s point that it is a delusion to think it is possible to invent an international auxiliary language (Kritik 2:67, 3:7); but he also knew that linguistic skepticism can only be expressed by means of language. Joyce was well aware of this paradox, and

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so was Mauthner. On the ‹rst pages of his Kritik he admits that he is “writing a book against language in a rigid language” (1:2). Since one cannot do without words to express one’s distrust of them, the author ‹nds himself in an absurd position. But instead of dramatizing this Sisyphean situation, Joyce took advantage of it. Because language always changes,90 never reaches a perfect state, but simply evolves and keeps rolling back, he deliberately recycled words from Mauthner’s self-critical language to use them in his own revolution of language in much the same way as he had recuperated the vocabulary of Lewis’s criticism. “And Suggestive, Too, of So Very Much More”: Dead Ends in the Work’s Progress When Joyce asked France Raphael in 1933 to copy the un-crossed-out entries from the B-notebooks, he may have foreseen that she would not be able to read all of his notes. This leads Ian MacArthur to conclude that Joyce deliberately called in Raphael in order to distort his own notebook material: It is one of Joyce’s techniques following the commonplace idea that dreams are distortions of everyday life. The notebook units represent such life. At ‹rst (during the early stages of composition) Joyce is content to rearrange them. Later he distorts them more and more, making them less easy to recognize. Finally he uses the accidental mistranscriptions. (“Mutant units” 76–77) Danis Rose, however, gives several examples of units that were distorted in Raphael’s transcription and subsequently restored by Joyce, for example the entry “I’d love a dress of that / Eve to Satan” (VI.B.11:115), which becomes “I’d love a day of that Eve td Satan” in Raphael’s transcription (VI.C.1:173). Joyce apparently remembered that the original had to do with clothing and changed the “day” into a “dress” again.91 Wherever Joyce did copy the distorted transcription, it was either because Joyce accepted that the unit “was botched beyond recall and gave up” (Rose, Textual Diaries 176) or because he “took Raphael’s innocent-looking but erroneous element at face value and transferred it uncorrected into his text” (177). Rose therefore disagrees with MacArthur’s interpretation of the avant-texte “on fundamental grounds” (180), for he argues that the notebooks should not be regarded as part of the draft record. There are a few instances in the draft record where Rose’s hypothesis

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seems to be con‹rmed, for example on page 41 of notebook VI.C.05, where Joyce added the word “Corbelly” between the lines, apparently to reconstruct the original of what Raphael transcribed as “Carbely.” Rose’s examples of “restored” units clearly show that Joyce did not incorporate all of Raphael’s distortions in the text, and it would be an overinterpretation to conclude that Raphael’s transcriptions were planned as a systematical technique of distortion. Nevertheless, the matter is too ambiguous to allow a clear stance. Joyce did appreciate several other “distortions,” which seems to indicate that he allowed some sort of (anti)collaboration to become part of his work, to such an extent that he even thematized this textual variant of Darwinian “descent with modi‹cation” at several instances in the Wake, for example in the Quinet variations. As Ingeborg Landuyt and Geert Lernout have shown, the Quinet theme is not derived directly from Edgar Quinet’s Introduction à la philosophie de l’histoire de l’humanité, but from a variation in the form of an inaccurate quotation by Léon Metchnikoff.92 Joyce appropriately incorporated the (almost) verbatim quote (FW 281.4–13) immediately after the children’s History Lesson. At a late stage in the writing process of this History Lesson, Joyce added a short passage (FW 274.13–275.02), the last paragraph of Storiella As She Is Syung (II.2–subsection 3B), drafted late in 1934, for the composition of which he applied an extraordinary working method, carrying his constructive “craftsmanship” to its utmost conclusion. This short episode is another example of the veiling process that is characteristic of Joyce’s writing. From several sources, he excerpted passages in notebooks, which he asked Raphael to copy. As it happens, Raphael ‹lled notebook C.10 with notes from notebooks B.28, B.26, B.23, and D.5. On the basis of this accidental collection, Joyce wove a new text, thereby effacing the original context and meaning of the entries completely. Mme Raphael simply started a new notebook whenever the previous one was full. The last entry of notebook VI.C.09 (“his sitting was upon”) and the ‹rst entry of notebook VI.C.10 (“green scarlet”) correspond with the third and fourth entry on page 93 of notebook VI.B.28. Joyce was undoubtedly aware of the arti‹ciality of the new division created by Raphael’s transcription. Yet he allowed the arbitrary new organization of the notebook material to have an in›uence on the short passage at issue, since the syntagmatic structure of the ‹rst draft (JJA 52:121) is largely determined by the sequence of entries in the notebook. This ‹rst draft of the paragraph, which neatly ‹ts on one page, seems to be nothing more than a compilation of the following thirty-three entries

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from C.10, in the sequence of their appearance in the notebook. The ‹rst eight entries are derived from notebook VI.B.28, the rest from notebook VI.B.26: 1. VI.C.10: 1(k) 2. VI.C.10: 3(d) 3. VI.C.10: 4(k) 4. VI.C.10: 7(e) 5. VI.C.10: 7(g) 6. VI.C.10: 7(j) 7. VI.C.10: 8(j) 8. VI.C.10: 14(j) 9. VI.C.10: 59(a) 10. VI.C.10: 73(e) 11. VI.C.10: 86(b) 12. VI.C.10: 91(g) 13. VI.C.10: 91(j) 14. VI.C.10: 92(e) 15. VI.C.10: 94(b) 16. VI.C.10: 95(m) 17. VI.C.10: 98(m) 18. [VI.C.10: 100(f)] 19. VI.C.10: 103(f) 20. VI.C.10: 104(i) 21. VI.C.10: 108(h) 22. VI.C.10: 109(j) 23. VI.C.10: 111(b) 24. VI.C.10: 116(g) 25. VI.C.10: 127(e) 26. VI.C.10: 133(i) 27. VI.C.10: 136(e) 28. VI.C.10: 142(c) 29. VI.C.10: 142(k) 30. VI.C.10: 144(c) 31. VI.C.10: 144(d) 32. VI.C.10: 147(k) 33. VI.C.10: 147(l) The ‹rst seven pages of the notebook (1[k]: “leafeth earlier / than every growth”; 3[d]: “May it be well / with you”; 4[k]: “ever and ever”; 7[e]:

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“what the demons”; 7[g]: “they were all / shooting”) provided the basic sentence structure of the ‹rst draft: (may all be well with it) that datetree which leafeth earlier than every growth wondering what the demons they were all shooting about The complete ‹rst draft (JJA 52:122; BL 47478, 232) is a reshuf›ed version of the list of notes from notebook VI.C.10 in the following sequence: 2–9–16–19–7–3–1–10–20–8–17–27–21-22–25–11–4–12–13–14–15– 23–26–24–5–6–28–29–30–31–32–33. The “shooting” is something Joyce took over from Raphael; the original entry in VI.B.28 is “what the demons they were all shouting.” The other elements were added one by one as Joyce leafed through the notebook and picked up what he thought he could use. At ‹rst sight, the draft history of this short passage only reveals a rather gratuitous compilation of words, and genetic research does not elucidate much more than that some of the notes are units from the vocabulary list, the result of Joyce’s sixty-four lessons in Flemish during his stay in Belgium in 1926: “tocoming” is derived from “futur = toekomende” (9) and “the howmanyeth” is a literal translation of “le quantième = den hoeveelsten” (11). Perhaps the result (the ‹fteen-line passage in Finnegans Wake) does not make much sense in itself, but in this case, that might have been precisely the purpose. Joyce’s writing never explains, but applies what it is about. This passage is an addition to the History Lesson. One of the entries in VI.C.10 (“history repeating itself”) as well as the context of the section (the boys studying history) explain the idea underlying this passage, which is fundamental since Joyce was in the process of writing a history of the world.93 According to Sylvia Beach, Joyce compared history to that parlor game where someone whispers something to the person next to him, who repeats it not very distinctly to the next person, and so on until, by the time the last person hears it, it comes out completely transformed. (185) The very idea to entrust Raphael with the transcription of his notebooks may have been prompted simply by his bad eyesight. But given the author’s self-awareness, it does not seem inconceivable that, as the Cnotebooks became a separate stage in the writing history of Finnegans Wake, Joyce thematized this process by giving it a place in the history les-

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son. Whether or not Joyce remembered the original source of every single entry in Mme Raphael’s transcriptions is somewhat irrelevant in this case, for the arbitrary manner in which he assembled entries from only one Cnotebook indicates that, in this case, Joyce was not so much interested in the original meaning of the entries he chose, but rather in the contingency characterizing both the textual history and history in general.94 With reference to the Wake’s writing process Vicki Mahaffey argues that Joyce poses a particular problem for the editor because he situates many of his character’s thoughts and utterances on the line between wanting to “bring forth” a word or idea and wanting to suppress it. This con›ict produces meaningful error (a “Freudian slip”), which should not be regularized or brought into conformity with a standard. What this error has the power to represent in miniature is the con›ict between an individual’s “ideal purpose” and its incompatibility with historical contingency—our inability to ensure the realization of that purpose in exactly the form in which it was conceived. (185; emphasis added) The textual aspect of this historical contingency is due to the inevitable fact that an author has to rely on assistants, typists, printers, and other cooperators. What needs to be investigated, then, is to what extent the modernist authors under discussion accepted this inevitability or even welcomed these contingencies. When the narrator in À la recherche du temps perdu compares writing to making a dress and mentions the pieces of paper that Françoise calls “paperoles,” she almost appears as a coauthor. Similarly, one may indeed ask to what extent Proust’s own housekeeper and amanuensis Céleste Albaret may claim part of the authorship of the Recherche. With reference to Joyce, Inge Landuyt has shown that several entries from notebook VI.B.16 were “mutilated in the transcription by France Raphael” in VI.C.1 and “became unrecognisable deformations in Finnegans Wake” (“Shaun and His Post” 25). Apparently, Joyce was well aware of the sociological aspects of the production process and of the possibility of transmissional departures. Whereas the focus on the sociological aspects of the production process tends to minimize the role of the author, the fact that Joyce was conscious of those aspects of his work paradoxically increases the impor-

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tance of his role as an author. This may be evident with reference to “volitional errors,”95 denoting both the transformation of the textual material due to collaborators, and the author’s readiness to integrate those changes. But evidently, the author’s awareness of transmissional departures does not yet imply his readiness to integrate all errors. For no matter how delighted Proust might have been to see how his English-speaking typist, Miss Hayward, changed his “salade de truffes” into a “salade de trè›es,” he did not force his characters to eat it by allowing his typist to change this item in the menu of the dinner with Norpois.96 Although the transition from one trend to another is often a gradual process, it tends to be presented—retrospectively—as a breach with previous conceptions. Such a breach has to be marked by a decisive moment. Peter Robinson illustrates this phenomenon with the case of Bishop Wilberforce’s question to T. H. Huxley whether he was descended from an ape on his mother’s or his father’s side, and T. H. Huxley’s alleged reply that he would “rather be descended from an ape than a Bishop who so misused his intelligence”: As Darwinism triumphed, there needed to be a decisive instant when the forces of scienti‹c right faced down and crushed the forces of dogmatic wrong: Huxley’s retort to Wilberforce, regardless of what actually was said and how it was actually received, became that instant. (“Is There a Text?” 103) With reference to the study of Joyce’s writings, a similar decisive instance, marking the rise of literary sociology, is the frequent reference to the anecdote of the immortal words “Come in!” allegedly dictated and noted down by two of the greatest authors of the twentieth century: Once or twice [Joyce] dictated a bit of Finnegans Wake to Beckett, though dictation did not work very well for him; in the middle of one such session there was a knock at the door which Beckett didn’t hear. Joyce said, “Come in,” and Beckett wrote it down. Afterwards he read back what he had written and Joyce said, “What’s that ‘Come in’?” “Yes, you said that,” said Beckett. Joyce thought for a moment, then said, “Let it stand.” He was quite willing to accept coincidence as his collaborator. Beckett was fascinated and thwarted by Joyce’s singular method. (Ellmann 649)

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As in the case mentioned by Robinson, it is the “aftertext” that makes the phrase “Come in” important. Apparently, there is no such sentence in Finnegans Wake, not even in the manuscripts, but nevertheless it has become part of what Fred Higginson calls “the nimbus of adventitious creation [which] has for many years been an important element in the hagiography” (Higginson, Text 125). It serves as the shortest way to describe Joyce’s readiness to integrate coincidental material, making use of helpers such as Beckett, and incorporating whatever he happened to come across, which adds to the symbolism of the simple phrase “Come in” as a hospitable welcome by the great wordmaker to any con‹guration of letters that was willing to stay at the Wake. Joyce’s tolerance with regard to transmissional modi‹cations should not be exaggerated and does not apply to any typing error. When the ‹rst excerpt of Work in Progress to be published in the Criterion came back from the typist, Joyce wrote to Weaver that it was in such bad shape that he had to chop it up and “sew it up again.”97 Nevertheless, the fact that he incorporated several of his French-speaking amanuensis’s distortions implies a willingness to absorb certain changes made by others, and perhaps this willingness, rather than the author’s last will or his ‹nal intentions, may serve as a guiding principle to edit a work’s production process. The realization that both his intentions and his texts have changed several times during the writing process (often due to external impulses), may have enhanced the author’s awareness of his inability to ensure the achievement of his intentions. This awareness implies an acceptance of the inevitability of transmissional departures, even though it is dif‹cult for any author to reconcile himself completely to this fact. After all, Joyce’s list of errata, added in a second printing of the ‹rst Faber edition, may be interpreted as a ‹nal attempt to have the last word. History is just as much about remembrance as about oblivion. Some historical facts are forgotten, either deliberately or unconsciously. Even during the ‹rst transmission of the short “history” passage (JJA 52:123; BL 47478, 234) a few words (“right enough” and “put through to Kismet”) were lost. Perhaps Joyce omitted these words on purpose, but their loss may also be due to the chaotic writing method applied in the ‹rst draft. This omission is a minor detail, but it is not an isolated incident. A most remarkable example is the last sentence of the Wake, which lacks the words “a lost,” lost in the transmission from the third typescript of the last section of book IV to the next draft stage.98 As early as 1972, Fred Higginson suggested working out what he called a “developmental variorum,

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to the end of a ‹nal text more chronologically eclectic than Scholes’ or Anderson’s editions of the earlier works” (Text 128). The ‹rst item in Higginson’s list of what this “developmental variorum” should account for are “‘Lost’ passages and words” (129). In the meantime, this call has been answered,99 even though the primary concern is no longer the restoration of the text. Another example of a lost word is an addition on the “missing” and rediscovered typescripts described by Richard Brown.100 In the ‹rst draft of the “Tristan and Isolde” sketch Joyce incorporated a literal quote of Byron’s famous line “Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll” (JJA 56:2; BL 47481, 94). In later draft stages this line was heavily distorted until it became “Rolando’s deepen darblun Ossian roll” (FW 385.35–36), but the rhythm of the pentameter remained unchanged. On the rediscovered typescript, however, the rhythm is disturbed by the addition “andamp” (“Rollon thoudeep ^andamp^ anddark blueo ceanroll”). It seems important to indicate in an edition that at some point in the writing process, Joyce disrupted the pentameter; on the other hand, he did eventually maintain the form of the pentameter, which would be lost forever if the revision were restored. The question whether all these forgotten or lost words should be reincorporated in the text could lead to endless discussion. But if the textual history of the Wake may be interpreted as a re›ection of Joyce’s view on history as a parlor game, the focus does not have to be so exclusively on the ‹nal text. The parlor game does not end with the last person saying aloud his or her version of the whispered sentence. The point of the whole game is to compare this result with what the ‹rst person whispered and to reconstruct the process of transformations.

Chapter 7

Thomas Mann’s Doktor Faustus

THE “MAKING OF” VERSUS DIE ENTSTEHUNG: CHRONOLOGICAL ACCOUNT OF THE WRITING PROCESS In the year of Joyce’s death, Harry Levin wrote a critical introduction to his works that was published as part of a series devoted to “The Makers of Modern Literature.” Thomas Mann read the essay in February 1942 and called it “an excellent book” when he ‹nished it early in March. The reason for this appraisal, however, may have had to do with Levin’s comments on Mann rather than on Joyce (TB March 2, 1942). Joyce had been one of Mann’s most serious competitors in the top ‹ve of greatest modernist writers. Now that Joyce was dead, Mann discovered “a brother” in the Irish writer. Thanks to Harry Levin, he also seems to have made a more important discovery. Among the passages that Mann read with “great interest” (TB March 2, 1942), the ‹fth chapter, entitled “Montage,” is of special importance with regard to Mann’s own montage technique, applied in Doktor Faustus. In this ‹fth chapter Levin compares Joyce’s prose to movie techniques: “Bloom’s mind is neither a tabula rasa nor a photographic plate, but a motion picture, which has been ingeniously cut and carefully edited. . . . The movement of Joyce’s style, the thought of his characters, is like unreeling ‹lm; his method of construction, the arrangement of this raw material, involves the crucial operation of montage” (Levin 82). This comparison is applicable in particular to the “Oxen of the Sun” episode in Ulysses, written in the form of a concentrated recapitulation of the history of English prose. Levin quotes a few samples from Joyce’s impersonations of an Anglo-Saxon bard, Thomas Malory, Thomas Browne, Dickens, and 115

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Carlyle, and concludes: “Joyce’s shifts from sober reality to bewildering richness, his transitions from the objective to the subjective and back—in the opinion of Sergei Eisenstein, the ‹lm director and brilliant exponent of montage—constitute one of the most effective applications of this technique” (96). This montage technique also proved to be suitable for the encyclopedic ambitions of Joyce’s last project. In The Aesthetics of Chaosmos, Umberto Eco demonstrates that Joyce has adopted a medieval model in his works. Since art—for the medieval thinker—is a way of reproducing “the universal rules of cosmic order” (7), the numerous creatures and objects have to be cataloged ‹rst in an encyclopedic way, and only then an attempt can be made “to explain the form of the universe”—but not without help, for the medieval thinker “must always be guaranteed the pledge of an Auctoritas” (10). This way, the romantic concept of a text’s authority is completely reversed by the medieval notion of auctoritas. From the medieval habit of quoting in order to demonstrate, Joyce acquired the taste for quotation at any cost, even if camou›aged quotation. Finnegans Wake, even more than Ulysses, can be seen in its entirety as an immense catalogue of authoritative quotations, a Walpurgisnacht of philosophy à rebours. (11) With an equally ambitious project at the back of his mind, Thomas Mann read in Levin’s essay about the “encyclopedic sweep of Earwicker’s fantasies” (148). Possibly stimulated by his reading of Levin’s essay, Mann hit upon the idea of applying the montage technique to an old literary subject that thematizes the hunger for encyclopedic knowledge: Faust. Mann had been rereading Goethe’s Faust with regular intervals during the previous year, starting on May 4, 1941. During the next months he spent several nights1 reading Goethe’s masterpieces, “with admiration” (TB September 21, 1941). After having read Harry Levin in February and March, he continued his reading of Goethe’s Faust on March 3, 1942. Hardly any direct reference is made to this great model in Doktor Faustus, although—or precisely because—Goethe’s literary status was probably the main urge to write his own Faust: Mann’s novel had to become a sovereign twentieth-century counterpart. The last reference to Goethe’s Faust in the diaries is on January 3, 1943, and apparently Mann did not consult it again until the writing of Doktor Faustus was well under way. Instead, his attention focused on an older Faust, the so-called Volksbuch that marks the

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start of the Faust tradition, published in 1587 under the heading Historia von D. Johann Fausten by Johann Spies in Frankfurt am Main. On March 15, 1943, only two days after having ‹nished Das Gesetz, Mann wrote a letter to Gustave Arlt, a professor of German literature at the University of California, Los Angeles, asking him for a copy of this Volksbuch. Two weeks later, Mann received a copy, edited by Robert Petsch. He immediately started reading the introduction and made notes regarding the structure and some details of D. Johann Faust’s story, such as the duration and the conditions of the pact with the devil, including the prohibition against loving anyone and the impossibility of escape from the devil. After having made a link between the term of twenty-four years and the incubation period of dementia paralytica caused by syphilis (which had amounted to twenty-‹ve years in Schumann’s case and twenty-two years in Nietzsche’s), Mann copied a large number of passages from the Volksbuch. In order to work up the subject, Mann also read Luther’s commentary on the Apocalypse (Die Entstehung, GW 11:169) and copied passages from Luther’s letters (Voss 75). Gradually, Mann came up with the notion of “montage” that he illustrated in a famous letter to Theodor Adorno (December 30, 1945; Dichter 61) by describing how he incorporated the symptoms of Nietzsche’s illness on the basis of excerpts from the philosopher’s correspondence. Mann referred to Molière to illustrate the principle of montage in general, but in more speci‹c cases he did not always specify where he had found what he needed for his novel. Major source texts such as Ernst Bertram’s Nietzsche: Versuch einer Mythologie (Berlin, 1918), Paul J. Möbius’s Nietzsche (Leipzig, 1909), and Wilhelm Waetzoldt’s Dürer und seine Zeit (3d ed., Vienna, 1936) are not mentioned in Die Entstehung des Doktor Faustus. Harry Levin’s essay does occur in this account of the making-of, but not as one of the books that Mann read before the actual writing. The context in which Levin’s essay is mentioned (GW 11:204–5) gives the impression that Mann read it in the summer of 1944 (when he had already written about twenty chapters). The ‹rst Faber and Faber edition of James Joyce: A Critical Introduction was indeed published in 1944, and this fact may have prompted Gunilla Bergsten to conclude that Mann already had a clear structure and writing method in mind at the time he read Levin’s essay (Bergsten 141). In reality, Mann read the essay in the American edition about one year before he started writing Doktor Faustus, and at that time, he had not yet conceived the novel’s technical peculiarities (such as the montage technique). The Entstehung, therefore, appears

