Due to a lot of back-channel emails about the Tony Hoagland essay about the “strange influence” of the New York School and my response to it, I went back and re-read both, and I have a few more thoughts about these matters and how they relate to my posts about “plague stages.” Those of you who complain that I go over the same ground, criticize the same folks, over and over, will just have to skip this post. I write about Hoagland not only because he’s got one of those “bully pits” but because I think his rhetoric is rather pervasive.
One notable thing about Hoagland’s attacks on Fence is his attack on “haplessness.” He even calls it “dangerous” because “it fatally softens and disempowers the self of the poet or the speaker.” And this I think is key in a lot of poetry discussions: it’s the SELF that is at issue. Hoagland thinks some poetry is dangerous because the self becomes softer, more porous, and loses its “power.” You may recognize this rhetoric from Ron Silliman’s dismissals of “soft surrealism” – the poet loses the ability to be “authentically” avant-garde, the ability to offer a critique. Both Hoagland and Silliman seem concerned with a loss of a true self capable of standing outside of culture issuing sovereign critiques.
For Hoagland melancholy, or “ambience of sensitivity,” is dangerous because of this loss of true, strong self. Affecting an ambience or “tone” instead of making an “argument” or “plot” can be “habit-forming”: ie it’s like a drug, it’s decadent, the self is lost to the ambience. And here we’re back to Steve Evans’ anti-Fence article that Kent Johnson brought up, where Evans claims that Fence and The Germ are “decadent” and not truly avant-garde. What is it about “Fence” and its improperly influenced poets that is so worthy of condemnation? It’s a giving up of a certain notion of personhood – empowered, critical, distant – for an unhealthy “influence” (not truly avant-garde, ambient, possibly influenced by DRUGS or DDT!).
The proof of this danger for Hoagland: There are no “major figures” from the 2nd New York School. They have not been able to establish a hierarchy (the way language poets have and thus now meet his approval): they have not been able to establish a rule of the “truly greats.”
Lets go back to Deleuze and Guattari’s notion of “minor literature”; they believe that the minor literature is in fact a kind of non-subjective, collective literature. But to me I find their concept most important in that minor literature doesn’t establish cultural hierarchies and how this connects to minority culture and foreign languages/literatures. An anxiety about “minor literature” is not just connected to an anxiety about the loss of Great Authors and Correct Ways of Doing Things, but it’s also connected to a loss of a centralist idea of language itself, and of the SELF. Things becomes too “soft.” But the minor is also the only truly revolutionary mode according to D+G.
Back to ambience. On the recommendation of James, I’ve started to watch True Blood, and here’s the opening credits:
In this ambient space, different categories and images get defamiliarized and refamiliarized, disconnected and reconnected with other images and scenes. For example, women’s bodies become connected to slaughtered animals and eating, but eating becomes also connected to death and decay. Following images of women’s bodies and slaughtered animals, the image of children with smudged faces are changed. Seen alone this image might represent a kind of dull innocence – children with ketchup-smeared faces. But following the images of sex, violence, nudity etc, the children become vampirical-seeming; innocence, art, violence, sexuality become intertwined. Perhaps most importantly, the Christian images become connected to the vampirism and vice versa.
Rather than the more vertical reading direction of “plot” or an “argument” or even a “metaphor” – the ambient space moves horizontally, attaching and unattaching. Actually, metaphor moves like this quite a bit as well (With “My American, My New Found Land,” Donne doesn’t just geographize woman’s body, but he also sexualized America). This is in part the “dangerous” “softness” that Hoagland opposes: it challenges sovereignty, autonomy, individuality.
But that’s the power – not the powerlessness – or art. Art is a vehicle of Influence.
Fence makes such a dangerous case for Hoagland (and it seems for Evans) precisely because it’s poets “under the influence.” Influence ruins our ideas of individual autonomy: it infects, it poisons (as Hoagland points out).
Here’s the trailer for “Wrong-Eyed Jesus,” which someone recommended in the comment section to James’s post about True Blood:
“Do you think this place is on a map?… There’s been a murder here today… They called it the Anthology of American Folk Music… Them birds…”
Basically: the plague stage.
Hoagland likes Zapruder because Zapruder seems “adult” – by which he means that Zapruder speaks “clearly”. And to be an “clear-spoken” adult poet means that you oppose the excess that supposedly mass culture generates.
