About Daniel Green
Daniel Green was an English professor for 15 years, but left academe for the good of all concerned. He still monitors developments in academic criticism and writes the occasional scholarly essay, but has mostly concentrated lately on general interest essays, reviews, and criticism, to be found in a variety of publications, both print and online. He also writes fiction and maintains a literary weblog called The Reading Experience.
Email Address: greend1@charter.net
Website: http://noggs.typepad.com
Posts by Daniel Green
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
Easier to Talk About
In Exit Ghost, Philip Roth includes a letter putatively written by “Amy Bellette” but, as it turns out, mostly written (she claims) by her lover, E.I. Lonoff, the perfectionist writer whose portrayal in The Ghost Writer initiated Roth’s series of Zuckerman novels. Bellette/Lonoff write:
Hemingway’s early stories are set in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, so your cultural journalist goes to the Upper Peninsula and finds out the names of the locals who are said to have been models for the characters in the early stories. Surprise of surprises, they or their descendants feel badly served by Ernest Hemingway. These feelings, unwarranted or childish or downright imaginary as they may be, are taken more seriously than the fiction because they’re easier for your cultural journalist to talk about than the fiction.
I was reminded of this passage when reading Brian Boyd’s “The Art of Literature and the Science of Literature," not because Boyd himself really finds external issues easier “to talk about than the fiction,” certainly not because Boyd values such issues more than “the fiction,” but because even in his attempt to retrieve the “art of literature” as the central subject of literary criticism he seemingly can’t help but underscore the value of fiction as the gateway to something else.
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Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Psychological Occurences
In The Logical Structure of the World, Rudolph Carnap attempts to show how a “constructional system” can be built the purpose of which is “to order the objects of all sciences into a system according to their reducibility to one another.” Among these “objects” are what Carnap calls “cultural objects” (which include works of art) and “pyschological objects.” The former, Carnap maintains, are reducible (for the purposes of this system) to the latter:
The awareness of the aesthetic content of a work of art, for example a marble statue, is indeed not identical with the recognition of the sensible characteristics of the piece of marble, its shape, size, color, and material. But this awareness is not something outside of the perception, since for it no content other than the content of the perception is given; more precisely: this awareness is uniquely determined through what is perceived by the senses. Thus, there exists a unique functional relation between the physical properties of the piece of marble and the aesthetic content of the work of art which is represented in this piece of marble.
To put it another way, the aesthetic experience includes an awareness of the piece of marble in all of its physical attributes, or of a page of text with its words printed in a particular style on paper of a particular color and weight, but it only begins there. “Aesthetic content” requires another step to be fulfilled:
. . .if a physical object is to be formed or transformed in such a way that it becomes a document, a bearer of expression for the cultural object, then this requires an act of creation or transformation on the part of one or several individuals, and thus psychological occurences in which the cultural object comes alive; these psychological occurences are the manifestations of the cultural object.
Although he uses the word “experience” rather than “psychological occurences,” and although he is more rooted to the “physical object” than is Carnap in what seems an essentially phenomenological analyis of the experience of art, John Dewey in Art as Experience offers a philosophy of art and the reception of art that at least has a family resemblance to what Carnap is suggesting here. Both Dewey and Carnap avoid attributing metaphysical status to the “beauty” of art (a beauty that is intrinsic to the work) by locating the aesthetic in our apprehension of the work. As Carnap puts it, for the work to become a “bearer of expression,” there must be “an act of creation or transformation on the part of one or several individuals.” Similarly, Dewey would maintain that these “several individuals” include both artist and audience, as the work is not really complete until the viewer/listener/reader is able to “recreate” it in perception: “Without an act of recreation the object is not perceived as a work of art. The artist selected, simplified, clarified, abridged and condensed according to his interest. The beholder must go through these operations according to his point of view and interest.”
Thus aesthetic judgment is unavoidably subjective, requiring the “transformation” Carnap describes, a process that will be bound to the “point of view and interest” of the “beholder,” as Dewey has it. Still, the “sensible characteristics” of the work remain what they are, and aesthetic judgment cannot simply be cut loose from the work’s sensible properties. Indeed, the more fully one experiences art according to Dewey’s account of the process, the more, and the more intensely, those sensible properties will be felt.
