Blurry Mental States

Here’s a little ponder I did a while back, which I came across recently while poking around in my files.

Zadie Smith in NYRB, reviewing The Social Network (the Mark Zuckerberg movie) and You Are Not a Gadget by Jaron Lanier (11/25/10):

“When I read something like that [semi-literate Facebook posts to the recently dead], I have a little argument with myself: ‘It’s only poor education. They feel the same way as anyone would, they just don’t have the language to express it.’ But another part of me has a darker, more frightening thought. Do they genuinely believe, because the girl’s wall is still up, that she is still, in some sense, alive?”

More and more, I’m coming to think of this as a false dichotomy. To mis-use a concept Smith deploys in this review, it’s a kind of 1.0 thinking—or, to put it in more familiar terms, it’s characteristic of the long tradition of Enlightenment thought. My experience teaching composition has led me to the conclusion that people’s minds are much messier than we hyperliterate types like to represent them as, and that what appear on paper to be logical contradictions like this are in fact quite normal in most people’s everyday thinking.

[Then, to quote Wallace Stevens, “pages of illustrations.”]

Even this understates the case: language itself requires a clarity, a crystallization—a reduction to the monads of words—that imposes an appearance of discreteness quite at odds with the fluidity of actual thought. Writing by people unaccustomed to the conventions of writing reveals this fluidity in the ways it violates the conventions. It’s not the writing itself but the fluid dynamics, the roiling of the reader’s own thinking and expectation, that acts as a trace, revealing indexically that elusive fluidity and ease with contradiction that characterizes ordinary thinking. Language, I suspect, will never be able to represent this reality. At best it can indicate it by producing those same disruptions. Perhaps this is just a way of saying what Stein and Faulkner and Joyce and others were after with the development of stream-of-consciousness; certainly it helps explain what I love about Woolf. But for me, the language itself always interposes itself, becomes the object of attention, and the fluidity of thought escapes again into its nonverbality.

Maybe what I’m trying to describe is, again, Bateson’s idea of “primary process” (a concept he borrowed from Freud), and I’ve come unexpectedly by a different route to the same question I addressed in my comments on writing from a nonhuman perspective.

Butterfly and Crab

Calvino:

From my youth on, my personal motto has been the old Latin tag, Festina lente, hurry slowly. Perhaps what attracted me, even more than the words and the idea, was the suggestiveness of its emblems. You may recall that the great Venetian humanist publisher, Aldus Manutius, on all his title pages symbolized the motto Festina lente by a dolphin in a sinuous curve around an anchor. The intensity and constancy of intellectual work are represented in that elegant graphic trademark, which Erasmus of Rotterdam commented on in some memorable pages. But both dolphin and anchor belong to the same world of marine emblems, and I have always preferred emblems that throw together incongruous and enigmatic figures, as in a rebus. Such are the butterfly and crab that illustrate Festina lente in the sixteenth-century collection of emblems by Paolo Giovio. Butterfly and crab are both bizarre, both symmetrical in shape, and between them establish an unexpected kind of harmony.

Six Memos for the Next Millennium (translated by Patrick Creagh, Harvard University Press, 1988), p. 48. (Apparently there’s a newer translation—Guardian review here.)

A few years ago I lay half asleep early on a Saturday morning, as I often do, too tired to get up but too wired to sleep, listening to Mind Over Matters, the excellent public affairs program on KEXP. The speaker was telling about his experience mapping the Pacific Northwest coast from an airplane, taking photographs to produce what would then have been the most detailed map of the region yet made.

In the course of photographing miles of coastline he noticed what appeared to be a highly regular structure just below the water line, a kind of wall or line of some sort that stretched along the coast for some distance. I don’t remember now how long it was or if there was more than one such structure; I just remember it was noticeable enough to catch his attention and pique his curiosity. It seemed to him it must be a human construction: it was far too regular to be a product of nature.

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Ishiguro’s The Buried Giant

Kazuo Ishiguro is coming to Seattle at the end of this month, and I’m looking forward to going to see him. I got talking about him with a friend and fellow writer, and in a burst of enthusiasm went out and bought both When We Were Orphans and the new novel, The Buried Giant. (Spoiler alert: the article I’ve linked to gives away a bit of the plot, which is unfortunate, but it also has some comments from Ishiguro on the style issues I talk about here. If you want his comments without the spoilers, skip down to the last four paragraphs of the interview.)

After I finished The Buried Giant all I could say was, what a strange guy he is. And I knew, if I had the chance to ask a question when I see him, I’d say this: “You’re a master of style, of voice, of tone. What was it about the narrative voice in The Buried Giant that drew you?”

Here’s my guess at an answer. (It doesn’t jibe completely with what Ishiguro has to say in the Star article I’ve linked to above, but it’s not completely off, either.)

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