J. Hillis Miller, Deconstruction, and the Recovery of Transcendence
[In the following essay, Atkins explores the charge of lack of spiritual concern leveled against deconstructionist critics, pointing out that their writings reinterpret rather than negate questions of the spiritual.]
Following publication of Charles Dickens: The World of His Novels (1958), The Disappearance of God (1963), and Poets of Reality (1965), J. Hillis Miller became known as one of the most knowledgeable and articulate spokesmen for religion in modern literature. These works, and others, not only testify powerfully to Miller's interest as a literary critic in religious questions, but they also reveal his own deep religious convictions. A member of what was originally The Society for Religion in Higher Education, Miller has frequently contributed to conferences dealing with the growing interest in literature and religion, and his work has been reprinted in collections on religion in modern literature.1 As he put it in a subtle and judicious essay “Literature and Religion,” written for the Modern Language Association volume on Relations of Literary Study, “the religious commitment of the critic, or lack of it, cannot be considered irrelevant to his work.”2
Through the mid-1960s Miller wrote under the influence of the important Swiss critic Georges Poulet, a practitioner of the “criticism of consciousness.” This critical method, which explores the existential situation of authors treated and which seeks to identify the critic's consciousness with the author's, is particularly interested in metaphysical and ontological questions and seemed quite congenial to, if not constitutive of, Miller's own religious inclinations. Beginning in the late 1960s, however, as attested by The Form of Victorian Fiction (1968) and the revision of an essay entitled “Georges Poulet's ‘Criticism of Identification’,” Miller came under the influence of the important contemporary French philosopher Jacques Derrida, known as the father of deconstruction. Miller's last book, Thomas Hardy: Distance and Desire (1970), and approximately two dozen subsequent essays on a variety of topics reflect his adoption of deconstructive critical procedures. Indeed, owing in large part to Miller's reputation and influence, deconstructive criticism is the rage in America, and is likely to remain so for some time.
Indebted to Saussure, Freud, Nietzsche, and Heidegger, deconstruction proceeds from a recognition that meaning is a matter not of identity but of difference; as Saussure argued, meaning arises from the differential relations among terms. If this is so, Derrida points out, each term must always already carry a “trace” of the other, for “any other alternative, any attempt to save the value of full presence would lead to the postulation of a point of origin not different from itself (an indifferent origin), thus destroying the essentially differential quality of language.”3 Armed with the “trace” and differance, as he spells it (to indicate that the French verb différer means both “to differ” and “to defer”), Derrida deconstructs the idea of simple origin and presence. On this view, the origin is dialogical, being divided from itself, within itself, and the presence of absence (the “trace”) means the absence of presence, there being no such thing as the thing-in-itself. Deconstructed are such concepts as unity, identity, truth, the center, the logos—all those privileged terms, in fact, of what Derrida calls logocentric metaphysics.4 The Derridean position seems diametrically opposed to the “criticism of identification” Miller formerly embraced.
Does Miller's switch from Poulet to Derrida and to the “tradition of difference” entail a marked change in religious outlook? A careful study of Miller's criticism, both before and after this conversion, should allow us to penetrate more deeply than has been done before into the far-reaching implications of deconstruction, as well as to shed light on the critical odyssey of Miller himself.
On the surface at least, deconstruction appears a dangerous threat to many of our most cherished traditions and institutions. Not surprisingly, many “outraged” voices have risen against it and its practitioners, including many of the best known and most respected scholars and critics in this country. Their numbers include M. H. Abrams, Wayne Booth, Gerald Graff, and E. D. Hirsch. These and other commentators point to the threat deconstruction poses to the humanist tradition, many of them alleging that nihilism is inherent in deconstruction. One of the more recent attacks on deconstruction appears in terms directly relevant to our concerns here, and since it picks up previous charges I shall concentrate on it as a specially relevant synecdoche.
