Aristotle's Poetics

The Poetics outlines Aristotle’s tri-partite classification of poetry: comedy, epic verse, and tragedy. At the center of his theory is tragedy, because it incites the most pleasure. Tragedy imitates real action, and we derive pleasure from its complexity. Representation plays a key role in how we experience poetry.

Aristotle assumes that his audience is men, men who value beauty and reasoning. He assumes that his readers already understand his theory of representation, and that they do not pursue the Platonic theory of ideals. Aristotle takes for granted that his audience values taxonomy; assuming that his audience will be welcome to his own theories on art. Finally, not only is poetry important, but its experience is universal; everyone (by this he means educated men) derives the same amount of pleasure from the same things. These values come through in his articulation of beauty, pleasure, and the satisfaction of the "whole." Apparently, Aristotle believes that his audience appreciates closure and complexity; the "simple" things in life are not those which incite pleasure. Furthermore, Aristotle's Poetics values the universal and the idea that representation can transcend differences to inspire pleasure in all. At the heart of Aristotle's discussion seems to be a value in beauty and art, albeit a particular kind of beauty and art.

Aristotle seems to be reinforcing the kind of beauty and the universal experience of pleasure. In addition, he reinforces the idea that there is a singular experience of pleasure caused by specific elements. What's interesting to me about this is that Aristotle is really only speaking to a select group of men, and therefore does not consider other types of pleasure. On the other hand, Aristotle believes that he is enhancing the experience of poetry by classifying its elements; it seems that he wants to articulate that which gives pleasure so that it can be studied, explained, etc. It seems, too, that he wants to place poetry on the level of art.

My questions come from the very beginning. Aristotle writes, "we delight in looking at the most proficient images of things which in themselves we see with pain" (5). He seems to mean here that within the recognition of pleasure or beauty, we also recognize pain; that is, the beautiful can be painful. The question then becomes, is it in fact pain that we experience? Can pain actually give us pleasure? How does one distinguish between pain and pleasure? Furthermore, is the experience of pleasure always painful? What is the relationship between pleasure and beauty?

Aristotle also writes that "if one has not seen the thing [that is represented] before, its image will not produce pleasure as a representation, but because of its accomplishment, color, or some other such cause" (5). Essentially, he argues that we enjoy representations because of their correspondence to the "real thing." Only if we have not seen the "real thing," can we pay attention to color, etc. This suggests to me that the pleasure we derive from seeing a representation without its "real" counterpart is somehow lesser than if we had experienced it. In some cases, I think this might be true, but it seems to ignore the pleasure we experience in seeing brushstrokes in a painting, for instance, or the way that it is composed. Are these two forms of enjoyment separate? In other words, can we somehow enjoy a print of the Mona Lisa without having seen the original? Further, is our attraction to things like still life painting because they represent so vividly the real scene? Benjamin takes up these questions, and it would be interesting to see how Benjamin has been influenced by Aristotle here.

This second quotation is what stuck out to me the most, and I'm trying to puzzle it out as I write this. I think I'll come away from it for awhile and see if I can make sense of it. I was also struck by the idea of the whole, which has pervaded our ideas about any creation (a paper must have an intro, body, conclusion; we can't just leave our readers hanging). How can this one text change consciousness in such a profound way?!? This is not the first text of Aristotle's I've read; and in every text I am amazed at the degree to which he taxonomizes everything. Finally, I'm also intrigued by the similarity between his descriptions of that which gives us pleasure and the descriptions we posted on our blogs. In almost all of them, complexity, familiarity, and closure were values that kept cropping up. Again, I'm not sure what to make of this at this point.

Theorizing Audience

Audience is tricky. So much depends on a plethora of factors, that makes it virtually impossible to convincingly articulate what, exactly, audience is. We can contextualize it, and make valiant theoretical attempts, but we might never get to a real understanding of what it "really" is. And I'm okay with that. At least until I have to theorize it on my own.

Mary Louise has asked us to contextualize our "communicative audience" -- i.e. the audience for whom we are writing. I've never been asked to do this before, and while I welcome the challenge, I'm a bit at a loss. So here goes.

The academic audience is a fickle group. Generally, academic audiences are highly educated (obvious) and are thus familiar with highly complex ideas, texts, and writing. In addition, this echelon of society usually enjoys reading these complex texts. Perhaps it's a value of sorts. Academic audiences tend to be "good" readers; that is, they are patient, usually forgiving, and devote ample time to work with texts/ideas. For writers they might represent a version of the "ideal" audience: people who will stay with you no matter what.