It seems to me that both Carnap and Dewey remind us that, although the aesthetic is consummated in the “psychological occurences” experienced by readers or viewers, the sensible charactertistics of works of art and literature cannot be denied or dismissed. Thus, in reading fiction, we should not forget that neither people nor “things“ are the subjects of perception. Words are. If, for example, we are reading a realist novel, we are not experiencing “the world” faithfully reproduced at all. We are not even, finally, experiencing a world of the author’s creation, whether it’s a world meant to be taken as a version of the real world or one the author has imaginatively brought into being. We are experiencing writing, which, through the psychological processes Carnap and Dewey invoke, is “transformed” into a world of characters and their stories. Ultimately a sufficient accumulation of responses by readers in turn transforms the work into a “cultural object.” In our haste to describe that realist novel as a convincing “picture” of reality or as something “that takes on the problems of social misery and class conflict,” we should not forget that it’s neither. As an object of aesthetic experience, it’s just writing, skillfully arranged for your act of recreation.
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Tuesday, December 18, 2007
One People
Richard Jenkyns believes that, although a “canon” of literary works is necessary in providing us with a stock of appropriate “shared references,” such a canon does not have to be exlusively “high cultural.”
It is surely vain to suppose that poorly educated and disaffected young Asians can be brought to a stronger sense of belonging in Britain by a diet of Hamlet, Middlemarch and the Psalms. The truth is that shared references and resonances mostly need to evolve naturally, that most of them derive from popular culture, and that many of them are like family jokes. Television has had enormous power as a unifier; this power is now declining with the proliferation of channels and new media, but in their time Morecambe and Wise did more than Milton and Wordsworth to make us feel one people.
The obvious flaw in this argument comes from that “in their time.” The accomplishments of Morecambe and Wise notwithstanding, the ultimate point of a canon is that it includes “shared references” that are timeless, not merely of unifying value in a particular historical era. Unless future generations will likely value Morecambe and Wise as much as those “in their time” did (although, who knows, maybe they will), there seems little point in enshrining them in a “canon,” which will only come to seem as much an imposition on the tastes of those later generations as Milton and Wordsworth
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Friday, December 07, 2007
The Burden of Criticality
Johanna Drucker sums up her argument in her book, Sweet Dreams: Contemporary Art and Complicity (University of Chicago Press, 2005), as follows:
. . .the critical frameworks inherited from the avant-garde and passed through the academic discourses of current art history are constrained by the expectation of negativity. Fine art should not have to bear the burden of criticality nor can it assume superiority as if operating outside of the ideologies it has long presumed to critique. Fine art, artists, and critics exist within a condition of complicity with the institutions and values of contemporary culture. (247)
According to Drucker, artists of the 2000s (representatives of which her book discusses in some detail), no longer see “complicity” with mass culture as an evil to be avoided. These artists use mass culture to create dynamic, visually arresting works the ultimate ambition of which is to be aesthetically pleasing. No requirement of “criticality” is necessary for ideological correctness: the purpose of art is to be aesthetic, and contemporary artists are exploiting the aesthetic possibilities of mass culture to create “fine art” that doesn’t pretend to an inherent “superiority” over that culture. Complicity is ok, as is taking sensory pleasure in art.
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Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Analytic
In his post on “Everything Studies,” Joseph Kugelmass suggests that
If the humanities were to re-shape itself in order to accomodate the changing shape of culture, all of the analytical disciplines would combine—Philosophy, Political Science, English, Comparative Literature, History, Sociology, Anthropology, and the rest—while the creative disciplines would remain separate, including Creative Writing, Dance, Theater, Visual Arts, and Musical Composition. Critics and scholars are not always good artists, and vice versa. The grounds for such a merger would be basically ideological. If we accept the idea that our beliefs about the world are essentially constructions, then it makes sense to give the study of those constructions the widest possible scope . . . .
