End of Theory

Of course, theory has already ended right.
I found the last class discussion on this topic to be extremely interesting. I have always tried to see theory as an everchanging process and to believe that my attempts at learning a topic which is in fact 'dead' may have been a fruitless endeavor. However, after further thought, I decided that even dead theory is only a theory and this proves that theory is in fact still evolving.
Humans are critics and there will always be a new way to critique life. Analyzing patterns in texts is not a repetitive process, something new is always being churned up--new ideas, new discoveries, new theories.
The vastness of human expression has an outlet that applies to literature, philosophy, gender, politics, life in general--whether it had a name or not, theory has been used by humans for as long as our minds have had the power to analyze. Particular criticisms are the path on which theory has evolved, but the basics of theory is thinking critically and applying such thought to something, commonly referred to now as a 'text'.
The day that theory truly dies will be the day that humans turn over the world to machines. yet even in the Matrix, free expression found a way to survive.
I am a writer and I have always seen myself as an analytical person. Yet, after spending this semester reading other theorists I have realized that my level of critical thinking was far below par. Authors like Fowles who can turn a page into a lifetime, causing the reader to enhance their powers of comprehension and really think about what is being said.
I am forcing myself to reevaluate my writing and analyze it from different perspectives, not necessarily the marxist or structuralist criticism but I am now certainly questioning myself, 'why I did this' or 'what was I thinking when I wrote that'. It is not all about the story but underlying influences that cause the story to follow the path it is on.
I feel like I am really taking something away from this semester.

Feminism in Feminist Theory

I have alw2ays considered myself a feminist, at least on the most basic level of believin that women and men should both share equal rights thoguhout the world. I know that expecting this to happen worldwide, and expecting it to be accepted by even a large portion of the United States population will never be an easy step for the human race and I know that it will take more than just the actions of myself, and those other feminists I know.
Being a feminist in this fashion does not deter me from my other beliefs on theory, yet, I believe that this theory for literature--and for politics--is important and influential to many other practices.
The fact that the United States has still not given women equal rights under the constitution is appalling and sadly I found this information to be quite expectable. Women have rights whether they are defined within the Bill of Rights or not, perhaps it is because the E.R.A. has not been passed that many people, myself included, try to show that women should and must be treated fairly, as fairly as one would treat any man--instead of acting upon the differences between gender, I try to treat all people the same. I dislike specific types of people, but this is not determined by the fact that they are a man or a woman, black or white, old or young; it is the personality that creates tension between myself and that person and surely my personality is not acceptable to all people. However, a true feminist, or even someone calling themselves a feminist by nature, does not have to put women on a pedastal, treating them better than they would a man--for, in truth, this may be nice but it is just as discriminating.
I do not feel that the problem of equal rights has a density of any kind for the patriarchal society that has formed throughout our world, and has therefore gained control of the Canon of great literature, is one that bases importance on the type of genitalia between a person's legs. All other arguments against the E.R.A stem from this idea that anyone with a penis is stroner, smarter, and better than anyone with a vagina.
Think about the argument that women should not be given equal rights because this will then make the fact that a man supports a woman a discriminating factor. This is untrue, a woman under the E.R.A would have the choice of supporting herself or being supported by a man, just as a man has the choice to support that woman or be supported by her. The real, hidden, argument is that a man who is supported by a woman will lose his manliness in the eyes of other men. And since our society is so male oriented, the concern of a man over losin his manhood is the important part of his argument and he, meaning any or all men, will find an excuse that protects his manhood.
When Krouse discusses a woman's inability to create, I see that as the subjected position of women in today's society. It is the responsibility of both men and women, together, to create an atmosphere of equality. This ambivalence for female writers in literary theory becomes a contradiction since the idea of women becoming a part of the literary canon is so against the norms of our patriarchal society. This must be broken and it will take the combined effort of an egalitarian culture, one that is not concerned with genitalia, but with the heart, mind, and soul of each and every individual.

