The term postmodernism has been defined in many different ways, and many critics and authors disagree on even its most basic precepts. However, many agree that, in literature, postmodernism represents the rejection of the modernist tenets of rational, historical, and scientific thought in favor of self-conscious, ironic, and experimental works. In many of these works, the authors abandon the concept of an ordered universe, linear narratives, and traditional forms to suggest the malleability of truth and question the nature of reality itself, dispensing with the idea of a universal ordering scheme in favor of artifice, temporality and a reliance on irony. Many postmodern writers believe that language is inherently unable to convey any semblance of the external world, and that verbal communication is more an act of conflict than an expression of rational meaning. Therefore, much work classified as postmodern displays little attention to realism, characterization, or plot. Time is often conveyed as random and disjointed; commonplace situations are depicted alongside surreal and fantastic plot developments, and the act of writing itself becomes a major focus of the subject matter. Many works feature multiple beginnings and endings. Much postmodern fiction relies on bricolage, which is the liberal use of fragments of preexisting literary material to create a work that places a higher value on newness than on originality. Postmodernism is generally considered to emanate from the social and political ferment of the 1960s. The Prague Spring of 1968 in Czechoslovakia, the Algerian War of Independence, and student protests in France and the United States are believed by critics to indicate a profound distrust in historical and cultural traditions, as well as modernist notions of progress, objectivity, and reason. French philosopher Jacques Derrida is credited as the foremost proponent of postmodern thought, particularly for his concept of deconstructionism. Any work that relies on words to convey meaning, according to Derrida, can be interpreted in many, often contradictory, ways. A thorough textual analysis of such a work reveals that the original author's perception, what he or she declares, is inherently different from what the author describes. Because the term is open to many different interpretations, many diverse works are classified as postmodern. While many works labeled postmodern do not strictly adhere to any formal tenets, a great number of them borrow postmodern techniques and devices, including discontinuous time, recurring characters, irony, and authorial intrusions. Postmodern works also evidence the belief that there is no distinction between reality and fiction, much like there is no inherent relationship between words and the objects they are meant to signify.
Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror (poetry) 1975
Houseboat Days (poetry) 1977
The Sot-Weed Factor (novel) 1960; revised 1967
Giles Goat-Boy; Or, The Revised Syllabus (novel) 1966
The Teachings of Don B.: Satires, Parodies, Fables, Illustrated Stories, and Plays of Donald Barthelme (short stories and plays) 1998
Writing Degree Zero (criticism) 1967
Critical Essays (criticism) 1972
Mythologies (criticism) 1973
The Pleasure of the Text (criticism) 1975
The Mirror of Production (criticism) 1975
In the Shadow of the Silent Majorities; Or, The End of the Social, and Other Essays (essays) 1983
Simulations (criticism) 1983
Illuminations (criticism) 1968
Little Big Man (novel) 1964
Jorge Luis Borges
Ficciones (short stories) 1944
The Aleph (short stories) 1949
Other Inquisitions (essays) 1952
(The entire section is 406 words.)
SOURCE: "The Self-Conscious Moment: Reflections on the Aftermath of Modernism," in TriQuarterly, No. 33, Spring, 1975, pp. 209-30.
[In the following essay, Alter presents an overview of postmodern fiction, including works by Cervantes, Borges, Flann O'Brien, Nabokov, and John Barth.]
Our literature has been for a hundred years a dangerous game with its own death, in other words a way of experiencing, of living that death: our literature is like that Racinean heroine who dies upon learning who she is but lives by seeking her identity.
—Roland Barthes, "Literature and Metalanguage"
A book is more than a verbal structure or series of verbal structures; it is the dialogue it establishes with its reader and the intonation it imposes upon his voice and the changing and durable images it leaves in his memory. . . . Literature is not exhaustible for the simple and sufficient reason that no single book is. A book is not an isolated entity: it is a relationship, an axis of innumerable relationships.
—J. L. Borges, "A Note on (Toward) Bernard Shaw"
Over the past two decades, as the high tide of modernism ebbed and its masters died off, the baring of literary artifice has come to be more and more a basic procedure—at times, almost an obsession—of serious fiction in the West. The creators of self-conscious fiction in our time do not constitute a school or a movement, and the lines of influence among them, or to them from their common predecessors, often tend to waver and blur when closely examined. Some of these writers have tried their hand at shorter fictional forms, which, after the Borgesian model, one now calls "fictions" rather than "short stories"; but most of them, perhaps inevitably, have turned back to, or stayed with, the novel, attracted by its large and various capacity to convey a whole imaginatively constituted world. Scattered over three continents, they are an odd mixture of stubbornly private eccentrics, on the one hand, and promulgators of manifestoes, on the other; of powerfully evocative novelists or conductors of ingenious laboratory experiments in fiction; of exuberant comic artists and knowing guides to bleak dead ends of despair.
This mode of fiction is variously practiced by such diverse figures as Raymond Queneau, Samuel Beckett, Alain Robbe-Grillet, Michel Butor, Claude Mauriac in France; John Fowles in England; Robert Coover, John Barth, Thomas Pynchon, Donald Barthelme, Kurt Vonnegut in this country; J. L. Borges and Julio Cortázar in Latin America; and, of course, Vladimir Nabokov, perched on his height in Switzerland, working out of three literary cultures. The whole reflexive tendency in contemporary fiction has been reinforced by the prominence of selfconscious cinema since the early sixties in the work of directors like Fellini, Antonioni, Resnais, and Godard. Film, because it is a collaborative artistic enterprise involving a complicated chain of technical procedures, almost invites attention to its constitutive processes; and there is a clear logic in the involvement in filmmaking of several of the French New Novelists, or in the repeated recourse to cinematic composition by montage in a writer like Robert Coover. The close parallels between what is happening now in the two media suggest that the selfconsciousness of both may reflect a heightened new stage of modern culture's general commitment to knowing all that can be known about its own components and dynamics. Our culture, a kind of Faust at the mirror of Narcissus, is more and more driven to uncover the roots of what it lives with most basically—language and its origins, human sexuality, the workings of the psyche, the inherited structures of the mind, the underlying patterns of social organization, the sources of value and belief, and, of course, the nature of art.
If this is the moment of the self-conscious novel, that is decidedly a mixed blessing, as the spectacular unevenness of innovative fiction today would indicate. The growing insistence of self-awareness in our culture at large has been both a liberating and a paralyzing force, and that is equally true of its recent developments in artistic expression. In this regard, criticism must be especially wary. The kind of criticism that often has to be invoked in discussing a traditional realistic novel is in the indicative mode: yes, we know that a woman like Rosamund Vincy would act in just that way, with just such a gesture, toward her husband at a given moment in Middlemarch because it seems right, because it corresponds to some subtle, gradually acquired sense of human nature in our extraliterary experience, and to this we can only point, signaling an act of recognition we hope others will share. Most self-conscious novels, on the other hand, lend themselves splendidly to analytic criticism because they operate by the constant redeployment of fiction's formal categories. Is the critic interested in the narrative manipulation of time, the arbitrariness of narrative beginnings, the writer's awareness of literary conventions, the maneuvering of language to produce multiple meanings, the expressive possibilities of punctuation, paragraphing, typography? It is all laid out for him across the printed pages of Tristram Shandy, ready to be analytically described, with no apparent need for recourse to a touchstone of "rightness" outside this and other literary texts. For this reason an astute critic, impelled by his own professional concern with formal experiment, can easily make a piece of self-conscious fiction sound more profound, more finely resonant with implication, than it is in fact. None of Robbe-Grillet's novels really equals in fascination Roland Barthes' brilliant descriptions of them. Queneau's Exercices de style (1947) is an intriguing and at times immensely amusing book, but it is just what its title implies, a set of exercises; and to suggest, as George Steiner has done, that it constitutes a major landmark in twentieth-century literature, is to mislead readers in the interest of promoting literary "future shock."
The instance of Exercices de style is worth pausing over briefly because it represents one ultimate limit of the whole self-conscious mode. Queneau begins his book by reporting a banal anecdote of a young man with a long neck and a missing button on his coat who is jostled in a crowded bus. He tells this anecdote ninety-nine times, constantly changing the narrative viewpoint, the style, the literary conventions; going as far as the use of mathematical notation and anagrammatic scrambling of letters in one direction, and the resort to heavy dialect and badly anglicized French in the other; even rendering the incident in alexandrines, in free verse, as a sonnet, as a playlet. All this is extremely ingenious, and, I would admit, more than ingenious, because as one reads the same simple episode over and over through all these acrobatic variations, one is forced to recognize both the stunning arbitrariness of any decision to tell a story in a particular way and the endless possibilities for creating fictional "facts" by telling a story differently.
The controlling perception, however, of Exercices is one that goes back to the generic beginnings of the novel; and to see how much more richly that insight can be extended into fictional space, one has only to think of Sterne, where a "Queneauesque" passage like the deliberately schematic "Tale of Two Lovers" is woven into a thick texture of amorous anecdotes that critically juxtapose literary convention with a sense of the erotic as a cogent fact of human experience. Precisely what is missing from Exercices de style is any sense—and playfulness need not exclude seriousness—of human experience, which is largely kept out of the book in order to preserve the technical purity of the experiment. I don't mean to take Queneau to task for what he clearly did not intend; I mean only to emphasize that criticism need not make excessive claims for this kind of writing. Queneau, of course, has written full-scale novels of flaunted artifice, both before and after Exercices de style, that do involve a more complex sense of experience. One of the great temptations of the self-conscious novelist, however, is to content himself with technical experiment, trusting that in these difficult times (but then the times are always difficult) the only honesty, perhaps the only real profundity, lies in technical experiment. This is the chief limiting factor in most of Robbe-Grillet as well as in Coover's collection of fictions, Pricksongs & Descants. In both, one can admire the virtuosity with which narrative materials are ingeniously shuffled and reshuffled yet feel a certain aridness; for the partial magic of the novelist's art, however self-conscious, is considerably more than a set of card tricks.
The other, complementary fault of the self-conscious novel, also much in evidence among its contemporary practitioners, is to give free rein to every impulse of invention or fictional contrivance without distinguishing what may serve some artistic function in the novel and what is merely silly or self-indulgent. After all, if in an old-fashioned novel you have to describe a petulant, spoiled young woman like Rosamund Vincy, you are obliged to make her as close a likeness as you can to observed examples of the type, and so some commonly perceived human reality provides a constant check on your inventiveness. If, on the other hand, you are writing a novel about a novelist who invents still another novelist who is the author of bizarrely farfetched books, there is scarcely any piece of fabrication, however foolish or improbable, that you couldn't put into your novel if you set your mind to it. The Irish writer Flann O'Brien, in one of the earliest postmodern novels of flaunted artifice, At Swim-Two-Birds (1939), has devised just such a book. The second-remove novelist invented by the first-person narrator-novelist gives birth to a full-grown man (that is, a new character); but while this writer, fatigued with parturition, is asleep, his characters rebel against him, resenting the roles he has assigned them. In the end, they subject him to the most hideous torture and maiming, recounted in detail page after page—by writing chapters of a novel (within the novel-within-the-novel) in which he suffers these horrors. This scheme of recessed narratives also involves an amalgam of different kinds of fiction, starting with domestic realism in the frame story and running through the gunslinging western and the novel of erotic sensationalism to fairy tales and Irish myth.
"A satisfactory novel," the young writer who is the narrator tries to explain to a friend at the outset, "should be a self-evident sham to which the reader could regulate at will the degree of his credulity."1 At first glance, this might seem a perfect capsule definition of the self-conscious novel, but upon consideration the formulation makes it too easy for both the writer and the reader. If one thinks of the history of the self-conscious novel from its early masters down to Gide, to the parodistic or overtly contrived sections in Joyce and the Nabokov of Lolita and Pale Fire, "sham" becomes far too crude and demeaning as a synonym for artifice or imaginative contrivance. The artifice, moreover, should not be flatly "self-evident" but cunningly revealed, a hide-and-seek presence in the novel, a stubbornly ambiguous substratum of the whole fictional world. To imagine, then, the reader regulating his credulity at will is to reverse the whole process of the self-conscious novel, in which it is the writer who tries to regulate the reader's credulity, challenging him to active participation in pondering the status of fictional things, forcing him as he reads on to examine again and again the validity of his ordinary discriminations between art and life and how they interact.
