The Pathic Receptacles of Modernism
“Modernism”
is a term that appears foreclosed by prior associations; an official category
for 20th-century artistic excess or extremity. Modernity is accepted as an
historical condition, but “modernism” adds to this condition an unwarranted
enthusiasm, a hyperbolic assertion of first principles, a distressing mutation
of the everyday, an “emancipation of dissonance” and more—its claims, in short,
are themselves excessive.[1] The aura of rupture courted in
The Waste Land, the overloaded narrative aspirations of Proust and Musil
and Joyce, the assiduous discontinuities rising to paroxysm in “The Rite of
Spring,” “Potemkin,” and “Guernica”—these generic signifiers of “Modernism” now
seem paradoxically comfortable with the agonies they signify, at repose in
their distress. The familiarity of modernism as a periodizing term made it
available as the cornerstone on which a chorus of huckster blandishments about
the “postmodern” was erected in the 1980s. The probity and persuasiveness of
some of the theorists of postmodernism notwithstanding, the most fruitful
consequence of the debate has been a long overdue defamiliarization of
“Modernism.” Modernism now reappears, in other words, as discursive surplus,
bringing with it what it always did: the power of the gratuitous, the claim of
excess.
If
we think of excessive plenitude, it is likely that Bataille will come to
mind—the Bataille of La Part maudite:
“On the surface of the globe, for living matter in general,
energy is always in excess; the question is always posed in terms of
extravagance. The choice is limited to how the wealth is to be squandered.”[2] Bataille elaborates the
implications of “extravagance” for the arts in his “Lettre à René Char sur les
incompatibilités de l’écrivain”: “Today it is art alone which inherits, before
our very eyes, the delirious role and character of religions. Today it
is art which gnaws at and transfigures us, which expresses with its so-called
falsehoods a truth that is empty at last of precise meaning.”[3] The key word, italicized by
Bataille, is “delirious.” Bataille is by no means a zealot of the bacchannalia;
he is as much a moralist as Mathew Arnold. But his is not the executive
moralism of the ten commandments; it resembles, instead, a finger raised in
silent summons, the cautionary reminder of another perspective on events and
actions which is not to be legislated in advance of the specific occasion—which
is, indeed, “a truth that is empty at last of precise meaning”; a power of
withdrawal, a dissent that is not protest or (re)active opposition. Bataille
may be said to be of the devil’s party, in Blake’s special sense. “NON
SERVIAM is said to
be the devil’s motto,” Bataille indicates. “If this is so, then literature is
diabolical.”[4]
A
curious structure emerges. The work of art is the remainder, the unassimilable
excess, the unserviceable excrescence. The important thing is that it is
implacably there: a materially insistent non-contribution to the
existing state of affairs. Its value for Bataille is this excess: it is a value
that does not contribute to the wholesome vitality of the given, but animates a
counterinsurgent double, a “nothing” which is of a certain moral use only to
the degree to which one can remind the living that they too will one day be
dead. Such a reminder has no unilateral application. For Bataille, the
exemplary imposition of the memento mori is that its example cannot be
followed and yet, through mere passage of time, it will be followed. In
occupying an analogous position, modern literature is then the advocate of
non-advocacy, exemplum of the unexemplary, and in extremis is a
withdrawal of signification from the signifying gesture.
In
the North American imagination such unthinkable thoughts are polemically made
out to be the special province of the French (or, in more sullenly generalized
terms, typical of “continental” philosophy). But this is ludicrous: nothing is
more extravagant than a literature that pitches vertiginously (to cite only one
literary moment) from Hawthorne’s “Wakefield” to Melville’s “Bartleby” and Moby-Dick,
Poe’s gothic miniatures, and Dickinson’s pornographically metaphysical versions
of the Christian Hymnbook—not to mention the discerning aggravations of Walden
and Leaves of Grass. Consider this, from Robert Frost (the
representative poet selected for Kennedy’s presidential inauguration):
“politics is an extravagance…an extravagance about grievances. And
poetry is an extravagance about grief. And grievances are something that
can be remedied, and griefs are irremediable.”[5] Frost’s sense of extravagance
is simply going to the limit: “There’s always this element of extravagance.
It’s like snapping the whip: Are you there? Are you still on?”[6] And again—in a beautiful
vernacular: “That’s the height of it all, in whatever you do: ‘bet your sweet
life,’ you know”[7] This bet is not that far
removed from Mallarmé’s “hasard”: for Frost, as for the Frenchman with whom he
is never associated, “The [poet’s] style is out of his superfluity. It is the
mind skating circles round itself as it moves forward.”[8] That other crusty Yankee Henry
Thoreau quoted with relish the English poet Carew: “we advance / Such virtues
only as admit excess”[9]; at the end of Walden
he laments, “I fear chiefly lest my expression may not be extra- vagant
enough, may not wander far enough beyond the narrow limits of my daily
experience.…for I am convinced that I cannot exaggerate enough even to lay the
foundation of a true expression.”[10] And—to conclude this extravagent
aside—William James remarked that “Had [man’s] whole life not been a quest for
the superfluous, he never would have established himself as inexpugnably as he
has done in the necessary.… Prune down his extravagance, and you undo him.”[11]
As
these extracts suggest, superfluity and extravagance are principles of
creation. This is not particularly modern, and can be traced back at least as
far as Plotinus, for whom the necessarily inexhaustible creative power of the
primal One presses relentlessly on to the productive realization of every
potential. “It is of the very nature of the One in its perfection to
‘overflow,’ producing in its exuberance the ‘other’.”[12] But the happy prospect of
infinite superabundance becomes a vexing problem for finite beings like us:
what do we do with the surplus? Taken as a question about temporality, this
occasions an historical consideration: how does the past contribute to the
totality of the present?—and is it a malignant part of the present whole? As
artist and Blaue Reiter editor Franz Marc posed the problem in 1914:
“The world is giving birth to a new time; there is only one question: has the
time now come to separate ourselves from the old world? Are we ready for the vita
nuova? This is the terrifying question of our age.”[13] The new world: a structure of
antiphonal hopes, dreams, disturbances and ruptures for five hundred years; but
only in this century did it become evident that the new world was everywhere,
and could no longer be conveniently consigned to America. The “American
century” was becoming a global destiny.[14]
The
nineteenth century had its own inklings about excess, played out in esoteric
celebrations and moralistic denunciations across that terrain called
“decadence.”[15] Symptomatically, decadence
arrives in Europe in the form of an American, Edgar Allan Poe. Baudelaire, an
immediate enthusiast, repudiates the charge of decadence. “The phrase ‘a
literature of decadence’,” he writes in 1853, “presupposes an inevitable and
providential process, like some inescapable decree; and what then could be more
unjust than to reproach us for accomplishing the mysterious law?”[16] If decadence is the inevitable
culmination of a process of development, can the norm then be defined as a case
of arrested development? This is a suggestion, and at times an accusation, by
modernist writers following the path of Baudelaire, for whom everyday life was
decadent, its resplendant Victorian and Biedermeier excesses made transparent
by their pervasiveness. “This is the true decadence,” Oscar Wilde declared in
“The Decay of Lying”: “when Life gets the upper hand, and drives Art out into
the wilderness.”[17]
Wilde’s
rhetorical fertility is itself a symptom of decadence, albeit decadence in the
somewhat unfamiliar light of a bounty, but a bounty excessive with
plenitude—extravagance as the favored measure. In 1914 Holbrook Jackson had the
good sense to observe that “the effort demanded by even the most ill-directed
phases of decadent action suggests a liveliness of energy which is quite
contrary to the traditions of senile decay.”[18] “True decadence,” Jackson goes
on to affirm, arises not out of senility “but out of surfeit.”[19] The stereotyped view of
dissipated indolence, then, misrepresents the truth of decadence, which is the
elaboration of complexity as intensity, and intensity as the measure of a body
fortified with the exercise of its newly endowed faculties—a vision shared by
those decidedly undecadent Americans, Thoreau and Whitman. It is Walt Whitman
who offers a frank realization of the dilemma of decadence—decadence as
decline—when he concedes of his self-portrait in Leaves of Grass as
healthy, robust everyman, that the radiant physiology of 1855 yielded to “the
pathology which was pretty sure to come in time from the other.”[20] The question of cultural
progress and decline, then, is inextricable from the problem of the body.