Language of Fowles

Knowledge is a tricky thing. When I read Fowles’ work, I find that I am thinking this constantly. Human beings use language to converse with one another and it is a far more basic, and unperfected, theory than I could ever have imagined or realized before without reading Mantissa.
What we say is important. I believe that everyone thinks this is true, yet, many people will also say that how we say that something is even more important. Everyone believes that what we all say to each other actually means the same thing to all of us—this is just a general assumption and whether it has to do with being human or that language is our form of communication I hope to know by the end of reading this novel.
Since language gives us our ability to communicate we believe that it gives us the ability to define ourselves. As Mantissa shows, Miles’ wife believes that specific words have a specific meaning and that the meanings she believes a word to have must be the only definition for that word. “Her mouth began to announce names, people’s names, street names, place names, disjointed phrases. Some were repeated. He had perhaps heard them before, as words but he had no idea what relevance they were supposed to have, nor why they should increasingly sound like evidence of crimes he had committed” (Fowles 5). The words she uses to represent something else, also represent herself since they are definitions of important aspects of her and her husband’s life.
To Miles, the words she speaks have meaning but only as words. He recognizes that he heard them before, but what she is using those words to refer to does not match up with his understanding of them.

Mantissa

The novel, Mantissa, immediately delves the reader into a world of detailed imagery, fascination with language as well as formulated impressions of the human mind. The influence of Lacan’s view on the ‘Real’ and symbolism of that ‘Real’ can relate to Jean Baudrillards use of the simulcrum to explain the image and its part in reality. These ideas are clearly represented in the first pages of this novel. Through the psychoanalytic theory, one can see the relationship between language, the self, and reality to be important causes in the character’s response, and therefore his relationship, to other people.
“…conscious of a luminous and infinite haze…over a sea of vapor and looking down; then less happily, after an interval of obscure duration, of murmured sounds and peripheral shadows, which reduced the impression of boundless space and empire to something much more contracted and unaccommodating” (Fowles 3).
In a moment of pure weakness and fragility, when one is at their most vulnerable, the abnormal and strange can seem to be regular. When one hopes for a recognition of reality, the mind will stretch one’s awareness to believe in a reality from whatever is available. Baudrillard’s simulation, simulcrum, is a false representation of reality. These images can be seen as a simulation in that they stand in for a reality, a true reality that the character cannot grasp at this time. The ‘Real, for Lacan, is impossible and different from reality. It is a perversion of reality, but one that shares the meaning of truth for the character. The language used to describe this reality of obscure detail, is the language that the character acknowledges to be part of reality, or at least his reality. Lacan’s view of the symbolic is a relationship between the self and language—we desire an understanding of reality and through the creation and use of language one creates a symbolic representation of that reality. Language is the ‘effect of the symbolic’.

The Author's Discourse of his Name

The author is an influence that a text can never separate itself from. Knowing the author’s name is a way that the reader knows the text; understanding comes from similarities uncovered that makes the reading feel a sense of companionship. When speaking with an author, one is speaking with a person and in human conversation the introduction is always the initial mode of interaction.
Foucault, in his work questioning ‘What is an Author’, can "…indicate that an author’s name is not simply an element of speech (as a subject, a comlpement, or an element that could be replaced by a pronoun or other parts of speech). Its presence is functional in that it serves as a means of classification" (What is an Author 1263). Humans feel that to know the name of something, (a type of food, an animal, another person) gives a deeper understanding of that thing’s essence. Certain and specific information, such as "…an author’s name on the book cover, a newspaper by-line, or the author information in a blog" (http://incsub.org/blogtalk/?page_id=40) increase the potential that a reader will find common ground with the text, and the author, they are reading.
When a person discusses a text that the person they are speaking to is unfamiliar with, the first question asked will be, "Who wrote that?" It is easier for a person to reference a work, and remember it, when they know who wrote it—this memory of a text does not come from its title or even its context.
"Discourse that possesses and author’s name is not to be immediately consumed and forgotten" (What is an Author 1264).
The blog is a form of representation in which a person does not leave their ideas alone, hanging on the precipice with no connection to reality. The influx in blogging proves that it is not only important to get information out to other people, but the source of that information as well. A blog is a direct classification of the author through its unique ability to represent a characterization of one's self.
"The uptake of blogs proves that reports of the death of the author are greatly exaggerated. The Author is alive and well, and has a blog" (http://incsub.org/blogtalk/?page_id=40)