Flann O'Brien, however, following the formula he attributes to his own protagonist, in fact produces a hodge-podge of fictions in which nothing seems particularly credible and everything finally becomes tedious through the sheer proliferation of directionless narrative invention. At Swim-Two-Birds is a celebration of fabulation in which novelistic self-consciousness has gone slack because fiction is everywhere and there is no longer any quixotic tension between what is fictional and what is real. I am not aware that it has influenced later books, but it has certainly proved to be a novel ahead of its time, for its faults of conception and execution provide a perfect paradigm for those of much contemporary fiction, especially in this country, where a new literary ideology of fabulation has too often turned out to mean license, not liberty, for the novelist. In reading many of the voguish new writers, one is frequently tempted to invoke the words of the narrator at the end of John Barth's story "Title": "Oh God comma I abhor self-consciousness."
Those inclined to argue that the novel today is in a grave state of decay often draw evidence from the current popularity of self-conscious fiction, which they tend to see as a dwarfed offspring of the modernist giants, turned away from life, dedicated to the onanistic gratifications of the artist pleasured by his own art. It would of course be foolish to claim that we are now in anything like that extraordinary period of innovative literary creativity of the 1920s when modernism was in flower, but the opposite inference, that narrative literature has reached some terminal stage of sterility, is by no means necessary from the facts of contemporary writing. I have dwelt upon the two chief temptations of the self-conscious novelist—arid exercise and indiscriminate invention—precisely because they should be recognized as dangers, not taken as the inevitable results whenever a writer determines artfully to expose the fictiveness of his fiction. In fact, the prominent flaunting of artifice has led to some of the most impressive successes in the contemporary novel as well as to some of its most evident lapses, and the successes are by no means restricted to elder statesmen like Beckett and Nabokov. (In America, one might mention Barth, who in different books has been both an impressively original writer and an embarrassingly puerile one; or Coover, who has gone beyond manipulations of technique to a vividly imagined satire where fantasy and reality enrich one another.) The old question of the death of the novel, which seems as doggedly persistent as the novel itself, is in the air again, and I believe an understanding of the self-conscious tradition in the novel which stands behind many contemporary novelists may help set that hazy issue in clearer perspective.
One of the newly prominent American novelists, John Barth, has himself given a new twist to the death-of-the-novel argument in a widely read essay first published in 1967, "The Literature of Exhaustion."2 Barth settles on Borges, Beckett, and Nabokov as his exemplary figures to expose the condition of narrative literature now, and that condition as he describes it proves to be thoroughly contradictory—apocalyptic and elegiac, at the end of an ultimate cultural cul-de-sac yet somehow reaching toward exciting new possibilities. The "exhaustion" of the title is defined as "the used-upness of certain forms or exhaustion of certain possibilities," and the work of Borges is taken to be the clearest model of this contemporary literature of exhaustion. The Argentine writer "suggests the view," according to Barth, "that intellectual and literary history . . . has pretty well exhausted the possibilities of novelty. His ficciones are not only footnotes to imaginary texts, but postscripts to the real corpus of literature." The characterization of Borges' fiction is memorable, and not without cogency, but Barth has worked himself into a corner by following Borges in this fashion, and he is constrained to use the last two paragraphs of his essay in a rapid maneuver to get out of the trap. For even if reality has come to resemble for the writer the library of a Borgesian fable where all the books that can ever be written already exist, even if Borges' Pierre Menard is an emblem of the modern writer's wry destiny, "creating" the Quixote by laboriously reconstituting it word for word in a version identical verbatim with Cervantes'—Barth himself nevertheless writes novels which he hopes have some novelty, and he is not willing to dismiss the literature of our age as a mere postscript to a completed corpus.
Now, two paragraphs are not much space to get out of such a quandary, so Barth resorts to a kind of literary intervention of divine grace: confronted with a labyrinthine reality of exhausted possibilities, the writer of genius finally can rely on his genius to achieve the impossible, to create a new literature when there is nothing left to create. "It's the chosen remnant, the virtuoso, the Thesean hero, who . . . with the aid of very special gifts . . . [can] go straight through the maze to the accomplishment of his work." (The italics are Barth's.) This strikes me as a peculiarly elitist and miraculist notion of literary continuity and renewal. Good writing has of course always required gifted writers. Now, however, Barth seems to be saying, we have come to such a pass that it is virtually impossible to write anything at all. Nevertheless a few geniuses, having recognized that difficult fact, will somehow manage to create.
Borges himself, as we shall see, is far from agreeing with this idea, but in any case the choice of Borges as the paradigmatic postmodernist is in one respect misleading, precisely because Borges the prose writer is an inventor of parables and paradoxes, not a novelist. That is, Borges of the ficciones is concerned with a series of metaphysical enigmas about identity, recurrence, and cyclicalty, time, thought, and extension, and so it is a little dangerous to translate his haunting fables into allegories of the postmodern literary situation. Books, real and imaginary, and books about books, of course figure very prominently in Borges' fictions; but he is after all a remarkably bookish man, and the contents of a library are the aptest vehicle he could have chosen for writing about knowledge and its limits, the ambiguous relation between idea and existence, language and reality, and many of his other favorite philosophical puzzles. The fact that Borges is a fabulist, not a novelist, hardly suggests that the fable is all there remains for fiction to work with now. Were he a novelist, his prototypical protagonist would not be a meditative wraith wandering through the hexagonal mazes of the infinite Library of Babel, but a man or woman—one glimpses the possibility in his most recent stories—with a distinctive psychology living among other men and women, acting against a background of social values, personal and national history. Such a figure, it seems safe to assume, would have a rather different relationship to the written word, past and present, than does the inhabitant of the great Library or the assiduous Pierre Menard.
Borges, it should be noted, has argued trenchantly against the whole idea of exhausting artistic possibilities in a brief essay, "A Note on (Toward) Bernard Shaw"3—which, not surprisingly, is hardly at all about Shaw. He begins with a list of fanciful notions, from the thirteenth century to the twentieth, of combinational reservoirs that would encompass all books, systems of ideas, or art works. One of these, "the staggering fantasy" spun out by the nineteenth-century popularizer of science Kurd Lasswitz "of a universal library which would register all the variations of the twenty-odd orthographical symbols, in other words, all that is given to express in all languages," is nothing less than the scheme of Borges' "The Library of Babel." But, he immediately goes on to say, such writers, by reducing art and philosophy to "a kind of play with combinations," forget that a book is not a flat, fixed entity composed of combined letters making an unchanging design in language. Every book exists through a collaborative effort with the imagination of each of its readers—the controlling idea of Pale Fire is not a trivial one—and so it changes with its readers, with their life experience and their accrued reading experience. Literary tradition, in other words, does not and cannot exist as a mass of determined data in the memory-bank of a computer. "Literature is not exhaustible, for the sufficient and simple reason that no single book is." The more books that are written, the more complicated with meaning are the books that exist before them, and the more possibilities there are for creating new works out of old books and new experience.
Nothing could demonstrate this more forcefully than the inherently allusive structure of the novel as a genre. Don Quixote becomes more than it initially was after its transmutation into the "Cervantick" Tom Jones and Tristram Shandy, after The Red and the Black, Madame Bovary, Moby-Dick, Ulysses, and The Castle, Each successive creation—to follow the implicit logic of Borges' plausible notion about a book's existence—does not foreclose future possibilities but rather opens up new vistas for creation out of the common literary tradition. A book is not an integer but "a relationship, an axis of innumerable relationships," which of course grow with the passage of historical time and literary history; and so "The Library of Babel" must be, after all, a metaphysician's nightmare, not a novelist's.
But let us return to the relation Barth proposes between Borges' own practice in his ficciones and the foreseeable possibilities of imaginative writing. Without begrudging Borges the general acclaim he has recently received, both in America and in France, I think one may resist the implication of Barth and others that he represents the future of fiction. Robert Coover, although he does not mention Borges by name, seems to have an idea of this sort in mind when he takes up where Barth's essay leaves off in his Dedicatoria y Prólogo a don Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, the bilingual preface to his "Seven Exemplary Fictions."4 Unlike Barth, Coover applies the notion of exhaustion not to literary forms but to a general contemporary sense of reality and to the whole legacy of cultural values today: "But don Miguel, the optimism, the innocence, the aura of possibility you have experienced have been largely drained away, and the universe is closing in on us again. Like you, we, too, seem to be standing at the end of one age and on the threshold of another.... We, too, suffer from a 'literature of exhaustion'" A quiet version of apocalyptic thinking is very much in evidence here. We love to think we are on the threshold of a radically new era, but in fact the continuity of much of contemporary fiction with its literary antecedents is too substantive to be dismissed as mere vestigial reflex. Contemporary novelists resemble Cervantes (as Coover recognizes further on) because of the underlying operations of their imaginative enterprise, not because our historical moment parallels his in marking the beginning of a new age. And the proposed contrast between Cervantes and the contemporaries seems overdrawn. The least innocent of writers, Cervantes ironically undercuts the innocence and optimism of his hero, and through the strategies he devises for doing that he invents the novel. In any event, Coover goes on to argue from the supposed draining away of optimism in our age the conversion of the novelist to fabulist:
We seem to have moved from an open-ended, anthropocentric, humanistic, naturalistic, even—to the extent that man may be thought of as making his own universe—optimistic starting point, to one that is closed, cosmic, eternal, supernatural (in its soberest sense), and pessimistic. The return to Being has returned us to Design, to microcosmic images of the macrocosm, to the creation of Beauty within the confines of cosmic or human necessity, to the use of the fabulous to probe beyond the phenomenological, beyond appearances, beyond randomly perceived events, beyond mere history.
Some judgments it may be wise on principle to decline making at all, and I see no way of knowing at this point in history whether we are in fact witnessing the death of the humanistic world view. To base an argument for a new form of fiction on such a sweepingly prophetic historical assertion must in the end compromise the persuasiveness of the literary argument. In any case, of Barth's three exemplars of the literature of exhaustion, only one, Borges, really corresponds to this description of Coover's. In regard to Beckett, all that strictly applies is the pessimism and the sense of a closed universe, and it is Nabokov who once tartly observed that "cosmic" is but a slippery "s" away from "comic." Both Beckett and Nabokov are by intention, in their radically different ways, comic rather than cosmic writers; both are novelists rather than fabulists in their concern with the naturalistic textures of experience, whatever various structures they make of them. Both resemble Cervantes in deriving Design not from an image of eternal Being but, on the contrary, from a sense of the contradictions between traditional literary practice and their immediate perception of human reality.
The most questionable of Coover's claims, however, is that the writer of fiction is now moving "beyond mere history." Borges the fabulist does just that, but unless the novel is really dead, the one thing it ultimately cannot dispense with is history. The pressing actuality of historical time, or of an individual lifetime, or of both, is the stuff of all good novels, including self-conscious ones, the perennial subject that the medium of the novel—a sequential narrative use of unmetrical language extended at length in time—seems almost to require. Cervantes initiates the genre by using parody and the translation of literary criticism into narrative invention to juxtapose a literary dream of a Golden Age with real historical time. On the plane of individual experience, Sterne in his ultimate self-conscious novel makes time so much his subject that the printed text becomes a maze of intersecting, mutually modifying times—the time of writing and the time of reading, the actual duration of an event, time as a literary construct, time as an ambiguous artifact of memory or consciousness.
Perhaps the most reliable index to whether a piece of self-conscious fiction is closed off from life is whether it tends to diminish the actuality of personal and historical time. Queneau's exercices are only exercises because time doesn't really exist in them; it is only a necessary hypothesis to move the skinny young man from the beginning of the anecdote to the end. Robbe-Grillet's cinematic use of the present indicative, together with his constant shuffling of versions of each narrative incident in order to destroy all sense of causal sequence and of time, is a technical tour de force precisely because it goes so strenuously against the grain of the medium, which is, after all, prose fiction, not film. As a result the virtuosity of his achievement is inseparable from its marked limitations. The same could be said of the composition by montage in Coover's shorter fiction or, on a cruder level of technical skill and imagination, of Barthelme's satirical collages. It is instructive, however, that Coover is now working on a novel involved with public events in the Eisenhower years, a book he describes as "an historical romance." And, to judge by a published section, his reentry into history, cannily seen through the revealing distortions of fantasy, can produce energetically engaging fiction.
