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kenneth burke

Aristotle defines phronesis in the following manner:

We may grasp the nature of prudence [phronesis] if we consider what sort of people we call prudent. Well, it is thought to be the mark of a prudent man to be able to deliberate rightly about what is good and advantageous . . . But nobody deliberates about things that are invariable . . . So . . . prudence cannot be science [episteme] or art [techne]; not science because what can be done is a variable (it may be done in different ways, or not done at all), and not art because action and production are generically different. For production aims at an end other than itself; but this is impossible in the case of action, because the end is merely doing well. What remains, then, is that it is a true state, reasoned, and capable of action with regard to things that are good or bad for man . . . We consider that this quality belongs to those who understand the management of households or states.

Phronesis is the other side of the beautiful conveyed in aesthetics (which means the beautiful and the good); it is that which is prudent, which makes art a living framework for living, “equipment for living” as Kenneth Burke phrased it. The word brought down into early Roman virtue is prudentia (prudence); someone recently called me their “prudent” friend, a charge I have never before received and am likely never to receive again.

Prudence, as Aristotle defines it, is neither the arts nor sciences, but the ability to conduct one’s self, and the business of the state wisely. In a sense, it is praxis as art is poesis and science (theoria). Aristotle separates these into categories, but the question that perhaps belongs most to phronesis is: how do we put into practice theoria and poesis? What is the responsible and living, active principle of either in our lives? When someone poopoos the arts as so much silliness or disparages science that does not have immediate practical application, are they acting out of phronesis, true praxis, or are they merely insisting on an absolute succession to praxis with theoria being too esoteric, and poesis being too inconsequential for consideration?

This is an important question for the Redux movement I belong to: redux, by using the broken and thrown away, by seeing beauty and ugliness as part of the same category of the grotesque as Averroes (A follower of Aristotle) did, risks pleasing neither those in science, the arts, or the polis, since what Redux wishes to introduce is a fourth category, or rather an appendage to the preceding three: theoria, praxis, poesis, and the posibility, the perhaps of deviation, digression, brokeness, incongruity, what might be called the comic misstep that becomes a dance. Redux is interested in the possibility that remains when things do not go as expected, as planned or as one wills. We are interested in anomaly, in what scientists insist is mere white noise, and what artists would consider mistakes. We are interested in seeing the universe as a series of pratfalls into grace, and so are loathe to believe in the following:

- Standards: not because we think art is subjective, but because we believe mistakes, sub-standards, and deviations may contain amazing power and value.

- Materials: we have two ways of thwarting such seemingly airtight aphorisms as “the medium is the message.” One is the “perspective by incongruity” as Kenneth Burke framed it (and which we “misuse” in so far as we extend it to matters of the spirit, and live in such seeming oxymoronic realms as “holy impiety” and “obedience as systemic deconstruction”). The second is the “Bethlehem principle”, which states that nothing ever grows from where it is expected, but happens in a “Bethlehem” that is inevitable “after the fact.” A preceding “after the fact” engages all aesthetics–the mistake that becomes the standard. For this reason, we consider all materials to be usable, possible, and appropriate, and seek to disengage from the consumer nexus of semiotic congruity and categorical tagging.

- Purity: Purity is impossible save in God or some concept which would approach God insofar as it is ultimate ground and source of all being. Redux advocates an ongoing and humble practice of impurity–what William’s called “by defective means.” We do not trust the pure, though we also do not trust the idea that there can be no absolutes. We believe there is an absolute which, the moment it is touched, approached, named, or pointed toward breaks into a million pieces and is “bedraggled.” We seek the bedraggled, we seek the Bethlehem. We seek the comedy of failures and success as being both equally beside the point. And so we are loathe to embrace Standards, materials, or purity in any conventional sense, believing the embrace of these leads to the very opposite of their intents: not virtue, but the arbitrary power and imposition of standards, materials, and purity in such a way as to create evil which we see as intentional thwarting of the good via envy, territorial desire, and the maintaining of power and privilege as “sacre” (ground set apart).

We call the appendage to theoria, praxis and poesis: Eucharist. Redux believes in eucharist. Eucharistic reality is that which can embrace the broken, the impure, the impious, the mistake, and also beauty virtue, rightness, within the framework of “living bread.” We believe that theoria, praxis, and poesis are worthless without eucharist, that they are indeed, all three truly activated only when they have received eucharistic energy–living bread. The dynamic of spirit, the receiving of spirit as that arbitrary power which goes where it wll, which plumbs even the depths of ultimate groundings without ever being “Subject” but, rather co-equal to those groundings is the agent, transfer, and mode of action in eucharist. Redux then seeks out and celebrates this dynamic in eucharist. We see eucharist as the tendon, and sinew of theoria, praxis and poesis, and we make provision for defective means– something which theoria, praxis, and poesis can never, in and of themselves, make provision for. This is the theoria, if you will, of redux.