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to be more of a diversionary tactic than an accurate account of the working process. Although this account is not to be taken at face value, it will not be avoided in the following genetic study, the purpose of which is partly to discover why this Roman eines Romans 2 is at times deliberately deceptive. The subtitle as well as the motto from Goethe’s Dichtung und Wahrheit suggest one should not expect the whole truth and nothing but the truth. An author’s intentions are not to be confused with his own statements about his work, and Mann’s information in Die Entstehung is, indeed, doubtful from the start. In the ‹rst edition of this account, Mann notes: “Going through old notes in the morning,” I have down for the 27th. “Dug up the three-line outline of the Dr. Faust of 1901. Association with the Tonio Kröger period, the Munich days, the neverrealized plans for The Lovers and Maya.” (Story of a Novel 17–18) First of all the date was not March 27 but “17. März 43” according to Thomas Mann’s notes for Die Entstehung des Doktor Faustus in the Thomas-Mann-Archiv in Zürich (Mp XI 7b: 2).3 The diaries also mention March 17 as the day on which Mann rediscovered the famous “three-line outline.”4 Second, Mann claims the ‹rst Doktor Faustus note dated from 1901, whereas according to Hans Wysling and Yvonne Schmidlin it probably dates from 1904 (NB 7.138). Third, although in Die Entstehung Mann gives the impression that he suddenly discovered these old notes after having forgotten about them for forty-two years (GW 11:155–56), the ideas for Doktor Faustus (originally conceived as a novella) were already at the back of his mind while he was working on the Joseph tetralogy in the thirties. According to his diary, he even consulted his old notebooks during this period and bumped into the ‹rst Faustus notes: “Searched in old . . . notes regarding my relationship with P. E. in connection with the idea for the novella The Lovers [Die Geliebten]. . . . I also rediscovered the ‹rst note for the plan that underlies ‘Joseph’: the Faust novella” (TB May 6, 1934). “P. E.” is Paul Ehrenberg. Mann’s relationship with this artist during the ‹rst years of the twentieth century was to be the basis for the novella Die Geliebten,5 a love story about a married woman (Adelaide) and a young artist (Rudolf Müller), ending tragically with a murder out of jealousy. Hans Wysling calls Mann’s relationship with Ehrenberg a “life experiment” (“Zu Thomas Manns ‘Maja’-Projekt” 27). Paul Ehrenberg

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seems to have been to Mann what Rudi Schwerdtfeger is to Adrian Leverkühn in Doktor Faustus: the man in whose presence he “experienced human warmth for the ‹rst time in his life” (GW 6:579). For Hans Rudolf Vaget, this is reason enough to read “homoerotic” artist instead of “syphilitic” artist (391)—as Leverkühn is called in the “three-line outline.” Although this outline is generally considered to be the ‹rst germ of Doktor Faustus, Vaget concludes that the author’s most personal emotional problems were the very ‹rst seeds. Vaget’s suggestion indicates the problematic nature of a strict separation between the seed of the idea for Doktor Faustus and the fertile ground in which the idea germinated. On June 27, 1948, Mann wrote in his diary that he had been thinking about his relationship with Paul Ehrenberg and its veiled incorporation in the novel.6 The next day, he started writing Die Entstehung, in which he conceals Paul Ehrenberg’s name but presents the “three-line outline” as dating from the period of his close friendship with him, thus veiling and at the same time unveiling the “real” ‹rst germ (according to Vaget), mixing up reality and ‹ction, as was his usual practice. The year 1901 was the expositio of his emotionally rather tragic homoerotic experience, which ended in 1905 with his marriage to Katia Pringsheim. The peripety of this “tragedy” was Mann’s exceptionally straightforward letter to Paul Ehrenberg (January 28, 1902), in which he writes about his loneliness and asks his friend: “Do pay me a visit.” Two days later, Ehrenberg indeed came to visit Mann (NB 7.62), and shortly afterward, Mann transposed the letter and Ehrenberg’s visit to his novella. On page 69 of Notizbuch 7 he wrote: “It is possible that she . . . has done more harm than good by writing the letter.” In this note, it is no longer “I” but “she,” the female protagonist of his novella Die Geliebten, who has written the letter. Hans Wysling has summed up a whole series of notes in the early notebooks (especially NB 7) about the relationship between Adelaide and Rudolf, which Thomas Mann has used forty years later to describe the relationship between Ines Institoris-Rodde and Rudi Schwerdtfeger as well as the one between Rudi and Adrian Leverkühn. In these sketches and descriptions in Notizbuch 7, “Rudolf” and “P.” are mixed up, which illustrates the extremely high degree of interrelation in Mann’s notes between reality and ‹ction: “reality transformed into ‹ction, ‹ction that absorbs the real, and thus a strangely protean and attractive mingling of the spheres” (Story of a Novel 33; GW 11:166). As a consequence, even the most private of Mann’s feelings toward Paul Ehrenberg—“I love you! My God . . . I love you!” (NB 7.52)—is level-headedly commented upon

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by Hans Wysling and Yvonne Schmidlin, who mention all the instances in Mann’s ‹ction where he recycled this declaration of love.7 The question why Thomas Mann did not ‹nish Die Geliebten has to do with the genesis of Tonio Kröger. The concept of this novella dates from September 1899. The title already occurs in Notizbuch 3.33ff., among the notes he made shortly after his trip to Denmark. Since this title reoccurs on page 81 of Notizbuch 7, only twelve pages after the notes on the letter to Paul Ehrenberg, it seems plausible that at that time (1902–3) Thomas Mann thought the original material for Die Geliebten could better take shape in the Tonio Kröger novella, and to a lesser extent in other works, such as in Die Hungernden and Ein Glück. In the meantime, the original material was extended with all kinds of additional plots and minor characters. Mann was considering this material for a kind of society novel. This project, for which he prepared the caricatures of the literary salons that later found their way into Doktor Faustus (Salon Rodde, Salon Schlaginhaufen, and the Kridwiß-Kreis), was entitled “Maja” (NB 7.154); it is mentioned at the beginning of the second chapter of Death in Venice as one of the works by Gustav Aschenbach (GW 8:450). “Maja” refers to Schopenhauer’s Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, whose philosophy had a great in›uence on Mann, albeit colored by his reading of Nietzsche, who had also cast a shade over Mann’s relation to Wagner. Therefore, these three great minds are inextricably bound up with each other; Mann called them his “Dreigestirn.” In his essay on Schopenhauer,8 Mann explicitly mentioned that his view on Schopenhauer had been in›uenced by Nietzsche (GW 9:561). In Schopenhauer’s opinion only art, particularly music, was able to unveil the illusion of the phenomenal world, whereas the “Zauberer” Mann emphasized the power of art to create an illusion or to weave its own veil of Maya. Eventually Mann wove his Doktor Faustus instead of the “richly patterned tapestry entitled Maya,” which he credited to the ‹ctitious Gustav Aschenbach. But before he completely abandoned the “Maya” project, Mann kept referring to this motif,9 until he ‹nally decided to work out the theme of illusion in the Bekenntnisse des Hochstaplers Felix Krull. This decision may have been inspired by Manolescu’s memoirs, which Thomas Mann read in 1905 or 1906. From these memoirs, Mann copied the sentence “‘Mundus vult decipi’ (S. Manolescu II 112–115!),” mentioning the source—which he normally did not do—and made an explicit link with the concept of the veil of maya.10 Thomas Mann started writing Die Bekenntnisse des Hochstaplers Felix Krull in January 1910, but abandoned the fragment to start

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writing Der Tod in Venedig in August 1911. Decades later, in 1943, when he took up the notes and ideas for the “Maya” project again in Doktor Faustus, he was well aware of the long journey the original idea had made (Entstehung, GW 11:157). For a short time (in March 1943), Mann hesitated between taking up the old Krull fragment again or writing Doktor Faustus. After having ‹nished the Joseph tetralogy and the novella Das Gesetz (TB March 13, 1943), Mann seems to have found himself in a void. In Die Entstehung, he quotes from his diary (March 17, 1943): “Only now do I realize what it means to be without the Joseph work” (Story 18; GW 11:156). His wife seems to have done the best she could to get him back to work. Four days later, Mann wrote in his diary that she suggested he take up Felix Krull again, which accords with his account in Die Entstehung (GW 11:157). Nevertheless, because Mann only picks out a few well-selected quotes from his diaries, this little “crisis” seems worse than it may have been. In Die Entstehung, Mann does not mention that already on the day after he ‹nished Das Gesetz, he was thinking of the old Faustus plan and he tried to ‹nd some reading matter on the subject (TB March 14, 1943).11 The next day he spent some time searching for old Faustus material, and on March 17, he found the “three-line outline” and other sketches. Most of the material he used for Doktor Faustus is preserved in the Thomas-Mann-Archiv in Zurich. Apart from Mann’s personal library, the archive also preserves a portfolio (divided into six folders) with “Material für Faustus,” containing 116 items (articles, brochures, notes, concert programmes, etc.). The early dates (1934, 1935, 1936) of several articles in these folders, such as “Die Wunder der Meerestiefe” (Mat. 6/108) and the articles on Nietzsche (Mat. 6/18, 6/112, 6/113), seem to indicate that, while Mann was writing his Joseph tetralogy, he was already collecting information and vaguely preparing something that at that time was not yet called Doktor Faustus. He may not have taken notes during that period, but some of his reading is remarkably focused on Nietzsche’s life, which— in retrospect—is not unimportant with reference to Doktor Faustus. A good example is Paul Julius Möbius’s book Nietzsche,12 in which Mann was reading while he was still working on the Joseph manuscript (TB October 28, 1942). After having copied the “three line plan” in his Doktor Faustus notes, Thomas Mann roughly sketched the outlines of the book as he saw it in the spring of 1943.13 The feeling of euphoria (as a symptom of the artist’s disease) that is emphasized in this sketch clearly refers to what Mann had been reading during the preceding months in

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Möbius’s book on Nietzsche, as is evidenced by the marked passages in Mann’s copy (Möbius 110). The cause of the disease, Leverkühn’s ‹rst experience with Hetaera Esmeralda, takes place in Leipzig. Möbius notes “dass Nietzsche schon in Leipzig geschlechtlichen Verkehr gehabt habe” [that Nietzsche had already had sexual intercourse in Leipzig] (49). The passage is underlined by Thomas Mann, and he has written a question mark in the margin, indicating that this was the ‹rst time he learned about this fact. It may have in›uenced the decision to let Leverkühn go to Leipzig in order to extend the parallel with Nietzsche’s life. Another aspect Mann apparently did not know about Nietzsche until he read it in Möbius’s book was that the philosopher’s migraine was one of the ‹rst symptoms of his syphilitic softening of the brain. On page 2, Möbius notes that Nietzsche suffered from migraine. Mann underlined the word Migräne and wrote in the margin, “Gehört schon dazu?” [Already part of it?]—suggesting again that this was the ‹rst time he had read about this symptom. During the two months of note taking preceding the actual writing of Doktor Faustus, Mann made frequent use of his early notebooks. A substantial number of entries from the old notebooks are copied in the Notizenkonvolut,14 such as the notes on pages 87–93,15 excerpted from the preparations for Die Geliebten in Notizbuch 7. In these early notes, Nietzsche’s name appears several times. The Doktor Faustus version “for good reasons avoids mention of Nietzsche’s name,”16 since Leverkühn is modeled after Nietzsche. During the writing process, therefore, Mann quite systematically removed most of the explicit references to the syphilitic philosopher.17 It is signi‹cant that Mann copied so many old notes almost literally before incorporating them in the text. The nature of these autoexcerpts does not differ from the excerpts from Luther and the Volksbuch (also taken down during the two months of preparation preceding the actual writing). This analogy seems to con‹rm the hypothesis that, through Zeitblom, Mann parodied his own style.18 Coincidental Sources in the First Stages of the Writing Process A few texts that Mann simply happened to read during the preparatory and earliest stages of the writing process may have in›uenced the course of this process. One of the ‹rst documents in the “Materialmappen” is the article on Beissel by Hans Theodore David.19 This article is an important, though apparently coincidental,20 source for Doktor Faustus that Thomas Mann

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read in June–July 1943 (Entstehung, GW 11:170), and which he must have decided soon afterward to use in chapter 8, since this chapter was written during the late summer and fall of the same year.21 One of the passages he marked in this article is the following: Beissel’s rhythm was more interesting than his melody and harmony. His naive rationalization did not venture to deal with this part of theory. He followed closely the rhythm of the words, giving longer notes to the accented syllables, shorter ones to the unaccented, but he did not establish an unchanged relation between long and short notes, and thus kept a great ›exibility of meter. (David, “Hymns and Music of the Pennsylvania Seventh-day Baptists” 5; Mat. 6/7) It is interesting that Mann also underlined a passage concerning this musical practice in the sixth chapter (“Atonality”) of Ernst Krenek’s Music Here and Now: History teaches us that for long eras music was organized along the lines of linguistic prose, so there can hardly be any fundamental objection to the adoption of the same principle by new music. (Krenek 150) Thomas Mann apparently took an interest in this historical fact, for the same idea recurs more than once in the avant-texte and the ‹nal version of Doktor Faustus, for instance in the description of “Apocalipsis cum ‹guris”: Thus the elder art did not know rhythm as music later understood it. Song was set according to the metrical laws of speech, it did not run articulated by bars and musical periods; rather it obeyed the spirit of free recitation. And how is it with the rhythm of our, the latest, music? Has it too not moved nearer to a verbal accent? (Doctor Faustus 376; GW 6:499) In a typescript version of this description, Zeitblom writes: “Großer Gott, warum fällt der Mann, warum fällt Beissel mir ein?” [My God, why does this remind me of Beissel?].22 This free association is materialized in one of Mann’s notes and illustrates the analogy between Zeitblom’s and Mann’s writing methods. The note from which the above quote is derived (NK

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120) is written in faded blue-black ink; in turquoise ink Thomas Mann has inserted the name “Beissel” at a later stage (NK 120).23 This note was not only used for Zeitblom’s description of “Apocalypsis cum ‹guris” (GW 6:499), it also corresponds to a passage introducing Kretzschmar’s elaboration on Beissel (Doktor Faustus, ‹rst edition, 103). This passage was eventually suppressed. After the ‹rst edition, Mann (together with his daughter Erika) cut his novel by some forty pages (GW 11:282), and afterward by ten more pages. The cuts are mostly theoretical or technical passages on music, suggesting that he used the theoretical parts as a kind of scaffolding, which he removed after having ‹nished the building of his book. Referring to Andres Briner, who discovered the Beissel source, Theodor Karst shows exactly how much Mann has (often almost literally) taken from David’s article, to the extent that one is almost tempted to call the Beissel passage (GW 6:88–93) a translation. Gunilla Bergsten’s selection of citations aims at showing Mann’s extreme ‹delity to the original (104). But as John F. Fetzer points out, “[I]t remains Mann’s deftness in the process of the intertextual transfer operation that matters and that should concern the critic, not the mere identi‹cation of the source text or the degree of ‹delity to the original” (52). It is indeed remarkable how Mann managed to adapt such a large number of intertextual references and quotations, in such a way that they ‹t seamlessly into his text. The adaptations he made are often additions. David explains that Beissel followed the example of Johann Kelpius “and went into the wilderness to lead a solitary life. Soon a number of followers surrounded him, and instead of retiring from the world, he became the head of a community which, under his uncompromising leadership, developed into an isolated sect” (David, “Hymns” 5). In Doktor Faustus, Mann leaves out Kelpius’s name, but compensates for this loss of information with an improvisation on Beissel (GW 6:89). By making this passage twice as long as the original, Mann turned it into one of his typically long sentences, perhaps even too typical, by slightly exaggerating the circumstantial description. The passage quoted above illustrates that Mann used his narrator Serenus Zeitblom to parody his own style, especially its richness and heaviness, creating—on a microlevel—the same effect as the expanding concentric circles in Leverkühn’s “Dr. Fausti Weheklag”: This giant “lamento” . . . is very certainly non-dynamic, lacking in development, without drama, in the same way that concentric rings

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made by a stone thrown into water spread ever farther, without drama and always the same. (Doctor Faustus 487; GW 6:645) As in Joyce’s image of the parlor game, in which a story or a sentence is metamorphosed as it is passed on, the concentric circles are not only quantitatively, but also qualitatively enlarged. The narrator adds something extra to the story by turning for instance the “followers” into “admirers.” Instead of returning to the previous concentric ring, Lowe-Porter’s English translation is another variation on the same theme, a translation (into English) of Thomas Mann’s translation (into German) of M. Fahnenstock’s account, quoted by David in his article, retold by Serenus Zeitblom, paraphrasing Kretzschmar, whose account of Beissel’s music (which “had sunk into practical oblivion”) is based on his father’s memories and on “a faint legend” that had “persisted down the years” (Doctor Faustus 66; GW 6:92), and is therefore presented in the subjunctive. Adorno, Schoenberg, and the Musical Development of Doktor Faustus In the beginning the actual writing, which started on May 23, 1943, went surprisingly well. One month later, the ‹rst three chapters were already ‹nished. Mann immediately started preparing the fourth chapter. But as he read more about musical theory, he gradually realized that the writing would not proceed as easily as he initially thought. The problem was that he had no clear idea how he could ‹t Leverkühn into the musical landscape of the beginning of the twentieth century. On May 6, 1943, Mann wrote to Bruno Walter, asking the conductor for advice with regard to composition theory. Walter’s reply was preserved among the “Materialien” for Doktor Faustus. Thomas Mann underlined a few passages that indicate that, at least at some point in the writing process, Mann considered modeling his protagonist on Mahler (Mat. 6/70). As early as 1936, Mann, having read Walter’s biography Gustav Mahler, told him that if ever he were to write a story about a musician, he would certainly make use of Walter’s analyses and descriptions (Die Briefe Thomas Manns 2:206). If Mahler had written a work on compositional theory, this might have had considerable consequences for Doktor Faustus. Although Mahler did not become the major model for the composer Leverkühn, his presence is still noticeable. In his essay “Der Teufel in Palestrina,” Michael Maar refers to the numerous times Mann (according to the diaries) listened to Mahler’s works, especially Das Lied von der Erde, dur-

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ing the composition of Doktor Faustus, and he draws attention to many instances where Mahler may have been a source of inspiration, pointing out the correspondences between the description of the devil in Palestrina and a picture of Mahler. Nevertheless, Mann was quite explicit about the impropriety of Heinz Politzer’s suggestion (41) that Mahler had served as a model for Leverkühn, replying to Politzer that he did not have Mahler in mind, for this composer’s late romantic work had nothing to do with the magic square and his hero’s “numerological magic” (Die Briefe Thomas Manns 3:658). Although Mahler did not serve as a model for Leverkühn, Zeitblom does mention that Mahler’s in›uence is noticeable in his works (GW 6:215). On July 3, 1943, Mann formulated the pressing question in his diaries: “Die große Schwierigkeit ist die Musik und L.’s Stellung innerhalb ihrer” [The great dif‹culty is music and L(everkühn)’s position within the musical landscape] (TB). Three days later, Adorno visited Mann to bring him a book on musical theory,24 probably on Mann’s request. This was the start of the close collaboration between the sixty-eight-year-old Mann and Adorno, who was almost thirty years younger. Mann continued writing the chapters on Leverkühn’s childhood, in which music does not play such a prominent role yet. Meanwhile, he prepared himself for the problems he foresaw. On July 21, 1943, he explained to Agnes E. Meyer, the wife of the owner of the Washington Post, that he had to ‹nd a way to invent a strong musical personality who would deserve a place among real-life composers such as Schoenberg, Bartok, Berg, Stravinsky, Krenek, and so on (Dichter über ihre Dichtungen 13). On the same day, the manuscript of Adorno’s Philosophie der neuen Musik arrived, which Mann started reading immediately. Although Thomas Mann writes in Die Entstehung des Doktor Faustus that at this point he was determined to cooperate with Adorno (GW 11:172), reading the latter’s Philosophie did not solve his problem. He granted himself some time to re›ect, by putting the manuscript aside (on August 6) and writing the lecture Der Krieg und die Zukunft. On August 27, he resumed his work on Doktor Faustus, more speci‹cally chapter 8, about Wendell Kretzschmar and his lectures in Kaisersaschern. Any information on music was welcome, and the number of contacts with his musically gifted neighbors increased conspicuously during this period. On August 27, Katia and Thomas Mann were invited to Schoenberg’s home for dinner; the next day Bruno Walter came to tea; afterward Mann was invited to dinner by Franz Werfel and his wife Alma

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(the widow of Gustav Mahler), where he met Stravinsky and talked about Schoenberg (TB August 28, 1943). Two weeks later, on September 13, Schoenberg’s sixty-ninth anniversary was another occasion to talk to Stravinsky and Otto Klemperer, and undoubtedly to Schoenberg as well. Possibly he asked the old composer on this occasion to borrow his Harmonielehre, which arrived a week later (September 20), together with the oratorio Die Jakobsleiter. On September 27, Mann considered chapter 8 ready enough to read it to Adorno, who made a few remarks. While Mann was already working on chapter 9, he adapted chapter 8 and added a few pages that he read to Adorno on October 4. At this occasion, Adorno played Beethoven’s Piano Sonata op. 111. The next morning Mann immediately started to revise Kretzschmar’s lecture on this sonata, but as this work did not proceed well enough, he wrote a letter to Adorno instead. This letter is important because it explicitly states that Mann intended to “absorb” any extratextual material he could use (Dichter über ihre Dichtungen 15). After having made this important statement, Mann proceeded by asking Adorno to write down the theme of the beginning of the sonata’s second movement (“Arietta”) for him. The next day, Adorno sent a transcription of the Arietta theme, which is preserved in the Thomas Mann Archive. On the basis of Adorno’s remarks on this document, Mann elaborated Wendell Kretzschmar’s ‹rst lecture on music in chapter 8, in which he mentions something no musicologist had ever heard of, the “Fugengewicht der Akkorde” [the chords’ fugal weight]. Manuscript research has revealed that Mann simply misread Adorno’s remark on the “Eigengewicht der Akkorde” [the chords’ own weight].25 The textual parlor game does not stop here. Understandably, Helen Lowe-Porter had some trouble guessing what Mann meant by “Fugengewicht” and apparently decided to change, in her turn, the nonsensical “fugal weight” into “centrifugal weight”: “Do listen, how here—the melody is dragged down by the centrifugal weight of chords!” (Doctor Faustus 54; GW 6:75). Although Mann had already mentioned his montage technique to Adorno, he did not ‹nd the courage to apply it as radically as he had announced until the writing of chapter 22. Mann started writing this chapter on September 14, 1944, but his work did not proceed as swiftly as he had hoped. By the end of the month, he ‹nally took the plunge and decided to incorporate Schoenberg’s Harmonielehre, fully aware of the consequences.26 Gradually, Mann made himself familiar with, or took possession of, Schoenberg’s ideas (even literally, for he forgot to return the

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copy of the Harmonielehre that Schoenberg had lent him). From the latter’s point of view, Mann’s practice was plain plagiarism; Mann called it “Montagetechnik” and cunningly covered himself by referring openly (in the title) to the old 1587 Faustbuch, in which numerous passages from other works were integrated without scruples, as was customary at that time. After the dif‹cult decision to apply this technique at the end of September 1944, Mann ‹nished chapter 22 in a few days’ time.27 In the next chapter, the tone is much lighter, and chapter 24 does not appear to have caused the author much trouble either. In December, he started writing the devil’s chapter (25), apparently without a clear idea what it had to become (TB December 12, 1944). It took him ‹fty days to complete this key episode, which is a kind of re›ection on the previous twenty-four chapters. When he ‹nished it, he started writing Deutschland und die Deutschen, the lecture he gave at the Library of Congress in Washington at the end of May 1945. After he ‹nished writing the speech, he resumed his work on Doktor Faustus by drawing up a few time tables.28 It is signi‹cant that the ‹rst time table29 in the Notizenkonvolut (NK 163) is located only two pages before the notes for chapter 25 (NK 165–71; Voss 178–82). This table and the subsequent ones indicate a change in the writing process. Whereas until 1945 the writing was characterized by long periods of hesitancy, the writing of the second part of the novel proceeded more according to plan. To a large extent, this evolution had to do with the Gordian knot that Mann had cut during the composition of chapter 22: the fundamental aesthetic decision to raise his montage to a principle. Although, on the level of the general narrative structure, the writing proceeded more according to plan, this paradoxically meant that it was less prepared on the level of the everyday act of writing, which is evidenced in the Notizenkonvolut. Unlike the ‹rst 153 pages, the notes for the second half of the novel were “hand to mouth” material, as Lieselotte Voss describes it (223). As a consequence, the order of notes on the unnumbered pages of the last part of the Notizenkonvolut proceeds in analogy with the course of the narrative. Mann appeared to be much more determined. He found a lot of material in his “old diaries” (TB September 24, 1945) (which were later destroyed), on the basis of which he described the lives of the sisters Rodde and the impressions of the First World War (in chapters 29 and 30). The writing went swiftly; none of the chapters between 27 and 32

