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We don't
say what we mean to say. The sentence is not one, but a cluster
of contrary tendencies. It is a thread of DNA--a staff of staphylococcus--a
germ of contagion and possibility. It may be looped into a snare
or a garotte. It is also, and as readily, a chastening rod,
a crutch, an IDJbracelet. It is available for use. But nobody
can domesticate the sentence completely. Some questionable material
always clings to its members. Diligent readers can glean filth
from a squeaky-clean one. Sentences always say more than they
mean, so writers always write more than they know, even the
laziest of them. Utility pretends to peg words firmly to things,
but it is easy to work them loose. "Sometimes the words
are unfaithful to the things," says Bachelard. Indeed they
are, and as writers, we are the agents of misrule, infidelity,
broken marriages. It was not difficult, for example, to pry
quotes from their sources, and mate them with other quotes in
the "quilt" section of Patchwork Girl, where they
take on a meaning that is not native to the originals. We set
up rendezvous between words never before seen in company, we
provide deliciously private places for them to couple. Like
the body, language is a desiring machine. The possibility of
pollution is its only life. Having invented an infinitely recombinant
language, we can't prevent it from forming improper alliances,
any more than we can seal all our orifices without dying.
In collage,
writing is stripped of the pretense of originality, and appears
as a practise of mediation, of selection and contextualization,
a practise, almost, of reading. In which one can be surprised
by what one has to say, in the forced intercourse between texts
or the recombinant potential in one text, by the other words
that mutter anagrammatically inside the proper names. Writers
court the sideways glances of sentences mostly bent on other
things. They solicit bad behavior, collusion, conspiracies.
Hypertext just makes explicit what everyone does already. After
all, we are all collage artists. You might make up a new word
in your lifetime--I nominate "outdulge": to lavish
fond attention on the world, to generously broadcast care--but
your real work will be in the way you arrange all the stuff
you borrow, the buttons and coins, springs and screws of language,
the frames and machinery of culture. We might think of Lawrence
Sterne, who, when accused of plagiarism, answered the charge
with an argument that was itself a plagiarism.
WE LIKE
TO MAKE STATUES
We are not
who we wish we were.
We like
to make statues of ourselves. The Greeks marched ever more perfect
bodies out of antiquity, slim vertical columns, like a line
of capital I's, a stutter of self-assertion. But works of words
are self-portraits too, substitute bodies we put together, then
look to for encouragement. Boundaries of texts are like boundaries
of bodies, and both stand in for the confusing and invisible
boundary of the self. The wholeness of an artwork helps firm
us up; in its presence we believe a little more in the unity
we uneasily suspect we lack. As a result we have an almost visceral
reaction to disorderly texts. Good writing is clear and orderly;
bad writing inspires the same kind of distaste that bad grooming
does, while experimental novels are not just hard to read, they're
anti-social. Proper novels are duplicate bodies to the idealized
ones we have in our heads, the infamous "thin person struggling
to get out." They're good citizens, polite dinner guests.
Books, of
course, like other bodies, fall apart. Literally, and also in
the invisible body of the text, because language is libidinous,
and the most strait-laced sentence hides a little hanky-panky
under the dust ruffle. But monkey brain doesn't want to think
about that, project can't hear, and so the novel, over the course
of time, has become, despite the most flagrant tendecies toward
polymorphous perversity and transgender play, a very stalwart
announcement of nothing much. A sturdy who cares. One writes,
one produces literature, and as Bataille says, "one day
one dies an idiot." A project without any particular purpose
that I can see, besides the announcement that project exists,
that there is purpose and order, a sort of recitation of what
we already know. The novel has become the golem, the monster
that acts like everyone else, only better, because the narrative
line is wrapped like a leash around its thick neck. I would
like to introduce a different kind of novel, the patchwork girl,
a creature who's entirely content to be the turn of a kaleidoscope,
an exquisite corpse, a field on which copulas copulate, the
chance encounter of an umbrella and a sewing machine on an operating
table. The hypertext.
Hypertext
is the banished body. Its compositional principle is desire.