Writing in The Georgia Review, Harold Fromm discusses the supposed absurdity and nihilism of this new movement: “When Derrida speaks in Of Grammatology of the ‘End of the Book and the Beginning of Writing’ he has described the present situation. But when the integrative whole symbolized by the book turns into the indeterminate and open-ended ‘text’ of ‘writing,’ we are in a world without value.” Fromm goes on, “In methodology like this, the Logos has been discredited while in its place is offered a plenitude of psychological detritus in which all data, like sparrows and hairs, must not only be noticed but must be cherished as well. And since they are not being cherished by an absent God, they must be noticed and cherished by a seemingly present Man. Formerly, value was derived from presentness in the consciousness of God. Can equally plausible value be derived from mere presentness in the consciousness of Man?”5 Though Fromm's concern is admirable and his worry perhaps understandable, his objection to deconstruction, at least as embraced and practiced by Miller, is to those same features of modernism this movement precisely appears to confront. The charges Fromm brings against deconstruction are, I shall attempt to show, based on a shallow understanding of the principles involved. As a matter of fact, Fromm's attack evidently stems from a desire to salvage transcendence; he writes: “at present, in a period of ‘absence,’ with God beyond the horizon, the very notion of transcendence becomes suspect, if not unintelligible. … Without the assurance of ‘presence,’ it can no longer be believed that anything whatever possesses unlimited value, nor do literary texts constitute an exception.”6 Actually, Miller's critical journey, I shall argue, is an attempt to recover transcendence, lost by modernism.
Miller's odyssey begins in his “Geneva” phase, which has been studied by Sarah Lawall, Vernon Ruland, and Vincent Leitch.7 Certainly a most important aspect of Miller's work at this time is the recent history of Western consciousness, which he traces in The Disappearance of God and Poets of Reality. Focusing on De Quincey, Browning, Emily Brontë, Arnold, and Hopkins, the earlier book describes the absence of God in the nineteenth century, culminating with the climax of Hopkins' own spiritual journey, wherein he accepts the Catholic doctrine of the Real Presence and so, according to Miller, rejects “three hundred and fifty years which seem to be taking man inexorably toward the nihilism of Nietzsche's ‘Gott ist tot’.”8 But if Miller sees Hopkins and other nineteenth-century writers “stretched on the rack of a fading transcendentalism,” his own belief at the time “in a progressing history of metaphysical insight”9 leads him towards a presence which fills the absence experienced by the Victorians. He thus ends The Disappearance of God:
Only in Browning, of the writers studied here, are there hints and anticipations of that recovery of immanence which was to be the inner drama of twentieth-century literature. Browning alone seems to have glimpsed the fact that the sad alternatives of nihilism and escape beyond the world could be evaded if man would only reject twenty-five hundred years of belief in the dualism of heaven and earth. If man could do this he might come to see that being and value lie in this world, in what is immediate, tangible, present to man, in earth, sun, sea, in the stars in their courses, and in what Yeats was to call “the foul-rag-and-bone shop of the heart.” But Browning, like De Quincey, Arnold, Hopkins, and Emily Brontë, was stretched on the rack of a fading transcendentalism, and could reach a precious unity only by the most extravagant stratagems of the spirit.10
In Poets of Reality Miller goes beyond this point, tracing, in Conrad, Yeats, Eliot, Thomas, Stevens, and Williams, a “journey beyond nihilism toward a poetry of reality,” a journey that the critic experiences from within and indeed parallels in his own being. The starting point, for the twentieth century, is the recognition that God is dead, murdered by humanistic egotism: “when God and the creation become objects of consciousness, man becomes a nihilist. Nihilism is the nothingness of consciousness when consciousness becomes the foundation of everything. Man the murderer of God and drinker of the sea of creation wanders through the infinite nothingness of his own ego. Nothing now has any worth except the arbitrary value he sets on things as he assimilates them into his consciousness. … In the emptiness left after the death of God, man becomes the sovereign valuer, the measure of all things.”11
Escape from subjectivism, according to Miller, involves “following the path of nihilism to the end, [whereby] man confronts once again a spiritual power external to himself.” Specifically, the mind must “efface itself before reality … abandoning the will to power over things.”12 Emerging here is a new ontology, the idea of God resembling that discussed in the 1960s by such theologians as Paul Tillich, Thomas J. J. Altizer, and Leslie Dewart: “a God who is no longer transcendent or supreme, but immanent and omnipresent throughout reality.”13 As Miller stresses “a new dimension of intimacy”14 wherein mind and world unite, obliterating the age-old dualism of subject and object, the idea of God reappears under a new name, described now as the living presence of reality. Thus, writes Miller, “God is not the stillness and distance of transcendence, off somewhere beyond or above his creation. He is everywhere, in all his plenitude. Eternity is here and now, in each man's heart, in each grain of sand and field mouse squeaking in the corn.”15 Just as the traditional image of God as a being out there somewhere was being excoriated by Bishop Robinson in Honest to God and the “death of God” theologians, Miller was attacking idealist thinking. His position shines through when he asserts that “Eliot can only become a Christian when he ceases to be an idealist.”16