As for its praxis, all that which is motley, a sincere bringing together of often incongruent dynamics: poetry readings that are aspects of high vaudeville, art exhibits that use any material at hand, most often that which has been thrown away, what might be called garbage art–graffiti as very much a vital eucharistic mode of artistic action as the “gesture,” the scribble, the sheer dynamic of improvised structures. Art as ritual, as ceremony, as an invocation of presence, and not the presence of the gate keepers, but of those who would open the gates: a free for all, but not without terminus, for Redux believes that true obedience to “No standards at all” will invariably lead to true value–that beyond standards, that beneath-which-not which is organic to human apprehension of the beautiful and the good.

We will define eucharistia as all that is truly bread in the dynamic of theoria, praxis and poesis, and yet is not subject to the “perfection” of these categories, but which lives in the free dynamic and interplay– and in the Bethlehem we can not apprehend save through prophetic vision– that which is right and inevitable only “after the fact.” This Bethlehem principle does not challenge or disparage Jerusalem, but merely knows that Eucharistia can not, by its very nature, favor Jerusalem–the agreed upon ideal–for then it would be subject to the law of standards, and Eucharistia is subject to no law. For this reason, as readily as it takes a broken piece of wood and draws upon it, it is just as likely to turn and write a sonnet. Eucharistia is that force which seeks to complete what is lacking in theoria, praxis and poesis at any one moment in space/time: sometimes, order and sometimes disorder. It is purposeful to the extent that it is a living bread, an aesthetic that privileges the energy of exuberance over all other energies, and so, to the degree that hiptserism is about cool and detached appreciation, Redux is antithetical to the elan of hipsterism (while not necessarily rejecting it outright). Redux sees beauty and ugliness as being joined as energetic principles of eucharistia–the dynamic of living bread.

In Eucharistia, not the immoral or amoral, but the pre-moral that leads to the beautiful and the good.

In Eucharistia, not the imperfect, or the perfect, but the dynamic between them

In Eucharistia, not action or motion, but percipient action and love of force and energy within the realm of perhaps.

In Eucharistia, not peace without violence, but a merge point that claims the ferocity of peace, and the calm at the center of flux.

In Eucharistia: the broken brought home to its magisterial rites within the living bread: love of the poor, love of vital energy, love of the being born into agon (birth pain), love of struggle, ongoing appraisal and protest against one’s own comfort zones, the daily, hourly practice of being ready for the spirit to annihilate one into being. Reinstituting of inspiration and afflatus over the factory model of excellence based on “Standards.” Whim as a form of virtue, constancy as grace.

I was sitting on the throne a few minutes ago, reading Hannah Arendt’s Vita Activa, specifically the part called “The Location of Human Activities” and, as I was reading, I realized no one suggests to students how to converse with a book while they are reading it. We “receive” the information, highlight what we think is important (which I suppose is analogous to culling the herd) and re-read what we do not understand. But there is another way to read a book, and that is by allowing other texts we have read to intrude, to interrupt the text at hand, to gather the force of our past readings, and to hold a conversation with the work before us. This is somewhat how Coleridge read, his mind leaping between texts, and thoughts, and contexts–reading as a sort of extroverted comedy of manners.

I have not read Hannah Arendt in years, and I can admit that I am most familiar with what I’ll call her “buzz” concepts: The banality of evil, and the subject of labor and action. So I did what I always do when reading a non-narrative: I opened the book at random, in media res, and trusted in the gods of chance. This is what I first read:

although the distinction between private and public coincides with the opposition of necessity and freedom, of futility and permanence, and, finally, of shame and honor, it is by no means true that only the necessary, the futile, and the shameful have their proper place in the private realm.

So I’m looking that over and I think Kenneth Burke’s scene/act ratio, the “private realm” as a “scene” with certain actions both moral and immoral, or good and evil ,appropriate to it. I write down Google Kenneth Burke’s “Scene/act ratio.” But then another thing strikes me: “necessity and freedom, futility and honor” are not exactly perfect fits where opposites are concerned. Something may be “futile,” yet “permanent.” A better oppositional pairing would be permanence and change (or flux), which is the title of a book by Kenneth Burke. But Burke’s book is not on my mind. I wonder if in the original German (I think Arendt wrote this in German) these terms were in a more standard sense oppositional (binary, dualistic, take your pick). What is the antonym for permanence in German, and what is the antonym for futility? (Look them up, I think.) If she wrote this in English, then perhaps she has a reason for not using perfectly oppositional terms. Still, they seem to be structured for opposition, with freedom, permanence, and honor wearing the white hats, and necessity, futility, and shame wearing the black. We shall see, I think.

