rifəlraftər

A piece of Literary Modernism arrives at its terminal significance exclusively when in concert with its composite parts. In this regard, as a departure from precedent modes of literary creation, Literary Modernism can be seen as an architectural art form, containing dimensional depth and structural diversity. That is, Modernist literature is not merely dependent upon narrative standards (sequence of plot, development of character, or a two dimensional temporal progression) but also relies on a structure of dimensionally complex multiformity. The form that the work adopts corresponds with its meaning. This is revolutionary, and artistic revolution usually breeds obscurity. This resultant obscurity, however, should not be seen as a meaningless obstacle, nor as something developed simply to render the work incomprehensible and thus iconoclastic. Instead, this obscurity must be considered as an indelible component of Modernist literary structure. Viewed in this way, the obscurity becomes a facet of the art’s purpose, and, as an element of structural reinforcement, the obscurity ironically clarifies the work’s meaning. Distilling what precedes: In an unprecedented way, modernist literary art relies on its structure to transmit its inherent meaning and purpose.

Consider Joyce’s Ulysses, specifically in its tenth part, Symplegades (The Wandering Rocks). As has been observed elsewhere, this subsidiary episode, relative to the larger work, can be seen as a condensation or a representation of the novel’s mode in miniature. This conclusion is supported by the episode’s structural position within the novel—at its center. The tenth part, as a somewhat core of the novel’s eighteen parts, serves as the nucleus—a hub at which both anterior and posterior episodes radiate and recall.

The first scene of this episode, which follows Father John Conmee, is the longest of the 19 therein. Its length, and consequently the large amount of temporal real estate covered in its narrative, serves as an initial frame of reference within which all subsequent scenes are positioned. This can be understood as a literarily accurate representation of the concepts of time and space in communion. From Conmee, we learn that the hour is precisely five minutes of three, and a perfect “time to walk to Artane” (Joyce 219). With this succinct presentation of Conmee as a man—as a character—we are led forward, following the reverend throughout the city, now understanding him to be a function of structure and of time.

With each step, Conmee extends the lateral dimension of the work’s structure, as well as the spatial dimension of his environment, for he is moving forward through time and onward through the city. Thus our perception of the corporeal city is expanded and developed through Conmee’s eyes. What is perhaps more important to note, however, is when and to whom father Conmee “saluted” “smiled” or otherwise “doffed his silk hat” (Joyce 219-224). It is in these moments of salutation that Conmee expands and reveals the multidimensional (spherical) representation of the city and its society as an enclosure of existence and an interlacement of time-perceptions. Thus Conmee increases our understanding of Dublin spatially on a plane, and temporally within a series of planes, or within a finite three dimensional space with the encountered characters acting as its representatives and foci.

The personages encountered during Conmee’s perambulation become the sensual and physical descriptors of urban life in Dublin. In a word, the characters become adjectives. Besides being descriptive elements, however, they also act as doorways through which narrative potentialities are briefly perceived. Each persona given us through Conmee’s journey and observation becomes an additional lattice upon which the structure of the episode is supported. This is the way in which the episode –and Ulysses more generally—is given depth and multiformity: through its characters and the overlapping of their unique spheres of consciousness.

This depth becomes apparent only after the subsequent scenes have been considered and aligned with their antecedent companions. As touched upon above, Conmee’s journey can be most basically understood as a comprehensive, temporal frame which extends through most, if not all, of the subsequent episodes. As Conmee walks, Dublin lives. e.g. as Corny Kelleher looks “idly out,” in the scene directly following Conmee’s, “Father John Conmee stepped into the Dollymount tram” (Joyce 225). The two events are contemporary and exist jointly on two separate, though parallel planes. We are sentient of this. However, Conmee and Kelleher, ignorantly encapsulated within their roles, are not. The synchronism of various events is upheld in the same manner throughout. This leads us to a conclusive statement that directly defends our original thesis: The final logic of the episode cannot be understood until the entirety of its body—its synchronism, its repetition, and its multiplicity—is presented in unison, as one finalized and coherent organism composed of interrelated parts. Given the episode’s structure, what is encountered in one scene cannot be known as final until the others have been encountered and finalized as well.