William Butler Yeats, with scrupulous delicacies of reserve, ventured that what
others called “decadence” is what “I, because I believe that the arts lie
dreaming of things to come, prefer to call the autumn of the body.”[21]
The
autumn of the body was for Yeats a vision of spiritual refinement, a Platonic
overcoming of sensory confusion, a new lucidity. But from our perspective, it
is the premonition of a profound restructuring of sensory ratios, the imminent
“obsolescence” of the body as it is transfigured from organic unity to
mechanical variety. Two years after Yeats’ essay, Henry Adams visited the
Universal Exposition in Paris, a convulsive apparition which was to be repeated
for him on a yearly basis thereafter. Confronting the hall of the dynamos,
Adams felt his historical neck broken, as he put it, and found his entire
education obsolete in the presence of “the new multiverse.” “The movement from
unity into multiplicity, between 1200 and 1900, was unbroken in sequence, and
rapid in acceleration,” he reflected. “Prolonged one generation longer, it
would require a new social mind…it would need to jump.”[22] In one generation it was
modern trench warfare that made the social mind jump. Since then, culture has
been subjected to a series of “blows” which dislocate existing sensory ratios.[23] At the far end of this century
of blows, it is getting difficult to imagine what a stable ratio of the senses
might be, we’re so accustomed to rotary spin and redistribution of affect. What
used to be military, in other words, has become the common repertoire of
everyday life: the pulverizing of access routes and vantage points, the
camouflage of concentrated forces and dissimulation of movement, along with
reconstructive surgery and prosthetic technologies.
As
if in oracular confirmation of things to come, Baudelaire attested to a new
“psychology of nerves” and “multiplied sensation,” and Walter Pater commended
“a quickened, multiplied consciousness.”[24] Long before the historical
catastrophe of world war, neurasthenic agitation was symptomatic not of crisis
but of a contagious conformity. Nerves became the privileged medium of sensory
awareness in the age of telegraph and telephone wires. In 1891 Hermann Bahr
observed that “when classicism says ‘man,’ it means reason and feeling. And
when Romanticism says ‘man,’ it means passion and the senses. And when
modernism says ‘man’ it means the nerves.”[25] “We are in the age of nerves,”
declared Vicente Huidobro in his “Ars Poetica.”[26] Gertrude Stein, reflecting on
the syncopated time of jazz, notices that “this difference in tempo…does make
anybody nervous.”[27] Paul Valéry acknowledged that
“We are so bewildered by the chaos of stimuli obsessing us that we end by
needing it”—adding, “We have lost the leisure to ripen”[28] Lacking such “leisure,” the artist reconceives the environment
itself, in its industrial transfiguration, as the ongoing milieu of ripening;
and the Futurists proclaim themselves “the primitives of a new sensitiveness,
multiplied hundredfold, and…our art is intoxicated with spontaneity and power.”[29]
There
are times in which the linear model of development is misleading, as when we
attribute to a given artistic movement the vanquishing or overcoming of its
predecessors. The audacious technophilia of Futurism is seen as a much later
stage in the succession from Romanticism to Symbolism and Decadence. It can be
illuminating to think Futurism while re-reading Walter Pater’s famous
Conclusion to his book on the Renaissance). “How shall we pass most swiftly
from point to point, and be present always at the focus where the greatest
number of vital forces unite in their purest energy?” Pater asks. “To burn
always with this hard, gemlike flame, to maintain this ecstasy, is success in
life.” “For our one chance lies in…getting as many pulsations as possible into
the given time,” he declares. “Only be sure it is passion—that it does yield
you this fruit of a quickened, multiplied consciousness.”[30] This incendiary fanning of
life’s flame, compounding its pulsations, makes a claim we find as readily in
Vorticism, Expressionism, and Surrealism. The final sentence of Nadja
could be Pater speaking: “Beauty will be CONVULSIVE or it will not be at all.”[31]
Nadja
fulfills the aspirations of Joseph Conrad’s literary impressionism, aspiring
“To snatch…from…a passing phase of life…the rescued fragment…of a sincere
mood…to show its vibration, its color, its form; and…to disclose its inspiring
secret.”[32] Conrad’s own narrative
complexities toil with a nihilistic suspicion that these rescued fragments are
orphans, belonging to no intelligible whole (or, as in Victory, the
whole is depicted in Heyst’s vision of earth as “the appointed hatching planet
of calumny enough to furnish the whole universe”[33]). At the same time, Hugo von
Hofmannsthal’s Lord Chandos bemoans his descent into fragmentation, which is
significantly intricated with somatic analogies: “As once, through a magnifying
glass, I had seen a piece of skin on my little finger look like a field full of
holes and furrows, so I now perceived human beings and their actions. I no
longer succeeded in comprehending them with the simplifying eye of habit. For
me everything disintegrated into parts, those parts again into parts; no longer
would anything let itself be encompassed by one idea. Single words floated
round me; they congealed into eyes which stared at me and into which I was
forced to stare back—whirlpools which gave me vertigo and, reeling incessantly,
led into the void.”[34] Proust’s vast novel is a
similar study in disorientation, the poetics of which is effectively expressed
in Proust’s observation that “the absence of one part from a whole is not only
that, it is not simply a partial lack, it is a derangement of all the other
parts, a new state which it was impossible to foresee in the old.”[35] The situation is at once a
crisis and a source of jubilation: a phantom sensation of the lost whole
persists, but at the same time a “new state,” an emergent totality of another
order, arises as apparitional palsy of the parts. Samuel Beckett (whose first
book was on Proust) speaks with consummate succinctness of his own goal as the
realization of a “Total object, complete with missing parts, instead of partial
object.”[36]
The
vocabulary of purification is integral to the modernist drama of decomposition
of forms. Long before Picasso declared his painting to be a sum of
destructions, Mallarmé acknowledged that “Destruction was my Beatrice.”[37] In his case, one might say
that intellectual fastidiousness pulverized the familiar world into granulated
elements which enabled a more ravishing aesthetic to arise as an art of new
combinations. During the same period, Paul Bourget’s influential studies of
“contemporary psychology” encompassed decadence: “A decadent style is one in
which the unity of the book is decomposed in favor of the independence of the
page, where the page is decomposed in favor of the independence of the phrase,
and the phrase in favor of the independence of the word.”[38] Nietzsche, who had broken with
Wagner in part as a way of affirming his own French enthusiasms (famously
championing Bizet over the Teutonic maestro), read Bourget and rewrote his
passage on decadent style: “What is the sign of every literary decadence?”
asked Nietzsche. “That life no longer dwells in the whole. The word becomes
sovereign and leaps out of the sentence, the sentence reaches out and obscures
the meaning of the page, the page gains life at the expense of the whole—the
whole is no longer a whole.”[39] But what if we consider this
in purely descriptive terms, alleviated from the unsavory connotations of
decadence? To do so would allow us to think of the parts as elements in an
awakening, not vestigial traces of obliteration; a reinitiation into pathesis,
rather than a collapse of order.
