Style in Narrative: Aspects of an Affective-Cognitive Stylistics [1 ed.] 2020031769, 2020031770, 9780197539576, 9780197539590

Citation preview

Style in Narrative

COGNITION AND POETICS Cognition and Poetics (CAP) fosters high-​ quality interdisciplinary research at the intersection of cognitive science, literature, the arts, and linguistics. The series seeks to expand the development of theories and methodologies that integrate research in the relevant disciplines to further our understanding of the production and reception of the arts as one of the most central and complex operations of the human mind. CAP welcomes submissions of edited volumes and monographs in English that focus on literatures and cultures from around the world. Series Editors Alexander Bergs, University of Osnabrück Margaret H. Freeman, Myrifield Institute for Cognition and the Arts Peter Schneck, University of Osnabrück Achim Stephan, University of Osnabrück Advisory Board Mark Bruhn, Regis University Denver, CO, USA Peer Bundgard, Aarhus University, Denmark Michael Burke, University College Roosevelt Middelburg, The Netherlands Wallace Chafe, University of California Santa Barbara, USA Barbara Dancygier, University of British Columbia Vancouver, Canada Frank Jäkel, Universität Osnabrück, Germany Winfried Menninghaus, Freie Universität Berlin, Germany Keith Oatley, University of Toronto, Canada Jan Slaby, Freie Universität Berlin, Germany Reuven Tsur, Tel Aviv University, Israel Mark Turner, Case Western Reserve University Cleveland, OH, USA Simone Winko, Georg-​August-​Universität Göttingen, Germany Dahlia Zaidel, University of California Los Angles, USA Cognitive Approaches to Early Modern Spanish Literature Isabel Jaén and Julien Jacques Simon Cognitive Literary Science: Dialogues between Literature and Cognition Edited by Michael Burke and Emily T. Troscianko A Prehistory of Cognitive Poetics: Neoclassicism and the Novel Karin Kukkonen Poetic Conventions as Cognitive Fossils Reuven Tsur Sexual Identities: A Cognitive Literary Study Patrick Colm Hogan Expressive Minds and Artistic Creations: Studies in Cognitive Poetics Szilvia Csábi 4E Cognition and Eighteenth-​Century Fiction: How the Novel Found Its Feet Karin Kukkonen Probability Designs: Literature and Predictive Processing Karin Kukkonen The Poem as Icon: A Study in Aesthetic Cognition Margaret H. Freeman

Style in Narrative ASPECTS OF AN AFFECTIVE-​COGNITIVE STYLISTICS Patrick Colm Hogan

1

1 Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and certain other countries. Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press 198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America. © Oxford University Press 2021 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, by license, or under terms agreed with the appropriate reproduction rights organization. Inquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above. You must not circulate this work in any other form and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Hogan, Patrick Colm, author. Title: Style in narrative : aspects of an affective-cognitive stylistics / Patrick Colm Hogan. Description: New York : Oxford University Press, 2021. | Series: Cognition and poetics series | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2020031769 (print) | LCCN 2020031770 (ebook) | ISBN 9780197539576 (hardback) | ISBN 9780197539590 (epub) Subjects: LCSH: Language and languages—Style—Psychological aspects. | Narration (Rhetoric) | Literary style. | Discourse analysis, Narrative. | Style (Philosophy) Classification: LCC P301.5.P75 H63 2020 (print) | LCC P301.5.P75 (ebook) | DDC 809/.923—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020031769 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020031770 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Printed by Integrated Books International, United States of America

For the author of A Country Without Borders.

CONTENTS Acknowledgments  ix

Introduction: Cognitive and Affective Stylistics  1 PART I: Literature

1. Literary Style  23 2. Story Structure: Shakespeare and the Integration of Genres  73 3. Verbal Narration: Ambiguities of Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying  109 PART II: Film

4. Film Style  131 5. Perceptual Interface and Painterly Cinema: Three Minutes of Robert Rodriguez’s Sin City  157 6. Emplotment: Ellipsis and Excess in Yasujiro Ozu’s Postwar Films  179 7. Visual Narration: Embodiment and Point of View in Lu Chuan’s Nanjing! Nanjing!  205 PART III: Graphic

Narrative

8. Stylistic Choices in Graphic Narrative: Particularity and Its Functions in Art Spiegelman’s Maus  233 Afterword—​Keep Stylistics Great: A Note on Politics and the Analysis of Style  269 Notes  273 Works Cited  283 Index  297

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Some material from the introduction and opening chapter was presented at the 2017 Shakespeare Association of America meeting in Atlanta, GA, and the 2017 Poetics and Linguistics Association Meeting in West Chester, PA. I  am grateful to participants at both conferences for their comments and questions. An earlier version of part of ­chapter 4 was published as “Painterly Cinema: Three Minutes of Sin City,” Critical Approaches to the Films of Robert Rodriguez, ed. Frederick Luis Aldama (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2015), 63–​80. I am grateful to the press for permission to reprint. Thanks are due to my friend, Ken Kwapis, for comments and suggestions on an earlier version of ­chapter 7, and to two anonymous referees who made very helpful comments on an earlier version of the entire manuscript. I have been very fortunate to work with Hallie Stebbins, Hannah Doyle, and above all Meredith Keffer of Oxford University Press and am very grateful for everything they have done for the book. Finally, my sensitivity to style has benefited greatly from reading David Bordwell’s foundational works on film and from reading Lalita Pandit Hogan’s beautiful poems and stories (in A Country Without Borders and elsewhere), as well as from conversations with both.

ix

Introduction COGNITIVE AND AFFECTIVE STYLISTICS

This is a book about narrative style. The first question it sets out to answer is the obvious one—​What is style? Or, rather, the first question is—​Within the broad range of topics for which the term “style” is used, what forms a coherent object of psychological description and explanation? There has been a great deal of work on stylistics, particularly in recent decades.1 The breadth of that work is valuable. However, in any area of research, it is necessary to isolate topics of study that are causally coherent, thus amenable to consistent and systematic explanation. We do not always find this in the way academic disciplines define fields of research, such as stylistics. For example, it often seems to be the case that, in literary study, stylistics is understood as a field of research in which linguistic and literary analysis overlap. This has two consequences. First, stylistics tends to be confined to the linguistic features of literary texts, despite the fact that we use the term “style” much more broadly (e.g., in referring to story style) and that this broader usage makes psychological sense. Second, stylistics is often taken to encompass virtually anything that links literature with linguistic study, despite the fact that much of this work does not really bear on anything we would wish to categorize as style. The former constraint appears to make stylistics too narrow. The latter expansion appears to make stylistics too broad. There is nothing wrong with focusing on literature and linguistics when teaching a course or writing an overview of the field. But, in formulating a theory of style, this is problematic. In the following pages, then, I set out first of all to define style in such a way as to make possible a consistent and systematic theoretical account of the topic in relation to cognitive and affective science (thus both taking up the insights of those research programs and, I  hope, advancing them further). That necessarily limits what I take style to be. An additional limitation of the following discussions is that, in the general account of style, I will be

Style in Narrative. Patrick Colm Hogan, Oxford University Press (2021). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197539576.001.0001

2

Introduction

concerned principally with the universal features of style, rather than with historically or culturally specific aspects.2 In other words, the psychology that informs the theory is general, though the specific analyses will necessarily make reference to cultural, historical, or individual factors. Finally, I will be focusing on authors and basing my analyses on interpretation. Thus, I  will not be concerned greatly with readers, except insofar as their reception is anticipated in authorial creation and revision. In keeping with this, I will not be attending to the empirical study of individual or group response to stylistic features.3 Even with these restrictions, the answer to the question, “What is style?,” turns out to be complex, since there are many levels at which stylistic analysis might be applied to a verbal or graphic text or film. Thus, the first chapter presents an overview of the nature and varieties of literary style. This involves an extended analysis of the “scope” and “levels” of style—​thus, the range of text or texts that may share a style (from a single passage to a historical period) and the components of a work that might involve a shared style (including story, narration, and verbalization). Subsequent chapters in part I  focus on some under-​researched aspects of literary style. The account of literary style largely carries over to the analysis of style in film and graphic fiction, the topics of parts II and III. The fourth chapter takes up some aspects of style that are more distinctive of cinema. The remainder of part II considers specific topics in film style that have provoked limited discussion. Part III addresses properties that are special to the style of graphic narrative. The opening chapter also addresses a second question—​What purposes are served by style? To anticipate briefly, we may note that there are three key functions of style: 1) the shaping of story understanding, 2) the communication of thematic concerns (i.e., concerns that extend beyond the work to values in the world), and 3) the arousal and modulation of emotion.4 Though all three are of course important, one contention of the following pages is that emotion is central. Put simply, without emotion, one does not have a literary work, at least not a literary work that anyone would care to read. Of course, one does not have a literary work without understanding either. Nor is one likely to have much in the way of emotional response. However, understanding a story is not an end in itself. Understanding is worthwhile only relative to theme or emotion. Moreover, even an involvement with theme is itself contingent on feeling. This is true in two senses. First, a work must minimally engage our interest if we are to bother considering thematic concerns. Second, the very nature of thematic concerns is that they involve some normative response to the real world. That normative response will be inconsequential if it does not include motivations, thus emotions. For example, an anti-​war novel does not aim simply at producing an abstract idea that war is bad. It aims at motivating readers to oppose war. That motivation clearly involves emotion bearing on the real world. Additionally, the source of that motivational response to the

Introduction

real world is presumably an emotional response to the literary work, most obviously to the horrors of war depicted in the work. As the preceding points make clear, emotion has a central place in the following analyses. Specifically, those analyses continue my project in a number of earlier works to thoroughly integrate research on emotion (as well as cognition) into the study of literature, film, and other arts. For example, an earlier book treated our understanding of narrative. It set out to revise standard accounts of narrative units from incidents and events up through stories and even larger combinations of stories. Specifically, it sought to define and explain those units in terms of emotion structures and processes. I  referred to that program of research as “affective narratology.” In keeping with this, it would be appropriate to refer to the following analyses as part of a program in affective stylistics. However, this phrase has already been used, very differently, by Stanley Fish. Moreover, mentioning affect alone is somewhat misleading (e.g., it may have led readers to overstress the role of emotion in “affective narratology”). Among other things, the account of emotion presupposed here is not that of, say, poststructural and psychoanalytically influenced affect theory. It is that of affective science, a sub-​field of cognitive science that presupposes standard neurocognitive architecture, a set of structures and processes that are very different from those of other approaches to emotion (despite some use of neuroscientific research by affect theorists).5 Thus, the sort of emotion that is at issue in the present study is inseparable from cognitive processing. For these reasons, a more suitable name for the approach developed in the following pages is affective-​cognitive stylistics.

What Is Affective-​Cognitive Stylistics? As just indicated, the program of affective-​cognitive stylistics is continuous with the study of narrative in affective narratology. This is of course unsurprising as I  am focusing on the study of narrative style, which is often considered part of narratology. For example, as we will see in c­ hapter 1, there are different levels at which stylistic patterns may arise in narrative. These levels are defined by narratological analysis. Here, then, we might ask—​what makes either narratology or stylistics specifically affective? The key point is that both affective narratology (or, better, affective-​cognitive narratology) and affective-​cognitive stylistics put emotion—​here, emotion as part of a cognitive system—​at the center of literary description and explanation.6 According the principles of affective-​cognitive stylistics, we have not adequately explained nor even adequately described style if we have failed to fully integrate our treatment of style with our understanding of human emotion systems (which are themselves integrated with structures of memory, perception, and other forms of information processing).