Finally, she claims that it is by no means true that only the necessary, the futile and the shameful (those banditos) have their place in the private realm. So I continue to see if she adds something:

The most elementary meaning of the two realms indicates that there are things that need to be hidden and others that need to be displayed publicly of they are to exist at all.” So my mind leaps to the age old adage/question: “if a tree falls in the forest and nobody hears it, does it make a sound?

Somehow this seems relevant to me. But she is saying something different. Because “if they are to exist at all” is tagged onto the end of the sentence, does it refer only to “things that need to be displayed,” or to both things that need to be displayed and to things that need to be hidden? If she includes both, then she is saying something strange and provocative: “Some things must be hidden in order to exist.” I think “latent,” “percipient as possible correlations of things that exist as hidden, but they are not things so much as pure abstractions of things to be, or things not yet come to light.” I think “quintessential”–all that cannot be seen, and exists, not “in spite of” but because of it being hidden. My brain is starting to race, and I leap to Kant who said that moral actions done out of fear of punishment or public censure were not as moral as moral acts done out of the motivation to do good. Of course, we cannot see a person’s “motivation” except through clues, through implications. A man giving a thousand dollars to a beggar and a man giving a dime are not showing their motivation. The one giving a thousand might be doing it to show off, while the one giving a dime might be poor and unable to give more, but he is doing it out of the bottom of his heart (e.g., the widow’s mite; actually Christ never speaks of the widow’s motivation for giving all she had to live on. She may have done it out of fear of looking cheap. She may have done it hoping to purge herself of guilt. Who knows? We only know she gave all she had to live on.)

So I can’t remember where Kant speaks of this, and before I am even done with the first paragraph, I have Burke, the German language, dialectical opposition, an age old adage in the form of a question, the parable of the widow’s mite, and Immanuel Kant all joining me in the bathroom! It’s getting crowded here.

Universities will tell you not to leap like that. It’s unsystematic. It leads to “error.” It’s digression from the task at hand. Stay focused! We are taught to see the text before us as a singular performance, and to watch it accordingly, trying to understand its meaning and actions, and highlighting what we think is “important.” This is not how Midrash or Biblical commentaries work, and it is not how the human mind truly learns. To reduce learning to uber-focus is to go directly against the grain of pontification (building a pont, a bridge between disparate thoughts, feelings and actions). The brain limited to a single focus can become narrow in either the best or worst sense. Best sense: it is sharp and can cut through the text and leave all the most important points on the table while the other material (everything in the universe, including the parts of the text that are not highlighted) on the floor.

For someone who has a methodical type of mind and limited frame of reference, this may prove the best method. It is the best method for scholarship, but not always the best for theory. They are different. Scholars must plod. Theorists must leap. Unfortunately, most schools of higher learning take a dim view of leaping. They may even punish it and say, Kant, Jesus, Burke, old adages, the widows mite are all beside the point. Stick to the point!

But points themselves are abstractions. What is the point of sticking to the point? It is a good thing for a scholar or an accountant not to be creative. The dyslogistic term for creative is nonsense and bullshit. But I am not afraid of looking foolish. After all, I am reading and thinking all this on the toilet. Am I devoid of system? Not at all, but my system of active, leaping reading is against the grain of academic learning. I can do it privately, in the silence of my mind, but God forbid I should post it on Facebook. So, I have not yet gotten through the first paragraph and I have the following list:

- Google Burke’s scene act ration.
- Google German words.
- Consider Kant on morality and motivation.
- Consider the widows mite as an act of public charity whose motivation is hidden, and can only exist if it is hidden.
- Wait for Hannah to say what may be added to necessity, futility and shame in the private realm.

Well, Hannah never tells us what may be added. At least not immediately. She goes right back to mentioning the two realms of private and public. Her main focus is location, not what might be added, but I’m a little pissed off at her. She is teasing me. Get to the point Hannah! What can be added? What can be added? I read on:

If we look at these things, regardless of where we find them in any given civilization, we shall see that each human activity points to its proper location in the world.

That’s not an easy sentence. First off, what are “these things” we are looking at? The realm of private and public? If so, then she is saying that “regardless of where we may find them in civilization” ( no matter where they are), we shall see that each human activity points its proper location in the world. So let’s assume “these things” means private and public realms. I place that where “these things” are:

If we look at the private and public realms, regardless of where we find them in any given civilization, we shall see that each human activity points to its proper location in the world.

