The Passion of New Eve: Bisexuality and Fragmentation through Synecdoche
Angela Carter's novel, The Passion of New Eve introduces the reader to a dystopian vision of America. The social upheaval of the 1970's is presented in hyperbole: conflicts surrounding racial and gender equality are boiling over. Rather than describing this compelling vision, The Passion of New Eve rapidly opens with an enormous philosophical assumption. Our narrator, Evelyn, posits:
Our external symbols must always express the life within us with absolute precision; how could they do otherwise, since that life has generated them? Therefore we must not blame our poor symbols if they take forms that seem trivial to us, or absurd, for the symbols themselves have no control over their own fleshly manifestations, however paltry they may be; the nature of our life alone has determined their forms.
A critique of these symbols is a critique of our lives. (6)
Interestingly, Carter presents this formidable claim on semiotics before the reader has a chance to establish the reliability of the narrator; before the narrator is even named (however, Tristessa is notably present). As we discover, Evelyn is far from impartial. Evelyn harbors a great many biases and assumptions (particularly about gender). His assumption regarding the relationship between symbol and life is subject to some challenging throughout the narrative as demonstrated through the conflicts surrounding gender and its presentation. Carter offers a critique of these symbols and, perhaps, a critique of our lives.
Rubenstein claims that Carter often copes with the issue of gender through synecdoche. Carter attempts to “highlight prevailing social constructions of male power and female powerlessness as, literally, extensions of their genitalia in precisely these contexts of gender-specific anxiety” (106). The gender-specific anxiety Rubenstein references are psychoanalytic in nature: castration anxiety for males and penetration anxiety for females (Rubenstein’s own designated category).
In The Passion of New Eve “the female body depends for its construction on the literal dismemberment of the male body… Castration turns a man into a woman: a complete woman, a woman with ‘all the necessary parts’” (Michie 667). Evelyn’s transformation from man to woman is an act of castration. Ironically, castration by a phallic symbol – the knife. The act, however, is more than simple castration. He is transgendered, it seems, even before the operation. He experiences, in same action, the realization of (male) castration anxiety and Rubenstein's penetration anxiety – both penetrated and castrated by the knife.
Metamorphosed by surgery, Eve[lyn]’s new form elicits an autoerotic response. “I was the object of all the unfocused desires that had ever existed in my own head. I had become my own masturbatory fantasy. And – how can I put it- the cock in my head, still, twitched at the sight of myself” (75). As we see, Carter uses synecdoche to represent Eve’s masculine psychological identify (“the cock in my head”).
However, this moment of autoeroticism (and, again, during Eve and Tristessa’s coupling in the desert) suggests something more than lingering masculine identity. Indeed, there is a strong suggestion of bisexuality. Eve is attracted to himself not only because of his external femininity but also because of his internal masculinity. Carter exposes the fallacy of masculine romantic fantasies of femininity – the desire to be mirrored by the female. This desire is most perfectly enacted by the male in drag, explaining Eve’s lifelong occupation with Tristessa, the secret Hollywood transsexual.
Carter represents bisexuality as a union of opposites, which is perhaps problematic. “The figure of the transsexual or bisexual is a kind of mediating figure invoked to reconcile symbolically these polarized positions” (Rubenstein 106). As a mediator, Carter’s transsexual/bisexual seeks to bridge the gap between the harshly defined genders. However, this gap is established by the rigid definitions presented by Carter. The bisexual and the transsexual must operate between these poles. Neither is afforded the status of hermaphrodite, existing simultaneously as doubly gendered. Instead, each must shift from one gender to the other. Tristessa, the least biologically hermaphroditic is, perhaps, the most genuine of the two because of the destabilization caused by her more fluid gender identity. The bisexual, in this sense, is complementary (as in the hermaphrodite myth) but lacking multiplicity. Each character seems to represent a fairly static state of gender – while these categories may change throughout the novel it is rare that we find them dynamic and fluid in any given scene.
Rubenstein is critical of Carter’s definitions of gender: “Femininity/female is equated with passivity, emptiness, abasement, and terrifying vulnerability, or with voracious, engulfing ‘suction’; masculinity/male is characterized by sadism and sexual violence” (116). Indeed, Carter’s representations are so exaggerated (the nihilistic, sadist Zero; the preposterous Mother Goddess) as to almost seem caricatures of historical and mythical gender.
Eve ponders the implications of gender with consideration for his/her experiences and offers little insight. “Masculine and feminine are correlatives which involve one another. I am sure of that – the quality and its negation are locked in necessity. But what the nature of masculine and the nature of feminine might be, whether they involve male and female… that I do not know” (149-150). Carter (or, perhaps only Eve) is unwilling, or unable, to offer us a category of ‘genderlessness’. We must, instead, deal with a conception of gender located between the poles of masculine and feminine rather than a gender constructed entirely independent of the binarism that seems to be the hallmark of Western metaphysics.
Just as Eve lacks a stable identity, Carter defines Tristessa as having “no ontological status, only an iconographic one” (129). She has no essential characteristics that define her existence, rather she is an icon – a suggestion or a concept. However, Eve’s description of Tristessa is the closest we get to a genderless category: “He, she – neither will do for you” (143). Not two pages later Eve abandons notions of Tristessa’s genderlessness. She thinks of him: “He was a mad, old man with long, white hair like Ezekiel” (145).
Both Eve and Tristessa are “an Other, an object constructed by others – as in a mirror or in another’s gaze – not a subject or self” (Rubenstein 111). Carter’s narrative makes it clear that Eve and Tristessa’s identities (indeed, our own) are not self established but are often ultimately derived from the synecdochal signifier of gender: the penis or vagina. Carter’s synecdochal representation of gender is problematic because this method of discourse fragments the individual, turning the subject into an object. Helena Michie describes this usage of synecdoche as a “semiotic fetish” (663). The two possess “composite identit[ies]” (Johnson 43), assembled from the fragments resultant from the imperfect semiotics of gender.
As Other, Eve and Tristessa are denied identity and means of self-knowledge. Eve reflects on their plight: “You and I, who inhabited false shapes, who appeared to one another doubly masked, like an ultimate mystification, were unknown even to ourselves” (136). Interestingly, Eve and Tristessa are not outsiders as long as they can 'pass' as the gender which their external signs suggest. This works far better for Eve because he possesses all of the physical aspects of femininity. However, Tristessa is met with resistance when her male genitals are uncovered.
Instances of active gender transgression in The Passion of New Eve, particularly Tristessa’s transgression, are met with disgust and violence. Western culture requires that individuals choose a stable sexual identity and maintain it for life. “It is still widely believed that homosexuality and the swapping of gender characteristics are somehow ‘errors’ – that is, Foucault says, ‘a manner of acting that is not adequate to reality’” (Johnson 43).