If Miller was committed to the idea of immanence even before he discussed its discovery in the six writers treated in Poets of Reality, it was shortly after publication of that book that he realized the inadequacy of this apparent solution. The point is especially clear when Miller's treatment of William Carlos Williams in that book is compared with that printed in 1970 in a special issue of Daedalus. In the book he had written, “In the work of Yeats, Thomas, and Stevens can be witnessed the difficult struggle to go beyond the old traditions. Williams goes farthest. He begins within the space of immanence and his work is a magnificent uncovering of its riches.”17 The 1970 essay takes up similar themes. In terms consonant with Poets of Reality, Miller writes that “Spring and All is based on an affirmation of the supreme value of presence and of the present, and on a repudiation of all that is derived, repetitive, and copied. … Authentic life exists only in the present moment of immediate experience.” Miller argues, in fact, that Williams rejects whatever stands between man and “the living moment”: symbolism, subjectivism, supernaturalism. This project Miller describes as a version of the “‘deconstruction of metaphysics’.”18 The result of Miller's return to Williams becomes distinctly Derridean as he shows how Williams' project fails. The hope had been for authentic creation, for the realization of a world pristine in its primal novelty. Realized, however, is a repetition of the way it has always been, a dead imitation. As in everything else, “like the tradition lying behind it, [Williams'] theory of art is unable to free itself from the theories it rejects.”19
Williams' “break” with tradition, his deconstruction of metaphysics, his attempt to grasp immediate presence—these now point Miller in the direction charted by Derrida. Realizing that such deconstruction as Williams thought he was accomplishing can never be complete, that the belief one has broken out only reflects one's imprisonment, Miller writes, “like Aristotle's mimesis, Williams' imagination is both part of and more than nature, both immediate and mediatorial—imitation, revelation, and creation at once. Like the long tradition he echoes, Williams remains caught in the inextricable web of connection among these concepts.”20 Revealed in Williams' predicament is a point crucial to Derridean thinking: the falsity of binary oppositions and all dualisms, inscribed in the Western tradition, because of the “trace.” According to Derrida, “Neither/nor is at once at once or rather or rather.”21 Rather than the triumph of one term of an opposition over the other, as in the frequent dualisms nature/culture, progress/stasis, inside/outside, soul/body, truth/falsehood, literature/criticism, the “trace” keeps differance in play: the terms are inextricably linked, the one requiring the other, like host and parasite.22
Thus, contrary to the belief in progress and breakthrough expressed in Poets of Reality, Miller now writes that there is at once “both progress and stasis.”23 This is, in fact, the central issue in the Daedalus essay, designed to show that Williams did not, indeed could not wholly succeed in the deconstruction applauded in the book. In the place of progress, breakthrough, and claimed undoing of traditions appears the humbling recognition that such undoing is also a preserving. Explaining the peculiar operation of differance with regard to his own work in the essay, Miller declares, “My interpretation, in its turn, both destroys the text it interprets and, I hope, revivifies it. Such a ‘deconstruction’ puts in question the received ideas of our tradition. At the same time my reading keeps the text alive by reliving it. It works back through its texture, repeats it once more in a different form, in a version of that transit through the texts of our heritage called for by Jacques Derrida.” There is absolutely no “question of a breakthrough beyond metaphysics or of a ‘reversal of Platonism.’ This reversal has been performed over and over through the centuries, from the Stoics to Nietzsche and the radical philosophers of our own day, and yet Platonism still reigns. … [T]here is no progress in human history, no unfolding or gradual perfection of the spirit. There are only endlessly varied ways to experience the human situation.”24
Interestingly paralleling the essay on Williams and completed around the same time is Miller's revision of a 1963 essay on his old mentor, Poulet. In 1971 Miller reprints in shortened and slightly revised form that earlier laudatory piece, adding several pages of critical comment on Poulet to it and so dramatizing the Derridean position that one both undoes and preserves, at once. Miller now understands that Poulet is driven by the same desire as Williams: “the quality of presence.”25 But again, despite his profound differences with Poulet, Miller knows better than to set up himself or Derrida as the opposite of Poulet. Statements like the following are crucial to an understanding of Miller's odyssey from “Geneva criticism” to deconstruction:
It would seem that the tradition represented by Derrida and that represented by Poulet must be set against one another as an irreconcilable either/or. A critic must choose either the tradition of presence or the tradition of “difference,” for their assumptions about language, about literature, about history, and about the mind cannot be made compatible. The more deeply and carefully one reads Poulet's criticism, however, the more clearly it emerges that it challenges its own fundamental assumptions. …26
Difference within thus mitigates difference between. Moreover, though for Derrida not sameness but difference is primary, indeed originary, he shares with Poulet the important “reliving of the fundamental texts of our tradition,”27 preserving as he undoes.