In the case of Robbe-Grillet, the one really striking success among his novels is the book in which his ubiquitous technique of suppressing temporal progression has a powerful psychological justification. Jealousy is a compelling novel because its imprisonment in a present indicative that circles back on itself again and again is the perfect narrative mode for a man whose consuming obsession has robbed him of any time in which things can unfold. The jealous husband, always the excluded observer peering at his wife and her supposed lover from oblique angles through a hatchwork of screens and obstacles, can only go over and over the same scanty data, reordering them and surrounding them with conjecture, describing them with a seemingly scientific objectivity that is actually quite maniacal. Consequently what is often felt elsewhere in Robbe-Grillet as an anomalous mannerism is here firmly grounded in the novel's peculiar facts of character and fictional situation.
Queneau's Exercices de style, as I intimated earlier, is a limited experiment that explores the most extreme possibilities of an underlying practice of his novels while deliberately omitting what is ultimately most essential to them—the potent force of time, analogous to the time of real experience, that sweeps along the imaginary personages and events. Over against Exercices one might usefully set a novel like Le Chiendent (1933), Queneau's remarkable fictional farce in the self-conscious mode. At the center of this grand display of verbal highjinks, parodistic ploys, hilarious stylizations, and satiric illuminations, stands a death—that of Ernestine the serving-girl, which, for all its abruptness, improbability, and absurdity, has large reverberations in the novel. "When a tree burns," says Ernestine, dying on her wedding night, "nothin's left but smoke and ashes. No more tree. That's like me. Nothin left but rot, while the li'l voice that talks in your head when you're all alone, nothin's left of it. When mine stops, it ain't gonna talk again nowhere else."5
The last section of Le Chiendent takes off on a zanily fantastic extrapolation from destructive modern history. At the very end, three of the protagonists, among the handful of survivors of a long bitter war between the French and the Etruscans (!), meet again and openly share the awareness that all their actions have been relentlessly tracked down and recorded by a book—the one we have been reading and are about to finish. Not pleased with all they have done, they wonder whether it might be possible to erase—raturer—or, rather, "literase"—littératurer—certain episodes. But no, the thing cannot be done: as one of them observes, even in these literary circumstances "time is time, the past is the past." Then, in a final paragraph, Queneau dissolves his joined characters into separate and unconnected entities, concluding with a single silhouette, not yet a realized character, one among thousands of possible alternatives—which was precisely the image of the novelist-artificer's arbitrary choice in the making of fictions that began the whole novel. And yet the arbitrary invention is one that has been elaborated in order to reveal something about the real world. The whole farce is in fact a sustained metaphysical meditation on the dizzying paradoxes of being and nonbeing, in life and in fiction; and that meditation culminates in these last two pages, where the characters are finally shuffled back into the shadowy pre-world of fictional beginnings but are not allowed the more-than-human luxury of reversing, altering, or erasing the particular experiences they have lived out in the time allotted to them.
It may seem a bit odd to insist on a connection with historical or personal time in a kind of novel devised to mirror its own operations, but the contradiction, I think, disappears upon close consideration. Language is of all art media the one most thoroughly and subtly steeped in memory, both public and private. It is not easy to use language for the length of a novel, out of a self-conscious awareness of its function as the medium of the fictional artifice, without in some way confronting the burden of a collective or individual past that language carries. Language through its layer upon layer of associations opens up complex vistas of time, and these tend to reveal—ultimately for cultures, imminently for individuals—loss, decline, and extinction. The continuous acrobatic display of artifice in a self-conscious novel is an enlivening demonstration of human order against a background of chaos and darkness, and it is the tension between artifice and that which annihilates artifice that gives the finest self-conscious novels their urgency in the midst of play. Tristram Shandy's wild flight from death across the pages of Volume VII in Sterne's novel provides the clearest paradigm for this general situation. In the two major novelists of our own century who magisterially combine the realist and self-conscious traditions of the novel, Joyce and Proust, it is again death and the decline of culture into ultimate incoherence that powerfully impel the writers to the supreme affirmation of art. The void looms beyond Bloom's Dublin and Marcel's Paris, as it does beyond Biely's St. Petersburg, Virginia Woolf s London, and the invented lost realms of Nabokov; and that is why art is indispensable.
Perhaps this may make every novel with self-conscious aspects sound like a version of Sartre's Nausea, but that is only because Sartre provides an emphatically defined, programmatic formulation of the general pattern. What I would like to stress is that even a novel worlds away from any intimation of existentialist views may tap this tension between the coherence of the artifice and the death and disorder implicit in real time outside the artifice. The tension is present even in Fielding, with his fine old eighteenth-century confidence in the possibilities of coherent order and his meticulous preservation of the purity of the comic world. An example may be helpful here. In Book V, Chapter XII, of Tom Jones, after a bloody brawl in which Tom has laid Blifil low only to be vigorously battered by the redoubtable Thwackum, the narrator, surveying the bruised combatants, takes off on one of his so-called essayistic excursuses:
Here we cannot suppress a pious wish, that all quarrels were to be decided by those weapons only with which Nature, knowing what is proper for us, hath supplied us; and that cold iron was to be used in digging no bowels but those of the earth. Then would war, the pastime of monarchs, be almost inoffensive, and battles between great armies might be fought at the particular desire of several ladies of quality; who, together with the kings themselves, might be actual spectators of the conflict. Then might the field be this moment well strewed with human carcasses, and the next, the dead men, or infinitely the greatest part of them, might get up, like Mr. Bayes's troops, and march off either at the sound of a drum or fiddle, as should be previously agreed on.
The narrator spins out this fanciful hypothesis for another paragraph, then brings himself up short: "But such reformations are rather to be wished than hoped for: I shall content myself, therefore, with this short hint, and return to my narrative." What is all this doing in the middle of Tom Jones? To dismiss it as mere casual banter or extraneous digression is to ignore the integrity of Fielding's art and of his vision of life. The passage is a virtuoso aria set in the optative mode. It turns from The History of Tom Jones to history proper, but with a series of careful indications of a condition contrary to fact. It begins and ends with an explicit stress on "wish," and all the verbs are subjunctive or conditional. The emphasis through anaphora on "then" ("Then would war . . ."; "Then might the field be . . .") points to an era that exists not now or soon but in the imagination alone. This condition is underlined by likening the weaponless battles to those of a popular Restoration farce, The Rehearsal ("Mr. Bayes's troops"), and by proposing that war should be conducted like theatrical convention, by previously agreed-upon signals.
Within the comic frame of Tom Jones's fictional world, we know very well that no fate much worse than a bloodied nose will be allowed to befall any of the personages who matter. Fielding, by proposing for the space of two paragraphs that this frame be extended into real historical time, is doing something more than make a suggestion for "reformation," as he pretends, or a satirical comment on historical man's irrationality, as is evident. What the excursion into optative history points up is that the whole comic world of the fiction is beautifully arranged, sanely humane in its essential playfulness—and ultimately unreal. The age-old impulse of the storyteller bespeaks a basic human need to imagine out of history a fictional order of fulfillment, but when the narrative is a novel and not a fairy tale, one is also made aware of the terrible persistence of history as a murderous realm of chaos constantly challenging or violating the wholeness that art can imagine. By the time we arrive at the narrator's explicit signal for the end of the excursus, "I shall content myself . . . with this short hint, and return to my narrative," we see with renewed clarity all that stands outside the artful narrative, inimical to it.
I have chosen from many possible texts, old and new, an example from Fielding in order to emphasize certain underlying continuities of concern between the novelists of our own age and the early masters. A clearer recognition of such continuities, which more often than one would suspect manifest themselves even on the level of fictional technique, might make us less inclined to see ourselves at the decisive end of an era, our writers footnoting with fables a literary corpus that has used up all the possibilities of primary creation. Looking over the actual production of living novelists in both hemispheres, I find it hard to believe that it is inherently more difficult to write a good novel now than in earlier periods. The realist mode of fiction that attained such splendid achievements in the nineteenth century may by now largely have run its course (though that, too, might be a presumptuous conclusion), but the self-conscious novelistic dialectic between art and reality initiated by Cervantes seems abundantly alive with new possibilities of expression, perhaps even more than ever before as the self-consciousness of our whole culture becomes progressively more pronounced. To write a good self-conscious novel today one does not have to be a unique "Thesean hero" finding a way out of some impossible labyrinth, but simply an intelligent writer with a serious sense both of the integrity of his craft and of the inevitably problematic relationship between fiction and life.
A case in point is Claude Mauriac's The Marquise Went Out at Five (1961), one of the most interesting novels to come out of the fervor of fictional experiment in France during the past fifteen or so years. Mauriac's book might be especially instructive as a concluding example because in both its design and its execution it ties up many of the major themes we have been considering, and because Mauriac, a gifted writer but surely no Borgesian wonderworker defying the limits of nature, achieves what he does, not through impossible genius, but simply by an imaginative and keenly critical management of the self-conscious mode.
The Marquise Went Out is the third of four interlocking novels aptly called Le Dialogue intérieur. The title of the novel is taken from Breton's "First Surrealist Manifesto," the relevant passage appearing as the epigraph. Breton quotes Valéry on the imbecillc beginnings of most novels. Valéry would never permit himself, he once told Breton, to write a sentence like, "The Marquise went out at five." We then turn the page of Mauriac's novel and of course find it begins, "La Marquise sortit à cinq heures. The Marquise went out at five." At first, in the kaleidoscope shifting of interior monologues—perhaps a hundred different characters become posts of observation—with no indication of transitions, the reader has difficulty orienting himself; but gradually a fictional novelist, Bertrand Carnéjoux, emerges distinctly as the principal point of reference. As Carnéjoux stands at his window looking down over the Carrefour de Bucis, where all the events of the novel take place, one begins to suspect that all the interior lives exposed in the book are finally what he, the writer as distanced observer, projects onto the figures he sees. He is the fictional writer acting out his author's own literary impulse, in a contemporary version of the old quixotic pattern, by making a novel out of the world he inhabits:
. . . Express the double brilliance, orangeish red bright yellow, of the bouquets, no, they're potted plants. Add to these two patches of bright color the movement transporting them, not fast but jolting, and the black mass of that old lady carrying her nasturtiums—they are nasturtiums, I think. I'm no different as an author from all the authors who ever existed since men first began to write. Using other devices, but analogous ones. Making use just as fallaciously, as arbitrarily, of the world I claim—quite insanely—to possess. At best I've tried to explain and justify the increasing presence, considered ridiculous by some people, of writer-heroes in the works of writers. . . .6
The sense of the writer's predicament as a perennial, not peculiarly modern, difficulty is notable: all serious novelists must confront the arbitrariness, the necessary falsification, of the worlds they invent through words. In his critical writings, Mauriac has coined the term alittérature to describe this intrinsic problematic of literature. All literary creation worthy of the name, now and in previous ages, is seen as a reaction against the inevitable falsity of antecedent literature, a restless devising of strategies to escape being "just" literature. I think the idea is more historically accurate than the notion of a contemporary literature of exhaustion, and The Marquise Went Out at Five is a persuasive demonstration of its efficacy as a rationale for the continual renewal of literature.
By the conclusion of the novel, Carnéjoux, the novelist as self-observing observer, imperceptibly gives way to the author of The Marquise Went Out at Five. The evoked world of fiction, revealed as fiction, shrivels up, and, as at the end of many of Nabokov's novels, the fabricator of the fiction himself stands in its place. Mauriac now describes precisely what he has given us: "A novelist animated by a novelist whom I (myself a novelist) have put into a novel in which, however, nothing was invented, a labyrinth of mirrors capturing some of life's sensations, feelings and thoughts" (p. 310). Cervantes' emblematic image of the mirror—it is of course also Nabokov's favorite—is complicated in Borgesian fashion by a labyrinth not because the old quixotic probing of reality through fiction has changed in nature, but only because our sense of the complexity of the enterprise has been many times multiplied by both historical and literary experience. (One might observe that as early as 1913 Andrey Biely was using the image of the labyrinth of mirrors in his St. Petersburg.) Mauriac, it should be noted, does not in the end make the facile gesture of some contemporary novelists who simply shrug off their own fictions as, after all, mere fictions: he avows the artifice but affirms it as a means of mirroring "life's sensations, feelings and thoughts," fiction seen as perhaps the only way to get at a whole range of real human experience.
