rifəlraftər

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.

Proust’s volumo secundo, “Within a Budding Grove,” has been veritably subdued! Onwards—gallantly, headlong into the thick of it—toward and through volume the third.

Reflections, observations, vehement fulminations are still warranted. Give it time. I am even now reeling with the “news” undoubtedly disclosed to southbound eyes.

Still…..I’m guiltily enjoying it, without knowing why I should feel guilty in doing so. The work is beautiful, plainly beautiful, and my advocacy of high modernism, against which I place Proust as a sort of over-qualified and contemporaneous preamble, has been trundling into obscurity and uncertainty as a result.

I, too, doubt the accuracy of my Latin.

As an English major with an adequate amount of the old amour propre, I have taken on the challenge of Marcel Proust’s “In Search of Lost Time.”

Reflections and reactions are bound to follow; I have only completed Vol. 1, “Swann’s Way,” and it can be said that its position as a masterpiece is fully justified. The intricacies in its architecture and syntax, which, in fact, are presented in a most simple way, are resplendent—coursing with life and hidden associations. The ambiguities present act as agents of disambiguation to what came before—I will not begin here, I hope to have the entirety of this beautiful monstrosity tamed and constrained by summer’s end.

Luck wished once is appreciated,
twice, and it is abhorred.

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 feel the need to share a discovery. There is, somewhere out there, floating within numerous bookstores across the country, an audiobook available for purchase that I consider worth the cost. It is rare to find a recording of a book commensurate with its intended effect and purpose, especially if the recording was made after the author’s death. This example proves that it is not impossible.

The book of which I speak is James Joyce’s Dubliners. Although I recommend cracking the cover and diving into Joyce’s world head first, without a backward glance, without a cowardly toe-dip, testing for the appropriate temperature, this cd would be an acceptable alternative. That is, if you aren’t absolutely convinced of Joyce’s simplicity, and stark beauty, this recording is an effective antidote against any fear or general apprehension one might have when confronted with Joyce.  Reason being: the recordings are done exclusively by Irish writers.

An aspect commonly—and sadly—overlooked in Joyce is his inherent musicality, the harmony and cadence of the words. A fact is needed: Joyce, if he hadn’t decided upon the pen, would have made an operatic debut as a tenor, superbly achieving each note with the virtuosity of the very best. Joyce, it is known, had a exemplary singing voice; Joyce was musical, never solely literary. Considering this, his writing must go hand in hand with the music of language, the sound of it. Because I assume this as necessity, and I would fancy to guess that no one reading this can achieve a hearty Irish brogue, this recording—above mentioned—is both entertaining and enlightening, offering an entirely new vantage point from which to enjoy and discover Joyce.

The readings include a recitation of “Sisters” by Frank McCourt. A link can be found under ‘Bits of Interest.’

On this day in 1950, William Faulkner was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature. Because I strongly believe that his words and themes are timeless, I will post his acceptance speech—a speech that retains every ounce of power that it held on the day it was delivered—below. Also, I will include a brief anecdote published in today’s Writer’s Almanac edited by Garrison Keillor.

It was on this day in 1950 that William Faulkner received the Nobel Prize in literature. When a Swedish correspondent in New York called to give him the news that he was being honored, Faulkner was busy working on his farm in Oxford, Mississippi, and he said, “It’s too far away. I am a farmer down here and I can’t get away.”

The man pleaded for him to go the award ceremony, and so did Faulkner’s friends, relatives, publishers, editors, agent, and other American writers. But Faulkner resisted. Finally, his wife devised a plan. Their only daughter, Jill, asked for a trip to Europe as a graduation gift — she wanted to accompany him to the ceremony in Stockholm and then go to Paris. Faulkner relented.

Faulkner was a raging alcoholic at the time, and his wife came up with another plan, this one to make sure he would be sober by the departure date. Faulkner intended to drink heavily in the days leading up to the trip. He was set to leave on a Wednesday, so the Friday before, his wife and daughter came into his bedroom and told him that it was Monday, time to start sobering up. He started to space out his drinks, but that afternoon he realized that he’d been tricked, and he drank for three more days. But he did manage to quit on Monday.

He flew to New York with his daughter on Wednesday and went to a party in his honor, where he drank Jack Daniels and came down with a fever. He and his daughter arrived in Sweden on Friday. He had continued working on his speech on the flight over. On the day of the award ceremony, he told the American ambassador that he’d never given a speech before and that he was afraid.

There was a formal dinner before the speeches. Faulkner wore a tuxedo with a white bow tie. But he hadn’t shaved, and he wore his ragged, oil-stained trench coat over his nice suit. When he got up to give his speech, he didn’t stand close enough to the microphone, and no one in the room was able to understand him. It wasn’t until the next day, when the text of the speech was printed in newspapers, that people realized what a brilliant speech he’d given.

And the speech:

I feel that this award was not made to me as a man, but to my work–a life’s work in the agony and sweat of the human spirit, not for glory and least of all for profit, but to create out of the materials of the human spirit something which did not exist before. So this award is only mine in trust. It will not be difficult to find a dedication for the money part of it commensurate with the purpose and significance of its origin. But I would like to do the same with the acclaim too, by using this moment as a pinnacle from which I might be listened to by the young men and women already dedicated to the same anguish and travail, among whom is already that one who will some day stand where I am standing.

      Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. There is only one question: When will I be blown up? Because of this, the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat. He must learn them again. He must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid: and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed–love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice. Until he does so, he labors under a curse. He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, and victories without hope and worst of all, without pity or compassion. His griefs grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes not of the heart but of the glands.

      Until he learns these things, he will write as though he stood among and watched the end of man. I decline to accept the end of man. It is easy enough to say that man is immortal because he will endure: that when the last ding-dong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking. I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. The poet’s, the writer’s, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poet’s voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.

Let it be known that Hemingway was honored with the same prize 4 years later, at an age 2 years older than Faulkner was on the date of his (Faulkner’s) commemoration. No judgment is being passed, only an observation, only a bit known as a fact.  In addition, I’ve just now looked back and realized how blandly written the Writer’s Almanac piece was; apologies are in order on behalf of Garrison Keillor. Though, after all, it’s to be expected…I’m not a huge fan.

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.