Here is another
review-essay that seems not to have made it into the pages of Canadian Literature during my time there
as an associate editor, although it was written – the date-stamp on the
document file puts it at January 2003 – about unsolicited review copies of
books sent to the journal. I hope you can pardon the datedness of some of the
references, but I thought it might be worth getting it out into the world,
making it a little bit worldly, if only to mark one of my attempts to get Anglo-American intellectual work to resonate
with some of its less-obvious Canadian counterparts – in this instance, trying
to set up a reading of Don McKay through an overview of some reissued Raymond
Williams (and some new-ish, at the time, Edward Said).
New
Contexts of Canadian Criticism,
a 1997 Broadview Press anthology of
cultural analyses collaboratively edited by Ajay Heble, Donna Palmateer Pennee
and J. R. (Tim) Struthers, offers more than an update of its namesake, Eli
Mandel’s classic (and out-of-print) collection of cultural backgrounds; it also
presents theoretically-informed forays, through a set of variously Canadian
discursive lenses, into the concepts of context and worldliness: a spate of
essays that gesture heterogeneously at the possibilities inherent in a
distinctly Canadian materiality— which here suggests everything from
historicism to autobiography, from socio-economics to bibliography. Still, the
first name mentioned in the book – and a critic who, enmeshed in contradictions
and pluralities of his own, appears to set the irresolute tone for the
collection – is not a Canadian, but Raymond Williams,
late professor of Modern Drama at Cambridge. In the last five years or so, Williams’s
unstable and disputatious amalgam of Leavisite
formalism and Lukácsian
social realism — which he had come to call “cultural materialism,” and
which arguably gave rise to Cultural Studies in the English-speaking world —
has undergone a recuperation that, national provenance aside, has a tangible,
even material, bearing on practices of Canadian criticism, in its several and
conflicted guises.
1.
Before
I come to any overtly Canadian content, I want to touch on Williams’s
worldliness, to suggest how his method might start to be dislodged from its
British sinecure and beach itself on the other side of the Atlantic. Williams’s
influence is audible (despite a paucity of direct reference) in Edward Said’s finely
crafted Reflections on Exile and Other Essays (from Harvard UP). Williams’s impact
registers more than in Said’s style, which has the transparent surety of a public
intellectual at his peak; Said reads Williams as the voice of “an emergent or
alternative consciousness allied to emergent and alternative subaltern groups
within the dominant discursive society” (244), and — perhaps surprisingly,
given Williams’s rather ardent Oxbridge traditionalism — as a figure of
critical radicalism closely akin to Antonio Gramsci (from whom
the vocabulary in the passage I have just quoted is drawn), Michel Foucault and
Theodor Adorno.
Williams probably wouldn’t endorse this reading, particularly the Frankfurt
School associations, but it does speak closely to the recuperation of Williams
in recent literary criticism, criticism that concerns itself with addressing,
and moving non-regressively beyond, the impasses and stalemates of a postmodern
condition. Williams, for Said, has been “responsive to the real material
texture of socio-political change from the point of view not of what Adorno
calls identitarian thought but of fractures and disjunctions,” of the
“non-identitarian” thinking that Adorno’s own negative dialectics pursue;
Williams writing is not, like Adorno’s, an especially philosophical or
conceptual interrogation of these critical alternatives, but instead offers their
verbal enactment:
To
Williams, quite uniquely among major critics, there is this capacity for seeing
literature not as a Whiggish advance in formal and aesthetic awareness, nor as
a placid, detached, privileged record of what history wrought and which the
institution of literature incorporates with sovereign, almost Olympian prowess,
but rather as itself a site of contention within society, in which work,
profit, poverty, dispossession, wealth, misery, and happiness are the very
materials of the writer’s craft, in which the struggle to be clear or to be
partisan or detached or committed is in the very nature of the text. (469)
Williams, as
writer, reworks this struggle as he reads and responds; like Said’s, his
criticism is suffused with a public, pedagogical imperative. Teaching, for
Williams, whether in postwar night-schools or rarefied universities, is a
matter of social justice and of the redistribution of cultural wealth, of
access to empowerment and to the contingent, pressing formations of identity
and self-worth that circulate in the world, and that find themselves embodied,
better than anywhere, in the literature of a national tradition. Not that
Williams is parochial: for Said, he is the best example of a worldly thinker,
one who seeks to restore “works and interpretations of their place in the
global setting” and to “engage with cultural works in [an] unprovincial,
interested manner while maintaining a strong sense of the contest for forms and
values which any decent cultural work embodies, realizes, and contains” (383).
