Daily PlegmRegurgitation

I remember a teacher I once had (or did I merely dream this teacher into existence, as her tendency towards expository confabulation, was so perfectly rendered in ludicrous detail?) Who claimed that Louis XIV was an obsessive masturbator, whose 60-70 daily onanism sessions, eventually caused him to contract syphilis and die. She attributed, this apocryphal version of his demise, to the existence of tiny spirochetes which lived under the Monarch’s frequently manicured, but rarely washed, fingernails, and which were transferred during masturbation from his hand to his genitals, invariably leading to his death. Of course, the story was ludicrous, but if one accepted the correlations implied by the details, then it followed logically, that the end result was believable.

She reinforced this relativistic logic when she asserted, on another occasion, that London had, in fact, been completely destroyed by the German Blitz in 1940-41, and that it had to be rebuilt, entirely of marble, like some Borgesian fantasy city—no doubt, the same one housing the transcendent Library of Babel, but that is another story. Moreover, she went on to claim, quite shamelessly, I might add, that thenceforth, London was known as the City of Marble, an appellation not to be found in any history book. The reason for this is simple: London was not destroyed by the Blitz; and those sections that were leveled, were not rebuilt solely of marble.

The lie which sticks out most from that time, however, was her claim—made brilliantly, with straight face and bogus, unverifiable, vaguely attributed, ‘newspaper sources’—that after the bombing of Hiroshima, woman all over Japan began giving birth to creatures which resembled fur covered Dolphins. As she said this, a single tear trickled across her cheek. An audible hush silenced the room, reinforcing the sense of urgency and the notion that in this sanctified cavern of truthfulness, we were getting an accurate retelling of how the world actually was, as opposed to how it was often represented.

Perhaps, if the latter had only been intended metaphorically, it might have been true, but her motives—whatever they actually were—appeared to owe more to self-aggrandizement than to any desire to speaks truthfully about the past. These narratives, of course, were quite brilliant, but as they were presented as verifiable facts, in the environment of a classroom, I found it hard then—and still find it difficult now—to ignore the context and interpolate it within the pristine rhetoric of literary theory. While the latter certainly has a valid place in conversation, as well as in written form—as it offers valuable insights into the nature of representation of the distorting effects of signs—its use as an all-purpose justification for something presented as an ontologically and epistemologically coherent ‘truth’ about the world, IE a series of ‘facts,’ has to be differentiated from metaphor. Only if her intention had been to deceive us as a type of performative aesthetics concerned with the nature of truth, could such fallacies claim to be ‘Art.’ Otherwise, as Gertrude Stein might have said, had she been imbued with the spirit of Yogi Berra, ‘A lie is a lie is a lie.”

On one level, to say that lies are not lies, is sort of equivalent to the claim, once made somewhere, at some time by somebody, that monkeys do, in fact, speak like humans, but only do it when they are sure that we are not listening; there is, always an element of indeterminacy but some scenarios are more likely than others. This is not to say that truth is absolute—except perhaps in the sense that certain empirical statements, or hypotheses can be true, and factual (but these are truths limited to very specific things, and do not apply, in a literal way, to matters of interpretation extrinsic to the strictly Euclidean notions of facticity, and even then… )—but that it is contingent, which is still distinct from the syncretistic notion that all truths are equal to each other. The latter, is valid as a way of accepting the epistemological diversity of any given situation or object, but cannot be fairly construed to apply to all ontological questions. This means that, although the what is indeterminate sometimes—as is its relationship to the why and how—the essential whatness of the first can be construed with some accuracy, all things being equal, when the other two conditions can be placed within specific parameters that are not simply subject to any and all contingencies.