3

4

Introduction

More precisely, affective-​cognitive criticism and theory—​the general orientation that underlies affective-​cognitive stylistics and affective-​cognitive narratology—​are based on the principle that cognition and behavior are inseparable from motivation systems. This is true not only in Damasio’s sense that cognition relies on bodily monitoring (see chapter three of Descartes’ Error). Most fundamentally, emotions are crucial to our rational behavior not so much because they are crucial to our cognition (or rationality). Rather, they are crucial to rational behavior because they are crucial to behavior. The state of our emotion systems motivates what we do. If I  rationally conclude that I am probably going to lose a particular gamble, but feel no emotional aversion to the thought of the loss, my rational conclusion is likely to have no consequences for my behavior. On the other hand, the bearing of emotion on cognition is not merely a matter of how we behave, given particular thoughts or inferences. Emotions also bear on just what we think. For example, emotion activation guides attentional orientation (see Evans, 76–​79) and attentional orientation affects cognition, since it guides what information we (unselfconsciously) select for processing. In addition, emotion systems activate certain memories and associations (see, for example, Oatley, Best, 201, on mood-​congruent processing). As such, they shape the context in which we construe and process information. Consider, for example, the “explosion” heard by Miss Pym and Clarissa toward the beginning of Mrs. Dalloway. Clarissa has just been thinking about the “monster” of “hatred” that she feels for Miss Kilman. She is partially distanced from that feeling by the serenity of the flower shop. But the memory and the emotional tension remain. Thus, when the explosion occurs, Clarissa thinks, “oh! A pistol shot in the street outside!” (13), immediately processing the sound and inferring a cause in a way that is apparently guided by the sense of antagonism she feels for Miss Kilman. In contrast, Miss Pym has been remembering how “kind” Clarissa was and how “she looked older” (12). In other words, Miss Pym has an emotional response of “trusting” (13) in Clarissa’s benevolence, with the absence of danger reinforced by Clarissa’s mellowed age. This is the opposite of Clarissa’s emotion of antagonism toward Miss Kilman, and associated distrust, a feeling connected with a sense of threat. Thus, while the explosion causes Clarissa to “jump” and infer “a pistol shot,” it only leads Miss Pym to infer some problem with “those motor cars.” She very mildly exclaims, “Dear”—​probably in response to Clarissa’s jump—​ and walks to the window (13). Finally, emotion states may affect not only the specific context of selection and construal, but also the type of processing involved. Mood affects whether we are more likely to use “top-​down” processing strategies, assuming that general principles hold, or “bottom-​up” strategies, beginning with diverse particulars rather than with general principles (see Forgas, “Introduction,”

Introduction

15–​17; see also Bonanno, Goorin, and Coifman, 799). Effects of this sort indicate the bearing of emotion on broad patterns in cognition. In short, emotion or motivation systems are central to the operation of the human mind. First, inferential processes have behavioral effects only to the extent that they affect emotion systems, motivating action. Second, the emotions and associated behaviors guide the particular information encoded (or entered into the cognitive system), the cognitive context in which that information is processed, and some broad principles involved in such processing. Thus, one cannot give an adequate description or explanation of human mental function without a treatment of emotion systems—​indeed, without their full integration into the description and explanation of human activity. Given that this is true of the human mind generally, it is necessarily true of narratology and stylistics insofar as they deal with products of the human mind. This is not to say that emotion explains everything about narrative or style. Indeed, not everything about narrative or style can be explained psychologically (e.g., the influence of some writers is in part a function of how copyright constrained or enabled the distribution of their works, as for example Gary Taylor has discussed [49]). Thus, not everyone doing stylistic or narratological analysis must focus on or even treat emotion. However, the field of research should centrally concern emotion and that field is insufficient as a whole if it does not. In keeping with these points, emotion is by no means the only topic explored in the following pages. We will be concerned with a range of factors that define and account for style in literary, cinematic, and graphic narratives. Not all those factors are emotional. However, emotion has a special place in this account. For example, as already suggested, I  will make repeated reference to the function of style in conveying story information (what happens) or discourse information (concerning how the story is presented) and in communicating thematic concerns (e.g., political views). These are distinct from the direct function of producing emotion (e.g., engaging the interest of the reader or leading him or her to laugh). But, again, even in the cases of information and theme, emotion is key. For example, the crucial information about the events in a story is information concerning matters that the reader will care about, thus matters of emotional consequence.

Affective-​Cognitive Stylistics, Readers, and Authors When I used the phrase “affective narratology” in an earlier book, I of course had in mind Fish’s famous account of what he called “affective stylistics” (see chapter two of Fish Is There a Text in This Class?). The usage was an acknowledgment of Fish’s influence, despite our significant differences. The differences carry over to the present volume and have led me to change the phrase to “affective-​cognitive stylistics.” Again, I  am using the word “affective” in the

5

6

Introduction

same sense that it is used in the phrase “affective science.” In both cases, it refers to the systematic study of emotion. Fish’s use of “affective” is very different. It may be valuable to briefly consider Fish’s use of the term and the difference from its use in the present volume. To understand Fish’s idea here, we need to place it in the context of the history of literary theory and criticism. A number of post–​New Critical theoretical approaches began with specific critiques of New Critical doctrines. Most obviously, intentionalist writers such as Hirsch (and, later—​and in a more complicated way—​Knapp and Michaels) rejected the claims of Wimsatt and Beardsley’s famous “Intentional Fallacy” essay. In advocating “affective stylistics,” Fish is taking up the other famous work by Wimsatt and Beardsley, “The Affective Fallacy.” In the latter essay, Wimsatt and Beardsley argue that the literary work should not be confused with its effects. In advocating “affective stylistics,” Fish is not advocating the centrality of emotion or affective science to literary study in general or stylistics in particular. Rather, he is advocating an understanding of literature, including style, that is fundamentally a matter of effects—​or, more precisely, of reader response. Indeed, reader response in this case is largely a cognitive matter in the narrow (non-​emotional) sense, since Fish’s primary case of reader response is not, say, caring about a character’s success or failure in pursuing a goal. Rather, the primary case is a matter of word-​by-​word expectancy, a process that is presumably guided by our brains’ Bayesian statistical calculations.7 Of course, Fish’s attention to reader response is not irrelevant to emotion. An emotional stylistics must pay attention to reader response. Indeed, one may argue that reader response is the key feature of emotional stylistics. However, that is not to say that all readers are equally important in the description and explanation of the style of a literary work. More precisely, regarding a literary work, we may distinguish three areas where reference to emotions seems important. All three concern persons since persons are what have emotions. Indeed, precisely the same point holds for meanings. Only persons use and understand language; language does not exist in some autonomous, Platonic realm, but in the minds of individual people (see, for example, Chomsky, Rules, 120, and Knowledge, 25). Thus, both emotion and meaning require people. Perhaps the most obvious persons—​at least in the case of emotion—​are characters. (Technically, the relevant characters must include animals and person-​like entities, such as spirits, gods, talking trees, and so on. However, we can leave these aside for the present.) It is important to understand characters in terms of emotions. However, it is presumably clear that characters do not really have emotions since they do not really exist. Rather, the emotions inhere in simulations of the characters. Some real person imagines the situation and motivations of a character and, in that imagination, responds to the character as having certain feelings.

Introduction

For example, there is no real Septimus Smith (of Mrs. Dalloway) who could feel despair. However, when we simulate such a character—​drawing on Woolf ’s text, as well as the cognitive and affective structures Woolf tacitly assumed in her readers—​we respond to Septimus as if he were a real person with real emotions. The point is exactly the same as when we simulate the reaction of some real person. If I  imagine asking my wife to do something that I know she does not want to do (e.g., suffer through another attempt at conversing with me in Hindi), I may be dissuaded without asking her, since I respond to the look of irritation that I simulate. Note that the emotion I imagine for my wife is no more real than that of Septimus. Of course, it could become real, which is not true of Septimus’s feeling. But the key point is that I am imagining and responding to something that in fact is not real in both cases. An emotional stylistics or narratology is likely to make reference to character emotions. However, it will need to ground that reference in the simulation and response of some real person. Put differently, if I  ask my wife to converse in Hindi and she screws up her face as if she has just had a bad attack of gas, I  may or may not simulate her emotion. Nonetheless, she has some emotional response even if I am so self-​obsessed that I do not notice. The same point does not hold for characters. In the case of a literary work, then, the obvious, relevant simulators are writers and readers. Intentionalists tend to privilege writers; reader response critics tend to privilege readers. Seeing these as alternatives is, I believe, mistaken for at least two reasons. First, authorial simulation and recipient (or reader) simulation are not mutually exclusive options. Obviously, both exist. There is no reason why we must see one as “right” and the other as “wrong.” Second, these are not simple and uniform kinds. Authorial simulation and recipient simulation are internally complex, comprising different targets and processes. Specifically, there are different elements, ranges, and instances of simulation and, more generally, response. It is up to us to choose which do and which do not concern us. That choice is or should be guided by the tasks we have set ourselves. In referring to “elements” here, I mean the cognitive and affective contents and processes involved in response. By “range,” I mean the subjects who respond. By “instances,” I mean the particular acts of simulation or occurrences of response. The elements are more or less fully defined by cognitive and affective science. For example, simulation draws on episodic and semantic memories. A recipient’s encompassing response involves particular sensitivities to emotion elicitors (e.g., his or her degree of proneness to fear) and propensities to modulate emotions (e.g., his or her reticence to express grief). In their precise operation, these are highly variable from individual to individual. They also vary, in a more limited way, within individuals, depending on circumstances, including the circumstances provided by what one has read to that point in a literary work. A critic might in principle focus on any element of recipient response (e.g., episodic memory), though this choice is likely to depend on

7

8

Introduction

which recipients interest that critic, thus the range of response he or she is addressing. As to range, a reader response critic may be concerned with an individual—​Bob Smith or Sally Jones. This is the sort of focus we find in, for example, Norman Holland (see Poems). In one variant of this approach, a critic treating influence (e.g., the influence of Joyce on Woolf) will be interested in the ways that one reader—​the influenced author—​imagined the precursor work, including its characters and their emotions (e.g., the way Woolf imagined Bloom’s or Stephen’s moments of despair in Ulysses). Another response critic—​perhaps one in the tradition of reception aesthetics—​may be concerned with the standard way or ways a work was simulated by groups of readers in a given historical period. This topic was famously anatomized by Hans Robert Jauss in his theorization of the history of a work’s reception. In each of these cases, the precise range of subjects is defined by the task at hand. My guess is that no one would object to any of the ranges just listed, given the guiding tasks. But critics have disagreements over the range of relevant simulators or responders all the time. The problem arises when we want to set up norms. It arises when we want to say not only that Bob Smith or mainstream critics in the 1920s responded to a work in such-​and-​such a way, but that they misunderstood the work. That misunderstanding may concern its meanings or its emotions. In either case, it presupposes a norm, something that defines what is correct and what is incorrect. Probably the default position here is that “the text” defines the norm. But the text has meaning only for persons. Here, too, there are multiple possibilities. In one, the range of persons would be the original readership at whom the author directed the work. But we would hardly want to say that an author’s initial audience necessarily or always understood the work correctly. One possible solution would be to confine the normative role of the target audience to certain aspects of the work—​perhaps basic vocabulary and grammar, in the case of meaning. It is more difficult to pin down such aspects in the case of emotion. Nonetheless, thinking of, say, Mrs. Dalloway, it might be possible to focus on emotion in relation to, for example, early twentieth-​century British expectations of manliness (in relation to Septimus) or wifely duty (in relation to Clarissa). But this seems problematic also. Certainly, we may isolate general expectations of contemporary readers when doing a reception study of the book. But it seems misguided to see contemporary readers as establishing what is right or wrong about our response to the book (e.g., our attitude toward gender roles in the society of the novel). Among other things, that would seem to disallow the possibility that Woolf was trying to educate—​thus, change—​readers, both cognitively and emotionally. But many authors, including Woolf, set out to alter the way readers think and feel.8 This tends to lead us back to the author. However, there are at least two apparent problems with establishing the author as a norm. The first is that