Zero and his harem react with violent reproach when they become aware of Tristessa’s phallus. They respond by forcing Tristessa into a marriage with Eve. Eve and Tristessa’s wedding is of particular interest when analyzing the signifiers of gender identity. Tristessa is dressed in female garb, contradicting his/her gender (as identified by Zero) whereas Eve is dressed as the groom. Although Eve possesses the requisite genitalia for the role of bride, Zero assigns this role to Eve as a means of degrading Tristessa and Eve. Ironically, Eve is likely the member of this couple that has maintained a masculine identity for the greatest period of time (prior to her/his operation). Gender is actively destabilized in this scene as a multiplicity of gender identities is generated: “it was a double wedding – both were the bride, both the groom in this ceremony” (135).
References
Carter, Angela. The Passion of New Eve. London: Virago, 1998.
Johnson, Heather. “Textualizing the double-gendered body: forms of the grotesque in The Passion of New Eve.” Review of Contemporary Fiction. 14.3 (1994): 43.
Michie, Helena. “Partial Women: Synecdoche, Semiosis, and the Fantasy of the Whole.” Poetics Today. 8.3 (1987): 661-674.
Rubenstein, Roberta. “Intersexions: Gender Metamorphosis in Angela Carter's The Passion of New Eve and Louis Gould's A Sea-Change.” Tulsa Studies in Women's Literature. 12.1 (1993): 103-118.
Nick Heling
12/03/2006
Sunday, June 28, 2009
lost and found: further comments on literature
Gay Vampires Or The Construction of the Other in Dracula
Count Dracula’s terrifying identity is constructed, not as a monster, but as an outsider. He is, in every sense, a foreigner to the (heteronormative) Victorian cast of characters that quest to destroy him. Early in the novel Jonathan Harker almost obsessively comments upon the Count’s strange appearance, eating and sleeping habits and even odor. This pervasive xenophobia reflects the historical context of the novel, written for imperialist England.
The Count’s appearance is so profoundly alien that the characters cannot help but comment upon it. Mina Harker’s description of the Count:
I knew him at once from the description of the others. The waxen face; the high aquiline nose, on which the light fell in a thin, white line; the parted red lips, with the sharp white teeth showing between; and the red eyes that I had seemed to see in the sunset on the windows of St. Mary’s Church at Whitby. (292-293)
Although Harker is at times repulsed by the Count’s otherness, and upon allying against Dracula the company certainly demonizes him, the characters cannot help but feel seduced by his features and mystique throughout the novel. In many ways the Count’s otherness, a kind of orientalism per Said, is fetishized by Stoker and for the benefit of his reader. Everything about the Count is established to confirm the Western conception of identity by acting as a foil – a confirmation of binary power structures, of East and West, of good and evil.
The conversion of Lucy is perhaps the most profound example of the Count’s seductive powers. Lucy is posited to be the model of pure, virginal, English femininity; both frivolous and helpless. Lucy finds herself unable to resist the allure of Count Dracula and quickly succumbs to his influence (though Mina, a less traditional example of femininity and a kind of new-heroine introduced by Stoker, resists and eventually overcomes Dracula’s seduction). We find that the only solution to the Count’s seductive grasp upon Lucy is an elaborate and extremely suggestive murder-ritual mirroring phallic intercourse performed with group-sex overtones. The men would rather sacrifice monogamy and the life of one of their women than lose her to a foreign influence.
Throughout the text, though particularly in the early stages of the narrative, there exists an unspoken sexual tension between Harker and the Count. This tension is first made fully apparent when Harker cuts his neck shaving and the Count reacts strongly with desire: “his eyes blazed with a sort of demoniac fury”.
This homosexual desire is manifested as heterosexual displacement when Harker encounters the three female vampires in the Count’s castle:
All three had brilliant white teeth, that shone like pearls against the ruby of their voluptuous lips. There was something about them that made me uneasy, some longing and at the same time some deadly fear. I felt in my heart a wicked, burning desire that they would kiss me with those red lips. (51)
Harker’s passivity, as is demonstrated by his feigned swoon, is a drastic inversion of Victorian gender roles. In every other instance Harker is very much a man-of-action and this instance of passivity, in spite of danger, suggests his (and the Victorian male’s) desire for some kind of passive role in the sexual economy of England. Stoker’s careful description verifies this assertion as is evidenced by the mounting sensuality of the scene:
Lower and lower went her head as the lips went below the range of my mouth and chin and seemed to fasten on my throat… I could feel the soft, shivering touch of the lips on the supersensitive skin of my throat, and the hard dents of the two sharp teeth, just touching and pausing there. I closed my eyes in a langorous ecstasy and waited – waited with a beating heart. (52)
The women-vampires demonstrate an active sexual appetite, subverting the role of the proper Victorian lady, whereas Harker becomes passive and eagerly awaits the moment of penetration. The penetration of the vampire’s teeth on the neck is undoubtedly a phallic image, though Stoker finds it necessary to couch this homoerotic imagery in heterosexual eroticism through the use of the three women.
The unspoken homosexual desire existing between the Count and Harker becomes apparent upon the intercession of Dracula: “How dare you touch him, any of you? How dare you cast eyes on him when I had forbidden it? Back, I tell you all! This man belongs to me” (53; emphasis added). However, Dracula (and perhaps Stoker) is unwilling to permit a homoerotic coupling, vampiric or not. The mere suggestion of such a thing is enough to frighten (and titillate) the Victorian readers.
This unrealized homoeroticism coupled with Dracula’s apparent preference for women throughout the rest of the novel presents a situation equally (if not more) troubling to the Victorian English: bisexuality. The vampire is by nature bisexual and perhaps transgendered. The vampiric act is one of phallic penetration coupled with the reception of vital fluid. (One must note that in many psychoanalytical readings of this text blood and semen are often interchangeable.) Women who have been converted to vampirism become “masculine” through their sexual aggression. Unfortunately, Stoker does not offer us a male vampire apart from the Count so we must rely on his early and unrealized impulses towards Jonathan Harker for evidence of homosexual desire.
The Count’s transgendering is demonstrated during his final seduction of Mina:
His right hand gripped her by the back of the neck, forcing her face down on his bosom. Her white night-dress was smeared with blood, and a thin stream trickled down the man’s bare chest which was shown by his torn-open dress. The attitude of the two had a terrible resemblance to a child force a kitten’s nose into a saucer of milk to compel it to drink. (288)
This scene presents us with an inverted maternal scene. Dracula is nursing Mina from his breast as a mother to a child (reducing Mina’s sexuality to an infantile status). Stoker further classifies Dracula as other by confusing his gender. Dracula’s protean nature (and sexuality) would indeed be terrifying to Stoker’s audience. In a culture of well defined binary opposites (“brave men and good women”) ambiguity is perhaps the greatest threat.
Works Cited:
Stoker, Bram. Dracula. New York: Signet, 1965.
Stevenson, John Allen. “A Vampire in the Mirror: The Sexuality of Dracula.” PMLA 103.2 (1988) 139-149.