Williams’s essays, like Said’s, aspire not to dispense high-blown wisdom but to
“teach the conflicts,” as Gerald Graff put it: to enable readers to enter
crucial debates in cultural politics and to contest meanings and values, rather
than to acquiesce to the false gods of scholarly and cultural authority.
Peterborough’s
Broadview Press has also reissued, as “encore editions,” two of Williams’s
important works from the 1960s: The Long Revolution and Modern
Tragedy. In both, Williams takes up challenges facing the public
intellectual, and takes those challenges seriously. He aspires not only to
transparency in his prose — framing questions of cultural value in a style
accessible to the common literate reader — but also to putting at issue the
dynamics of societal transformation — through emergent literacy, through public
education and through political heuristics — in writing itself.
He
begins Modern Tragedy (1966) by describing a conflict built into the term tragedy,
a tension between its literary and its common meanings; he notes how
theoreticians and literary scholars have tried to narrow into a “particular
kind of event, and kind of response” that is not merely “death and suffering,”
or accident, or “simply any response to death and suffering,” the sense
commonly called tragedies “in ordinary speech and in the newspapers,” a usage
regarded as “loose and vulgar” by academics (14). As long-term readers of
Williams will recognize, he never tosses off a word like “ordinary,” and it
soon becomes clear that he stands apart from the academics he parodies, finding
himself impelled ethically to discover what scholars and theoreticians tend to
dismiss, the “actual relations” we “see and live by, between the tradition of
tragedy and the kinds of experience, in our own time, that we ordinarily and
perhaps mistakenly call tragic” (14-15). The so-called mistakes people make in
everyday language, for Williams, are not so easily put aside, but point
significantly to literature’s relevance: why it matters and how it materializes
in the world. He doesn’t cast critical scholarship aside — the second half of
the book is a survey, revised from his lectures on modern drama at Cambridge,
of innovations in modern European theatre, a thoroughly academic enterprise —
but pursues instead the historical, cultural and institutional conflicts built
into both the genre and the concept of tragedy, and transforms what might on
first glance seem like a dry piece of literary exegesis into a compelling
profession of revolutionary dialectics.
In
the book, we oscillate between literary and political problematics, as opposed
to progressing from one to the other; it’s significant that Williams concludes
with, rather beginning from, literary exempla. Literature, for him, is not as
creative work separable from everyday life — as he puts it in The Long
Revolution, art neither attains a transcendent priority nor dawdles as
secondary, leisure-time activity, both of which, he asserts, are “formulations
of the same error” of dividing the creative from the ordinary (54).
Literature is for Williams concerned instead with “communication,” by
which he means not simply its “transmission” but the “social fact” of the
aesthetic, its recognition and re-inscription of “reception and response,” of
audience, into its own fabric: “Art is ratified, in the end, by the fact of
creativity in all our living. Everything we see and do, the whole structure of
our relationships and institutions, depends, finally, on an effort of learning,
description and communication. We create our human world as we have thought of
art being created” (46, 54). Material and last causes, poetic making and
revolutionary disruption, interweave in Williams’s cogent syntax; his critical
method is deceptively banal, but his argument, if we attend to it carefully, is
as disturbing as it is affirmative — not to draw art down to some lower level
of the everyday, but instead to perceive “creative interpretation and effort”
in living, to attempt to abolish all such levels and stratifications, as
embodiments of social and cultural imbalances. His methodology neither reduces
art to sociology, nor detaches the aesthetic from the lived, but pursues the
communicative processes that link text with social or historical context, to
see “works and ideas in their immediate contexts, as well as in their
historical continuity” (16), a social aesthetics. His historicism evinces a
kinship to Foucauldian genealogies, as we trace, for example, the evolving
conceptual shifts in the term “tragedy”:
The
tragic meaning is always both culturally and historically conditioned [. . .].