Introduction

many aspects of the author’s response to a work are normatively irrelevant. For example, Woolf undoubtedly had many personal associations with the characters and places in Mrs. Dalloway. These partially guided her response to those characters and places when she was writing. But that does not mean that we should seek out her private associations in understanding and responding to the work. Second, as Wimsatt and Beardsley stressed, authors are not necessarily very good critics of their own works. It might seem that establishing the author as a norm for understanding the work would leave us in the unfortunate position of having to rely on the author’s pronouncements about the work. The second problem is in fact easy to solve. As I have pointed out in several places (see, for example, Beauty, 134), we all do things all the time that we are not able to explain. For example, even the simplest grammatical rules, rules that we follow spontaneously, are not open to introspection. There is no reason to assume that authorial pronouncements about character emotions or other matters are more trustworthy than the ordinary English speaker’s pronouncements about how to form plurals. (We do not simply add “s.”) The question of irrelevance is also easy to solve. In fact, it is a version of a problem that arises in ordinary conversation. Whenever I say anything, there are many personal factors that enter into the production of every sentence. However, I tacitly judge my utterances relative to my addressee. I do not rely on him or her knowing my idiosyncratic memories or attitudes. If what I am saying may be opaque due to idiosyncratic factors, I change it, sometimes before speaking, sometimes after. Literary authors do this much more extensively and systematically. They re-​read works, revise, re-​read again—​until the work seems likely to produce the effect they want. This brings us to the category of instances. In the process of writing and revision, an author engages in many simulations and has many experiences of responding to his or her work. Each of these defines a set of authorial meanings and feelings. For simplicity, we may reduce these instances of authorial intent to the initial “productive” intent (with its idiosyncrasies) and the final “receptive” intent, the intent of the author who has imaginatively taken up the role of the (simulated) reader and who has decided that the work produces, roughly, the proper effect for such a (simulated) reader. We could understand the aim of revision as in part a matter of altering the work so that it is more likely to engage the “right” elements of the recipient’s response (in the sense of “elements” introduced earlier); these would be the elements that most closely approximate the author’s desired understanding and emotion. To take an extreme example, an author might feel that a scene he or she wishes to be tragic risks provoking amusement due to misunderstanding of a word—​as when a student of mine took an image of someone “groping in the darkness” as suggesting that he was committing sexual assault. The author revises in order to avoid such miscommunications, encouraging in this case sympathy rather than outrage

9

10

Introduction

or derisive laughter. Again, there is no reason to believe that the author will be able to explain the reasons for that (imagined) effect or even that he or she will be able to describe it adequately. That is the job of the critic. (Of course, the “groping” case is unusually simple and, as such, doesn’t require any particular skill on the part of the author or the critic.) If forced to choose a “norm” for interpretation, I would select authorial receptive intent. It is certainly what engages me. Personally, I am not very interested in what John Doe feels about Septimus, nor am I concerned greatly with whom Woolf was reminded of in creating Miss Pym or Scrope Purvis. I am, rather, interested in the literary work that she produced. That literary work seems best represented by her receptive intent—​her evident sense that she had gotten Septimus’s suicide or Clarissa’s visit to the flower shop at least approximately right. Such a sense is what legitimates our search for principles that underlay her judgment, thus her style; Woolf ’s skill as an author, her creativity, and her human sensitivities are what warrant our examination of the text for such principles. Put differently, for me, affective-​cognitive stylistic analysis is most valuably grounded in a reader, but not any reader; rather, it is a particular, indeed unique reader—​the author himself or herself. On the other hand, there is no need to make this a general norm. There is no need to say that a reader is mistaken if he or she maintains that the book provides a critique of gender non-​conformity through the character of Sally (based, perhaps, on some readers’ disapproval of her behavior). We might, rather, say simply that this does not appear to have been Woolf ’s view of the character and her function (a point for which we would then cite relevant evidence, principally textual). In other words, instead of saying that one view is right and another is wrong in some absolute sense, we are better off simply stipulating where our interest lies. I wish to explore Woolf ’s receptive intent of her novel, but others may be more interested in early mainstream critics’ reactions to Mrs. Dalloway, or later, feminist responses to the novel, or the simulations of a writer influenced by Woolf, or the idiosyncratic responses of John Doe and Jane Smith. I would still urge that a particularly rich target of analysis is the work as defined by the receptive intent of the author. But it is by no means the only topic worth considering. In any case, it should be clear that my conception of affective-​cognitive stylistics is quite different from Fish’s affective stylistics. It is different in stressing emotion and drawing on affective science. It is also different in allowing us to focus on a range of possible targets, particularly the author as a reader.

A Brief Illustration Consider, for example, the following passage from Mrs. Dalloway: “There were roses; there were irises. Ah yes—​so she breathed in the earthy garden sweet

Introduction

smell as she stood talking to Miss Pym” (12). By the account just sketched, Woolf produced one or more versions of these sentences, revising them until she had the sense that she had produced the sentences she desired. This judgment was not primarily inferential. It was not a matter of taking some list of properties and marking that the sentence had them, like totting up the figures in one’s checkbook after a month’s checks have come in. It was, first of all, a feeling—​that these sentences produced the proper effect. In other words, the judgment was crucially reliant on emotion. This is not to say it was random, that it did not follow principles. Again, it is up to the critic to isolate those principles and to account for the resulting feeling in relation to those principles. In the first chapter, we will consider different sorts of emotion. These sentences certainly convey emotion with respect to the characters and the story. But they also involve “artifact emotion,” emotion related to the properties of the passage as a made thing. Principally, it is a beautiful passage, a passage that gives the reader (at least this reader [me, PH], and I would conjecture Virginia Woolf as well) considerable aesthetic enjoyment. In Beauty and Sublimity, I argued that part of aesthetic delight is the isolation of unexpected patterns. Here, there are many unexpected patterns. Consider, for example, the rhythms of the sentences. I suspect that at least many readers will notice that parts of the passage have a very musical lilt. To determine this rhythm, however, we need to isolate some principles that guide stress. We are not dealing with poetry here, so we do not have a regular, genre-​defined meter. We must therefore rely on principles of stress organization in ordinary speech. Such principles would include the following:  1) In polysyllables, the stressed syllables receive stress (cf. Wales, 395, on “intrinsic stress”). Thus in “painting,” “paint” receives syllable stress. 2)  Contrasting words receive stress (see Wales, 396). Thus, if I say, “Not that painting, but this painting,” the “that” and “this” both receive contrastive stress. 3) Exclamatory ejaculations receive stress. Thus in “Yo! Get over here!,” “Yo!” receives a stress. 4)  “Content” words receive stress, at least greater stress than “grammatical words such as prepositions, pronouns and conjunctions” (Wales, 395), with exceptions occurring only in some cases where the information is old and the content word has in effect a pronominal function. For example, we don’t stress “toys” in “We’ve got big toys and small toys, cheap toys and expensive toys,” which could equally be “We’ve got big toys and small ones, cheap ones and expensive ones.” Note that “content” words here include apparent function words that are part of a lexical unit. For example, in “They had a run in with the police,” “in” receives stress because the lexical unit is “run in”; however, in “They had a run in the park,” “in” does not receive stress. These are not exceptionless, but they do generally fit the ways in which we produce verbal stress. When applied to stray sentences from Mrs. Dalloway or elsewhere, they tend to suggest fairly random sequences with only a broad tendency toward some alternation of stressed and unstressed syllables (due

11

12

Introduction

to their alternation within polysyllables and due to the alternation of content and function words). Take, for example, the sentence immediately preceding the ones quoted above: “There were flowers: delphiniums, sweet peas, bunches of lilac; and carnations, masses of carnations” (12). By the preceding principles, this may be scanned in the following way (for ′ = stressed and ˘ = unstressed): “There˘ were˘ flow′ers˘: del˘phi′ni˘ums˘, sweet′ peas′, bun′ches˘ of˘ li′lac˘; and˘ car˘na′tions˘, mass′es˘ of˘ car˘na′tions˘.” If one pays attention to the word and phrase boundaries, it is very difficult to get any sense of rhythm here. One could in principle argue that there are three anapests at the start. But we are unlikely to hear them as anapests, since the “caesurae” group the sequence not into ˘˘′, ˘˘′, ˘˘′, but into ˘˘′˘, ˘′˘˘, ′′. In contrast, consider “There were roses; there were irises. Ah yes—​so she breathed in the earthy garden sweet smell as she stood talking to Miss Pym.” This scans as follows: “There˘ were˘ ros′es˘; there˘ were˘ i′ris˘es˘. Ah′ yes′—​so˘ she˘ breathed′ in′ the˘ earth′y˘ gar′den˘ sweet′ smell′ as˘ she˘ stood′ talk′ing˘ to˘ Miss′ Pym′.” Here the rhythm is clear. It does not fall neatly into a standard poetic pattern, but it is discernible to the ear. The first sentence has two clauses with the same basic rhythm, such that the second slightly varies the first by adding an unstressed syllable: ˘˘′˘, ˘˘′˘˘. The beginning of the second sentence gives us a series of interwoven pyrrhics (˘˘) and spondees (′′), broken only by the symmetrical ˘′˘′˘ roughly in the middle. This yields the overall pattern ′′˘˘′′ ˘′˘′˘ ′′˘˘′′˘˘′′. It is extremely unlikely that Woolf explicitly isolated this rhythmic pattern. She may not have even considered the rhythm self-​consciously. However, this rhythmic sequence—​with its pattern-​based fostering of aesthetic emotion—​ almost certainly affected her implicit judgment that she had gotten these sentences right. (The second sentence continues with some parts exhibiting rhythmic patterns and others not. This is in keeping the poetical quality of the prose. It is, after all, not poetry. Moreover, at a certain point a recurring rhythm may become obtrusive and distracting. Alternatively, it may produce habituation, thus decreased emotional response as the patterning begins to feel routine.)

