Reader/Book; Withheld Hero

[malsperanza]

This is a gigantic blather. It's a response to black_dog's comments on my previous post. Of interest to few people, I imagine, including poor Black Dog, who may feel obligated to read it. (Lesson #1 in the author's power to coerce the reader. *g*)



black_dog: If I understand your overall Book/Reader OTP theory, the highest goal of a reader is to "possess" a text by fully comprehending it

Me: Lovely though this idea is, I don't subscribe to it. What I have in mind is somewhat different. Let's start by switching the premise around:

The highest goal of a reader is to comprehend a text (by fully possessing it).

Better, but still not satisfactory. The reader's highest goal is to be told a story. Or else, like the medievals we may say that the reader's goal is threefold: the literal aim of the reader is to get to the end of the story by turning pages in sequence; the moral aim of the reader is to learn something; and the mystical aim of the reader is to be transfigured.

The reader's desire to possess the text--to know it intellectually or biblically--is not an aim or goal. It is an irrepressible force. (Just as it is in any romantic relationship: one does not enter a romantic relationship in order to possess the partner; rather, one finds oneself desiring to own the partner despite all better intentions. It's a primal urge, akin to the need to eat the gods in order to participate in the divine.)

Nevertheless, I wrote that "all else depends on the reader forming a romantic (erotic) bond with the book," and by "all else" I did mean the success of the book. And "success" includes the book's success in conveying meaning--ideas--as well as story to the reader, persuading the reader, convincing the reader, drawing the reader fully and forever into the world of the book; ultimately: transfiguring the reader. (And if you think you detect the fell hand of Plato here, you're right.)

But this happens when the reader is possessed by the book, *not* the other way round!

You rightly use the word "mechanical": it is a mechanism. (All of this--the reader/book ship, the desire of the reader for the hero as substitute for the book, etc.--it's all part of my Even Bigger and More Muddled Theory, the Malsperanza Grand Unified Field Theory of Rereading, which I will someday... But as usual, I digress.)

True, the reader desires to comprehend the book, to know it not only biblically, but Aristotelianly. And true, the reader thinks that knowledge--understanding, insight--is something one may possess; that is, something that one may acquire by taking. But I did not mean to suggest that the reader succeeds. No: I think the reader's desire for both hero and book remains (Gross Generalization Alert) thwarted, unfulfilled. It's the biggest case of UST in history. The hero always escapes the erotic possession of the reader, and with him, the book also escapes. (Which is the source of the reader's urge to reread, to try again, armed with knew knowledge and partial insights--e.g., knowledge of how the book ends. Hence Mal's Unified Rereading Theory.)

I mean this both figuratively and literally (or almost literally): It's no accident that we use beds for just three activities, reading, sex, and sleep (sleep, perchance to fall into that hamletty state where we are all author-readers of magical-realist texts).

We take the book to bed, yes. Reading a story is brother to dreaming, sister to making love. It's the opposite of unconsciousness (that third use for a bed). But as most of us are aware, one can't actually fuck a book; it's just too uncomfortable, and, like most cross-species intercourse, sterile. (Except maybe some of those small European paperbacks, but even then... )

Again I digress. Ahem. *pauses to take cold shower*

But as we all know, the principal sexual organ is the brain, so it's possible to nearly fuck a book. And it's definitely possible to be royally fucked by one. *g*

BD: The underlying assumption seems to be that full possession of a text is unproblematic, if only the author would cooperate (which is radically unlike some of your other arguments about open interpretation!).

Me: But the point is that the author does not cooperate. The author tantalizes, lures, teases, provokes--and occasionally lies and cheats ("Pirate!"). At the end, far from owning the hero, the reader is left with empty hands, empty bed, closed book. E.g., it is not we who fall into bed with Odysseus at the end: Penelope gets him (undeserving tramp). Jack Sparrow does not fall into our arms at the end (or even into the willing and open arms of a number of his male and female crew, some of whom are quite attractive). No, he sails away from us. We lose him in the end, just when we thought to gain him.