Just as no simple negative relation exists between Derrida and Poulet, so none exists between Miller's deconstructive and his earlier criticism. Miller himself affirms the point in a new preface written for the 1975 reprinting of The Disappearance of God. He writes that “I am no longer quite the same person I was when I wrote it, and I would not write it in quite the same way today. [Still] I find myself … more or less in agreement with the interpretations I proposed of my five authors.”28 The conclusion, in any case, is the same as that reached in the Williams essay and the 1971 piece on Poulet: “it appears that the relation between my present work and that of over a decade ago is more than simply negative. It may be in the nature of literature that investigations of it initiated according to a given hypothesis will lead, if carried far enough, to insights which call that hypothesis into question.”29
Now, because of the “trace,” the presence and immanence Miller had earlier yearned for, and indeed posited, are apparently inseparable from the absence and transcendence he thought he was going beyond. Transcendence reappears, however, not merely as the inescapable “opposite” of immanence; it is also manifest in deconstruction's basic principle of undoing/preserving. Precisely in this fashion deconstruction suggests, despite the charges of Fromm and others, one route to the recovery of transcendence that Western man has long craved. For if undoing produces the realization that what we thought of as ground, as reality, is no ground, then we have with that awareness transcended the “real,” if only momentarily. With difference, of course, a gap forever remains, completion and identity being impossible this side of death.
Interestingly, as early as his first book, in 1958, Miller glimpsed the sense of transcendence I am laboring to describe. There he wrote, referring to Great Expectations, that Pip “must accept the fact that he can in no way transcend the gap between ‘the small bundle of shivers growing afraid of it all and beginning to cry’ and the wind, sun, sky, and marshland, the alien universe—in no way, that is, but by willingly accepting this situation.”30 In the same book, Miller even shows awareness of the value in tracing nihilism through to the end, of the validity of Chesterton's remark that you know nothing until you know nothing, writing that “Dickens' last heroes and heroines come back to life after a purifying descent into the dark waters of death, but they come back to assume just that situation which was given one in society. The difference is that their contact with the negative transcendence has liberated them to a new attitude toward their situation. …”31 Miller puts essentially the same point in figurative terms, smacking of the Biblical, in discussing Our Mutual Friend: “When one has recognized that gold is dust, one can go on to make gold of dust. Out of dust can come gold, out of death, life. Gold forced upon us, or accepted as an absolute value in itself, is dust, but so long as we are free to value the world we can make gold.”32
The significance of these crucial points concerning transcendence Miller did not at that time fully grasp; to take one of his favorite metaphors, they were threads in the critical fabric he wove, but not ones he chose to follow through to their end. By the late 1960s Miller was more aware that the way of seeing is all, and as a Derridean emphasized in The Form of Victorian Fiction what he had previously only glimpsed:
Each man must return from an encounter with [“the elemental realities of death, physical nature, and human feeling”] to reengage himself in society. This new involvement will be made from the perspective of a prior disengagement which sees society as it is. This means reentering society by improvising one's role in it as a game. Society cannot be anything but a system of conventional rules, exchanges, and substitutions which are like metaphors. As long as a man takes the metaphor as reality he is deluded. When he sees through the metaphor and takes responsibility for living according to it, he is still caught in a play, but now he sees the game as a game.33
Undoing/preserving, this vision is transcendent. It is thus liberating, allowing one to build and to create but always with the awareness that that created is a human fabrication.