Dadaist
Richard Huelsenbeck insisted that “The best and most extraordinary artists will
be those who every hour snatch the tatters of their bodies out of the frenzied
cataract of life, who, with bleeding hands and hearts, hold fast to the
intelligence of their time.”[40] Such intelligence is to be
understood as the disfiguring power of the cataract, in which disfigurement is
taken in the modernist sense as a newly disclosed power of creation—“the terrible,
thrilling monster of life’s vitality” as Max Beckmann called it.[41] “All that the rest forget in
order to make their life possible,” wrote Rilke, “we [artists] are always bent
on discovering, on magnifying even; it is we who are the real awakeners of our
monsters… it is they, the monsters, that hold the surplus strength which is
indispensible to those that must surpass themselves.”[42] Indeed, “Pathology is rapidly
becoming the basis of sensational literature,” Oscar Wilde presciently noted in
1887, “and in art, as in politics, there is a great future for monsters.”[43]
Self-overcoming
was a programmatic feature of modernism from Rimbaud onward. For Rimbaud the
path from “I” to “other”—from humanist subject to modernist monster—was the
road to bounty; as it was for Whitman, imagining that to contain multitudes was
necessarily to inhabit an expanded self (but Leaves of Grass only
fitfully approximates the plenitude of Gargantua and Pantagruel). The
modernist trajectory develops a consistent insight: there is not a “natural”
person who is educated and acculturated to develop certain innate abilities;
rather, one seizes the person one becomes in ritual supplication—a process
memorialized by the prevalence of the “mask” in Gourmont, Wilde, Yeats, Pound,
Eliot, Pessoa, and others.[44] One of the most powerful
artistic resolutions of modernism was to spurn the Romantic faith in a primal
soul, a “deep self” lurking below the crust of socialized personality (a
position institutionalized by Eliot in “Tradition and the Individual Talent”).
Modernist epistemological radicalism is best summarized by Nietzsche: “there is
no ‘being’ behind doing, effecting, becoming; ‘the doer’ is merely a fiction
added to the deed—the deed is everything.”[45] Gertrude Stein is not often
thought of in connection with Nietzsche, but she repeats his claim: “one has no
identity…when one is in the act of doing anything. Identity is recognition… I
am I because my little dog knows me.”[46] Her entire work—exquisitely
anatomized by Stein herself in Lectures in America—is a vast
demonstration of what it means to hold strictly to the proposition of a
creative act not grounded in the dialectical echo-chamber of ego-building. It
is because the depth psychology model is so prevalent that Stein has been
incompletely assimilated to the modernist canon, her robustly tactile
exuberances unconducive to the thematizing of idealism in crisis. Her work is monstrous—that
is, it raises issues associated with the grotesque: excess or deficit, too much
or not enough.
Robert
Musil’s Ulrich, the man without qualities, observes that “Our civilization is a
temple of what would be called unsecured mania, but it is also its asylum, and
we don’t know if we are suffering from an excess or a deficiency.”[47] This is the perennial question
of any new world mentality, as any vita nuova must contend
simultaneously with amputation and abundance, collapse of a reassuring order
and exuberant discovery of new orders. The excessive challenge of such claims
is registered as trauma, to which there are two responses, each with biodynamic
implications. The first is most succinctly put in the biological dictum,
phylogeny is recapitulated in ontogeny: the individual is a fragment of a
whole; but, prior to detachment, rehearses the whole in its embryological
development. The problem with this (to follow Jean Starobinski’s helpful
scrutiny) is that “Making the most remote past coefficient to our most intimate
depth is a way of refusing loss and separation.”[48] This (ontogenetic) response to
trauma concludes that there is no trauma, that it is all a dream, a fear not a
hurt. It also replicates totality in the image of the great chain of being, in
which the well-formed work is a localized recapitulation of universal
principles, extending the regulative unity of the whole into all the parts that
compose and affirm it.
The
other response to the trauma of parts and wholes, excess and deficiency, is
related to the collapse of the great chain and the emergence of organic form.
From the premodern perspective of cosmic harmony a discordant form was not
possible. A discordant form was not a form but a failure, a monstrous
excrescence. But the monster was nonetheless preserved in aesthetic practice as
the grotesque, deliberately preserving and transmitting the monstrous as monstrare
or demonstration of limits, thresholds, breaches of the harmonious boundary.
The grotesque may be seen as the admission of materiality into the
considerations of eidos or formalized idea, conceding that the
non-compliance of material with disposing form produces interesting formations
in its own right. The grotesque initiates, then, a transfusion of resources
available to art: the low is not strictly abject matter awaiting the dignity of
form, but a wild or chaotic dimension which can energize the formative
endowment.
It
is in this spirit—and in explicit acknowledgement of the grotesque, or the
discordant form—that the Romantic insistence on organic form arises. Friedrich
Schlegel goes so far as to maintain that “the highest beauty, indeed the highest
order is then ultimately only that of chaos, that is to say, a state awaiting
the touch of love to unfold it into a harmonious universe.”[49] Schlegel validates process
over thing, energy over outcome, a view further celebrated in Emerson’s
ecstatic encomium to the poet, “resigning himself to the divine aura
which breathes through forms” and thereby “sharing the path or circuit of
things through forms.”[50] Such a recognition endows the
arts with an inconceivable bounty: not only any form, but any subject, is
quickened with latent intensity. The divine emanation does not disappear, it is
reborn in every material instance—and materialism is itself reconceived under
the sign of a redemptive superfluity, creation as the practice of excess.
Emerson speaks of “defects and deformities” as signifying exuberance, the base
and the obscene becoming illustrious.[51] Victor Hugo, likewise, held
that “The beautiful has but a single type, the ugly a thousand.” “What we call
ugly…is a detail of a great ensemble that escapes us, which harmonizes not with
man but with the whole of creation. This is why it ceaselessly presents us with
new, if incomplete, prospects.”[52]
The
challenge and potential of chaotic multiplicity is taken up by Yeats in “The
Emotion of Multitude.” By multitude Yeats means creative fertility as the power
of suggestion in “vague symbols that set the mind wandering from idea to idea,
emotion to emotion.”[53] Yeats would have us feed off
sublunar changes, seeking the nutrient of novelty not in things themselves but
in the motion they incite—a motion incarnated, for many in the fin de siècle,
in Wagner’s operas, in which the underlying mood is one of farewell, Abschied,
Liebestod, Sehnsucht (later rendered more popular, because domesticated, by
Puccini). “[S]o leben wir und nehmen immer Abschied,” we read in the last line
of the eighth Duino Elegy (we live here always taking leave). Rilke’s poetry is
notable for its mood of resignation and release, but without Wagner’s racial
and cultural baggage. For Rilke, farewell to human affairs is the event of
welcoming a cosmic transfusion, evident in that cluster of fragments from 1913
which rehearse the opening of the Duino Elegies. In the earlier
configuration of Malte, the bedridden child is alarmed by “Das Große,”
the tumor-like phantom of an alternate life “growing out of me…like a second
head,” into which the feeble blood of one body is forced to work for two.[54] This monstrous carnal
insistence is expanded to vast extra-human dimensions in the poems. “Do the
tides in my blood ebb and flow / With the starry order?” The chastizing resolve
is “to accustom my heart to its distances. Best / to live in the terror of
stars.”[55] Mandelstam makes a similar
resolution, confronting the inebriated boiling of his blood:
Our
essences are weighed,
out
in the impartial ether—
star-weights
tossed onto
suddenly
quivering scales.