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took him more than twenty days to write. While Mann was working on chapter 33, his mind was already occupied with the next one. In order to be able to compose the oratorio “Apocalipsis cum ‹guris,” he needed help from an expert. He gave his manuscript to Adorno on December 5, 1945, so that he could work up the subject. The timing was perfect, for on December 28, the day after Mann had ‹nished chapter 33, Adorno announced that he had read the manuscript and taken some notes (TB December 28, 1945). Although Mann had already informed Adorno about his plans, in particular about his montage technique, he warned Adorno again about the “thievish nature”30 of his working method, by which he meant stealing from other sources as well as from his own life.31 Adorno’s contributions are an excellent plumb line to fathom Mann’s own complex, conscience-stricken opinion on his montage technique. On the one hand, he openly admitted his kleptomania in a private letter; on the other hand, he kept silent about his thefts in his public account of the writing process. In the manuscript of Die Entstehung, several pages on which Mann speci‹ed which ideas for the composition of “Apocalipsis cum ‹guris” and “Dr. Fausti Weheklag” were Adorno’s (Voss 188) were eventually suppressed. On January 6, 1946, Mann was preparing the oratorio “Apocalipsis cum ‹guris” and paid another visit to Adorno: “zu Adorno mit Notizbuch. Nahm zahlreiche zu verbessernde Punkte, Vorschläge auf” [to Adorno with notebook. Took down numerous points that could be improved, suggestions] (TB January 6, 1946). The notebook that is mentioned here has apparently not been preserved.32 Mann might have destroyed it, as was his custom with his ‹rst drafts (Wysling, “Die Technik der Montage” 174). The provisional nature of these notes is con‹rmed in the diary entry of the next day, when Mann “‹xed” the notes he took the evening before,33 as if these were not stable enough to serve as a basis for the actual writing of the oratorio. In the eventually withdrawn typescript pages for the Die Entstehung the same notion of ‹xation recurs, when he explains that he copied these hastily taken notes before writing the actual text (Voss 188). This “‹xation” took place in the Notizenkonvolut, which shows a remarkable parallel with the “composition before the composition” that is mentioned in Mann’s notes for the cantata “Dr. Fausti Weheklag”: Es gäbe keine freie Note mehr. Das würde ich strengen Satz nennen. / Das “Magische Quadrat” / Eine Art von Komponieren vor dem

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Komponieren. Die ganze Material-Disposition u. -Organisation ist fertig, wenn die “eigentliche” Arbeit beginnt. [Not a single free note would be left. That is what I would call strict style. / The “Magic Square” / A kind of composition before the actual composition. The whole disposition and organization of the material is ready when the actual work begins.] (NK 203) After several discussions with Adorno, Mann started writing the ‹rst part of the important chapter 34 on January 14, 1946. When he ‹nished the last part of this chapter on March 2, the more than seventy-year-old writer was completely exhausted. On the basis of x rays a malignant lung tumor was ascertained at the end of March. Here, the genesis of Doktor Faustus could have ended, if Mann had listened to Dr. Rosenthal, who was not in favor of an operation; “had he taken Rosenthal’s advice,” Ronald Hayman notes, “he’d have died” (Biography 528). Fuga mortis Thanks to his wife Katia, who decided that he would be taken to Billing’s Hospital in Chicago, Mann escaped death. During the convalescence after the operation, he continued to take notes, and in the two weeks following his hospitalization, he made the changes and corrections he had planned in the hospital. On June 12, 1946, he resumed his work with renewed courage and ‹nished the remaining nineteen chapters in little more than half a year, spending an average of less than two weeks per chapter. He continued to make use of earlier writings, such as his description of his sister Carla’s death for Clarissa Rodde’s suicide in chapter 35; or his notes for the novella Die Geliebten for the murder in the tramway in chapter 42. These old notes are mainly contained in Notizbuch 4 (43ff.). Meanwhile, Mann’s grandchild Frido came to Paci‹c Palissades on September 28, 1946. Although Mann had already planned that Leverkühn would not even be allowed to love a child, he admits in Die Entstehung that the elaboration of this idea was not easy. While he was working on chapter 43 he asked his doctor, Frederick Rosenthal, to provide him with information on the effects of meningitis on a young child. A few days before Mann ‹nished the chapter, Rosenthal sent him detailed information, so that everything was ready to start writing the two Echo chapters (44 and 45) on November 7. Again with a perfect sense of time management, Mann already made the necessary preparations for the pièce de résistance, the cantata “Dr.

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Fausti Weheklag,” while he was still writing the Echo chapters. He read chapters 91 to 94 in the Volksbuch. On November 23 he visited Adorno to read a few chapters to him, and two days later again to talk about the “symphonic cantata” (TB November 25, 1946). When he ‹nished the chapters on Echo (who was not only modeled on Frido, but also on Ariel,34 on Justus, Doctor Faustus’s son in the Volksbuch, and on Euphorion, the son of Goethe’s Faust), Mann paid several visits to Adorno (e.g., TB December 14, 1946) to discuss the novel’s climax: the cantata Dr. Fausti Weheklag. The actual writing of chapter 46 took only fourteen days (December 17, 1946–January 1, 1947) and Mann immediately started with the next one, Leverkühn’s public confession (fashioned after Hugo Wolf’s life and the last chapter of the Volksbuch, “Dr. Fausti Oratorio ad Studiosos”), which was extensively prepared in the Notizenkonvolut.35 Finally, the epilogue with Leverkühn’s return to his mother as an echo of Nietzsche’s return to Weimar was shaped in little more than a week, and on January 29, 1947, at 11.30 A.M. Mann wrote the last words of the novel—according to his diary. But this sounds more de‹nitive than it was, for Mann deleted several passages at the advice of his wife and continued to make changes and corrections in the manuscript for another three weeks. He had also received more fundamental criticism from Adorno during the last month of the writing process. On January 12, according to the diaries, Mann went over to Adorno’s to discuss chapter 46. Adorno’s own account of this discussion shows what the problem was. Not only did he (successfully) convince Mann that Leverkühn should complete his cantata—originally planned to be left un‹nished—he also disagreed with the positive tone at the end of the chapter (Adorno, “Zu einem Porträt” 341). The latter objection is mentioned in Die Entstehung: I had been too optimistic, too kindly, too pat, had kindled too much light, had been too lavish with the consolation. I had to grant that Adorno’s criticisms were justi‹ed. The ‹rst thing next morning I sat down to a thorough overhauling of the one and a half or two pages, and gave them the circumspect form they now have. (GW 11:294) In reality, however, Thomas Mann accepted Adorno’s criticism only reluctantly. He was positively disgruntled, as is evidenced in his diaries (TB January 13, 1947). This was the price he had to pay for involving Adorno in his project. Adorno had engaged himself so thoroughly that he deserved at least the right to utter some criticism. At a crucial moment in the writ-

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ing process, Adorno acted as an “anticollaborator” (from Mann’s perspective). But this anticollaboration proved just as constructive as his collaboration, which was much more substantial than is mentioned in the ‹nal version of Die Entstehung. The decision to conceal the extent of Adorno’s share was a late one, instigated by Erika and Katia Mann. Katia especially was disillusioned by the revelations in the typescript of Die Entstehung concerning Adorno’s involvement.36 As a consequence, Mann reluctantly cut the passages in question. The Gray Zone between Pretext and Text: More Cuts Mann did not wait until he had ‹nished the complete manuscript to type it out. While he was writing chapter 8, the ‹rst pages of the typescript were already copied from the manuscript.37 But at this early stage of the writing process, Thomas Mann kept making changes to the already written chapters, so Hilde Kahn started retyping the already ‹nished chapters in April 1944 (TB April 27, 1944) while Mann was working on chapter 15. The ‹rst part of the typescript was sent to the translator, Helen Lowe-Porter, at the beginning of 1945. She received the ‹nal version of the complete typescript on February 25, 1947. During the summer of 1946, shortly after his operation, Thomas Mann asked the translator to send the typescript back to him. During his convalescence he had decided that certain passages, especially on musical theory, were too heavy and had to be cut. Together with his daughter Erika he suppressed several pages, which are preserved in the Thomas Mann Archive in Zurich.38 The rest of the novel’s typescript is preserved in the Thomas Mann collection in Yale. This typescript was corrected by Mann and subsequently copied to serve as the basis for the ‹rst edition— the ‹fty mimeographed American copies (in order to safeguard the American copyright) and the Stockholm edition of 1947. Fourteen thousand copies were printed and published on October 17, 1947, by the Bermann-Fischer Verlag in Stockholm, which meant that the ‹rst edition of Doktor Faustus was automatically integrated in the socalled Stockholmer Gesamtausgabe. The next four thousand copies included the note at the back of the book stating that Arnold Schoenberg was the inventor of the twelve-tone technique.39 It is characteristic of Schoenberg’s hypersensitivity that he not only complained about the location of these “few lines” at the end of the novel “on a page where no one ever would see it” but also interpreted the note as an attempt by Mann to

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belittle him: “He calls me ‘a (a!) contemporary composer and theoretician.’ Of course, in two or three decades, one will know which of the two was the other’s contemporary.” To these concluding words in a letter to the editor in the Saturday Review (January 1, 1949) Mann replied (in the same issue) that if Schoenberg’s acquaintance with Doktor Faustus were not “based exclusively on the gossip of meddling scandal mongers,” he would have known that his novel was more than a “transfer” of Schoenberg’s twelve-tone technique to a ‹ctitious composer. Mann emphasized that the question who is whose contemporary was not under discussion: “If Schoenberg wishes, we shall, all of us, consider it our greatest and proudest claim to be his contemporaries.”40 It would take another year to reconcile the artists. In the meantime, the Vienna branch of Bermann-Fischer had published a separate edition for Austria in 1948. The text of this edition is thirteen pages shorter than the ‹rst edition because Mann, together with Erika, cut twenty-six passages.41 In The Story of a Novel, he calls his daughter “an artist in omission and contraction, a skilled parer down of all pedantic excess” (Story 120; GW 11:225). Fifty pages later, these “redundancies” are characterized as “draggingly long sections, needless dif‹culties for the translator, and burdensome pedantries” (Story 204; GW 11:281). The reoccurrence of the notion of pedantry indicates how sensitive Mann was to the potential reproach of priggery. One of Mann’s deletions is the opening of chapter 12 in the ‹rst edition of Doktor Faustus, a description of the city of Halle, which is characterized by what Mann calls its “Zeitentiefe” [historical depth].42 This notion is revealing in that it unveiled much—possibly too much in Mann’s opinion—about his method of creating a feeling of depth by means of an interplay of different time layers. The notion of Zeitentiefe thus serves as a password, which he understandably did not want to give away too early. MANN’S ART OF THE FUGUE: ERASED TRACES OF BACH Thomas Mann’s concern not to give away too much in Die Entstehung des Doktor Faustus, calls for some critical distrust with regard to the preparatory material he preserved in Zurich. Mann’s implicit invitation to critics to have a look into his workshop undoubtedly prompted him to tidy up ‹rst and make potentially incriminating evidence disappear. This suspicion also applies to Mann’s manuscripts in general. Corrections are rare; on many pages, hardly a word is changed. But these observations give a

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wrong impression. In an article in the Neue Leipziger Zeitung (November 17, 1929) Thomas Mann explained that pages from the manuscript that contained too many corrections were rewritten and thrown away (Wysling, “Die Technik der Montage” 174). Although this con‹rms the cliché of a well-organized writer, it does create a false impression of the seeming ›uency with which Mann’s ideas ›owed out of his pen. His manuscript is the result of meticulous craftsmanship rather than of divine inspiration. By writing Die Entstehung des Doktor Faustus, Mann emancipated the writing process and revaluated the genesis of his novel by calling it a novel in itself: “Roman eines Romans,” so that what is written continues to be chased by its writing. In this sense, Mann certainly deserves to be called a master in the art of the fugue. One of the characteristics of Mann’s writing method is his habit of underlining passages with pencils. In the notes, these underlinings often mark the passages that made it into Mann’s manuscript, though this rule is not foolproof. They indicate what was important to Mann, but they also served as a mnemonic device, marking the material he had already used. Hans Wysling interprets this method as a manifestation of bourgeois frugality (Montage 107). Even in books and articles that he “studied ‘with the pencil’” (Story 41; GW 11:171), the underlined passages suggest more than mere interest: they indicate that Thomas Mann saw a connection with his work and considered their incorporation in his novel. It is signi‹cant that he erased speci‹c markings. How thoroughly Mann censored the avant-texte and the source materials before he handed them on a plate to the critics may be illustrated by means of the markings in the books from Mann’s personal library, preserved in Zurich. An interesting example is Ernst Krenek’s Music Here and Now (New York: Norton, 1939). Many passages in this book are underlined or marked in the margin. Only a few of these have later been erased, for example the following sentence in chapter 7 (“Music under Construction”): A strong inner similarity exists between the transition from the medieval sound language to tonality, and the present mutation from tonality to atonality. (Krenek 166) This sentence is the key to the idea behind Leverkühn’s cantata “Dr. Fausti Weheklag”: the correspondence between medieval polyphony and

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modern methods of composition, such as the twelve-tone technique, re›ecting the connection between Mann’s Doktor Faustus and the old Volksbuch. The link between past and present is expressed most explicitly in the important conversation between Zeitblom and Leverkühn, in which the composer explains his “strict style.” This dialogue is also shortened by a full page. When Zeitblom asks his friend whether his new style differs from the strict style “im alten Sinn”—since the term “strenger Stil” is mostly applied to Bach’s music—Leverkühn answers: “Old or new, I will tell you what I understand by ‘strict style.’ I mean the complete integration of all musical dimensions, their neutrality towards each other due to complete organization” (Doctor Faustus 191; GW 6:255). This is all Zeitblom needs in the second edition to understand what his friend means, but in the ‹rst edition Zeitblom admitted: “Ich verstehe nicht ganz” [I don’t quite understand]. Leverkühn’s subsequent explanation about polyphony, homophony, counterpoint, and fugal style is an impressive exercise in counterpoint, an intricate literary fugue on the theme of “old or new” (1st ed., 296–97). Unfortunately, Mann—not unlike Beethoven and his “Grosse Fuge”—was advised by his daughter to delete it because it was too technical. Mann’s elaborate treatment of the theme of polyphony and the fugue in the original version of Doktor Faustus suggests that these passages were more than decorative descriptions to make Kretzschmar’s lectures more convincing. It is remarkable how many of these cuts between the ‹rst and the second edition deal with Johann Sebastian Bach and the fugue. Thomas Mann’s interest in Die Kunst der Fuge also appears in the traces of his reading of Ernst Krenek’s Music Here and Now, more speci‹cally the ‹rst marked passage under the heading “Johann Sebastian Bach”: “When, in the Art of the Fugue, one can turn whole fugues and canons upside down and play them in reverse order, we are not dumbfounded by ‹nding that the stream of the freely articulating voices still makes sense” (Music Here and Now 128). According to Krenek, “Examination of Bach’s coupling of harmony and counterpoint, the two original components of Western music, discloses that he not only brought a stylistic development to its logical conclusion (as the customary historian is wont to point out) but also initiated a new view of the concepts of repetition and variation” (129). From Mann’s point of view, the fugue seems to have been the key to the link between the Faust myth and music. The idea for this combination may have been inspired by Oswald Spengler.43 Mann read Der Untergang

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des Abendlandes in June 1919 and was at that time fascinated by this work.44 Bach’s polyphony, especially the Art of the Fugue, was the prototype of “die faustische Kunst” according to Spengler (Untergang 363),45 who made a distinction between the “apollinische” and the “faustische Seele” (234). Spengler’s link between Faust and Bach sheds a light on Leverkühn’s efforts to ‹nd a way out of his artistic crisis by means of the strict style.46 Both Die Kunst der Fuge and Musikalisches Opfer are written in this strict style. The same notion already appears in Buddenbrooks, when the piano teacher Edmund Pfühl promises Hanno that he will one day learn more about the imitation in the strict style (GW 1:504).47 Thomas Mann has kept his (character’s) word; forty years later, when he emphasized the correspondence between the old and new strict style (GW 6:255), the imitation in the strict style he had in mind was probably Schoenberg’s orchestration of Bach’s Prelude and Fugue in E-›at Major in 1928. Schoenberg admired Bach and saw him as his greatest master.48 When in 1938, his Variations for Orchestra op. 31 were called variations on B-a-c-h by Olin Downes, Schoenberg protested and replied that they were only citations, meant as a homage to Bach, comparable to Beethoven’s citation of Mozart’s “Keine Ruh bei Tag und Nacht” in the Diabelli Variations (Stuckenschmidt 389). Apparently Schoenberg was not averse to citations himself, and in response to his accusations concerning plagiarism in Doktor Faustus, Thomas Mann could easily have “borrowed” Schoenberg’s own reply to Olin Downes; he would only have had to interchange the names of Bach and Schoenberg. Precisely the interchangeability of these two composers was what Thomas Mann was most interested in: the meeting of different layers of time, the impression of simultaneity, the Zeitentiefe of twelve-tone composition. In this respect, the last sentence of Dr. Faust’s “Oratio ad Studiosos” in the old Volksbuch is the basis of both the “Weheklag” and Doktor Faustus as a whole. Whereas the “identity of the most varied forms” (Doctor Faustus 487; GW 6:646) constituted the way out of Leverkühn’s artistic crisis, Mann seems to have found a way out of the crisis of the novel, not so much in Bach’s or in Schoenberg’s strict style, but rather in the interplay between them. Bach and the Crisis of the Novel Long before he started writing Doktor Faustus Thomas Mann was already preoccupied by the crisis of the novel. The general feeling of sterility immediately after the First World War is re›ected in Mann’s gloomy view of the cultural situation during the writing of The Magic Mountain.

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Gunilla Bergsten (135) draws attention to the Spenglerian vocabulary in a letter from 1919, in which Mann refers to the imminent “decline of Western culture” (Briefe 1889–1936, 163). During the next decade, the theme of the crisis, both of the novel and of the arts in general, recurred regularly in Mann’s writings. In 1926, he concluded his Pariser Rechenschaft with the observation that the crisis of the novel is anything but solved (GW 11:97). This crisis was a hot topic among Mann’s friends. On December 25, 1936, for instance, he mentions in his diary a conversation “[ü]ber die Krise des Romans mit Falschmünzern, Ulysses und Zauberberg” [about the crisis of the novel with Les Faux-Monnayeurs, Ulysses, and The Magic Mountain] (TB). In an article by Charles I. Glicksberg in Direction,49 published in March 1943 at the time Mann started making notes for Doktor Faustus, he read that Ulysses “spelled the doom of the art of ‹ction.” The ‹rst thing Mann underlined is “the novel has reached a blind alley and may not be able to ‹nd its way out” (12). Another marked passage is Glicksberg’s contention that “[f]rom the time of the publication of Ulysses, the traditional, Newtonian novel was slated for extinction” (14). Ulysses is also mentioned in Die Entstehung, when Mann quotes Harry Levin: “As his subject-matter reveals the decomposition of the middle class,” schreibt Levin, “Joyce’s technique passes beyond the limits of realistic ‹ction. Neither the ‘Portrait of the Artist’ nor ‘Finnegans Wake’ is a novel, strictly speaking, and ‘Ulysses’ is a novel to end all novels.” (GW 11:205) Immediately after this quote Mann notes that this applies to his Zauberberg, Joseph, and Doktor Faustus as well. Apparently, Mann’s intention was to write, with Doktor Faustus, a kind of polyphonic homage to the novel, the way Bach wrote his fugue to end all fugues. The main characteristic of polyphony is the equivalence of the different voices. Therefore, one of the techniques used by Mann to create a polyphonic effect is the mobilization of a narrator (GW 11:164–65). The interplay of different time layers50 gave Mann the opportunity to show that his life and his ‹ction were so inextricably bound up with each other that they were like different voice parts in polyphony. This effect was carefully prepared by means of the time tables in the Notizenkonvolut (163, 179, 203, 209–10; Voss 164–74). Another fugal technique was the idea of letting the novel be followed by a Roman eines Romans. Early in February 1948 Mann thought about

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writing something to soothe Adorno’s mind, by giving him the credit he deserved (TB February 7 and 8, 1948). In Mann’s view, Schoenberg had insisted on a tribute to which Adorno was much more entitled. He therefore seized the next occasion to tell Adorno about his plans to write an autobiographical account of Doktor Faustus’ genesis (TB February 13, 1948).51 It is not unlikely that his example was André Gide, whom Mann knew personally and whose novel Les Faux-Monnayeurs—the other novel mentioned in Mann’s diary in connection with the “crisis of the novel”— was followed by Le Journal des faux-monnayeurs.52 In 1943, Klaus Mann published a study titled André Gide and the Crisis of Modern Thought, in which Thomas Mann read that Les FauxMonnayeurs was meant as a literary Kunst der Fuge. In the sixth chapter (“The Fugue”) of his study, Klaus asserts that Gide’s intention was [t]o render the chaos transparent, to organize the disorder, to rationalize the crisis—what a bold, wonderful task. The result might turn out to be something at once intricate and lucid, a labyrinth constructed with mathematical precision, akin—to what? To the fugues of Johann Sebastian Bach, perhaps. “What I would like to produce,” Gide admitted, “is something in the line of the Kunst der Fuge. I don’t see why it should be impossible to accomplish in literature what has been possible in the sphere of music.” (181) On March 9, 1943, only six days before Thomas Mann started searching for Faustus materials in his old notes, he wrote a letter to his son Klaus to thank him for André Gide and the Crisis of Modern Thought (which he had received about one month earlier) (TB February 11, 1943). Thomas Mann is remarkably sparing in his comments on this book, which undoubtedly fascinated him. Apart from the already mentioned passage on Bach’s Art of the Fugue, it contains several interesting ideas that shed a light on more than just Les Faux-Monnayeurs: There is a crisis of the novel as there is a crisis in economics or in psychology. New patterns, new approaches must be de‹ned and tested, in the realm of the novel as in the ‹elds of aviation or of medicine. This is a period of transition and experiment. Marcel Proust had his way of dealing with the crisis of the novel, and James Joyce had another way, and others have other methods again. (André Gide 178–79)