Clarification of, as well as support for, my point that deconstruction hopes to recover transcendence appears if we broaden our treatment to take in others influenced by Derrida. In the work of one of these, John Dominic Crossan, a Biblical scholar and literary critic, the metaphor of play that Miller uses in the quotation above functions to herald transcendence. Thus Crossan writes in The Dark Interval: Towards a Theology of Story that “the excitement of transcendental experience is found only at the edge of language and the limit of story and … the only way to find that excitement is to test those edges and those limits.”34 Parables do this supremely well, revealing the possibility of transcendence. They
give God room. The parables of Jesus are not historical allegories telling us how God acts with mankind; neither are they moral example-stories telling us how to act before God and towards one another. They are stories which shatter the deep structure of our accepted world and thereby render clear and evident to us the relativity of story itself. They remove our defences and make us vulnerable to God. It is only in such experiences that God can touch us, and only in such moments does the kingdom of God arrive. My own term for this relationship is transcendence.35
The point here is the subversion of final words about “reality,” thus the recognition of the fictionality of all things, and the freedom, the ability to let go, that follows therefrom.
Like Derrida and Miller, Crossan agrees with Roland Barthes that “literature is unreality itself; … far from being an analogical copy of reality, literature is on the contrary the very consciousness of the unreality of language.”36 He pursues this insight, developing the implications of The Dark Interval, in a book on comic eschatology in Jesus and Borges. Focusing again on game and story, Crossan aims to dismantle eschatology and recover transcendence through an intense focus on biblioclasm. That is, he shows how Jesus extends Mosaic iconoclasm into language itself; Jesus' language thus “is an attack on form within all the major traditions of Israel's inheritance. Such content is intrinsically eschatological, forcing world and language to its knees before the aniconic God of Israel.”37 More specifically, insisting that it is “only by a full and glad acceptance of our utter finitude [that we can] experience authentic transcendence,” Crossan seems to echo Miller. Jesus, he says, uses “paradoxical aphorism or antiproverb to point us beyond proverb and beyond wisdom by reminding us that making it all cohere is simply one of our more intriguing human endeavors and that God is often invoked to buttress the invented coherence. There is nothing wrong,” adds Crossan, “with making a whole of one's existence as long as one does it in conscious knowledge that world is our supreme play and that we encounter the Holy in its eschatology.”38 As with Miller, then, transcendence reappears, this time as a leap into the darkness, as a self-conscious way of seeing.
The work of another recent critic makes even clearer, I think, the possible congruence of deconstruction and Biblical thought. In a marvelously rich and suggestive book which brings into subtle and illuminating synthesis results from Biblical archaeology, contemporary anthropology, history, and literary criticism, Herbert N. Schneidau argues Derrida's indebtedness to the Yahwist vision. According to Schneidau, the Bible, literature, and Derridean thought share a characteristic ambivalence, what I have been calling the undoing/preserving central to deconstruction. Thus, just as the Hebrews both criticize and nourish culture in their “sacred discontent,” so literature, in Pound's phrase, goes on trying to “make it new” even as it knows the impossibility, bequeathing to the West a strongly Hebraic sense despite Hellenistic influence.39 The key, as with Miller and Crossan, seems to lie in recognizing the fictionality of all things, by which transcendence is achieved. The following passage from the close of Schneidau's chapter “In Praise of Alienation” establishes the point as it gathers up several themes we have been discussing:
We are condemned to freedom, not because God is dead but because he is very much alive, as an agent of disillusionment in a basic sense. In this condition, it is not remarkable that we are nihilistic: what is remarkable is that we can become aware of it and can acknowledge intermittently the “nothingness of consciousness when consciousness becomes the foundation of everything.” So with all self-deceptions: their extent is not as remarkable as our awareness of them. We have reached out for the apple of self-knowledge, and in doing so have alienated God, nature, and each other; but by pressing our self-awareness to its extreme, where we become alienated from ourselves, we find that this is not the end of the story. The Fall is only the beginning of the Bible. To be thus “decentered” … is the precondition of insight: thus it is a felix culpa, good news for modern man of a somewhat unlikely kind.40
Miller aligns himself directly with the positions articulated by Schneidau and Crossan, writing in “Tradition and Difference” that “there would appear to be no escape from the prison of language except by way of a radical theory of fictions and of the interpretation of fictions.”41
With the condition carefully traced by Miller whereby the human consciousness “becomes the foundation of everything,” man is in obvious need of such decentering. As we have seen, deconstruction, like the Bible, becomes a valuable agent of the demythologization of some of our most cherished stabilities. We may gradually realize that our grand schemes of order are fictional constructs made by ourselves and the vanity of human wishes. Even the self that we seek to protect and that itself seeks to be the measure of all things turns out to be a fictional construct. For deconstruction, in contrast to the autonomous consciousness of modernism, posits no single self but several selves. If the self is a linguistic construction, coming into being in and through language rather than preceding and being simply expressed by language, we may have to rethink personality in terms of personae.
