Annotated Bibliography: Language and Desire

This bibliography is near identical to my first one, but I did add two more sources.The first that appears is Sharon Patricia Holland’s The Erotic Life of Racism, which professor Allred recommended and which I think may work well with what I’m looking at writing about. The other source is from Julia Kristeva, Desire in Language, which, compared to my other sources, provides the most totalizing psychoanalytic framework to work with or against. I also included the three Faulkner novels that are relevant to my research—TSATF, AILD, and AA!

Broughton, Panthea Reid. “The Economy of Desire: Faulkner’s Poetics, From Eroticism to Post-Impressionism,” The Faulkner Journal, Fall 1988/Spring 1989, Vol. 4, pp. 159-177.

This is the most biographical source I’m using for my paper. Broughton argues that undergirding Faulkner’s fiction is something she calls an “economy of desire.” Other critics have noted how entangled desire and writing are in Faulkner; where Broughton differs is locating when Faulkner moved away from this economy—in the completion of the fourth section of TSATF. This was a really fascinating paper, and Broughton laid out and argued real well a development in Faulkner’s work wherein he is at first upon a dead-end path of using literature to gratify himself by making out of his lack a work of art, but later, as he matures, this central lack becomes the decentralizing element so pervasive in his aesthetics. His development is that he no longer writes to the end of a narcissistic eroticizing of his subjects, rather in his later works he wants to empathize with them, wants to readers to empathize with them—which is why she locates his disavowal of the economy of desire to the novel in which he creates Caddy.

Faulkner, William. Absalom, Absalom! Vintage International, 1986.

A lot of my paper will feature this book, especially around figures like Rosa, Judith, and Clytie and their relation, or lack thereof, with language.

Faulkner, William. As I Lay Dying. Vintage International, 1985.

The extent of my use of AILD is my use of Addie’s theory of language. I think this cannot preclude at least a brief look into Addie herself too.

Faulkner, William. The Sound and the Fury. Vintage International, 1984.

I’m unsure to what extent I’ll be referring to TSATF, but seeing as I will spend a lot of time with AA!, I figure I will probably refer back to it at some point.

Hannon, Charles. “The Function of Function Words in William Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying,” The Faulkner Journal, Vol. 29, No. 1 (Spring 2015), pp. 3-21.

With the help of the research of American psychologist James Pennebaker, Hannon analyzes the employment of function words in As I Lay Dying so as to determine the psychological state of those who use them. Hannon says of functions words that they are among the “core reasons all interpersonal communications is inherently social,” and so their use reveals the users conception of their sense of self among others. I wasn’t really convinced by the end, but there was a lot really insightful and which I could either expand or write against.

Holland, Sharon Patricia. The Erotic Life of Racism. Duke University Press, 2012.

I haven’t had the opportunity to entirely check out this book, but the last section of the book, “Racism’s Last Word,” features an analysis of AA! not too different from what I’m thinking of doing. Her analysis, I think, is more deconstructive, though—her analysis of AA! shares its section with an analysis of a paper by Derrida. This citation is more tentative, but if it has some stuff on feeling- and speaking-subjects, as some of my other sources do, I think it’ll see some play.

Hurh, J. Paul. “Dirimens Copulatio and Metalinguistic Negation in Faulkner’s Absalom, Absalom!Style, Vol. 42, No. 1, Interview with Gerald Graff, Essays on Faulkner and on Language in Africa-American Fiction (Spring 2008), pp. 22-47.

In this paper Hurh unites the linguistic and poetic style of criticism that used to pervade scholarship on Faulkner, with the social and political style which has come to dominate. In his own words, “This essay… bridge[s] the two approaches, using the structure and logic provided by linguistic analysis to shape and clarify the political one” (23). His critique centers round the “dirimens copulatio” style of Absalom, Absalom!—the rhetorical form of “it was not x, but y.”

Kristeva, Julia. Desire in Language: A Semiotic Approach to Literature and Art. Edited by Leon. S Roudiez, Translated by Thomas Gora, Alice Jardine, and Leon S. Roudiez. Columbia University Press, New York, 1980.