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With reference to André Gide’s way of dealing with the crisis, Klaus Mann notes: We must keep in mind, ‹rst of all, that the opus we are dealing with is a fugue, not a symphony. That is to say, the novel is not built in several major episodes, each with an individual theme of its own; but the whole polyphonic score develops one central theme, varying and transforming it most ingeniously, according to strict contrapuntal rules. As for this central theme . . . But perhaps we ought ‹rst to outline the scheme of the variations. (183–84)53 The central theme of Les Faux-Monnayeurs—as Klaus Mann notes (189)—is the demon, which is con‹rmed in the Journal des faux-monnayeurs:54 “J’en voudrais un personnage—le diable—qui circulerait incognito à travers tout le livre” [I would like to have a character—the devil— who would run incognito through the whole book]. In a similar way, the h-e-a-e-es motif is a constant reminder of the cause of Leverkühn’s disease, the start of the pact with the devil, the source of evil. The main difference between Les Faux-Monnayeurs and Doktor Faustus is the fact that in the latter it is not so much the devil, but rather the source that runs incognito through the whole book. The magic trick by means of which Thomas Mann has pushed his diabolical work one step further is his thematization of the source as an essential part of literature, and a possible way out of the crisis of the novel. This thematization of the source (of inspiration) in the form of direct or indirect citation ‹nds its counterpart in modern music. The tendency to quote in early-twentieth-century music (for instance by Stravinsky, whose memoirs are one of the ‹rst works mentioned in Die Entstehung) is explained by Adorno in his Philosophie der neuen Musik in a discussion on originality: Such concepts of originality are derived from the concept of bourgeois property: unmusical judges condemn musical thieves. . . . composers were forced to rely upon “inspiration”—as in the cases of Schubert or Schumann. The scant material, however, was so totally exhausted that no further inspiration could come forth which had not been present previously. They therefore absorbed the depletion of this supply into a subjective relationship and then constructed their thematic motives—more or less openly—as “quotation” with the

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effect of the recurrence of the familiar. (Philosophy of Modern Music 182 n. 35) This quote clari‹es Mann’s contention that citation is “speci‹cally musical” (GW 11:166). In his Betrachtungen eines Unpolitischen (1918) Mann had already discussed the musical quotation of the kyrie from Palestrina’s “Missa Papae Marcelli” in Hans P‹tzner’s opera Palestrina. This kind of constructive music was what Mann wanted to compose with Doktor Faustus, with the help of Adorno55 and by means of the montage technique. The “Montage” chapter in Levin’s essay on Joyce, which may have been an impulse to make a systematic use of the montage technique, starts with the thesis that “[t]he imitation of life through the medium of language has never been undertaken more literally” than in Ulysses. This quality of Joyce’s writing is also called “mimicry” (Levin 95). Citation, Mimicry, Authorship according to the “Principium Individuationis” Thomas Mann came across the same notion of “mimicry” in a book on butter›ies by Adolf Portmann, called Falterschönheit,56 in which he marked a passage that explains this notion in a biological context (Falterschönheit 18). If Mann’s montage technique may be regarded as a form of mimicry, the devil’s elaboration on mimicry in chapter 25 of Doktor Faustus might apply to Mann’s work as well: Be sure, I reck nothing at all to my outward appearance, I leave it so to say to itself. . . . Adaptation, mimicry, you know it, of course. Mummery and jugglery of mother Nature, who always has her tongue in her cheek. But you won’t, my good fere, refer the adaptation, about which I know just as much and as little as the leaf butter›y, to yourself, and take it ill of me. You must admit that from the other side it has something suitable about it—on that side where you got it from. (Doctor Faustus 228; GW 6:304) The question where Mann “got it from” is more than a matter of literary detective work, for according to Mann, his montage technique was nothing less than the very idea underlying the book (GW 11:165). The stimulating effect of the sources on Mann’s writing during the genesis of Doktor Faustus shows remarkable parallels with the evolution of the disease he

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describes in his novel. In his Notizenkonvolut, he articulated the inextricable link between the work and its “source of intoxication”: Quelle der Intoxikation ist schließlich die Liebe, . . .—und auch Werk hat mit Liebe zu tun. [Finally, the source of intoxication is love . . . — and work has to do with love as well.] (NK 35; Mann’s emphasis) Whereas the cause of Leverkühn’s disease is his contact with Hetaera Esmeralda, the writing process of the novel started when Mann—among other things—came across the name of this butter›y in Portman’s Falterschönheit. In his copy of this source text, Mann underlined the name of Hetaera esmeralda in Portmann’s introduction (Falterschönheit 16). Page 21 shows the index of the illustrations of butter›ies on the subsequent twelve pages; Morpho menelaus L. is marked, and Mann has underscored a passage that makes a direct link between the butter›y, the demonic atmosphere, and illness (Falterschönheit 21). It is remarkable that Portmann, whose text provided such direct and essential elements for Mann’s novel, is not mentioned in Die Entstehung. With reference to that other unmentioned source text by Paul Julius Möbius, Lieselotte Voss suggests that Mann did not mention this source because it trivialized his major themes (35). This is even more so for the passages from Portmann, which would not only have trivialized his themes, but might also have unveiled the main strategy of Die Entstehung. To a certain extent, the Roman eines Romans may be considered as a justi‹cation for Mann’s montage technique;57 but it seems to be more than a defense. It is the combination of a respectful Socratic apology and a playful striptease,58 in which Mann gave away only just enough to keep his Story of a Novel exciting. Mann could easily integrate quotes from the most diverse sources and still give the impression they were his very own words and ideas. But instead of leaving it at that, which would have meant nothing more than plain plagiarism, he used his striptease trick, exposing himself and at the same time covering himself with quotations, such as the description of the butter›y Hetaera Esmeralda, derived from Portmann: One such butter›y, in transparent nudity, loving the duskiness of heavy leafage, was called Hetaera esmeralda. Hetaera had on her wings only a dark spot of violet and rose; one could see nothing else

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of her, and when she ›ew she was like a petal blown by the wind. (Doctor Faustus 14; GW 6:23) Mann quoted the original almost literally (Portmann 16), but nevertheless made a subtle change by adding the element “in durchsichtiger Nacktheit.” On the one hand, the sources incorporated by Mann are incognito,59 covered by darkness (“den dämmernden Laubschatten”); on the other hand, they had to be transparent enough (“in durchsichtiger Nacktheit”) to show the philosophy or the idea behind the montage technique. It is signi‹cant that Zeitblom’s description of the butter›y at the beginning of the book is almost literally repeated by Leverkühn at the end: For it was but a butter›y, a bright creamlicker, Hetaera Esmeralda, she charmed me with her touch, the milk-witch, and I followed after her into the twilit shadowy foliage that her transparent nakedness loveth, and where I caught her, who in ›ight is like a wind-blown petal. (Doctor Faustus 498; GW 6:660) Since the equivalence of different voice parts is the main characteristic of polyphony, Leverkühn’s and Zeitblom’s voices are equal—or even identical, for according to The Story of a Novel these protagonists have “too much to conceal, namely, the secret of their being identical with each other” (Story 90; GW 11:204); and this secret of identity is closely connected to music, according to Zeitblom (GW 6:502). The link between the themes of identity and music is symbolized throughout the book by the “magic square.” At the end of the novel, Zeitblom claims that, with the cantata, Leverkühn has shown him “the ‘magic square’ of a style of technique which yet developed the extreme of variety out of identical material” (Doctor Faustus 486; GW 6:645). This extreme of variety, developed out of identical material, is applied Schopenhauer: according to the principium individuationis Mann created an illusion of diversity (for instance by working with a narrator and incorporating numerous quotations). He had to create this illusion in order to shatter it; only after having presented the devoted Zeitblom and the diabolic Leverkühn as two extreme characters, Mann was able to neutralize the opposition and reveal the secret of their identity (GW 6:645), thus lifting a corner of the veil of Maya. In Mann’s view, therefore, the seamless incorporation of extratextual source material into his own text was not plagiarism, but rather a kind of

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intertextuality avant la lettre. From this perspective, each variation on a borrowed theme is indeed like the elaboration of Beethoven’s Arietta theme: “this added C sharp is the most moving, consolatory, pathetically reconciling thing in the world” (Doctor Faustus 55; GW 6:76). Instead of explaining Schopenhauer’s ideas, which he had made himself familiar with more than half a century before, he applied them by peepshowing the delusion of the principium individuationis, half veiling, half unveiling his sources as “nymphs and daughters of the wilderness, . . . morphos, clearwings, esmeraldas, et cetera, clad or unclad, in tulle, gauze, spangs” (Doctor Faustus 142; GW 6:190). Afterward, Mann wrote Die Entstehung des Doktor Faustus, not so much to unveil the genesis of his work himself, but as an invitation to the reader to do so, lifting only a corner of the veil, thus causing the Faustian itch that Zeitblom describes as follows: Adrian spoke of the itch one felt to expose the unexposed, to look at the unlooked-at. There was a feeling of indiscretion, even of guilt, bound up with it, not quite allayed by the feeling that science must be allowed to press just as far forwards as it is given the intelligence of scientists to go. (Doctor Faustus 268; GW 6:356)

PART III

Transitions

Chapter 8

Comparative Genetics: “a world of differents”

By referring to the thirst for knowledge, Thomas Mann’s Leverkühn goes to the heart of the matter. In order to articulate this core of the Faust theme, Mann discovered a perfectly matching form in the encyclopedic novel, for which he found inspiration in the Faust tradition itself, more speci‹cally the Volksbuch. This tradition puts into perspective the arti‹cial division between modernist encyclopedic projects and so-called postmodernist projects such as the somewhat in›ated concept of hypertext. Mann’s montage technique may be regarded as a literary Memex, a “device for individual use which is a sort of mechanized private ‹le and library,” as it was de‹ned by Vannevar Bush in “As We May Think.” In this article, which was published two years before Doktor Faustus came out, Bush predicted that “[w]holly new forms of encyclopedias will appear, ready made with a mesh of associative trails running through them.” In the meantime, hypertext has gone out of vogue as quickly as it came into fashion, but it has also sensitized literary critics to one speci‹c aspect of literature: the encyclopedic nature of certain novels. JAMES JOYCE/THOMAS MANN: TEXTUAL ECONOMICS Gérard Genette used the notion of “hypertext” in a context of intertextuality rather than electronics. In Palimpsestes he de‹nes hypertextualité as “every relationship linking a text B (which I shall call hypertext) to an existing text A (which I shall call hypotext) to which it is added in a way that is not that of a commentary” (13). One of the examples he gives is the Odyssee, which is the hypotext of hypertexts such as the Aeneid and Ulysses. According to this de‹nition, Mann’s Doktor Faustus is a hypertext based 147

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not only on Goethe’s Faust but also on the older, anonymous Historia von D. Johann Fausten. Mann was inspired by the compilatory craftsmanship of the editor of the Volksbuch, an always expandable collection of as much knowledge as possible to satisfy the reader’s inquisitiveness, and at the same time create a new desire for even more knowledge. The Faustian urge for understanding is almost by de‹nition excessive or “hyper,” for each new insight raises dozens of new questions and refers to numerous other encyclopedic entries, which in their turn whet the reader’s curiosity. Mann referred to his montage of intertextual elements as “absorption.”1 This metaphor emphasizes the author’s method of incorporating extratextual elements in his own text. It is precisely this merging and processing mechanism that makes Doktor Faustus the book it is, that is, the sequence of words, passages, chapters as ‹xed by Mann. Because the “montage” of external sources is an essential aspect of Doktor Faustus, and since Mann carefully preserved not only his notes and all the omitted passages (Ausgeschiedenes), but also the extradraft material he used for the composition of Doktor Faustus, the question arises whether a genetic edition should not incorporate these sources, especially since hypertext may serve as an excellent tool to support this kind of linking with intertextual material. Mann’s ability to adapt texts written by others in such a way that they ‹t seamlessly in his own text is part of his writing method and strategy and can be visualized in a hypertext environment. According to George Landow, “Hypertext, which is a fundamentally intertextual system, has the capacity to emphasize intertextuality in a way that pagebound text in books cannot” (35). But precisely the ease with which the published texts of Doktor Faustus may be linked to this extratextual material in an electronic edition has intensi‹ed the discussion concerning the desirability of the integration of source texts in editions. Since intertextual references in a literary text are often implicit, this quality would be completely annulled if a passage that refers to another text would be highlighted and presented as a hyperlink. One of Hans Zeller’s somewhat xenophobic arguments against integration of “foreign texts” (Fremdtexte) is that the principle of “interpretation-free commentary” has always been one of the main objectives of historical-critical editing (“Übernahme und Abweichung” 21). The ideal of purity corresponding to this objective manifests itself in the medical imagery Zeller employs when he compares the integration of intertextual references in a historical-critical edition to a viral infection, resulting in a swelling of the edition (28). Source studies are more than merely a way of reducing the multiplicity of the text’s pos-

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sible meanings, but may also be seen as a way of opening up new interpretations by emphasizing the differences rather than the correspondences between the source text and what the author made out of it. It is not necessary to know the sources in order to read and understand texts, but this knowledge may be of help, certainly when one is confronted with an extremely complex text such as Finnegans Wake. Moreover, if an editor wants to render the working process in a genetic edition, the elaboration of source material is an integral part of this process. More important than the mere identi‹cation of the source text is the way in which an author read it and apparently saw a link with his own project. In order to study the transformations of a source text, one has to be able to make a comparison, which is only possible if one disposes of the source texts. Since it is often just as dif‹cult to consult these source texts as it is to consult the manuscripts, a scholarly editor might consider it to be one of his tasks to include as many source texts as possible and to create the possibility of adding more extratextual material later on. In spite of the many differences between Joyce’s and Mann’s methods of note taking, an interesting resemblance is their habit of excerpting without any bibliographic reference. Thus, this exogenetic act cuts off the excerpt from its referential context as soon as it is written down. In its new environment (the notebook) the excerpt is immediately surrounded by other notes and excerpts, possibly taken from completely different contexts. This confrontation may lead to new associations. Unlike Mann and Joyce, Proust did mention source references in his carnets, which did not prevent his excerpts from merging with other notes and calling to mind other books or ideas. With regard to Mann’s notes, Lieselotte Voss argues that the juxtaposition of the most diverse materials, usually without source reference, gives us an idea of the associative processes in the author’s mind (22). Although it is impossible to reconstruct an author’s mental processes, the Notizenkonvolut does re›ect the way in which the project took shape during the two months of preparation in the spring of 1943 and the subsequent adjustments and transformations. By making these excerpts anonymous in their notes, Mann and Joyce indeed created an intertextual web of what Barthes calls “quotations without quotation marks” (“De l’oeuvre au texte” 73).2 But although strictly speaking they cannot be called references anymore, these notes and excerpts often do refer to very speci‹c and (in spite of what Roland Barthes contends)3 retraceable texts. Geert Lernout compares Joyce’s notebooks to ‹lters, used by the author in his attempt “to put as much

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world as possible” in his “polymorphous chaosmos” (“Radical Philology” 45). Joyce collected all potentially usable material in the depot of his notebooks, including the most ‹erce criticism of his work. The items he took from this storage depot to integrate them in his drafts were marked with a color crayon in much the same way as a shopkeeper makes an inventory. Joyce had the same habit as Mann of crossing out notes and sections of text that he had already used. With reference to Mann, this method has been called a characteristic feature of the “bourgeois frugality” of a “thrifty family man” (Ungar 1). At ‹rst sight, this characterization does not seem to apply to Joyce at all, especially with regard to the exuberance of Finnegans Wake. Paradoxically, he was only able to create this impression of exuberance by means of a careful textual economy. Reluctant to abandon any of his texts without capitalizing on them, he kept count of what he had already spent, and recycled whatever had been omitted at some point in the writing process. In this respect, there is some validity in Lewis’s critique when he describes Joyce as being “shoppy” and “steeped in the sadness and the shabbiness of the pathetic gentility of the upper shopkeeping class” (Time and Western Man 93). Joyce did not even deny this criticism of his display of verbal virtuosity and sale of “stuff.” Instead, he radicalized it by assimilating parts of the criticism as nothing but more “stuff.” The result, however, does not correspond to Lewis’s description of Joyce’s work as “an Aladdin’s cave of incredible bric-à-brac in which a dense mass of dead stuff is collected,” resulting in “[a]n immense nature-morte” (Time 107). On the contrary, by redeploying the vocabulary of The Art of Being Ruled in “Dave the Dancekerl” and by adding to the episode, when Lewis wrote more criticism in The Enemy and Time and Western Man, Joyce unveiled the dynamics of Work in Progress. Lewis’s attack seems to have been an inspiring incentive for Joyce to write himself out of a crisis at a time when his most loyal supporters had lost their faith in the project. Joyce took advantage of the momentum, of the energy created by the friction—which may be a quite repugnant but nonetheless extremely effective economic strategy, comparable to the way punk clothing was inccorporated by the established clothing industry during the 1980s.4 MARCEL PROUST/JAMES JOYCE: SYNTAGMATIC PARADIGMATIC

VERSUS

Although both Joyce’s and Proust’s writing methods are essentially accretive in nature, there is a fundamental difference. The structure of

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Finnegans Wake was not ‹xed from the start, but the separate sections led a relatively sedentary life during the writing process; Proust’s avant-texte is made up of ambulant textual units that Proust adapted to, or merged with, new narrative contexts. The latter operation is referred to as “montage” by Jean Milly, which he de‹nes as “la technique de construction-déconstruction-reconstruction” (Milly, “À propos d’Albertine disparue” 72). One of the consequences of this writing method with regard to scholarly editing is that it is almost impossible to present the work’s genesis as a “continuous manuscript text” in the manner of Hans Walter Gabler’s synoptic edition of Ulysses or Bill Cadbury’s genetic representation of (part of) Finnegans Wake. Proust’s writing mainly took place in his cahiers and not in his few carnets. Joyce’s carnets or notebooks played a much more important role in the writing of Finnegans Wake. Bernard Brun has analyzed both writing methods and characterizes the general difference between Proust and Joyce as the contrast between syntagm and paradigm (“Variante, Variations, Tissage” 165). In another article, he emphasizes that Joyce’s basic unit is the word, whereas Proust worked with textual units (“Proust et Joyce” 218). The avant-texte of Finnegans Wake may indeed be divided into two equally important axes of notes and drafts. The ‹rst of these two categories consists mainly of notebooks (in the sense of the Proustian carnets) and notesheets. The B-notebooks rarely contain syntagmatic narrative entities of more than one sentence. One of the exceptions proving the rule is the ‹rst draft of the Kevin sketch in VI.B.03. This sketch is treated as a ‹rst draft by the editors of the James Joyce Archive (JJA 63:34–37). But this treatment is not always applied to similar cases, such as the ‹rst version of the fable of “The Ondt and the Gracehoper.” What is presented as draft stage 0 in the Archive was chronologically preceded by a number of syntagmatic rough drafts (or false starts, depending on one’s perspective) in notebook VI.B.21:148–49; 154–55. As these examples illustrate, the working process of Finnegans Wake is characterized by a continuous interaction between the paradigmatic and the syntagmatic axes, as opposed to the avant-texte of Thomas Mann’s Doktor Faustus, where the majority of the notes precede the actual writing. THOMAS MANN/MARCEL PROUST: PLAN VERSUS PROCESS In her thorough analysis of Mann’s preparatory notes, Lieselotte Voss concludes that the ‹rst 153 pages of the Notizenkonvolut were already compiled before Mann started writing (221). This writing method seems

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to correspond with Louis Hay’s category of écriture à programme or writing according to plan (“dritte Dimension”). In order to illustrate this écriture à programme (as opposed to the écriture à processus, practiced by authors such as Marcel Proust), Almuth Grésillon quotes a passage in which Mann justi‹es his interest in his manuscripts by arguing that they helped him to stick to the same plan during the writing of his novel (Éléments 103). This tendency seems to be con‹rmed by Hans Wysling’s observation that whatever Thomas Mann read, he read in view of his own work (“Die Technik der Montage” 157). Moreover, Mann’s own re›ections on his writing method in Die Entstehung des Doktor Faustus corroborate the impression of a carefully planned writing strategy: When I began to write, that Sunday morning, my notes were scanty and there was no actual written outline. Yet the book, insofar as the sequence of events was concerned, must have lain plainly before my eyes; I must have had a fairly good over-all view of it to be able at once to take up its entire complex of motifs, to give the beginning the perspective in depth of the whole. (Story of a Novel 36–37; GW 11:168) Nevertheless, Gunilla Bergsten argues that Mann did not always stick to his initial intention (Quellen 123). Mann, indeed, worked quite systematically according to plan, but he did allow external, coincidental circumstances and materials (such as newspaper articles) to interfere in the writing process.5 Moreover, if sticking to the initial intention is to be understood in Edgar Allan Poe’s sense, Mann often failed to do so. According to Poe the ‹rst consideration is the length of the work (196). According to his lecture Über mich selbst, Mann was originally convinced that his genre was the short story, in the style of Maupassant, Chechov, and Turgenyev. After reading Renée Mauperin by the Goncourt brothers, he made a start with Buddenbrooks. His plan was to write a novel of 200 or 250 pages. “But then it turned out that the book had a will of its own” (Über mich selbst 60). The same underestimation of the scale of an undertaking or “productive self-deception” [der “produktive Selbstbetrug”] (Über mich selbst 78) applies to the genesis of The Magic Mountain. This novel was originally planned to be a humoristic counterpart of Death in Venice of almost the same length. And with regard to Death in Venice, his original intention was to write something completely different, namely a story on Goethe’s love (at an advanced age) for Ulrike von Levetzow

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(Über mich selbst 71). The reason why he ‹nally gave his hero Gustav von Aschenbach the features of Gustav Mahler was coincidentally prompted by the reports on Mahler’s death in the newspapers. This kind of coincidental material could lead to substantive digressions, which are a characteristic aspect of Mann’s work,6 and may be regarded as a form of écriture à processus. According to the Entstehung des Doktor Faustus, however, this “mental alacrity for appropriating what I felt to be my own, what belonged to me, that is to say, to the ‘subject’” (Story 45–46; GW 11:174) is always coupled with the “worry over the book’s formlessness” (Story 71; GW 11:192) in order to turn his novel into “the solid, coherent structure that it is” (GW 11:192). Mann’s ability to allocate a place in his novel to this unexpected material has been interpreted as a con‹rmation of the écriture à programme method by other researchers such as Theodor Karst7 and Hans Wysling8—whereas in Proust’s case Grésillon interprets this openness to unexpected resources as a symptom of Proust’s écriture à processus because the author allowed them to make him deviate from the original plan. This difference in interpretation suggests that Grésillon’s division is quali‹ed by certain circumstances, such as the fact that À la recherche du temps perdu should almost be regarded as an oeuvre in itself. Therefore, a comparison with Thomas Mann’s novels ought to take into account his view on his oeuvre as as whole. Apparently, Mann regarded his works as moments of only relative perfection (Über mich selbst 74), only temporarily frozen in a certain (never perfect) shape that had to be remelted time and again. This suggests that Mann regarded his Gesamtwerk as a kind of Work in Progress, which raises the question whether James Joyce’s writing was an écriture à programme or à processus. He might have evaded the problem by means of a portmanteau neologism, écriture à progressus, emphasizing the ambiguity of writing two works at the same time: a never ‹nished Work in Progress and an arti‹cially9 ‹nished product called Finnegans Wake. As a result, any writing process seems to be characterized by at least two tendencies that do not necessarily exclude each other. Proust’s écriture may be more à processus than Thomas Mann’s, but any attempt to label writing methods will eventually prove not to do justice to their complexity.10 In Proust’s case, the density of the text11 is effectuated by means of insertions and additions. These textual intermittences are the result of sudden associations during several rereadings of his own texts. To the extent that the numerous additions in the margins of typescripts and galleys are

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invoked by the text itself, they may be regarded as a textual equivalent of involuntary memories. The fact that Joyce, Proust, and Mann were sensitive to this kind of textual contingency has nothing to do with automatic writing (implying a direct ›ow of inspiration), nor with mindless handicraft. If James Stephens had ‹nished Finnegans Wake (following the “mechanics” of the writing as explained to him by Joyce),12 the result would have been completely different. Nevertheless, Joyce focused on the métier of writing, and so did Mann. Their emphasis on this meticulous craftsmanship is related to the awareness that the writing partially generates itself. The extent to which authors either planned the writing in advance or, rather, counted on its self-generating force is one of the criteria that determine the signature of their writing, for “every word, letter, penstroke, paperspace is a perfect signature of its own” (FW 115.7–8).