Is each human activity to be understood as a subset of public and private realms, as an “Act” in the scene of the public and private? But if it doesn’t matter where they are in a given civilization, then how the hell can their activities point out their proper location in the world? Well, that’s tough. I like to wrestle. I’m sweating on the throne. Wrestling with half-said things that only get expanded on a hundred pages later is half the fun of theory and philosophy. A philosophy that has no loose ends allows no room for further thought. It is, itself, a closed system.

But I am a little angry here. Damn it, Hannah, are you saying that we do not know the realms of private and public except by their activities? Are you saying that only then do we know their proper location? If so, so be it. I don’t know. The jury is out. Now here I am at a loss. She is either saying that, or she has just transformed “realms” (scenes) of public and private into action/activities of public and private. That makes sense. The words scene and act are meant to be confused (look at drama). There are places where action becomes scenic (as in making the scene), and there are actions which embody certain “Scenes.” Of all the odd thoughts that come into my mind at this moment I remember a story by John Updike “A&P” in which two girls walk in from the beach, in bikinis, to buy, if I remember correctly, a can of sardines. On the beach, their wardrobe is “appropriate,” but, in the glaring light of the A&P they create a stir. So what is inappropriate? Their action? Or the scene of their action. Or are they a scene? (Think of the cliché “making a scene”). I file this odd thought away. It is tied in to attitude to a scene/act, and how one perceives a scene and the actions appropriate to it. Bikini on a beach? Appropriate. Bikini under the glaring light of a supermarket in the early sixties? Public lewdness. I think that when I bring Hannah Arndt to one of the groups in my class, I will have them read the Updike story and relate it to “the location of human activities.” So I read on:

This is true for the chief activities of the Vita Activa (Active life), labor, work, and action; but there is one, admittedly extreme, example of this phenomenon, whose advantage for illustration is that it played a considerable role in political theory.

We have reached the end of the first paragraph. Now I am waiting for two things: 1. What is added to necessity, futility, and shame? 2. What is this one example that plays a considerable role in political theory? Well, actually, I am waiting for a third: what are those things which must be hidden in order to exist?

Goodness in an absolute sense is what Hannah leads the next paragraph off with, as distinguished from the “good-for” or the “excellent” in Greek and Roman Antiquity. She says goodness in this sense became known only with the rise of Christianity. Oh my God, my digressions were intuitions. I trusted my meandering and look! I might be on to something! Is goodness the thing added to the private realm in addition to necessity, futility, and shame? I read further, and yes! So Hannah is not merely making oppositional pairs. She goes on to say that the Christian idea of goodness in an absolute sense survived the expected “last days,” the “eschatological expectations” of the coming end times. It survived the Roman empire, and the “other worldliness” on which it is based had another root (beyond waiting for the end times) perhaps more intimately related to the teachings of Jesus of Nazareth. She writes in the third paragraph:

The one activity taught by Jesus in word and deed is the activity of goodness, and goodness obviously harbors a tendency to hide from being seen or heard.

So necessity, futility, shame, and goodness! These things exist only by being hidden from public view. That seems to be the gist. I have part of my questions answered. She continues:

Christian hostility toward the public realm, the tendency at least of early Christians to lead a life as far removed from the public realm as possible, can also be understood as a self-evident consequence of devotion to good works, independent of all beliefs and expectations. For it is manifest that the moment a good work becomes known and public, it loses its specific character of goodness, of being done for nothing but goodness sake [I think Gratis, grace, for good alone]. When goodness appears openly, it is no longer goodness, though it may still be useful [Kant's use criteria and distinction between moral and truly moral] as organized charity or an act of solidarity. [Because I have spent my life reading the Gospels I think “Do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing.”].

She continues:

Therefore: “take heed that ye do not your alms before men, to be seen of them.” Goodness can exist only when it is not perceived, not even by its author; whoever sees himself performing a good work is no longer good, but at best a useful member of society or a dutiful member of a church. Therefore: “let not thy left hand know what thy right hand is doeth.”

Bingo! I have let my mind digress to other texts while I read. I have read closely, but I have also read intuitively and through a series of digressions–of Midrash and commentary. This has lead me to anticipate Arendt’s moves before they appear on the page. It looks like magic, but it isn’t.

So here’s my break down:
- Scholarship: incremental and focused learning.
- Theory: Learning how to leap and conjecture, to be creative and risk taking.
- Pont–consciousness, the consciousness that creates bridges between disparate texts, and thereby mitigates the worst dangers of leaping, and circumvents the worst sort of incremental narrowness. It’s a hybrid of scholarship and theory.