I’m interested in Kristeva’s conception of the “speaking subject,” which a child develops towards with the development of their relation to language and to the symbolic. I’m especially interested in contrasting this speaking subject with what I’ve seen other critics describe as the “feeling subject.” The tension between these two types of subjectivity seem central in Faulkner’s fiction, and their confrontation seems at the level of language.

Sass, Karen R. “At a Loss for Words: Addie and Language in As I Lay Dying,” The Faulkner Journal, Vol. 6, No. 2 (SPRING 1991), pp. 9-21.

This was a very in depth look into not so much Addie’s theory of language—though it does get some analysis—but what that theory suggests about Addie’s own psyche. A lot of this paper is spect on understanding how Addie’s disavowal of language manifests in the development of herself and her children. This paper introduced to the concept of the “feeling subject,” which I think will see a lot of play in my own paper as well.

A Companion to Faulkner Studies, edited by Charles Peek, and Robert Hamblin, ABC-CLIO, 2004. ProQuest Ebook Central, https://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/huntercollege-ebooks/detail.action?docID=491386.

This simply collects a variety of critical angles that have been used to study Faulkner’s work. The significant portion of what I got out of it came from the postmodern section, which featured a lot on the reception of not only the use of language in Faulkner’s fiction but also how it is rendered in it.

Research Question & Sources

In short, I want to use my research as an opportunity to really understand the theory of language presented by Addie in AILD. To me, this means understanding desire first, as according to her, language is but desire atrophied. I want to investigate how this conception of language manifests in Faulkner’s writing (though the theory is expressed in AILD, I feel like TSATF and, so far as we’ve read of it at least, AA! are better at demonstrating it), and I want to see to what end this kind of language/desire serves. I’m not quite sure how I’ll approach this yet. I’ve found some of the vocabulary of the critic Mikhail Bakhtin helpful in articulating the direction I might go, but I don’t intend to cite him in any meaningful way nor make my analysis a dialogical one—though it’s not out the table, of course. Rather, I find useful what Bakhtinian scholars will often refer to as the “interanimation of languages,” which is the fundamental movement at work between languages in discourse—languages here understood as more dialects of distinct milieus and which are heteroglossically stratified. Languages, these scholars contend, confront and animate one another during discourse, out of which is meaning derived. I suppose what I want to investigate in Faulkner’s fiction may very well be called the interanimation of desire, which, if we stay faithful to Addie’s theory, operates at the level of language. I think this naturally asserts a kind of dimension of sociality to desire, a characterization I think consistent with Faulkner’s novels, wherein desire does not exist in a vacuum but is deeply dependent on the totality of what came before, the past, and where histories of desires, so to speak, are recapitulated in the patronymics which dominate his novels—Compson and Sutpen and Bundren and Snopes, etc. I don’t know what this analysis looks like yet beyond that it will be anchored by Addie’s theory: perhaps trying to articulate a kind of poetics of desire in Faulkner’s work, or something more psychoanalytic—though I don’t want to put Faulkner on the couch—or trying to reconcile a relationship between desire and what is called history in his work. All these potential directions are a little ambiguous at the moment, though, so I’m hesitant to pick any which one.

Bibliography

I found most my sources on JSTOR, kind of just using key words like “words,” “desire,” “language,” “style,” “poetics,” “history,” “aesthetics,” etcetera, till something came up. A lot from the Faulkner Journal came up. I found A Companion to Faulkner Studies on the Zotero library.

Broughton, Panthea Reid. “The Economy of Desire: Faulkner’s Poetics, From Eroticism to Post-Impressionism,” The Faulkner Journal, Fall 1988/Spring 1989, Vol. 4, pp. 159-177.

Hannon, Charles. “The Function of Function Words in William Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying,” The Faulkner Journal, Vol. 29, No. 1 (Spring 2015), pp. 3-21.

Hurh, J. Paul. “Dirimens Copulatio and Metalinguistic Negation in Faulkner’s Absalom, Absalom!Style, Vol. 42, No. 1, Interview with Gerald Graff, Essays on Faulkner and on Language in Africa-American Fiction (Spring 2008), pp. 22-47.

Sass, Karen R. “At a Loss for Words: Addie and Language in As I Lay Dying,” The Faulkner Journal, Vol. 6, No. 2 (SPRING 1991), pp. 9-21.