Love is Narcissism

When discussing his own love life, Jaques Derrida is quite reclusive, choosing to avoid the topic altogether. He often changes the subject to one he believes important, for certainly, he feels it unimportant for those who are creating the documentary, and even those who are viewing it, to know any depth about his life and love.
The story of Narcissus is one of the ways he avoids the topic of his own love life. He uses this story to give a more intimate detail of his earlier topics such as forgiveness and the purity of a relationship and the love between people. He interprets the image of the story as one about sound; he believes that Echo’s repetition of Narcissus’ words comes from the ‘infinite love’ and care she holds for imagery, or the use of language to produce such imagery (Derrida Documentary).
It is from this love that Echo forms her own language, private and unique, but no less powerful than those able to speak their full minds. “In repeating the language of another, she signs her own love” (Derrida Documentary). Echo creates both the image of her love, and the concept of it—an entirely new language—through the words of Narcissus.
Derrida claims that Echo is blind, for “…as always with speech, one is blind” (Derrida Documentary). He relates this blindness to that of Narcissus who admires himself and “To see oneself is a form of blindness. One sees nothing else” (Derrida Documentary). “Echo and Narcissus are then two blind people who love each other.”
It is often said that love is blind—we choose not who we love just as we do not choose our family or ourselves. I believe this is the purpose of Derrida’s story although he does not make this as clear as it can be.
I almost get the impression that he has been blind in love during his life, or at least, he sees it this way.

Irony in Derrida

I feel that it is most obvious how the documentary, or any film, cannot portray the true character of a man like Jaques Derrida. From what I saw, I can think of several actions on part of the director and or producers that created more tension and gave the viewer different knowledge than they were trying to portray. I also feel that Jaques Derrida is avoiding the prospect of delving too deep into his own life. Everyone wants to deconstruct the life of The Deconstructionalist and I felt that he purposely withheld the answers to multiple topics in order to keep a sort of uncharacterized understanding of himself.
In some ways, I would like to think that one can learn more from the way Derrida refuses to answer a question, or from how he avoids the answer, than if he answered the question that the director asks. It is interesting that he can be so vague about his own life when that life was spent delving into the depths of Structure, Sign, and Play.
There is a much more intellectual sense when listening to Derrida speak about topics of his own choosing—the beginning of the film, when he speaks about his conception on time, the future and l’avenir, I felt that I was given the opportunity to share in the inner workings of his mind. I thought, ‘This is how Jaques Derrida thinks!’ And in some ways, even though it did not immediately make me understand deconstruction, I felt that I at least understood who it was that thinks in the manner needed to devise such an understanding of language and the human world.
The beginning scene where he is speaking about a predictable future compared to one that is unknown, I believe relates well with the later topic Derrida speaks of when recalling the questions asked of him and his psychoanalyst female friend. When Derrida is asked how he and his female friend met, there is a bit of awkward movement and looks between the two. Jaques then asks her if he should tell or not. “I’m not going to tell you everything. No, I’m just going to tell you superficial things” (Derrida Documentary). Derrida later says, when again asked about this earlier filming, that he likes the scene particularly because he and Marguerite did not say anything. He says that they, “think the same thing, but we do not say it” (Derrida Documentary). He still avoids answering the question for his personal life is not one that he would like deconstructed.
At times I have felt that the director does not accept Derrida’s refusal to let them dig deep into his life. There is the scene early on when Jaques’ past is spoken of; his brother who died and other personal and family information. A feeling I got from seeing his house, especially with him in it, as well as from the way he answered questions of family and love, that Jaques Derrida is a recluse.
Much of his thought is directed towards continual learning and he always takes his time to answer questions. The problem was that several scenes show him stalling from being asked the same question several times throughout the film. The directors chose to structure this film with scenes that show Derrida being forgetful and even angry about the process of creating the documentary. It seemed that the directors had a few specific goals for answers they hoped to receive and they would continue to hammer on Derrida to obtain the information they saw as important when he would instead stall and speak vaguely about what they asked only to turn the conversation towards the matters he finds important, which he could continue to speak about, in detail, endlessly.
Derrida is a person of absolute singularity, as he speaks of later in the film. People see him as an ideal, not the true character of his being. “Often, love starts with some type of seduction. One is attracted because they are like this or that. Inversely, love is disappointed and dies when one comes to realize the other person does not merit our love” (Derrida Documentary). This line of Derrida’s is what I believe explains his entire character, or his lack of character, that is shown on the film. He knows that people love an idea of him and to shatter that belief is not something he wants to, or can, do.
I want to call attention to an ironic comment I found later in the film. The narrator says that philosophy has died because of the violent way it exposed itself to non-philosophy. Is this not a structuralist concept, knowing a truth about something because of its opposite? It is so clear that this narrator is not speaking Derrida’s words and by saying this comment after he uses deconsruction to talk about his mother and her influence on his philosophy; he wants the female philosopher to have a place in deconstruction—he has already seen them in his view of the theory.