Of course, I had read some Kant, and the story “A&P” (which I am sure Hannah will somehow make relevant at some point). I have read Burke extensively. I have not read much Kant, or much Arendt, but enough to make leaps. I have read the Bible all my life, probably the whole of it a hundred times.

But there are still some loose ends here: how can goodness be included with necessity, futility, and shame? Isn’t that odd? Arendt answers that very question in the next paragraph:

It may be this curious negative quality of goodness, the lack of out-ward phenomenal manifestation, that makes Jesus of Nazareth’s appearance in history such a profoundly paradoxical event; it certainly seems to be the reason why he thought and taught no man can be good… the same conviction finds its expression in the Talmudic story of the thirty-six righteous men, for the sake of whom God saves the world and who are also known to nobody, least of all to themselves. We are reminded of Socrates’ great insight that no man can be wise, out of which love for wisdom, or philo-sophy, was born; the whole life story of Jesus seems to testify how love for goodness arises out of the insight that no man can be good.

Before I read these third and fourth paragraphs I was ready to clobber Hannah Arndt for saying “goodness” was at the heart of Jesus’ teaching. I was going to argue that the “love of goodness” and the impossibility of goodness save through God is at the heart of his teaching. Hannah made this unnecessary.

The point of all this is to teach you an alternative way to read texts. You may say: “but Joe, I don’t know the books you do… I lack the reading to do what you do.” But there are the texts of your own life experience, of television shows, of entertainments, from which you can meet the text before you. In point of fact, we all do this. We bring whole, often conflicting worlds to a text. This is my point: trust your intuition. Do not consider your digressions unimportant. Note them, follow them up. I now could take these three paragraphs and make a reading list:

- Kant’s philosophy of morals
- Scene/act ratio in Burke, and its relation to both the story of “A&P” and the narrator’s own hidden motives, and his own hidden good that is not recognized as good, or ceases to be good the moment he becomes righteous about it.
- The relation of goodness to necessity, futility and shame in terms of the saintly practices of mortification, repentance, fasting, and persecution (St. John of the Cross).

Is Arendt right that goodness ceases to be goodness once it is public? If so, is it because its public expression then obscures its hidden motives? What about the public works and charities of churches and universities. By this schema of goodness as a hidden act, must all such public work be perceived as being suspect? What is the “good” in public works? (read The Prince, especially the part on public good works). Arendt continues to say that both wisdom and goodness cancel themselves out the moment they are aware of themselves as wisdom or goodness. What does that say about public institutions of learning or religion? Consider the word “toward” in relation to not being good or wise, but Loving and moving toward the good and wise.

I could go on. Knowing me, I will go on. This is how I read. It is always how I read. It is an alternative to the usual style of study. If I teach this work of Arendt, I will break a group of six into readings of Burke, Kant, the Gospel, the writings of St. John of The Cross, The Prince, and the story “A&P.” They will have Arendt’s work in common, but they will each read one of these separate works and then they will relate them to Arendt’s “the Location of Human Activities.” I will leave it open to them whether or not they wish to read the whole of the Vita Activa. If they do, Emma Goldman, Simone Weil’s ideas of necessity and physical labor can all be brought in. I now have a whole world of possibility out of three paragraphs, rather than reading an entire text and having no possibilities at all.

Possible papers:
- Kenneth Burke’s scene/act ratio in relation to Updike’s story “A&P” (you can throw Kant in there, too).
- Location in Hannah Arndt’s Vita Activa and how it might relate to the old saying in real estate : “Location, location, location.” (make a bridge between the tenets of real estate and its selling tactics and that of philosophy—especially Hannah Arendt).
- A study of A Doll’s House by Ibsen in relation to what Hannah Arendt says about goodness being impossible once it is a public act (the relationship between public “goodness” and keeping up appearances).
- A paper in which a poem is analyzed for its private thread of goodness.

This is one way of reading different than the usual methods. I went to the bathroom and came out with part of my course. I am often accused of lacking structure, but very complex or intuitive structures can appear to be unstructured. Chaos appears to be unstructured and yet chaotic form is only a more complex structure. It is randomness that is unstructured–not chaos. Tell me if you think what I have done here is closer to randomness or to the more complex structures of chaos? I swear that I did not read ahead. Intuition is not magic, but rather quick pattern recognition informed by educated hunches that refer back to other moments, other times. It is the ability we have to somehow know the whole or its possibility through a single piece. Intuition is not a rational function, yet it is at the heart of all scientific as well as literary creativity.