And
the ecstasy of life
is
the triumph of the end—
the
body remembering
its
immutable homeland.[56]
Finally, if maternity was accorded greater force
and dignity than as sentimental icon, Mina Loy’s great poem “Parturition” would
be as widely known as Prufrock. In Loy’s account, giving birth (“a circle of
pain / Exceeding its boundaries in every direction”) is “Vitalized by cosmic
initiation.”[57]
Anguish-resignation-reception-creation: these are the constituent vehicles to
which Loy, Rilke, and Mandelstam attest—primary features of a reanimating
dis-corporation. Even in their agony they are affirmative in a way that
Baudelaire’s homage to Pascal is not: “Pascal’s abyss went with him at his
side, / closer than blood—alas, activity, / dreams, words, desire: all holes!”[58]
The
labor of a new creation is a struggle, an agon and an agony. “Do I move toward
form, do I use all my fears?” writes Muriel Rukeyser in a late poem.[59] The fears, the traumatic
residuum of creation in vitro, are roused to a heightened exacerbation
in modernism as it labors under the imperative to make it new. The poet and
artist are no longer operating under a crafts dispensation, but are compelled
by a sense of the sacred emancipated from religious supervision. Bombast and
charlatanism are recognizable risks. Octavio Paz traces analogy as the
impetus common to religion and art. By instigating a recognition of correspondences,
analogy affords access to incommensurate realms, preserving the legibility of
texts which are sacred to others but not to us. “Poetry is the other
coherence, made not of reasons but of rhythms. And there is a moment when the
correspondence is broken; there is a dissonance which in the poem is called
‘irony,’ and in life ‘mortality.’ Modern poetry is awareness of this dissonance
within analogy.”[60] Analogy is vehicular, but it
is also a vehicle of dispersion and collapse. To lend assent to the ensuing
Heraclitean flux is to be roused by a continual shower of novelties, but it
also means bidding farewell to the equally copious cascade of familiar
departing and declining things. It is in this quasi-Wagnerian mood that Osip
Mandelstam poignantly observes, “Literary forms change, some forms give way to
others. But every change, every such innovation, is accompanied by bereavement,
by a loss.”[61]
My
concern here is with the pathic dimension of generic bereavement, with the fact
that aesthetic receptacles hurt when they undergo developmental
transfiguration. The hurt is commensurate with the body because subjectivity is
spread out across a grid of cultural transmitters, freestanding receptacles
endowed with the power of sentience. By the turn of the century the average
Joe, the common integer of Vitruvian Man in postures of stalwart mastery amidst
the modern dynamos, like the stable body of the traditionally sanctioned writer
or artist, was being monstrously augmented with alien endowments, experienced
initially in decadence as the stimulation of phantom difference.[62] Simultaneously with the rise
of these phantom claims, the new technologies were refabricating the bodily
alignment with cultural wardrobe, an encounter from which the body emerges as
biologically unfit for what are now called “future technologies,” and it begins
to assume a remedial relation to social skills.[63] It is in the arts, I propose,
that this remedial relation assumes a chronic and conspicuous aspect, rendering
modernism in the arts an uncanny forecast, in formal generic terms, of acquired
immune deficiency syndrome. That is, the antibodies that had made the hard
crust of artistic genres into such infallible transmitters of cultural
blueblood break down, in modernism, casting off their shells, becoming
susceptible to invasion from an immanent manifold of viral energies. I don’t
want to overextend the analogy (not that it isn’t already crushed under the
weight of metaphoric excess); suffice it to say that in modernism we arrive for
the first time at something like a mutation of artistic forms from which no
genres are immune, and this mutation is evidence not of some “experimental”
mood or distemper of public spirit but is an acute materialization of pathic
intensity, a rupturing of genre that tells us, poignantly, that art is of the
body and the body’s traumas extend to the art.
It
would be misleading to propose that the artwork is a secondary or mimic body,
an understudy in the life cycle, or a vaporous animation like the Egyptian ka
and the Greek psyche. What happens to the body does not pass undisturbed
into art: the relation is not reflective, but one of evident cultural
intervention. But the importance of the somatic with respect to art is more
than illustrative. The labor of creation extends pathic sensitivity from artist
to work, particularly in times when the security of traditional models is under
challenge and an emergent mode is compelled to manifest—as an incorporated
principle—its own modus operandi, the autopoetic vindication of its own
existence. This is why, for instance, the gestural typology made visible by
Jackson Pollock elevated action painting to the status of a salutary
culmination of modern art. When the artwork itself manifests a poetics, a tacit
procedural credo, the “idea” is inseparable from the matter at hand, and the
body becomes the proximate orientation (as in Charlie Parker’s heroin addiction
bestowed to bop along with the music). The work itself may not bear any obvious
imprint of the body, but it serves nonetheless as pathic receptacle,
transmitting in its own “lower frequencies” the animating episodes of
corporation, incorporation, and discorporation.[64]
In
The Struggle of the Modern Stephen Spender advances the thesis that “The
modern aim was essentially the re-invention of reality: re-presentation of the
shapes and forces of a new world, and also of a modern kind of sensibility.”[65] Spender inherits many of his
views from Eliot, whose “dissociation of sensibility” looms large here; and,
like Eliot, the “feeling” in question is emotional, having no reference to
pathic sensibility, the feeling of the body.[66] It is most keenly in the
symptoms and initiatives of bodily feeling, however, that we can recover the
implications of modernism as a re-invention of reality. With the new points of
orientation to modernism made available by considerations of race and gender,
as well as the acknowledgment of provincialism as a contributing factor,[67] the modernist literary work is
less convincingly seen as a secure expression of the autonomous subject in a
freestanding artifact. It is more and more discernable as a pathic
sanctuary—receptacle of corporeal damage, but also a space of shelter
and recuperative delay.
What
I propose is more than a simple shift of attention from mind to body, from
concept to pathos. The reflective dimension encouraged by the old view of
modernism, in which disjointed times prompted fractured thoughts, is not so
easily accommodated to the physio-material realm. What would it mean to imagine
no longer a continuum of psychic dislocation, but in its please a discontinuous
series of physical maladaptations? Perhaps the first thing we might learn is
that a field composed of fully differentiated bodies ripples with
incommensurability: the transference of suffering from one body to another is
nearly unintelligible, as the individuating insistence of pain is a greater
obstacle to the spectre of unified sensibility than any rational (or even
irrational) argument. Under the old paradigm of modernism as re-invention of the
real, even if under pressure of historical trauma, there lingered an
unwarranted ease of transference of experience, supposedly “felt” and “shared,”
from person to person, all these persons then collectively ratified as having
thought the same thought together—the thought of dislocation. And yet, the very
works most commonly said to promote this mood of collective dislocation
demonstrate the incommensurability of private moods: witness the
deflationary climax of homecoming in Ulysses, as Stephen and Bloom
transect one another’s paths with merely mechanical consequence; consider
Forster’s inscription of missed connection as imperial destiny in Passage to
India; not to mention the constancy of cross-purposes in Woolf, the anomie
of divergently situated historical agents in the Conradian diaspora, the
characteristic bestiality of relations in Kafka, the immense cloud of unknowing
that constitutes love in Proust, as well as the polarized stalemate of sexual
politics in Lawrence—these are a few instances of a temperamental disavowal of
any systematic summation, much as they appear to converge on the thematic
prospect of “dislocation.” Location might well be a term of collective
identity, but dislocation is not, and—as in the case of “explosion”—whatever
central force it indicates, dispersal is the outcome.