A Tree

Difference, is the primary term for a Structuralist because in this theory difference causes meaning. Opposite meanings are what allow us to understand what it is our language is describing, what it is our language is giving life to.
Within this Structuralist concept of difference, there are two expressions of thought which allow us to understand language and together, through their difference, do they form the true meaning.
The Signifier represents the sound or image of a word in language while the Signified represents the idea or concept that word has in itself--"their combination produces a form, not a substance" (Saussuer, 35)
These terms and the meanings they give to a text will always work in this way, neverending, unchanging--arbitrary is the word chosen by Saussuer and this means that this path to discoverin meaning, can always be counted on.
This relationship, between sound and idea, Sigifier and Signified, has no outside influence on its meaning. There is only these two concepts and how they relate, or differ, to and from one another which gives them their meaning.
One a piece of paper their is an image of a tree and the word T-R-E-E written out, they can be next to each other or far away, one on top of the other even; but which one has the true meaning of the living being made of wood and plant cells and producing photosynthesis, and growin and changing outside on the front lawn. Which one, the image or the word, accurately describes what a tree really is, what its meaning is?
This is how I feel about Post-structuralism-no word or image correctly describes it for neither have the true meaning encased in their form, in their essence, at all.

Guest Speaker: Ideology

I find it quite impossible to read a text about our modern world, especially an American work, without feeling it has some connection to the politics and social situation of our country. Since we are living within a capitalist society, and this is true in any such society, capitalist ideals shine through in every type of text written by a member of that society or about those within it.
I do not believe that this forces texts to allow only for capitalist ideals, take for instance, Chris Craig's Jeans example where within a consumerist heaven-a mall-there is an example of socialist/or communist/politics, namely Marx's Communist Manifesto.
Also, we read works of Shakespeare in High School which is a socialist concept in itself-the idea of public schools does not shout out capitalism!
Any text will have to have a position, most have more than one: the position of the characters, of the author, of the reader, of the society, of the government, of the teacher who makes the book required reading. A good novel is one that forces conflict amongst those involved with that particular text. A good author will want the reader to disagree, not only with them but with a character they have created, or possibly all of the characters if a certain idealogy is accepted by them all, or ignored by them all.
Marxist criticism is the one theory that allows for this viewpoint and I believe that unknowingly I have been a Marxist critic my entire life. I feel that all aspects of a text are shaped by influences within the culture or era that particular author lives in...being an author myself I have first hand knowlege of this affect; however, I would like to take it one step further and say that it is possible for some authors to write outside of these influences, or at least outside of some of them, and therefore, they become such an influence themselves on others.
Think about authors who create new styles of literature that afterwards become quite popular and soon others are immitating them-hasn't that author's work become an ideal, absorbed and reused by others? And once this has happened, is the text and the author not an influencing factor of the ideology that other people believe in?

The Transcendence of Marxist Criticism?