A Companion to Faulkner Studies, edited by Charles Peek, and Robert Hamblin, ABC-CLIO, 2004. ProQuest Ebook Central, https://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/huntercollege-ebooks/detail.action?docID=491386.

“too many for one woman to foal”: animal magnetism and negative capability in As I Lay Dying

In one of the stranger moments of As I Lay Dying, Cash, here for the first time serving as narrator, produces a numbered list of reasons why he made Addie’s coffin on a bevel, the eighth of which is something he calls “animal magnetism” (83). It’s a term from the mid 18th century particular to the short-lived practice of mesmerism, which, according to its founder, Franz Mesmer, was the practice of utilizing magnets in order to heal and improve people’s health as well as potentially hypnotizing them (Neely). This magnetism, I think, is a kind of sleight of hand by Faulkner; he’s trying to conceal one thing as another: namely, what John Keats’ called negative capability as animal magnetism. I think if we understand this animal magnetism as negative capability, it will provide keener insight into the weirder dimensions of AILD, specifically Darl’s seeming clairvoyance. To do so, though, requires I make a kind of historical argument, or just an explication, as to the origin of mesmerism.

First, I think we can’t understand the development of mesmerism divorced from the development of Romanticism. Similar to mesmerism, Romanticism was a project profoundly preoccupied with changing people’s minds, a preoccupation inherited from folks like Adam Smith, who articulated a philosophy of sympathy in his The Theory of Moral Sentiments. The figures which compose English Romanticism—Coleridge, Wordsworth, Keats, etc.,—read Smith, and were challenged by him to formulate how the limits of sympathy can be pushed, especially in the wake of the violence of the French Revolution, which they saw as the bloody outcome of a crises of differing and irreconcilable sympathies. That’s why education is such a significant motif in Romantic poetry: it was on this basis that the Romantics thought people’s sympathies could be transformed, only it was never education as such but rather in the form of walking in nature and seeing a mountain and inexplicably acquiring some preternatural intuition about society and one’s place in it. Nature was thought to provide a space in which a person could learn to see, to perceive, to judge, which would in turn refine their sympathies. So, in short, the Romantics couldn’t get enough of these sympathies.

And in much the same way, mesmerism was concerned with sympathies—though it saw to christen this project as a science, reaping the prestige that entailed. But even so, it’s not uncommon that the practice of mesmerism is described as a “romantic science.” What’s more, Tim Fulford writes, “This incipiently romantic cure depended on ‘the power of feeling… the pain which another suffers’” (67). And he goes on to even mention Wordsworth: “The healing of the body depended on the renewal of the emotions—for De Mainauduc, even before Wordsworth—it was ‘the hour of feeling.’” Fulford’s article mainly goes into how Coleridge conceived of mesmerism as an apt metaphor for the political enthrallment of his age, but I want to turn to a figure who was more aesthetically inspired by mesmerism. I mean, of course, John Keats.

Now, mesmerism is thought to have influenced many of the Romantics, but few of them outright concede this influence like Coleridge, who brought it up by name in a number of letters and essays. In the case of Keats, though, it’s not hard to make out that mesmerizing impression in his formulation of what he called “negative capability.” In many ways, negative capability is simply an aesthetic animal magnetism. His only real articulation of it, in a letter to his brothers, is: “when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason…” How this differed from other Romantic conceptions of sympathy was that, where someone like Wordsworth thought it was a matter of accumulating sympathies, Keats thought sympathy, or this radical form of sympathy, was characteristically not additive—which is why he calls it negative capability. That is to say that Keats thought the highest form of sympathy possible was one which saw the sympathizer negate themselves and as such be able to see as the person or thing they were sympathizing with—though it could not be understood as sympathizing with but rather sympathizing as. There is a real supernatural, hypnotic element to this kind of sympathy, in much the same way mesmerism was the actual practice of a supernatural hypnotism. The caveat for Keats was, of course, that only poets could achieve this condition—poets like himself.

Now I can return to Faulkner. If we can understand this allusion of Cash’s to animal magnetism as actually a subtle evocation of Keats’ negative capability, I think we can read his section as foreshadowing this interaction between Vardamann and Darl:

But my mother is a fish. Vernon seen it. He was there.