Why Style? In the following pages, I  will for the most part presuppose the value of examining some key features of the affective and cognitive psychology of style. However, given current trends in literary study, it is perhaps valuable to make a few comments on that value. Specifically, in recent decades, literary theorists and critics have frequently sought to justify their work by reference to its progressive political consequences. This may leave at least some readers wondering why they should bother about a study of style. It may provide insight into some particular features of political discourse, as we will discuss

Introduction

briefly in the afterword. Nonetheless, on the whole, such a study is unlikely to make much of a difference in social justice. What does that mean about its worth? Certainly, the advancement of social justice is an important goal. Moreover, there is some truth to the claim that literary criticism can play a role in advancing social justice. For example, feminist literary criticism has helped sensitize readers to the sexist assumptions that are often embedded in critical analyses or in literary works. It has also altered readers’ views of the talents and accomplishments of women writers, thus undermining common stereotypes, encouraging women to pursue a range of careers, and discouraging both men and women from undervaluing women’s capacities and accomplishments. On the other hand, there are at least two problems with holding up political progress as the sole or even primary criterion for evaluating literary analyses. Of course, no sensible person that I know of ever wrote that political progress is the only value of literary study. The point is not that this is a “theorized” position. Nonetheless, an attitude of this sort has pervaded the operation of literary study. It is a version of the long-​standing idea that the value of literature comes with its teaching function—​in the common view that literature sets out to teach and to entertain (see, for example, Horace, 75). It is simply that the view has been transferred from literature proper to literary analysis. This link with a long tradition means that it has been easier for the presumption to work its way throughout the profession as a sort of tacit common sense, even if it is not explicitly articulated. In any case, the first problem with this view is that the vast majority of literary criticism and theory almost certainly does not in fact contribute to social justice. The point has been discussed so extensively over the past three decades that it is hardly worth going over again. (For an early argument to this effect, see my Politics; for more recent observations, see Aldama, Why.) For example, a standard approach to virtually any literary text for a couple of decades involved affirming that text’s self-​undermining nature (e.g., in claims that speech preceded writing). It seems extremely unlikely that academic claims of this sort had any social consequences of note. Despite this, the rhetoric of the profession came to be pervaded by claims of ethical and political superiority (a point perhaps first noted by Gerald Graff). In my view, the consequences of this rhetoric included suffusing the profession with an intellectually debilitating moralism. The results were at best an inhibition of intellectual development, when advocates of virtually any non-​ Deconstructive approach to anything were demeaned as politically retrograde (on the pervasiveness of such demeaning political rhetoric, see my Politics, 35–​49). In addition, this tended to foster a political self-​righteousness, which almost certainly had unjust consequences. At the very least, self-​righteousness fosters a sort of bullying disregard for other people’s views and conditions. At its worst, it can lead to a complete abrogation of ordinary human sympathy.

13

14

Introduction

Indeed, the most horrible human rights abuses have not been advocated by people claiming to do evil or merely asserting egocentrism and greed. They have been perpetrated by people claiming to represent a higher moral order (cf. Pinker on ideology claiming “pursuit of unlimited good” as a key source of violence [xxv]). Clearly, the left-​liberal self-​righteousness of literary critics (of which I myself have been guilty many times) is not the self-​righteousness of, say, Nazis. It is the self-​righteousness of people who wish to prevent brutality, not people who systematically engaged in it. But self-​righteousness is always a danger, always something that can numb us to the human particularity of suffering, the complexity of social relations, the distribution of fault and error. It does not seem to be a good thing to cultivate. In my view, narrowing the value of literary study to political advancement ends up doing that. The second problem with a narrowing of literary study to its instrumental value for politics is that there are indeed other values. Literary study has the obvious value of contributing to our understanding of literature, which in turn has the obvious value of contributing to our knowledge about the human mind. Literature is the product of human minds; reading or hearing works of verbal art (and now watching films) are practices that have taken up considerable time in human life. Clearly, a psychology that does not include an account of the production and reception of literature is a pretty poor psychology. Similar points hold for other social sciences, such as sociology. Insofar as we value knowledge of the human mind or human society, we should value the sorts of knowledge developed by literary study. One suggestion of the ubiquity of literature in human life over the centuries and across cultures is that the production and reception of verbal art constitute an important part of that life. The point would seem to hold not only for verbal art as a whole, but also for the components of verbal art, the elements that make it what it is for us. These include style and beauty. I am continually astonished that people do not consider beauty to be an important value. Perhaps this is because the physical beauty of individual people is so often a source of bias and discrimination, which is certainly a significant social problem (see Rhode). But the beauty of our experiences, particularly our experiences of art, seem to be an undeniable part of what Martha Nussbaum, following Aristotle, refers to as “flourishing” (“eudaimonia” in Greek; on flourishing, see Nussbaum, 31–​33), or what might more simply be called “quality of life.” Few of us would deny that a life without the beauties of art and literature would be an inferior sort of life. Of course, we may disagree on just what art or literature is best. But cultivating sensitivity to the nuances of literary or cinematic style—​particularly to the beauties of such style—​should enable any of us to enhance his or her response to verbal and visual art, thus furthering his or her flourishing.

Introduction

None of this is to say that the study of style cannot serve social or political ends. Style contributes to the political force of literary works, films, and graphic narratives. As such, the study of style is necessarily part of the social and political study of narratives as well. More exactly, stylistics has both intellectual and practical purposes. The intellectual purposes involve, first, formulating a theoretical account of style that allows us to describe style adequately. In connection with this, we need to isolate the consequences or functions of style, clarifying what it does aesthetically, politically, or otherwise. The intellectual purposes of stylistics also involve the articulation of explanatory principles. As with other literary phenomena, these will presumably include, among others, principles of cognitive and affective psychology, patterns in interpersonal dynamics, social and historical specifications, and network and complex system processes. In this study, I will be focusing on cognitive and affective psychology. A psychological study might consider the ways in which stylistic patterns manifest choices by individual authors. Those choices may be explained, in turn, by reference to a repertoire of techniques available to the author. The techniques might include genre prototypes and methods for altering genres. The genre prototypes may be explained by reference to emotion systems as well as social dynamics. For example, the heroic genre is in part derived from human emotions of group pride and social shame, along with social ideologies that serve to sustain in-​ group hierarchies (such as monarchy) and loyalty (prominently patriotism). Other explanatory principles could extend or supplement such psychological accounts. The practical purposes of stylistics are also twofold. The study of style should help to sensitize readers to aspects of style that they would not spontaneously notice or experience. When reading a literary work, or watching a film, we cannot and should not pay attention to everything. More precisely, we take in some information and not other information; we encode some information, which is to say, enter it into our cognitive and affective systems, so that it is integrated with other information (previously stored in memory or added through ongoing perception), then activates or inhibits behavioral or other systems (e.g., causing us to flee in fear, if we see something that appears dangerous). As with our relation to the world generally, there is just too much irrelevant information in literature and film—​or, for that matter, criticism and theory. As you are reading this, you are not encoding features of the font used for the lettering or processing the relative frequency of vertical and horizontal line segments in the letters. That would waste cognitive resources. Our minds are pretty good at picking out key features of the world or of a story. But that hardly means we are perfect at it. Sometimes we encode irrelevant stuff. Sometimes we fail to encode what is most essential. Stylistic analysis can help us to adjust our encoding and processing.

15

16

Introduction

For example, when I  introduce my students to classical Indian music, they do not spontaneously encode many features of the rhythmic cycles that characterize parts of a rāga performance, not to mention the ways that an individual performer might vary his or her use of such cycles in relation to audience expectations. However, through treating stylistic features in class, it is possible to sensitize students to these standard cycles and stylistic variations. In this particular case, the adjustment of sensitivity is principally aesthetic. It helps students to appreciate a performance—​or, in some cases, to hear flaws. Stylistic analysis may also help us to recognize and explicate or criticize other emotional or thematic consequences beyond aesthetics, such as the rhetorical effectiveness of a thematically charged monologue. The other main practical function of stylistics is really an extension of sensitization. It is not only readers who are sensitized to features of style. Authors too encode and process aspects of what they write and re-​read. Authors too may fail to encode important aspects of their works. Insofar as authors cultivate their sensitivity to style, they increase the likelihood that they will be able to produce desirable stylistic effects. In short, the study of style has broadly the same sorts of justification as other sorts of literary study. It enhances our ability to describe and explain aspects of literature and film, thus augmenting our understanding of the human mind and human society as these are manifest in literature and film. It also increases our critical appreciation of literary and cinematic art and fosters the production of such art. Finally, by furthering our ability to understand complex and subtle features of works, it may contribute to aspects of political analysis and critique as well.

What Follows As we will see in the opening chapter, there are various types of stylistic analysis. I  initially thought I  would try to give examples of each sort. However, I soon realized that the task would be overwhelming. First, it would make this an unwieldy volume—​or perhaps a series of volumes. Second, it would require expertise beyond the capacities of any one individual, or at least beyond the capacities of this individual (i.e., me). Thus, I  will focus principally on style in individual works (or parts of works), with some reference to authorial style across a canon or part of a canon. I will also make reference to genres, primarily as background to the style of individual works or authorial canons, though with more direct attention at points, as in the case of “painterly films.” Thus, I will not try to discuss stylistic features of literary periods, movements, regions, or other large groups of works. However, I should emphasize that these and other categories define extremely important objects of stylistic analysis.9 Indeed, one of the consequences of the theoretical principles developed in the first chapter

Introduction

is that these bodies of work are no less legitimate targets for stylistic analysis than sections of poems, whole novels, or authorial canons. In addition to being an homage to one of the founding works of cognitive science (Noam Chomsky’s Aspects of the Theory of Syntax), the subtitle of the present volume signals this (necessary) limitation of coverage through the word, “aspects.” This does not mean that the following chapters will all treat the same sort of style. First, there are differences of medium—​literature, film, and graphic narrative. Second, I will attend to different “levels” of style. As we will discuss more fully in the opening chapter, we may examine style at the level of the storyworld (the places, people, and things that make up the world in which the story takes place), the story (the sequence of events), narration (the perspective from which the story is told), plot (the selection and arrangement of story information), verbalization (the words of the story), and the perceptual interface (what we see or hear—​for example, the images and sounds in a film). The following chapters present cases of style at each level. I should also explain that there are many things one could say about style at each of these levels. I have not in any way sought to cover the entire range of topics that are important for treating narration style or plot style, for example. Rather, after the articulation of general principles for understanding literary, film, and graphic narrative style, I have sought out specific topics that are complex and underdiscussed. My hope is that the detailed examination of such cases will help advance our understanding of style, addressing relatively unnoticed but significant stylistic practices as they express and engage affective and cognitive processes. More precisely, the first part of the book treats literature. The opening chapter presents a broad, theoretical account of what constitutes style and thus stylistics. It illustrates this account with brief examples, focusing principally on a section of a work, most often drawn from Virginia Woolf ’s Mrs. Dalloway. Though the examples cover a range of narrative levels, the detailed analyses in this chapter focus particularly on verbalization. The following chapters in this section present more detailed analyses of literary style at levels other than verbalization. Specifically, ­chapter 2 concerns the story—​what happens and when it happens. It takes up the predominant story genres that recur cross-​culturally to consider some of what is distinctive about Shakespeare’s story construction, as it involves integrating those different genres. The third chapter turns from story to (verbal) narration, and from a larger canon to an individual work, examining the complexity of narrational style in William Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying. This novel foregrounds narrational style in its large number of narrators or focalizers, divided formally into separate chapters. Perhaps more significantly, the narrational style is much more uncertain than initially seems to be the case. The narrational style is, indeed, defined by a high degree of ambiguity that stands in contrast with the apparently straightforward and unequivocal narrational design, signaled by the discrete chapters named for their speakers.