I figured I’d post these. Many poets employ them without ever knowing their names, and that seems to work, but I like knowing the names of things. There’s something thrilling and wise ass to me about going through the world, saying: “Oh look! A Eurasian tree sparrow!” At age six, I fell in love with a girl because she would say things like “isn’t the planet Venus lovely tonight? Look, Joseph, it is rising over the Chivas Regal billboard sign across the street!” Who wouldn’t love a girl who talked like that? I guess a lot of people might find her a trifle pedantic, but the pedantry of never being allowed to know anything gets on my nerves. It’s as if everyone were being stingy and saving it up for a test or waiting for me to make a mistake so that they could hammer me over the head with my own ignorance. This little girl was generous, and her bestowing of information seemed forthright. She taught me birds, and planets, and little facts about rivers that ran backwards. I loved her. So it is in memory of her, forever lost in the murky waters of my past, that I post rhetorical devices for the next two or three posts, hoping someday, a person reading these might turn to their companion and say: “Oh look James, a stunning example of chiasmus!”

Let’s start with Anadiplosis (and discover others along the way). I love this name. I think of it as “Anna Di Plosis, a stunning old woman from Florence who knows how to hold her scotch (in her herbal tea) Anadiplosis pretty much means to begin the next phrase as you ended the previous. It could be one word, or a couple words. I’ll give you an example:

Wind rousted waves,
waves tousled and torn
torn from all thought and all humor:
Humor me if you will:
Kiss the bright hem of my garment,
garment of silk, and inlaid pearls,
pearls milk white as your foam,
foam that has carried the stars,
and will carry them back,
back where all pearls are born.
kiss the gold sandaled feet of Deirdre,
Deirdre, of the sorrows
this pearl tossed into the sea.

Now even though this poem has no regular meter, it sounds metered. In point of fact, it sounds like something more than meter, and that something more is what I call “invocative pulse.” Whitman has invocative pulse beyond any American poet. Invocative pulse is born from rhetorical devices such as Anaphora, enumeration, apostrophic address, and, in this case, anadiplosis. Invocative pulse functions in both poetry and prose that is meant to give a sense of speechifying– not casual speech, but the speech of orators and bards. When the modernists came along, they purged poetry of more than just regular meter and rhyme. They took away most other rhetorical devices as well. Ginsberg, following along the line of Whitman, made popular again the act of speechifying. To many ears raised on modernist and postmodernist free verse, deeply invocative poetry sounds over blown and tacky, but, to many ears longing to hear something out of ordinary journalistic speech, the free verse written bereft of all rhetorical devices, sounds flat and drab. To those who hunger for sound, a poem stripped of all such devices is neither poetry, nor even well varied prose

No poet escapes rhetoric entirely. I see rhetoric (persuasion by ear) as a sort of ongoing address to the sea, to posterity, even when it’s being used to address a rotary club. Such poems have a sense of ritual. We might call it eloquence. Sounding appeals to us through more than mere information. Using Kenneth Burke’s definition of form, and modifying it somewhat: “The building of and fulfillment of a desire in an audience or reader beyond mere information.”These devices were a vital part of the oral tradition, and one can still hear their echoes in speeches and legal documents. Used in moderation, they don’t have to sound high-falutin. And that is your first mission: write a short prose piece or poem that uses anadiplosis. Example:

Fuck (A blow to The Head)

So, like she clocks her brother Igor upside the head with this enormous cabbage? Cabbages can be lethal, man. Man, the poor dude goes down for the count, I mean he’s out, and starts foaming at the mouth–Mouth, full of drool and blood, no shit, and she’s standing over him like the queen of Sheba… hey, what time is it? It better not be nine dude. Dude, If it’s nine, I’m fucked. Fuck it. I’m fucked.

Certainly not eloquent, but it can help render this idiot’s character just by the way it sounds and, here, the anadiplosis just seems part and parcel of his poverty of speech.

There are other rhetorical devices employed in the first example: personification, apostrophic address (talking to something that does not usually talk back: like the dead, or the sea, or America, or a microwave). Alliteration figures into the poem: wind/ waves, tousled/torn. Anadiplosis could also be considered identical rhyme (rhyming look with look). I want to call rhymes that take place at the end and the beginning of lines Anadiplosic rhyme. Example:

Diving Into The Sea

I dove into the sea,
me, who never swam.
Damn it was cold.
Old men ogled my tits.
Bits of sea weed got caught in my hair.
There is no way I’ll do that again.
Amen.