Chapter 9

Conclusion: “Allspace in a Notshall”

when all is zed and done —Finnegans Wake

If genetic criticism may be regarded as a pursuit of the past, Proust’s Recherche is a reminder that the way we tend to link together the textual fragments through memory is a trick by means of which we fool ourselves, one of the “constructs we create to make sense of our lives and give them the inner logic and form they would otherwise lack” (Bernstein 116). The alternative to this kind of back-shadowing offered in the Recherche is sideshadowing. As Richard Rorty notes, “Proust’s novel is a network of small, interanimating contingencies. . . . Such contingencies make sense only in retrospect” (Contingency 101). But since authors’ memories tend to distort the past and critics inevitably have the bene‹t—but also the disadvantage—of hindsight, it is useful to study a work not only in retrospect, but also “in prospect” (from the perspective of the developing artifact itself). The awareness that the most futile entry in the notebooks may have in›uenced the course of the writing process justi‹es source studies, not as a way to “exorcise strangeness” (Attridge and Ferrer 10) nor as a way to search exclusively for the meanings intended by the author, nor as a kind of new biographism,1 but as a form of critical interpretation that shows a fundamental respect for the smallest textual contingency. A key issue in both the “impasse” of textual criticism and the “crisis of the novel” is the tension between the ‹nished and the un‹nished. Joyce spent seventeen years of his life, trying to put an end to Finnegans Wake; he ‹nally avoided doing so by making use of the arti‹ce of a circular structure, so that his Work continued to be “in Progress.” The end is perpetu155

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ally postponed, as in the case of À la recherche du temps perdu. Although Proust wrote the word “Fin” after the last sentence, he continued to make changes and additions to the text, and was not able to ‹nish his work. Mann did escape death while he was writing Doktor Faustus and was able to ‹nish his project, but even after the publication of his novel, he kept making changes, and when he ‹nally regarded his literary product as ‹nished, it was followed by an account of its production: Die Entstehung des Doktor Faustus. The study of these works’ writing processes inevitably raises three questions: where does the avant-texte begin, how does it proceed, and where does it end? The beginning is almost never a ‹xed moment. Thomas Mann refers to a note that already contains the core of Doktor Faustus and that was written more than forty years before he actually started writing it. But this note is inextricably bound up with the whole context of Mann’s cultural background (especially Wagner’s music and the works of Nietzsche and Schopenhauer). Proust’s case is even more problematical. An important impetus was his essay Contre Sainte-Beuve, but in addition his un‹nished novel Jean Santeuil contains several scenes that were incorporated in À la recherche du temps perdu. The ‹rst notes that Joyce made after the publication of Ulysses might be regarded as the beginning of Finnegans Wake, but the nature of these early notes suggests that Joyce did not have a clear idea yet of what his next project would be; most of them are simply excerpts from books or newspapers. The search for these texts’ beginnings leads to nowhere but an inde‹nite intertextual amalgam. Joyce and Mann in particular assimilated numerous passages from other texts. The encyclopedic ambitions of their works are given shape on the basis of a medieval model. These medieval practices partly con‹rm Wyndham Lewis’s analysis of Joyce’s “craftsmanship.” But what Lewis regarded as a disadvantage was a quality in Joyce’s and Mann’s opinion. In 1931, Joyce wrote to Georges Antheil: “I am quite content to go down to posterity as a scissors and paste man for that seems to me a harsh but not unjust description” (Letters 1:297). Joyce replaced the romantic image of the inspired genius and instead emphasized the métier of writing. He did not simply “use” language to convey a message; language is part of his worldview, which is characterized by a special attention to trivialities, the “world of differents” (FW 417.10). This sensitivity to contingency also implies an openness with regard to all kinds of textual coincidences, such as trivia in the news-

Conclusion / 157

paper, which had a considerable in›uence on the textual development of these works. The three writing processes at issue are expansive in nature, yet they differ in many ways. Thomas Mann openly admitted that he would “absorb” whatever he could use. He incorporated several source texts into his own work and referred to this method as his “Montagetechnik.” This montage, however, is quite different from Proust’s “cut and paste” method that critics also refer to as montage. Here, montage denotes Proust’s habit of constantly rearranging his own texts. Proust wrote the beginning and the end of the Recherche very early in the writing process; from a genetic perspective, everything he wrote between Du Côté de chez Swann and Le Temps retrouvé is an addition between brackets or an “entre-deux” (as Proust called it). Between these brackets, blocks or units of text were constantly shuf›ed around. In comparison with Proust’s “écriture vagabonde” (Grésillon), the mobility of textual units in Joyce’s Work in Progress is rather limited. Whereas Proust worked with larger textual units, Joyce’s basic unit is the word. He ‹lled more than ‹fty notebooks with short entries. From this verbal amalgam he made a selection of words, which he then processed and incorporated in his text. In this way, his manuscripts kept expanding with every new version. In March 1924 Joyce made a list of the sigla he used in his manuscripts to denote the protagonists. The last siglum in this list is a square, followed by a short explanation: ▫ This stands for the title but I do not wish to say it yet until the book has written more of itself. (Letters 1:213) The idea of letting the book “write itself” is based on the awareness that, to a certain extent, the text generates itself. During the writing process, the author is also his own reader. The revision of a text may result in new associations, so that Proust and Joyce kept adding things in the margin, even during the revision of the galleys. These additions and other aspects of the writing process become thematic in the text. There is a constant tension between the construction and the awareness of its being only a construction. With their textual awareness, Joyce, Mann, and Proust managed to turn the crisis of the novel into a novel of the crisis. This crisis was indeed a reaction to naturalism, but the

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rejection of “l’art prétendu réaliste” [art that pretends to be realist] (Recherche 4:460) by writers such as Proust did not imply a rejection of the notion of mimesis, but rather an enlargement of this concept from traditional “product mimesis” to what Linda Hutcheon calls “process mimesis” (39), a more dynamic form of mimesis that includes both writing and reading.2 The question then is: where does the avant-texte end? In order to map the avant-texte, including the dead ends, it is necessary to follow the writing process chronologically. From this viewpoint it becomes clear that, at each step in this process, the text still had the possibility of becoming something entirely different. The question whether a literary text is a ‹nished product or rather a production process is a conundrum that manifests itself most clearly in novels with an encyclopedic scope, in which the desire to grasp “everything” in one text is inevitably confronted with the impossibility of any such enterprise since each satisfaction of the reader’s inquisitiveness immediately creates a new desire for even more knowledge. This may be one of the most important reasons why Finnegans Wake has a circular structure: as a symbol of perfection the circle also stands for the endlessness of the encyclopedic project. Thomas Mann tried to square the circle by using the extremely rigid structure of Arnold Schoenberg’s method of twelve-tone composition and J. S. Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier. But the four times twelve chapters are in fact only forty-seven chapters and a “Nachschrift.” With the not quite perfect structure of Doktor Faustus’s forty-eight-minus-one chapters, Mann deliberately left open a corner of the “magic square” and admitted that the quadrature of an encyclopedia is indeed by de‹nition a vain attempt to square the circle. By studying the hesitations during the writing process or the words that were omitted or deleted along the way, genetic criticism may help to ‹nd out why the writing proceeded as it did and how it did not proceed, in order to get an idea of the enormous amount of potential energy in many modernist texts. What the confrontation between textual and literary criticism yields is the awareness that Doktor Faustus cannot be separated from Die Entstehung des Doktor Faustus, that À la recherche du temps perdu would not exist without the time lost in the search for it, and that James Joyce’s last work is both Finnegans Wake and Work in Progress, a combination of the text with its famous circular structure and the square siglum of the work he had in mind in 1924: ▫ .

Notes

INTRODUCTION

1. See also Grésillon, “Hasards et nécessités” 51. 2. See Lernout, “‘Critique génétique’ und Philologie” 121–42. 3. See Grésillon, Éléments 187; and de Biasi, “Vers une science” 925–26. 4. See Espagne, “Les enjeux de la genèse” 118–19. See also Neefs, “La Critique génétique” 16. 5. Philip Cohen, Devils and Angels xiv. This enhanced self-awareness marks what Cohen calls a “crucial impasse” (xiv) and even a “paradigm shift” (“Textual Instability” xiii–xiv). 6. See also Ferrer, “Production.” 7. The Dutch translators of Finnegans Wake, Robbert-Jan Henkes and Erik Bindervoet, have included twenty-eight pages with 1,283 transmissional departures in the bilingual edition of Finnegans Wake (2002), 629–56. See also Van Hulle, “Genetic Criticism.” 8. Grésillon, Eléments 102. This typology was based on suggestions by Louis Hay in “Die dritte Dimension der Literatur.” 9. Signi‹cantly, Peter Shillingsburg regards Eco’s approach as “warmed up New Criticism” (Resisting Texts 191), whereas Antoine Compagnon regards the notion of intentio operis as a disguised form of the intentio auctoris (Démon 87). 10. Both concepts are further elaborated by Pierre-Marc de Biasi, who de‹nes exogenetics as that aspect of an author’s working process which is “focused on information stemming from a source exterior to the writing” (“Typology” 42), whereas endogenetics designates “the process by which the writer conceives of, elaborates, and trans‹gures pre-textual material, without recourse to outside documents or information, through simple reformulation or internal transformation of previous pre-textual data” (43–44). 11. As Daniel Ferrer points out, this action always implies the hope that the excerpted passages may be of use some time: “Even before the ‹rst plans and scenarios, every act of note-taking occurs with the expectation, however vague, that the note will somehow be used” (“Clementi’s Cap” 226). 159

160 / Notes to Pages 16–27 CHAPTER

1

1. See Zeller, “Fünfzig” 5. 2. Zeller makes a clear distinction between a teleological school (to which Beißner belongs) and the versional editing applied by himself, Sattler, Allemann (in his edition of Celan’s poetry), and Martens and Dammann (in their edition of poems by Georg Heym). See Zeller, “L’édition génétique” 31–32. 3. Waltraud Hagen mentions four advantages of the ‹rst edition as a basis for the edited text: 1. The ‹rst edition is the result of the most intensive stage of the writing process. 2. Of all editions, the ‹rst is the one that least levels out the historical process. 3. The author’s decision to make her work leave the intimacy of her private of‹ce and show it (in its entirety) to the public is linked to the ‹rst edition, which gives it special signi‹cance. 4. The ‹rst edition usually has the most impact, and draws the most intense attention in reviews, etc. Still, Hagen argues this should not lead to a systematic preference for the ‹rst edition, for each situation is different, and each work therefore requires a corresponding approach (“Frühe Hand—späte Hand?” 119–20). 4. “I can never know another person’s intended meaning with certainty because I cannot get inside his head to compare the meaning he intends with the meaning I understand. . . . But this obvious fact should not be allowed to sanction the overly hasty conclusion that the author’s intended meaning is inaccessible and is therefore a useless object of interpretation. It is a logical mistake to confuse the impossibility of certainty in understanding with the impossibility of understanding” (Hirsch, Validity 17). 5. “Authorial authorization indicates the period of time during which the text of a version represents the work for the author. Authorial authorization originates with the writing of the version in question by the author or undertaken under his or her instruction, and likewise with the authorially derived or approved publication or printing of such a version, and ends with its replacement by a new version of the text, or with the death of the author” (Scheibe, “Zum editorischen Problem des Textes” 29).

CHAPTER

2

1. Rowe’s edition of Shakespeare’s works appeared in 1709, Pope’s in 1725, Theobald’s in 1733, Warburton’s in 1747, and Johnson’s in 1765. 2. See also Greetham, “Redrawing the Matrix” 14–15 n. 4. 3. In “Ulysses as a Postmodern Text” (1985) McGann writes, “After Gabler I begin to imagine an entirely different genetic text of Ulysses, one which would represent the history of the work’s initial production rather than its initial composition—the author’s rather than the writer’s Ulysses” (292). 4. The number of misprints was rated at about two thousand until, in 1984, no less than ‹ve thousand were corrected in Gabler’s edition. When, in 1986, the reading text was published separately by Random House, it was presented as “The Corrected Text,” but in his “Inquiry into Ulysses” (December 1988), John Kidd

Notes to Pages 27–40 / 161 argued that with his corrections, Gabler had created several new errors (see also “The Scandal of Ulysses”). Joyceans have been waiting in vain for Kidd’s alternative edition. In the meantime, Random House republished its old 1961 edition and Lilliput Press published a “Reader’s Edition.” In the introduction, the editor, Danis Rose, points out that “the overriding criterion applied in creating this edition has been to maximize the pleasure of the reader” (vi). Apart from the addition of several punctuation marks (including the apostrophes in the last chapter), this also implied the correction not only of “errors” (nonauthorial changes or transmissional departures) but also of “faults” (mistakes made by Joyce himself while revising or copying his own manuscripts). The result, according to Stephen James Joyce, is not just another “Scandal” but “The Rape of Ulysses,” Times Literary Supplement, June 27, 1997, 17. 5. This view on the ontology of the literary work is further elaborated in “Texts of Documents” in the same volume; see also Tanselle, “Varieties.”

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1. Compagnon refers to Alain Roger’s psychoanalytic interpretation of a passage from Proust’s Sodome et Gomorrhe (Pléiade, 1987), 3:191, which turns out to be based on a typographical error. This leads Compagnon to the conclusion that Roger is not interpreting Proust’s subconscious, but that of the typist. 2. Gothot-Mersch mentions Marguerite Duras, arguing that a genetic edition of her work would have to present certain late versions as “après-textes” (“L’edition génétique” 64). 3. In this respect, Bellemin-Noël comes close to Siegfried Scheibe’s concept of “Autor-Autorisation,” showing great interest in the author’s point of view: “[L]es brouillons nous renseignent sur ce qu’un ouvrage signi‹ait aux yeux de l’écrivain” [The drafts elucidate what a work meant from the author’s perspective] (“Reproduire le manuscrit” 5). 4. See, for instance, Robert Melançon in Etudes françaises 28 (1992): 57.

CHAPTER

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1. See Tanselle, Rationale 18: “[L]iterary works do not exist on paper or in sounds. Whatever concept of authorship one subscribes to, the act of reading or listening to receive a message from the past entails the effort to discover, through the text (or texts) one is presented with, the work that lies behind.” 2. “Au contraire la musique, elle, m’aidait à m’oublier et par là à descendre en moi-même, à y découvrir de nouveau la vérité que j’avais cherché en vain dans la vie, dans le voyage . . .” (RTP 3:1168, Esquisse 17). 3. “diversité ^différentiation^ Cette Cette variété ^La variété^ que je ne trouvais pas da dans la vie, dans ^que j’avais^ cherché en vain dans la vie dans l’amour ^dans la vie^, que je n’av que dans le voyage . . .” (Cahier 73, 16r). 4. Jean Starobinski, “La littérature, le texte et l’interprète,” in Faire de l’his-

162 / Notes to Pages 42–54 toire: Approches, ed. Jacques Le Goff and Pierre Nora (Paris: Gallimard/NRF, 1974), 169; quoted from Kaplan and Roussin 260. 5. “It is surprising that some textual critics label this view of literary works ‘Platonic.’ Recognition of the intangible nature of certain media is independent of a general belief in the secondary status of the physical world” (Tanselle, “Editing without a Copy-Text” 6 n. 9). 6. See the ‹rst sentence of Schopenhauer’s World as Will and Representation: “The world is my representation.” 7. According to Allen Renear, who calls himself an “unabashed Pluralistic realist” (122), texts “have properties independent of our interests in them and our theories about them” (Renear and McGann, thesis 1). 8. See also McGann, “Literary Pragmatics” 2–3. 9. See also page 43: “[A] work is represented more or less well and more or less completely by various physical forms, such as manuscripts, proofs, and books. These forms often are not textually identical. From the receiver’s perspective, a work is the imagined whole implied by all differing forms of a text that we conceive as representing a single literary creation.” 10. According to Tanselle, “[T]he history of the work is to be distinguished from the text of the work, which is not the sum of all the utterences but the text of every utterance individually considered” (“Textual Instability” 25). 11. Term coined by Gabler, “Textual Criticism” 713.

CHAPTER

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1. The theme of these pastiches is the Lemoine case. Lemoine, who claimed he had found a way to produce diamonds, was paid a million francs by the president of De Beers, but eventually sentenced to six years of imprisonment on July 6, 1909 (Pastiches et mélanges 7). 2. Corr. 8:320; letter dated mid-December by Philip Kolb. 3. Toward the end of 1908, Marcel Proust purchased a set of school notebooks in which he started writing his magnum opus on the basis of the Contre Sainte-Beuve project. Ninety-‹ve of these notebooks are now preserved in the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris, and according to Céleste Albaret, Proust’s amanuensis, he ordered her to destroy thirty-two of them (Tadié, “Introduction générale,” RTP 1:xl). 4. These pieces were written on seventy-‹ve large sheets of paper that have not been preserved. They are described by Bernard de Fallois on page 14 of his edition of Contre Sainte-Beuve (Paris: Gallimard, 1954). 5. Letter to Alfred Valette, mid-August 1909, Corr. 9:155–57. 6. See also Brun, “Histoire” 46. 7. See Roloff 268. 8. The ‹rst drafts (brouillons) are contained in Cahiers 49, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43. 9. Letters to Jean-Louis Vaudoyer and Georges de Lauris, March 1912, Corr. 9:68 and 76.

Notes to Pages 54–56 / 163 10. The notion of the “intermittences du coeur” (denoting the discontinuous activity of our emotions and their sudden awakening after long periods of emotional numbness) is even older than the theme of involuntary memory. Originally, in the novel as it was ready to be published in 1912, the narrator dreamed of his grandmother and was given notice of her death on a journey to Italy. During the First World War, the episode was split. The journey to Italy (Venice) would eventually be situated much later in the course of the narrative, whereas the narrator’s realization a posteriori of his grandmother’s death was located at the beginning of the second stay in Balbec, when the narrator, staying in the same hotel room as the previous time, remembers his ‹rst arrival at Balbec with his grandmother (Sodome et Gomorrhe II, RTP 3:148–78; prepublished as “Les Intermittences du coeur” in the Nouvelle Revue française of October 1, 1921). 11. See Callu, “Fonds Proust,” RTP 1:clvii; and Tadié, introduction, RTP 1:lxvii. 12. Letter from Gaston Gallimard to Marcel Proust, November 8, 1912 (Proust and Gallimard 10–14). 13. Letter to Gaston Gallimard, early November 1912; Corr. 11:286. 14. Gallimard’s refusal followed advice from André Gide, who apologized for this historical mistake in January 1914 (Proust and Gide 9). 15. Letter to Bernard Grasset, April 19, 1913; Corr. 12:145. 16. Letter to Bernard Grasset, mid-May 1913; Corr. 12:176. The reason why Proust suddenly changed the general title of his novel was that he had read an announcement for a book by Binet Valmer called Le Coeur en désordre, which came too close to the title Les intermittences du coeur (Corr. 12:177). 17. Letter to Calmette, November 12, 1913; Corr. 12:309. 18. This change of publisher was arranged in 1916 (see letters to Gaston Gallimard, Corr. 15:129ff.), after Gide’s apologies and his repeated con‹rmation of the Nouvelle Revue française’s interest in publishing the Recherche (Proust and Gide, Autour de La Recherche 12). 19. See Keller, “Approche d’Albertine” 45. 20. See also RTP 3:1862, note to Esquisse 16. 21. Sodome et Gomorrhe II, chap. 4 (“Les intermittences du coeur II”), RTP 3:497–515. 22. After a night of distress, the narrator asks his grandmother permission to marry Albertine, who has spoken of her plans to go to Amsterdam (Cahier 71, 61–61r «4–5»). Tormented by the idea of what she might be up to, he talks to his grandmother (who subsequently disappears and is replaced by his mother [71r «14»]) about his plan to take Albertine with him to Paris. From page 77r «15» onward the narrator’s life with Albertine is recounted, ending with Albertine’s departure less than thirty pages further on (104r «39»). This departure is worked out on the next, i.e., the last page of the cahier, and continued on page 38r «41», one of the blank pages between 33r and 58r. Proust anticipated the numerous additions characterizing his accretive working method by writing only on the right side of the recto page. He subsequently ‹lled this “mold” of ‹fty pages with all kinds of additions both on the verso pages and on the left side of the recto pages, thus creating the concentrated basis for the hundreds of pages in the “cahiers de

164 / Notes to Pages 56–63 manuscrits” of La Prisonnière, and more than ‹ve hundred pages of the third typescript. For a more detailed account of this textual development see Kurokawa. 23. Letter to Mme Scheikévitch, November 1915; Corr. 14:281. 24. The passage on page 28r of Cahier 13 already announces the relationship between Albertine and Andrée (RTP 2:926). 25. November 2 or 3, 1915; Corr. 14:273. 26. Sodome et Gomorrhe II was published in May 1922 in 3 volumes (vol. 1 corresponding to RTP 3:34–190; vol. 2 to RTP 3:190–352; vol. 3 to RTP 3:352–515). 27. Letter to Gallimard, July 2 or 3, 1922; Proust and Gallimard 551–52. 28. Letter to Gallimard, September 26, 1922; Proust and Gallimard 621. 29. This is the main reason why the ‹rst (1954) Pléiade edition reinstalled the title La Fugitive. 30. See facsimile in Milly, “A propos d’Albertine disparue” 57. 31. One month earlier, on November 1, 1922, the Nouvelle Revue française had announced the forthcoming publication (in 1923) of “Sodome et Gomorrhe III, 2 volumes.” See Mauriac Dyer, “Le Cycle de Sodome et Gomorrhe.” 32. This hypothesis was ‹rst suggested by Jacques Bersani in the 1988 supplement of the Encyclopaedia Universalis, 500–501. 33. See facsimile in Milly, Écrire sans ‹n 59. 34. Nathalie Mauriac Dyer and Jean Milly have deciphered this almost illegible document. The transcription is printed in Jean Milly’s article “A propos d’Albertine disparue” 69. 35. Jotted down in the spring of 1922, according to Céleste Albaret. See Tadié’s analysis of the ending of Le Temps retrouvé in his biography (Marcel Proust 892–94). 36. Transcribed by Almuth Grésillon in “Proust ou l’écriture vagabonde” 117, 109. 37. In Le Temps retrouvé, the narrator wonders how he can “‹x” the “essence of things” (RTP 4:454). 38. This comparison is suggested by Proust himself in Cahier 57, 5v (see transcription by Bonnet and Brun, Matinée chez la Princesse de Guermantes 300). 39. As Brassaï notes in his essay Marcel Proust sous l’emprise de la photographie, Proust was interested as much as Freud in slips of the tongue, which may be just as revealing as x ray photography (143). 40. “If one imagines the textual history in the shape of a three-dimensional cylinder standing upright, then the different versions are horizontal planes perpendicular to the axis of the cylinder. The purpose of the historical-critical edition (apart from the necessary correction of mutilated text) is to create an appropriate reproduction of this cylinder, that is to say, of the complete textual history; while the purpose of a critical edition is to reproduce a particular plane, that is to say, an individual version. Contamination would mean the projection of one plane onto another” (Zeller, “New Approach” 244). 41. The four carnets, preserved in the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris, are described bibliographically by Florence Callu in “La construction du manuscrit en objet scienti‹que” (459). The article also contains a photograph of the carnets.