Two
diagnoses result, corresponding to the old and new renditions of modernism. The
first is the functionalist model of compensation, which surreptitiously
recapitulates the great chain of being on a strictly social level. Repeated ad
nauseam in thumbnail histories of modernity, this version was sanctioned by
the tremendous authority of T.S. Eliot, who celebrated Ulysses for its
invention of mythical form as a way of compensating for the anarchy of modern
life. Wallace Stevens, likewise, defined mind as “a violence from within that
protects us from a violence without.”[68] In this theory, the
malignancies of modern life (seen as a combination of accelerated industry,
urbanization, imperialism, and total war) confront the artist with an
overwhelmingly menacing reality, confining response to a compensatory mimicry;
so the artist damages the artform, much as statesmen destroy their nations.
This is, of course, a crude variant of the Marxist dialectic of base and superstructure,
the sublimated familiarity of which has surely contributed to the prevalence of
the functionalist model of cultural compensations. Furthermore, the thought of
sublimation suggests that the hegemony of the Freudian topos of psychodynamics
also reinforces the sense that art is compensation on one level for damages
inflicted on another level.
The
second version of modernism suggests a different diagnosis: in this version,
the Romantic organicist model is adjusted so that it is not strictly a happy
image of fruition and inevitable fulfillment, but a truly organic legacy in
which its constituents are subject to blight, mutation, hybridity. A
reconstituted organic model gives us a view of disfiguration as the plastic
measure by which artists attempted to heal not themselves but their damaged
media. There is no single diagnosis of such damage. In some instances a given
genre could seem atrophied through underuse; in others, bloated and stupefied
through gluttony. Whitman is a case in point: his early lyrics helplessly
reverberate the soporific voice-over of his era’s gentility, the trace elements
of which he was only able to purge (with enormous difficulty, he admitted) by
stepping out of the wicker-basket of the lyric stanza altogether. Whitman’s
example is instructive—in ways equally true of Joyce, Picasso, and Stein, among
others—of how the recuperative attention to a damaged medium succeeds not by
tinkering, but by a global solution, a purging of toxins through
superabundance, extravagance, and sheer gratuity. Modernism, then, is not a
form of idealism; it is not the reflection of crisis in form: modernism is the
enactment of crisis, and this enactment works through a legacy of somatic
distress, a legacy that extends to the artwork itself in its capacity as pathic
receptacle.
When,
I wonder, will we stop being medical technicians of modernism and become its
homeopathists and therapists, its fellow convalescents? There are, after all,
such enormities of trauma in works like Nightwood and Spring and All
and The Good Soldier that the pretence to apprehend them under the
disposing framework of professional expertise is like prescribing an increased
dosage of morphine for a terminal case so as to quickly move on to the next
patient. But when works like these set out to re-invent the real, their
reinvention does not stop at the parameters of the text; they keep reinventing
themselves in a viral insistence that increasingly implicates the reader, a
reader who ceases to be a reader and becomes at once a witness, an attendant, a
confidant, and a freshly opened wound. They persist, paradoxically elaborating
with great patience the suddenness of being stricken.[69]
When
Virginia Woolf says in A Room of One’s Own that the book must be adapted
to the body, it sounds like a belated recognition of what was already
conspicuous in modernist practice.[70] It’s not that Woolf was
inattentive; in fact, it’s surprising even now how little attention has been
paid to the cardiac dimension of Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, nearly a
century after its publication, as though the very word “darkness” overshadowed
the rest of the title, just as we tend to think of Kurtz with his gangrenous
soul as the main character. But it is manifestly Marlow’s tale, a tale of his
own initiation into mysteries that are dark because they are inscrutably
corporeal. In a commonly overlooked detail late in the story, as Marlow is
following Kurtz’s track in the dark toward the rituals underway around the
fires, his agitation is momentarily dispelled, and he is pacified by something
integral to Conrad’s title: “I remember I confounded the beat of the drum with
the beating of my heart, and was pleased at its calm regularity.”[71] A minor detail with major
consequence: ostensibly a story about the atrophy of the European soul,
metaphorized in the title as a spiritual journey to the heart of darkness,
Conrad’s book has buried in it this convalescent incident: inside the
metaphor is a body, the panicked body of the narrator, for whom the jungle
rhythms afford a cardiac tranquility. Consider, then, another storytelling
scene, as Quentin and Shreve in Absalom, Absalom! rehearse the Sutpen
blight, pacing “slowly on in that rhythm which not the eyes but the heart marks
and calls the beat and measure for.”[72] Consider, also, the zoomorphic
junctures in Nightwood by Djuna Barnes, a book sentient with animated
postures of distress, its characters coagulating into a collaborative grief
that “love and life are a bulk of which the body and heart can be drained.”[73] Barnes’s characters
collectively animate a single torment, despite their mutual incomprehension—a
structure also adopted by Virginia Woolf in The Waves[74] and clarified by Rilke, who
observed of Rodin’s sculptural groups that “parts of different bodies, brought
together by inner necessity, become for him a single organism. A hand laid on
the shoulder or limb of another body is no longer part of the body to which it
properly belongs: something new has been formed from it and the object it
touches or holds, something which was not there before, which is nameless and
belongs to no one.”[75] This eerily neutral
lasciviousness is a sinister undertone in the poems of T.S. Eliot. There is an
opulence of dismemberment in “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” and
“Gerontian.” Prufrock moves about in a fogbound ruination that assumes human
form only by analogy with an evening “spread out against the sky / Like a
patient etherised upon a table.” Dismemberment is the norm: “I have known the
eyes already, known them all,” he laments. “[T]here will be time / To prepare a
face to meet the faces that you meet.” When eyes and faces circulate on their
own in a plastic hypersocial region like this, Prufrock’s most affirmative
moment is the recognition that “I should have been a pair of ragged claws /
Scuttling across the floors of ancient kingdoms.”[76] But for the thematic congruity
with Prufrock, one might attribute the physical deterioration of the old man in
“Gerontian” to his age, as he notes “I have lost my sight, smell, hearing,
taste and touch: / How should I use them for your closer contact?”[77] But the condition is not
personal, it is environmental. In the world of “The Hollow Men”:
The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost
kingdoms.[78]
Such images attest to the pressure of erasure,
the phantom insistence of the “lost body” which Aimé Césaire memorializes in Corps
perdu, which rehearses (as does all Césaire’s work) the psychotropism of
slave trade, middle passage, and re-acculturation:
Tout ce qui
jamais fut déchiré
en moi s’est déchiré
tout ce qui jamais fut mutilé
en moi c’est mutilé.[79]
The
instances I have cited from Conrad, Eliot, Barnes, Woolf, Rilke, Césaire, all
testify to a migratory corporeality, a phantom itch collectively scratched;
evidence of a diffuse but densely implicated structure of pathic resonance.