“Jewel’s mother is a horse,” Darl said.

“Then mine can be a fish, cant it, Darl?” I said.

“Why?” Darl said. “If pa is your pa, why does your ma have to be a horse just because Jewel’s is?”

“Why does it” I said. “Why does it, Darl?”

Darl is my brother.

“Then what is your ma, Darl?” I said.

“I Haven’t got ere one,” Darl said. “Because if I had one, it is was. And if it is was, it cant be is. Can it?”

“No,” I said.

“Then I am not,” Darl said. “Am I?”

“No,” I said.

I am. Darl is my brother.

“But you are, Darl,” I said.

“I know it,” Darl said. “That’s why I am not is. Are is too many for one woman to foal.”

(101)

It’s that very last sentence Darl says that I think reveals in him a kind of negative capability, which would account for his sections featuring a glimpse into the perspectives of folks nowhere near him. It’s the concession of multiplicity that gets me, really: Vardamann says “you are” so as to reassert the fact of Darl’s being, but then Darl turns it around to assert a kind of plurality within him. And that plurality, to me, could only be these different perspectives that he is somehow privy to. Moreover, negative capability is thought, as I said, to be a poetic trait, which critics of AILD have argued Darl to have (Neely). So it’s interesting that there is, if I’m correct, this entire Romantic dimension to Darl. His visions, then, are really these renderings of a radical Romantic sympathy. And so if my argument is sound—which it might not be—we have to read these moments as distinctly sympathetic.

I have to imagine Faulkner was familiar with folks like Keats a lot more than folks like Mesmer, especially seeing how capable he is of appropriating the Romantic idiom for unromantic means—a lot like Melville. And so I think this allusion to mesmerism is really only a disguise. It is interesting, though, that this Romantic power comes to the Bundren family as a pseudoscience. It’s not totally unprecedented, though. If you go out to the midwest you’ll find the barely remaining ruins of spiritualist communes founded in the mid 19th century, places like Utopia, Ohio, which was meant to be one of many “phalanstries” which would dot the American landscape—phalanstries being these kinds of communes that the French philosopher Charles Fourier thought up of and which somehow gained traction with Transcendentalists and Spiritualists. Mesmerism would have probably traveled in much the same way, traveling far and wide until it became this passing notion from a turn-of-the-century Southern carpenter.

Faulkner, William. As I Lay Dying. Vintage, 2004.

Fulford, Tim. “Conducting the Vital Fluid: The Politics and Poetics of Mesmerism in the 1790s.” Studies in Romanticism, vol. 43, no. 1, 2004, pp. 57–78.

Keats, John. “On Negative Capability: Letter to George and Tom Keats, 21, 27 December 1817.” John Keats, the “Negative Capability” Letter, mason.gmu.edu/~rnanian/Keats-NegativeCapability.html.

Neely, Nick. “Animal Magnetism.” Yoknapedia, jallred.net/wordpress/yoknapedia/wiki/animal-magnetism/.

Irony, Solipsism, and Jason Compson

Firstly, before going into how Jason employs irony and to what end, I want to make clear what sense of the word irony I’ll be using, because the term does contain a multiplicity of meanings and so can be vague whenever used. The sense of irony I’ll be using is one articulated by the German poet, critic, and philosopher Karl Wilhelm Friedrich Schlegel, and I’ll refer right now to Terry Pinkard’s concise rendering of it in his book Germany Philosophy 1760-1860: “Irony,” he writes, “expresses both our unavoidable commitment to certain projects and our own inevitable, reflective detachment from these things. Irony is thus the appropriate stance to feeling both inescapably committed and inescapably detached at the same time” (161). I’ll add as well that the name of the game for folks like Schlegel, a post-Kantian and a romantic, is Being, and so when he speaks of irony he is speaking of it as a mode of being, a kind of condition, and not simply a thing to employ on occasion.