BD: Some writers may attractively or seductively complicate this quest for possession by the kink of withholding information about a hero. This is basically an erotic game for the mutual pleasure of reader and writer, and you are seeking to analyze the range of possible moves on the part of the writer.

Me: Yes, that's right. But I don't expect the investigation to lead to a system for the transfer of meaning from book to reader. The Book/Reader love affair is not the vehicle for the transfer of meaning (mechanically speaking, that is a simple operation in which the reading mind interprets the words on the page), or even the transfer of understanding. What happens in the Book/Reader love affair is the establishment of a bond of faith and trust, seduction and betrayal, in which power is shifted back and forth between the two partners as circumstances change (i.e., as the book progresses and the reader absorbs its content). (Again, this is quite parallel to how love affairs generally work, no?)

The bond is the thing that makes the transfer of knowledge and insight possible. But the bond is faulty (cf. Plato's description of the chariot in Phaedrus, drawn by two mismatched horses).

But I wouldn't say that the author complicates the quest for possession for the fun of it. It's a fundamental aspect of what the author does in order to build a convincing world for the reader to enter (Marianne Moore's "imaginary gardens with real toads in them"). The struggle between author and reader for control of the book is an essential part of the experience of reading and necessary to the act of acquiring the knowledge and insight that the book contains--however incompletely or imperfectly that knowledge and insight are acquired. And I believe they are acquired only incompletely, because the nature of the exchange is an unequal one, the information is in some degree untransferrable, and the recipient, the reader, is never able to achieve the level of ownership or control that the author possesses. (But there is a complex series of power shifts, back and forth, between author and reader, during the course of the book, and these merit examining.)

Lewis Hyde may see that erotic exchange as a gift, and indeed it is, for the author is generous, but it also sometimes has the quality of a mugging, an armed robbery, a wrestling match, or a duel. ("You cheated!" "Pirate!") Or an unwilling seduction, or even a rape.*(FN)

Thus, the book contains a whole series of paired relationships, each one comprising an act of exchange via an unequal romance: Reader/Book, Book/Author, Reader/Author, Author/Divine Inspiration (for lack of a better term), Author/Hero, Reader/Hero.

To return to the sexual metaphor, in sexual congress, the act of exchange is also unequal; though the pleasure may be mutual and equal, only one partner is likely to be impregnated; the other is the impregnator. Forgive me for adopting what appears to be a sexist metaphor for art (poetics, the making of art) as a masculine activity, and aesthetics (the perception or reception of art) as a feminine activity. Not to mention the distasteful implication that an act of sexual coupling without the possibility of pregnancy (such as that between same-sex partners, or that performed purely for pleasure) is artistically sterile. All these are aspects of the metaphor that carry it beyond what is useful.

The sexual metaphor is useful in that the sexual act itself is a primary form of relationship in which the mind is engaged, but not entirely in command, because the body has its own imperatives, and may be persuaded, coerced, or fooled, entangling the mind in illogical or unreasonable processes. And this, as every poet knows, is a pretty good way of understanding how art is made.

BD: The underlying assumption seems to be that full possession of a text is unproblematic, if only the author would cooperate (which is radically unlike some of your other arguments about open interpretation!). Therefore only a gimmick or willful obscuring of the hero stands in the way of that appropriation. Concealed history, suppressed thoughts, alien codes of behavior, mental illness -- all of these can be transcended in principle if we have enough information. And there is nothing necessarily profound or challenging or life-enhancing about that information; it just happens to be missing, almost "accidentally" so.

Me: I hope I've been able to express to some degree why I don't view this as a gimmick. I haven't yet explained in full detail why I think the hero is a particularly important locus of the author's expression. Certainly there are books without heroes (or even without a single central protagonist), in which the author uses other vehicles. And equally, there are books in which the hero is fully accessible and the book still manages to seduce and coerce and provoke and persuade and enchant the reader.

In brief (hahahaha), I think the hero who tantalizes without fully delivering is particularly effective for carrying out the author's artistic enterprise, if the author's goal is to transfigure the reader.