Notes to Pages 63–65 / 165 According to Bernard Brun, there is a ‹fth one in a private collection (Brun, “Histoire d’un texte” 41). 42. George P. Landow refers to Barthes’s division into lexias to de‹ne the notion of hypertext: “Hypertext, as the term is used in this work, denotes text composed of blocks of text—what Barthes terms a lexia—and the electronic links that join them” (Hypertext 3). 43. Second galley, dated by the editor June 12, 1913, preserved in the Bibliothèque Nationale: NAF 16755, 71r. 44. In a similar way, Albertine could have been someone else: “[J]’étais sûr que ç’aurait pu ne pas être elle que j’eusse aimée, que ç’eût pu être une autre” (RTP 4:83). 45. Michael André Bernstein coined the term sideshadowing in Foregone Conclusions as an alternative to the notions of “foreshadowing” and “backshadowing” (denoting the retrospective tendency to project the shadow of important historical events backward onto the preceding period): “More subtly than any work of art I know, À la recherche du temps perdu probes the endlessly recon‹gured relationships we establish between the different epochs of our lives, so that at times the characters’ whole past seems like a preparation for and foreshadowing of their identity in the present, while at other moments, each episode exists almost inviolate in its own distinct sphere, with emotions and associations so rich in themselves as to make ludicrous the notion that they are preparatory to anything beyond themselves. Only in rereading do these early references assume any importance. Although in a sense akin to foreshadowing, they lack the inevitability and determinism of conventional foreshadowing, and often point to a whole range of sideshadowed possibilities” (115–16). 46. See Lhomeau and Coelho 89f.; see also Bonnet, Marcel Proust de 1907 à 1914, 10. 47. Cahier 57, 13v; see Bonnet and Brun’s transcription in Proust, Matinée chez la Princesse de Guermantes 318–19. 48. See Bonnet and Brun’s transcription in Proust, Matinée chez la Princesse de Guermantes 297. 49. According to Yoshikawa these notes are taken between June 1913 and 1914 (“Vinteuil” 297). 50. See also RTP 4:869. 51. For instance this deletion and substitution: “La p Cette Symphonie Ce quatuor” (Cahier 73, 41v). 52. Alison Winton points out that the insertions in the description of the septet, contrasting this composition with the sonata (Proust’s Additions, 1:338–39), may be understood as a comment on the development of the novel (342). But regarding the seven volumes, Yoshikawa expresses some reservations, since the manuscript in which both a sextet and a septet are mentioned had already been drafted in 1918, when Proust announced only ‹ve volumes (Yoshikawa, “Vinteuil” 315). 53. Jean-Jacques Nattiez argues that Butor’s interpretation is still valid. Nevertheless, the last stage in the development (from six to seven volumes) is not as unequivocal as Nattiez presents it. If by “livres” Nattiez means the seven parts of

166 / Notes to Pages 65–66 the Recherche that are known under the seven titles Du côté de chez Swann, A l’ombre des jeunes ‹lles en ›eurs, Le Côté de Guermantes, Sodome et Gomorrhe, La Prisonnière, Albertine disparue/La Fugitive, and Le Temps retrouvé, it should be noted that although the title “La Prisonnière” is still mentioned in Gallimard’s penultimate letter to Proust (November 2, 1922; Proust-Gallimard, 637), this division was already rejected a couple of weeks after the ‹rst time the title La Prisonnière is mentioned (around May 15, 1922, in a letter to J. Boulenger; Corr. 21:197), when Proust discovered that the title of its counterpart, La Fugitive, was already used for a book by Tagore (see letter to Gallimard, July 2 or 3, 1922; Proust and Gallimard, 551–52). In September 1922 Proust suggested to Gallimard to publish the remaining volumes (La Prisonnière, Albertine disparue, and Le Temps retrouvé) as Sodome et Gomorrhe III, which would have given a total amount of only six. 54. The analogy is even extended to smaller musical elements: “quatre not sept notes” (RTP 3:754). 55. The Contre Sainte-Beuve project opened with the sentence: “Au temps de cette matinée dont je veux ‹xer je ne sais pourquoi, le souvenir, j’étais déjà malade” (Marcel Proust, Contre Sainte-Beuve 51). 56. In “Genèse du leitmotiv ‘Fortuny,’” Kazuo Yoshikawa retraced this process. 57. “pour Vinteuil / Comme les couleurs du / spectre extériorisent / pour nous la composition / intime des astres que nous // [6r] ne verrons jamais, / ainsi la couleur du / peintre, les harmonies / du musicien, nous / permettent de connaî- / tre cette différence / qualitative des sensations / qui est la plus g[ran]de / jouissance et la plus g[ran]de / souffrance de la vie de / chacun de nous et qui / reste toujours ignorée car / elle est indépendante de / ce que nous pouvons raconter / (les faits, les choses) qui / sont les mêmes pour tous” (Carnet 3, 5v–6r; cf. Carnets 257–58). 58. As a plausible answer to the question why Proust eventually decided to compose a ‹ctitious septet, Jean Milly suggests that the seven instruments represent the prismatic colors (Phrase 144). 59. “As the spectrum makes visible to us the composition of light, so the harmony of a Wagner, the color of an Elstir, enable us to know that essential quality of another person’s sensations into which love for another person does not allow us to penetrate” (Remembrance 3:156). 60. “[T]he art of a Vinteuil like that of an Elstir, which exteriorises in the colors of the spectrum the intimate composition of those worlds which we call individuals . . .” (Remembrance 3:259). The comparison with neuralgia is another metaphor that recurs twice (RTP 3:665 and RTP 3:764): those insistent, ›eeting themes [in Wagner’s music] . . . so internal, so organic, so visceral, that they seem like the reprise not so much of a musical motif as of an attack of neuralgia. (Remembrance 3:156) A phrase [in Vinteuil’s septet] . . . so internal, almost so organic and visceral, that one could not tell at each of its re-entries whether it was a theme or an attack of neuralgia. (Remembrance 3:262)

Notes to Pages 67–73 / 167 The origin of this neuralgia is retraced by Nathalie Mauriac Dyer to Carnet 2 in her edition of La Prisonnière (588). 61. “Elstir and I had meanwhile been walking towards the end of the studio, and had reached the window. . . . I looked out vaguely over this rustic path which passed quite close to the studio but did not belong to Elstir. Suddenly there appeared on it, coming towards us at a rapid pace, the young cyclist of the little band, with her polo-cap pulled down over her dark hair towards her plump cheeks, her eyes gay and slightly provocative” (Remembrance 1:902; RTP 2:199). 62. This photograph showed Odette, caught in a pose “between stillness and motion” (RTP 1:606–7). 63. Thomas Carlyle (1795–1881) was an important source of inspiration for Marcel Proust’s poetics (see Corr. 1:428). According to Jean-Yves Tadié, Proust discovered Carlyle in 1895 (Marcel Proust: Biographie 414) through J. B. J. Izoulet-Loubatières’s translation of On Heroes, Hero-Worship and the Heroic in History (1841; trans. 1888). 64. See the famous de‹nition of style as a “revelation” (RTP 4:474). 65. Proust’s idea of the artist’s task to open the spectators’ eyes was developed as early as 1895 in an article on “Chardin et Rembrandt” (Proust, Essais et articles 76). 66. “He [the writer] can describe a scene by describing one after another the innumerable objects which at a given moment were present at a particular place, but truth will be attained by him only when he takes two different objects, states the connexion between them—a connexion analogous in the world of art to the unique connexion which in the world of science is provided by the law of causality—and encloses them in the necessary links of a well-wrought style” (Remembrance 3:924–25; RTP 4:468). 67. It is remarkable that in this early version of the famous passage, style is not crucial (“the style may be bad”). In the ‹nal version, however, it is the writer’s duty to state the connexion between the two objects and “enclose them in the necessary links of a well-wrought style” (Remembrance 3:925). 68. The image of the text as a message in a bottle is employed by Umberto Eco in Interpretation and Overinterpretation: “When a text is put in the bottle . . . that is, when a text is produced not for a single addressee but for a community of readers—the author knows that he or she will be interpreted not according to his or her intentions but according to a complex strategy of interactions which also involves the readers” (67). 69. The narrator’s walk also retraces the course of time, starting with the new school, built on the place where the rue des Perchamps was located (RTP 1:163), the “vieille hôtellerie de l’Oiseau” (RTP 1:164) dating from the seventeenth century, and the medieval castle of the ancient “Comtes de Combray” (RTP 1:165) until mention is made of “Princes de contes de fées français, venus peut-être il y a bien des siècles d’Asie.” In analogy with this retrograde excursion in time, the ‹rst person mentioned along the Vivonne is a ‹sherman; the next section of the river is “dominated by schoolchildren” (RTP 1:165) until one arrives at the narrator’s own infancy, “ma plus petite enfance” (RTP 1:166).

168 / Notes to Pages 74–77 70. Proust, Textes retrouvés, ed. Kolb and Price 116–18. According to the chronology of the textes retrouvés, this text on the sources of the Loir, established on the basis of a photocopy of the original, which belonged to Claude Mauriac, was written between 1901 and 1903.

CHAPTER

6

1. Letter to Frank Budgen, October 24, 1920: “I observe a furtive attempt to run a certain Mr Marcel Proust of here against the signatory of this letter. I have read some pages of his. I cannot see any special talent but I am a bad critic. Still I think a fall of mine would not altogether disappoint some admirers” (Letters 1:148). 2. Letter to Sylvia Beach, written at the end of October 1922, according to Ellmann (508n). 3. “Scribbledehobble,” or “the Ur-workbook for Finnegans Wake,” as Thomas E. Connolly called it, is a large notebook, mainly in Joyce’s hand (with additions in Giorgio Joyce’s and other collaborators’ hands). 4. Between 1922 and 1940, Joyce compiled more than ‹fty notebooks in order to compose the drafts of Finnegans Wake. Apart from VI.A, “Scribbledehobble,” Peter Spielberg discerns three other kinds of notebooks: The B-notebooks (VI.B.1–VI.B.48): Spielberg catalogs ‹fty B-notebooks (B.49 and B.50 are loose notesheets). The B-notebooks contain all sorts of (sometimes barely legible) notes and fragmentary excerpts from external sources, never in extenso, mostly reduced to a few catchwords. Material drawn from a single source is referred to as an “index.” Several researchers (Vincent Deane, Daniel Ferrer, Danis Rose, John O’Hanlon, David Hayman, Geert Lernout, Inge Landuyt, Wim Van Mierlo, Sam Slote, Mikio Fuse, and others) have been working on transcriptions of these notebooks in order to map Joyce’s points of interests during the composition of his last work. This research has made it possible to discern clusters of notebook entries and to retrace quite a number of external sources (articles from the Irish Times, the Encyclopaedia Britannica, books on various subjects). The ‹rst volumes of the edition of The “Finnegans Wake” Notebooks at Buffalo were published in 2001. The C-Notebooks (VI.C.01–VI.C.18): At the end of 1933, Mme France Raphael started copying—on Joyce’s request—the B-notebooks he had already compiled, leaving out the crossed-out entries. At Joyce’s request, these transcriptions were made in a very clear and large handwriting, because of the author’s bad eyes. The D-notebooks: These have not been preserved. Thanks to Mme Raphael’s transcriptions, however, it is possible to (partially) reconstruct seven of these missing notebooks: D.1 corresponding with C.2:123–97; D.2 cf. C.3:178–242 and C.15:177–252; D.3 cf. C.4:220–80 and C.5:1–91; D.4 cf. C.136–269; D.5 cf. C.8:217–end plus C.9:1–19 and C.10:249–end plus C.16:1–65; D.6 cf. C.11:96–217; D.7 cf. C.16:232–74. According to Danis

Notes to Pages 77–79 / 169 Rose’s chronological survey of the notebooks (Textual Diaries 25–35), ‹ve more notebooks are missing: X.1 (late January/early March 1923), X.2 (December 1923), X.3 (summer 1923), X.4 (November–December 1930), and X.5 (March–August 1938). 5. For a more detailed analysis of these ‹rst notes, see Geert Lernout, “The Finnegans Wake Notebooks” 37. 6. Frederick Bywaters was a ship’s steward who was sentenced (on December 11, 1922) for murdering the husband of his beloved Edith Thompson, partly at her instigation. 7. See the corresponding passage in the original text: “Three soldiers were walking together in Fleet-street; one gave an opinion in which all concurred. It was the woman who was to blame. Bywaters . . . proved himself a man afterwards” (quoted from Rose, Textual Diaries 46). 8. March 18, 1923; BL Add. 57347, 17. 9. In 1989, Danis Rose and John O’Hanlon (“Name of the Book”) suggested that the original title of Finnegans Wake was “Finn’s Hotel.” In February 1993, Stephen J. Joyce and Sean Sweeney declared in the Times Literary Supplement, February 19, 1993, 15, that the James Joyce Estate did not agree with Rose’s suggestion that Joyce originally planned a kind of collection of short stories. 10. “In spite of my eye attack I got on with another passage by using a charcoal pencil (fusain) which broke every three minutes and a large sheet of paper. I have now covered various large sheets in a handwriting resembling that of the late Napoleon Bonaparte when irritated by reverses” (letter to Harriet Shaw Weaver, March 28 1923; Letters 3:73). 11. “I have gone through some of my notes with what sight I have” (May 28, 1923, to Harriet Shaw Weaver; Letters 3:76); “I can now do some reading and have raced through many accumulated books and notes” (June 10, 1923, to Miss Weaver; Letters 3:76). See also letter to Miss Weaver, July 11, 1923, BL Add. 57347, 76. 12. July 19, 1923, to Miss Weaver; Letters 1:203. 13. Saint Kevin, born on the island of Ireland in the Irish ocean goes to Glendalough to live on an isle. On this isle is a pond with an islet. On this islet he builds a hut and digs a cavity that he ‹lls with water. In the center of this pool he places a tub, ‹lled with water, in which he seats himself and meditates on the sacrament of baptism. (The nine concentric circles are numbered by Joyce in the ‹rst draft.) 14. The ‹rst draft of the O’Conor sketch was sent to Miss Weaver one month later. In the accompanying letter Joyce mentions that the draft marked (A) is the ‹rst of all (August 13, 1923; BL Add. 57347, 90). The ‹rst draft of the O’Conor sketch (JJA 55:446a; BL 47480, 267) is marked with an A between parentheses. 15. Letter to Harriet Shaw Weaver, July 29, 1923; BL Add. 57347, 81. 16. See letter to Harriet Shaw Weaver, August 3, 1923; BL Add. 57347, 85. 17. E.g., letter to Miss Weaver, August 30, 1923; BL Add. 57347, 98. 18. A Pictorial and Descriptive Guide to Bognor (London: Ward, Lock, 1922–23), 54. Quoted from Peter Timmerman’s “The First Guide to Finnegans Wake,” 45.

170 / Notes to Pages 79–85 19. Letter to Miss Weaver, September 10, 1923; BL Add. 57347, 101v. 20. Letter to Miss Weaver, September 17, 1923; Letters 1:205. 21. BL Add. 57347, 101–2, September 10, 1923. 22. September 17, 1923; Letters 1:205. 23. Cf. letter to Harriet Weaver, October 9, 1923; Letters 1:204: “I felt (as I tried to explain to him) that I could not allow them to be printed yet. The construction is quite different from Ulysses where at least the ports of call were known beforehand.” 24. Preserved in the British Library in London, BL 47471b. 25. Letter to Miss Weaver, December 17, 1923; Letters 1:207. In the same letter, Joyce wrote: “I enclose a long piece with the ‹nal script. The others are in a book, all scrawled over in red pencil. I shall send it when it is full.” The “book” is the red-backed notebook. 26. As the loving wife of HCE, ALP tries to counter the rumors about her husband’s alleged crime in the park. But by emphasizing his innocence, she only seems to con‹rm the rumors. This letter was drafted in December 1923 and January 1924 and served as a scaffolding for several other sections, such as the Delivery of the Letter, and the two philological discussions, concerning the envelope and other aspects of the letter. When Joyce drafted these sections, he decided to remove the letter from its original context (chapter I.5). It remained unused for ‹fteen years and was only reinserted in 1938 in the ‹nal chapter of the Wake. 27. Letter to Miss Weaver, January 16, 1924; Letters 1:208. 28. Mid-April 1924; BL Add. 57347, 145. 29. April 16, 1924; Letters to Sylvia Beach 36. Later on, Joyce sometimes even signed his letters with Shem’s siglum (e.g., letter to Harriet Shaw Weaver, November 29, 1926; Letters 3:147). 30. Letter to Miss Weaver, February 8, 1924: “I send you some new MS. . . . The fresh text follows after the words ‘Shem the penman.’ I continue to work on, hopeless as the situation seems” (Letters 1:210). 31. June 13, 1925; Letters 3:121. 32. Postcard to Harriet Weaver, September 6, 1925; Letters 3:127. 33. Two Worlds 1 (September 1925) (FW 104–25), 2 (December 1925) (FW 30–34.29), 3 (March 1926) (FW 196–216), 4 (June 1926) (FW 169–95), 5 (September 1926) (FW 383–99). 34. Letter to Harriet Weaver, July 15, 1926; Letters 1:242. 35. Cf. letter to Harriet Weaver, September 24, 1926; Letters 1:245. 36. Letter to Harriet Weaver, July 15, 1926; Letters 1:242. 37. November 8, 1926; Letters 1:246. 38. Letter to Miss Weaver, November 8, 1926; Letters 1:246. 39. Letter to Miss Weaver, November 8, 1926; Letters 1:246. 40. The title appears as one of the entries in notebook VI.B.18:95: “Pomes Pennyeach.” 41. Letter to Harriet Weaver, November 24, 1926; Letters 3:146. 42. Eugene Jolas, “My Friend James Joyce” 7; quoted from Litz, Art of James Joyce 89. 43. Letter to Harriet Weaver, January 16, 1927; Letters 3:150: “I am plunged

Notes to Pages 85–92 / 171 again in work. I want to try to ‹nish Part I before 2 February or very soon after and, if possible, get away for some weeks. I cannot work at Part 3 in this way.” 44. Notebook D.5 (compiled in 1926) may have contained more Flemish lessons that Joyce took during his holiday in Belgium (Ellmann 579) and that are partly preserved in notebook VI.B.22. 45. Late June 1927; Letters to Sylvia Beach 128. 46. Letter to Harriet Weaver, October 28, 1927; Letters 1:259. 47. Letter to Harriet Weaver, August 14, 1927; Letters 1:257. 48. Letter to Harriet Weaver, February 24, 1928; BL Add. 57349, 116. 49. Ogden translated “Anna Livia Plurabelle” into Basic English (transition 21, 1932) and Joyce’s reading of the episode was recorded at the Orthological Institute in London during the summer of 1929. 50. “I’ll use that,” “I’ll put that in” (Joyce, according to Mary and Padraic Colum, Our Friend James Joyce 154, 160). 51. January 4, 1932; BL Add. 57351, 1. 52. Notebook VI.B.21:83; FW 301.20–22; cf. also Gillet, Stèle pour James Joyce 168. 53. Mme France Raphael started working for Joyce by the end of 1933 or the beginning of 1934 (Ellmann 671; Rose 167), certainly before April 24, 1934, for on that day Joyce sent her a letter to “thank [her] once again for [her] quick and excellent transcriptions” (Letters 3:302). 54. The ‹rst set of notesheets for book III (transition pages) was followed by a second set, based on the subsequent C-notebooks, especially VI.C.5. Unlike the ‹rst set, the second set was not divided in advance into four piles. Here, Joyce indicated before each separate entry where it had to be inserted, either with the sigla (V a, V b, V c, or V d) or by means of the page number of the transition pages he was revising at that moment (around 1935). For example, Joyce apparently judged he could use the entries “bHen ‹nds Boston (ether / b Δ writes petition” (a mistranscription of “Hen ‹nds Boston Letter / Δ writes petition” in VI.B.1:163) and recopied them with variations on one of the notesheets of the second set (BL 47486a, 218v; JJA 61:293): “72 in this wireless age any owl / rooster can pick up bostons / which is our writing in my / mepetition.” The number 72 refers to the transition page to which Joyce added, “In this wireless age any owl rooster can peck up bostoons” (BL 47486b, 458; JJA 61:447; cf. FW 489.36–490.01); “which I am writing in mepetition” was added to page 74 (BL 47486b, 460; JJA 61:451; cf. FW 492.28). As this example illustrates, the notesheets are an invaluable instrument to follow the evolution/distortion of certain entries. 55. Paul Léon to Harriet Weaver, September 23, 1933; Letters 3:285. 56. Letter to Harriet Weaver, April 24, 1934; Letters 1:339. 57. For example, VI.C.1, VI.C.3, and VI.C.5 (and to a lesser degree VI.C.2 and VI.C.4) are used mainly for the revision of the transition pages of book III. Many of the footnotes in chapter II.2, added in 1935, are based on entries in C.2, such as the entries “gI believe in Dublin / and a sultan of Turkey” (VI.C.2:041; cf. FW 266.F1; BL 47478, 189r; JJA 52:91), or “gNow we must wash the / little face” (VI.C.2:055; FW 265.F1; BL 47478, 189r; JJA 52:91), but also on a combination of entries. Thus, for instance, the second footnote on page 261 of