What this means in English, is that, for example, the Atomic Bomb was dropped on Hiroshima on August 6, 1945. It also means that the Holocaust refers to a series of atrocities perpetrated by the Nazi’s, and other parties, upon the Jewish people, before and During the Second World War. However, the details surrounding the motives behind the first, and the complex reasoning involved, are contingent, as is the Byzantine and disturbing historical precedents for the second. Neither of these things, of course, can subtract from the horror arising from each respective episode, or their own distinct qualities and time frames; but, in placing them historically, there is always the imposition of one narrative framework over other competing historical paradigms. This does not mean however, that one could—as many Holocaust deniers have attempted to do, for example—simply use a different method of structuring such events to claim either that they never happened, or, that as remembered historical facts they are so different from any of the prevailing, and closely related, historical models, that the element of “atrocity” can simply be disbursed within the narrative codes of literature and history. Such sophistries—and the intellectual subterfuges that they endorse—are often used as a prelude to insisting that the collectively remembered horrors, of events, like the Holocaust, the dropping of the Atomic Bomb, or innumerable other acts of violence, genocide and power politics, be finessed into abstractions rendered unstable enough to be called fiction. To do this, would be an assault on the possibility that anything can ever be communicated as truth, and a license for any and all revisions of history to claim equal status ontologically. In other words, it would be a lie masquerading as a variation on the Fairness Doctrine.

The latter, of course, refers to the implementation of a well-intentioned attempt by the FCC to insure that Television networks—who are often beholden to large corporate and even government sponsors—gave equal time to other points of view. The reality is that, while it was a more inclusive approach, it was soon manipulated by those very parties, whose excessively one sided narratives it was supposed to ameliorate, and thus transformed into a multi-fringed assortment of differing viewpoints and ideas that tended, in practice—and perhaps by design—to present those versions of reality that were given airtime, as being on completely equal footing with one another. If such a spectacle sounds democratic, the reality was that it tended to present only specifically acceptable variations on already conventional points of view, thus contributing to an already lopsided playing field by giving viewers a false sense of the range of available positions. In this way, it actually contributed to the ‘naturalization’ of already well-articulated ideological positions while submerging those whose frame-of-reference was too heterogeneous for the artificially circumscribed parameters of mass media.

In sum, history is mediated by ideology, but is still more than a mere outgrowth of it, despite the fact that the flavor of a period—and the corresponding perception of its texture—is derived from the colored lens that informs our awareness of it.

And Now, onto something more basic.

I remember a dream I had once, where I was standing in a small room surrounded by a tremendous crystalline obelisk, festooned with serrated needles jutting out, like octopus tendrils, in every possible direction, in a beautifully interconnected lattice of knife-like projections, reminiscent of the top of the Chrysler building if it were viewed through a mirrored prism. These coral-like stalagmites seemed to cover almost every inch of the room I was in, and only with great effort was I able to negotiate my way back out of the still opened doorway without being nettled or stabbed. It only occurred to me later on that the entire scenario was really an ornate reimagining of the effect that gout was having on my ambulation, and even if not intended so literally, could be conceived as an allegory about social and epistemological constraints. It both literalized the potentially painful consequences of movement—as even the slightest jostling of, or pressure on, the effected limb, or digit, created a sharp and deeply felt throbbing that was similar to the imagined pain of being stung by the crystalline tendrils of a science-fiction jellyfish—and provided a blue-print for the complex trajectory involved in pain avoidance. Moreover, the morbid sense of limitation imposed by this apparatus of thorny needles, was overwhelmingly oppressive; its corollary being the tacit threat of ostracism that acts as an invisible network of nettles in maintaining the parameters that define complex relationships in an hierarchical society

One may at first object to such a severe and reductive model of social interactions, but a closer look at the dynamics inherent in the latter, would amply prove my point. Firstly, it is well understood that one way of enforcing social contracts is through the tacit threat of consequences for non-compliance. The worst of these is ostracism, since, as inherently social creatures, we tend to abhor the effect that this has on anyone unlucky enough to be cut off from the main lines of human circulation. Only those who have cultivated a taste for solitude—which is probably not a large number of people, as we are genetically infused with a desire to communicate with others, language formation being only one example of the necessity of interaction with others—as adults, and maybe those of protean willpower, would perhaps be immune to this sort of covertly dangled type of punishment.