I would be willing to accept this proposal (with one proviso, discussed below), but there are actually a number of assumptions about both art (the “creative disciplines") and about academic study that need to be unpacked from this passage I’ve quoted.
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Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Of Limited and Personal Interest
John Carey’s What Good Are the Arts? is a very strange book. It’s first half seeks to demonstrate that art doesn’t really exist and that, if it does, it doesn’t do anyone any good. The second half essentially ignores the case that Carey has just made and asserts that art does indeed exist after all and does some people quite a lot of good.
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Tuesday, June 19, 2007
A Retroactive Historical Trajectory
It’s good that Delia Sherman and Theodora Goss print at the end of the book an interview with themselves about Interfictions, an “anthology of interstitial writing” they’ve edited and published through the Interstitial Arts Foundation. Otherwise I, for one, would have finished the book, including its nominal “Introduction,” without having much of an idea what either “interfiction” or “interstitial” are supposed to mean.
Heinz Insu Fenkl’s intoduction tells us that a book of his was published as a novel, even though it was really a memoir. Later, a publisher wanted to “repackage” the book as a memoir. Presumably, then, the book is neither a novel nor a memoir, but something “in-between,” even though Fenkl’s account makes it perfectly clear that it is a memoir, its “tropes, its collaging of time and character” notwithstanding. Using what Fenk thinks of as “novelistic” devices not make the book a novel. Not wishing to have it understood as a memoir does not make it other than a memoir.
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Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Ass-Backwards
In her essay, “The Rise of the Blogger,” in The Philosospher’s Magazine, Ophelia Benson quotes H E Baber (whose blog is called The Enlightenment Project):
“Nowadays publication in a refereed journal is just a prize – a credential for academics in support of employment, tenure and merit pay increases. Originally journals were supposed to be a vehicle for making the results of one’s research available to peers for discussion and collaboration, a way to make work that would earlier have been done through professional correspondence available to more people. Lots of us, pushed to show ‘productivity’, don’t work on issues we regard as worthwhile and publish the results to advance work in the field – we pick fields in which it will be easy to publish and select issues to work on in the interest of ‘getting publications’. Even ass-backwarder, instead of being valued because they make scholarly work more readily available, journals are valued because the print medium restricts the amount of work that can be made publicly available, so that a publication ‘counts’.
“Blogs, and more broadly online publication, advance research done for its own sake rather than as a credential for professional advancement.”
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Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Interiors
Caleb Crain wonders whether “novels spread human rights and discourage torture.” Quoting Lynn Hunt’s claim in her book Inventing Human Rights: A History that “novels made the point that all people are fundamentally similar because of their inner feelings,” Crain glosses Hunt’s claim by adding: “As it became easier to imagine the feelings and interior lives of other people, it became harder to justify treating them with cruelty or systematic inequity.”
This is a cogent enough observation (although it remains after-the-fact speculation), as long as a caveat is added: Novels, or at least certain kinds of novels, can make make it “easier to imagine the feelings and interior lives of other people,” but this is a secondary effect of the novel as a form, not its reason for being. It exists to allow writers the opportunity to create aesthetically credible works of literary art in prose, not to champion human solidarity and facilitate good will toward men.
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Thursday, March 15, 2007
Mediation
Tom Lutz asserts that Harold Bloom (along with Francine Prose) believes the current generation of politicized literary scholars (what Bloom terms the “school of resentment") “are all looking at something besides the text itself, by which they mean a book that is read without theory, without reference to other values, and without mediation of any kind.”
Lutz associates this view that we should return to “the text” with New Criticism, but nowhere in his essay does he reveal (if he knows) that Bloom was actually hostile to New Criticism. He considered its approach so limiting and so dismissive (in the practice of most of the New Critics, at least) of the Romantic poets, whose work Bloom so loves, that he deliberately designed his own theory of poetic influence as a corrective, if not an outright rejection, of New Critical biases. Lutz goes on to associate both Bloom and New Criticism with such disparate figures as Mortimer Adler, E.D. Hirsch, and John Sutherland, simply because they appear to endorse the idea that learning to appreciate the “text itself” is an important part of literary education.