As we are transported into the world of Dublin, we are also presented with its composition. The depth of the narrative is constructed through the depth of its inhabitants’ perceptions. Dublin as it stands is static. The way in which it is perceived is mercurial and organic. By injecting the subconscious acuities of individuals, and thus the way in which they perceive their surroundings, Joyce causes the stasis of Dublin to dissolve. Dublin, and consequently Joyce’s episode, assumes the depth of individual perceptions which are combined to produce a wholly realistic portrayal of social interaction and urban existence.

The finale of the episode can be seen as the completion of the frame, and a general recapitulation of the world that has been created. Thus, therein, the entire body politic of Dublin and of Joyce’s mind is seen in totality. This is the architectural photograph. With all of the structural elements developed, finished, and glaringly new, what is left to be done is observe and appreciate what has been created. The previous focus dissolves, the perceptive limitations are dropped, and a panoramic vision of Joyce’s most recent creation is set out—moving, living, breathing, and changing. All of the characters previously encountered are here, gyrating around the viceregal parade and the city center. It is as if Joyce has built an interminable dynamo which he has been winding in all precedent sections, and building with all of his characters as blocks. And finally, at the episode’s denouement, the impossible thing is set free; the multi-dimensional formation is observed in its complex entirety; all previous perceptions unite in a whirling portrait of urban vitality and variety.

In this way, the initial obscurity of the episode is transmuted into clarity. But, after all, as the analogy has been made, the work is architectural. Each component presented alone does little to lend the observer understanding; each piece is without purpose in isolation. The sutures are fitted, the related points interlocked, and the final edifice presents itself as it was meant to be. The structure of the work, though nearly impressionistic in its atomized state, finds definitive purpose in its solid, finalized form. And just as an example of Modern Architecture appears fragmented, disjointed, and even dangerously askew, there remains hidden within its shape the mathematical certainty of structural integrity and purpose of design. With this parallel, literature has been revolutionized for the modern era. Dropping the dependence on narrative standards, Joyce has developed a new mode of literary realism. This is a mode in which every aspect of the given work is seen as integral to its meaning. Further, a method has been formed that integrates diverse elements into a structural sum that contains its embryonic meaning in composite form, but only grants it in completion and in beautiful finality.

Accepting that fiction is a largely linear craft regarding time progression and development, it becomes obvious that Proust was an adversary of protocol.

For within Proust, the present, as a specified point in both space and time, forms the center of a nebulous web that reaches contemporaneously into the future, the past, and deeper into the present moment as it exists than what is immediately perceived by the reader, and perhaps the author himself.
Diagrammatically—for I currently am unable to adequately describe it—this can be represented in two different ways. It can be seen as a sort of linear, though dendritic narrational line, thus:

dendritic representation

or as a sort of concentric relation of three diverse, remote epochs in time, thus:

concentric representation

I’m partial to the second myself. Though, if you are quick to counter: “Yes, but that’s a fancy way of showing the obvious: our current lives are inherently affected by and constructed of events in the past as well as aspirations found solely in the future—a future idealized, remote, though inflexibly real.” You wouldn’t be wrong in saying so.

However, in Proust, the perception of this widely acknowledged “truth” goes beyond such a topical explanation. In Proust, the past and future, instead of merely acting invisibly upon the characters’ actions, as well as constructing their individual traits, maintain a nearly physical presence within each successive contemporary moment.

In this regard, past, present, and future are all actors upon Proust’s stage. The amorphous idea of one’s identity based on one’s experience of an individual temporality is not forced behind the satin curtain of “common sense.” Proust denies that this idea of temporality in an individual should be taken for granted. In short: time is a near-entity; time is not the structure in which events are placed, but rather the essence behind an event’s impetus, placement, and outcome.