The essence of tragedy has been looked for in the pre-existing beliefs and in
the consequent order [of a society], but it is precisely these elements that
are most narrowly limited, culturally. Any attempt to abstract these orders, as
definitions of tragedy, either misleads or condemns us to a merely sterile
attitude towards the tragic experience of our own culture. (52-53)
Despite a shared
humanist vocabulary, Williams’s work on the genre is diametrically opposed to
the archetypalism of his near-contemporary Northrop Frye, which pursues exactly
those “abstract orders,” abstractions Williams understands as historical
products, rather than as structural fixities of a verbal universe that is
ultimately divorced from real human experience.
By
historicizing even his own critical apparatus, Williams hopes to push through
the aesthetic — here framed as tragic redemption — toward a broader ethics he
names revolution. In Modern Tragedy he appears at crucial junctures to inhabit a moment of
critical reflex, at which the generic structures of classical tragedy overlap
with the social forms of their communication: tragedy provides the structural
basis for its own interpretation and application. For example, he takes the Aristotelian
apex of anagnoresis, or recognition, and overlays a Marxian rubric of emergent
class consciousness as revolutionary flashpoint, to explain the gap between the
ideal of revolution and its repeated ossification and failure in real human
societies, as well as the epistemic break between the literary and the
ordinary:
At
the point of this recognition, [. . .] where the received ideology of
revolution, its simple quality of liberation, seems most to fail, there is
waiting the received ideology of tragedy, in either of its common forms: the
old tragic lesson, that man cannot change his condition, but can only drown his
world in blood in the failed attempt; or the contemporary reflex, that the
taking of rational control over our social destiny is defeated or at best
deeply stained by our inevitable irrationality, and by the violence and cruelty
that are so quickly released when habitual forms break down. (74)
Williams
attributes this impasse to a self-defeating liberalism, that he regards as
“hemmed in on all sides” (73). His attitude is never defeatist, however, and by
reading the modern European canon of tragedy, he projects — progressing from
Ibsen through Ionesco to Brecht — a “new tragedy” that refuses to accept the
contradictions of human injustice as inevitable, and moves through that
“recognition” to break down the “fixed harshness” of any regime, revolutionary
or not, with the ongoing “struggle [to] live in new ways and with new
feelings,” and by “including the revolution” in “ordinary living,” to “answer
death and suffering with a human voice” (103-4). Admittedly, this insistence on
the potentially revolutionary character of the ordinary, as redemptive, remains
something of a sticking point for Williams’s readers, because of his
mystification of “experience” as resolutely unassimilated by abstract or
literary forms, even as those forms seek either to contain or to unleash it.
Williams’s theory of tragedy, for this reason, is largely anti-cathartic, not
because it does not aim toward changing minds, but because he does not want the
energy of that change to be dissipated in aesthetic experience: communication,
instead, transmutes pathos into ethos, affect into responsibility.