Demetrakopoulos, Stephanie. “Feminism, Sex Role Exchanges, and Other Subliminal Fantasies in Bram Stoker’s ‘Dracula’”. Frontiers: A Journal of Women’s Studies. 2.3 (1977) 104-113.
Craft, Christopher. “’Kiss Me With Those Red Lips’: Gender and Inversion in Bram Stoker’s Dracula”. Representations. 8 (1984) 107-133.
Nick Heling
10/29/2006
Count Dracula’s terrifying identity is constructed, not as a monster, but as an outsider. He is, in every sense, a foreigner to the (heteronormative) Victorian cast of characters that quest to destroy him. Early in the novel Jonathan Harker almost obsessively comments upon the Count’s strange appearance, eating and sleeping habits and even odor. This pervasive xenophobia reflects the historical context of the novel, written for imperialist England.
The Count’s appearance is so profoundly alien that the characters cannot help but comment upon it. Mina Harker’s description of the Count:
I knew him at once from the description of the others. The waxen face; the high aquiline nose, on which the light fell in a thin, white line; the parted red lips, with the sharp white teeth showing between; and the red eyes that I had seemed to see in the sunset on the windows of St. Mary’s Church at Whitby. (292-293)
Although Harker is at times repulsed by the Count’s otherness, and upon allying against Dracula the company certainly demonizes him, the characters cannot help but feel seduced by his features and mystique throughout the novel. In many ways the Count’s otherness, a kind of orientalism per Said, is fetishized by Stoker and for the benefit of his reader. Everything about the Count is established to confirm the Western conception of identity by acting as a foil – a confirmation of binary power structures, of East and West, of good and evil.
The conversion of Lucy is perhaps the most profound example of the Count’s seductive powers. Lucy is posited to be the model of pure, virginal, English femininity; both frivolous and helpless. Lucy finds herself unable to resist the allure of Count Dracula and quickly succumbs to his influence (though Mina, a less traditional example of femininity and a kind of new-heroine introduced by Stoker, resists and eventually overcomes Dracula’s seduction). We find that the only solution to the Count’s seductive grasp upon Lucy is an elaborate and extremely suggestive murder-ritual mirroring phallic intercourse performed with group-sex overtones. The men would rather sacrifice monogamy and the life of one of their women than lose her to a foreign influence.
Throughout the text, though particularly in the early stages of the narrative, there exists an unspoken sexual tension between Harker and the Count. This tension is first made fully apparent when Harker cuts his neck shaving and the Count reacts strongly with desire: “his eyes blazed with a sort of demoniac fury”.
This homosexual desire is manifested as heterosexual displacement when Harker encounters the three female vampires in the Count’s castle:
All three had brilliant white teeth, that shone like pearls against the ruby of their voluptuous lips. There was something about them that made me uneasy, some longing and at the same time some deadly fear. I felt in my heart a wicked, burning desire that they would kiss me with those red lips. (51)
Harker’s passivity, as is demonstrated by his feigned swoon, is a drastic inversion of Victorian gender roles. In every other instance Harker is very much a man-of-action and this instance of passivity, in spite of danger, suggests his (and the Victorian male’s) desire for some kind of passive role in the sexual economy of England. Stoker’s careful description verifies this assertion as is evidenced by the mounting sensuality of the scene:
Lower and lower went her head as the lips went below the range of my mouth and chin and seemed to fasten on my throat… I could feel the soft, shivering touch of the lips on the supersensitive skin of my throat, and the hard dents of the two sharp teeth, just touching and pausing there. I closed my eyes in a langorous ecstasy and waited – waited with a beating heart. (52)
The women-vampires demonstrate an active sexual appetite, subverting the role of the proper Victorian lady, whereas Harker becomes passive and eagerly awaits the moment of penetration. The penetration of the vampire’s teeth on the neck is undoubtedly a phallic image, though Stoker finds it necessary to couch this homoerotic imagery in heterosexual eroticism through the use of the three women.
The unspoken homosexual desire existing between the Count and Harker becomes apparent upon the intercession of Dracula: “How dare you touch him, any of you? How dare you cast eyes on him when I had forbidden it? Back, I tell you all! This man belongs to me” (53; emphasis added). However, Dracula (and perhaps Stoker) is unwilling to permit a homoerotic coupling, vampiric or not. The mere suggestion of such a thing is enough to frighten (and titillate) the Victorian readers.
This unrealized homoeroticism coupled with Dracula’s apparent preference for women throughout the rest of the novel presents a situation equally (if not more) troubling to the Victorian English: bisexuality. The vampire is by nature bisexual and perhaps transgendered. The vampiric act is one of phallic penetration coupled with the reception of vital fluid. (One must note that in many psychoanalytical readings of this text blood and semen are often interchangeable.) Women who have been converted to vampirism become “masculine” through their sexual aggression. Unfortunately, Stoker does not offer us a male vampire apart from the Count so we must rely on his early and unrealized impulses towards Jonathan Harker for evidence of homosexual desire.
The Count’s transgendering is demonstrated during his final seduction of Mina:
His right hand gripped her by the back of the neck, forcing her face down on his bosom. Her white night-dress was smeared with blood, and a thin stream trickled down the man’s bare chest which was shown by his torn-open dress. The attitude of the two had a terrible resemblance to a child force a kitten’s nose into a saucer of milk to compel it to drink. (288)
This scene presents us with an inverted maternal scene. Dracula is nursing Mina from his breast as a mother to a child (reducing Mina’s sexuality to an infantile status). Stoker further classifies Dracula as other by confusing his gender. Dracula’s protean nature (and sexuality) would indeed be terrifying to Stoker’s audience. In a culture of well defined binary opposites (“brave men and good women”) ambiguity is perhaps the greatest threat.
Works Cited:
Stoker, Bram. Dracula. New York: Signet, 1965.
Stevenson, John Allen. “A Vampire in the Mirror: The Sexuality of Dracula.” PMLA 103.2 (1988) 139-149.
Demetrakopoulos, Stephanie. “Feminism, Sex Role Exchanges, and Other Subliminal Fantasies in Bram Stoker’s ‘Dracula’”. Frontiers: A Journal of Women’s Studies. 2.3 (1977) 104-113.
Craft, Christopher. “’Kiss Me With Those Red Lips’: Gender and Inversion in Bram Stoker’s Dracula”. Representations. 8 (1984) 107-133.
Nick Heling
10/29/2006
lost and found: more literary criticism
Recursion in Faulkner’s Absalom, Absalom!