17

18

Introduction

Clearly, these treatments of Shakespeare and Faulkner do not come anywhere near covering all the topics of importance in literary style. They are intended, rather, to present illustrative cases of the sorts of stylistic analysis suggested by the general theory of c­ hapter 1. I have chosen to look at story style and narration style as these are under-​discussed in stylistics (and they seemed to be aspects of the topic on which I had something to say; despite conventions of academic writing, one does not necessarily have worthwhile thoughts to contribute on every aspect of a topic). Part II of the book treats cinema. As with part I, the initial chapter (­chapter 4) presents an overview of the basic theoretical principles necessary for understanding film style. Since a great deal of style is common to both literature and film (e.g., story structure and basic principles of emplotment), this chapter is necessarily shorter than its counterpart in the first section. Moreover, it focuses on the differences between literary and film style, thus what is not common to the two. The areas of divergence are principally a matter of the medium or perceptual interface.10 One result of this is that the chapter focuses much more on the visual and aural aspects of film, though these are often the areas of film that have been more insistently investigated in the past. However, the chapter ends with some brief comments on the way James Franco dealt with the relatively underdiscussed levels of perceptual narration and cinematic emplotment in his film adaptation of As I Lay Dying. This analysis provides a (somewhat delayed) transition between the treatment of literary style (which ended with Faulkner’s novel) and that of film style. Again, the first chapter of part I  pays particular attention to verbalization in literature. In parallel with this, ­chapter  5 focuses on the perceptual interface, considering the small genre of painterly films—​movies that seek to model their visual presentation on the styles of visual art. Similarly, just as ­chapter 2 considered story style in an authorial canon, ­chapter 6 explores style in emplotment for part of Yasujiro Ozu’s canon. Finally, in parallel with ­chapter 3 (on verbal narration in a single work), ­chapter 7 takes up visual narration in Lu Chuan’s film Nanjing! Nanjing!, examining Lu’s use of point-​of-​ view shots and their relation to the emotional thematics of the work. As in part I, the coverage is, again, far from complete. Here, too, my intention is simply to present some illustrative analyses in areas where our understanding of style could be advanced. In connection with the last point, I  should perhaps note that my stylistic observations should always be consistent with my broader, theoretical claims; however, it does not follow that they will be contingent on theoretical principles. Students of literature and film sometimes appear to believe that theory is superfluous at any point where it does not radically alter our interpretive practices. But that is not right. Theory must often converge with non-​theoretical observation; it remains valuable for the way it explains and specifies that observation. For example, we don’t count it against the Theory

Introduction

of Universal Gravitation that we continue to view objects as falling down. The theory provides the best explanation we have for that phenomenon, and renders it more precise by giving us a rule governing acceleration of the fall. Thus, there will be points at which my stylistic analyses are not bound to affective and cognitive generalizations, points at which people rejecting my theoretical claims could still assent to the claims about style. I do not take this to show that the theoretical claims are sometimes superfluous. Rather, I take it to show that they are not self-​fulfilling, but refer to features of style that we can agree on, independent of the way they are explained. Put differently, we would—​and should—​be suspicious of a theory that relied entirely on analyses that one could accept only after one adopted the theory. The third part of the book considers graphic narrative. A  great deal of what needs to be said about style in graphic narrative carries over from the analyses of style in (non-​graphic or traditional) literature and film. For that reason, this part of the book is briefer than the others. It comprises a single chapter, which is parallel with the first and fourth chapters in overviewing the key theoretical principles of this medium. It illustrates and develops the main points through an analysis of Art Spiegelman’s Maus. Again, a great deal of current work in stylistics concerns political topics. This is a very valuable area of research, though not a focus of the present book. I  therefore devote a brief afterword to illustrating how the levels of stylistic analysis developed in the preceding chapters may enrich political critique. Specifically, I  consider story, plot, and narration as suggested by Donald Trump’s 2016 campaign slogan, “Make America Great Again,” in part by contrast with Hillary Clinton’s “I’m With Her.” My hope is that this (like the far more elaborate applications in earlier chapters) suggests some of the possibilities for future development of cognitive-​affective stylistics beyond the present volume.

19

PART I

Literature

1

Literary Style

Discussions of style often begin with the Comte de Buffon, who famously wrote that the style is the man himself (qtd. in Bent). The statement is initially counterintuitive. It would seem, prima facie, that style is the outward, changeable aspect of the man (or woman), while the self is the inner essence. But Buffon had something else in mind. His focus was on writing, particularly scientific writing. He saw the argument or analysis given in a piece of writing as determined by the facts and the general principles of scientific study. A historian writing about Napoleon is constrained by certain facts; so too a biologist writing about the circulatory system. In this sense, the mere representation of the facts involves little contribution from the author himself or herself. But the manner of that representation, the style, is not determined beforehand. That is contributed by the writer. It is in this sense that the content is external to the person, while the style is the person himself or herself. Needless to say, there are problems with this view, beyond its somewhat overly optimistic implication regarding the objectivity of scientific analysis. For example, it leaves out the basic fact that scientific analysis itself is, at least in part, a matter of a shared scientific style—​a style of professional historiography, a style of biological study or natural history, and so on. But it suggests where we might seek for an underlying principle of style—​in the patterned contributions of the author to something that is fixed beforehand.1

A Definition of Style Another way of putting Buffon’s insight is that style involves some distinctive quality in a writer’s work. What Buffon shares with other scientific writers does not constitute his style. Rather, what differentiates it from those other writers is what makes it a matter of style. The point is widely recognized. For example, confining himself to verbal style, Bernard Bloch views style as “the message carried by the frequency distributions and transitional probabilities of its Style in Narrative. Patrick Colm Hogan, Oxford University Press (2021). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197539576.001.0001

24

Literature

linguistic features, especially as they differ from those of the same features in the language as a whole” (qtd. in Leech and Short). To some degree going against Buffon, I should note that style is not restricted to individual people or texts. Rather, the same general point about distinctiveness applies to larger groupings. For example, what constitutes the style of professional historiography is not what works of historiography share with works of biology, but what distinguishes them. Distinctiveness, then, is a key feature of style. However, it is clear that distinctiveness cannot be the only quality defining style. It is, for example, a distinction of Buffon’s works that they are all composed by the man who claimed that style is the man himself. But we would hardly wish to say that being written by the man who uttered a particular sentence constitutes a stylistic element of those works. We might begin by saying that style should bear on features of the work itself. “Features” here comprises properties (attributes that apply directly to the work, such as being in verse) and relations (attributes that characterize a work in relation to something else, such as involving literary parody). However, this does not solve the problem. Having a particular number of words is a feature, even a to some extent distinctive feature, of a work. However, we would only wish to count it as part of style if it is at least potentially relevant to our response to the work. Thus, the style of a work concerns features of a work that are relevant to our response.2 As suggested briefly in the introduction, the relevance of a feature is, in my view, probably best defined by the receptive intent of the author (see chapter five of Hogan On Interpretation, on what I there referred to as “aesthetic” intent). An author writes something, evaluates it, rewrites it, until he or she finally decides that the work comes as close to the “right” effect as is likely to occur. That response involves a range of self-​conscious and unself-​conscious factors governing just what features of the work the author encodes and how he or she processes them. His or her feeling that the work is complete is the holistic response to this encoding and processing. Self-​conscious aspects of this response are open to the author’s articulation. For example, if he or she has set out to write a patriotic American poem of 1,776 words, he or she is aware of this. But if he or she judges the musicality of a phrase to be apt or the resonance of an image to be effective, he or she need not be able to articulate that intuitive response. As I have pointed out many times, all native English speakers know that the regular plural form of a new word “gludge” would be pronounced as adding “ǝz.” We would recognize that adding the sound “[s]‌” would be wrong, in contrast with the plural formation of a new word, “glip.” But people who have no training in linguistics would not be able to explain why—​or even to articulate the difference, since they would probably say that, in both cases, the plural is formed by the rule, “add ‘s.’ ” But this too is not enough. Typically, we would not count something as a stylistic feature if it were a singularity. For example, suppose the use of the nonsense word “gludge” is highly distinctive of this book. We would probably

Literary Style

not characterize the style of the book or my style by saying that I  use the coinage “gludge.” On the other hand, if my books frequently include made-​up words in examples, we may cite that as a (minor) stylistic feature. More generally, for a property or relation to constitute a stylistic feature, it must be part of a pattern. (The same idea is implied by Bloch’s definition, quoted earlier.) The point is not confined to single words. If Smith has a single parody in his canon of works, we would not say that this is a feature of his style. However, if Smith repeatedly incorporates aspects of parody into his works, then we are likely to count that as stylistic for his oeuvre.3 The mention of an “oeuvre”—​and the earlier references to historiography and other disciplinary styles—​suggests another aspect of style that it is important to isolate. Stylistic patterns may have different scopes. If Jones writes many works, but only one parody, then it is likely that this parody will have some consistent stylistic features (e.g., hyperbole) that may be absent from his other works. In contrast, if he routinely writes parodies, then we might expect some features to recur across his canon. To take a real example, we might say that Joyce’s Dubliners has stylistic features that are different from those of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Indeed, we might say that the opening of A Portrait has stylistic features that differ from those characterizing later sections of the novel. Specifically, the narrational voice of the opening section in some degree imitates the confusions and simplifications of a young child coming to understand the world; it also draws on the idiom of “motherese,” the simplified language in which parents speak to children. At the same time, there is a consistent aestheticization of the diction throughout the novel. Thus, there are both local and global features of style in that work. The differences in stylistic scope in A Portrait are connected with something else as well—​differences in stylistic level or category of features. Thus, we see stylistic features in narrational voice distinguishing the opening section of the novel. However, we also see continuity in some aspects of verbalization, a level of narrative related to but distinct from narrational voice. Whether the narrational voice is focalized on an infant or on an adult, it is still highly aesthetically polished, with careful and emotionally resonant word choice, even when that word choice reflects very different kinds of thought on the part of the focalized character. (A focalizer is a character whose perspective restricts the information conveyed by a narrator, as when the narrator reports what only one of several characters perceives or thinks [see Jahn]. In Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, the narrational differences over the course of the work concern, not separate characters, but the same character at different ages.) It is important that there may be properties or relations of a work that are patterned or distinctive, but irrelevant to our experience of the work. These do not count as stylistic features for the present study. The distinction between what a recipient does or does not experience is often invoked in music, as when Ball refers to “formal relations between musical elements [that] cannot

25

26

Literature

be perceived, but only demonstrated on the score” and thus provide “no audible coherence” (342). A similar point is made by Wollheim, who (in a somewhat different context) explains that “mere . . . rule-​governed redundancies” would not be sufficient “to explain . . . coherence.” Rather, “we should require felt or experienced redundancies” (Art, 136). For example, Nelson Goodman refers to “some fussy statistical characteristic of the novels of a given author,” such as “more than the usual proportion of second words of sentences begin with consonants” (36). Such characteristics should count as “stylistic” for some purposes, but not others. For example, they might count as stylistic for author attribution studies. But recipients do not experience them as part of their engagement with a work and, in consequence, they do not bear on any of the purposes of the literary work. In other words, not all features isolated by the preceding criteria are functional in a literary context. Since we will not be considering such topics as the stylometric attribution of authorship, we may confine our consideration of style to functional features. As already indicated, the following analyses will be concerned principally with authorial receptive intent relative to the work’s purposes—​for example, what the author tacitly responded to in judging his or her work finished or ready. These are the implicit, authorial functions. There are also explicit or self-​ conscious authorial functions. I take these to be less important as they are often simplified or erroneous, in the way our articulations of grammatical principles are often simplified or erroneous. One purpose of literary criticism and interpretation is to more adequately articulate the patterns and functions of literary works, in the way that linguists articulate grammatical principles. There are, of course, individual recipient functions, distinct from those of the author—​for example, the way a given reader might find a text useful for considering his or her marriage or career. These are important. However, their importance is specific to individual readers. I do not see much of a point in exploring them publicly. We may summarize the preceding points in the following manner. Definition of Style:  Style is a functional pattern of response-​relevant features that is distinctive for some scope and level (alternatively, for some scope and category of features), with functionality determined by authorial, receptive intent. This definition is in part stipulative in the sense that different researchers could simply choose to focus on different concepts of style or different sorts of intent. However, it is not arbitrary in that it is designed to isolate a target that is open to coherent affective-​cognitive description and explanation.