The resurgence of a human voice in
literary forms even as arch as tragedy produces revolution, however “long,”
subtle and attenuated, because it speaks to the fundamental emotive
substructure of community (an argument closely akin to Herbert Marcuse’s
aesthetics of liberation): “A society in which revolution is necessary is a society
in which the incorporation of all its people, as whole human beings , is in practice impossible without a
change in its fundamental form of relationships. [. . .] Revolution remains
necessary [. . .] because there can be no acceptable human order while the full
humanity of any class of men is in practice denied” ( 76, 77; original italics). That
revolution should “remain” and endure, rather than find a sudden, violent
social articulation, is for Williams a consequence of his New Left mistrust of
revolutionary regimes and of revolution’s essentially cultural character;
culture, as he defines it in The Long Revolution , names a “creative” process — the “long revolution” locates
itself not a fractal shock, but in “the essential relation, the true interaction,
between patterns learned and created in the mind and patterns learned and made
active in relationships, conventions and institutions. Culture is our name for
this process and its results, and then within this process we discover problems
that have been the subject of traditional debate and that we may look at again
in this new way” (89). This Leavisite insistence on the rediscovery of
tradition and an Arnoldian vocabulary of true pedagogy, of what must be
“learned,” hardly appears revolutionary at all. But Williams’s rhetoric is
designed not to shock but to educate, to forge connections between his own
ethical imperatives and a popular status quo enmeshed in histories — such as that of
literacy, which Williams explores in this book — that have been misrecognized
as stasis, as tradition. When Williams writes, with calculated banality, that
he wants to look at culture in “this new way,” he is not falling back into the
reactionary radicalism of Thomas Carlyle or Matthew Arnold, whom he often
quotes approvingly, but trying to engage with what he calls “a necessary
tension in language,” particularly in its popular manifestations in organs such
as the press, “between powerful impulses to imitation and to change,” a tension
that he understands as “part of our basic processes of growth and change,” and
of the human movement toward fundamental betterment. Simply put, you need to
speak in a language that can be understood, or you will get nowhere, and no
change, revolutionary or otherwise, is possible; you need to discover, in the
commonplace or the “traditional,” a revolutionary moment (a critical tactic
that is closely reminiscent of Antonio Gramsci’s work on the
“national-popular”).
The
Long Revolution closes with an extended meditation on “Britain in the 1960s”
— a period that was only just about to unfold — which Williams clearly intended
as a gesture toward critical immediacy, an attempt to historicize his own
present and to map its socio-cultural tendencies (as he does early in the book
for the 1840s, the remoteness of which from his own time offers a more rigorous
and clear-sighted approach to the selective and accumulative processes of
history and historicizing; it is difficult to step back from your own present,
even contingently). His critical project, however, is not so much utopian — a
concept he associates with a liberal idealism content to proclaim the virtues
of such things as education, participatory democracy and “common culture” while
still “leaving our training institutions as they are” (176) — as it is
hopeful, that “unevenly, tentatively, we get a sense of movement, and the
meanings and values extend,” that language, in other words, gets put into
practice, “keeping the revolution going” (383). To this end, Williams precedes
his social and historical reflections with a call for renovated literary form,
what he calls a “new realism” that is “not the old static realism of the
passive observer,” a writing inured in regressive objectivity that, though
“nostalgia and imitation” merely reinforces oppression, but is instead
“necessarily dynamic and active,” not so much the mere representation of social
reality as one means of its continual establishment, by which Williams means
that writing enacts “this living tension, achieved in communicable form,” the
process he calls “culture,” a negotiation between pattern and practice,
imagined ideal and lived reality: the “achievement of realism” in the
contemporary novel, as praxis rather than telos , is for Williams both “a continual achievement of balance,”
the temporary resolution of this tension, and “the ordinary absence of
balance,” the dialectical resurgence of a lived asymmetry, an ethical call
(316).
2.
But
Williams, sadly, does little better than gesture toward this form. The
unavoidable conceptual haziness of “experience” in his work needs to be honed
away, and the formal character of that realism more carefully articulated, if
his hope is to be (no pun intended) realized. I think that Williams’s realism
can be supplemented with a kind of late phenomenology to affect such a
precising, specifically that of Emmanuel
Levinas, and specifically its inflection in the work of a Canadian poet, Don McKay.