172 / Notes to Pages 92–98 Finnegans Wake is based on a number of entries in VI.C.2: “oTerra Firma” (172), “oLong Fellow’s Club” (175), “oamusing avenue” (250), “oHouse of Commons boots” (251). 58. An example of such a textual core or skeleton is a cluster of seven entries in VI.C.6:198–99, which was the basis for a ten-line passage in the “Butt and Taff” dialogue (II.3§4.*0/6.*0; JJA 55:5; BL 47480, 3). As soon as this passage was drafted, Joyce extended it with several additions, preceded by capitals corresponding to superscript capitals in the text of the ‹rst draft, marking the place where they were to be inserted. This way the passage kept growing, until it took up almost three pages in the ‹nal version (FW 355.21–358.16). 59. For example on pages 42 and 43 (cf. FW 354.35–355.6). 60. See VI.B.41:102: “Keltische Beiträge (Zimmer).” 61. Letter to Louis Gillet, September 8, 1938; Letters 1:401. 62. Pages 627 and 628, for which three corrections appear on the typescript, are missing. 63. I wish to thank Sam Slote for this information. 64. Joyce added the “space” to the “time being” in July or August 1927 (JJA 46:430), i.e. before he read Wyndham Lewis’s attack in Time and Western Man in September 1927, but after he read Lewis’s earlier attack in The Art of Being Ruled. 65. In chapter I.6 of Finnegans Wake, Lewis’s book is referred to as the “art of being rude” (FW 167.03). This chapter was drafted in 1927, partly in response to Lewis’s later criticism. 66. On March 23, 1926, he wrote to Harriet Weaver that he was reading The Art of Being Ruled and that it contained some serious criticism, even “a determined onslaught on my unoffending work” (Ellmann 595; emphasis added). In fact, Joyce calls his work “offending,” judging from Lewis’s vocabulary, in particular the words “demented,” “stuttering,” “p[un]ster,” “squinting” (BL Add. 57348, 127). 67. BL Add. 57348, 129. 68. See, for example, Klein; Brown, Intertextual Dynamics, esp. 125–32; de Voogd 119–25; Otte; McMillan; Dohmen. 69. To the fair copy (III.2B.*3) Joyce added an allusion to this title: “that intellectual debtor” (JJA 57:199; BL 47483, 126). 70. Swann’s Way, Scott-Moncrieff’s translation of Du côté de chez Swann, was published before 1925. 71. Page 72 shows some entries derived from part 12, chapter 4 (“Hatred of Language and the Behaviorist ‘Word-Habit’”): VI.B.20:72: “btester”; see Lewis, Art 392: “Behind the word is the mind or reason, which is the metaphysical enemy. In the schools of american psychology, deriving from William James, you ‹nd this war of words, or against words, being waged more epically and with more concentration than elsewhere. In examining the tester, or behaviorist-tester, at work for a moment, we shall be transporting ourselves to the so-called ‘laboratory’ where the word is actually being annihilated, or where the ‘mind,’ the ‘intellect,’ is being drilled out of it. And Professor Watson is the greatest exponent of behaviorism, and the king of testers.” See also VI.B.20:90: “E tester.”

Notes to Pages 98–104 / 173 VI.B.20:72: “explicit / implicit”; see Lewis, Art 393: “There are for Watson two main points of behaviour, and two only. And into these two physiologically controllable forms the whole of the human personality is contained. There is no metaphysical or non-metaphysical element of personality. These two forms of behaviour are the big and the little; or, as he puts it, those affecting the large musculature of the animal, and those affecting the small. The former, the big, he calls explicit behaviour. The lesser, the small, he calls implicit behaviour.” 72. Some of the epithets mentioned in Joyce’s letter to Weaver (March 23, 1926) recur in the second fair copy, in which, e.g., Joyce made the following change: “‹ne cdemented brick” (JJA 57:245; BL 47483, 155; FW 463.36). 73. See Joyce’s letter to Weaver, March 23, 1926, quoted above. 74. “The term MAN implies a variety of indispensable but not necessarily pleasant things, quite independently of the speci‹c sex characters, although it can only be attached to an individual falling within the subdivision of the adult male. The identi‹cation by means of sex-character on the part of adult males has always been a source of morti‹cation to women and children : and at the present juncture some more neutral term should be substituted for it” (Lewis, Art 279). Joyce’s alternative “menkind” (VI.B.20:47) is anything but more neutral. 75. An account of this delivery by Wyndham Lewis is quoted in extenso in Ellmann’s biography (493). 76. Letter to Ferdinand Prior, May 30, 1938: “But the devil knows whether you will be able to understand what the story means or what this entire wordspiderweb is about” (Selected Letters 392). 77. Similarly, Thomas Mann made an end to the plagiarism dispute with Schoenberg concerning Doktor Faustus by writing (in a letter to the composer): “Wollen Sie durchaus mein Feind sein—es wird Ihnen nicht gelingen, mich zu dem Ihren zu machen” [Even if you insist on being my enemy—you will not manage to make me yours] ( December 19, 1949; Dichter 243). The dispute between Schoenberg and Mann was one of the impulses that caused Mann to write a defense of his “Montagetechnik” in the form of Die Entstehung des Doktor Faustus. 78. III.2§2B.9 ′ (fourth proofs [duplicates] for transition 13, dated by the printer June 5, 1928). 79. Jean-Michel Rabaté describes Joyce’s writing as “imiter l’univers et . . . recréer la langue” (“Pour une cryptogénétique” 54). 80. For an analysis and transcription of Joyce’s Mauthner notes in notebook VI.B.46 see Van Hulle, “Beckett.” 81. James Joyce, Paris Notebook, March 27, 1903. Transcription in Joyce, Workshop 54. 82. See Philosophical Investigations, especially the notions of “rules” (sec. 100), “game” (sec. 68ff.), and “language-game” (sec. 654). Gershon Weiler duly notes that Wittgenstein only employed this image in his second period (298–306). In his ‹rst period he raised more objections against the Critique. Mauthner is one of the few philosophers mentioned in Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus (4.0031), but in a rather negative sense. Whereas Wittgenstein adheres to Russell’s distinction

174 / Notes to Pages 104–9 between the logical and the linguistic form of a proposition, Mauthner argues that logic, thought, and grammar, instead of using language as a tool, are themselves aspects of language (Kritik 1:11), that different languages not only have different grammars but also different logics, so that Aristotle’s logic is “nothing but a particular view of Greek grammar from an interesting perspective” (Kritik 3:4). 83. Kritik 1:38; cf. the entry “the sugar is sweet” (VI.B.41:235) corresponding with the marginal gloss, “Der Zucker ist süß” (Kritik 1:35). 84. Jespersen, Language: Its Nature, Development, and Origin (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1923) 320. Source located by Roland McHugh and Erika Rosiers. 85. Jespersen, Language 414; Mauthner Kritik 2:74f., 704f. 3:520f. 86. Especially FW 504–5, but also, e.g., FW 117.28: “natural selections” or FW 252.28: “naturel rejection”; see also notebook VI.B.21:144: “ouragin of spaces.” 87. “Flutterby” was replaced by “Bienie” at level 0+ of the fable of the Ondt and the Gracehoper (1BC.*0+: redraft of the beginning of 1BC.*0 written on music paper; JJA 57:308–9). A few years later, in 1934, after Mme Raphael had copied the word “›utterby” in VI.C.2 (p. 56), Joyce used it in chapter II.2 (FW 262.13; 47478–138r; JJA 52:31): “When shoo, his ›utterby, / Was netted and named.” 88. Probably added in April 1929 to the missing marked pages of transition 12 for the printer of Tales Told of Shem and Shaun. 89. Source identi‹ed by Danis Rose (The Index Manuscript). Jespersen tries hard “to show how very ‘natural’ such a language may be” (An International Language 11). Joyce also read other works on language during the same period, such as Meillet and Cohen’s Les langues du monde (1924), referred to in notebook VI.B.45:84, and C. K. Ogden’s Debabelization with a Survey of Contemporary Opinions on the Problem of a Universal Language (London: Kegan Paul, 1931). 90. In the beginning of his Kritik, Mauthner illustrates this by means of the sentence, “In the beginning was the word,” arguing that by the time the sixth word is pronounced, the meaning of the ‹rst words has already changed (1:1–2). Joyce in his turn changed this sentence into: “in the word / was no beginning” (VI.B.41: 269). 91. Notesheets JJA 61:169; FW 505.07f; Rose, Textual Diaries 175. 92. Although originally Léon Metchnikoff’s book Les grands ›euves historiques was probably destined to serve as a source for new river names to be added to chapter I.8 or “Anna Livia Plurabelle,” its main interest for Finnegans Wake is the view on history as expressed by Quinet, quoted by Metchnikoff. Joyce in turn quoted this quotation, copying a few errors, such as “au temps de Pline” instead of “aux jours de Pline.” (Joyce made the excerpt in notebook VI.B.01, p. 84.) Geert Lernout stresses the importance of this discovery (and of genetic studies in general), as it shows that Joyce often acquired his encyclopedic knowledge through secondary sources. This insight relativizes the myth of the author’s unequaled erudition (Landuyt and Lernout, “Joyce’s Sources” 100). 93. When asked about his future plans in August 1922, shortly after the publication of Ulysses, Joyce is reported to have said, “I think I will write a history of the world” (Ellmann 537).

Notes to Pages 110–19 / 175 94. In this context it is signi‹cant that Joyce crossed out the entry “history repeating itself” (VI.C.10:100) leaving out the adjective “meteorologic,” which indicates the original context of the notes, probably derived from an article or a book on the transit of Venus (VI.B.26:50–51). 95. Vicki Mahaffey introduced the notion of “volitional errors” in an attempt to make a distinction between Joyce’s intentional errors, as part of the errancy that provides the structure of Ulysses, and the errors made by typists, often in an attempt to “correct” Joyce’s intentional “errors” (183). 96. RTP 1:451; see Brun, “Le roman de Proust” 126. 97. Unpublished letter to Weaver, quoted from Atherton, Books at the Wake 62. 98. In the third typescript of the last section, Finnegans Wake ended as follows: “A way a lone a lost a last a loved a long the” (JJA 63:243; BL 47488, 160; IV§5.4). The words “a lost” were lost during the transmission to the next version and were never reinstalled: “A way a lone a last a loved a long the” (JJA 63:262; BL 47488, 178; IV§5.5). 99. See, for example, the “Lost & Found” section of Genetic Joyce Studies, http://ger-www.uia.ac.be/webger/ger/GJS/lost0.htm (November 24, 2003). 100. Richard Brown has described a number of typescripts that were discovered (after the publication of the James Joyce Archive) in a brownpaper package among Harriet Weaver’s papers. Apart from typescripts of the Roderick O’Conor and Mamalujo sketches, the package contained two typescripts of the Kevin episode and two typescripts of the “St Patrick and the Druid” sketch, in both cases a top copy and a carbon. On the top copy of both sketches Joyce made a few revisions in 1923, but because these documents did not follow “the direct line of textual descent,” the early revisions were lost in this blind alley in the work’s progress. See Brown, “Missing Typescripts.”

CHAPTER

7

1. May 22, May 25, June 29, July 1, July 4, November 21–22, December 18, January 8–9, 1942; TB 40/43: 269, 271, 287, 289, 290, 305, 350, 351, 364, 376. 2. The subtitle of Die Entstehung des Doktor Faustus became the main title in the English translation by Richard and Clara Winston: The Story of a Novel: The Genesis of Doctor Faustus (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1961). 3. This error was corrected in the Gesammelte Werke (11:155). 4. This is one of the two “old notes” Mann copied from an early notebook (NB 7) on pages 1 and 2 of his “Notes for Dr. Faustus” (the so-called Notizenkonvolut, preserved in the Thomas Mann Archive in Zurich). The one on page 1, the “Drei-Zeilen-Plan,” corresponds to a note on page 138 of NB 7. The second “Alte Notiz” (copied under this title on page 2 of the Doktor Faustus notes) corresponds to a note on page 155 of NB 7. 5. The title of this novella appears for the ‹rst time in NB 7.11, dating back to 1901 according to Hans Wysling (“Zu Thomas Manns ‘Maja’-Projekt” 25). 6. TB June 27, 1948. The formulation of this diary entry clearly shows that

176 / Notes to Pages 120–26 Mann was always well aware of the fact that his diaries were (or at least would become) more or less public property. 7. Die Hungernden (GW 8:267), Tonio Kröger (GW 8:336), Königliche Hoheit (GW 2:140), Joseph in Ägypten (GW 5:1113). See NB 7.52. 8. Written as an introduction to a selection of Schopenhauer’s works, published by Bermann-Fischer (Stockholm, 1938). Cf. GW 9:528–80. 9. For instance in Anekdote (GW 8:411). 10. Notes for Felix Krull, Mat. 3/583; see Wysling, “Zu Thomas Manns ‘Maja’-Projekt” 39. 11. In fact, Mann had already started reading all kinds of books that had nothing to do with Joseph or Das Gesetz, such as Lou Andreas-Salomé’s book Friedrich Nietzsche in seinen Werken (Vienna, 1911), or Igor Stravinsky’s memoirs (Erinnerungen, trans. R. Tüngel [Zurich, 1937]). 12. Paul Julius Möbius, Ausgewählte Werke, 3d ed., vol. 5 (Leipzig, 1909). In Mann’s library in the Zurich archive. 13. The complete sketch it transcribed by Lieselotte Voss (16). 14. Voss has transcribed more than a dozen of these notes according to the order in which they reappear in the ‹nished text (in chap. 23, written between October 6 and November 1, 1944, and chap. 29, written between Augustus 8 and September 22, 1945). 15. Pages 7 to 160 of the Notizenkonvolut are numbered (1–153) by Mann. Voss assumes that these were completed during the two months of preparation preceding the actual writing process of Doktor Faustus (Voss 13). The other fortyseven unnumbered pages follow more or less the narrative sequence of the novel, which implies that Mann made these notes as immediate preparations for passages he was writing; this is certainly the case from page 181 onwards, starting with the notes for “Apocalipsis cum ‹guris.” 16. Mann’s reply to Arnold Schoenberg in the Saturday Review, January 1, 1949, 23. 17. The original notes in NB 7.46–47 correspond to the notes in the Notizenkonvolut (NK 87ff.), which in their turn were used for the composition of passages in chapter 29 of Doktor Faustus (GW 6:381–91). 18. This element of stylistic parody is analyzed by Erich Heller (254). 19. Hans Theodore David, “Hymns and Music of the Pennsylvania Seventhday Baptists,” American-German Review (June 1943); preserved in the Zurich Archive, “Material für Faustus” (Mat. 6/7). See Entstehung, GW 11:170. 20. See also Karst 567. 21. Letter to Agnes E. Meyer, August 27–28, 1943: “Ich kürze diesen Brief ab. . . , weil ich heute morgen mit dem VIII. Kapitel noch etwas weitergehen möchte.” 22. Ts. 706–8; see transcription in TB 46/48: 868. 23. Mann only started using turquoise ink in the Notizenkonvolut from the back of page 137 onward. 24. Julius Bahle, Eingebung und Tat im musikalischen Schaffen (Leipzig, 1939).

Notes to Pages 127–36 / 177 25. This manuscript was displayed at the exhibition “Und was werden die Deutschen sagen??” Thomas Manns Roman “Doktor Faustus,” the catalog of which was edited by Hans Wißkirchen and Thomas Sprecher (Lübeck: Dräger, 1997). 26. See letter to Agnes E. Meyer, September 28, 1944; Dichter 30. 27. Chapter 22 was ‹nished on October 4, 1944. 28. “Zeit-Tafel” [timetable] (TB March 23, 1945); “Zeittafel zum Roman” [timetable for the novel] (TB March 26, 1945). 29. This time table is a chronological survey of the non‹ctitious events that took place in the world while Zeitblom wrote his biography; see also Voss 167–68. 30. Letter to Adorno, December 30, 1945; Dichter 61. 31. This “Raub an der Wirklichkeit” (Entstehung, GW 11:167) not only included a “real-life experiment” such as the one with Paul Ehrenberg, but even Mann’s marriage is called an experiment (“das Experiment der Ehe”) by Hans Wysling (Quellenkritische Studien 234). Hermann Kurzke therefore gave his biography the appropriate subtitle Das Leben als Kunstwerk. 32. Personal correspondence with Martina Peter, archivist at the ThomasMann-Archiv in Zurich, April 28, 1998. 33. “Befestigung des gestern Aufgeschriebenen” [Fixation of what I jotted down yesterday] (TB January 7, 1946). 34. Mann read Shakespeare’s Tempest early in December 1946 (TB December 1, 1946). 35. Especially pages 203–4, transcribed by Voss 203–9. 36. In his diary Mann noted on September 12, 1948: “Erika’s animosity against Adorno”; see also TB October 28, 1948, about a talk with Katia about the Adorno disclosures, which she experienced as an unbearable disillusionment. 37. “Dr. Joseph . . . beginnt, den Roman abzuschreiben” (TB August 5, 1943). 38. Mp XI/6a Green, containing 177 typescript (and their corresponding manuscript) pages. 39. In his diary, Mann drafted a preliminary version of this note (TB February 23, 1948). 40. Letter to the editor, Saturday Review, January 1, 1949, 22–23. 41. Hans Bürgin has carefully retraced these passages in the ‹rst edition in his bibliography (41); see also Blomster 183; White. 42. Voss (64) discovered that the source for this passage was an article on Halle in the fourteenth edition (1933) of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, from which Thomas Mann translated the parts he was interested in on the back of page 46 in the Notizenkonvolut. 43. On December 2, 1941, according to the diaries, Mann read an article on Spengler by Adorno (“Spengler Today,” Studies in Philosophy and Social Science 9 [1941]: 305–25), which he reread three years later (TB December 5, 1944), when his cooperation with Adorno became more intensive. 44. TB June 25, 1919. Although Mann had many objections against Spengler’s book, he admitted (in a review in 1922) that it emanated an alluring power (GW 13:272).

178 / Notes to Pages 136–41 45. In Doktor Faustus, Spengler’s ideas are re›ected in the opinions of “Kulturphilosoph” Dr. Chaim Breisacher (GW 6:370), who sees the history of Western culture as “nothing but a process of decline” (GW 6:371). 46. With reference to Leverkühn’s feeling of creative sterility, it is interesting to note that in an essay “Über die Lehre Spenglers” Mann wrote in 1924, “Die Künste liegen in voller Krise, die zuweilen zum Tode zu führen droht, zuweilen die Möglichkeit neuer Formgeburten ahnen läßt” (GW 10:173). 47. “O Bach!” are the ‹rst words of the sixth chapter of part 8 of Buddenbrooks. This whole chapter remarkably foreshadows Leverkühn’s interest in the concept of the strict style. 48. Cf. Schoenberg in a text on J. S. Bach, written in July 1932: “Ich habe den Lehrer Bach immer sehr hoch geschätzt.” Quoted from Stuckenschmidt 508. 49. Charles I. Glicksberg, “Twilight of the Novel,” Direction (March 1943): 12–15. The article is preserved in the “Material für Faustus” (Mat. 6/83) in the Zurich archive. 50. This interplay is articulated by Zeitblom in chapter 46, immediately before his discussion of the cantata Dr. Fausti Weheklag (GW 6:639). 51. This occasion took place ten days before Mann discussed the question of the Schoenberg note with Adorno (TB February 23, 1948); that is, the note that was included in the second printing of Doktor Faustus, to reassure Schoenberg and make sure nobody would think that Leverkühn was the real inventor of the twelvetone technique. 52. Gide and Mann ‹rst met in Paris in 1931. Mann clearly appreciated his colleague’s works, as is evidenced by texts such as Si le grain ne meurt . . . (GW 10:711–21), “André Gide” von Albert J. Guérard (GW 10:802–10), and Zum Tode André Gides (GW 10:523). 53. This passage shows some remarkable correspondences with Zeitblom’s description of the cantata Dr. Fausti Weheklag (GW VI 645). 54. André Gide, Le Journal des Faux-Monnayeurs (Paris: Gallimard: 1927), 35. Thomas Mann’s personal library contains the collected works of André Gide. 55. “I had kept with me . . . Adorno’s manuscript on Schoenberg. . . . what I could draw from it, and what I appropriated from it in order to portray the whole cultural crisis in addition to the crisis of music, was the fundamental motif of my book: the closeness of sterility, the innate despair that prepares the ground for a pact with the devil. Moreover, this reading nourished the musical conception [der musikalische Konstruktivismus] which had long been my ideal of form and for which this time there was a special esthetic necessity. I felt clearly that my book itself would have to become the thing it dealt with: namely, a musical composition [konstruktive Musik]” (Story of a Novel 63–64; GW 11:186–87). 56. Adolf Portmann, Falterschönheit: Exotische Schmetterlinge in farbigen Naturaufnahmen, preface by Hermann Hesse (Bern: Iris Verlag, 1935), preserved in Thomas Mann’s library in the Zurich archive. See also TB June 13, 1943. 57. Marguerite de Huszar Allen calls Die Entstehung “the most elaborate description and defence of the montage technique in Doktor Faustus” (112). 58. This combination of noble beauty (“Falterschönheit”) and beauty as temptation is already concentrated in the name Hetaera (given to this genus of

Notes to Pages 142–53 / 179 butter›ies by Johann Christian Fabricius in 1807), which is a Latinized form of the Greek hetaira (courtesan, prostitute). See Brown, “Entomological Source.” 59. Mann almost never referred to his sources, not even in his notes. Thus all kinds of excerpts on varied subjects are thrown together in the notes and intermingle. In their new context, they acquire new meanings because of their proximity to completely different excerpts.