I guess the point of this beyond giving you some names is to show that there are hundreds of ways to create invocative pulse beyond rhyme and meter. Most of the devices of rhetoric are sonic, rhythmic, and mimetic—usually all three. They originated in a time when words were heard rather than read. Usually, when a poet declares that he writes poems that are meant to be read on the page, and only on the page what he really is telling me is that he hates “sounding.”In a sense, he has been won over to the rhetoric of silence and has a pure streak, but even punctuation “sounds.” It is meant to control and vary the speed at which we read. Even the white space is deeply rhetorical, whether we admit it or not. A period is a call to a full stop. A comma is a lesser pause. All this belongs to rhetoric since it is about pulse, the persuasion of varied or regular pulse.

If you want to escape all rhetoric, you are out of luck. Poets who hate their poems leaving the page often read in as flat and uninteresting a tone as possible. Often, very arrogant haters of poetry read aloud will ignore their own punctuation and just read through the periods, commas, or white space. This is childish and stingy, and is based on no aesthetic merit save meanness and hatred of sounding. Of course, too much rhetorical might can piss anyone off, but violent, “on the page” poets (I love calling them violent) are not being honest. The reader will impose a rhythm as he reads where none exists. Not finding any rhetorical devices, the reader will usually create them. So even if you are poet of the page, and nothing but the page so help me God, it is good for you to know the devices of rhetoric, if only to avoid them.

Assignment: write a poem using apostrophic address, anadiplosis, and alliteration. Then take the poem and strip them of all these devices. Good luck.

1. The traditional book was based on a form that needed capital, influence, etc. This meant that gatekeepers were required. Getting through the gates endowed an author with certain benefits: editing, layout, publicity, and—perhaps most important—legitimacy.

a. The system inevitably mistakes its own guardians of capital for guardians of true literary value. Certainly these interests aligned sometimes (for better or for worse, depending on your views about the idea of “canon”—to many, the values of capital and canon are one and the same).

b. Some publishers were started with the expressed purpose of aligning these values, with varying levels of success based upon their capitalization. I think, perhaps New Directions if the best example of this. James Laughlin was a poet who couldn’t hack it according to Ezra Pound. Pound suggested he use his sizable independent wealth to subsidize a publishing house. Other reputable, non-commercial presses (Graywolf, etc.) have other ways of being subsidized, through membership programs, fundraising, grants, etc. Even for these non-commercial presses, though, capital is still a primary concern. These presses may not be looking to make a lot of money off their books, but they are at least trying to invest capital in something “worthwhile”—therefore they have gatekeepers.

c. Borders, Barnes & Noble, and Amazon are the natural outgrowth of the book publishing industry since protection of capital was always a primary concern for it. These book sellers put the squeeze on the presses that try to align the values of capital and literary value. Eventually it has become a battle for the various middle-men between author and reader to cut each other out. Right now it seems Amazon is winning because it is most able to adapt to the coming systemic changes.

2. Self-publishing has always been a possible way to challenge this system, yet it was not fundamentally different. It still required a capital investment on the part of the writer (or perhaps a co-op) and respected the medium of the book as such.

3. E-books fundamentally change the game. E-books require almost no capital investment from writers, editors, publishers, because the system of creation and distribution is already existent and available to everyone. Until now, many publishers have treated e-books as an extension of the book: hardcover, paperback, e-book. It’s not; it’s an entirely different medium.

a. McLuhan said that new mediums always revive aspects of old ones (think about how the car reinvigorated the trope of the knight in shining armor). In this sense, the e-book is in the form of the book, but it is most definitely not the book, traditionally conceived. The information contained in e-books is limitlessly reproducible. Moreover, printers don’t produce them; readers do when they post, email, copy, send the works to each other.

b. “Tribal” (decentralized, more consensus/trend-based, foreign to the modern individuals who think of themselves as independent opinion machines that can vote) systems of distribution will rule. New power centers will be those who determine the rules of these new tribal systems. The new publisher redlemona.de recognizes this.

c. “Tribal” systems threaten modern, interiorized individuals. The book as it has existed up until now is based on the idea of an individual, rationally absorbing and considering the content contained in a book. Thus, the success of e-books will probably lead to the end of book culture as we have come to know it.

d. As e-books gain influence, people will read books differently, not to understand new ideas as much as to participate (this has actually been happening for a long time now, I think). Content will shift accordingly. People will “like” e-books more and more. E-books will be published for the same reasons people read them.

e. E-books will probably be eclipsed/absorbed by something within the same medium (i.e., still using “readers”) eventually. They may still be called e-“books,” but it will probably be like the way we still call an unpublished work a “manuscript” (Written with our hands? Really?).

4. Everyone will probably be a self-publisher in the future of e-books (or if there are still publishers, they will play a minimal role). People probably won’t make much money on books in the future, though they may acquire various forms of social capital. Whether these forms of social capital will feed them remains yet to be seen.