Now, to begin understanding Jason’s use of irony first requires that we identify the impasse between inescapable commitment and detachment that it is contingent on. It’s perhaps redundant to state that most all of Jason’s commitments are not very genuine, and that time and again those ostensible commitments give way to his one monomaniac commitment—to himself. Indeed, there is a palpably nihilistic individualism about Jason that, I think, borders a kind of solipsism, which I’ll get to later; and the substance, so to speak, of this individualism—the medium with which it is preserved—is irony. On the one hand irony preserves Jason, preserves Jason qua Jason; on the other hand, though, its deployment is, as Schlegel thought, endemic of his detachment from himself. But what does it mean in concrete terms, that he’s “detached” from himself? Because I think it’s not so much a kind of alienation, which would imply a divorce between him and his environment and in turn him and himself; Jason does, after all, see himself everywhere he looks; he’s very confident in his own “realness,” as it were. But, confidence aside, there still remains the undeniable fact that Jason’s fortune hitherto has been purely incidental, contingent on the right folks of the Compson family being either dead or incapable; on his own he’s powerless, incapable of asserting himself in any meaningful way, and that’s why, I think, he places such existential significance to Quentin getting one under him by getting back her money and running away, it makes incontrovertible what he already knew but viciously denied, especially through irony. It’s the tension rendered here, then, that irony does not so much promise to resolve as it does to alleviate for a bit, to obscure. Let’s then look at Jason in town, the space I think is best demonstrated his one, frail means of asserting himself.

It’s interesting that of the figures whose subjectivity we’re allowed to inhabit for the duration of their section Jason is the only one who goes to town and exists in it. It’s more interesting that, despite this, one never gets the impression he actually participates in the society of the town. The town really only serves to punctuate his increasingly frantic back and forth between it and the Compson estate. He, like Benjy and Quentin, is still beholden to the private sphere of the family. But he also rejects the town in a way Benjy and Quentin never had an opportunity to. Because while he is there he menaces the town with disdainful judgement, not to mention that in interacting with the folks of the town his demeanor is none too different. He is in a state of constant repudiation, he can only say No. And it’s because, like with his own family, he sees the town as owing him something. This can be read implicitly in moments like when his boss asks him why he doesn’t just quit if he’s always apparently looking to get fired, and Jason rejoins with an allusion to an ambition of owning his own business (Faulkner 245). This desire for a business is an apt one. It would be for Jason an assertion of his own existence, much like the Compson estate is for his family. But it requires what might be called “creative force”—which I think Quentin possessed but was consumed by—and to a degree he simply doesn’t possess. And so that little creative force in him is used instead for preserving himself in a resin of irony, wholly incapable of doing anything else.

What amounts to Jason’s use of irony in The Sound and the Fury are these snide asides and digressions which serve as a brief withdrawal from the forefront scene before Jason. Not only a withdrawal from one scene, but the production of another altogether, one divorced from the former and charged with that pathos of distance Jason is always seeking. A good instance is an earlier scene with his boss. After Jason returns to his job from the Compson estate, and after some back and forth wherein his boss talks around Jason’s lying to his mother about investing money in this business of his, his boss says, “‘I don’t say anything,’ he says, ‘I just ask you to be a little more careful after this,” at which point follows what is essentially a riff by Jason:

I never said anything more. It doesn’t do any good. I’ve found that when a man gets into a rut the best thing you can do is let him stay there. And when a man gets it in his head that he’s got to tell something on you for your own good, goodnight. I’m glad I haven’t got the sort of conscience I’ve got to nurse like a sick puppy all the time. If I’d ever be as careful over anything as he is to keep his little shirt tail full of business from making him more than eight percent. I reckon he thinks they’d get him on the usury law if he netted more than eight percent. What the hell chance has a man got, tied down in a town like this and to a business like this. Why, I could take his business in one year and fix him so he’d never have to work again, only he’d give it all away to the church or something… (228)

This goes on and on and essentially consumes the scene with digression, and it even comes as a shock when we realize his boss is still there a page later, wholly unaware of this drama invented in Jason’s head. And this becomes almost a formula for Jason: dialogues and interactions invaded in much the same way as they were in Quentin’s section, only in Jason’s case what invades is stubborn judgement and irony.