What Proust means to expose is that time, that “thing”—for lack of a better word—that has perpetually confounded scientists and novelists alike, is rather simple. Taken literally, time, as opposed to being something metaphysical and beyond definition, rather is composed of easily recognizable physical elements, sensory data, and—it is Proust, after all—memories.

Whether it be the smell of lilac tainting the nose of a youthful perambulator, or the savory effect engendered by a Madeleine, dipped into a strong lime tea, each of these perceptions—moments, supported by one’s senses, left suspended in an individual’s unique understanding of time—work as pieces which ultimately compile to produce a life.


This is all very vague and philosophical—if that. Patience is pleaded for.
I’m sure that it will develop into something containing at least a meager amount of sense and worth. More will be added later as I get further along in the reading.

In the meantime: Think of a cephalopod, for this is the consummate Proustian character. With a brain for a body, and countless suctioning digits, its reason, its perception of time, reaches outward in every which way, in an attempt to hold onto and assimilate moments, ideas, dreams, entire lives. And sometimes—for this is an unavoidable result of having suction cups for fingers—we cannot seem to shake these things free.
And now, for the cephalopods.

What we do know is this: sense is arrived at by opposition. This idea of the dichotomy found in the process of creating sense—that is, sensible unity in logical signification reached through disunity—is not a new one. To a degree, every arm and branch of semiotic linguistics is somehow dependent on the principle of the dialectic—a predictable interchange of thesis and antithesis until some form, or at least some shade of sense reveals itself: a sense seemingly random, though as a final product, ostensibly indisputable and crystalline—defying refutation. It cannot be denied that we make sense of words, names, and concepts by use of other words, names, and concepts. It is the act of definition by selective cohesion; a search for meaning by way of a linguistic system of unknown origin or design. This chain of clarifying abstraction extends to a length based on the complexity of the concept or word at hand.

The process has taken on many names since its first appearance, and its inception can be placed alongside that of language itself. This is exhibited insofar as with language, we make an immediate leap to understanding—to logic—in our day to day modes of communication. In language, a web is woven throughout society, at once unifying a cultural group as well as defining it. Language is the means by which its end (sense) is reached. Word for word, diction woven into syntax, the relationships between words form a system of understanding—a system through which we might navigate in order to develop new ideas and methods of communicating a thought or concept.

For our purposes here, this vast subject must be condensed. The conversation is to be delimited and demarcated to the authorial process of creating a paradox, an absurdity, i.e. Nonsense. Centering on the opinions delineated in The Logic of Sense by Gilles Deleuze, the process of this linguistic dialectic must be questioned, tested in practice—tested, perhaps most importantly, within the literary mode of nonsense. Following in this vein, Deleuze’s conclusion on the nature of nonsense* cannot be accepted. In his exegesis, the ultimate dichotomy is left out: Sense/Nonsense. Because Nonsense is only a negation of sense, it relies entirely on an understanding of the sense used to create it. Namely, the act of writing Nonsense requires an initial substructure of sense if its product is to be understood as Nonsense, therefore nonsense cannot be a free-standing entity. Its nonsensical classification cannot be achieved solely through its existence. All of this can be further condensed: 1. Sense relies on a logical web of understanding, 2. Nonsense (by directly negating it) relies on sense, thereby, 3. Nonsense must follow the same protocol as sense and cannot state its own meaning unaided.

A separation must be made between philosophical speculation and artifice. The common cycle of production by an artist, followed by a dismantling of thought, purpose, and moral by philosophers/semioticians etc., must be abandoned. It is within this cycle that Deleuze has set up camp. What is lost in his explanation, however, is the intention of the authors to which he applies his logic. Because nonsense is produced through and by language, it cannot neglect the roots of pure rationality from which it emerges—a rationality of linguistic interplay, and logical, systematic relations. We must confront and expose the way in which Nonsense is constructed. To this end, Nonsense as a genre can take root in two separate entities: Language and Circumstance.