Consonant with the Biblical tradition, at least as it is described by Crossan, Schneidau, and others, deconstruction offers a way to transcend the nihilism that Miller finds in twentieth-century life and literature and that Fromm for one condemns. Indeed, deconstruction appears to offer an alternative to nihilism that escapes the difficulties posed by the “solution” reached in Poets of Reality. For the immanence praised there seems caught in the metaphysical system of binary oppositions and so trapped in desire of presence. Transcendence, understood in the ways I have discussed, is rooted in the necessary awareness both of the seductive and pervasive lure of presence and of its impossibility.
The foregoing obviously places deconstruction in a much more favorable light than its often-shrill detractors would allow. My aim throughout this essay has been to clarify deconstruction by exposing some of the misconceptions held by these critics and to show what Miller and some other deconstructionists think they are doing and desire. I have tried not to judge the project I have described, nor the adequacy of the transcendence recovered, hoping to understand that project for what it tries to accomplish and holding judgment in abeyance, at least for the moment. Opponents of deconstruction often judge the project without clear understanding of its directions and aims.
Can we say, in conclusion, that what “in many respects appears to be the swan song of Biblical theology, the culmination of its bimillenial death march, may be just what is needed to bring Scripture into a second coming”?42 If so, thanks will be due to some unlikely thinkers, notably including Derrida and Nietzsche. Just as Nietzsche writes that “the ‘glad tidings’ are precisely that there are no more opposites,” Derrida posits “the end of opposition in the bosom of the divine,” urging us to “perfect the resemblance between Dionysus and Christ.”43 J. Hillis Miller shows strong agreement with these positions—and continuing Christian concern.44
Notes
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See, for example, The Christian Critic Series volume Gerard Manley Hopkins, eds. James F. and Carolyn D. Scott (St. Louis: B. Herder, n.d.), which reprints “The Creation of the Self in Gerard Manley Hopkins” from Journal of English Literary History, 22 (1955), pp. 293-319, and Religion and Modern Literature: Essays in Theory and Criticism, eds. G. B. Tennyson and Edward E. Ericson, Jr. (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 1975), which reprints “Literature and Religion” (see note 2 below).
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Miller, “Literature and Religion,” in Relations of Literary Study, ed. James E. Thorpe (New York: Modern Language Association, 1968), p. 125.
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Alan Bass, “‘Literature’/Literature,” in Velocities of Change, ed. Richard Macksey (Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins Univ. Press, 1974), p. 345.
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For accounts of Derridean thought and deconstructive procedures, see Vincent B. Leitch, “The Book of Deconstructive Criticism,” Studies in the Literary Imagination, 12 (1979), pp. 19-39, and my own essay “The Sign as a Structure of Difference: Derridean Deconstruction and Some of Its Implications,” forthcoming in a volume on semiotics edited by Richard DeGeorge.
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Harold Fromm, “Sparrows and Scholars: Literary Criticism and the Sanctification of Data,” The Georgia Review, 33 (1979), pp. 262, 269-270. See also Gerald Graff, “Fear and Trembling at Yale,” The American Scholar, 46 (1977), pp. 467-478.
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Fromm, “Sparrows and Scholars,” p. 275.
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See Sarah Lawall, Critics of Consciousness: The Existential Structures of Literature (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard Univ. Press, 1968), Vernon Ruland, Horizons of Criticism: An Assessment of Religious-Literary Options (Chicago: American Library Association, 1975), and Vincent B. Leitch, “A Primer of Recent Critical Theories,” College English, 39 (1977), pp. 138-152.
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Miller, The Disappearance of God: Five Nineteenth-Century Writers (1963; rpt. Cambridge, Mass. and London: Belknap Press of Harvard Univ. Press, 1975), p. 312.
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Miller, The Disappearance of God, p. 359; Lawall, Critics of Consciousness, p. 208.
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Miller, The Disappearance of God, p. 359.
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Miller, Poets of Reality: Six Twentieth-Century Writers (1965; rpt. New York: Atheneum, 1974), pp. 1, 3-4.
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Miller, Poets of Reality, pp. 7, 8.
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Lawall, Critics of Consciousness, p. 202. I have treated the relationships between the “Yale Critics” (Bloom, de Man, Derrida, Hartman, and Miller) and these theologians in “Dehellenizing Literary Criticism,” College English, 41 (1980), pp. 769-779.