Thus, the ‘needles’ remain as a potentiality—an invisible presence whose sting is only felt when one has incurred the gout-like wrath of the majority, for violating ordinarily unexamined aspects of the social code. Such punishments—if they can be called that, as they are more similar to the consequences of a sadistic game, where the odds are stacked in favor of the ‘social order’ against the lone individual—are more terrifying for not being codified, and therefore not imposed programmatically but with an arbitrariness that makes them unpredictable. One does not really know exactly when he/she might run afoul of the gatekeepers, whose main purpose it seems—one rarely acknowledged consciously—is to expose those who violate all manner of normative mores, even in the most minor of cases, to the fullest non-binding consequences, such as the humiliation of being regarded as a pariah. Such cases both reveal the true primitiveness of some aspects of human social relations, and raise questions regarding our true nature as sentient and gregarious beings.

I will leave it to whomever is actually reading this, other than myself—assuming that someone has read up till now—to parse out the significance of what this all means. Perhaps I am just talking into the air, in which case, I can at least rid myself of any vestigial traces of embarrassment, as nobody is around to answer my rhetorical hypothesis anyway…

Finally, in a realm, perhaps, unrelated…

There is a tendency—which I may have remarked upon in previous posts—for human beings to take ideas that contain ‘truth’ and transform them, overnight, into ‘totalizing truths.’ The difference between one and the other is instructive; for, while the former occurs largely at the event-horizon of a gestalt-shift, the latter is its rigid codification into catechism: the fact that both idea and its reduction into coded ontological fact, are related is an epistemological illusion borne of faulty reasoning, not a reflection of verity, or even a commentary on the human conceptual apparatus—although such reflection is tempting.

This is even more painfully obvious when I recollect a series of conversations—regarding my own work, primarily—with fellow members of a writers group to which I belong. A recent short story, which is also in my blog, received an interesting response, in that everyone else in the group insisted that it was overwritten and, possibly, required editing for verb choice [The reader may peruse the story in question, and decide for himself/herself—it is called The Visitor]. I regarded these suggestions as a reflection of an unspoken insistence upon adhering to specific literary conventions, namely the construct of genre; in other words, I saw much of the critique as being both impressionistic and as attempting to corral my narrative within a horse-fence of stylistic codes that I regard as outmoded and irrelevant. They insisted—and, of course, there is always the possibility, that given the dynamics of this particular group, which are too complex to go into here, that they were merely playing ‘follow the leader’ (or, even the possibility that said critique was transparent and correct, although it seems unlikely)—that it had nothing to do with ‘convention’ and was instead a commentary on the fact that the story seemed ‘overwritten.’ By this, they meant that it lacked a certain verisimilitude, because the story’s protagonist used language that appeared inappropriate for someone of his station. The character in question—as the reader will certainly discover—is a 14^th century Bishop from Verona.

I was, subsequently, compelled to ask, how someone of that position, from that time, should be ‘translated, ‘ as he surely didn’t express ideas in English; and why the typical practice known as, “Suspension Of Disbelief,” should only apply narrowly to the language barrier (as I write in English, not in an Italina ndialect from the 14^th century), and not to the notion of ‘verb-choice’ as well. After all, I argued, my verbs were correct, in that they did what verbs are supposed to do—they describe actions. And, in explaining this, I inquired, as to whether it was also possible that the response, insofar as it reflected that particular criticism, and related points, was more of a reaction to my violation of a literary genre—specifically, my lack of concern for the highly stylized codes that dictate, albeit in a subtle, and invisible way, how one should express certain historical ideas and personages—than to the actual substance of my narrative.

However, I may be employing a tendency to break narratives down into component parts that are themselves reflections of conventionalized notions about literature, rather than discrete entities that can be detached and rearranged like Leggo blocks. This is where the idea comes in that genre itself functions more as an heuristic device than it does as an arbiter of narrative style; for the categories that have evolved into specific types of story-lines, began as transgressions against a previous set of categories themselves. This Hegelian process (Thesis, Antithesis, Synthesis), is a general insight into most cultural dialectics, since it illustrates the process by which a practice evolves; from something essentially innovative, and often in opposition to—or, at least distinct from—accepted methods, to something accepted, and finally, to something that merges with previously held notions.