“Marxism is a materialist philosophy”, rather than an idealist philosophy, “…it tries to explain things without assuming the existence of a world or of forces beyond the natural world around us, and the society we live in” (Barry 156). By definition, it contrasts with Liberal Humanism which is much more of an idealist philosophy.
A commonly thought belief for liberal humanists is that human nature is unchanging, throughout all time and all places on this third rock from the sun. Personally, I find contradiction in this statement itself, but when seen from a Marxist point of view, this statement is completely and utterly false.
Humanity is a developing species and we relish change, even strive for it, each day. This is where the contradiction is: it is an unchanging attitude of humanity that humans enjoy change. It is true of all humans, from any time period, that change is necessary and welcomed.
The saying, ‘We do not welcome change,' is only that, a saying.
Literature is a perfect example of the changes in humanity throughout time. In the early days of history, that which is recorded, not many people could read or write—it is because of this that history of the written word is so incomplete—so for a long time, the ideal of literature was placed on a pedestal and only the wealthy and intelligent could become prominent at reading and even at writing their own letters.
And for so many centuries of human existence, only a certain social class was able to read and write literature, which meant that the literature being written was truly for the enjoyment or tutoring of a specific social class—the wealthy, white, male class.
Does this sound like Marxism yet?
Marxism could never have been discovered since those who were excluded from this upper class of literate humans were not able to learn the necessary components for reading and writing so they could not discern what measures the upper class were taking to exclude other from a liberal humanist perspective of literature that would decide the fate of literary work for the future world to build off of.
Greek philosophy has always been a strong source for knowledgeable information and even today, people read Aristotle and Plato, even Socrates' stories and these men lived four or five thousand years ago. One would think that knowledge and paths of study would have changed throughout all those years, but because the idea of liberal humanism was so ingrained, it took some time for people to break away from its ideology—but people wanted to all along and welcomed the change when it came.
This liberal humanist idea, stemming from ancient Greece and that society’s philosophers, started the general belief of transcendent literature. The Canons of great literature are a collection of works that are believed to be acceptable forms of teaching material for all eras of humanity. It is the idea of liberal humanists that these literary works are important and relate to every person, in any place and at any time.
I disagree with this idea although I do enjoy many of the canonized books. However, my enjoyments comes purely from the fact that I, as a writer and reader of literature, enjoy epic stories like Homer and written art in the form of plays like Shakespeare. Men like Dante I can live without, although, I do see the importance of having read these texts—mainly because one cannot discuss them intelligently without having read them. I do not believe that all people need to have read these canons to be intelligent and knowledgeable in the study of literature and certainly these specific works are not right for every person. Interests of one person do not go hand-in-hand with the interests of another and as a Marxist would say, it is only because of our social pressures, built up by this liberal humanist idea, that makes schools include these works and convinces students that they are important.
“Marxist Literary Criticism maintains that a writer’s social class, and its prevailing ‘ideology’ (outlook, values, tacit assumptions…) have a major bearing on what is written by a member of that class.” (Barry, 158).

Shopping to Fight Hunger

This site is a shopping center that sends proceeds of every item bought to fighting hunger in places where poverty keeps people in famine.
Shop till you drop! It's for a good cause.

Good Search

Use the GoodSearch link to search for websites while donating to charity each time you type something in.
On the GoodSearch site, type in Forward In Health for the charity organization since that is a program I am close with who start pediatric clinics in under developed countries. Right now, Forward In Health is building a hospital in Haiti. The group also donates food and medicine to nursing homes and orphanages.