Returning to the rape metaphor: there are books that tell a story and do little more. These you call "genre" and worry (perhaps more than you need to) that they are lesser works. There are books that tell a story in order to convert the reader to an underlying moral position or condition. These I call pornography or propaganda (and I worry a lot about them). But the bulk of books tell a story both for the sake of the story and for the purpose of giving the reader the gift of something new and never seen before under the sun. When we're lucky, that new thing is a new way of looking at the world--which, in some sense, is almost like being given a whole new world. Such gifts are often burdensome or difficult, and so we may resist them. At such times the author may have no recourse but to attempt to give his or her gift by force (rape) or guile (seduction).

The Withheld Hero is a tool of seduction, but he is not a mere tool. His mystery is the book's mystery; his erotic power is the author's power; his beauty and allure are the clothing in which the difficult idea is disguised. He is, as Calasso hints, the Unknown Guest, the Stranger at the door. Invite him in at your peril; turn him away at your risk; for he may be a rapist or thief, but he may be a god.

Here Black Dog turns to James's The Golden Bowl to propose another mechanism for complicating the reader's life--not withholding information, but overawing the reader with knowledge he or she cannot hope to assimilate. Yes: that's a delightful idea--malicious and subtle. I suggest, however, that it is just another technique for withholding, since it effectively prevents the reader from gaining full access to the promised insights, tantalizingly displayed in full view, but unreachable.

black_dog: I like your sense that the erotic attraction of a text is deepened by obstacles that baffle the intended possession, but I think the obstacles can be more profound than incomplete information about a character, can and should be more about defying or undermining the readers initial terms of engagement with the text in a more radical way, so that the encounter itself, rather than ultimate possession, is transformative for the reader.

Me: You must tell me if I have yet answered your objection, and met your expectation that the reader be transformed by the book. (And, I would add, the book transformed by the reader, which gets me back to my Rereading Theory.) I think perhaps that I have not yet properly described what I mean by "withholding," and why I think it is not "mere withholding." Because I haven't worked it out yet, I would find it easiest to discuss the idea in terms of examples. Hammett's Ned Beaumont in The Glass Key would be a useful one, but if you haven't read it recently, I'll try to find another. Do you know the Isak Dinesen story "The Roads Round Pisa," in Seven Gothic Tales? That one has the virtue of a female Withheld Heroine, who is, moreover, conveniently a Woman in Black.

I wish I could use Harry Potter. I think our Harry is getting more Withheld by the day, strikingly so in OOTP, but he's a mixed exemplar, and so not suitable. (Though that would be another fun discussion.)

BD: The mystery of a "withheld" character is a compelling hook for the reader's initial bafflement, but the resolution of that mystery, in the strongest texts, does not complete the erotic appropriation, but may serve as an introduction to more intractable mysteries in the text itself.

Me: Exactly.

BD: Someone (Melville?) said a work of art should leave you with a sense of awe rather than closure -- and convincingly diverting a reader from the task of seeking closure may be the distinguishing mark between art and genre entertainments.

Me: As you have discerned, I am skeptical of the possibility of closure. Like you, I suspect that successful closure is the mark of an inadequate or untransformative book; a love affair that in the end was just a zipless fuck. But I quarrel (or will) with the suggestion that the withholding of full access to the hero is merely a technique of diversion, sleight of hand, bait-and-switch. Though it may be a matter of smoke and mirrors (two tropes for which I have considerable respect).

Will comment separately on Aragorn and Batman. I think you and sistermagpieunderestimate them both a little, but we shall see.

Edited to add: I seem to be contradicting myself a bit. I begin by claiming that the goal of the reader in seeking to possess the Withheld Hero is not to gain knowledge and insight. Later, though, I say: "The author complicates the quest for possession [not merely] for the fun of it. It's a fundamental aspect of what the author does in order to build a convincing world for the reader to enter [...]. The struggle between author and reader for control of the book is an essential part of the experience of reading and necessary to the act of acquiring the knowledge and insight that the book contains--however incompletely or imperfectly that knowledge and insight are acquired."