Scope In the previous section, I touched on differences in scope and level (or feature category) for stylistic patterns and on the functions of such patterns. However,

Literary Style

I  did so only in a general and intuitive way. We need to examine scope, patterning, and level, as well as function, more systematically. Beginning with the first, we may define scope as the textual (including cinematic) substrate over which a distinctive feature pattern ranges. This is related to what Leech refers to as a “textual domain” (17). In keeping with Leech’s observations, we may first distinguish the style of a section or passage. A section is a large, formally demarcated part of a work. Obvious cases may be found in such modernist novels as Ulysses or The Sound and the Fury. In the former, for example, the “Cyclops” episode has a style distinct from the “Eumaeus” episode. In Faulkner’s novel, the Benjy chapter has a style distinct from that of the Quentin chapter. A section need not be identical with a chapter. For instance, the style of the Gerty section of “Nausicaa” is different from the style of the Bloom section in that chapter. Moreover, the different sections need not be continuous, but may be distributed. In “Cyclops,” Joyce shifts back and forth between the first-​person, colloquial narration of the main storyline and the third-​person, hyperbolic and elevated narration of the parodies. In As I Lay Dying, the various “Darl” sections are stylistically related to one another and distinct from, say, the “Cora” sections. A passage is simply some small segment of a text that establishes a local pattern. Often the style of a passage is a specification of the style that characterizes a section or even an entire work. A simple case may be found in Mrs. Dalloway. Throughout the novel, Woolf is very careful in her attention to sound qualities of the language—​specifically, the poetic qualities of assonance, consonance, and rhythm. But there are two variables here. First, not all passages show the same degree of patterning. Second, not all highly patterned passages are patterned in the same way. Indeed, this is one of the differences between highly poetic prose and poetry, at least in traditional forms. Metered verse and verse in poetic forms are, in most cases, relatively consistent in both degree and nature of patterning. For example, Paradise Lost is consistently in iambic pentameter. Of course, there are rhythmic variations. But the basic pattern is the same throughout. In contrast, one passage of Mrs. Dalloway may be remarkably musical, whereas another may be no more patterned in rhythm or sound quality than ordinary speech. Additionally, two passages that are distinctively musical need not exhibit the same pattern. Consider, again, the following sentences from early in the novel: “There were roses; there were irises. Ah yes—​so she breathed in the earthy garden sweet smell as she stood talking to Miss Pym” (12). One particularly obvious feature of the passage is the extensive use of sibilant consonants, which cluster (not entirely unlike bunches of flowers) in two brief stretches of the passage (sibilants marked in bold): “There were roses; there were irises. Ah yes—​so she breathed in the earthy garden sweet smell as she stood talking to Miss Pym.” The effect of the sibilants is reinforced by the repetition of r sounds in the opening part especially (r’s italicized): “There were roses; there were irises. Ah

27

28

Literature

yes—​so she breathed in the earthy garden sweet smell as she stood talking to Miss Pym.” There are also near rhymes (“roses” and “irises”; “in” and “garden”) and assonances (“breathed” and “sweet,” “Miss” and “Pym”). This is clearly patterned. It is functional for our sense of the beauty of the passage—​and further functional in linking the beauty of the verbalization with the beauty of the flowers that Clarissa is observing. In general terms, it is entirely consistent with the careful attention to sound that characterizes the rest of the novel. But the specific pattern is not constant. Compare, for example, a passage from the same page, “to hear twigs cracking and feel hooves planted down in the depths of that leaf-​encumbered forest” (12). There are certainly sibilants and r’s in the passage, but they do not reach the threshold of a distinctive musicality as they do not appear to be more frequent than one would expect from chance distribution. Chance is, of course, the baseline against which one judges a pattern at all. As Leech remarks, “literature tends to exhibit regularity of patterning over and above the patterning that one normally expects to observe of a piece of language” (15). That patterning is necessary for the existence of a stylistic feature to begin with. In the case of the passage just quoted, there is the same general pattern of careful attention to sound as in the passage regarding the flower shop. However, the local specification of this, thus the exact pattern of the passage, is different. Here we find more velar and alveolar stops (marked by boldface and italics respectively):  “to hear twigs cracking and feel hooves planted down in the depths of that leaf-​encumbered forest.” There are also other velar and alveolar sounds (“ng,” “n,” “l”). The result is a local pattern that is functional, but functional in a different way from the passage in the flower shop. The flow of the passage is restricted by the clustering of consonants (e.g., the “gs/​cr” in “twigs cracking” or the final d of the first word and the initial d of the second word in “planted down,” which necessitates a pause). At least in the context of the images, the g’s and k’s in “twigs cracking” sound harsh in contrast with the (also image-​related) softness of “roses” and “irises.”4 Thus, the pattern is functional. Moreover, it is functional in a similar way to that of the other passage. Specifically, it contributes to our emotional response to the scene Woolf is representing. But the nature of that response is different in the two cases, as the precise stylistic pattern is different.5 These references to stylistic patterns that reach across a work lead us to the next gradation of scope. Above the passage, we have the section, and above the section, we have the work. (Needless to say, the style of a work has been recognized by a number of writers; see, for example, Carroll, “Film Form.”) The style of a work may be more or less abstractly defined. Sylvia Plath’s “Daddy” is marked in part by the recurrence of the [u]‌sound—​a very concrete stylistic feature. In contrast, Mrs. Dalloway is characterized by a more abstract stylistic quality. Specifically, in this novel, Woolf recurrently arranges patterns of consonance and assonance in the verbalization such that they will contribute to the emotional effect of what is being represented in the story. Note that this

Literary Style

does not mean that this quality is consistent throughout the entire work. It merely means that it is a recurrent aspect of the work, found with adequate frequency and breadth of distribution so that it is neither accidental nor a feature of only a passage or section. In addition, the pattern may be a matter of some sort of change across sections. For example, Leech and Short point out that the style of Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man includes an evolution of sectional styles (46). Just as patterns recur across a single work, they may recur across an author’s canon. The point is widely recognized, most obviously in film studies through the idea of an “auteur,” a sort of governing authority—​usually a director—​ whose various works manifest common stylistic qualities. Moreover, such patterning is not necessarily spread across an entire canon. Just as patterns occur in sections of works, they may be confined to a particular period of an author’s work. Beckett’s later drama and prose fiction develop tight, repetitive cycles of narrator rumination, unlike his more linear early works. (The earlier works often involve circularity as well, but on a considerably larger scale.) This suggests a periodization in authorial scope. There are other subdivisions in an author’s work as well, for example by genre. Specific story patterns recur in Tagore’s short fiction.6 In other words, there is a stylistic pattern in the story construction of these works and it is in part a matter of genre. On the other hand, as with local stylistic features and individual works, the genre-​ or period-​based stylistic features of an author are commonly related to more broadly recurring patterns. For example, Tagore’s novels share with the stories a profound narrative concern with attachment relations, which are at the same time key to some of the distinctive features of the stories. Indeed, one may argue that attachment is the crucial narrative emotion for Tagore throughout his career. In some ways, all other emotions operate in Tagore’s narratives through their interaction or conflict with attachment. This is not to say that the more general stylistic quality is found in every work or always with the same intensity or pervasiveness. It simply means that it recurs with adequate frequency and distribution across the canon to be a recognizable feature of the author’s style. These references to periods and genres lead us inevitably to recognize that there are stylistic features that are characteristic of periods and genres broadly, not simply periods and genres of a particular author. (A number of writers have noted that the scope of style may extend to large bodies of work across many authors; for example, Wuss treats “group styles” [217; see also Leech and Short, 10, and Meskin,  489].) There are patterned features to gothic novels, horror films, eighteenth-​century English poetry, Bollywood movies (most clearly when contrasted with Hollywood movies). The point is, of course, recognized by everyone who has ever done any work on a period or genre. These supra-​individual styles are not confined to genre and period, though those are usually the most important cases. One might add other categories as

29

30

Literature

well, such as “movement,” though these often have to be understood in relation to period or genre.7 English Romantic poetry has features that are shared by Keats, Wordsworth, and others. The “Magical Realist” novel has features shared by Marquez, Allende, and others, but also extending out of Latin American, Spanish-​language writing to authors such as Rushdie (see Aldama, Postethnic).

Scope and Norms Thus, we find different scopes for style demarcated by a variety of criteria—​ textual (e.g., “The Prelude”), authorial (e.g., Wordsworth), and social (e.g., English Romantic). Before going on to treat pattern, then level and function, we need to remark on some complications of this division. Richard Wollheim has argued that individual style has psychological reality, whereas supra-​ individual (or social) style, such as the style of a period or movement, does not (“Pictoral”; for discussion, see Meskin, 494–​495). Wollheim’s insight here seems to me basically right. There is no collective mind that could serve as the ontological ground for a period or movement style. There is, however, an author, and the author’s mind serves as the ontological ground for a style, the psychological reality that underlies and explains the style. More exactly, we may say that the author’s cognitive and affective processes exhibit certain regularities that may be represented as principles. These principles serve to explain the stylistic patterns in the author’s works. Thus, Woolf tacitly follows the principle that she should attend even to incidental features of sound and rhythm when evaluating the emotional impact of her prose, much as she might if she were composing poetry. Or, rather, Woolf tacitly followed this principle of developing poetic prose in some, but not all of her writing—​perhaps most fully in Mrs. Dalloway and other relatively early works and less in some later works, such as The Years. This may suggest that we need to take a more extreme view than Wollheim, confining psychological reality to periods in an author’s life. After all, it is during those periods that there is the greatest consistency in authorial psychological principles. On the other hand, even that does not quite work. For example, the apparently more poetic The Waves follows the apparently less poetic Orlando in Woolf ’s career. Moreover, there are differences even within single works. Indeed, one could argue that the principles at issue only exist really in momentary configurations of the author’s brain, configurations that are continually changing. I say this not to be deconstructive, undermining the very possibility of principles. Rather, I say this for precisely the opposite reason. I entirely agree with Wollheim that it is important to recognize that the individual human mind, thus the individual human brain, is the only substrate for stylistic