“It seemed to Quentin that he could actually see them: the ragged and starving troops without shoes, the gaunt powder-blackened faces looking backward over tattered shoulders, the glaring defeat watching that dark interdict ocean across which a grim lightless solitary ship fled with in its hold two thousand precious pounds-space containing not bullets, not even something to eat, but that much bombastic and inert carven rock which for the next year was to be a part of the regiment, to follow it into Pennsylvania and be present at Gettysburg, moving behind the regiment in a wagon driven by the demon’s body servant through swamp and plain and mountain pass, the regiment moving no faster than the wagon could, with starved gaunt men and gaunt spent horses knee deep in icy mud or snow, sweating and cursing it through bog and morass like a piece of artillery, speaking of the two stones as ‘Colonel’ and ‘Mrs Colonel’; then through the Cumberland Gap and down through the Tennessee mountains, traveling at night to dodge Yankee patrols, and into Mississippi in the late fall of ’64, where the daughter waited whose marriage he had interdict and who was to be a widow the next summer though apparently not bereaved, where his wife was dead and his son self-excommunicated and –banished, and put one of the stones over his wife’s grave and set the other upright in the hall of the house, where Miss Coldfield possibly (maybe doubtless) looked at it every day as though it were his portrait, possibly (maybe doubtless here too) reading among the lettering more of maiden hope and virgin expectation than she ever told Quentin about, since she never mentioned the stone to him at all, and (the demon) drank the parched corn coffee and at the hoe cake which Judith and Clytie prepared for him and kissed Judith on the forehead and said, ‘Well, Clytie’ and returned to the war, all in twenty-four hours; he could see it; he might even have been there.” (189-190)
Recursion is often used to describe a process of repeating objects (images, words, ideas, etc) in a self-similar manner. Linguist Noam Chomsky posits that the extension of the English language is unlimited because of recursion.
The above sentence demonstrates this property of recursion. Faulkner uses embedded clause after embedded clause after sentential complement (my count comes to twenty-eight distinct clauses) to construct this monstrosity of a sentence, spanning two pages in my edition. The sentence occupies, however, far more than two pages of print. It occupies two distinct periods of time and numerous space locations. We begin with Quentin at Harvard in 1910 but we are immediately tossed back to 1864, location indeterminate, positioned amongst miserable Confederate troops. The sentence carries us on a tour of the war torn South, through hill and bog and over ice and snow. We return with Sutpen (and the two headstones) to Yoknapatawpha County to visit with Judith and Clytie before abruptly returning to Harvard and Quentin’s fantasy.
Labyrinthine sentence structure is not the only example of Faulkner’s use of this linguistic property. Recursion pervades this novel. (Even the title is self-referential!) His intentional repetition, perhaps for emphasis, is to be noted. In the above-quoted section he repeats the parenthetical phrase “(maybe doubtless)” twice, in one form or another. This is a technique that he often repeats. Take for example Henry’s struggle to accept Charles Bon’s morality: “I will believe! I will! I will! Whether it is true or not, I will believe!” (111).
Particularly notable is the final, and uncharacteristically brief, paragraph of the novel. This paragraph is so conventionally structured that, after nearly four-hundred pages of recursive sentences, it seems almost terse: “I don’t hate it,” Quentin said, quickly, at once, immediately; “I don’t hate it,” he said. I don’t hate it he thought, panting in the cold air, the iron New England dark; I don’t. I don’t! I don’t hate it! I don’t hate it!” (378).The repetition of the phrase simultaneously reinforces the sentiment and calls it’s honesty into question. Faulkner impresses upon us that this idea belongs to Quentin by using ‘Quentin said’ and ‘he said’ and finally ‘he thought’.
The plot of the novel is likewise recursive. Sutpen's appearance in Jefferson as a dark, mysterious man is self-referenced later by the introduction of Charles Bon (likewise, a swarthy man lacking history). As the plot develops we discover that Charles Bon is more than simply a mirror of Thomas Sutpen, he is actually his progeny. The intended marriage of Charles Bon and Sutpen's daughter Judith would result in a perverse ouroboros, a recursion of the Sutpen gene. The incestuous program is terminated, however, when Sutpen's son Henry intervenes and murders Charles Bon.
The novel is presented through the voice of five narrators: Rosa (pages 7-30; 134-173), Mr. Compson (43-134), Quentin (174-292; 358-378), Shreve (293-345) and an omniscient author (31-43; 346-358). These narrators continually rehash the narrative, adding details or contradicting prior notions. Though no single narrator is particularly reliable their combined narratives present a cohesive story.
The details of Sutpen's history are presented by Faulkner (and his narrators) without regard for chronology in a dramatically non-linear manner. Viewpoints may shift drastically and with little warning. The only clue Faulkner provides for this shift may be italics, a parenthesis, quotation marks (double or single), a dash or some combination of these things. These indicators often have a tendency to spiral inward. One finds quotes within quotes and parentheses within parentheses and is left to guess what effect these signals may have on narrative voice, time and space. Largely, we find that these marks are faithful indicators of the narrative shift. Interior monologues situated in the present are italicized whereas thoughts from the past are set in single quotation marks. Directly quoted speech is presented traditionally within double quotation marks.
I believe that Faulkner's presentation of the narrative in a circular manner, without regard for chronology and without structuring it as integrated units, establishes Absalom, Absalom! as an experiment in time and space. There is not a distinct beginning or end to this novel, we must simply submit to the endless circling inward of the author.
Nick Heling
11/08/2006
“It seemed to Quentin that he could actually see them: the ragged and starving troops without shoes, the gaunt powder-blackened faces looking backward over tattered shoulders, the glaring defeat watching that dark interdict ocean across which a grim lightless solitary ship fled with in its hold two thousand precious pounds-space containing not bullets, not even something to eat, but that much bombastic and inert carven rock which for the next year was to be a part of the regiment, to follow it into Pennsylvania and be present at Gettysburg, moving behind the regiment in a wagon driven by the demon’s body servant through swamp and plain and mountain pass, the regiment moving no faster than the wagon could, with starved gaunt men and gaunt spent horses knee deep in icy mud or snow, sweating and cursing it through bog and morass like a piece of artillery, speaking of the two stones as ‘Colonel’ and ‘Mrs Colonel’; then through the Cumberland Gap and down through the Tennessee mountains, traveling at night to dodge Yankee patrols, and into Mississippi in the late fall of ’64, where the daughter waited whose marriage he had interdict and who was to be a widow the next summer though apparently not bereaved, where his wife was dead and his son self-excommunicated and –banished, and put one of the stones over his wife’s grave and set the other upright in the hall of the house, where Miss Coldfield possibly (maybe doubtless) looked at it every day as though it were his portrait, possibly (maybe doubtless here too) reading among the lettering more of maiden hope and virgin expectation than she ever told Quentin about, since she never mentioned the stone to him at all, and (the demon) drank the parched corn coffee and at the hoe cake which Judith and Clytie prepared for him and kissed Judith on the forehead and said, ‘Well, Clytie’ and returned to the war, all in twenty-four hours; he could see it; he might even have been there.” (189-190)
Recursion is often used to describe a process of repeating objects (images, words, ideas, etc) in a self-similar manner. Linguist Noam Chomsky posits that the extension of the English language is unlimited because of recursion.