Subjectivity is always in transitive suspension, on its vibratory web of
semiotic transmitters, just as the body is constantly being displaced in the
aesthetic microclimates of culture, the tidepool sanctuaries along the rim of
historical turbulence, the site of those great mid-19th century visions of dark
recuperation, Arnold’s “Dover Beach” and Whitman’s “Sea Drift” poems. In the
modernist anthropology of our cultural endowment the dispersed elements of
sentience, like the dismembered parts of Osiris, are deputized to bear witness
to a whole which is inconceivable, presenting the enigma of a totality grown
exorbitant in droplets. The perplexing interplay of presence and absence, the
mismatched parts of a “discrepant engagement” (to use Nathaniel Mackey’s term
for the asymmetrical prowess of a cross-cultural modernism[80]), and above all the
paradoxically enabling trauma of productive loss—these are the conditions
latent in that startling question Nietzsche’s madman asks in The Gay Science:
“Who gave us the sponge to wipe away the entire horizon?”[81] That sponge is now the
Promethean dominant, the global electric skin imposing an unmanageable
inflation of pathic receptivity, while at the same time the aesthetic is
supplemented by its anaesthetic double. As we struggle to negotiate the
dialectic of modest flesh and presumptuous incorporation—suffering an excess of
deficiency, sensing the kenosis or emptying of things, an evacuation at
the heart of the world—the works of modernism begin haunting us again,
prompting reveries of mutilation such as Faulkner supposes in Absalom,
Absalom! with its “diffused and scattered creatures drawn blindly limb from
limb from a grab bag.”[82] The acute disabling of forms,
legible in that trauma of genres for which modernism is famous, is a disabling
that strangely quickens and enhances the sensational fragments of what
remains—pathic receptacles of a recuperative distancing which is not
alienation, but the space necessary to feel that tingling evoked by Giorgio de
Chirico: “Perhaps the most amazing sensation passed on to us by prehistoric man
is that of presentiment. It will always continue. We might consider it as an
eternal proof of the irrationality of the universe. Original man must have
wandered through a world full of uncanny signs. He must have trembled at each
step.”[83]
[1] It
is “a grand, hyperbolic undertaking”—as Thomas Harrison characterizes
Expressionism in 1910, The Emancipation of Dissonance (Berkeley:
University of California Press, 1996), 212.
[2]
Georges Bataille, The Accursed Share Vol. 1, tr. Robert Hurley (New
York: Zone Books, 1988), 23.
[3]
Georges Bataille, “Letter to René Char on the Incompatibilities of the Writer,”
tr. Christopher Carsten, Yale French Studies 78 (1990), 35.
[4]
Bataille, Ibid., 34.
[5]
Robert Frost, “On Extravagance,” Collected Poems, Prose, and Plays (New
York: Library of America, 1995), 904.
[6]
Frost, Ibid., 907.
[7]
Frost, Ibid., 910.
[8] The
Letters of Robert Frost to Louis Untermeyer (London: Jonathan Cape, 1964),
166 (March 10, 1924).
[9]
Henry David Thoreau, Walden (New York: Library of America, 1985), 386.
[10]
Thoreau, Ibid., 580.
[11] William
James, The Will to Believe, in Writings 1878-1899 (New York:
Library of America, 1992), 555.
[12] Lia
Formigari, “Chain of Being,” Dictionary of the History of Ideas Vol. I
(New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1973), 325. As Plotinus puts it, “The One
‘overflows’ and its excess begets an other than itself” (The Essential
Plotinus tr. Elmer O’Brien [New York: Mentor, 1964], 107).
[13]
Franz Marc, “Forward to the Planned Second Volume of the Blaue Reiter,” The
Blaue Reiter Almanac ed. Wassily Kandinsky and Franz Marc, New Documentary
Edition ed. Klaus Lankheit, tr. Henning Falkenstein (New York: Viking, 1974),
260.
[14] It
was in fact the phenomenon of American globalization that prompted Bataille to
make an explicit link between his thesis of extravagance and this historical
pressure: “The industrial development of the entire world demands of Americans
that they lucidly grasp the necessity, for an economy such as theirs, of having
a margin of profitless operations” (The Accursed Share, op. cit.,
25-26).
[15] The
scholarship on decadence is considerable, but two works stand apart for their
clarity and judiciousness: Decadence, The Strange Life of an Epithet by
Richard Gilman (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1979) and Five Faces of
Modernity: Modernism, Avant-Garde, Decadence, Kitsch, Postmodernism by
Matei Calinescu (Durham, North Carolina: Duke University Press, 1987).
[16]
Charles Baudelaire, Selected
Writings on Art and Artists tr. P.E. Charvet (Harmondsworth: Penguin,
1972), 188-189.
[17]
Oscar Wilde, “The Decay of Lying,” The Artist as Critic: Critical Writings
of Oscar Wilde ed. Richard Ellmann (New York: Random House, 1969), 301.
[18]
Holbrook Jackson, The Eighteen Nineties: A Review of Art and Ideas at the
Close of the Nineteenth Century (New York: Mitchell Kennerley, 1914), 77.
In his elegy for Mallarmé, Remy de Gourmont proposed that “In the final
analysis, the idea of decadence is identical to the idea of imitation. [but in
the case of Mallarmé] the idea of decadence has been assimilated to its exact
opposite—the idea of innovation.” Selected Writings ed. and tr. Glenn S.
Burne (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1966), 71.
[19]
Jackson, Ibid., 78.
[20] Walt
Whitman, “Preface, 1876,” Poetry and Prose (New York: Library of
America, 1982), 1008.
[21] W.
B. Yeats, Essays and Introductions (New York: Macmillan, 1961), 191.
[22]
Henry Adams, The Education of Henry Adams ed. Ernest Samuels (Boston:
Houghton Mifflin, 1973), 458, 498.
[23] “The
new media and technologies by which we amplify and extend ourselves constitute
huge collective surgery carried out on the social body with complete disregard
for antiseptics,” Marshall McLuhan writes in a colorful analogy. “Each new
impact shifts the ratios among all the senses.” McLuhan holds to a Romantic faith in the restorative power of
art, which he defines in this context as “exact information of how to rearrange
one’s psyche in order to anticipate the next blow from our own extended
faculties” (Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man [New York:
McGraw-Hill, 1965], 64, 66).
[24]
Walter Pater, The Renaissance ed. Adam Phillips (New York: Oxford
University Press, 1986), 153. On Baudelaire, see Peter Nicholls, Modernisms,
A Literary Guide (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995), 8.
[25]
Hermann Bahr, cited in William R. Everdell, The First Moderns: Profiles in
the Origins of Twentieth-Century Thought (Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 1997), 100.
[26]
Vicente Huidobro, Selected Poetry ed. David Guss (New York: New
Directions, 1981), 3.
[27]
Gertrude Stein, Lectures in America (New York: Random House, 1935), 95.
[28] Paul
Valéry, “Politics of the Mind,” The Outlook for Intelligence ed. Jackson
Mathews, tr. Denise Folliot & Jackson Mathews (New York: Harper & Row,
1963), 112.