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Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Unalienable Rights
Perhaps John Holbo will identify with this, from Jonathen Lethem’s recent Harper’s essay on “intellectual property”:
. . .We consider it unacceptable to sell sex, babies, body organs, legal rights, and votes. The idea that something should never be commodified is generally known as inalienability or unalienability—a concept most famously expressed by Thomas Jefferson in the phrase “endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights . . .” A work of art seems to be a hardier breed; it can be sold in the market and still emerge a work of art. But if it is true that in the essential commerce of art a gift is carried by the work from the artist to his audience, if I am right to say that where there is no gift there is no art, then it may be possible to destroy a work of art by converting it into a pure commodity. I don’t maintain that art can’t be bought and sold, but that the gift portion of the work places a constraint upon our merchandising. This is the reason why even a really beautiful, ingenious, powerful ad (of which there are a lot) can never be any kind of real art: an ad has no status as gift; i.e., it’s never really for the person it’s directed at.
For “merchandising,” I would also substitute “theorizing,” historicizing,” and “politicizing.” All three are ways of “selling” art in the academic marketplace, depriving it of its status as gift and ignoring “the person it’s directed at.”
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Saturday, January 20, 2007
Oceans of Nuance
I just can’t resist. From an exchange between Andrew Sullivan and Sam Harris:
. . .I have found that whenever someone like me or Richard Dawkins criticizes Christians for believing in the imminent return of Christ, or Muslims for believing in martyrdom, religious moderates claim that we have caricatured Christianity and Islam, taken “extremists” to be representative of these “great” faiths, or otherwise overlooked a shimmering ocean of nuance. We are invariably told that a mature understanding of the historical and literary contexts of scripture renders faith perfectly compatible with reason, and our attack upon religion is, therefore, “simplistic,” “dogmatic,” or even “fundamentalist.” As a frequent target of such profundities, I can attest that they generally come moistened to a sickening pablum by great sighs of condescension. . . .
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Thursday, January 18, 2007
After Agincourt
To continue this argument:
I find it disturbing that Thomas Nagel in the New Republic dismisses Dawkins as an “amateur philosopher”, while Terry Eagleton in the London Review of Books sneers at Dawkins for his lack of theological training. Are we to conclude that opinions on matters of philosophy or religion are only to be expressed by experts, not mere scientists or other common folk? It is like saying that only political scientists are justified in expressing views on politics. Eagleton’s judgement is particularly inappropriate; it is like saying that no one is entitled to judge the validity of astrology who cannot cast a horoscope.
Where I think Dawkins goes wrong is that, like Henry V after Agincourt, he does not seem to realize the extent to which his side has won. Setting aside the rise of Islam in Europe, the decline of serious Christian belief among Europeans is so widely advertised that Dawkins turns to the United States for most of his examples of unregenerate religious belief. He attributes the greater regard for religion in the US to the fact that Americans have never had an established Church, an idea he may have picked up from Tocqueville. But although most Americans may be sure of the value of religion, as far as I can tell they are not very certain about the truth of what their own religion teaches. . .
Even though American atheists might have trouble winning elections, Americans are fairly tolerant of us unbelievers. My many good friends in Texas who are professed Christians do not even try to convert me. This might be taken as evidence that they don’t really mind if I spend eternity in Hell, but I prefer to think (and Baptists and Presbyterians have admitted it to me) that they are not all that certain about Hell and Heaven. I have often heard the remark (once from an American priest) that it is not so important what one believes; the important thing is how we treat each other. Of course, I applaud this sentiment, but imagine trying to explain “not important what one believes” to Luther or Calvin or St Paul. Remarks like this show a massive retreat of Christianity from the ground it once occupied, a retreat that can be attributed to no new revelation, but only to a loss of certitude. . . .