The above sentence demonstrates this property of recursion. Faulkner uses embedded clause after embedded clause after sentential complement (my count comes to twenty-eight distinct clauses) to construct this monstrosity of a sentence, spanning two pages in my edition. The sentence occupies, however, far more than two pages of print. It occupies two distinct periods of time and numerous space locations. We begin with Quentin at Harvard in 1910 but we are immediately tossed back to 1864, location indeterminate, positioned amongst miserable Confederate troops. The sentence carries us on a tour of the war torn South, through hill and bog and over ice and snow. We return with Sutpen (and the two headstones) to Yoknapatawpha County to visit with Judith and Clytie before abruptly returning to Harvard and Quentin’s fantasy.
Labyrinthine sentence structure is not the only example of Faulkner’s use of this linguistic property. Recursion pervades this novel. (Even the title is self-referential!) His intentional repetition, perhaps for emphasis, is to be noted. In the above-quoted section he repeats the parenthetical phrase “(maybe doubtless)” twice, in one form or another. This is a technique that he often repeats. Take for example Henry’s struggle to accept Charles Bon’s morality: “I will believe! I will! I will! Whether it is true or not, I will believe!” (111).
Particularly notable is the final, and uncharacteristically brief, paragraph of the novel. This paragraph is so conventionally structured that, after nearly four-hundred pages of recursive sentences, it seems almost terse: “I don’t hate it,” Quentin said, quickly, at once, immediately; “I don’t hate it,” he said. I don’t hate it he thought, panting in the cold air, the iron New England dark; I don’t. I don’t! I don’t hate it! I don’t hate it!” (378).The repetition of the phrase simultaneously reinforces the sentiment and calls it’s honesty into question. Faulkner impresses upon us that this idea belongs to Quentin by using ‘Quentin said’ and ‘he said’ and finally ‘he thought’.
The plot of the novel is likewise recursive. Sutpen's appearance in Jefferson as a dark, mysterious man is self-referenced later by the introduction of Charles Bon (likewise, a swarthy man lacking history). As the plot develops we discover that Charles Bon is more than simply a mirror of Thomas Sutpen, he is actually his progeny. The intended marriage of Charles Bon and Sutpen's daughter Judith would result in a perverse ouroboros, a recursion of the Sutpen gene. The incestuous program is terminated, however, when Sutpen's son Henry intervenes and murders Charles Bon.
The novel is presented through the voice of five narrators: Rosa (pages 7-30; 134-173), Mr. Compson (43-134), Quentin (174-292; 358-378), Shreve (293-345) and an omniscient author (31-43; 346-358). These narrators continually rehash the narrative, adding details or contradicting prior notions. Though no single narrator is particularly reliable their combined narratives present a cohesive story.
The details of Sutpen's history are presented by Faulkner (and his narrators) without regard for chronology in a dramatically non-linear manner. Viewpoints may shift drastically and with little warning. The only clue Faulkner provides for this shift may be italics, a parenthesis, quotation marks (double or single), a dash or some combination of these things. These indicators often have a tendency to spiral inward. One finds quotes within quotes and parentheses within parentheses and is left to guess what effect these signals may have on narrative voice, time and space. Largely, we find that these marks are faithful indicators of the narrative shift. Interior monologues situated in the present are italicized whereas thoughts from the past are set in single quotation marks. Directly quoted speech is presented traditionally within double quotation marks.
I believe that Faulkner's presentation of the narrative in a circular manner, without regard for chronology and without structuring it as integrated units, establishes Absalom, Absalom! as an experiment in time and space. There is not a distinct beginning or end to this novel, we must simply submit to the endless circling inward of the author.
Nick Heling
11/08/2006
lost and found: literary criticism
Existential Time and the Faulknerian Novel
The American novel is largely concerned with actions, unlikely to provide an analysis of itself within the text (as was the mode with the British novels preceding the American novel as a form). Many of the French existentialist writers were fascinated by the American novel, notably Sartre. The existentialists were drawn to the dynamism of writers like Hemingway or Faulkner.
American literature was widely read and critiqued by the French existentialists. Writing on Faulkner's 1929 novel The Sound and the Fury, Sartre comments: “the novelist's technique is always a reference to his metaphysics.” (Bruneau 66). The technique that Sartre is referencing is Faulkner's approach to time within the narrative of The Sound and the Fury. Faulkner subverts and distorts clock time, structuring the first two sections of the novel around a time beyond the naturalistic. Juxtaposing past and present through varying forms of “stream of consciousness” narrative he presents time as a pooling of experience – a blur. Faulkner's technique presents life in terms of a unique, subjective experience.
Faulkner’s use of time has been considered revolutionary by many critics and theorists. I believe it is representative of the modernist desire to engage the reader in ways that are relevant to the modern experience. Faulkner recognized that this experience is rooted so deeply in historicity that a clear view of the present as it actually exists can be difficult. With this in mind, he presents us with time all-at-once – as it is experienced by the individual and as his characters experience it. Through these means he attempts to bring the total experience to life for the reader.
Absalom, Absalom!, like many of Faulkner's novels, can be read as an experiment in existential time. Faulkner abandons the traditional mode of narrative chronological progression in favor of a personal time (Heidegger's my time). “The ordinary view of time emphasizes an abstract movement from past through present to future. My time moves from the future to the past in order to assimilate what has made the present”.
However, Absalom, Absalom! is not the only instance of existential time. Anywhere in Faulkner's works where chronological narratives are abandoned or where no regard is shown for the distinctions between past, present and future demonstrate this existential time.
The character Quentin, in his section of The Sound and the Fury, expresses Faulkner’s desire to subvert chronological time: “[T]ime is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life” (The Sound the Fury 85). This subversion, or desire to subvert, suggests an existential project. Sartre demands that we abandon the “retrospective novel” wherein the events take place in the past as if they had already happened and were simply being recalled by the writer. This is precisely the project that Faulkner engages himself with. The traditional, chronological form of narrative provides the reader with a view of the lived life, not the living.
In many of Faulkner's novels, the reader's experience of time is not naturalistic but the time of the character's experience. This can be difficult to convey, but is accomplished through the use of a few literary techniques. Faulkner uses the interior monologue to communicate his character's temporality. These interior monologues are conveyed by Faulkner through free indirect discourse. Faulkner implements textual indicators (such as the use of italics) to mark interior monologues. Techniques such as this become a necessity when, as Faulkner frequently does, time is presented as an endlessly spiraling, omnipresent force.
Faulkner's novels have been criticisized by the existentialists as overly fatalist. Some of Faulkner's characters are paralyzed by concepts of fate, unable to deviate from a course that ensures their destruction. His characters toy with freedom but often reject it. Again, Quentin from The Sound and the Fury: “It's not when you realise that nothing can help you – religion, pride, anything- it's when you realise that you don't need any aid” (80). This realization perhaps led Quentin to suicide but it also led him to freedom. Freedom was possible, however, Quentin simply could not conceive of any other option but suicide. Sartre comments: “[N]ot for a second does Quentin envisage the possibility of not killing himself. This suicide is an immobile wall, a thing which he approaches backwards, and which he neither wants nor can conceive” (90).