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Miller, Poets of Reality, p. 312.
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Miller, Poets of Reality, pp. 123-124.
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Miller, Poets of Reality, p. 179.
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Miller, Poets of Reality, p. 358. A similar position appears in Miller's introduction to the Twentieth-Century Views volume on Williams, which he edited (Englewood Cliffs, N. J.: Prentice-Hall, 1966), pp. 1-14.
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Miller, “Williams' Spring and All and the Progress of Poetry,” Daedalus, 99 (1970), pp. 417, 419.
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Miller, “Williams' Spring and All and the Progress of Poetry,” p. 427.
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Miller, “Williams' Spring and All and the Progress of Poetry,” p. 429.
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Quoted in “Translator's Preface,” Of Grammatology, trans. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak (Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins Univ. Press, 1976), p. lxxii.
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On this point, see Miller, “The Critic as Host,” Critical Inquiry, 3 (1977), pp. 439-447.
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Miller, “Williams' Spring and All and the Progress of Poetry,” p. 429.
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Miller, “Williams' Spring and All and the Progress of Poetry,” pp. 429, 430.
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Miller, “Georges Poulet's ‘Criticism of Identification’,” in The Quest for Imagination, ed. O. B. Hardison, Jr. (Cleveland: Case Western Reserve Univ. Press, 1971), p. 210. Cf. Miller, “The Literary Criticism of Georges Poulet,” Modern Language Notes, 78 (1963), pp. 471-488.
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Miller, “Georges Poulet's ‘Criticism of Identification’,” p. 216.
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Miller, “Georges Poulet's ‘Criticism of Identification’,” p. 217.
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Miller, The Disappearance of God, p. vii.
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Miller, The Disappearance of God, pp. xii-xiii.
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Miller, Charles Dickens: The World of His Novels (1958; rpt. Bloomington and London: Indiana Univ. Press, 1973), p. 274.
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Miller, Charles Dickens, p. 333.
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Miller, Charles Dickens, p. 327.
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Miller, The Form of Victorian Fiction (Notre Dame, Ind. and London: Univ. of Notre Dame Press, 1968), pp. 109-110. Cf. Miller's point in Thomas Hardy: Distance and Desire (Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap Press of Harvard Univ. Press, 1970), p. 154, that “the only happy love relationship for Hardy is one which is not union but the lovers' acceptance of the gap between them.”
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Crossan, The Dark Interval: Towards a Theology of Story (Niles, Ill.: Argus, 1975), pp. 45-46.
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Crossan, The Dark Interval, pp. 121-122.
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Quoted in Crossan, Raid on the Articulate: Comic Eschatology in Jesus and Borges (New York: Harper & Row, 1976), pp. 39-40.
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Crossan, Raid on the Articulate, p. 178.
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Crossan, Raid on the Articulate, pp. 148, 73.
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See Derrida's essays on Jabès and Levinas in Writing and Difference, trans. Alan Bass (Chicago and London: Univ. of Chicago Press, 1978).
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Schneidau, Sacred Discontent: The Bible and Western Tradition (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State Univ. Press, 1976), p. 49.
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Miller, “Tradition and Difference,” Diacritics, 2 (1972), p. 11.
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McKenna, “Biblioclasm: Joycing Jesus and Borges,” Diacritics, 8 (1978), p. 28. See also Robert Detweiler, Story, Sign, and Self: Phenomenology and Structuralism as Literary-Critical Methods (Philadelphia: Fortress Press and Missoula, Mont.: Scholars Press, 1978).
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Quoted in McKenna, “Biblioclasm: Joycing Jesus and Borges,” pp. 29, 27, 22.
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Work on this essay was made possible by a grant from the University of Kansas General Research Fund (#3314-20-0038) for which I am very grateful. A shorter version of this essay was presented to the College English Association in 1980. Two essays on Miller appeared after the present essay was completed: William E. Cain, “Deconstruction in America: The Recent Literary Criticism of J. Hillis Miller,” College English, 41 (1979), pp. 367-381, and Vincent B. Leitch, “The Lateral Dance: The Deconstructive Criticism of J. Hillis Miller,” Critical Inquiry, 6 (1980), pp. 593-607. I have responded to Cain in “The Both/And Nature of Deconstruction,” College English, 42 (1980).
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The Deconstructive Angel
The Sign as a Structure of Difference: Derridean Deconstruction and Some of Its Implications