After a paragraph of reflections on the Parisian square that has been the scene of the novel, Mauriac goes on to summarize and make even more explicit this baring of artifice as the basic procedure of his book: "Thus the novel has in its penultimate pages gradually faded away, and disappeared, without masks or make-believe, giving way to the novelist who, if he has put himself directly into his book, has at the end purified it of its last traces of fiction by granting it a truth in which literal exactitude was preferred to literature" (p. 311). The literal exactitude is of course necessarily a pretense, still another novelistic gesture (as Cervantes first shrewdly saw in his play with supposed documents), literature passing itself off as alittérature in order not to seem "literature" in the pejorative sense. In any case, the edifice of fiction that engaged our thoughts and emotions for a good many hours has been swept away, and the novel can conclude in the very next sentence by setting on its head that beginning borrowed from Valéry by way of Breton: "The Marquise did not go out at five . . ." Much earlier, we learned that the Marquise of the initial sentence was no marquise at all, and now the predicate as well as the subject is torn from its apparent exactitude and cast into the shadowy realm of fabrications.
All this might be mere cleverness if the novel did not have the impelling sense it does of the urgency, the philosophical seriousness, of its enterprise. What drives Bertrand Carnéjoux, and behind him Claude Mauriac, is an acute perception of two concentric abysses beneath the artifice of the novel—history and death. The Marquise Went Out, set between five and six on one warm afternoon in a few thousand square feet of the Carrefour de Bucis, attempts to exhaust the human experience intersecting that carefully delimited time and place. But as Carnéjoux and his inventor realize, such an undertaking is "doomed to failure" because "the unity of actual time . . . [is] surrounded, penetrated, absorbed .. . by the infinite pullulation of innumerable past moments" (p. 270). Though Mauriac explicitly compares the achronological method of composition here through a long series of separate "takes" with the methods of a film-maker, the effect is precisely the opposite of cinematic composition in Robbe-Grillet because Mauriac accepts and works with the essentially time-soaked nature of language as a medium of art.
Each of the interior monologues gives us glimpses of a deep tunnel into a private past, while Carnéjoux, overviewing the scene, weaves into the texture of the novel substantial quotations from actual historical documents of life in the Carrefour de Bucis from the middle of the thirteenth century to the post-World-War-II era. The documents reveal what in the poesy of a blurb one might call a "vivid panorama" of Parisian existence from medieval artisans to activists of the Revolution to the literary dinners of the Goncourt brothers. What is actually revealed, though, is the raw realm of chaos on the other side of Fielding's ironic observations about history—a long catalogue of rape, murder, torture, theft, perversion, brutality. Contemplating these documents, Carnéjoux is simultaneously aware of the senselessness of history and of the incomprehensible brevity of all human life. As he writes, he is rapidly, irrevocably, rushing toward the point where he will be no more than a few scratches on the historical record, like Mestre Giles the tile-maker and Richart the baker, listed as residents of the Rue de Bussy in the Tax-Book of Paris for the Year 1292. At the end, the author draws particular attention to this perception: "Bertrand Carnéjoux records in his novel, and I record in the novel in which I have given life and speech to Bertrand Carnéjoux, that impossibility of conceiving what seems so natural in others, what one has spent one's life fearing, knowing oneself ineluctably threatened by it in the beings one loves and in oneself: death" (p. 309).
Some readers may feel that Mauriac is too explicitly direct in the way he reveals these fundamental matters of motive and design in the making of his novel, but the fiction itself bears out in concrete detail what otherwise might seem portentous assertion. A writer, about to vanish like every human being born, has only words to grasp with at some sort of tenuous, dubious permanence. Words console, words are the most wonderful of human evasions; but the writer, using them as truly as a writer of fiction can—which is to say, with a consciousness of how their enchantment transmutes reality into fiction—comes to perceive profoundly what words help us to evade. The seriousness and the ultimate realism of the novel that mirrors itself could have no more vivid demonstration.
Perhaps the most basic paradox of this mode of fiction, which functions through the display of paradoxes, is that as a kind of novel concentrating on art and the artist it should prove to be, even in many of its characteristically comic embodiments, a long meditation on death. Myth, folktale, fable, and romance, all the archaic forms of storytelling from which the novel was a radical historical break, overleap or sidestep death as an immediate presence in the timeless cyclicality of divine lives or in the teleological arc from "once upon a time" to "lived happily ever after." The great realist novels of the nineteenth century, though they may be filled with scenes of disease and dying, are in another sense also an implicit evasion of death because, as the paradigmatic instance of Balzac makes clear, behind the vast effort to represent in fiction a whole society, the spawning of novel after novel with crowds of personages overflowing from one book to the next, was a dream of omnipotence, the novelist creating a fantasy-world so solid-seeming that he could rule over it like a god.
When the writer, on the other hand, places himself or some consciously perceived surrogate within the fiction's field of probing consideration, his own mortality is more likely to be an implicit or even explicit subject of the novel. It was Diderot who observed that one should tell stories because then time passes swiftly and the story of life comes to an end unnoticed. The novel as a genre begins when Don Quixote, approaching the grand climacteric or fiftieth year, which was old age in his time, realizes that his existence has amounted to nothing and proceeds before it is too late to make his life correspond to a book. The knight's peculiarly literary quest is a revealing functional analogue to that of the novelist, the literary man who invented him, and so Cervantes is not merely mocking chivalric romances through the don's adventures but contemplating, in the most oblique and searching way, the unthinkable prospect posed by his own imminent end.
I suspect that death in the novel might be a more useful focus for serious discussion of the genre than the death of the novel. What I have in mind is of course not the novelistic rendering of deathbed scenes but how the novel manages to put us in touch with the imponderable implications of human mortality through the very celebration of life implicit in the building of vivid and various fictions. This is the ultimate turn of the Copernican revolution in the making of fictions that Cervantes effected. The impulse of fabulation, which men had typically used to create an imaginary time beautifully insulated from the impinging presence of their own individual deaths, was turned back on itself, held up to a mirror of criticism as it reflected reality in its inevitably distortive glass. As a result it became possible, if not for the first time then surely for the first time on this scale of narrative amplitude and richness, to delight in the lifelike excitements of invented personages and adventures, and simultaneously to be reminded of that other world of ours, ruled by chance and given over to death. The mirror held to the mirror of art held to nature, in Cervantes and in his countless progeny, proved to be not merely an ingenious trick but a necessary operation for a skeptical culture nevertheless addicted, as all cultures have been, to the pleasures and discoveries of fabulation. Ongoing literary history is always modifying our vision of earlier stages of literary development, and the course of the novel from Joyce to Nabokov and beyond may to some degree require a shift in perspective upon what happened in the novel during the three centuries before our own. Today, as varieties of novelistic self-consciousness proliferate, the mode of fiction first defined when a certain aging hidalgo set out to imitate his books appears far from exhausted. On the contrary, in the hands of gifted writers it comes to seem increasingly our most precisely fashioned instrument for joining imagined acts and figures with real things.
1 Flann O'Brien, At Swim-Two-Birds (New York: Pantheon, 1939), p. 33.
2The Atlantic Monthly, 220 (August 1967), pp. 29-34.
3 J. L. Borges, Labyrinths, ed. Yates and Irby (New York: New Directions, 1964), pp. 213-216.
4 Robert Coover, Pricksongs & Descants (New York: Dutton, 1969), pp. 76-79.
5 Raymond Queneau, Le Chiendent (Paris: Gallimard, 1933), p. 206.
6 Claude Mauriac, The Marquise Went Out at Five, tr. Richard Howard (New York: George Braziller, 1962), p. 69.
SOURCE: "The Myth of the Postmodern Breakthrough," in Literature Against Itself: Literary Ideas in Modern Society, The University of Chicago Press, 1979.
[In the following essay, which was first published in slightly different form in 1973, Graff identifies postmodernism as both visionary and apocalyptic, and asserts that despite claims to the contrary, postmodernism derives from Romantic and modernist literary theory.]
The postmodern tendency in literature and literary criticism has been characterized as a "breakthrough," a significant reversal of the dominant literary and sociocultural directions of the last two centuries. Literary critics such as Leslie Fiedler, Susan Sontag, George Steiner, Richard Poirier, and Ihab Hassan have written about this reversal, differing in their assessments of its implications but generally agreeing in their descriptions of what is taking place. What is taking place, these critics suggest, is the death of our traditional Western concept of art and literature, a concept which defined "high culture" as our most valuable repository of moral and spiritual wisdom. George Steiner draws attention to the disturbing implications of the fact that, in the Nazi regime, dedication to the highest "humanistic" interests was compatible with the acceptance of systematic murder.1 Sontag and Fiedler suggest that the entire artistic tradition of the West has been exposed as a kind of hyperrational imperialism akin to the aggression and lust for conquest of bourgeois capitalism. Not only have the older social, moral, and epistemological claims for art seemingly been discredited, but art has come to be seen as a form of complicity, another manifestation of the lies and hypocrisy through which the ruling class has maintained its power.
But concurrent with this loss of confidence in the older claims of the moral and interpretive authority of art is the advent of a new sensibility, bringing a fresh definition of the role of art and culture. This new sensibility manifests itself in a variety of ways: in the refusal to take art "seriously" in the old sense; in the use of art itself as a vehicle for exploding its traditional pretensions and for showing the vulnerability and tenuousness of art and language; in the rejection of the dominant academic tradition of analytic, interpretive criticism, which by reducing art to abstractions tends to neutralize or domesticate its potentially liberating energies; in a less soberly rationalistic mode of consciousness, one that is more congenial to myth, tribal ritual, and visionary experience, grounded in a "protean," fluid, and undifferentiated concept of the self as opposed to the repressed Western ego.
I want here to raise some critical questions about the postmodern breakthrough in the arts and about the larger implications claimed for it in culture and society. I want in particular to challenge the standard description of postmodernism as an overturning of romantic and modernist traditions. To characterize postmodernism as a "breakthrough"—a cant term of our day—is to place a greater distance between current writers and their predecessors than is, I think, justified. There are distinctions to be drawn, of course, and both here and in the final chapter of this book I shall try to draw them. But this [essay] argues that postmodernism should be seen not as a break with romantic and modernist assumptions but rather as a logical culmination of the premises of these earlier movements, premises not always clearly defined in discussions of these issues. In the next chapter I question the Utopian social claims of the postmodernist sensibility by questioning the parallelism they assume between social and esthetic revolution.
In its literary sense, postmodernism may be defined as the movement within contemporary literature and criticism that calls into question the traditional claims of literature and art to truth and human value. As Richard Poirier has observed, "contemporary literature has come to register the dissolution of the ideas often evoked to justify its existence: the cultural, moral, psychological premises that for many people still define the essence of literature as a humanistic enterprise. Literature is now in the process of telling us how little it means."2 This is an apt description of the contemporary mood, but what it neglects to mention is that literature has been in the process of telling us how little it means for a long time, as far back as the beginnings of romanticism.
It is clear why we are tempted to feel that the contemporary popularity of anti-art and artistic self-parody represents a sharp break with the modernist past. It does not seem so long ago that writers like Rilke, Valéry, Joyce, Yeats, and others sought a kind of salvation through art. For Rilke, as earlier for Shelley and other romantics, poetry was "a mouth which else Nature would lack," the great agency for the restitution of values in an inherently valueless world. Romantic and modernist writing expressed a faith in the constitutive power of the imagination, a confidence in the ability of literature to impose order, value, and meaning on the chaos and fragmentation of industrial society. This faith seemed to have lapsed after World War II. Literature increasingly adopted an ironic view of its traditional pretensions to truth, high seriousness, and the profundity of "meaning." Furthermore, literature of the postwar period has seemed to have a different relation to criticism than that of the classic modernists. Eliot, Faulkner, Joyce, and their imitators sometimes seemed to be deliberately providing occasions for the complex critical explications of the New Critics. In contrast, much of the literature of the last several decades has been marked by the desire to remain invulnerable to critical analysis.
