Force of Fiction

The New York Times Book Review, Colm Toibin reviewing a biography of E.M. Forster, July 25, 2010.

[…] novels should not be honest. They are a pack of lies that are also a set of metaphors; because the lies and metaphors are chosen and offered shape and structure, they may indeed represent the self, or the play between the unconscious mind and the conscious will, but they are are not forms of self-expression, or true confession.

Consideration of Forster’s Maurice launches this. But it is the reading of the pre-posthumous oeuvre that informs its character.

And so for day 610
14.08.2008

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The Made and the Making

Hamlet on the Holodeck: The Future of Narrative in Cyberspace by Janet H. Murray examines ways of world making and at its heart is a tension between two modes:

There will always be a trade-off between a world that is more given (more authored from the outside and therefore imbued with the magic of externalized fantasy) and a world that is more improvised (and therefore closer to individual fantasies). The area of immersive enchantment lies in the overlap between these two domains. If the borders are constantly under negotiation, they will be too porous to sustain the immersive trance.

There appears to be shock if one is expected to move too often between an authored world and improvised world and vice versa. Implied here is a sticking point when changing gears. Implied in the co-existing overlap is the premise that negotiation reacts against immersion. I wonder how this would play out if instead of overlap one thought about a relation of consecutiveness.

And so for day 609
13.08.2008

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Working It Through

In the concluding pages of The Telling by Ursula K. Le Guin one finds a nice summation of the novel:

[…] belief is the wound that knowledge heals.

And the irony is that reading fiction progresses by a suspension of disbelief … reader made whole upon exiting the reading experience for the reader progresses from a state of not knowing to one of knowledge. Would re-readig be playing with a scar?

Somehow the metaphorics fall apart. The encounter with fiction is beyond belief — it is a special type of knowing that inhabits an alternate universe.

And so for day 608
12.08.2008

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Composition as Dialogue

Snipped from elsewhere, composed here.

Analogies of Dialogue

Perhaps by analogy one could claim that the modular elements of a film are assembled in a such a manner as to constitute a performance of dialgoue. Parts work with or against other parts to form a “dialogue”. It is a manner of speaking. It is worth testing how far the analogy of parts working with parts to form a dialogue can be applied. In music, in a painting, in a verbal artefact such as a poem? Composition, a being together in the same space, can become dialogue, a passing through the same space.

x responds to y

Indeed the coming together to occupy the same space for a matter of time can be conceived as a dialogue. To make a composition is to engage in dialogue.

About placing, about place…

And so for day 607
11.08.2008

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Winnowing

Found inscribed in the flyleaf of a copy of Yevgeny Zamyatin’s We translated by Mirra Ginsburg

No wonder the Russians can’t grow wheat — they’re too busy writing.

The sentence concludes a longish encomium. I like its wryness.

And so for day 606
10.08.2008

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Uncomputed

In this passage from Yevgeny Zamyatin’s We translated by Mirra Ginsburg I am struck by the juxtaposition between the Rousseauesque wilderness outside the ordered city.

Through the glass the blunt snout of some beast stared dully, mistily at me; yellow eyes, persistently repeating a single, incomprehensible thought. For a long time we stared into each other’s eyes — those mine-wells from the surface world into another subterranean one. And a question stirred within me: What if he, this yellow-eyed creature, in his disorderly, filthy mound of leaves, in his uncomputed life, is happier than we?

I raised my hand, the yellow eyes blinked, backed away, and disappeared among the greenery. The paltry creature! What absurdity — that he could possibly be happier than we are! Happier than I, perhaps; but I am only an exception, I am sick.

I like the question it poses but more so do I like the question that arises for me: what counts as an “uncomputed” life? Are we not creatures of calculation?

And so for day 605
09.08.2008

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Not Stopping

From Audre Lorde The Cancer Journals

Castaneda talks of living with death as your guide, that sharp awareness engendered by the full possibility of any given chance and moment. For me, that means being — not ready for death — but able to get ready instantly, and always to balance the “I wants” with the “I haves.” I am learning to speak my pieces, to inject into the living world my convictions of what is necessary and what I think is important without concern (of the enervating kind) for whether or not it is understood, tolerated, correct or heard before. Although of course being incorrect is always the hardest, but even that is becoming less important. The world will not stop if I make a mistake.

Throughout The Cancer Journals the concern is with the overcoming of a silence that petrifies and damages. Expression is vital. Here it takes on a velocity that is contagious. The enumeration brings on a sympathetic vertigo. It is almost impossible to unhook oneself from the prose and contemplate an ethos of care and attention. It is not evident at first blush but a second reading imagines that the world will not stop if I do not make a mistake — or indeed it just might.

And so for day 604
08.08.2008

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Consequences and Their Representations

I like how this passage builds the crescendo of exaggeration.

Fat Charlie was thirsty.

Fat Charlie was thirsty and his head hurt.

Fat Charlie was thirsty and his head hurt and mouth tasted evil and his eyes were too tight in his head and all his teeth twinged and his stomach burned and his back was aching in a way that started around his knees and went up to his forehead and his brains had been removed and replaced with cotton balls and needles and pins which was why it hurts to try and think, and his eyse were not just too tight in his head but they must have rolled out in the night and been reattached with roofing nails, and now he noticed that anything louder than the gentle Brownian motion of the air molecules drifting softly past each other was above his pain threshold. Also, he wished he were dead.

from Neil Gaiman Anansi Boys

Chapter Five In Which We Examine The Many Consequences of The Morning After

And so for day 603
07.08.2008

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Sublime Selves

Marlene Goldman in Paths of Desire: Images of Exploration and Mapping in Canadian Women’s Writing in a discussion of Jane Urquhart’s The Whirlpool provides us with a concise and incisive explanation of the sublime:

According to both authors [Burke and Kant], these emotions arise because sublime objects challenge the mind’s capacity to organize experience. […] For Kant, however, astonishment is only the first step of a complicated cognitive process which leads the mind to recognize itself as sublime and the source of the sublime in nature, and to substitute the humiliating awareness of our ‘physical impotence’ in the face of nature for the empowering awareness of ‘an ability to judge ourselves independent of nature’

The explanation is not an endorsement. In her introduction, she indicates that such accounts of the sublime “help clarify the dangers involved in adhering to the concept, which is based on the sacrifice of the body and nature in favour of an illusory sense of power and transcendence.”

It is the key phrase “challenge the mind’s capacity to organize experience” that reverberates. It seems the key to understanding the reading, copying and making of maps, Maps chafe the imagination: taking a this for a that.

The mind that resists metaphor has a hard time processing maps.

X marks the spot. And the view is sublime.

And by the recursive work of revisioning, we come to learn of an other, an immanent source of power. And learn with Austin Warren that “Art is the ordering of landscapes and loves.” (Rage for Order).

And so for day 602
06.08.2008

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Lists and Curating

Aldous Huxley at the beginning of Heaven and Hell argues for the work of gathering:

However lowly, the work of the collector must be done, before we can proceed to the higher scientific tasks of classification, analysis, experiment and theory making.

I am reminded of the memes that circulate often among blogs, memes that call for the generation of lists. A list is an itinerary. A list maker is in a sense a map maker. Huxley’s is a fitting beginning to an essay about the transporting properties of art.

As a species of curating, list making is also a type of caring.

And so for day 601
05.08.2008

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