The last Logos; An Iceberg Full-On

 Bear with me, This is the promised post from earlier. I will be windy, and
just to put me in the proper frame;

BONZAI!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Jim, to his credit (that beautiful name attached) writes:

"A "text" is:

a space created between an author and a reader in which "meaning" in some
sense resides.

The shape of the space and its content are dependent upon both author and
reader -- they stand at opposite poles, like poles of a magnet or like
separate gravitational fields -- and distort the space by their interactions
with it.

This doesn't mean the space doesn't have boundaries. It does. It can't mean
just anything. But that it means slightly different things depending upon
whose at each end.

What we usually mean by "valid readings" are the shapes of this space as
created by our most intelligent, perceptive readers, and not by people like
the man who thought Umberto Eco's Foucault's Pendulum was written about the
man's first cousin -- whom Eco never met."

Jim, your theory sounds reasonable but it quickly takes a nose dive. I
think it was Patton who said that no battle plan has ever survived contact
with the enemy. This approach would be great if it were rigoursly defined
and adhered to. There is nothing like agreement in the field of literary
criticism nor even a majority. All those bad examples of Deconstruction
that we both decryed in the past bear this out (Many were written by
professors and graduate students in the field).

Who decides the Boundaries? (again I say this). John O.'s attempts with
his students seems whimsical. Some define the boundary wider and some
narrow. You and John O. say it Doesn't mean that the author is dead, And
the reader can make the text mean anything. Your theory may say that but it
does not do it. It seems in actual practice it results in the readers
making the text say anything, since it is you and John O. labelling the
intelligent and perceptive readers, ok, so what. You both see this as
nonsense or carping but the heart of it is 'reasonable-ness'. This
reasonable-ness is subject to whom ever is defining the limits of meaning.
There is no falsification, there is no repeatability there is no parsimony.
It all comes down to who has the most charisma, or attitude, or who can yell
the loudest or claim the most authority. No criteria is given to test texts
and determine if they are in the bounds. Atleast nothing you can take to the
bank. Check your bank book at the end of this Kim. If this is the state,
then how are poor slobs like me are to know the good critics from the bad?
You and John O. might agree in principle, as a result of all this, your
boundaries of possible readings become equivalent to no boundaries in the
larger sense of literary criticism. They become weaker than the quest for
the Author, or atleast less noble.

Literary critcism is an art form, no that really is a compliment as well
coming from an engineer. It is an art form with pretensions to science.
Since science has dominated the intellectual landscape throughout the 20th
century every other field of knowledge is trying to ride that bandwagon of
respectability or trying to some how garner some of the value associated
with it. Literature is respectable, valuable, and should be held in high
regard on its own merits. Can some one look at art scientifically? Sure,
but they see through the glass darkly.

This is a large part of what I have been saying over and over again. Trying
to show you guys and gals this with the absurd things I write because to
straight jacket literary art with science is absurd. I know funds in todays
world are tough to get without that false appeal but Damm the English
departments of the world, they have to grow a pair and make art and let it
stand or fall on the merits of its own truth and Beauty. People have
recognised truth and beauty for thousands of years without John O.'s
definitions or lack there of. Literature can and should be discussed and it
is here. Some are better at it then others. Its an art and some of it is
beautiful but much of the professional variety is grotesque, Frankenstein on
the slab and modern literary critcism runs around trying to zap life into it
with electricity. The damm neck electrodes are so obvious. NO, NO, NO, It
lives if it lives at all because it has spirit it has a soul that no autopsy
will ever find. It is an image, a reflection of God, a glimpse of Joy. Put
the Joy back in it, not the joy of pendants, the Joy of creation or rather
subcreation.

All my posts have been feeble artistic attempts at criticising critics (I
didn't say that I am a good artist). I am not talking of art totally
independant of reason but art with breathed spirit. I am really trying not
to be a hypocrit with this overt post but it has cost me a piece of my soul.
I hope it was worth it. That's all writers have (even writers of
criticism)that is to live by hope and faith. I went 'over the top', unleash
your machine guns and rockets, I am in the open and undefended.

PS Jim, I said in an old post that I overstated the cimmaron (the feral)
that it was only a special case in philosophy like a line is in polynimials,
well this is that special case; fiction and poetry.

I'll expose myself evem more as if that were possible by adding some of my
verse.

                           EMPIRE'S END

You say close your eyes
I dream with open eyes

Light is my friend, he tricks me not
So I open my doors and recieve his gifts

Living Twice you say
I say live all at once

"Walls are sand beneath my feet"?
I walk upon the ramparts
and enjoy the chapiters with wings

"the world is a stage and we are merely players"?
But I ask who are the spectators?

On stage before Judging eyes
Who's eyes? Judge All
I see, you see

Read between the lines
Judge the words
Indeed in the doing
As if it were some othe language
but the words were in a language
all can undrstand
Even without tongue or ear

Why speak like difracted light?
I say because the eye can't bear
the sun's full glare
Because the ear can't endure
the sirens blare
Nor the skin the flames touch.
The tongue can't even taste
sour and sweet all at once.
The nose becomes accustomed
even to stench
that it recognizes it not.

So I say,
twinkle to be seen
whisper to be heard
radiate warmth and felt you shall be
tantalize sparingly and the appetite rages
and perfume lightly to sweetness.

Did you hear with closed eyes?

Daniel

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Received on Sun Mar 9 13:11:15 2003