There are certainly a number of significant caveats to such a claim: Williams
had little sympathy for the privileged defamiliarizations of a phenomenological
poetics, one that insists on personal consciousness-raising, poetic complexity
or intellectual pretense; Levinas, at least in his work up to Totality and
Infinity (1961,
tr. 1969), expresses a fundamental distrust of the aesthetic, particularly
poetry, and outright refuses any kind of socially or politically engaged
writing; and McKay’s own poetics repeatedly discover their indebtedness to Martin Heidegger and, more
recently, to Levinas himself, but leave Williams and other social realists
largely unmentioned. Still, I think that a coalescence emerges from this
conjunction, particularly when Williams is re-read in the way I have been
suggesting, and on Canadian turf no less. McKay’s Vis-à-Vis (from Gaspereau Press) is a collection
of essays and poems that ostensibly focuses on “nature poetry,” but in fact
accomplishes this difficult conceptual mix, in discrete textual space.
McKay’s
reflections gather around a set of recurrent concepts: wilderness, alterity,
translation, apparatus, place. Poetry is not, for him, a form of apprehension —
of consciousness as possession or appropriation — but a release, through
language, into what cannot and ought not be completely grasped: a form of
listening or attentiveness that honours, and pays homage to, what McKay calls
wilderness, which he describes as “not just a set of endangered spaces, but the
capacity of all things to elude the mind’s appropriations” (21). His work finds
an imperative in the intersection of the ethical and the ecological, and seeks
to revise our sense of home-making, as a collision of oikos with poiesis , to point to a fundamental form of
human responsibility for the world, a revision and an extension of Heidegger’s
shepherding of being. Where justice in Raymond Williams’s work adopts a human
face, and seeks a better form of human society, for McKay justice must
necessarily find a prehuman foundation, must at least gesture beyond its own
narrow limits. While acknowledging the inevitable and obvious humanness of
language and perspective — an echo of Heidegger’s insistence on the humanity of
what the philosopher named Dasein — McKay rethinks this anthropocentrism in terms of response
and responsibility, producing a version of what Levinas calls “l’humanisme
de l’autre homme, ” the humanism of the other person: “nature poetry should
not be taken to be avoiding anthropocentrism, but to be enacting it, thoughtfully. It
performs the translation which is at the heart of being human, the simultaneous
grasp and gift of home-making” (29). Writing nature, that which is outside or
beyond the human, is an essentially human act for McKay, a practice he describes
by taking up Levinas’s image from Totality and Infinity of the face — le visage , as in vis-à-vis — as wholly other ; McKay refuses the stalemated, dyadic
archetypalism of Margaret
Atwood’s “The Animals in that Country” (who have either human faces or “the
faces of no-one,” a forbidding juxtaposition of mutual solitudes), and instead gestures toward an otherness
that is both vital and responsive, as gift and grasp: “we can perform artistic
acts in such a way that, in ‘giving things a face’ the emphasis falls on the
gift, the way, for example, a linguistic community might honour a stranger by
conferring upon her a name in their language. Homage is, perhaps, simply
appropriation with the current reversed” (99). McKay doesn’t idealistically
renounce human grasping — in the capacity of language, for example, to
name and overwrite what it cannot finally possess, to give a human aspect,
catachrestically, to that which is beyond it, making the stranger a familiar —
but suggests that such forms of naming and writing, while unavoidable, need to
be enacted thoughtfully, responsibly.