Criticism of the academic audience tends to focus on the fact that academic audiences reproduce --and, in fact, admire -- obscure, inaccessible, and well, just, bad writing. I've seen a great deal of it in my day, and even done quite a bit of it as well. Part of the reason for the criticism is that many of the concepts are too difficult to explain concisely. Many academic writers don't want precision; Derrida and Foucault, for instance, try to write outside the conventional (academic) apparatus. That can't be done neatly. Others write complexly but cleanly. (I'm thinking here of Anne Wysocki, Jane Gallop, and Susan Edmunds, whose writing is stunningly precise). I'm aiming for clean, clear, elegant writing, because I think we've too long ignored the potential for beauty in academic prose.

However, this is not to say that all academic audiences are the same, or that they will always cut you slack. There have been several academic audiences in my experience that have -- and I hate to say this -- not even paid attention to my arguments or ideas because they disagreed with my approach. While this is to be expected (you can't please everyone all the time), my reaction was, come on! You guys read worse stuff than this! And you don't hate it! But approach, then, does matter, at least to some audiences.

But these audiences are likely rare. The particular academic audience I perceive now is a forgiving audience with just the right amount of skepticism. They play Elbow's "doubting game," for sure, but they are nonetheless open to experimentation. More specifically, I perceive an audience that is looking for new ways to work through ideas; they value unconventional, or resistant, ways to write, think, speak, and act. In some cases, we might think of this audience as rhetoricians, but even that's too broad. I'm talking here about audiences that consider argumentation, writing, rhetoric as actions with social consequences.

So then where does this leave me? How would my essay respond to these concerns? Since there is a traditional standard of "academic writing," a set of conventions that are expected of viable writing, it would be remiss to ignore these conventions entirely. At this (early) point, I am imagining something blending anecdote and theory; something that begs the question: does the personal inform the theory, or the theory inform the anecdote? Jane Gallop poses this question in her brilliant Anecdotal Theory. I don't want to steal her fire, and anyway I wouldn't be able to, at least not as eloquently and elegantly as she does. But I want to start with that question. And, I want to figure out how it can be deployed to think through issues of the everyday/ordinary, the writing classroom, and rhetorical invention.

High stakes, these.

An Aesthetic Experience

The last time I took a course on Aesthetics, we were asked to go out and "have an aesthetic experience." Though somewhat puzzled, I thought I'd head to the library and see what befell me; I spent so much time reading and writing that I wanted to have a truly aesthetic response to works of literature I normally critique and examine. So off I went, choosing T.S. Eliot's "The Waste Land" as the object of my predetermined aesthetic experience.

Though this experience was a few years ago, I remember it pretty well. I remember standing in the library, the sun streaming in behind the rows of bookshelves, and the musty, wonderful smell of books. Perhaps captured by this smell, I remember lovingly plucking the volume of Eliot's poems from the shelf and turning right to the page -- I owned this volume myself. As I began to read, the feel of the book overtook me, and I could not stop stroking the pages as I read the familiar poem.

When I think of this poem now, the experience of reading it in the silence of the library is somehow irrevocably tied to it. I can no longer read the poem without remembering the way the pages felt, the smoothness on my fingertips like soft water; the smell of the books and the pregnant silence that permeates all libraries. Perhaps this was the aesthetic experience; perhaps I was mistaken that day when I reported my reactions to Eliot's haunting words.

This is not to say that the poem -- that day, and presently -- did not invoke a host of aesthetic responses. It's my favorite poem, and is so for many reasons. I love the images; how they are so real and timeless and yet fragmented. My favorite image from the poem is "I will show you fear in a handful of dust." Every time I read the poem, that line snags the flow of reading. I always stop, and picture a vivid scene in which two faceless men stand with each other, the first cupping a mound of gray dust in his hand, and the other looking at it in sheer bewilderment. I imagine the fear as real, as almost permanent -- once you are confronted with the permanence of the dust, I imagine that it conjures fear. And I am fearful too. As I read the rest of the poem I'm on tenterhooks, my mind and body waiting for the next image to haunt me. Other images I love from the poem are the dirty river, the sledding, the dried tubers, and Lil's scene at the bar ("hurry up please its [sic] time") repeated over and over like a metronome counting off the seconds.

But I love this poem for reasons other than its powerful imagery. I'm always moved by Eliot's language, especially his masterful ability to turn somewhat ordinary language into sheer magic. Example: "Son of man,/You cannot say nor guess, for you know only/a heap of broken images" or later "and the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief/ And the dry stone no sound of water. Only/There is shadow under this red rock/(Come in under the shadow of this red rock)..." The sheer beauty of these images lies in their ordinariness (a point Eliot was arguably trying to make). But I'm catapulted into the sounds of these images as well. The whole section I've quoted sounds like a slow, measured chant; a quiet, almost mournful song that continues slowly. Though the sounds vary, giving the lines color, they move slowly, quietly; the "s" sounds follow with lilting "l"s and the repetition of silent images (no sound of water, sun beats, no shelter) -- things we cannot hear. I always stop over this section, read slowly, mouth the words to myself so that my body can relax, can drink in these mesmerizing sounds. In contrast to the mood that pervades the section described above, I love the line "with a wicked pack of cards" because the sounds seem to express the relish with which the speaker delivers them. This line has some of the earlier lament, and does move with a slower pace, but is propelled by the hard, quick sounds of "k" and "c". I just love to say this line out loud...