This stance reminds me of an article in The New York Times, that beacon of high culture, about three movies that supposedly caused a lot of controversy this year: The Tree of Life, The Future and The Help. These were all apparently criticized for being too weird, for not being “realist” enough. But as the author (AO Scott) notes this is largely a genre requirement of middle-brow, art-house movies. Other movies can show robots and time travel, but art-house movies have to be “realistic.” It is, a genre requirement that opposes the conventions of other genres (sci-fi, fantasias, the gothic etc). The problem is that in the name of seriousness, the genre conventions of the middle-brow “realism” actually excludes some very challenging ideas, perhaps the most challenging ideas.
(I think we can see this in how articles about Lady Gaga are mostly more interesting than articles about poetry.)
A story that reveals the possibilities of life is not necessarily an appeal; but it does appeal to a moment of fury without which its author would remain blind to these possibilities, which are those of *excess*. Of this I am sure: only an intolerable, impossible ordeal can give an author the means of achieving that wide-ranging vision that readers weary of the narrow limitations imposed by convention are waiting for. How can we linger over books to which their authors have manifestly not been *driven*? [Bataille]
Often when I write these kinds of posts, people assume I’m in favor of some kind of random writing, but that’s absolutely not what I’m talking about. When you’re “driven” under the drug-ish influence of art to write something, the results are in fact very particular. I’m just reading Jenny Boully’s wonderful new book, not merely because the unknown was stalking toward them:
The Home Under Ground
The Wendy girl will live longer than you; the Never bird will live longer than you; the wayward thing will be taken to wife (unlike you, who will never be taken to wife), and she too will live longer than you. Shoot her down, shoot her down, you say. And down comes the Wendy bird, and down comes the Peter bird to say who has done this? And you’re shut up in your little house again, and all around you, the various fairy birds a-dying, a-falling away from the Neverland, hanging cocoon corpses in Never trees for the Never worm, for the Never bees.
The way this relates: It’s a rewrite of the Peter Pan story, it’s highly ornate, beautifullly exact language, but it’s most certainly written “under the influence” in a lot of ways. I read Boully as “driven” (or “stalked toward”) to the work rather than issuing an adult statement of clarity (it’s about Peter Pan!).
One more thing, in Feng Sun Chen’s chapbook “Ugly Fish,” her “ugly feelings” create a kind of black hole of an ambience, through which the speaker moves moebius-like; she begins with Plath’s dead woman but supersaturates this image, burning a hole in the image so to speak:
The poet does not survive
Now she is already dead
Born for the crate.
Pure fat being with mammary and simulatenous craters.
The overkill of Plath, of deathiness creates a “fatness” of writing, an ambience of influence like True Blood’s opening credits – she moves through the hole and comes out as Chilean poet Zurita writing like a pregnant woman. She becomes a man-writing-as-pregnant-woman, a woman with her child “rattling” in her womb like death:
The pig can hear the dripping of the deep subterrenean caves.
Zurita said of the pig
offer up your body to be occupied by other bodies.
He carried the bodies of Chile like a rattle I could hear the sands of bodies snaking through him and out of the eyes.
The little piggy went to the market.
The non-result is “the pregnancy of decadence, which is full of fetuses.”
The non-result is proliferation: “Pigs are everywhere.” (final line of the book)
I also think of the Aase Berg essay “Språk och Vansinne,” in which language precedes human beings, hovers around in space trying to parasite its way into various specie (such as dinosaurs, which unfortunately prove too stupid), but then the human come into existence and they can be inhabited and used by language. Unfortunately, humans invent patriarchy and such to keep language in check. For language, I might substitute art.
HP Lovecraft’s “The Rats in the Wall”:
On July 16, 1923, I moved into Exham Priory after the last workman had finished his labours. The restoration had been a stupendous task, for little had remained of the deserted pile but a shell-like ruin; yet because it had been the seat of my ancestors I let no expense deter me. The place had not been inhabited since the reign of James the First, when a tragedy of intensely hideous, though largely unexplained, nature had struck down the master, five of his children, and several servants; and driven forth under a cloud of suspicion and terror the third son, my lineal progenitor and the only survivor of the abhorred line. With this sole heir denounced as a murderer, the estate had reverted to the crown, nor had the accused man made any attempt to exculpate himself or regain his property. Shaken by some horror greater than that of conscience or the law, and expressing only a frantic wish to exclude the ancient edifice from his sight and memory, Walter de la Poer, eleventh Baron Exham, fled to Virginia and there founded the family which by the next century had become known as Delapore.