As all human language systems, and most cultural practices, are essentially contingent, one can more specifically point out the way in which the aforesaid dialectic illustrates the formation of truth-concepts out of the materials of an evaluative practice. Literature, is—even in its most empirical incarnations—an evaluative practice, because it relies on a set of conventions, built on language, for its effectiveness and its style. And, although there are variations within the framework of these conventions, in terms of how essential they may be at any given time, in reference to each other, most are historically contingent, and subect to the same level of flux as most of the idioms and tropes that are characteristic of how a language conveys meaning.

One way of conceptualizing the relationship of language to more hard wired perceptual structures, would be to liken it, and its conventions, to a sliding continental plate. In geology, it is known that these ‘plates’ slide over the Earth’s mantle and are therefore unstable, although the Planet’s deeper layers—subject, as they are to outgassing through volcanic eruptions, which are fed by, amongst other things, the subduction process—remain largely stable over longer periods of time. Similarly, the conventions that characterize a method of communication tend to slide across the neurological undergirding that compartmentalizes and maintains the structures that enable language acquisition and usage.  This is also true of literature, which is also subject to stylistic shifts and changing norms. Genres, as distinct compartments for theme-oriented narratives, first emerged as ways of describing and organizing the exploding assortment of styles that have developed within the last two centuries. The typologies tat have grown from this, were themselves outgrowths of stylized practices whose roots may have been in the changing social and cultural mores, which reflected deeper shifts in technology and epistemology. It must be remembered that these stylizations were born into a literary oeuvre that did not necessarily contain categories that could measure or describe them; hence, they were initially, revolutionary, and as such, were transgressive. Later on, these practices hardened into the rigid containers that are presently known as Genres. They are themselves presently yielding, with a certain amount of resistance, to newer methods of describing worlds that are conceptually distinct from the ones that were first formed at the time when the present system of literary nomenclature was just becoming codified into a set of discrete applications.

As with any heuristic category, they were, and still are, primarily ways of defining things as distinct from other similar things, so as to better be able to understand them, rather than ends in themselves. The tendency, however, to turn a conceptual hypothesis into a law, is part of a more gradual shift from the original, wholly contingent, container, into a reinforced category of ‘truth.’ Ergo, this distinguishing nomenclature has been hardened by the epoxy of codification into an unalterable literary reality. This is the equivalent to privileging the container over the contents themselves (Of course, this two is an artificial distinction, but one which I find necessary to make mny argument).  What is problematic in this notion is that the perception of the container invariably alters the contents that it carries. It would, in all likelihood—to take this artificial dichotomy further—be far simpler to merely design a container, organically suited to its content, rather than allow this form of conceptual acromegaly to distort one’s literary instincts by shoehorning them into the equivalent of a pair of size 7, Buster Brown Loafers.

While I tried to explain the intricacies of this idea, in relation to my own work, the group—perhaps unwilling or unable, to follow such a complex, and maybe even convoluted, line of reasoning—remained insistent that by sheer force of numbers, they had to be correct in their critique. I politely countered that such notions have no meaning in aesthetics—particularly in the confines of a writers-group—as they are often distorted by preconceptions of canonicity, which manifests itself through primarily petty criticisms of anything different or innovative. As if in agreement with my point, the other writers groups, I often attend, found no serious problems with the narrative.

I would say, I rest my case, but nothing is ever so simple. Still, I believe that whatever the flaws in the aforementioned story, they need to be clarified in the context of a reading that, at least, acknowledges the idea that new forms require new methods of criticism, so that one does not engage in casuistry by inadvertently applying a critical paradigm conceptually unsuited to the material in question. It is this latter problem, which I believe is, at least, a partial explanation for the difficulty that I have found in fully communicating my literary vision—whatever its actual import or value—to the writers group to whom I initially read the narrative.

Perhaps, I will have more success in explaining myself during future meetings.

Until then, whenever that actually is…

The Steward of the PhlegmTurtlePalace

Final edit 12/9/2013