It gives a loudspeaker to the knee, a hearing trumpet to the
elbow. It has the stopped stories to tell, it mentions unmentionables,
speaks unspeakables; it unspeaks. I don't mean to say it has
different, better opinions than novels can muster up, that it's
plugged with better content. Hypertext won't make a bland sentence
wild or make a dead duck run quacking for the finish line. Fill
a disjunctive structure with pablum and you will only cement
the world's parts more solidly together, clog the works with
glue. It's not opinions I'm interested in, but relationships,
juxtapositions, apparitions and interpolations. Hypertext is
the body languorously extending itself to its own limits, hemmed
in only by its own lack of extent. And like the body, it no
longer has just one story to tell.
CONSTRAINTS
& THE BOOK
It's not
all you think it is.
I have no
desire to demolish linear thought, but to make it one option
among many. Likewise, I'd like to point out that the book is
not the Natural Form it has become disguised as by its publicists.
It is an odd machine for installing text in the reader's mind
and it too was once an object of wonder. Turning the page, for
example, has become an invisible action, because it has no meaning
in most texts, the little pause it provides is as unreflective
as breathing, but if we expected something different, or sought
to interpret the gap, we might find ourselves as perplexed by
that miniature black-out as by any intrusive authorial device
we get exercised about in experimental literature or hypertext.
Similarly, the linear form of the novel is not a natural evolutionary
end, but a formal device, an oulipian constraint, albeit one
with lots of elbow-room. Like all constraints, it generates
its own kinds of beauty, from graceful accession to linearity
to the most prickly resistance. My favorite texts loiter, dawdle,
tease, pass notes, they resist the linear, they pervert it.
It's the strain between the literal and the implied form that's
so seductive, a swoon in strait laces that's possibly sexier
than a free-for-all sprawl. Constraints do engender beauty,
Oulipo and evolution prove that, but maybe we've shown well
enough how gracefully we can heel-toe in a straight line. We
can invent new constraints, multiple ones. I think we will:
just because I advocate dispersal doesn't mean I'm as impressed
by a pile of sawdust as I am by a tree, a ship, a book. But
let us have books that squirm and change under our gaze, or
tilt like a fun-house floor and spill us into other books, whose
tangents and asides follow strict rules of transformation, like
a crystal forming in a solution, or which consist entirely of
links, like spider-webs with no corpses hanging in them. Language
is the Great Unruly, and alphabetical order is a contradiction
in terms.
AGAINST
HISTORY
It was not
how they said it was.
I see no
reason why hypertext can't serve up an experience of satisfying
closure not drastically different from that of reading a long
and complicated novel, though it will do it differently. But
I'm not sure closure is what we should be working toward, any
more than a life well lived is one that hurtles without interruption
toward a resounding death. A life that hurls itself ahead of
itself seeking a satisfaction that must always remove itself
into the future will be nothing but over in the end, and the
same with those greased-lightning luge-novels. Don Delillo said
in a reading in San Francisco a week ago that the writer sets
her pleasure (his pleasure, is what he actually said), her eros,
against the great, megalithic death that is history's most enduring
work. I take that death to be not just the literal extinction
of life after life, but the extinguishing of the narrative pulse
of all those lives under the granite gravity of history recorded.
History is a cold, congealed thing, but if it is not too far
past, there are strands of DNA, molecules of story imbedded
in it, which can be rejoined and reanimated by a sufficiently
irreverent Frankensteinbeck. It's not the same as life, fiction
has a funeral flavor to it, no question, a stony monumentality
life luckily lacks, it has the thudding iambic footsteps of
the undead, but this is all to the good, because everyone listens
to a monster. Writers can't make facts react backwards, redo
what's done, but what we have left of what's done is stories,
and writers tell those better than most people. The incredible
thing is that desire suffices against history, against death,
against the hup-two lock-step of binary logic and the clockwork
of common sense. What we imagine is all that animates us, not
just texts, but also people. A beaker of imaginal secretions
makes us all desire's monsters, which is what we ought to be.
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