Language. A gnat buzzes in Alice’s ear: “What’s the use of [things] having names….if they wo’n’t answer to them (Carroll 149)?” Thus the undeniable absurdity of language comes forth. Absurd, though concurrently logical. Alice responds, “No use to them, …but it’s useful to the people that name them, I suppose. If not, why do things have names at all (Carroll 149)?” And with little flourish, Carroll takes a jab at himself and his chosen profession. For, at its most basic level, is not Through the Looking Glass entirely composed of these “useless” words? Are not all works of literature built around this uselessness? Useless, but necessary, Alice might say. But why? The role that language plays in the production of nonsense must be explored first. Its acting as an introduction is based on its importance—literary nonsense must start with language. Carroll is perhaps the most appropriate one to turn to in this venture of understanding, for none before or after him have exposed the absurdity of language—written or spoken—to quite the degree he has. In Carroll, language sheds its assumed totality; language bends, language strains to the point of breaking, and then snaps backward assuming a new meaning, a pure significance. In this way, Carroll explores individual words for nonsense.

The origins of individual words are questioned: why is a tree called a “tree,” and not a boot? Or, why is it that we must call Latin by its given name and not “Laughing” in order for it to fit, to make sense (Carroll 85)? Carroll’s nonsense relies on the sense already in place with language. He does not create a form of nonsense by simply expressing a “thing.” As Deleuze has said, Nonsense says its own sense, but in Carroll, the opposite could be argued. Of course, calling Latin, “Laughing,” is nonsensical, but we see it that way only in relation to the original context in which it was said. The joke, if it can be called a joke, relies on the reality, the seriousness of what is real in order for it to be seen as “making-fun.”

The extent and power of single words are also explored. Carroll examines the way in which individual words are qualified. The Red Queen explains: “When you (Alice) say ‘hill,…I could show you hills, in comparison with which you’d call that a valley.” Alice, again taking up the cause of logic responds, simply: “No, I shouldn’t…a hill ca’n’t be a valley, you know. That would be nonsense…(Carroll 140).” The interchange goes on to point/counterpoint, with the Red Queen always unveiling an antithesis to what Alice considers as irrefutable fact. We are forced to question which is more nonsensical, the fact that a hill can’t be a valley, or the idea that a hill must always maintain a certain amount of “hillness” in order for it to be considered such. The paradox can be applied to almost any comparison involving hierarchical significance and qualification—a bowl is not a tub is not a pool is not a lake. Where and when did these qualifications arise?

Nonsense in language is a challenge to any form of linguistic totality. We take language completely for granted—we do not realize that, if we were to step back, the “logic” of language becomes almost nonsensical. It is in this way that Carroll develops a unique form of nonsense through sense. The darker side of this lies in the potential for misunderstanding. Language is taken for granted in order to assume efficiency and a standardized mode of communication. If this accepted system of language is questioned, challenged, or inverted, then understanding and sense disappear beyond our reach. When Alice says she is parched, the Red Queen takes it to mean she would like a biscuit, something Alice would rather not have, but accepts out of courtesy (Carroll 143). It could be assumed that the word “thirsty” means something different to the Red Queen, or at least something more than the state of being in need of a drink. This concept is troubling.

(1)* 1 [Nonsense] says something, but at the same time it says the sense of what it says: it says its own sense. It is therefore completely abnormal (Deleuze 67).

I can’t decide if these various “Series of Paradox” are a.) terribly translated b.) verbose expositions of a simple idea, or c.) complete, and utter philosophical hogwash. Perhaps it’s a combination of the three. Who is this guy?

Accepting that both the 11th and 12th Series adequately explore the intricacies of paradoxes and the connection they hold with human pattern of thought, I maintain that what was said in 20 pages could have been said in 2. At first, I was hesitant to accept the piece as authentic, taking it as an example of nonsense, in itself and of itself, shrouded in a cloud of academic verbiage and philosophical give-and-take—in this instance, the giving and the taking being enacted by the same person, a Gilles Deleuze. Half way through, I was on the verge of tossing the excerpt aside, flinging my pencil—studiously employed in the act of annotation seconds before—against the wall, and victoriously proclaiming that modern philosophy is, as I expected, a complete waste of time! However, as curiosity got the best of me, I read on, hoping that at its denouement, some shadow of meaning would come forth. As before, I was invariably disappointed.