I could go on, but I won't. Suffice it to say that this poem moves me because of the language, the sounds, the images -- quite like many poems. I love poems not for their subject matter but for their language, for the way that the words make me feel as I read them, picture them, feel them on my tongue, in my heart, and on my fingers. I choose this poem even over other poems I love (and there are many) because as of yet, no other poem I've read has given me such thrills. Cheesy, I know, but I can't help it. The poem makes me shiver...in a good way.

Conference Paper Abstracts

As promised, here are the abstracts about papers I'll be presenting at upcoming conferences. The first is at NeMLA, called "Telling Mystories: Heuretics, the Personal, and Composition."

An emerging genre of personal writing outside blogs, social network sites, and reality television is “mystory.” Mystory is a “hybrid” genre invented by Gregory Ulmer that attempts to “invent a rhetoric or poetics” of electronic media and to develop “picto-ideo-phonographic writing.” This genre also allows writers to engage in personal exploration and speculation because it is closely linked with heuretics, another of Ulmer’s terms. Heuretics, which is commonly heralded as a way “out” of the ideologically oppressive and constraining hermeneutics, promises raw invention and speculation instead of critical interpretation.

Many composition scholars advocate courses and techniques that question the institutions that enable or preserve oppressive norms or ideologies. Composition scholars are also examining online writing genres for their critical potential, either under the aegis of heuretics or in terms of the internet itself. But aside from Ulmer’s work, little has been done to explore the potential of heuretics’ relationship to hermeneutics. Scholarship pits them as opposites, with hermeneutics representing traditional, constraining forms of literacy, and heuretics representing liberation from these practices. This paper argues that heuretics can only entirely accomplish its aims if it is necessarily connected to hermeneutics.

This paper links mystory with personal writing, a link that Ulmer implies but does not directly explain. I contend that if composition instructors turn to the personal writing extant in mystory, they can help students not only develop their own “logic of invention” but also understand more effectively their roles in their culture at large. In adopting practices of mystory to the composition classroom, instructors also allow students to enact heuretics’ mission, though only with hermeneutics alongside it., This paper argues that the personal (mystory) should be a key component of the composition classroom because it juxtaposes heuretics with hermeneutics and, in so doing, leads to that more productive heuretics.

The second is called "Thought, in the Proper Sense: Reading Vygotsky with Reflective Writing" and will be presented at the MCLLM conference in March.

Reflective writing occupies a curious place in the composition classroom. Though many scholars have discussed it in various ways, existing scholarship does not account for the cognitive element. This paper, then, investigates the relationship between reflective writing and cognitive development. Lev Vygotsky’s Thought and Language offers a starting point for this investigation. By applying Vygotsky’s theorization of egocentric speech to a student reflective essay, I hope to illuminate moments of complex meta-cognition.

Vygotsky’s discussion of egocentric speech sheds light on the cognitive processes underlying reflective writing. This paper suggests that Vygotsky’s conception of generalization offers composition scholars a more qualitative vocabulary for understanding reflective writing. I argue that reflective writing and egocentric speech are intimately connected: reflective writing often adopts characteristics of egocentric speech. Reflective writing is also a highly analytical mode of cognitive problem-solving, which the connection to egocentric speech helps us see.

This paper presents a sample of student reflective writing to demonstrate how Vygotsky’s theory of generalization elucidates the student’s metacognitive process. As I discuss the sample, I will use Vygotsky’s discussion of generalization to help explain the places where the student is grappling with, and mastering, difficult concepts. Ultimately, I hope to create spaces where more qualitative interpretations of reflective writing might benefit our students and lead their cognitive development.

1st Post of the New Year

I swear, this year I'm going to get better at posting. Likely I'll have to post for Anne's class again, so that will keep me going. But for now, a brief post about my dissertation ideas, since I have not yet had an opportunity to write them out.

At this point, I'm thinking about doing something with personal writing (specifically anecdotes), critical theory (postmodernism/parody), and rhetorical invention. Sounds weird, I know. Likely there will also be heuretics involved, which is Gregory Ulmer's term for how invention works. I know that I want to explore the possibilities of this, but in which ways, I am yet unsure. Also, experimental writing will possibly fit in here, because I see it as linked to new ways of invention.