The Sound and the Fury is not the sole example of fatalism in Faulkner. The 1932 novel Light in August presents the reader with the story of Joe Christmas, a man unable to come to terms with a lack of stable identity. Joe Christmas is also immobilized by ideas of fate: “he believed with calm paradox that he was the volitionless servant of the fatality in which he believed that he did not believe. He was saying to himself I had to do it already in the past tense; I had to do it.” (Light in August 280). This apparent fate led Christmas to commit murder and culminated in his eventual death at the hands of a mob.
Despite their apparent impotence to act, Faulkner's characters frequently reflect on time. As reflectively as Quentin, Joe Christmas contemplates the nature of time prior to his murderous act. He considers the future: “tomorrow night, all the tomorrows, to be a part of the flat pattern, going on. He thought of that with quiet astonishment: going on, myriad, familiar, since all that had ever been was the same as all that was to be, since tomorrow to-be and had-been would be the same” (Light in August 281).
This reflection on the part of numerous doomed characters suggests an engagement with the present not possible if the character's fates were, in fact, already determined. The events of the present, future (and past) should be of less relevance to a character that has resigned himself to his fate. The tragedy of Faulkner's characters is that they are capable of acting but often do not. As such, their myth of fate does not relieve them of culpability for their actions. Their decision not to act is a choice as dynamic as action, often with extremely negative results.
Through all of these trials the individual approaches the realization of existential freedom. However, few of Faulkner’s characters actually achieve it. They are, more often, consumed by the past; “they never look ahead. They face backwards as the car carries them along” (Sartre 90). This becomes Sartre's greatest criticism of the works of Faulkner. So few of his character's realize their freedom and so many fall to tragedy. They walk through life like ghosts, mourning the past by murdering their future.
Sartre, Jean Paul. “On The Sound and the Fury: Time in the Work of Faulkner.” Literary and Philosophical Essays. New York: Criterion, 1955.
Faulkner, William. Absalom, Absalom!. New York: Random House, 1964.
Faulkner, William. The Sound and the Fury. New York: Random House, 1990.
Existentialism and the American Novel
Jean Bruneau
Yale French Studies, No. 1, Existentialism (1948), pp. 66-72
Bruneau, Jean. “Existentialism and the American Novel.” Yale French Studies.
Experiential and Existential Time
Gustav E. Mueller
Philosophy and Phenomenological Research, Vol. 6, No. 3 (Mar., 1946), pp. 424-435
The American novel is largely concerned with actions, unlikely to provide an analysis of itself within the text (as was the mode with the British novels preceding the American novel as a form). Many of the French existentialist writers were fascinated by the American novel, notably Sartre. The existentialists were drawn to the dynamism of writers like Hemingway or Faulkner.
American literature was widely read and critiqued by the French existentialists. Writing on Faulkner's 1929 novel The Sound and the Fury, Sartre comments: “the novelist's technique is always a reference to his metaphysics.” (Bruneau 66). The technique that Sartre is referencing is Faulkner's approach to time within the narrative of The Sound and the Fury. Faulkner subverts and distorts clock time, structuring the first two sections of the novel around a time beyond the naturalistic. Juxtaposing past and present through varying forms of “stream of consciousness” narrative he presents time as a pooling of experience – a blur. Faulkner's technique presents life in terms of a unique, subjective experience.
Faulkner’s use of time has been considered revolutionary by many critics and theorists. I believe it is representative of the modernist desire to engage the reader in ways that are relevant to the modern experience. Faulkner recognized that this experience is rooted so deeply in historicity that a clear view of the present as it actually exists can be difficult. With this in mind, he presents us with time all-at-once – as it is experienced by the individual and as his characters experience it. Through these means he attempts to bring the total experience to life for the reader.
Absalom, Absalom!, like many of Faulkner's novels, can be read as an experiment in existential time. Faulkner abandons the traditional mode of narrative chronological progression in favor of a personal time (Heidegger's my time). “The ordinary view of time emphasizes an abstract movement from past through present to future. My time moves from the future to the past in order to assimilate what has made the present”.
However, Absalom, Absalom! is not the only instance of existential time. Anywhere in Faulkner's works where chronological narratives are abandoned or where no regard is shown for the distinctions between past, present and future demonstrate this existential time.
The character Quentin, in his section of The Sound and the Fury, expresses Faulkner’s desire to subvert chronological time: “[T]ime is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life” (The Sound the Fury 85). This subversion, or desire to subvert, suggests an existential project. Sartre demands that we abandon the “retrospective novel” wherein the events take place in the past as if they had already happened and were simply being recalled by the writer. This is precisely the project that Faulkner engages himself with. The traditional, chronological form of narrative provides the reader with a view of the lived life, not the living.
In many of Faulkner's novels, the reader's experience of time is not naturalistic but the time of the character's experience. This can be difficult to convey, but is accomplished through the use of a few literary techniques. Faulkner uses the interior monologue to communicate his character's temporality. These interior monologues are conveyed by Faulkner through free indirect discourse. Faulkner implements textual indicators (such as the use of italics) to mark interior monologues. Techniques such as this become a necessity when, as Faulkner frequently does, time is presented as an endlessly spiraling, omnipresent force.
Faulkner's novels have been criticisized by the existentialists as overly fatalist. Some of Faulkner's characters are paralyzed by concepts of fate, unable to deviate from a course that ensures their destruction. His characters toy with freedom but often reject it. Again, Quentin from The Sound and the Fury: “It's not when you realise that nothing can help you – religion, pride, anything- it's when you realise that you don't need any aid” (80). This realization perhaps led Quentin to suicide but it also led him to freedom. Freedom was possible, however, Quentin simply could not conceive of any other option but suicide. Sartre comments: “[N]ot for a second does Quentin envisage the possibility of not killing himself. This suicide is an immobile wall, a thing which he approaches backwards, and which he neither wants nor can conceive” (90).
The Sound and the Fury is not the sole example of fatalism in Faulkner. The 1932 novel Light in August presents the reader with the story of Joe Christmas, a man unable to come to terms with a lack of stable identity. Joe Christmas is also immobilized by ideas of fate: “he believed with calm paradox that he was the volitionless servant of the fatality in which he believed that he did not believe. He was saying to himself I had to do it already in the past tense; I had to do it.” (Light in August 280). This apparent fate led Christmas to commit murder and culminated in his eventual death at the hands of a mob.