In an essay that asks the question, "What Was Modernism?" Harry Levin identifies the "ultimate quality" pervading the work of the moderns as "its uncompromising intellectuality."3 The conventions of postmodern art systematically invert this modernist intellectuality by parodying its respect for truth and significance. In Donald Barthelme's anti-novel, Snow White, a questionnaire poses for the reader such mock questions as, "9. Has the work, for you, a metaphysical dimension? Yes ( ) No ( ) 10. What is it (twenty-five words or less)?"4 Alain Robbe-Grillet produces and campaigns for a type of fiction in which "obviousness, transparency preclude the existence of higher worlds, of any transcendence."5 Susan Sontag denounces the interpretation of works of art on the grounds that "to interpret is to impoverish, to deplete the world—in order to set up a shadow world of 'meanings.'"6 Leslie Fiedler, writing on modern poetry, characterizes one of its chief tendencies as a "flight from the platitude of meaning."7 As Jacob Brackman describes this attitude in The Put-On, "we are supposed to have learned by now that one does not ask what art means."8 And, as Brackman shows, this deliberate avoidance of interpretability has moved from the arts into styles of personal behavior. It appears that the term "meaning" itself, as applied not only to art but to more general experience, has joined "truth" and "reality" in the class of words which can no longer be written unless apologized for by inverted commas.
Thus it is tempting to agree with Leslie Fiedler's conclusion that "the Culture Religion of Modernism" is now dead.9 The most advanced art and criticism of the last twenty years seem to have abandoned the modernist respect for artistic meaning. The religion of art has been "demythologized." A number of considerations, however, render this statement of the case misleading. Examined more closely, both the modernist faith in literary meanings and the postmodern repudiation of these meanings prove to be highly ambivalent attitudes, much closer to one another than may at first appear. The equation of modernism with "uncompromising intellectuality" overlooks how much of this intellectuality devoted itself to calling its own authority into question.
THE RELIGION OF ART
The nineteenth century's elevation of art to the status of a surrogate religion had rested on paradoxical foundations. Though in one sense the religion of art increased enormously the cultural prestige and importance of art, there was self-denigration implicit in the terms in which art was deified. Consider the following statement by Ortega y Gasset, contrasting the attitude of the avantgarde art of the mid-twenties, that art is "a thing of no consequence" and "of no transcendent importance," with the veneration art had compelled in the previous century:
Poetry and music then were activities of an enormous caliber. In view of the downfall of religion and the inevitable relativism of science, art was expected to take upon itself nothing less than the salvation of mankind. Art was important for two reasons: on account of its subjects which dealt with the profoundest problems of humanity, and on account of its own significance as a human pursuit from which the species derived its justification and dignity.10
Ortega attributes the prestige of art in the nineteenth century to the fact that art was expected to provide compensation for the "downfall of religion and the inevitable relativism of science." But the downfall of religion and the relativism of science were developments which could not help undermining the moral and epistemological foundations of art. Once these foundations had been shaken—and the sense of their precariousness was a condition of the romantic glorification of the creative imagination—art could scarcely lay claim to any firm authority for dealing with "the profoundest problems of humanity" and for endowing the species with "justification and dignity." It is only fair to add that Ortega's own philosophical writings are profound commentaries on this crisis of authority in modern experience.
From its beginnings, the romantic religion of art manifested that self-conflict with its own impulses which Renato Poggioli, in The Theory of the Avant-Garde, identifies as a defining characteristic of avant-garde thought.11 The ultimate futility and impotence of art was implicit in the very terms with which romantic and subsequently modernist writers attempted to deify art as a substitute for religion. The concept of an autonomous creative imagination, which fabricates the forms of order, meaning, and value which men no longer thought they could find in external nature, implicitly—if not necessarily intentionally—concedes that artistic meaning is a fiction, without any corresponding object in the extra-artistic world. In this respect the doctrine of the creative imagination contained within itself the premises of its refutation.
Recent literature forces us to recognize the precariousness of the earlier religion of art, to see that the very concept of a creative imagination on which it depended contains an unavoidable difficulty. For an order or pattern of meaning which must be invented by human consciousness out of its inner structure—whether it is thought to derive from the private subjectivity of the individual, from some intersubjective Geist that is assumed to be common to all minds, or from the humanly created forms of custom and convention—is necessarily uncertain of its authority. Old-fashioned textbook descriptions of romanticism stressing the affirmative flights of the romantic priests of art ignored the ambivalence pervading romantic writing. Wordsworth, for example, celebrating the spirit in nature which "rolls through all things," pauses self-consciously to consider that this celebration may rest on "a vain belief," justifiable only on pragmatic grounds. And his affirmation of this spirit is haunted by his difficulty in determining whether man actually perceives it as an external reality or creates it out of his own mind. The Shelleyan stereotype of the poet as the "unacknowledged legislator of the world," a godlike creator who brings forth a new cosmos ex nihilo and soars beyond the range of commonsense reality, is, from another perspective, only an honorific reformulation of the alternate stereotype of the poet as a marginal person, a hapless trifler or eccentric who inhabits a world of autistic fantasy and turns his back on objective reality. The secret and unacknowledged collaboration between rebellious literati and their philistine detractors remains an unwritten chapter in the social history of art. Both poetolatry's glorification of the artist as a demigod and philistinism's denigration of him as an irresponsible social deviant share a common definition of the artist as a special kind of person, one who perceives the world in a fashion different from that of ordinary objective judgment. An inner connection links the doctrine of imaginative autonomy and the philosophical and social alienation of art.12
For the romantic belief in the power of the autonomous imagination was chastened by the recognition that the order and truth generated by this imagination are no more than arbitrary and subjective constructions. If imaginative truth is determined from within rather than without, how can a poet know whether one myth prompted by his imagination is truer than any other? And what basis has he for claiming that his particular myth is or should be shared by others? In the very assertion that poetry endows the universe with meaning—the proposition of Shelley's Defence—there lay an implied confession of the arbitrary nature of that meaning. Romantic esthetics typifies the more general crisis of modern thought, which pursues a desperate quest for meaning in experience while refusing to accept the validity of any meaning proposed. The paradox of the sophisticated modern mind is that it is unable to believe in the objective validity of meanings yet is unable to do without meanings. The ambiguous status of the concept of meaning in modern esthetic theory is one outcome of this paradox. For the last two centuries, theorists have engaged in a tightrope act in which the significance which must be ascribed to art in order to justify its importance has had to be eliminated from art in order to guarantee its innocence and authenticity. Thus we have the numerous self-contradictory attempts in the twentieth century to define art as a discourse somehow both referential and nonreferential, closed off from the external world yet embodying profound knowledge of the external world.13
THE APPEAL TO CONSENSUS
The equation of romanticism with "subjectivism" is, of course, a misunderstanding of the intentions of the major romantic thinkers, who glorified not the idiosyncratic subjectivity of the private ego but transcendental subjectivity of universal man, sometimes identified with the Absolute itself. Thus for Shelley, "a poem is the very image of life expressed in its eternal truth" according to "the unchangeable forms of human nature, as existing in the mind of the creator, which is itself the image of all other minds."14 By assuming the unity and universality of "all other minds," this view makes it possible to do without an external ground of order and value. Henry David Aiken notes that nineteenth-century thinkers came "increasingly to recognize that objectivity is not so much a fact about the universe as it is a matter of common standards of judgment and criticism." Objectivity, in other words, was redefined as intersubjectivity: "Intersubjective norms are not agreed to by the members of a society because they are objective, but, in effect, become objective because they are jointly accepted."15
In other words, societies do not abide by certain rules because these rules are, by some preestablished standard, normative. Rather, societies choose to regard certain rules as normative, and these rules then become established as such. This reasoning refers normative judgments to what we now call an "existential" act of choice. In doing so, however, it begs the question of how this choice is made. On what basis does society choose? To take a provocative but nevertheless pertinent example, suppose one faction of society prefers a policy of genocide against certain minorities while another prefers a policy of democratic freedom. Is there no standard of good reasons that can be invoked to show that democratic freedom constitutes a wiser choice than genocidal extinction? (I have translated the problem into one of values, but the case is not altered when the question is one of what to regard as objectively true.) The notion that choices determine norms rather than obey them does away with the idea that there are certain norms that ought to be chosen by societies and thus precipitates a radical cultural relativism. It is true, of course, that force, not good reasons, has governed most societies. Yet if we give up the notion that such reasons can exist prior to choice, we deny the legitimacy of resisting force.
To argue that the nature of a concept is whatever people believe it to be may be an adequate strategy as long as everybody in the relevant group believes the same things. It becomes a nonanswer when the nature of the concept has become a contested issue. The appeal to what people believe breaks down as soon as the question arises of whether they ought to believe it. The appeal to intersubjective consensus begs the question at hand; it was the breakdown of such consensus, when the literary and the commercial-utilitarian factions of society began to inhabit opposed mental worlds, that in large degree occasioned the cultural problem. It is this dilemma that may have induced Kant himself, in at least one passage, to swerve from his customary position and assert that our mental acts of constituting reality must be controlled by an external object. In the Prolegomena to Any Future Metaphysics, Kant poses the question of how we can assure ourselves that our judgments are shared by others. His answer is surprising: "there would be no reason for the judgments of other men necessarily agreeing with mine," Kant says, "if it were not for the unity of the object to which they all refer and with which they accord; hence they must all agree with one another."16 This answer is surprising because elsewhere Kant insists that it makes no sense to speak of a "unity of the object" as if it were prior to our thinking, because unity inheres not in the object but in the conditions of our common understanding, specifically in the category of unity by which our minds constitute the object. Here Kant seems to undo his Copernican revolution by making our ability to constitute the object as a unity depend on the unity of the object in itself prior to our apprehension. In order to account for the universality of our perceptions, Kant is forced to lapse into the sort of "correspondence" theory of truth that his philosophy has presumably done away with.
But of course the great influence of Kant's thought—whether Kant intended it or not—was precisely to discredit this correspondence theory of truth, and to rule out any talk about the way reality coerces our judgments. And in the absence of any appeal to such a coercive reality to which the plurality of subjectivities can be referred, all perspectives become equally valid. The romantic Absolute degenerates into a myth or, as we now say, a fiction. The logic of romantic transcendental philosophy led to a relativism that was certainly antithetical to what most romantic thinkers intended, yet which furthered the loss of community they were seeking to redress.
This distinction between the intent of romantic argument and its consequences makes it possible to resolve some recent scholarly controversies over whether the romantics were humanists or nihilists. In a sense, both sides are right. The opposing theories of romanticism do not really conflict, since they are not talking about the same aspects of the subject. Those who see romanticism as positive and optimistic (notably, M. H. Abrams in Natural Supernaturalism and René Wellek in "Romanticism Reconsidered") base their view largely on what the romantics themselves consciously intended—to respect common truth and the artist's responsibility to his community. Those who by contrast see romanticism as nihilistic (critics such as J. Hillis Miller, Morse Peckham, and Harold Bloom), base their views on the logical consequences of romantic ideas, independent of intentions. Certainly neither Kant nor any of the thinkers and poets who were influenced by his ideas thought they were proposing a radical relativism that would reduce all values and all reality to a set of fictions. In this sense, Wellek is right when he objects to Peckham's statement that "Romanticism learns from Kant that it can do entirely without constitutive metaphysics and can use any metaphysic or world hypothesis as supreme fiction." Wellek replies, rightly, that one "learns" nothing of the kind from Kant: "I am not aware of a single writer in the late eighteenth or early nineteenth century to whom this description would apply. Who then rejected the possibility of metaphysics or treated it as supreme fiction?"17 Nevertheless, in fairness to Peckham's view, there is warrant for arguing that the effect of the romantic argument was to do just this.