Heidegger’s
definition of the tool, as that which is to hand, provides McKay with a crucial
instance of how to produce such thoughtfulness, as he revises — in ordinary
language, through anecdote and reminiscence — a defining human moment, the
utility in taking up a tool, as an encroachment of the non-human, of
wilderness: “That tools retain a vestige of wilderness is especially evident
when we think of their existence in time and eventual gradation from utility:
breakdown” (21). He describes the stuff we find at yard sales and in garages —
a disused hand-turned meat grinder, for example — as evidence of this
inevitable slippage, of what sounds like a vestigial otherness, as its
apparatus, its techincal human contrivance, is foregrounded in its collapse
into uselessness. (He attaches a military terminology for waste ordinance to
this collapse: Matériel , a word that for him marks not only human appropriation but
also, as apparatus, resurgent wildness, and that he defines as “any instance of
second-order appropriation, where the first appropriation is the making of
tool, or the address to things in the mode of utility,” an infliction of the
human “rage for immortality on things, marooning them on static islands” as
pollutants, as discards [20].) But McKay is careful not to slip into naive
appropriations, by idealizing an otherness in language itself, whether common
speech or poetry: “poetic attention is based on a recognition and a valuing of
the other’s wilderness; it leads to a work which is not a vestige of the other, but a translation of it” (28). This, again, is a
Levinasian claim, that hinges on a distrust of the illusion, within the
aesthetic, of an incorporation of its outside, to make meaning of the world, to
represent; poetry, for McKay, is an example of the foregrounding in language,
lovingly, of its inability to represent, of its artifice, its apparatus, even
as it describes the human necessity of representation or of making sense: “Poetry
comes in here, as a function of language in its apparatus-nature, and not its
crowning glory. Poetry comes about because language is not able to represent
raw experience, yet it must; it comes about because translation is only
translation, apparatus is apparatus” (65).
This
separating off of language from world does not, however, occasion a move into
post-structuralism, which McKay repeatedly acknowledges as his own
philosophical reflex; but his writing takes up the Levinasian il y a (again, a revision of Dasein , there-ness) as opposed to the
Derridean il n’y a pas (a accession to the pervasive texuality of the human), and
language, for him, is not so much a giving in to limits as a gift, a gesture
toward its outside: “The first indicator of one’s status as a nature poet is
that one does not invoke language right off when talking about poetry, but
acknowledges some extra-linguistic condition as the poem’s input, output, or
both” (26). “They’re out there, the unformed ones,” he opens “The Canoe People,”
a reworking of a figure from Robert Bringhurst’s Haida translations (77),
linking that sense of place, there, to displacement, a floating outside, as
these mythical strangers maunder “their wayless way/ among the islands, and now
even/ into English with its one-thing-then-/ another-traffic-signalled syntax”
(77-78). The point of Bringhurst’s complex work, he implies, is not and cannot
be appropriation, but rather, as translation, it manifests an honouring of what
it is not, and an insistence on that alterity as the foundational stuff of
poetry: an offering of gifts, as thanks, as listening. Poets, McKay claims —
and by these he must mean poets such as himself, since he excludes by
implication much of the work of those inured in post-structuralism, from the
language poetry of Christian Bök to the ideology-critique of Steve McCaffery,
even as he shares their vocabularies — “are supremely interested in what
language can’t do; in order to gesture outside, they use language that flirts
with its destruction” (32). McKay’s terminology is, again, Heideggerian, and he
echoes the concept of Destruktion , which Derrida translates into deconstruction ; that flirtation, however, is neither
playfully ironic nor dead-ended in itself, but hopeful, a saving grace.
The image of lichens, with which the book concludes, offers
a metaphor, which is to say a translation, a mutuality of word and world, as
the rock plants both embody and represent “that tiny, shocking, necessary
invasion; that saving of language from itself” (106). Poetic language — and
this, for me, is how McKay both supplements and refines the problematic posed
in Williams — materializes the attempt at what Williams calls “communication”
and McKay writes of as gift, the responsiveness and mutuality that clings, like
lichen, in words. Both Williams and McKay can be, as I have already pointed
out, deceptively colloquial and quotidian. They seek out, in the everyday and
in common speech, a “new way” that was always present, an ordinary revolution.
The Books
McKay,
Don. Vis-à-vis: Field Notes on Poetry and
Wilderness.
Kentville, NS: Gaspereau P, 2001. Print.
Said,
Edward. Reflections on Exile and Other Essays. Cambridge,
Mass.: Harvard UP, 2002. Print.
Williams, Raymond. Modern Tragedy. Peterborough: Broadview
P, 2001. Print.
- - -. The Long Revolution. Peterborough: Broadview P, 2001.
Print.
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