Linda Hutcheon's A Theory of Parody has been an influential work for me, especially during my Master's degree. I can't remember why I picked it up; I know I did so during the summer of 2006. Since then, I've read it a few times, and included it in my MA thesis. It's an interesting look at 20th century art and literature. Basically, Hutcheon creates a new definition of parody -- based on examples from 20th century art and literature -- that casts it as "repetition with a critical, ironic distance." In other words, an artist consciously repeats elements of a work to critique it and/or critique socio-cultural forces that created it. Granted, Hutcheon does not, to my knowledge, pay much attention to present receptions of these works, though I think she recognizes that works cannot be divorced from either their initial circumstances or present ones.

So how does this relate to any of my proposed ideas? Well, based on my rather limited reading, it seems that imitation (in the rhetorical sense) can operate on a similar plane. I might even argue that what many composition scholars are asking their students to do is parody works. If this is the case, then Hutcheon's conception of parody can also be figured as part of the writing classroom. I'm also thinking that this form of imitation might be linked to invention -- or, at least, used as a means for invention. As for anecdotes and experimental writing, your guess is as good as mine.

In other academic news, I'm going to two conferences this semester: NeMLA and MCLLM. At NeMLA, I'm presenting a paper on personal writing and heuretics; at MCLLM, I'll be presenting a study of Lev Vygotsky's Thought and Language in relation to student writing. Stay tuned for posts with abstracts!

Barack Obama, America's 1st African-American President

November 4, 2008, was a historic day in American history, when we elected Barack Obama as our President. I write this as a record for myself and for my children, who will inevitably ask "Where were you when he was elected?"

I also write this because I am exceedingly proud of the Obama campaign. Obama is intelligent, practical, resourceful, and a hard worker. I believe in his values, and for the first time in a LONG time (probably about 15 years) I am proud to be an American.

I am also glad that we finally have a President I can admire, respect, and is a role model for anyone.

Obama did it for his daughters, and I can only hope that others will follow.

It's been awhile since I posted about the Olympics... in fact, now that I have started the school year, I have been amassing several interesting things to blog/rant about. Unfortunately, I will only have time to cover a few.

The first is my courseload this semester. While it seems more than ambitious to take on 3 Ph.D-level courses combined with two FULL sections of English 101 (which means responding to 48 responses every other day), I'm actually loving it. I love to be busy, because it makes me prioritize. One course in particular is already helping me; it's Jane Gallop's course in critical writing.

In this course, the 7 of us -- 8 including Professor Gallop-- workshop each other's writing. But it's not a creative-writing-style workshop, where we say what we like or what we feel. No, it is, in Dr. Gallop's words, "not a social affair." That means we go word-by-word, line-by-line, and no jumping ahead. Last week, we got through 2 paragraphs in about 45 minutes. Yeah. Next week, when it's my turn, I think I'm just going to cry. It's like the Inquisition.

But it's already helping. For her class, I've been reading Peter Elbow's Writing with Power; that combined with JG's relentless pursuit of clarity and perfection, has led to significant advances in my writing process. I cut down a 3.5 page response to 2.5 pages yesterday... a full page. Not only that, but I'm thinking about my writing more, and stressing less. (I know... I was shocked too. But bear with me, folks). Elbow says that if writers worry less, they will be able to accomplish more writing and better writing. It's not about the generation, but about the revision process.

Some of you are probably thinking, "duh." And rightly so. But this is a new development for me, someone who has always struggled with writing and who has always felt stressed out by it. I've had comments written on my papers such as: "Cut the flab off your sentences," "Your prose is clunky, like an out of tune piano, it stumbles," "Is this an essay?", and, my personal favorite, "No."

But maybe it's my ideas that need more explanation as well. Several professors have told me that I have a fast brain, and that I make connections so quickly without seeing that others don't. I am hoping that being more precise in my writing will allow me to do that.

Somewhat related to writing, my English 101 classes have gotten off to a rocky start. I guess I've just had great ones in the past, because I never expected what I've been getting so far. I must have been lucky. These two are made up of admittedly good students for the most part, and most of them are willing to go along with me, but they're loud. I;ve never had to spend 4 days telling any class that this is not like high school-- I want them to think for themselves. Usually, most classes just assume, or keep it to themselves.

It makes me think about how education is working in this country. I'm beginning to think that students would be much better off not learning "facts" or real information, and instead learn to think in high school, and get the content later in college. But of course, no one listens to me, and then not everyone goes to college. I have to keep remembering that since we choose to educate everyone in America (well, sort of -- if you're white and have money, that is), these problems arise. Then again, I ought to change my expectations a little. I've chastised the English department here for expecting our students to be English critics, and then I enter the classroom with the expectation that they're going to want to break away from the high school mode. Moral of the story: expect nothing, and be ready to change course at the drop of a hat.