THE DEHUMANIZATION OF REASON: 0 = 0
The developments we have been discussing have their origins in the social and philosophical crises of modern culture. The critical and scientific philosophies of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries severed the ancient connection between rational, objective thought and value judgments. Not only values, but all ideas of order which went beyond factual sense-data became increasingly viewed as inherently subjective, a fate which would overtake objective fact itself at a later date. There set in the condition which Erich Heller has described as "the loss of significant external reality," the sense that the objective world and the realm of meanings and values are irreparably divided.18 Regarded by most thoughtful men up to the end of the Renaissance as a support for the eternal ethical, metaphysical, religious, and esthetic absolutes, "reason," in its empiricist and Cartesian forms, appeared as a threat to the survival of absolutes. As soon became clear, this new reason undermined not only received certainties and traditions but eventually the axioms of rationalism as well. Left to progress without check, reason threatened to yield up a universe in which the result of ethical inquiry, as William James would put it, "could only be one of those indeterminate equations in mathematics which end with 0 = 0," since "this is as far as the reasoning intellect by itself can go. . . . "19 This was the "universe of death" encountered by many romantic writers and their protagonists—Goethe's Faust, Coleridge's Ancient Mariner, and Carlyle's Teufelsdröckh among them.
In such a universe, choice and action were paralyzed, and literature was deprived of its moral function.
A number of social developments immensely deepened this skepticism toward reason. Industrialism intensified the separation of fact and value by institutionalizing objective thought in the form of technology, commerce, and, later, bureaucracy, administration, and social engineering. "Reason" thus became equated with amoral mechanism, with the commercial calculus of profit and the laissez-faire economy, with means and instrumental efficiency over ends, with a regimented, overorganized society which destroys ritual, folk customs, and the heroic dimension of life. In this kind of society, reason appears commonly as a cause of alienation rather than a potential cure: a value-free, depersonalized, finally aimless and irrational mode of calculation that serves the goals both of arbitrary terror and dull commercialism.
At the same time, the fragmentation of the emerging democratic and urbanized society generated an awareness of the private interests and prejudices motivating the use of reason. The recognition that thought serves "ideological" purposes gradually gave rise to the view—at first a suspicion, later a programmatic theory—that all thinking is ideological, that there is no disinterested basis on which the competing claims of different nations, classes, and individuals can be compared and judged. As shared forms of social experience disappeared, the belief in the possibility of shared experience weakened. Reason, which from one point of view was inhumanly neutral, was from another as relativistic, partial, and "human" as passion. And as the growth of class consciousness threatened the stability of established order, reason was associated with blind fanaticism, with a demented overconfidence in the ability of theory alone to reform reality. As advances in knowledge became more spectacular, society was plagued by a sense of the discrepancy between the pervasiveness of intellectual analysis and the poverty of its results, between the avidity with which knowledge was pursued and its inability to answer questions of pressing human importance. With the proliferation of scientific knowledge, men felt oppressed, rather than enlightened, by "explanations."
All these developments helped shape an outlook which sees modern history as a kind of fall from organic unity into the original sin of rationality and which thus longs to escape or "transcend" the burden of reflective consciousness. By his fall into reason, man had apparently lost the harmony of subject and object, self and nature, senses and reason, individual and society, play and work—all this for the sake of the questionable benefits of progress. As Schiller put it in a moving statement, "we see in irrational nature only a happier sister who remained in our mother's house, out of which we impetuously fled abroad in the arrogance of our freedom. With painful nostalgia we yearn to return as soon as we have begun to experience the pressure of civilization and hear in the remote lands of art our mother's tender voice. As long as we were children of nature merely, we enjoyed happiness and perfection; we became free, and lost both."20 Schiller believed that the compensations of freedom and progress were ultimately sufficient to justify the loss, and that at any rate there could be no going back: "That nature which you envy in the irrational is worthy of no respect, no longing. It lies behind you, and must lie eternally behind you."21 Nevertheless, he cannot help conveying the implication that the advent of rational consciousness and the critical spirit represents a great fall from grace.
One consequence of these developments was to weaken further the classical ideal of an integrated unity of man based on the hierarchical subordination of the "lower" to the "higher" faculties. Even in those German thinkers who glorified Greek culture, this hierarchical view of man, which it was natural enough to associate with tyrannical monarchy, gave way to an "organic" ideal of unity. Reason was not necessarily excluded from this organic unity, but its primacy was usurped by another faculty—sometimes called "Reason" but actually closer to imagination, myth, and fantasy, since it does not conform to "conceptual" or "theoretical" reality, but dictates its laws to reality through an autonomous human consciousness. Mere passive understanding was associated with conformity to traditional authoritarian political systems. Again, this rethinking was necessitated by the fact that understanding had been dehumanized through a kind of guiltby-association: with soulless technology, with hierarchical social authority, with amoral political economy, with ideological fanaticism, and with a useless and oppressive machinery of explanation.
Given the circumstances, it was inevitable that the crisis of the industrial order would be diagnosed as a case of excess of reason at the expense of the inner life, or in Shelley's phrasing, "an excess of the selfish and calculating principle" and "the materials of external life" over "the power of assimilating them to the internal laws of human nature."22 It would have to follow that the "human" goals of personal fulfillment, feeling, values, and creativity are arrived at only by overcoming objective consciousness. As Northrop Frye points out, in a statement on Shelley that reveals Frye's own guiding philosophy, "Shelley puts all the discursive disciplines into an inferior group of 'analytic' operations of reason. They are aggressive; they think of ideas as weapons; they seek the irrefutable argument, which keeps eluding them because all arguments are theses, and theses are half-truths implying their own opposites."23 In other words, reason cannot take us beyond 0 = 0. Worse still, it is arrogant, aggressive, and divisive. With objective reason thus dehumanized, the autonomous creative imagination becomes the only hope for cultural salvation.
From this era dates one of the commonplaces of modern social criticism. This is the view that progress in objective knowledge and its practical applications has far outstripped progress in the moral and human sphere. Though this complaint seems correct to the point of obviousness, the way it is stated unobtrusively insinuates that moral and human concerns are fundamentally independent of the search for objective knowledge. From this it is a mere step to the idea that objective understanding of the world and human values (including the values expressed through the arts) are inimical, or that the best one can hope to do is to combine these opposing impulses in an uneasy alliance. In this alliance, objective thinking is to be controlled, directed, and humanized by a morality which is implicitly understood to be nonobjective and thus of dubious status right from the beginning. Even when romantic thinkers such as Shelley, Wordsworth, and Carlyle view science as potentially beneficial and capable of harmonizing with literature, the division of labor they adopt equates literature with the "internal," science and objectivity with the "external" phases of existence. This paves the way for the sharp separation of function that we find in so much subsequent literary and cultural criticism, and finally for the outright assault on objective reason that characterizes the recent cultural left.
THE FORTUNATE FALL INTO ESTHETIC AUTONOMY
In their very reaction against the scientific reduction of experience, the humanists conceded certain premises of science. W. H. Auden describes this underlying agreement between science and romantic humanists as follows:
Modern science has destroyed our faith in the naïve observation of our senses: we cannot, it tells us, ever know what the physical universe is really like; we can only hold whatever subjective notion is appropriate to the particular human purpose we have in view.
This destroys the traditional conception of art as mimesis, for there is no longer a nature "out there" to be truly or falsely imitated; all an artist can be true to are his subjective sensations and feelings. The change in attitude is already to be seen in Blake's remark that some people see the sun as a round golden disc the size of a guinea but that he sees it as a host crying Holy, Holy, Holy. What is significant about this is that Blake, like the Newtonianc he hated, accepts a division between the physical and the spiritual, but, in opposition to them, regards the material universe as the abode of Satan, and so attaches no value to what his physical eye sees.24
As described here by Auden, Blake's position converts a seeming disaster into a victory for the spirit: the spirit has lost its basis in objective nature and reason; but this is no misfortune, since it is better that the spirit not be "enslaved" to nature and reason anyway. What looks at first like the alienation of literature from its source of philosophical (and social) authority is actually a liberation. In this fashion, the new esthetics of romanticism made a virtue of necessity, or what was perceived as a necessity, by construing literature's dispossession of an objective world view as a fortunate fall into "autonomy." Humanists, from this point on, freely and happily choose to embrace a conception of art's station which has been forced upon them by the constraints of the historical situation. From the perception enforced by science that literature has no objective truth, one moves to the conclusion that this is for the best, since objective truth is merely factual, boring, and middle-class.
This strategy of redeeming a bad situation by redescribing it is seen in the various theories of "disinterestedness" that arose in eighteenth-century esthetics and were perfected by Kant in the Critique of Judgment. For Kant the judgments of taste peculiar to art constitute a "pure disinterested satisfaction," as opposed to judgments that are "bound up with an interest." The judgment of taste is "merely contemplative," that is, it is "indifferent as regards the existence of an object." It is "not a cognitive judgment (either theoretical or practical), and thus is not based on concepts, nor has it concepts as its purpose." Art embodies "the mere form of purposiveness" without aiming at a practical purpose, just as art incorporates the raw material of the concepts of the understanding without being itself conceptual.25 It can hardly be accidental that this insistence on separating art from practical interests began to gain popularity at the very moment when the concept of "interest" was losing its metaphysical authority on the one hand, and acquiring derogatory commercial connotations on the other. Nor can it be accidental that art began to be defined as "purposeless" at the very moment when it was in fact losing its traditional social purpose as a means of understanding experience. A new class was arising that did not look to art for an explanation of things as they are and saw no useful purpose in art. How better to answer this class (while accepting its assumption) than to deride the concept of "useful purpose" and to excuse art from any responsibility to it? Thus art came to be celebrated for a freedom from purpose that had been thrust upon it by default.
Over and over, we find that modern esthetic concepts come about as rationalizations of states of affairs that art had little to do with bringing about. From the perception that "poetry makes nothing happen," as Auden in our century has said,26 we move to the imperative that poetry ought to make nothing happen, and finally to the axiom that it is not real poetry if it aims at practical effect. By this logical route, the alienated position of literature ceases to be an aspect of a particular historical condition and becomes part of literature's very definition. Of course this pose of withdrawal from practical effect continues to be highly ambiguous. In its very adoption of a "purposeless" stance, literature performs the practical purpose of combatting philistinism. The very retreat of literature into formalism constitutes an assault on the utilitarians and an attempt to counteract their social and personal influence.
Yet the conditions which had brought about the need to conceive the antidote in these terms made its success unlikely. The strategy of promoting art to the status of universal legislator rested on an implicitly defeatist acceptance of art's disinheritance from its philosophical and social authority. The high claims made for art by writers like Shelley and Kant made the attenuated social and philosophical authority of art seem like a form of power rather than of weakness. These claims rationalized art's already marginal social position. The terms in which the literary imagination was praised converted it into a sentimental compensation while imperceptibly conceding literature's loss of explanatory power. The way in which art was supposed to overcome the division between the rational or the practical and the creative—through a projection of "the internal laws of human nature"—only tended to deepen this division and to make it seem part of the very nature of things. Enemies of the fragmentation, specialization, and dissociation of modern society, the romantics themselves dissociated art from practicality and objective reason and paved the way for later theorists who would regard it as a specialized mode...
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SOURCE: "Postmodernity and Hermeneutics," in boundary 2, Vol. V, No. 2, 1977, pp. 363-93.
[In the following essay, Palmer defends his postulation that postmodernism is an aesthetic movement of limited duration, and that modernity indicates the era beginning with the Renaissance and continuing into the present.]
I. BEYOND POSTMODERNISM TO POSTMODERNITY
"These are apocalyptic times, Doctor," says Strelnikov in Doctor Zhivago, and the same might be said today. Andrew Hacker has said that we stand at "the end of the American era,"1 but the more sobering thought is that we stand at the end of the modern era, an era stretching back...
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In his important work Human Understanding, Stephen Toulmin argues that the epistemological self-image of modern man inherited from the seventeenth century does not cohere with recent thinking in the sciences.15 Scientists on the growing edge of thought today simply do not make use of the presuppositions of rationalist thought, yet these presuppositions persist because no one has come forward to articulate a clear "epistemological self-portrait" of man as viewed in contemporary models of thought. Consequently, present-day lay views of man tend to make assumptions about time, substance, mind and body, causality, and so on, that have been left behind in contemporary scientific theory. Toulmin's project...