As far as this thing of solipsism that I mentioned earlier, I feel this is only the logical conclusion of this form of irony that Jason entertains. These constant ironic interludes divorce the forefront scene from its context, making it only the material of an invented pastiche. Moreover, the individuals that people these scenes are denied individuality. In fact, I’d go so far to say that Jason does not even privilege others with any kind of interiority, or at least not the quality of interiority he would think himself to possess. He truly dehumanizes the people he encounters, evinced most explicitly with his family and most of all Quentin. But this is all necessary to preserve Jason, and the danger of quitting that distancing his irony affords him and entertaining any kind of intimacy with another person is the collapse of the image he has cultivated of himself as well as his reality.

Faulkner, William. The Sound and the Fury. Vintage Books, 1990.

Pinkard, Terry. German Philosophy, 1760-1860: the Legacy of Idealism. Cambridge University Press, 2004.

“symmetrical above the flesh”

At the end of Quentin’s section of The Sound and the Fury is a flashback to the time when Quentin confessed to his father that he committed incest with his sister. After some back and forth his father finally says:

you are not lying now either but you are still blind to what is in yourself to that part of general truth the sequence of natural events and their causes which shadows every mans brow even benjys you are not thinking of finitude you are contemplating an apotheosis in which a temporary state of mind will become symmetrical above the flesh and aware both of itself and of the flesh it will not quite discard you will not even be dead (242)

What leaps out most from this passage is this use of “apotheosis.” An apotheosis can be understood as the highest exaltation imaginable, to the status of the divine, but this passage includes its own definition: “you are not thinking of finitude,” says Mr. Jason, “you are contemplating an apotheosis,” that is, the inverse, the infinite, that space which exceeds any comprehension and so overwhelms the person with meaning. And, what’s more, this apotheosis is in reference to incest—only not necessarily incest as such but as it sits in Quentin’s head, within a web of signifiers like purity and impurity, masculinity and femininity, father and mother, brother and sister. Apotheosized, these concepts and ideas debilitate Quentin, possess him. Moreover, they find only the slimmest cohesion of meaning in the figure of Caddy, his sister, and not to the benefit of either of them. Quentin invests in Caddy a significance that totally exceeds her as an individual, a significance that cannot be reciprocated by any human being. And that’s exactly what his father is warning him of in this passage.

Caddy, however, isn’t the only one invested with the significance of an apotheosis by Quentin. The word appears first in an earlier part of his section. Leaving the kids looking at the trout to their business, Quentin wanders away and thinks:

I could hear my watch and the train dying away, as though it were running through another month or another summer somewhere, rushing away under the poised gull and all things rushing. Except Gerald. He would be sort of grand too, pulling in lonely state across the noon, rowing himself right out of noon, up the long bright air like an apotheosis, mount into a drowsing infinity where only he and the gull, the one terrifically motionless, the other in a steady and measured pull and recover that partook of inertia itself, the world punily beneath their shadows on the sun. (149)

In this passage Gerald Bland appears as this baroque otherworldly figure, steering his boat in “a drowsing infinity.” He is situated over and against the world, in it but not of it. And for the moment it’s hard to understand why Gerald occupies this space in Quentin’s head, much less why he’s this cherub-like figure in the sky. That is, until the immediately following sentence: “Caddy that blackguard that blackguard Caddy.” This alludes, of course, to Dalton Ames; and so there is revealed a connection between Gerald and Dalton, both of which Quentin believes to possess a power he doesn’t—Dalton because he takes Caddy’s virginity, and Gerald because he is known as a kind of womanizer, or at least Quentin sees him as one. And that’s why it’s not an accident that, trapped in his memory of confronting Dalton, Quentin in reality confronts Gerald (225), because ultimately they represent the same thing, that apotheosized kind of masculinity which he sees beyond his reach because it’s acquired through losing his virginity, virginity, too, heightened to the status of apotheosis.

I don’t think it’s unreasonable to suggest that when Quentin uses the word apotheosis when thinking about Gerald, he’s thinking about his confession to his father as well, seeing as it’s the only other place in the entire book, or at least in Quentin’s section, where the word appears; and I think that only serves to further punctuate a conceit of Quentin’s that Gerald represents something that Dalton did as well. It’s this conceit, made “symmetrical above the flesh and aware both of itself and of the flesh,” that kills Quentin, that colors the world as inhospitable to him who must attain what is ultimately unattainable.