To clarify: The reader does seek both knowledge and insight from the book, and the reader does seek to gain ownership or possession of the hero. And the two endeavors are related, but the relationship is not one of direct cause and effect. The seduction of the reader by the Withheld Hero serves both to capture the reader erotically, and thereby render him or her vulnerable to transformation, and to force the reader into a state of eternal incompleteness, dissatisfaction, erotic hunger.

The reason is that, if it's any good at all, the knowledge and insight the reader seeks and may gain from the book is infinite in nature. The book (the author, the gods) drives the reader to continue to seek, by means of repeated (eternal) rereading or deeper reading or reading in new contexts. There is always more to be gotten from a good book.

A book whose erotic promise is entirely satisfied and fulfilled at the end is a closed book, in more ways than one. This doesn't mean that a book with a happy ending (hero and heroine in bed together accessibly and pleasurably engaged in mutual erotic bonding) is a feeble book. If it were, would any of us reread Jane Austen's novels? Long after we understand that her books will all end with hero and heroine happily mated, we continue to learn from them, and to take immense pleasure from repeating the experience of visiting their struggle and success.


_____________
*(FN)
I'm not alone in this perception of the violently sexual relationship of art to human beings.
My premise is that art is the mode by which the divine communicates with the human in our secular age (by which I mean the historical age: anything after the mythic age). The book is the vehicle, and the author is the surrogate of the gods. (There's an uneasy relationship between artist and gods too, but let that pass for now.) This is hardly my own invention, however. I refer you first to John Donne's poem, "Batter my heart, three personed God," which closes:

...Take mee to you, imprison mee, for I
Except you'enthrall mee, never shall be free,
Nor ever chast, except you ravish mee.

And second to Yeat's "Leda and the Swan":

A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.

How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?

A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.

Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?

Roberto Calasso writes: "Man's relationship with the gods passed through two regimes: first conviviality, then rape. The third regime, the modern one, is that of indifference, but with the implication that the gods have already withdrawn, and, hence, if they are indifferent in our regard, we can be indifferent as to their existence or otherwise. But [in] earlier times: there was an age when the gods would sit down alongside mortals, as they did at Cadmus and Harmony's wedding feast in Thebes. At this point gods and men had no difficulty recognizing each other [...]. Then came another phase, during which a god might not be recognized. As a result the god had to assume the role he has never abandoned since, right down to our own times, that of the Unknown Guest, the Stranger."

[snip example of the last human banquet Zeus attended, in Arcadia. It ended badly.] [...] "Now, when Zeus chose to tread the earth, his usual manifestation was through rape. This is the sign of the overwhelming power of the divine, of the residual capacity of the distant gods to invade mortal minds and bodies. Rape is at once possessing and possession. With the old convivial familiarity between god and man lost, with ceremonial contact through sacrifice impoverished, man's soul was left exposed to a gusting violence, an amorous persecution, an obsessional goad. Such are the stories of which mythology is woven: they tell us how mortal mind and body are still subject to the divine, even when they are no longer seeking it out, even when the ritual approaches to the divine have become confused."

Calasso continues: "The perennial virginity [of] young Artemis [...] is the indomitable sign of detachment [from the world]. Copulation, mixis, means "commingling" with the world. [...] When the divine reaches down to touch the world, [it] is rape. [...] The image of rape establishes the canonical relationship the divine now has with [the] world [...]: contact is still possible, but it is no longer the contact of a shared meal; rather, it is the sudden, obsessive invasion that plucks away the flower of thought."

And, I would suggest, the empty space where the thought once was is afterward filled by a new thought.

(Roberto Calasso, The Marriage of Cadmus and Harmony, trans. Tim Parks, NY: Vintage, 1994, pp 52-55. I've quoted passages slightly out of order.)

Comments

Re:

[black-dog.livejournal.com]

*spits on palm, offers hand*

Eeeeeeww! :)

Re:

[malsperanza.livejournal.com]

:-) Yes, well, it was meant to be ze Romany handshake, but today seems to be my day for saying things the wrong way.