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In philosophy since Descartes and Bacon, and especially since Locke and Hume, the underlying goal has been to extricate thought from metaphysics—or, to use a more loaded term, "superstition." The dream of Descartes one November night in 1619 was the achievement of a single body of verified knowledge in every area of human endeavor. And the obvious way to such a body of knowledge was to be a method that set up criteria for achieving it. Hume, then Kant, then Nietzsche took up the fight against "metaphysics." Kant, as Foucault has noted, preserved the autonomy and freedom of man only by making him an "empirical-transcendental doublet,"18 thus escaping the depressing metaphysical consequences of Hume's...
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Perhaps nothing is more characteristic of modernity than the growth of science and technology. In premodern times (say, before 1480), human calculative reason was rated as only one among the several capacities of man, and it was always kept "in its place." With the rise of perspective (for with perspective came the spatializing and mathematizing of human reason), the powers of mind to control nature technologically were multiplied many fold. Perspective also separated the viewer of the world from what surrounded him, and by defining objects in terms of extension, of mass, perspective laid the foundations for the familiar Cartesian (and modern) dualism between a nonmaterial consciousness and a world of material...
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The technophobia—if one may call it that—found in Heidegger, Slater, and Roszak is by no means the definitive characteristic of postmodernity—a consoling fact, since we seem fated to live in an electronic and technological world for the forseeable future. Is it possible to articulate a perspective that does not uncritically surrender to either technophiles or technophobes? Ihab Hassan, an important literary theorist of postmodernism, believes that it is—that thought today is, under the influence of instantaneous electronic communication and other factors, moving toward a kind of gnosticism; but a "new gnosticism" appropriate to the postmodern age.31
Hassan notes "the growing...
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For some, the way beyond modernity is the way outside Western forms of thought: the orient, the Plains Indians, and Africa all offer radically nonmodern forms of reality. In the modern era, these have all been in part subjected to "modernization" (the movement toward centralized government, urbanization, secularization, the breakdown of kinship ties—a process well described by C. E. Black in relation to the "modernization" of Japan and other Asian countries33). But nonwestern viewpoints have penetrated the West as well. This is probably most notable in the vogue of Zen Buddhism and various forms of spiritual discipline from the East, such as yoga, transcendental meditation, and t'ai chi...
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A way of thought is indicated by what it regards as axiomatic, and naturalism is axiomatic for the contemporary scientific view of the world. Naturalism refers to the belief that the natural, material world, including the organic world of nature and our bodies, is an autonomous domain basically unaffected by consciousness—either one's own or that of higher or lower beings. In harmony with this naturalism is the modern view that diseases like cancer or arthritis have nothing to do with the mental state of their possessors. The mind is merely a monitor for pain and other messages from the body, and a receptor of stimuli from the external world. Its powers do not extend to overcoming diseases directly nor to telepathic...
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7. The apostles of "new consciousness"
The most extreme form of transcending modernity is probably that of proposing a whole "new consciousness." Into this category fall many efforts that have little claim to serious attention, efforts that venture off into fantasies and questionable extrapolation from puzzling bits of evidence. The works of von Däniken offer an interesting challenge to the prevailing evolutionary concepts,46 as do the theories on myth as early astronomy suggested in Giorgio de Santillana's Hamlet's Mill.47 Among the striking points von Däniken makes is not only the possibility of human life having been initiated by interstellar visitors but also the...
(The entire section is 779 words.)
The rebellion against the heritage of modernity in psychology has taken the form of an increasingly critical attitude toward the illusions of positivism. Greater methodological reflexivity in the discipline has suggested to psychologists (in some quarters) that the "objectively described" data have become objective only through an act of renouncing large blocks of subjective or otherwise nonobjectifiable reality. Empirical seeing can be a form of empirical blindness to the nonobjectifiable sides of phenomena. Especially in counselling, psychologists have keenly felt the gap between data from the laboratory or from objective studies and, on the other hand, the kinds of inner struggle in which their patients are...
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Paul Ricoeur observed at the beginning of his book on hermeneutics and Freud (1964) that the problem of language has become the corssroads of contemporary European thought. No one concerned with the problem of language can ignore the tremendous ferment in French thought in the period since 1960, in which perhaps the most colorful development was the vogue of structuralism. The offspring of linguistics and anthropology, more a method than a philosophical position, structuralism intoxicated contemporary intellectual circles like a new and heady wine. Roland Barthes is perhaps the figure who most fruitfully responded to the impetus of structuralist thought. Yet structuralism in France was only one of several currents of...
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One could define postmodern literary theory very loosely as theory that rebels against formalism—especially the New Criticism, with its roots in the aesthetics of Modernism and French Symbolism. One might see, then, already with Northrop Frye's Anatomy of Criticism, a movement away from the aestheticism of the New Critics.70 Yet Frye is frankly Aristotelian (as he states in his Preface) and his theoretical self-understanding certainly does not take a "postmodern" turn. Nor are social criticism and eclecticism, as alternatives to New Criticism, radical alternatives that venture beyond modernity. They only modify the extremes of formalist-rhetorical criticism.
The Geneva critics,...
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If we want a hermeneutics that survives the transition to postmodernity, I think we need to renew our sense of the mythic meaning of Hermes. Hermes was a boundarycrosser, the god of exchanges of all kinds, as well as messenger-mediator between the realm of the gods and that of man. In ancient Greece, altars to Hermes stood at crossroads and at borders, where exchanges most often took place. Persons of different languages and different countries often made their exchanges at the border. So it is not strange that the term hermeneuein means to translate, to explain. The interpreters of Homer were "hermeneuts" even though their interpretation was not a translation or an explanation but a performance that brought...
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Hermeneutics, then, is not an "ism." It is not the property of Heidegger and Gadamer, although I find that they are very helpful in grasping the relation between interpretation and the philosophical movement away from objectivity. Hermeneutics is the discipline of bridging gaps and of theorizing about what is involved in this process. For this reason it is open to the kinds of "reality" that come into view in Castaneda, or R. D. Laing, or James Hillman.
Hermeneutics must go deeper than all merely methodological reflection about interpretation. In fact, it asks about the effects on interpretation caused by the methodological stance itself. It comprises a new reflexivity about interpretation—what...
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What do these considerations mean for the teacher-interpreter of literature? They mean that if a change in the conceptions of language, history, truth, myth, art, and understanding is involved, this is not a matter of changing a method of interpreting but the rules of the game; or perhaps, making it a new game. If postmodernity brings this kind of fundamental change the hermeneutical task must take on a new shape.
Obviously this new shape cannot be described in detail, and even my own image of it is but an interpretation, a construction. But I would look forward to a greater dignity for the teacher of literature. I find pale and thin the job-descriptions teachers carry in their minds....
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SOURCE: "Writing about Postmodern Writing," in Poetics Today, Vol. 3, No. 3, Summer, 1982, pp. 211-27.
[In the following omnibus review of several critical works on postmodernist literature, McHale finds similarities and differences among the conclusions drawn by Christine Brooke-Rose, Christopher Butler, Anne Jefferson, and Alan Wilde.]
"Postmodern"? No such word appears in the index of Ann Jefferson's book on the nouveau roman,1 nor does it occur in the chapters that Christine Brooke-Rose devotes to contemporary French writing. Yet Brooke-Rose's index2 does give a number of page-references under "postmodern (postmodernism,...
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SOURCE: "Postmodern Theory/Postmodern Fiction," in Clio, Vol. 16, No. 2, Winter, 1987, pp. 139-58.
[In the following essay, Johnston surveys the theories of several postmodernist literary critics, including Brian McHale, Frederic Jameson, Patricia Waugh, and Michel Foucault.]
In recent years the term "postmodernism" has acquired considerable currency, but without there being much consensus as to its meaning or even its legitimacy. For the sake of convenience, I would like to propose three categories for dealing with different versions of postmodernism: literary/aesthetic postmodernism, historical (or cultural) postmodernism, and theoretical postmodernism. In my...
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SOURCE: "Postmodernism and American Literary History," in The Sewanee Review, Vol. XCIX, No. 1, Winter, 1991, pp. 40-60.
[In the following essay, Hirsch defends New Criticism practices against what he perceives as the failed philosophical underpinnings of postmodern criticism.]
Anglo-American New Criticism had nearly run its course by the end of the 1960s. What had started as an innovative method of reading literary works creatively had, in all too many instances, declined into a robotic and repetitious exercise in counting images and demonstrating paradoxes for their own sake. A clear signal that the end was at hand for the New Criticism was the proliferation of...
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SOURCE: "Critical Literacy and the Postmodern Turn," and "Postscript to 'Critical Literary and the Pstmodern Turn'," in Critical Literacy: Politics, Praxis, and the Postmodern, edited by Colin Lankshear and Peter L. McLaren, State University of New York Press, 1993, pp. 379-420; 421-25.
[In the following essay, McLaren and Lankshear examine the impact of postmodernist literary thought on education and society.]
Educators have become increasingly aware that, far from being a sure means to attaining an accurate and "deep" understanding of the world and one's place within it, the ability to read and write may expose individuals and entire social groups to forms of...
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Poststructuralist theorists, among others (notably, feminists), have criticized educators for working within a discourse of critical rationalism which reifies the humanist subject—the rational, self-motivating, autonomous agent—as a subject of history, change, and resistance. They maintain that what separates being an individual from being a subject is a linguistic membrane known as discourse. Discourses provide individuals with identifications which convert them into subjects. By contrast, the rationalist position associated with the modern Enlightenment rests on a "metaphysics of presence" which constitutes the individual as a noncontradictory, rational, self-fashioning, autonomous being: Descartes' fully...
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Another major contribution of poststructuralist theory has been its revelation that texts need to be understood in their historical, political, and cultural specificity. There are no texts which are meant in the same way by readers because readers occupy different subjective positions of articulation. The rhetorical claims of the text are integrated or transformed through the parallel rhetorics of common sense and the everyday against which they are read.
Poststructuralism has provided a necessary shift from a critical focus on text alone to the dynamics of culture and consumption reflected in the reader. Bennett24 cuts across the notion of the unitary experience of reading in suggesting...
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Various other obstacles to a political agenda of justice and emancipation have been discerned within postmodern social theory. Barbara Christian's critique of postmodern discourse takes aim at the language of literary critical theory. She condemns this language on the grounds that it "mystifies rather than clarifies our condition, making it possible for a few people who know that particular language to control the critical scene—that language surfaced, interestingly enough, just when the literatures of peoples of color, of black women, of Latin Americans, of Africans, began to move to 'the center.'"37
Still further problems are seen to arise from postmodern attacks on the unified,...
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If feminists have advanced some of the more strident critiques of postmodern social theory on behalf of a politics of material engagement in the cause of freedom and justice, they have also given clear pointers to a way ahead. In resisting "the dangers inherent in a complete decentering of the historical and material" and in their task of "changing the power relationships that underlie women's oppression," feminists offer postmodernist discourse a way of dealing with contradictions which do not decenter their own categories of analysis in such a way that political reform is immobilized. Feminist discourse can move analysis away from the word and toward the world, since, according to Mary Hawkesworth, "feminist...
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Recent work by Larry Grossberg on the relationship between structure and agency offers valuable insights for further developing a critical poststructuralist agenda in literacy research and practice. The structure-agency debate has haunted critical social theory for decades: initially in its modernist "moment," but later within poststructuralist theorizing as well.
Grossberg detects the carryover of an Althusserian view of subject formation into dominant strands of poststructuralism, resulting in an unwanted determinism. The subject becomes essentially a passive occupant of a particular discursive construction, although individuals are not all constructed equally. Social groups are positioned...
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The United States as global educator; constructing the "other". The United States is fast becoming the global educator par excellence. This is of growing concern for those interested in developing critical research practices for the study of literacy. Through its ideologies of individualism and free enterprise, it is fostering tutelary democracies among the "barbaric" and "uncivilized." This raises the following questions: How can we avoid reconstituting the "Other" in the language of a universal, global discourse (in this case an uncritical acceptance of liberal humanism)? How can we refrain from keeping the "Other" mute before the ideals of our own discourse? What research practices must exist in order to...
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Eagleton argues that the discourse of modernism in the teaching of English constitutes both a moral technology and a particular mode of subjectivity. Dominant forms of teaching English serve to create a bourgeois body/subject that values subjectivity in itself. This occurs through "particular set[s] of techniques and practices for the instilling of specific kinds of value, discipline, behaviour and response in human subjects."57 Within liberal capitalist society the lived experience of "grasping literature" occurs within a particular form of subjectivity which values freedom and creativity as ends in themselves, whereas the more important issue should be: freedom and creativity for what? It...