NOTES:
*I hope these thoughts will start a discussion, rather than be considered a manifesto (see point 3.d).
*A lot of these ideas are extensions of McLuhan, Joe Weil, and Kenneth Burke (mostly via Joe Weil).

 

Possible objections

1. Thus far, the only people I know that own Kindles are serious traditional book readers. They very much fit the model of the rational modern individual who reads.

Response: E-books are still gaining traction and it makes sense that those interested would be the people most invested in the older model (but desiring, perhaps, a more efficient, updated version). But as a trend, e-books are definitely on the rise and it’s only a matter of time until it grows.

2. Books are already dead. Who cares about e-books?

Response: E-books as an extension of print books share the mutual death. But my argument is that e-books are not extensions of traditional books, but rather a new beast wearing the mantle of the old one.

3. Other objections in comments box?

At the insistent behest of Joe Weil I have picked up a few Kenneth Burke books. In Joe’s opinion, Burke is one of the great American minds who has been unjustly put out of fashion. The more I read Burke, the more I agree with Joe. I’ve found that Burke’s explanations of art resonate with me as an artist. For example, Burke’s essay “The Poetic Process” (from Counter-Statement) delineates the relationship between the “emotion” that inspires writing, symbol, and technical form in an incredibly believable way.

Burke begins with dreams:

…at times we look back on the dream and are mystified at the seemingly unwarranted emotional responses which the details “aroused” in us. Trying to convey to others the emotional overtones of this dream, we laboriously recite the details, and are compelled at every turn to put in such confessions of defeat as “There was something strange about the room,” or “for some reason or other I was afraid of this boat, although there doesn’t seem any good reason now.”

This is because, as Burke says, “the details were not the cause of the emotion; the emotion, rather, dictated the selection of details…Similarly, a dreamer may awaken himself with his own hilarious laughter, and be forthwith humbled as he recalls the witty saying of his dream. For the delight in the witty saying came first (was causally prior) and the witty saying itself was merely the externalization, or individuation, of his delight.”

In what seems to be the inverse of Eliot’s “objective correlative,” the emotion directions the choice of imagery. The imagery becomes “symbol” at this point. Burke compares this to a grandparent who tries to share all the details of his or her childhood as a way to communicate the “overtones” of the experience. The grandparent wants to express themselves, their feelings.

Yet an artist does not want to express their feelings. Rather, they want to evoke emotion in the audience: “The maniac attains self-expression when he tells us that he is Napoleon; but Napoleon attained self-expression by commanding an army….transferring the analogy, the self-expression of an artist, qua artist, is not distinguished by the uttering of emotion, but by the evocation of emotion.” One of the most dreaded things I hear is somebody describing their own personal poetry as self-expression. I don’t dread it because I begrudge that person’s personal art, but usually because a request to read their work and give feedback follows. And almost always the work is terrible. Why? Because it’s solely concerned with self-expression and the would-be poet feels no obligation to anyone but his or herself. A person like that will not hear any advice; they seek affirmation. Our writing goals are not the same. As Burke puts it “If, as humans, we cry out that we are Napoleon, as artists we seek to command an army.”

This is not to say that there is no element of self-expression in poetry. There certainly is, according to Burke. But “it is inevitable that all initial feelings undergo some transformation when being converted into the mechanism of art….Art is translation, and every translation is a compromise (although, be it noted, a compromise which may have new virtues of its own, virtues not part of the original).” The private poet cannot stand to compromise on their feelings and, as a result, they often write terrible poetry. But in the poetic process, a poet realizes there is compromise. This leads to a concern about the “impersonal mechanical processes” of evocation, and, eventually, leads the artist to a place where the means of expression are an end in itself. At this moment, we are in the realm of technique.

In short, we begin with emotion, which dictates choice of symbol, for which the systematic concern thereof creates technique. Tom Sleigh once memorably asked my MFA class “do you, as a poet, logos into eros or eros into logos?” I forget what my answer was at the moment since I was stubborn and probably more concerned with subverting the question. Burke’s essay, however, has interesting parallels. (For the record, today I’d probably say, with Burke, that I eros into logos, which might account for a recent turn toward formalism in my poetry.)

Before ending, I want to note the parallel between Burke’s point and my point (via Rexroth–or, more accurately, Rexroth via me) about Tu Fu, who I described as writing in a way that suggests “that the category break [between feeling and image/symbol] is weaker than we think. The image (object) is already interpreted: ‘values are the way we see things.’” If Burke’s description of the poetic process is accurate, Tu Fu’s poem is actually winding backward toward the origin of his poetry, backwards through the linked images interpreting one another, back toward the initial thought/emotion/impulse which led to the first decision to communicate, to attempt evocation.