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Tuesday, December 12, 2006
A Certain Image Regime
At The New Criterion, Michael J. Lewis quotes from The Sight of Death: An Experiment in Art Writing, by art historian T. J. Clark:
My art history has always been reactive. Its enemies have been the various ways in which visual imagining of the world has been robbed of its true humanity, and conceived of as something less than human, non-human, brilliantly (or dully) mechanical. In the beginning that meant that the argument was with certain modes of formalism, and the main effort in my writing went into making the painting fully part of a world of transactions, interests, disputes, beliefs, “politics.” But who now thinks it is not? The enemy now is not the old picture of visual imaging as pursued in a state of trance-like removal from human concerns, but the parody notion we have come to live with of its belonging to the world, its incorporation into it, its being “fully part” of a certain image regime. “Being fully part” means, it turns out in practice, being at any tawdry ideology’s service.
“But who now thinks it is not?” A better question: Who ever thought it was not? What formalist ever believed a work of art or literature was literally “brilliantly (or dully) mechanical,” or, at least, that a proper response to art was one that regarded it as “something less than human, non-human”? Has anyone ever really confronted a work of art “in a state of trance-like removal from human concerns”? The very fact the a human being experiences a work created by another human being, both of whom presumably draw on very human attributes--creativity, attentiveness, for that matter even the ability to self-induce a “trance-like” state--would seem to make the transformation of the puerile metaphor of the “mechanical” response to art into something real, something to be contrasted with “human,” manifestly preposterous. Yet this association of formalist criticism of all kinds with merely “mechanical” aesthetic appreciation and “engaged” political criticism with the fully “human” world of “transactions, interests, disputes, beliefs” has been an operational assumption of academic criticism for almost three decades now, producing such an endless stream of ideologically sodden “scholarship” that apparently even Clark has had enough.
It’s good that T. J. Clark wants now to challenge the pseudo-analyses of “belonging to the world” and “image regimes,” but maybe he should have realized that his own interpretation of formalism was itself a “parody notion,” that he was exchanging one “mechanical” approach for what was inevitably to become its equally distorted mirror image. It now seems a fixed law of academic criticism that one generation will dismiss the previous generation’s preferred critical method based on its least representative, most exaggerated characteristics, while going on to practice a new method that seems designed to provoke a similar reaction from the next (or in this case, from one of its own.)
I am loath to quote The New Criterion approvingly, but I agree with Lewis (although I’d change his “immeasurably” to “somewhat"):
. . .The tendency of Clark’s career, then, has been to dislodge the aesthetic object from its pedestal to set it back into the social, cultural, and political currents that brought it forth. Such an approach, wielded judiciously, can immeasurably enrich the understanding of an object. But, used indiscriminately, it can also impoverish that understanding, rendering the object into a mere historical document—like a bill of lading or a deed of transfer. And a mediocre work of art always speaks far more eloquently about the society that made it than a great one. In the end, an insight that aspired to widen the scope and relevance of art history demoted it to a subspecies of social history. And Clark, whatever one may think of his politics, is too good an art historian not to realize that this is a loss for everyone.
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Wednesday, November 22, 2006
A World Apart: “Contemporary Literature” and the Academy"--Part IV (and Last)
By 1980 “contemporary literature” had indeed been established as a subject of academic inquiry and criticism—in many ways it was increasingly identified with the avant-garde in academic scholarship, and would continue to be associated with the subsequent rise to prominence of critical theory—perhaps more quickly and readily than Ihab Hassan or Marcus Klein (or Jerome Klinkowitz) would have been able to anticipate. In turn, the study of contemporary literature as a regular part of the curriculum was firmly established in most universities and would soon enough be so pervasive in all colleges and universities as to seem thoroughly unexceptional. Many such courses would develop into ordinary survey courses in which efforts to “cover” as representative a sample of postwar fiction would be made, but the published scholarly and critical coverage of contemporary fiction at least in 1980 and for many of the years following was focused intensely if not exclusively on the postmodern. (In retrospect, very little academic criticism of “minimalism” and neorealism was published until much later—and, comparatively, really very little at all—even though these challenges to postmodern practice began appearing as early as the mid 1970s.) Although this will likely turn out to have been the most significant movement in American fiction of the second half of the century, its central place in the newly respectable academic study of the subject ultimately worked to in effect push aside the criticism of contemporary writing as such in favor of a more concentrated consideration of the effects of the postmodern approach, at least as this was understood by individual critics operating under their own particular assumptions.
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