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SOURCE: "Individual Voice in the Collective Discourse: Literary Innovation in Postmodern American Fiction," in Sub-stance, Vol. 27, 1980, pp. 29-39.
[In the following essay, Russell surveys the fiction of several contemporary American authors, including Thomas Pynchon, to convey his belief that postmodernism reflects the ambiguity and self-consciousness of life in the latter half of the twentieth-century.]
Since World War II, a new aesthetic and social configuration—the postmodern—has appeared in Europe and the Americas. Studied, but only imprecisely defined, by scholars, artists and writers alike, the postmodern signals a significant change in the nature of the...
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SOURCE: "The Name of the Rose' as a Postmodern Novel," in Naming the Rose: Essays on Eco's 'The Name of Rose, ' edited by M. Thomas Inge, University Press of Mississippi, 1988, pp. 48-61.
[In the following essay, Parker examines the postmodernist tendencies of Umberto Eco's The Name of the Rose in light of Eco's own literary criticism.]
We live in a decade of "post's": poststructuralism, postmodernism, and the teasingly paradoxical postcontemporary. Almost no one, however, seems happy with the term postmodern. It is most often used, as one critic puts it, "pis aller," as if it were a tool designed obsolete or a category always empty.1 In his...
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SOURCE: "Postmdernism and Barth and the Present State of Fiction," in Critical Quarterly, Vol. 32, No. 1, Spring, 1990, pp. 60-72.
[In the following essay, Bradbury discusses the fiction of John Barth, finding that the author uses self-reflexive techniques to comment on American culture.]
It is a commonplace of postmodernist fiction that it contains within itself a degree of self-reflection and selfreference. Indeed, the absence of these elements from more recent departures within the development of, particularly, American fiction has led to claims for the rise of a new realism within the genre. The irony of this change is that it has been contemporaneous with the...
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SOURCE: "Postmodern Romance: Don DeLillo and the Age of Conspiracy," in The South Atlantic Quarterly, Vol. 89, No. 2, Spring, 1990, pp. 337-53.
[In the following essay, McClure examines novelist Don DeLillo's adaptation of popular novels of different genres, including science fiction, espionage, and occult adventures.]
Don DeLillo crafts his fictions out of the forms of popular romance: out of the espionage thriller, the imperial adventure novel, the western, science fiction, even the genre of occult adventure. He may conduct us, in one novel, across several genres: Running Dog begins as a spy story, turns, as one of the characters remarks, into a western, and...
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SOURCE: "Practicing Post-Modernism: The Example of John Hawkes," in Contemporary Literature, Vol. 32, No. 1, Spring, 1991, pp. 38-57.
[In the following essay, Unsworth defends Jerome Klinkowitz's assertion that contemporary artists and writers influence each other by examining the relationship between John Hawkes and Albert Guerard.]
"The excitement of contemporary studies is that all of its critical practitioners and most of their subjects are alive and working at the same time. One work influences another, bringing to the field a spirit of competition and cooperation that reaches an intensity rarely found in other disciplines" (x). In these remarks on "contemporary...
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SOURCE: "The Postmodern Novel: The Example of John Irving's The World According to Garp'," in Critique: Studies in Modern Fiction, Vol. XXXIV, No. 1, Fall, 1992, pp. 49-62.
[In the following essay, Wilson claims John Irving 's The World According to Garp as an example of postmodern literature precisely because it borrows stylistically from such diverse writers as James Joyce, John Cheever, and John Barth.]
As a novel that recapitulates within itself a history of twentieth-century fiction, John Irving's The World According to Garp illustrates a key aspect of postmodernism, that of formal replenishment. The earlier segments of Garp exhibit strong...
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The postmodern novel contains all the earlier modes of the novel, contains them intrinsically within the process by which a literature of exhausted possibilities replenishes itself. Such commentators as Albert J. La Valley, Herman Kahn, and Christopher Lasch may see causes of change in recent literature in deep cultural contexts. La Valley says that the new literature reflects a new consciousness that has been "inspired in part by the breakdown of our culture, its traditions, and its justifications of the American social structure," (1); Kahn and Wiener refer to our culture as being in the "Late Sensate" stage, our art, including literature, reflecting a culture in the state of decline (40-41); and Lasch argues that...
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Because the term zone comes from Gravity's Rainbow, this category highlights the relationship between Garp and Thomas Pynchon's great novel. Speaking of the zone of occupation in defeated Germany, Brian McHale says that as Gravity's Rainbow unfolds, "hallucinations and fantasies become real, metaphors become literal, the fictional worlds of the mass media—the movies, comicbooks—thrust themselves into the midst of historical reality." As such, "Pynchon's zone is paradigmatic for the heterotopain space of postmodernist writing" (45). The World According to Garp has a zone, as I shall argue, that fits Gravity's Rainbow's paradigm. Brian McHale suggests that behind all the...
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Umberto Eco notes the shift in contemporary novels, where an author "renounces all psychology as the motive of narrative and decides to transfer characters and situations to the level of an objective structural strategy." Eco sees this "choice familiar to many contemporary disciplines" as one in which an author passes "from the psychological method to the formalistic one" (146). Eco's words fit with Robert Scholes's prediction that the key element in the coming new fiction would be a new dimension of the "care for form" (41). This noncharacter orientation provides a point of reference between The World According to Garp and Robert Coover's The Universal Baseball Association, which is organized neither by...
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Metafiction is another instance where fiction turns away from outside reality and seeks a subject intrinsically suited to the written word. In this method, the technique of composition becomes to some extent the subject of fiction itself.3 If television and movies are vastly better adapted to creating an illusion of reality—the depiction of objects—then fiction must find other subjects for its own surivival, just as painting turned to the nonrepresentational when painters recognized the photograph's power to recreate a scene accurately. In the metafictional dimension, we see the connection of The World According to Garp to other postmodern fiction, for example to the stories John Barth's Lost...
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As a novel that shifts from mode to mode, The World According to Garp illustrates the postmodern as a literature of replenishment: Garp recapitulates within itself a history of the twentieth-century novel, performing a tacit critique of the earlier forms. Irving starts in an early twentieth-century mode. Reviewing the fiction of this era, Irving Howe (Klein 124-41) says that whereas nineteenth-century realism studied social classes, early twentieth-century fiction studied the rebellion of the Stephen Dedaluses against behavior patterns imposed by social classes in a particular country. In this conception, the modern novel came into being when James Joyce reconstructed the existing form of the...
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The nearly gothic episodes of the first two sections prepare us for the novel's final section. The salient events in the third section are intrusions of public life into the private: assassinations, mob violence, and highway mayhem, much of it not accidental. The public/private dichotomy presents itself most clearly in Garp's refusal to accept the fact that a strictly women's memorial service for his mother, Jenny Fields, is not a private funeral but a public, political event. It would be unthinkable to bar a son from the one, but unthinkable to welcome a man to the other.
As for the bizarre, not only is the setting moved to Jenny Field's madcap home for "injured women" at Don's Head Harbor; but even...
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The third section, more than the first two, bears out the postmodern ethic by which to declare a character psychologically flat need not be to denigrate the author's skill. Irving's mistrust of over psychologizing may have led to his statement that "the phrase 'psychologically deep' is a contradiction of terms." Irving feels that such a view "is a terribly simplistic and unimaginative approach. Ultimately it is destructive of all the breadth and complexity in literature" (McCaffery interview 11). Complexity in the final third of Garp arises from structure, from ironic genre manipulation, from the problematic nature of the text's relationship to the world, and not from any probing of psychological motive that...
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Irving's novel alludes to the phenomenon of metafiction when discussing the rejection note that Garp received for "The Pension Grillparzer": "The story is only mildly interesting, and it does nothing new with language or with form" (129). Tinch, Garp's former instructor, said he really did not understand the "newer fiction" except that it was supposed to be "about it-it-itself. . . . It's sort of fiction about fi-fi-fiction," Tinch told Garp. Garp did not understand either and, in truth, cared mainly about the fact that Helen liked the story. But although Garp was not interested in metafiction at this stage of his career, we can see that Irving is to some degree practicing this aspect of the new fiction...
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SOURCE: "Surfiction: A Postmodern Position," in Critifiction: Postmodern Essays, State University of New York Press, 1993, pp. 35-47.
[In the following essay, Federman proposes that surfiction is the only contemporary literature that revels in humankind's intellect, imagination, and irrationality because it recognizes life itself as fiction.]
Now some people might say that the situation of fiction today is not very encouraging, but one must reply that it is not meant to encourage those who say that!
Writing about fiction today, one could begin with the usual clichés: the...
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SOURCE: "Contemporary Short Fiction and the Postmodern Condition," in Studies in Short Fiction, Vol. 32, No. 2, Spring, 1995, pp. 147-59.
[In the following essay, Clark examines the viability of the short story in the age of postmodernist literature.)
Entangled on one side with the tribe, on another with the marketplace, the short story inhabits postmodernity differently from the novel. It moves differently, and in ways still unarticulated, on the force field of contemporary culture, participating in what Fredric Jameson has called a "revival of storytelling knowledge" in the postmodern world and giving voice to the increased "vitality of small narrative units"...
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SOURCE: "Languages of Post-Modernism," in Chicago Review, Vol. 27, No. 1, Summer, 1975, pp. 11-22.
[In the following essay, Davidson examines some defining characteristics of postmodernism that have appeared in American poetry and art.]
Aristotle tells the story of C ratylus, who became so infatuated with Heraclitean notions of flux and change that he proceeded to amend the famous statement, "No man steps into the same river twice," to the effect that 'no man can do it once.' His reasoning, apparently, was based on the fact that in the interval between the time that man touches the surface of the river and when his foot touches the bottom, the river has already...
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SOURCE: "What Is Living and What Is Dead in American Postmodernism: Establishing the Contemporaneity of Some American Poetry," in Critical Inquiry, Vol. 22, No. 4, Summer, 1996, pp. 764-89.
[In the following essay, Altieri finds that contemporary American poetry has to a significant extent divested itself from the stylistic and thematic traits of postmodern critical theory.]
I think postmodernism is now dead as a theoretical concept and, more important, as a way of developing cultural frameworks influencing how we shape theoretical concepts. With its basic enabling arguments now sloganized and its efforts to escape binaries binarized, it is unlikely to generate much...
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When I use the term postmodernist theory, I refer to conceptual work conforming to the parameters of one or more of five basic discursive frameworks that provide partial, overlapping arguments devoted at least in part to characterizing postmodern culture and its consequences. The first, and now least current, of these orientations has been devoted to clarifying how the arts see themselves as reacting critically to the formal and cultural values basic to late modernism—for example, by undoing the primacy of optical experience; by shattering formal purity so as to let through the "noise of the world" with all its historical density; by challenging the idealization of poetry as an engagement with universal...
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SOURCE: "Postmodernism: Extension or End of Modernism? Theater between Cultural Crisis and Cultural Change," in Zeitgeist in Babel: The Postmodernist Controversy, edited by Ingeborg Hoesterey, Indiana University Press, 1991, pp. 216-28.
[In the following essay, Fischer-Lichte distinguishes between Modernism and Postmodernism in the theater.]
The controversy surrounding postmodernism which has currently aroused fierce debate in various fields on different levels culminates in the persistent question of whether postmodernism has effected a complete break with modernist traditions, or whether it has, on the contrary, only radicalized the trends first formulated and...
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Calinescu, Matei and David Fokkema, eds. Exploring Postmodernism: Selected Papers Presented at the XIth International Comparative Literature Congress, Paris, 20-24 August 1985. Amsterdam and Philadelphia: John Benjamins Publishing Company, 1987, 269 p.
Includes essays by Ihab Hassan, Marjorie Perloff and Stefano Rosso.
Caramello, Charles. Silverless Mirrors: Book, Self & Postmodern American Fiction. Tallahassee: University Presses of Florida, 1983, 250 p.
Traces the development of the authorial self throughout American fiction.
Docherty, Thomas, ed. Postmodernism: A Reader. New...
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