CHAPTER

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1. See Mann’s letter to Adorno, October 5, 1943; Dichter 15. Proust also characterized his writing method in terms of absorption through the metaphor of the “boeuf à la gelée,” which according to Françoise has to “become like a sponge, so that it absorbs all the gravy” (RTP 1:476). The same term is used in combination with the notion of “transformation” by Julia Kristeva to de‹ne “intertextuality” (Semiotike 146). 2. See also Barthes, Encyclopedia universalis 1015: “[L]’intertexte est un champ général de formules anonymes, dont l’origine est rarement repérable, de citations inconscientes ou automatiques, données sans guillemets.” 3. “The quotations with which a text is made, are anonymous, irretraceable” (Barthes, “De l’oeuvre au texte” 73). 4. A less pejorative image makes it seem a vital decision. Inge Landuyt (“Joyces defensieve strategieën”) has compared the incorporation of negative reviews with vaccination, which also applies to his incorporation of Lewis’s criticism. Joyce injected Finnegans Wake with a little bit of the poisonous criticism in order to protect his work against it. It is precisely thanks to this literary vaccination that Joyce’s work is not a “dense mass of dead stuff” (Time 107), as Lewis called it, but a “wordy” creation that is still very much alive. 5. For instance David’s article on Johann Conrad Beissel in American-German Review (June 1943), or the article from the Neue Zürcher Zeitung, December 1, 1945, by Marta Vogler (cf. Bergsten, Quellen 119–23). 6. “[T]he excursus per se is an important element in many of Thomas Mann’s writings” (Blomster, “Textual Variations” 188). 7. “Es gehört zum Erstaunlichen am Doktor Faustus, daß der Autor auch dem ihm zufällig in die Hände fallenden Stoff eine genau bestimmte Funktionsaufgabe zuweisen konnte” (Karst, “Beissel” 567). 8. “[W]as ‘zur Sache’ gehört, wird ja vom Willen des Werkes magnetisch herangezogen” (Wysling, “Verhältnis zu den Quellen” 314). 9. As Geert Lernout notes, the circular structure of the book is an arti‹ce, a trick by means of which Joyce avoids ‹nishing his work, the writing of which could easily have been continued for another seventeen years (“Intertekstualiteit” 35). 10. In “La toque de Clementis” Daniel Ferrer notes that the difference between “écriture à processus” and “écriture à programme” is merely a difference of degree (94). 11. Proust even insisted that the ›ow of the text should be interrupted as little as possible by paragraphs and typographical conventions.

180 / Notes to Pages 154–58 12. See Joyce’s letter to Harriet Weaver, written on May 20, 1927; Letters 1:253–54.

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1. In response to an article by Laurent Jenny, Pierre-Marc de Biasi emphasizes that genetic criticism “does not try to reconstitute the author but a writing process” (“Les désarrois de l’herméneute” xii). 2. “The act of reading . . . is itself, like the act of writing, the creative function to which the text draws attention. That this process is now the object of imitation does not alter the essential nature of the novel as a mimetic genre” (Hutcheon 39).

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Index

accidentals, 24 Adler, Jeremy, 18 Adorno, Theodor, 117, 125, 126, 127, 129, 130, 131, 132, 138, 139, 140, 177nn. 36, 43, 178nn. 51, 55, 179n. 1 Aesop, 101 Agostinelli, Alfred, 55, 56 Albalat, Antoine, 32 Albaret, Céleste, 57, 59, 110, 162n. 3, 164n. 35 Albaret, Yvonne, 57 Allemann, Beda, 16, 160n. 2 Andreas-Salomé, Lou, 176n. 11 Antheil, Georges, 156 Aragon, Louis, 3 Aristotle, 1, 34, 35, 56, 104, 173–74n. 82 Arlt, Gustave, 117 Atherton, James, 103, 175n. 97 Attridge, Derek, 155 Audiat, Pierre, 32 authorial authorization, 18, 160n. 5 authorial intentions, 18, 22, 25, 26, 33, 41, 42 authorization, 19 avant-texte, 4, 5, 6, 34, 35, 47 Bach, Johann Sebastian, 40, 135, 136, 138, 158, 178nn. 47–48 Backmann, Reinhold, 15, 16

Bahle, Julius, 176n. 24 Barthes, Roland, 6, 63, 149, 165, 179nn. 2–3 Bartók, Béla, 126 Baudelaire, Charles, 33, 52 Beach, Sylvia, 77, 81, 82, 85, 86, 87, 109, 168n. 2, 170n. 29, 171n. 45 Beardsley, Monroe C., 25 Beckett, Samuel, 41, 88, 89, 93, 94, 111, 112 Bédier, Joseph, 31 Beethoven, Ludwig van, 64, 135, 136, 143 Beissel, Conrad, 122, 123, 124, 179n. 5 Beißner, Friedrich, 15, 16, 17, 160n. 2 Bellemin-Noël, Jean, 4, 34, 35, 47, 161n. 3 Benjamin, Walter, 69 Bentley, Richard, 38 Berg, Alban, 126 Bergson, Henri, 83, 97 Bergsten, Gunilla, 117, 124, 137, 152 Berkeley, George, 103 Bernstein, Michael André, 63, 155, 165n. 45 Bersani, Jacques, 164n. 32 “best text,” 32 bibliographical code, 42, 43 Bindervoet, Erik, 159n. 7 Blomster, W. V., 179n. 6

213

214 / Index Boetius, Henning, 46 Bogart, Humphrey, 39 Bonnet, Henri, 53, 64, 164n. 38, 165nn. 46–47 Borges, Jorge Luis, 52, 60 Bornstein, George, 10, 37, 42 Bowers, Fredson, 1, 22, 24, 25, 28 Brassaï, 164n. 39 Briner, Andres, 124 Brown, Richard, 113, 175n. 100 Browne, Thomas, 115 Brun, Bernard, 53, 64, 71, 151, 162n. 6, 164n. 38, 164–65n. 41, 165nn. 46–47, 175n. 96 Bryant, John, 38 Büchner, Georg, 17 Budgen, Frank, 168n. 1 Bürgin, Hans, 177n. 41 Bush, Vannevar, 147 Butor, Michel, 65, 165n. 53 Bywaters, Frederick, 77, 78, 169n. 6 Califf, David, 102 Callu, Florence, 9, 52, 61, 163n. 11, 164n. 41 Calmann-Lévy (Éditions), 52 Calmette (Éditions), 52, 163n. 17 Carlyle, Thomas, 68, 69, 103, 115, 167n. 63 Center for Editions of American Authors (CEAA), 24–25 Cervenka, Miroslav, 46 Chopin, Frédéric, 64 Cohen, Philip, 159n. 5 Colet, Louise, 8 Colum, Mary, 171n. 50 Colum, Padraic, 85, 88, 171n. 50 Committee on Scholarly Editions (CSE), 25 Compagnon, Antoine, 2, 30, 159n. 9, 161n. 1 Connolly, Thomas E., 168n. 3 Contini, Gianfranco, 2 copy-text theory, 20, 23, 24, 26, 28, 34 Cousin, Victor, 13

Crispi, Luca, 91 critical editions, 33, 34, 43, 164n. 40 Crosby, Caresse, 88 Crosby, Harry, 88 Dalton, Jack P., 22 Darwin, Charles, 105, 107, 111 David, Hans Theodore, 122, 123, 124, 176n. 19, 179n. 5 Deane, Vincent, xii, 78, 168n. 4 de Balzac, Honoré, 51 de Biasi, Pierre-Marc, 5, 20, 29, 159n. 10, 180n. 1 Debray Genette, Raymonde, 30 Dedner, Burghard, 17 de Fallois, Bernard, 162n. 4 de Huszar Allen, Marguerite, 178n. 57 de Lauris, Georges, 52, 162n. 9 Deleuze, Gilles, 38 de Mendelssohn, Peter, xi de Nerval, Gérard, 3, 52 de Régnier, Henri, 51 de Tarde, Alfred, 31 Dickens, Charles, 12, 97, 115 Diez, Friedrich, 31 Downes, Olin, 136 Duras, Marguerite, 161n. 2 Dürer, Albrecht, 40, 117 Duvernois, Henri, 59 Eco, Umberto, 2, 6, 17, 116, 159n. 9, 167n. 68 écriture à processus, 5, 152, 153, 179n. 10 écriture à programme, 5, 152, 153, 179n. 10 Eggert, Paul, 21, 41 Ehrenberg, Paul, 118, 119, 120 Einstein, Albert, 98 Eisenstein, Sergei, 116 Eliot, T. S., 8, 10, 100 Ellmann, Richard, xii, 77, 78, 80, 84, 87, 88, 92, 111, 174n. 93 endogenetics, 7 Enzensberger, Hans Magnus, 8

Index / 215 Espagne, Michel, 32, 35, 159n. 4 exogenetics, 7

Groden, Michael, xii, 2, 3, 21 Grumach, Ernst, 16, 17, 20

Faguet, Émile, 51 Falconer, Graham, 3, 12 Fasquelle (Éditions), 54 Ferrer, Daniel, xii, 3, 4, 36, 155, 159n. 11, 168n. 4, 179n. 10 Fetzer, John F., 124 Feuillerat, Albert, 33 Flaubert, Gustave, 3, 8, 12, 30, 32, 33, 51, 73 Fleischman, Helen, 85, 88, 93 Ford, Ford Madox, 80, 81 Franck, César, 64 Fuse, Mikio, 168n. 4

Hagen, Waltraud, 160n. 3 Hart, Clive, 94, 95 Hay, Louis, 2, 3, 5, 17, 20, 32, 47, 152 Hayman, David, xii, 79, 168n. 4 Hayman, Ronald, 130 Heine, Heinrich, 3 Heller, Erich, 176n. 18 Henkes, Robbert-Jan, 159n. 7 Hesse, Hermann, 178n. 56 Higginson, Fred, 22, 112, 113 Hirsch, E. D., Jr., 18, 25, 160n. 4 Hölderlin, Friedrich, 15, 16, 17, 29, 35 Hurlebusch, Klaus, 16 Hutcheon, Linda, 158, 180n. 2 Huxley, T. H., 111 hypertext, 43, 44, 45, 46, 165n. 42

Gabler, Hans Walter, xii, 20, 26, 27, 28, 29, 151, 160nn. 3–4, 162n. 11 Gallimard, Gaston, 54, 55, 57, 59, 163nn. 12–14, 18, 164nn. 27–28, 165–66n. 53 genetic criticism (critique génétique), 2, 3, 4, 6, 30, 31, 32, 47, 180n. 1 genetic editions, xii, 29, 30, 33, 40, 46, 160n. 3 Genette, Gérard, 37, 54, 57, 73, 147 Gide, André, 32, 137, 138, 139, 163n. 18, 178n. 52 Gilbert, Stuart, xii, 85, 88, 89 Gillet, Louis, 171n. 52, 172n. 61 Glicksberg, Charles I., 137, 178n. 49 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 8, 15, 16, 17, 19, 20, 116, 118, 148, 152 Goncourt, Edmond and Jules, 51, 152 Gorman, Herbert, 89 Gothot-Mersch, Claudine, 32, 33, 161n. 2 Grasset, Bernard, 33, 54, 59, 163nn. 15–16 Greetham, David, 25, 160n. 2 Greg, W. W., 20, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 28, 44 Grésillon, Almuth, 5, 29, 30, 32, 33, 34–35, 36, 60, 62, 152, 153, 157, 159nn. 1, 3, 8, 164n. 36

iconicity, 36, 42 intentio auctoris, 159n. 9 intentio operis, 6, 159n. 9 Jannidis, Fotis, 6 Jenny, Laurent, 180n. 1 Jens, Inge, xi Jespersen, Otto, 104, 105, 174nn. 84–85 Johnson, Samuel, 22, 160n. 1 Jolas, Eugene, 85, 86, 90, 91, 94, 170n. 42 Jolas, Maria, 85 Joyce, Giorgio, 78, 85, 93, 168n. 3 Joyce, James, xii, 1, 3, 5, 9, 10, 11, 12, 22, 26, 29, 36, 46, 47, 75, 77–113, 115, 117, 137, 138, 140, 147, 149, 150, 151, 153, 154, 155, 156, 157, 158, 168–75, 179nn. 4, 9, 180n. 12 Joyce, Stephen James, 160–61n. 4, 169n. 9 Kafka, Franz, 17, 18, 30 Kahn, Hilde, 132

216 / Index Kant, Immanuel, 38, 70, 103 Kaplan, Alice, 39, 40, 161–62n. 4 Karst, Theodor, 124, 153, 176n. 20, 179n. 7 Keller, Luzius, 62, 163n. 19 Kelpius, Johann, 124 Kidd, John, 160–61n. 4 Kilmartin, Terence, xi Klemperer, Otto, 127 Kolb, Philip, xi, 74, 162n. 2, 168n. 70 Kraft, Herbert, 18 Krauss, Rosalind E., 10 Krenek, Ernst, 123, 126, 134, 135 Kristeva, Julia, 3, 179n. 1 Kurokawa, Shuji, 163–64n. 22 Kurzke, Hermann, 177n. 31 Lachmann, Karl, 23 Ladenson, Elisabeth, 77 La Fontaine, Jean de, 101 Landow, George P., 148, 165n. 42 Landuyt, Inge, 110, 168n. 4, 174n. 92, 179n. 4 Lanson, Gustave, 31, 32 Laufer, Roger, 34 Lebrave, Jean-Louis, xii, 31, 32, 36 Leiner, Michael, 18 Leleu, Gabrielle, 33 Léon, Paul, 89, 90, 91, 92, 171n. 55 Lernout, Geert, xii, 28, 149, 159n. 2, 168n. 4, 169n. 5, 174n. 92, 179n. 9 Levin, Harry, 115, 116, 117, 137 Lewis, Wyndham, 82, 83, 86, 88, 96, 97, 98, 99, 100, 101, 102, 106, 150, 156, 172nn. 64–65, 71, 173nn. 74–75, 179n. 4 Litz, A. Walton, xii, 9 Lowe-Porter, Helen T., 125, 127, 132 Luther, Martin, 117, 122 Maar, Michael, 125 MacArthur, Ian, 106 Macchia, Giovanni, 59 Mahaffey, Vicki, 110, 175n. 95 Mahler, Alma, 126

Mahler, Gustav, 125, 126, 127, 153 Malory, Thomas, 115 Mann, Erika, 132, 133, 177n. 36 Mann, Klaus, 139 Mann, Thomas, xi, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 40, 47, 115–43, 147, 148, 149, 150, 151, 153, 154, 156, 157, 158, 173n. 77, 175–79 Mante-Proust, Suzy, 58 Martens, Gunter, 17, 30, 46, 160n. 2 Massis, Henri, 31, 32 material bibliography, 34 Mauriac, Claude, 58, 59, 168n. 70 Mauriac, François, 60 Mauriac Dyer, Nathalie, 59, 60, 164nn. 31, 34, 166–67n. 60 Mauthner, Fritz, 103, 104, 105, 106, 173n. 80, 174n. 90 McAlmon, Robert, 81, 82, 85 McGann, Jerome, 26, 27, 28, 39, 43, 44, 45, 160n. 3, 162n. 7 McHugh, Roland, 174n. 84 McKenzie, D. F., 26, 43 McKerrow, Ronald B., 22, 23 Melançon, Robert, 161n. 4 Metchnikoff, Léon, 107, 174n. 92 Meyer, Agnes E., 126, 176n. 21, 177n. 26 Meyer, Paul, 31 Michelet, Jules, 51 Milly, Jean, 58, 70, 151, 164nn. 30, 33, 34, 166n. 58 Möbius, Paul J., 117, 120, 121, 141, 176n. 12 Molière, 33, 117 Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, 136 Nattiez, Jean-Jacques, 65, 165n. 53 Neefs, Jacques, 159n. 4 New Bibliography, 23, 25, 26 New Criticism, 25, 26, 159n. 9 Nietzsche, Friedrich, 117, 120, 121, 122, 131, 156 nominalism, 29, 36, 37, 38, 39, 44, 46 Nutt-Kofoth, Rüdiger, 19, 39

Index / 217 Occam, William, 38, 44 O’Faolain, Sean, 88 Ogden, C. K., 88, 171n. 49, 174n. 89 O’Hanlon, John, 168n. 4, 169n. 9 Ollendorff (Éditions), 54 optical character recognition (OCR), 44 Palestrina, Giovanni Pierluigi da, 140 Paris, Gaston, 31 Parker, Hershel, 26 Pascal, Blaise, 31 Paul, Elliot, 85 Peter, Martina, 177n. 32 Petsch, Robert, 117 P‹tzner, Hans, 140 philology, 2, 7–8, 28, 31, 32 Piette, Adam, 70 Plachta, Bodo, 15, 19 Poe, Edgar Allan, 8, 152 poetics of process, 1, 10, 47 Politzer, Heinz, 126 Pollard, A. W. 22 Pommier, Jean, 33 Ponge, Francis, 3, 33, 47 Pope, Alexander, 22, 160n. 1 Popper, Karl, 30 Portmann, Adolf, 140, 141, 142, 178n. 56 Pound, Ezra, 84, 85, 96, 100, 102 Power, Arthur, 75 Price, Larkin B., 74 Pringsheim, Katia, 119, 130, 132 Prior, Ferdinand, 173n. 76 Proust, Marcel, xi, 3, 9, 10, 11, 12, 30, 33, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 47, 51–75, 77, 80, 97, 103, 110, 138, 149, 150, 151, 153, 154, 155, 156, 157, 158, 161–67, 179n. 11 Proust, Robert, 58 Pugliatti, Paola, 27, 28 Pyritz, Hans, 16 Quémar, Claudine, 36, 74 Quinet, Edgar, 107, 174n. 92

Rabaté, Jean-Michel, 173n. 79 Rabelais, François, 33 Raby, Peter, 37 Raimond, Michel, 9 Raphael, France, 90, 92, 106, 107, 109, 110, 112, 168n. 4, 171n. 53 Reiman, Donald, 21, 22 Renan, Ernest, 51 Renear, Allen, 162n. 7 restoration, 4, 22, 39, 40 Reuss, Roland, 17 Rey, Pierre-Louis, 55 Riffaterre, Michael, 73 Robert, Pierre-Edmond, 59 Robinson, Peter, 39, 45, 46, 111, 112 Roger, Alain, 161n. 1 Roloff, Volker, 162n. 7 Rorty, Richard, 2, 155 Rose, Danis, xii, 77, 78, 79, 91, 92, 93, 106, 107, 160–61n. 4, 168–69n. 4, 169nn. 7, 9, 174nn. 89, 91 Rosenthal, Dr. Frederick, 130 Rosiers, Erika, 174n. 84 Roth, Samuel, 82 Roussin, Philippe, 39, 40, 161–62n. 4 Rowe, Nicholas, 22, 160n. 1 Rudler, Gustave, 32 Ruggiero, Paul, 94 Ruskin, John, 51, 73 Russell, Bertrand, 173n. 82 Sage, Robert, 85 Sainte-Beuve, Charles-Augustin, 51, 52, 53, 156 Sartre, Jean-Paul, 3 Sattler, D. E., 17, 18, 29, 35, 46, 160n. 2 Scheibe, Siegfried, 16, 17, 18, 19, 30, 46, 160n. 5, 161n. 3 Scheikévitch, Marie, 56, 57, 164n. 23 Schiffrin, Jacques, 32 Schiller, Friedrich, 8 Schmidlin, Yvonne, xi, 118, 120

218 / Index Schoenberg, Arnold, 125, 126, 127, 128, 132, 133, 136, 137, 158, 173n. 77, 176n. 16, 178nn. 48, 51, 55 Schopenhauer, Arthur, 42, 64, 69, 70, 120, 142, 143, 156, 162n. 6 Schubert, Franz, 64 Schumann, Robert, 64, 117 Scott-Moncrieff, C. K., xi, 97, 172n. 70 Segre, Cesare, 27 Senn, Fritz, 27 Shakespeare, William, 15, 19, 22, 23 Shillingsburg, Peter, 19, 42, 44, 159n. 9, 162n. 9 Slote, Sam, 168n. 4, 172n. 63 Small, Ian, 37, 44, 45 sociological orientation, 26, 28, 36, 39, 42, 43 Spengler, Oswald, 135, 136, 137, 177nn. 43–44, 178nn. 45–46 Spielberg, Peter, 168n. 4 Spies, Johann, 117 Staengle, Peter, 17 Starobinski, Jean, 34, 161n. 4 Stein, Gertrude, 96, 98 Stephens, James, 85 Sterne, Laurence, 100 Stillinger, Jack, 21, 41 Stravinsky, Igor, 126, 127, 139, 176n. 11 substantives, 24 Swift, Jonathan, 100, 101 Tadié, Jean-Yves, xi, 2, 33, 40, 41, 51, 52, 55, 66, 163n. 11, 167n. 63 Tagore, Rabindranath, 57 Tanselle, G. Thomas, 21, 24, 26, 27, 28, 41, 42, 43, 44, 46, 161nn. 5, 1, 162nn. 5, 10 teleology, 32, 35, 36 text, 27, 35, 37, 42, 43, 47, 162nn. 7, 9, 10 textology, 34 textual criticism, 3, 26

Thackeray, W. M., 21 Theobald, Lewis, 22, 160n. 1 Thompson, Edith, 169n. 6 Timmerman, Peter, 169n. 18 Tinkle, Theresa, 42 Trakl, Georg, 19 transcription, xii, 35, 36 Triolet, Elsa, 3 Ungar, Hermann, 150 Vaerting, Mathias, 99 Vaerting, Matilda, 99 Vaget, Hans Rudolf, 119 Valéry, Paul, 3 Vallette, Alfred, 52 Valmer, Binet, 163n. 16 Van Mierlo, Wim, 168n. 4 van Vliet, H. T. M., 19 variantistica, 2 Varloot, Jean, 30 Vaudoyer, Jean-Louis, 41, 162n. 9 Venuti, Lawrence, 7 Vermeer, Johannes, 39, 40 version, 20, 23, 37, 41, 44, 45, 46 versioning, 21, 22 Vogler, Marta, 179n. 5 Vogt, Dr., 91 Voss, Lieselotte, 128, 129, 141, 149, 151, 176nn. 13–15 Waetzoldt, Wilhelm, 117 Wagner, Richard, 53, 62, 64, 69, 120, 166n. 59 Walsh, Marcus, 38 Walter, Bruno, 125 Warburton, William, 22, 160n. 1 Weaver, Harriet Shaw, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93, 96, 112, 169–71, 172n. 66, 173nn. 72, 73, 175nn. 97, 100, 180n. 12 Weiler, Gershon, 173n. 82 Werfel, Franz, 126 Werner, Michael, 30, 32 West, Rebecca, 88

Index / 219 Wilberforce, Bishop, 111 Wilde, Oscar, 37, 44 Williams, Ralph, 37 Wilson, F. P., 22 Wimsatt, W. K., 25 Winston, Clara, 175n. 2 Winston, Richard, 175n. 2 Winton, Alison, 165n. 52 Witkowski, Georg, 15 Wittgenstein, Ludwig, 37, 104, 173n. 82 Wolf, Hugo, 131 Wolff, K. D., 18 work, 27, 28, 37, 38, 42, 43, 44, 45, 161n. 1, 162nn. 5, 9, 10

Wysling, Hans, xi, 118, 119, 120, 129, 134, 153, 175n. 5, 176n. 10, 177n. 31, 179n. 8 Yoshikawa, Karuyoschi, 63, 64, 165n. 49, 166n. 56 Zeller, Hans, 16, 17, 19, 20, 30, 46, 62, 148, 160nn. 1–2, 164n. 40 Zeno, 1 Zimmer, Heinrich, Jr., 93, 94, 172n. 60 Zimmer, Heinrich, Sr., 94 Zola, Emile, 12, 32 Zwerschina, Hermann, 19