[29]
Umberto Boccioni, Carlo Carrà, Luigi Russolo, Giacomo Balla, Gino Severini,
“Futurist Painting: Technical Manifesto 1910,” Futurist Manifestos ed.
Umbro Apollonio (New York: Viking, 1973), 29. This manifesto originally
appeared in English in the catalogue for a Futurist exhibit at the Sackville
Gallery in London, March 1912.
[30]
Walter Pater, The Renaissance, op. cit., 152.
[31]
André Breton, Nadja tr. Richard Howard (New York: Grove Press, 1960),
160.
[32]
Joseph Conrad, “Preface to The Nigger of the ‘Narcissus’,” The Nigger
of the ‘Narcissus’ (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1963), 13.
[33]
Joseph Conrad, Victory (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1963), 180.
[34] Hugo
von Hofmannsthal, “The Letter of Lord Chandos,” Selected Prose tr. Tania
and James Stern (New York: Pantheon, 1952), 134-135.
[35]
Marcel Proust, Remembrance of Things Past I, tr. C.K. Scott Moncrieff
and Terence Kilmartin (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1983), 333.
[36]
Samuel Beckett and Georges Duthuit, Three Dialogues (London: Jonathan
Calder, 1965), 101.
[37]
Stéphane Mallarmé, letter of May 27, 1867, Selected Letters ed. and tr.
Rosemary Lloyd (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1988), 77. Compare
Picasso’s nonchalant declaration, in 1935: “In my case a picture is a sum of
destructions” (“Conversation with Picasso,” Art in Theory 1900-1990 ed.
Charles Harrison and Paul Wood [Oxford: Blackwell, 1992], 499).
[38] My
translation. Paul Bourget, Essais de psychologie contemporaine I (Paris:
Plon, 1901), 20. “Un style de décadence est celui où l’unité du livre se
décompose pour laisser la place à l’indépendance de la page, où la page se
décompose pour laisser la place à l’indépendance de la phrase, et la phrase
pour laisser la place à l’independance du mot.”
[39]
Friedrich Nietzsche, The Case of Wagner in Basic Writings ed. and
tr. Walter Kaufmann (New York: Modern Library, 1968), 626.
[40]
Richard Huelsenbeck, “Collective Dada Manifesto” (1920) tr. Ralph Manheim, The
Dada Painters and Poets ed. Robert Motherwell, 2nd ed. (Boston: G.K. Hall,
1981), 243.
[41] Max
Beckmann, “Creative Credo” (1920), Art in Theory 1900-1990 ed. Charles
Harrison and Paul Wood (Oxford: Blackwell, 1992), 267-268.
[42]
Rainer Maria Rilke, letter of Nov. 18, 1920, tr. Violet M. MacDonald, The
Modern Tradition ed. Richard Ellmann and Charles Feidelson, Jr. (New York:
Oxford University Press, 1965), 24. A strikingly similar formulation is
ventured by the composer Arnold Schoenberg: “Art is the cry for help of those
who experience in themselves the fate of humanity. Who wrestle with it instead
of accommodating themselves to it. Who do not bluntly serve the enigma of ‘dark
powers,’ but who plunge into the running machinery to grasp its construction.
Who do not avert their eyes to protect themselves from emotion, but rather open
them wide to tackle what has to be tackled. But who frequently shut their eyes to
perceive what the senses do not convey, to behold within what only seemingly
takes place outside. And within, inside them, is the agitation of the world;
what breaks through to the outside is only its echo: the work of art” (cited in
Thomas Harrison, 1910, The Emancipation of Dissonance, op. cit., 66).
Harrison says of Schoenberg that “It was precisely because he was so
attached to the principle of harmony—and suffered rather than extoled his
estrangement—that he gave voice to the dissonance that was his grief” (213).
[43]
Oscar Wilde, I Can Resist Everything Except Temptation, And Other Quotations
from Oscar Wilde ed. Karl Beckson (New York: Columbia University Press,
1996), 135.
[44] The
most succinct assessment of the contingencies of modern selfhood may be Robert
Musil’s well-known passage: “There’s no longer a whole man confronting a whole
world, only a human something moving about in a general culture medium” (The
Man Without Qualities tr. Sophie Wilkins (New York: Knopf, 1995), 234.
[45]
Friedrich Nietzsche, Genealogy of Morals I.13 in Basic Writings,
op. cit., 481.
[46]
Gertrude Stein, “What Are Master-pieces,” Writings and Lectures 1909-1945
ed. Patricia Meyerowitz (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1971), 148-149.
[47]
Robert Musil, The Man Without Qualities, op. cit., 834. Note that the
English “asylum” lends a prejudicial air to Musil’s “Verwahrungsanstalt,” which
would be more accurately rendered “protective institution.” Musil’s term
deliberately plays on the previous adjective “unverwahrt”; together, they lend
semantic force to the equivocation of the entire assertion.
[48] Jean
Starobinski, “The Inside and the Outside,” tr. Frederick Brown, The Hudson
Review XXVIII: 3 (1975), 334.
[49]
Friedrich Schlegel, “Gespräch über die Poesie,” in Lilian R. Furst, ed., European
Romanticism (London: Methuen, 1980), 93.
[50]
Ralph Waldo Emerson, “The Poet,” Essays and Lectures (New York: Library
of America, 1983), 459. Emerson’s essay implicitly recapitulates, without
acknowledgment, the terms of Schiller’s “Stofftrieb” and “Formtrieb” generating
between them the antiphonal frictions of creative arousal—teeming stuff and
intelligible order—superseded by and resolved into the reconciling posture of
the Spieltrieb, the play-drive.
[51] Ibid.,
455.
[52] My
translation. Victor Hugo, “Préface [à Cromwell],” Théatre complet
I (Paris: Gallimard, 1963), 420, 421.
[53] W.
B. Yeats, Essays and Introductions, op. cit., 216.
[54]
Rainer Maria Rilke, The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge tr. Stephen
Mitchell (New York: Vintage, 1990), 61.
[55]
“Wechselt Flut und Ebbe / in meinem Blut nach dieser Ordnung?” “[ich will] mein
Herz gewöhnen an sen Fernstes. Besser / es lebt im Schrecken seiner Sterne.” R.
M. Rilke, “Unwissend vor dem Himmel meines Lebens.” Another uncollected poem,
“Wir sind nur Mund,” revisits the vast heart whose “great beat is broken up in
us / into tiny beats” (“großer Schlag ist in uns eingeteilt / in kleine
Schläge”).
So
reißen wir uns immer wieder los
und
sind nur Mund. Aber auf einmal bricht
der
große Herzschlag heimlich in uns ein,
so
daß wir schrein . . .
Und
sind dann Wesen, Wandlung und Gesicht.
(“So
we always tear ourselves loose / and are nothing but mouth. But suddenly / the
huge heartbeat secretly bursts in on us / so that we scream… / And then we’re
being [or essence], change, and face.”)
[56] Osip
Mandelstam, #156, Complete Poetry tr. Burton Raffel and Alla Burago
(Albany: State University of New York Press, 1973), 151.
[57] Mina
Loy, The Lost Lunar Baedeker ed. Roger L. Conover (New York: Farrar,
Straus and Giroux, 1996), 4, 6.