Literary Style

principles. However, it does not follow from this that only authorial style has psychological reality. All our treatments of principles are abstractions. The stylistic features of a work are explained by reference to the principles of an author’s cognition and emotion when composing and revising the work. But those principles and their relations almost certainly changed in the course of that composition and revision. When we ground the features of a work in an author, we abstract from these changes, focusing only on what is constant or relatively constant across them. The same point holds for patterns across an authorial canon. Stylistic analysis abstracts from all the differences of the author’s mind or brain at different points in time. The same thing occurs with social styles, only in that case, the abstraction occurs across different individuals rather than different instances of one individual. Just as authorial style isolates principles across a person’s life, social style isolates principles across different individuals. The ontological grounding is, indeed, in the individual. But that does not prevent there from being well-​grounded—​thus isolable and explicable—​social styles. Quite the contrary, it serves to make sense of those styles. At the same time, however, it is important to recognize that only the individual minds exist. In the end, social style is nothing beyond individual styles, which are themselves nothing beyond the shifting moments of individual style. One aspect of the existence of social styles in individual styles is that a new author faces social styles—​learns about them, internalizes or rebels against their principles—​only through the individual styles of particular authors whom he or she encounters. The process here is presumably an instance of prototype formation. (For a concise account of prototypes, see Rosch.) In prototype formation, we experience individual instances of some category—​for example, “bird.” These particular instances are to some degree similar and to some degree different. In the course of many experiences of individual birds, our minds form a sort of average—​or, rather, a “weighted” average, an average that to some extent stresses distinguishing characteristics of birds. (On prototypes and distinguishing characteristics, see Kahneman and Miller, 143, on lettuce as a prototypical diet food.) This weighted average is a prototype. For most of us, a robin is a highly prototypical bird (see Holland, Holyoak, Nisbett, and Thagard, 185). Weighting may not be entirely clear in this case, but—​given the existence of vultures and ostriches along with robins and sparrows—​one might expect the prototype to be bigger, if strict averaging were involved. A clearer case would be man or woman. One’s prototypical man is likely to be more distinctively masculine than the actual, statistically average man, while our prototypical woman would be more distinctively feminine. Given that prototype formation is perhaps the most common way in which our minds define categories, we would expect it to operate in the formation of an author’s or reader’s understanding of—​thus category formation for—​a particular style. For example, a reader of gothic novels would form his or her

31

32

Literature

sense of the style of gothic novels by a process of weighted averaging across particular gothic novels. The same point holds for a reader’s understanding of a particular author’s style, or even the style of a particular work. Indeed, when reading a single work, we have the experience of numerous, local styles that our minds form into a prototype or set of prototypes for the style or styles of the book. In reading Mrs. Dalloway, our minds take the “twigs cracking” passage and the “roses” and “irises” passage along with many others, forming a sort of weighted average across such passages to give us an overall sense of the style of the novel. Prototypes are not merely bloodless generalizations. They have consequences beyond simply packaging information. For example, prototype approximation appears to define one condition for aesthetic pleasure. We generally find particulars more beautiful to the extent that they approximate a prototype for their category (see chapter one of Hogan, Beauty). One might generalize the research indicating this and infer that, at a fundamental level, prototypes establish norms. The prototype of a bird tells us, roughly, what birds should be like—​they should be like robins; if they are like penguins, then they are strange. The prototype of a man tells us what a man should be like, and so on. This is not to say that violations of the prototype are necessarily bad. They are simply non-​normal. They may be superior to the norm. The key point here is that one’s initial evaluation of an instance (in a given category) is likely to be based on such a prototype. Thus, one’s initial response to a gothic novel is likely to be based in part on one’s prototype of a gothic novel.8 This is true not only for the non-​authorial reader of such a novel, but for the author as well. Here, we might refine and extend the preceding discussion of authorial receptive (or aesthetic) intent. As I have argued elsewhere (see chapter one of Narrative and chapter five of On Interpretation), a crucial part of authorship is simulating the response of readers, thus reading and responding to one’s own work as an ordinary reader (i.e., not a reader who has the idiosyncratic, private knowledge and interests of the author). Authors constantly engage in this sort of tacit simulation when responding to their own works. Indeed, ordinary speakers do this sort of thing when they prevent themselves from saying something or alter what they were about to say, based on their tacit anticipation of their addressee’s response. For example, I might remember that Jones’s political views are different from mine and refrain from telling a joke that pokes fun at his preferred political candidate; or I might read something I’ve written and realize that, for someone who was not inside my head when I wrote it, the pronoun reference is ambiguous. These simulated responses necessarily draw in some degree on prototypes—​prototypes of readers, as well as characters, genres, and other literary categories that readers would be likely to have in mind while reading. These are social prototypes in the sense that they concern what people generally take to be the prototype for a particular category, which may or may not coincide with one’s own prototype. For example, a reader

Literary Style

might expect a representation of male or female characters that is consistent with gender stereotypes that he or she himself or herself would reject. In the case of literary works, one would expect even authors’ evaluation of their own works to be guided in part by social prototypes. For example, someone writing a romantic comedy knows perfectly well who the lovers will be, but he or she might introduce a character to mislead readers, based on their prototypical expectations (e.g., a handsome, unmarried prince, when the heroine is actually going to fall in love with the underpaid and homely scholar of classics). When these social prototypes concern styles for broad categories—​such as the prototype for the hard-​boiled detective story—​they define what David Bordwell refers to as “extrinsic norms” (Ozu, 74).9 Extrinsic norms are just what they sound like—​norms that pre-​exist the individual work we are considering. Just as we form prototypes of genre styles, we also form prototypes for the style of an author or an individual work (i.e., early parts of the work establish a prototype or weighted average, which guides our expectations as we read further). When we form the style prototypes for these, we are also establishing norms, probably with greater weight in the case of the prototype for an individual work, which we may refer to as the text prototype. Those ongoing, individual-​work prototypes are the psychological basis for what Bordwell terms “intrinsic norms” (Ozu, 74). Thus, a particular hard-​boiled detective novel will involve its own prototypical features, thus its own norms, in addition to—​perhaps in contrast with—​those of the larger genre category. Some stylisticians stress “external and internal deviation,” thus violations of, respectively, extrinsic and intrinsic norms (see Wales, 111), since a creator may follow or not follow either in a particular case. Bordwell argues that extrinsic norms may be conceptualized in terms of schemas. I  am suggesting that prototypes are usually the more appropriate kind of psychological structure. However, more strictly rule-​based structures undoubtedly occur as well, setting sharper boundary conditions to distinguish genres. This seems to me more likely as norms come to be defined self-​ consciously—​as in Hollywood script-​writing conventions. Bordwell goes on to argue that intrinsic norms are commonly a replication, synthesis, amplification, or rejection of the extrinsic norms (On the History, 154). It seems likely that Bordwell is right—​a wide range of stylistic features of a work either repeat general practices, combine those practices, intensify them, or in some way contradict them. (For example, a case of the last would be the “jump cut” that sets out to disturb the extrinsic norm of smooth continuity across shots that is central to mainstream Hollywood film.) Similar processes in the poetic use of common metaphors are identified by Lakoff and Turner. Both discussions are very valuable for understanding and explaining style. On the other hand, it also seems that transformations of common social practices would be unlikely to account for all the stylistic features that characterize an individual work. (Of course, Bordwell, Lakoff, and Turner do not claim otherwise.)

33

34

Literature

For an example consistent with Bordwell’s observations, we might turn again to Mrs. Dalloway. This was one of the pioneering works of the modernist novel—​or the “high modernist” novel, if we distinguish a set of works that aspire to become new aesthetic paradigms in addition to being self-​conscious vehicles for “modern” ideas and practices. Part of the standard social prototype for a high modernist novel involves an increased attention to the poetical qualities of prose or, alternatively, a blurring of the difference between verbalization techniques in poetry and prose. However, this rarely involves the density of sound and rhythmic patterning that we find in Mrs. Dalloway. Thus, our prototype for that novel is likely to be, in part, an “amplified” version of the prototype for high modernist novels generally. Of course, individual text prototypes are not absolute. For example, as already noted, Mrs. Dalloway is not entirely uniform in its intensified attention to sound and rhythm. This is important because a literary work may have two or more types or “degrees” of stylistic pattern. The first degree is the default prototype for the work, the intrinsic norm. But a work may violate an intrinsic norm as well. Insofar as it does so in a patterned way, then we may speak of a second degree of stylistic patterning. Consider a case from cinema. Bimal Roy’s Sujata involves shots of moderate distance and moderate duration as an intrinsic norm. However, at key points of emotional intensification, he violates that intrinsic norm by using extreme close-​ups and/​or accelerated editing. We may refer to this as a secondary stylistic pattern, dependent for its effects on the primary prototype or intrinsic norm. In many cases of this sort, local stylistic patterns acquire their significance or function through their difference from more global (intrinsic) patterns, just as global (intrinsic) patterns often acquire their significance or function through their deviation from genre or other cross-​textual (extrinsic) patterns. The same points apply to supra-​individual styles (e.g., of a genre or movement) and their prototypes. One recurring feature of modernist storytelling—​a distinctive feature and thus one presumably overrepresented in our prototype of modernist fiction—​involves the absence of what William Labov, in his influential analysis of storytelling, refers to as an “orientation.” An orientation is an introduction of the characters and initial situation of a story. As its name indicates, an orientation serves to give the reader or addressee a preliminary sense of the characters and their basic situations and histories. It thereby suggests, in a general way, what cognitive structures we should draw on and what we should pay attention to. It tells us “Who, where, when, and what?” (Toolan, Narrative, 152). Consider, for example, the beginning of The Brothers Karamazov, “Alexey Fyodorovitch Karamazov was the third son of Fyodor Pavlovitch Karamazov, a land owner well known in our district in his own day, and still remembered among us owing to his gloomy and tragic death, which happened thirteen years ago, and which I shall describe in its proper place” (Dostoyevsky, 3). Contrast this with the opening of Hemingway’s “A