One Night

The door was locked and bolted from the inside. I slammed my shoulder against it, barking orders through the door but she did not respond. I could feel her breathing through the aged wood that filled this crappy apartment complex. I hate it here—but it was worth it to be with her.
“I don’t ever want to see you again! How ‘bout that, you bitch!” I yelled through the door, rephrasing her own words, spitting them back at her to see how she liked hearing them. How childish I am. “If I am then you made me!” I yelled again then stumbled back, slamming against the wall. The bottle in my hand fell to the floor with a clank, a dark red liquid spilled onto the rug that lined the entire hallway. It was a terrible drab looking rug; blue with a white design that I would be able to see if I hadn’t already had two bottles—the third was slipping away from me, turning the drab rug into a drab rug with a big red spot on it. The spot resembled blood too closely. I had to get out of here.
The stairs were difficult to descend. I don’t know why I didn’t take the elevator. I don’t want to see anyone, especially the snobs who live here. Even though they were my neighbors, until tonight, they aren’t anymore. I shouldn’t care what they think anymore. I know the rubbish they talk in the lift, I’m sure it’s about me. It shouldn’t bother me, why does it? They give me looks. I can see them. Everyone looks at me. I can feel their eyes follow after I leave the elevator and head toward my room.
Outside the air was nice; I lit a cigarette and dragged in the tobacco until I burned half of the cig down, the nicotine hit me sharp, striking against my lungs like an ape playing bongo drums. I felt the blood from my heart trying to push through a vein, with a bit of difficulty. That hurt too, but I kept walking. I wanted to be away from here.
Soon my legs were tired. I tilted the wine upside-down, feeling the last drops reach my tongue. After licking the neck of the bottle I discarded it. The clank, clank, clank of glass on concrete echoed behind me as I stumbled along the street. As I reached Huntington Avenue I stopped short of the street, lined up with the cross-walk but I had my heels on the curb, my toes stuck out into the street.
For a moment I teetered back and forth; then, lifting both my arms out to my sides, I waved them trying to push against the air to make myself steady again. Forward toward the street, that was the direction I seemed to be falling, but at the last moment I caught the curb solidly with my left foot and pushed myself backwards, luckily away from a speeding cab but unluckily into a trash bin which fell over with me and let me roll with it for several feet.
I stood up, cursing my bad luck and the damn bin that God must have put in my way to spite me as He always does.
People are watching me. “Go away! Leave me be!” This only made them stare more. I began running. “Stop looking at me!” Another cab slammed on his breaks, the car screeched to a stop. The noise was loud, too loud. I held my hands over my ears as I ran across the street then faster down the sidewalk uncaring of anyone who happened to be in my way—I was not aware of them until they saw me, they saw me and did not look away.
Why am I out here? I should be at home, in that crappy apartment complex with the drab rug. That was where I belonged; in our bed, in her arms. I wrapped my arms around myself, my eyes were closed. I imagined being home. Why did I leave?
It began to rain. The drops slammed against my skin and t-shirt like shards of ice, although it was august and it never snowed during the summer in Boston. I remembered that I was holding myself. Her image flashed before my eyes. She was the one I hated, no, that was not true. But it felt good to say.
“She threw me out, that’s why!” I grabbed the fellow walking beside me and told this to his face. I held his shoulders forcing him to look at me, to see my words, I had to be sure that he could hear me.
“You damn drunk, go find a river to drown in!” He threw me away from him. I tripped as my momentum thrust me over a curve and I rolled into the street.
I lay there thinking about my life. Tragic, I suppose. I could always stay in the street, right here where I lay. “It was only one night; why was she so hurt?” I said these words out loud, even though there was no one to hear me. “I didn’t do it to hurt her, honest.” Still I don’t know if I’m trying to convince her or myself.
A car would be by soon enough—maybe a truck would come by, that would be better. They would not see me. The rain was falling heavy now, but I cannot feel it. I cannot feel anything, not anymore.

Writer's Consideration

I have considered myself a writer for several years now, since I was a Junior in High School actually. After having quite an out of body experience I went ot class on Monday morning and spoke with a friend of mine, telling him the outrageous, yet obviously interesting, aspects of my recent experience and his response to me was, 'Dude! You should be a writer.'
So now, here I am a Junior in College and I have written two full manuscripts in the Science Fiction genre and have also written several short stories of fiction, science fiction, and fantasy. A month ago I sent out the manuscript of my first novel to several publishing companies and am hoping for good new, yet, my next goal will be to find an agent if things do not work themselves out.
I spend most of my free time writing and that is what I want my blog to be about, amatuer writing of any genre that overall speak to readers of peace, obtaining peace, or being denied peace. In my mind this can be anywhere from a story about real people to one imagined by the author for sometimes I find more truth in fiction than reality.
When I study theory, or when I read a novel or piece of literature in general, I think of what the author is trying to put forward. I also try to figure out if that message was passed correctly or if the mark was completely missed. Of course, being a writer, I am quite critical of those I read and have even thought my analysis as too strict. I read a lot and have therefore come to expect only the best work.
I would consider myself a liberal humanist fdor i do read purely for enjoyment and hope to udnerstand more about literature, and the art of creating what is considered 'good literature' by continuously reading. However, I also feel that my opinions on what makes 'good literature' have not changed much over the past few years and perhaps I am caught in a practiced form of criticism that for some reason I cannot shake.
I would like to invite anyone who has written anything really, a short story, novella, a chapter of a book, to post it on my blog so others can read your work and enjoy it. Respective, constructive criticism is always helpful and I don't find too many oppurtunities for such.
Please feel free to read my work as well.
Also, during this criticism of others writing, theory from class or the reading should be used to explain one's understanding of the text.