Despite their apparent impotence to act, Faulkner's characters frequently reflect on time. As reflectively as Quentin, Joe Christmas contemplates the nature of time prior to his murderous act. He considers the future: “tomorrow night, all the tomorrows, to be a part of the flat pattern, going on. He thought of that with quiet astonishment: going on, myriad, familiar, since all that had ever been was the same as all that was to be, since tomorrow to-be and had-been would be the same” (Light in August 281).
This reflection on the part of numerous doomed characters suggests an engagement with the present not possible if the character's fates were, in fact, already determined. The events of the present, future (and past) should be of less relevance to a character that has resigned himself to his fate. The tragedy of Faulkner's characters is that they are capable of acting but often do not. As such, their myth of fate does not relieve them of culpability for their actions. Their decision not to act is a choice as dynamic as action, often with extremely negative results.
Through all of these trials the individual approaches the realization of existential freedom. However, few of Faulkner’s characters actually achieve it. They are, more often, consumed by the past; “they never look ahead. They face backwards as the car carries them along” (Sartre 90). This becomes Sartre's greatest criticism of the works of Faulkner. So few of his character's realize their freedom and so many fall to tragedy. They walk through life like ghosts, mourning the past by murdering their future.
Sartre, Jean Paul. “On The Sound and the Fury: Time in the Work of Faulkner.” Literary and Philosophical Essays. New York: Criterion, 1955.
Faulkner, William. Absalom, Absalom!. New York: Random House, 1964.
Faulkner, William. The Sound and the Fury. New York: Random House, 1990.
Existentialism and the American Novel
Jean Bruneau
Yale French Studies, No. 1, Existentialism (1948), pp. 66-72
Bruneau, Jean. “Existentialism and the American Novel.” Yale French Studies.
Experiential and Existential Time
Gustav E. Mueller
Philosophy and Phenomenological Research, Vol. 6, No. 3 (Mar., 1946), pp. 424-435
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Intellectual Autobiography
I was raised by Mid-Western liberals in Nashville, a small town in eastern North Carolina. My mother was a teacher until she moved to the south and always stressed the importance of reading and writing in the home. For his work my father traveled the world and brought home items and stories from all over Europe and Asia. This early exposure to cultures beyond my own in eastern North Carolina made the world seem both large and small: enormous yet accessible. My family vacationed, at various times, in the West Indies, Italy and Switzerland. I was often happy in my hometown but I always had a desire to experience more. The conservative leanings of my home town's society fostered in me an adversarial intellect. I was often skeptical and contrary almost to the point of absurdity.
My education in the public schools of Rocky Mount, North Carolina both enabled and inhibited my development. My school district was the richest of the poor school systems of my region and thus received no Federal funding. I experienced firsthand the realities of poverty in the school system and began to understand that I was responsible for my own development. During my elementary school years I was forced into the End of Grade testing era which marked the end of arts and cultural development as a goal in public schools. North Carolina implemented End of Grade tests before it became the national standard and the demands of this form of “accountability” choked out the possibility of learning beyond the state-mandated curriculum. I had always been a curious child but this stifling new model forced me to become an autodidact – though I still learned things in school it was up to me to pursue my interests beyond the school yard.
When I was perhaps 14 or 15 years old I started digging through my father's old college books in the attic. I read essays by Thomas Jefferson and Mao Zedong, among others. I read Working by Studs Terkel. Most importantly, for me, I read The Sirens of Titan by Kurt Vonnegut Jr. After this novel I knew that I wanted to study literature. I was astonished that someone could do so much with a silly science fiction story and I wanted to learn how this was possible.
A teacher in my high school English class exposed me to existentialism by recommending that I read some of the works of Soren Kierkegaard. Although Kierkegaard's work was a bit much for me at the time it became clear that I was struggling with some of the same loneliness and doubt that he was expressing in his work. My readings resonated with me as I was becoming increasingly skeptical of the religion I was being taught in the Catholic church. When my instructors in the church proved themselves either unable or unwilling to engage me in discussions regarding the usefulness of faith and the role of social justice in religion (I remember specifically being ignored when I sought to discuss the works of John Locke in regards to the dogma of the Church) I felt increasingly guilty for feeling doubt. I expressed these concerns in confession, the gravity of this ritual demonstrates how seriously I took the issue, and was again dismissed by an older priest. It was at this moment that I knew that religious faith no longer held any intellectual value for me and that, like my experiences in public school, I was largely on my own if I wished to develop my inner life.
As a freshman at North Carolina State University, a large state school not far from home, I soon became dissatisfied with what I felt to be a constricting educational environment. I did not feel that my peers valued my field of study (literature) or that the university particularly cared about the arts, at least not as much as they cared about football or corporate partnerships. During this time I took several classes with Dr. Nick Halpern on the topic of postmodernism and the works and practices that orbit the concept. Eventually Halpern told me to leave North Carolina State. I remember his words vividly: he said that staying would be “intellectual suicide”. Following his advice and with my parents encouragement I returned home and attended Nash Community College for one year. I explored new fields ranging from anatomy (which I failed) to French (which I passed but did not retain) and law enforcement (which I found to be easy for me but exceptionally distasteful).
My next stop in my micro-tour of North Carolina's public education institutions was the University of North Carolina at Asheville. This school, I understood, had a reputation for attracting creative weirdos of all kinds. A different kind of university appealed greatly to me. At a tenth the size of NC State, UNC-Asheville provided a seminar based education that had been crafted to foster understanding of a topic rather than the ability to regurgitate rote knowledge as had been the mode of much of my previous formal education. In this environment I thrived. Practical uses for my learning became more and more apparent. My studies were now no longer a practice within the classroom but had become a means of living my life. My passion for education grew and upon graduation I began to despair that I would no longer be able to continue my studies. I worried that the working world would crush my newly inflamed passions. Graduate school, then, seemed a logical choice. However, I was uncertain that I would be lucky enough to find a school whose principles and methodology would fit with my personal principles and goals. The New School seemed like a possible fit and thus far it has proved to be so; although I do not particularly love New York City's rampant materialism and consumer culture.
After some reflection I have realized that I tend to live my life as a sequence of projects. I have always developed school projects beyond their intended scope because I felt that such assignments were my opportunity to work for my own satisfaction. As a child I would make movies at home on my parent's camcorder. I was particularly interested in creating special effects for my films which often involved a fair amount of pyrotechnics. It was not uncommon for me to build models only to blow them up. During my time at the community college I founded a record label in order to keep myself busy and prove to myself that I was capable of accomplishing my goals. For more than a year I worked tirelessly promoting local music and organizing shows in what was otherwise a stagnating music community. Although I am not a musician, nor am I particularly interested in a future career as a music promoter or producer, I saw the opportunity and I seized it. I think my greatest skills are not knowing the limits of my own abilities and being able to convince others that, if we simply work together, we can conquer any project. Not long ago I took a project for an undergraduate literature course, collaborated with two friends and turned it into an elaborate puppet production of Christopher Marlowe's The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus. We worked for well over 100 hours each on this project and it was very apparent, especially when compared to most of our classmate's Powerpoint presentations.