[58]
Charles Baudelaire, “The Abyss” [Le Gouffre] tr. Robert Lowell, The
Symbolist Poem ed. Edward Engelberg (New York: Dutton, 1967), 138. “Pascal
avait son gouffre, avec lui se mouvant. / —Hélas! tout est abîme, —action,
désir, rêve, / Parole!” Lowell obviously augments Baudelaire’s text, but his
addition of “blood” and “holes” is very much in the spirit of modernist agony I
am tracing here.
[59]
Muriel Rukeyser, “Double Ode,” A Muriel Rukeyser Reader ed. Jan Heller
Levi (New York: Norton, 1994), 274.
[60]
Octavio Paz, Children of the Mire tr. Rachel Phillips (Cambridge:
Harvard University Press, 1991), 56.
[61]
Mandelstam, “About the Nature of the Word,” Selected Essays tr. Sidney
Monas (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1977), 67.
[62] Difference
in decadence is invariably recognized in a process of assimilation—its
“decadent” excess, its notoriety, being attributable to a reversal of socially
dominant priorities, such that this assimilation is not that of other to
self but vice versa: the decadent posture is precisely that of “going
native,” of undergoing a conversion to dangerously alluring alterity. Anatole
Baju, the socialist editor of Le Décadent, found his platform in the
affirmation that “Man becomes more refined, more feminine, more divine”
(Barbara Spackman, Decadent Genealogies: The Rhetoric of Sickness from
Baudelaire to D’Annunzio [Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1989], viii).
The identification of spiritual ascendancy with feminization and cultural
refinement was debated in the United States in terms of neurasthenia, a
discourse which medicalized the dialectic of production and reproduction as
masculine purpose versus feminine masquerade and ostentation (see Tom Lutz, American
Nervousness, 1903: An Anecdotal History [Ithaca: Cornell University Press,
1991]). In Europe the dialectic extended to forms of primitivism, Orientalism,
and fashion (see Peter Wollen, “Out of the Past: Fashion/Orientalism/The Body,”
Raiding the Icebox: Reflections on Twentieth-Century Culture
[Bloomington: Indiana University Press], 1-34; “Mass Culture as Woman:
Modernism’s Other” by Andreas Huyssen, After the Great Divide: Modernism,
Mass Culture, Postmodernism [Bloomington: Indiana University Press],
44-62); and Mark M. Anderson, Kafka’s Clothes: Ornament and Aestheticism in
the Habsburg Fin de Siècle [Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992]).
[63] The
technological invasion of the body has been a consistent preoccupation for Paul
Virilio, who maintains that “the boarding of the metabolic vehicle is
literally an act of piracy” (Speed and Politics tr. Mark Polizzotti [New
York: Semiotext(e), 1986], 89). More recently he has criticized
prosthetics, nanotechnology, and other
biotechnologies as “technical fundamentalism.” “Bringing the body and its vital
energy up to speed with the age of instant teletechnology means…abolishing the
classic distinction between internal and external”—bringing with
it, in Virilio’s view, a “new eugenics…that would extend the pleasure principle
and so-called gratification handed down from the age of the consumer society
[into] a sort of perpetual stimulation” (The Art of the Motor tr.
Julie Rose [Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1995], 118, 106, 129).
The resulting state of infantile dependancy was forecast by Wyndham Lewis in The
Doom of Youth (London: Chatto and Windus, 1932). For further reflections on
the cultural polemic of infantilization, see Jed Rasula, “Nietzsche in the
Nursery: Naive Classics and Surrogate Parents in Postwar American Cultural
Debates,” Representations 29 (Winter 1990), 50-77.
[64]
Ralph Ellison’s eponymous narrator concludes his novel with the insinuation
that “on the lower frequencies, I speak for you” (Invisible Man [New
York: Vintage, 1989], 581). The triadic configuration I offer on the subject of
embodiment is indebted to Philip Fisher’s terms entanglement, sheltering,
and recovery in “The Recovery of the Body,” Humanities in Society
I.2 (Spring 1978), 133-146.
[65]
Stephen Spender, The Struggle of the Modern (London: Hamish Hamilton
1963), 133.
[66] T.
S. Eliot comes close to a pathic image when he says that “the historical sense
compels a man to write not merely with his own generation in his bones,” but
with a sense of the exigent pressure of the past as well (“Tradition and the
Individual Talent,” Selected Essays 3rd ed. [London: Faber & Faber,
1951], 14).
[67] Race
and gender are now ubiquitous categories in the study of modernism. On
provincialism, see Robert Crawford’s illuminating study Devolving English
Literature (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992).
[68]
Wallace Stevens, The Necessary Angel (New York: Knopf, 1951), 36.
[69]
Suddenness attests to “the nonidentity of aesthetic experience and historical
meaning,” as Karl Bohrer puts it (Suddenness: On the Moment of Aesthetic
Appearance tr. Ruth Crowley [New York: Columbia University Press, 1994],
x). Consequently, aesthetic activity
cannot be held accountable for historical disfigurations (see Leo Bersani’s
vital book The Culture of Redemption [Cambridge: Harvard University
Press, 1990]); nor, conversely, can the appeal to history justify or explain
art. It is in the space of this mutual incommensurability that I locate the
pathic dimension, a space that merits a reconsideration of the sublime. In
light of modernism, the sublime returns as the 18th century’s unique
contribution to pathesis. See Jean-François Lyotard, The Inhuman:
Reflections on Time tr. Geoffrey Bennington and Rachel Bowlby (Stanford:
Stanford University Press, 1991), who tellingly observes, “The paradox of an
art ‘after the sublime’ is that it turns towards a thing which does not turn
towards the mind” (142).
[70] “The
book has somehow to be adapted to the body,” writes Virginia Woolf, after
observing the pliability which the fledgling genre of the novel offered the
woman writer. A Room of One’s Own (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich,
1957), 81.
[71]
Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness (London: Penguin, 1983), 106.
[72]
William Faulkner, Absalom, Absalom! [The Corrected Text] (New York:
Vintage, 1990), 236.
[73]
Djuna Barnes, Nightwood (New York: New Directions, 1946), 158.
[74] “For
this is not one life; nor do I always know if I am man or woman, Bernard or
Neville, Louis, Susan, Jinny, or Rhoda—so strange is the contact of one with
another” (The Waves [New York: Oxford University Press, 1992], 234).
[75]
Rainer Maria Rilke, Where Silence Reigns: Selected Prose tr. G. Craig
Houston (New York: New Directions, 1978), 105.
[76] T.
S. Eliot, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” The Complete Poems and
Plays (London: Faber and Faber, 1969), 13, 14, 15.
[77]
Eliot, “Gerontion,” ibid., 38.
[78]
Eliot, “The Hollow Men,” ibid., 84.
[79] Aimé
Césaire, “Dit d’errance,” The Collected Poetry tr. Clayton Eshleman and
Annette Smith (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983), 254.
“Everything that was ever torn / has been torn in me / everything that was ever
mutilated / has been mutilated in me” (255).
[80]
Nathaniel Mackey, Discrepant Engagement: Dissonance, Cross-Culturality, and
Experimental Writing (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1993).
[81] Friedrich
Nietzsche, The Gay Science tr. Walter Kaufmann (New York: Vintage,
1974), 181 (#125).
[82]
William Faulkner, Absalom, Absalom!, op. cit., 71.
[83]
Giorgio de Chirico, “Mystery and Creation,” in Art and Theory 1900-1990
ed. Charles Harrison and Paul Wood, op. cit., 61.