Deleuze’s exegesis on paradox is breathtaking in the absolute worst sense of the word. The first few pages—I don’t care to count—are dedicated to exposing the concept of names, and defining names by abstraction. If I assumed correctly, the author states that a sensical name relies on other names to denote its meaning. This act usually involves the process of abstraction by which a name—or word—is defined by other names or words, while the root-word remains a single strand in an intricate web of associations and linguistic interplay. He goes on to apply this process to nonsensical words, and, in so doing, exposes that—of course—it is not effective under the same application. Nonsense words, he goes on to explain, contain their own web of logic. Simply through their expression and existence, they somehow exhibit their meaning and purpose. He professes, perhaps in the singular instance of impassioned argument within his essay, that the sense of nonsense is not that it “hasn’t any,” but rather that it is an expression of a universe—of sense in itself.  The nonsense word defines and states its own sense.

He goes on. After founding that “sense is always an effect”—by which I assume he means that sense is only created if and when there is an adequate infrastructure surrounding its existence—Deleuze explores the troubling quandary of the paradox.  He states what follows:

par⋅a⋅dox
/ˈpærəˌdɒks/[par-uh-doks]–noun
1.     a statement or proposition that seems self-contradictory or absurd but in reality         expresses a possible truth.
2.     a self-contradictory and false proposition.
3.     any person, thing, or situation exhibiting an apparently contradictory nature.
4.     an opinion or statement contrary to commonly accepted
Emphasis on 1 and 3.

What I mean to unmask is that Deleuze’s extrapolation on the nature of the paradox is simply a slipshod attempt at expanding the well known, and easily understood definition of said device. Of course, as a philosopher, he is pressured by the expectations found within the critics of his chosen métier to apply a general and standardized subject—the paradox—to the harrowing and contradictory thing that is human existence. But honestly, one can easily take this too far. In connection with Alice, he uses the common instance of “doubles” in Carroll’s seminal work, to explain the concept of opposite tensions found in paradox. That is, two elements are presented as fact, each with a logical foundation in certainty. The paradox thus arises in the separation of and selection between the two disparate elements. What he concludes is that the paradox relies on this bilateral separation and tension. The first half relies on the other for coherence, as does the second; a statement is made in contradiction.  He then goes on, ad naseum, to point out additional instances of contradictory paradox in Carrol’s Alice. In this regard, I suppose this essay is not entirely useless.

On Second encounter and thought, Deleuze’s arguments are wonderfully informative and worthy of fascination.
I have recently taken on his additional “series” as a source for a paper I hope to complete by the end of the month.

If the visitor or potential contributor is to understand at all the purpose of this site, (s)he must become acquainted with Ezra Pound’s ABC of Reading. The aesthetic theory—literary, musical, visual—of Pound is unmatched. Therein, the book exposes previous attempts by others at creating a concise theory of artistic-criticism as futile and insufficient. The read is short, humorously self disparaging of Pound as literary critic, and unambiguous; one will not be easily lost between its covers.

The book’s importance lies in the inception of this site; that is, rifəlraftər’s emergence and concept are directly related to the opening statement of Pound’s work.

This site, as Pound presents his book is “for those who might like to learn. [It] is not addressed to those who have arrived at full knowledge of the subject without knowing the facts.”

As Pound states, the key aspects of intellectual growth are the admittance of one’s own ignorance, along with a voluntary willingness and a curiosity towards knowledge.

I readily admit my ignorance to you and look forward to impassioned discussion and discovery in the near future.

The text can be found on Google books via the link to the right of this page. One need not dissect it to understand Pound’s general thesis; instead, I would suggest skimming through, reading the chapters that strike you as more humorous or most worthwhile. However, many of the literary exercises explained by Pound are indispensable to one who might take on the challenge of true literary understanding and appreciation.