At this point in my life I find myself very interested in audio documentary as I have always been a listener of NPR and very few other mediums have captivated me in the ways that radio has. I find corporate radio to be beyond revolting and I want to position myself as resistance to the homogenizing force of the consolidation of global media markets. At present the project that most interests me builds upon my life experience up to this point. I am formulating an audio documentary on the North Carolina roots of jazz greats Thelonious Monk (from my hometown), John Coltrane and Max Roach. I have the resources in North Carolina and in New York to do this. I believe that my literature review will focus, at least, on Monk and the New York / North Carolina exchange. I am in a position to tell this story and I am now eager to do it.
It is in my nature to meticulously plan my projects. I am a risk taker but I'm also a reasonable person. More clearly, I don't often consider my decisions before making them but I do careful consider their execution. Perhaps another project will interest me more in the future but I won't be comfortable with myself until I am working towards a goal and I've gone too long without a project already. Like a shark, I fear that if I don't keep moving I may drown.
My education in the public schools of Rocky Mount, North Carolina both enabled and inhibited my development. My school district was the richest of the poor school systems of my region and thus received no Federal funding. I experienced firsthand the realities of poverty in the school system and began to understand that I was responsible for my own development. During my elementary school years I was forced into the End of Grade testing era which marked the end of arts and cultural development as a goal in public schools. North Carolina implemented End of Grade tests before it became the national standard and the demands of this form of “accountability” choked out the possibility of learning beyond the state-mandated curriculum. I had always been a curious child but this stifling new model forced me to become an autodidact – though I still learned things in school it was up to me to pursue my interests beyond the school yard.
When I was perhaps 14 or 15 years old I started digging through my father's old college books in the attic. I read essays by Thomas Jefferson and Mao Zedong, among others. I read Working by Studs Terkel. Most importantly, for me, I read The Sirens of Titan by Kurt Vonnegut Jr. After this novel I knew that I wanted to study literature. I was astonished that someone could do so much with a silly science fiction story and I wanted to learn how this was possible.
A teacher in my high school English class exposed me to existentialism by recommending that I read some of the works of Soren Kierkegaard. Although Kierkegaard's work was a bit much for me at the time it became clear that I was struggling with some of the same loneliness and doubt that he was expressing in his work. My readings resonated with me as I was becoming increasingly skeptical of the religion I was being taught in the Catholic church. When my instructors in the church proved themselves either unable or unwilling to engage me in discussions regarding the usefulness of faith and the role of social justice in religion (I remember specifically being ignored when I sought to discuss the works of John Locke in regards to the dogma of the Church) I felt increasingly guilty for feeling doubt. I expressed these concerns in confession, the gravity of this ritual demonstrates how seriously I took the issue, and was again dismissed by an older priest. It was at this moment that I knew that religious faith no longer held any intellectual value for me and that, like my experiences in public school, I was largely on my own if I wished to develop my inner life.
As a freshman at North Carolina State University, a large state school not far from home, I soon became dissatisfied with what I felt to be a constricting educational environment. I did not feel that my peers valued my field of study (literature) or that the university particularly cared about the arts, at least not as much as they cared about football or corporate partnerships. During this time I took several classes with Dr. Nick Halpern on the topic of postmodernism and the works and practices that orbit the concept. Eventually Halpern told me to leave North Carolina State. I remember his words vividly: he said that staying would be “intellectual suicide”. Following his advice and with my parents encouragement I returned home and attended Nash Community College for one year. I explored new fields ranging from anatomy (which I failed) to French (which I passed but did not retain) and law enforcement (which I found to be easy for me but exceptionally distasteful).
My next stop in my micro-tour of North Carolina's public education institutions was the University of North Carolina at Asheville. This school, I understood, had a reputation for attracting creative weirdos of all kinds. A different kind of university appealed greatly to me. At a tenth the size of NC State, UNC-Asheville provided a seminar based education that had been crafted to foster understanding of a topic rather than the ability to regurgitate rote knowledge as had been the mode of much of my previous formal education. In this environment I thrived. Practical uses for my learning became more and more apparent. My studies were now no longer a practice within the classroom but had become a means of living my life. My passion for education grew and upon graduation I began to despair that I would no longer be able to continue my studies. I worried that the working world would crush my newly inflamed passions. Graduate school, then, seemed a logical choice. However, I was uncertain that I would be lucky enough to find a school whose principles and methodology would fit with my personal principles and goals. The New School seemed like a possible fit and thus far it has proved to be so; although I do not particularly love New York City's rampant materialism and consumer culture.
After some reflection I have realized that I tend to live my life as a sequence of projects. I have always developed school projects beyond their intended scope because I felt that such assignments were my opportunity to work for my own satisfaction. As a child I would make movies at home on my parent's camcorder. I was particularly interested in creating special effects for my films which often involved a fair amount of pyrotechnics. It was not uncommon for me to build models only to blow them up. During my time at the community college I founded a record label in order to keep myself busy and prove to myself that I was capable of accomplishing my goals. For more than a year I worked tirelessly promoting local music and organizing shows in what was otherwise a stagnating music community. Although I am not a musician, nor am I particularly interested in a future career as a music promoter or producer, I saw the opportunity and I seized it. I think my greatest skills are not knowing the limits of my own abilities and being able to convince others that, if we simply work together, we can conquer any project. Not long ago I took a project for an undergraduate literature course, collaborated with two friends and turned it into an elaborate puppet production of Christopher Marlowe's The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus. We worked for well over 100 hours each on this project and it was very apparent, especially when compared to most of our classmate's Powerpoint presentations.
At this point in my life I find myself very interested in audio documentary as I have always been a listener of NPR and very few other mediums have captivated me in the ways that radio has. I find corporate radio to be beyond revolting and I want to position myself as resistance to the homogenizing force of the consolidation of global media markets. At present the project that most interests me builds upon my life experience up to this point. I am formulating an audio documentary on the North Carolina roots of jazz greats Thelonious Monk (from my hometown), John Coltrane and Max Roach. I have the resources in North Carolina and in New York to do this. I believe that my literature review will focus, at least, on Monk and the New York / North Carolina exchange. I am in a position to tell this story and I am now eager to do it.
It is in my nature to meticulously plan my projects. I am a risk taker but I'm also a reasonable person. More clearly, I don't often consider my decisions before making them but I do careful consider their execution. Perhaps another project will interest me more in the future but I won't be comfortable with myself until I am working towards a goal and I've gone too long without a project already. Like a shark, I fear that if I don't keep moving I may drown.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
A Brief History of (my) Time (at The New School)
The objective of this blog is to serve as a record of my work during the course of my graduate studies at The New School. It will also serve as a hub to other aspects of my web presence (especially the blogs that I keep for other classes). I will develop this blog into a dynamic portfolio of my work which, hopefully, will provide a snapshot of my academic and professional life.
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