Literary Style

Very Short Story”: “One hot evening in Padua they carried him up onto the roof ” (105).10 We are not told who “he” is, what his situation is (e.g., why he has to be carried), what his interests are, or anything else. Contrast an opening along the following lines, “Rock Armstrong was an all-​American youth. He grew up in Nebraska and was just eighteen when war came. He signed up right away. By the time he saw action, there was heaving fighting in Italy and he was soon wounded in a rash action for which he volunteered, despite his lack of experience. He was sent for medical attention, eventually arriving at a hospital in Padua.” Along the same lines, Mrs. Dalloway begins with the somewhat enigmatic sentences: “Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself./​For Lucy had her work cut out for her. The doors were to be taken off their hinges,” and so on (3). There is a modernist extrinsic norm at work here; following Bordwell, we could say that it is replicated in the new work. This norm functions in part to provoke curiosity (“Who is Lucy? Why will the doors be taken off their hinges?”). It may also foster a sense of shared experience with the narrator, since the narrator is speaking as if all the relevant information is already familiar to the reader (a point that Ong makes about Hemingway). That extrinsic norm, however, is a sort of second norm, a deviation from a still broader, primary norm of providing adequate orienting information, a norm for storytelling, rather than specifically modernist storytelling. Indeed, one key feature of modernism is that it only superficially violates the primary or first-​degree norm. For example, part of narrative orientation involves providing information about the age and physical appearance of a character. Woolf provides this on the second page. But she does so without violating the presumption that the narratee is already familiar with Mrs. Dalloway. Specifically, she shifts into the mind of Scrope Purvis; this provides us with an image of Mrs. Dalloway by recounting what Purvis perceives and thinks. The degree to which a normative presupposition appears to be a feature of style is inversely related to the discursive generality of the norm. In other words, the greater the scope of the norm in discourse, the lower its degree of stylistic definition. Providing orienting information is presumably a universal principle of communication, not a culture-​specific principle and not a principle that applies only to fiction. It is an instance of Grice’s Maxim of Quantity—​to give needed (but not excess) information—​which appears to be cross-​cultural (see Levinson, 655).11 Such universal principles often supply an interpretive or responsive context for stylistic norms that are social, authorial, or textual. Alternatively, we might say that the more generally applicable norms serve as background for the more local and more salient, foreground norms. Another example may be found in the cross-​cultural prototype of romantic tragi-​comedy (on the recurrence of this structure, see chapter three of my The Mind). It is not as general as orientation, since it is far from a necessary component of all communicative discourse. However, it is a very widespread

35

36

Literature

extrinsic norm. Thus, it serves as a sort of background norm against which the intrinsic norms of, for example, Mrs. Dalloway stand out. Specifically, Mrs. Dalloway involves at least six love stories—​Clarissa and Peter, Clarissa and Richard, Clarissa and Sally, Septimus and Miss Isabel Pole, Septimus and Rezia, and Peter and Daisy. In the cross-​cultural prototype, the lovers have a profound and enduring connection—​in both emotion and understanding—​ that comes into dramatic (sometimes tragic) conflict with society. In contrast, the love relations in Mrs. Dalloway are all complex, wavering, ambivalent, based on misunderstanding, and largely undramatic. Clarissa’s father does dislike Peter, but that is not the reason the lovers are separated—​if they can be called “lovers.” Moreover, Clarissa’s choice of Richard is not a sign of their profound unity. Rather, it is in part the result of their not being overly interconnected. Clarissa chooses Richard in part because “in marriage . . . a little independence there must be between people living together. . . . But with Peter everything had to be shared” (7). Thus, there is a sort of deflationary quality to the representation of romantic love in the novel; the text prototype (its way of depicting romantic love across many cases) appears and has force precisely insofar as it contradicts the extrinsic norm provided by the narrative universal of romantic tragi-​comedy. On the other hand, this too is not entirely uniform. The story of Septimus and Rezia includes elements of the romantic prototype, such as the threat of socially enforced separation and the suicide. These are rendered more effective by their deviation from the primary intrinsic norms of the novel and their partial—​but incomplete—​conformity with the extrinsic norms of the romantic prototype. A  perhaps more striking case is the relation between Clarissa and Sally. Far from being deflationary, it involves the profundity and all-​encompassing quality of prototypical romantic love—​though it also violates both extrinsic and intrinsic norms in being a lesbian rather than heterosexual story. The lesbian love of Clarissa and Sally is appealing and effective—​ a powerful affirmation of such love—​in part because it is so unlike the other, non-​prototypical forms of love in the novel.

Patterns Before turning to levels, it is useful to say a few words about patterning. The basic nature of distinctive patterning seems clear enough (though spelling out what constitutes a pattern is not trivial; see Hogan, Beauty, 145–​151, on what constitutes a pattern). Nonetheless, there are two aspects of the topic that are worth explicit attention, as they are perhaps less intuitive. One bears on the observability of patterns; the other concerns the obtrusiveness of patterns. As to the former, it may seem that patterns must be directly observable, even if they are explained by unobservable posits. However, there are both manifest or

Literary Style

observable patterns and underlying patterns that are not directly observable. For instance, one recurring stylistic feature of Rabindranath Tagore’s painting is the depiction of a woman curving her back and head downward (see Hogan, “Rabindranath”). This is a readily and directly visible feature of his paintings. In contrast, one recurring stylistic pattern in some of Bimal Roy’s films is the thematization of perceptual properties of the film, the use of sound and visual techniques in a roughly metaphorical way to highlight the themes of the film and give them greater emotional force. For example, in Madhumati, Roy is concerned with the ways in which we see the present through our images of the past. In part suggesting this, he makes particular use of superimpositions. In Prem Patra, he uses visual occlusion to recall literal blindness (treated in the film’s storyline) and to suggest the theme of metaphorical blindness. In Sujata, he is addressing the Hindu practice of Untouchability. In connection with this, he very strikingly uses staging in depth, conveying an almost visceral sense of the Untouchable character’s physical isolation, linking her Untouchability to an enhanced and salient sense of physical distance (see Hogan, “On the Meaning”). In each of these cases, Roy necessarily draws on perceptual features of the film. But the stylistic pattern does not concern such perceptual features alone. For example, in Madhumati, the important pattern is not simply that he uses superimposition (though that is to a degree distinctive of the film). It is rather that he uses superimposition as a metaphor for seeing the present through the past. This, in turn, conforms to the principle (i.e., the more abstract pattern) of thematizing perceptual properties. Not all cases of underlying stylistic principles bear on an authorial canon, and they may be less or even more hidden. I have already made reference to a text example in Joyce’s keying of verbalization to the age of the focalizer in A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. The diction of the first chapter and that of the final chapter are superficially quite different. However, they share a common stylistic principle as they reflect Stephen’s own aesthetic sensitivities and language capacities at the time. A different sort of example may be found in the opening of Mrs. Dalloway. In effect, Woolf has described one scene more or less directly, the scene of what is occurring as Clarissa leaves home to buy flowers. However, she has had Clarissa think about her current situation in relation to a scene or set of scenes from her earlier life. In other words, she has used a model.12 The model provides a sort of stylistic consistency to the opening, making the account feel less random and diffuse than it might otherwise have been. Or, rather, there are two models, one embedded in the other. One is explicit, while the other is largely an underlying principle with only a subdued hint of identification. Indeed, it is misleading to say that the presentation of the current situation is explicit. It is itself partially implicit as well. Specifically, Clarissa has told her maidservant, Lucy, that she (Clarissa) will go to buy the flowers. She then goes to the door. As she does so, she thinks

37

38

Literature

of how “The doors would be taken off their hinges” in preparation for the party. We infer that she is coming to the door by the fact that the free indirect representation of her discourse (perhaps speech, perhaps only thought) refers to doors. Moreover, immediately after this, Clarissa thinks “what a morning,” remarking particularly that it is “fresh.” This is what one would expect as she exits the house and, so to speak, encounters the morning directly—​particularly the “fresh” air. This implicit exit from the house makes Clarissa think of something else, or rather two things. First, she thinks of “children on a beach.” Then she thinks of her own youth at Bourton. The modeling seems to work something like this. Exiting her house today in London is just like going through the “French windows . . . at Bourton into the open air.” That act, in turn, is akin to entering the water from a beach when one is a child—​and exiting the house in London today is also like that. The point may seem banal, until we look at the way these partially implicit models guide Clarissa’s implicit construal of her experience. Note that Woolf explicitly introduces the idea of “children on a beach.” This “primes” or partially activates a set of associations that guide what Clarissa thinks about her exit from the house. It is “a lark,” thus a sort of fun and adventurous departure from routine. Her choice of the word “lark” suggests the association with “sea lark,” thus a tacit visualization of the shore and an implicit comparison of the waterfront (with its sea larks in the morning air) to what Clarissa is undertaking (in the morning air). More significantly, she goes on to consider her action “a plunge,” thus a dive into the water. This clearly takes up a tacit swimming model, even though she has not explicitly mentioned the water at the beach or entering the water. The operation of the model becomes clearer when she explicitly links what she is doing with stepping through the French windows at Bourton, where she “plunged . . . into the open air.” Here, the metaphor of “plunging” is more evident. In addition, the “open air” is suggestive. It is a strange phrase. “Open” in this context suggests “without visible limits.” But that is an odd phrase to use about air. The more ordinary idiom would, of course, be “the open sea.” So, here too, the indication is that Clarissa is implicitly using the water and swimming as models for leaving her house to enter into the morning air. The act of leaving is signaled by a particular phrase. Clarissa remembers going through the French windows at Bourton, which made “a little squeak of the hinges.” The key point is that she “could hear [that squeak] now.” Though it is possible that this means that she only remembered the squeak, the phrasing indicates an actual, current perception—​which could only be the perception of a squeak from the door of her house in London right then as she is leaving. The modeling of the exit on a plunge into the water is continued when the freshness is reintroduced and she thinks that Bourton was more “calm” and “stiller.” These construals of her current environment (as less calm and less still) also recur to the sea. The underlying stylistic principle here becomes almost

Literary Style

explicit when she refers to “the flap of a wave,” presumably characterizing a breeze that she feels now. The difference between surface and underlying stylistic patterns points to one final aspect of style that is worth noting. The surface patterns may be greater or lesser in obtrusiveness, the degree to which they draw our attentional focus. Obtrusiveness is largely a matter of two variables—​density of deviation from norms and extent of deviation from norms. Density of deviation is a matter of how many deviations cluster together. Extent of deviation is a matter of just how great any given deviation is. A work’s verbal style becomes more evident when it involves, for example, some consonance, some assonance, and some rhythmic patterning, as in Woolf ’s “roses” and “irises” passage. The style of a work may also draw our attention if the deviations are very great, even if they are relatively few in number. For example, Robert Rodriguez’s film, Sin City, uses unusually high visual contrast in its black and white photography along with very limited coloring (e.g., in the opening sequence, a young woman’s dress and lips are red in a generally black and white sequence). Put more simply, there are degrees to which the surface stylistic features of a work may draw attentional focus. We may distinguish a rough scale of saliency in such features along the following lines: Normalcy (no unusual attentional orientation) < styling (style forms part of a recipient’s experience, without drawing self-​conscious attention) < stylization (style becomes salient, thus more readily noticeable) < mannerism (localized attention to style is unavoidable) < euphuism (stylistic deviations from norms are distractingly obtrusive) A text is “normal” (in this sense) if it conforms to extrinsic norms. In consequence, the text does not provoke any particular attentional orientation toward the style. Clear cases of this may be found in the Hollywood “continuity editing” style, the standard mode of filmmaking which aims to make stylistic features unnoticed. (We will consider continuity editing in ­chapter 4.) Of course, a viewer may set out to scrutinize a work for style, even if it is normal. The point is simply that nothing in a normal work will be likely to trigger orientation toward style. We may refer to a work as “styled” or as having a distinctive stylistic feature if it deviates from external norms enough to draw the minimal attention necessary for a reader or viewer to encode the relevant features. Again, to encode a feature is to perceive it and process it cognitively, even if one does not become self-​consciously aware of the feature. For a stylistic feature to have any impact on a reader, the reader must encode the feature. Consider the rhythm of the following passage: “Ah yes—​so she breathed in the earthy garden sweet smell as she stood talking to Miss Pym” (12). Following the principles given in the introduction, perhaps the most natural way of scanning this rhythm (in stressed and unstressed syllables) is the following: “Ah′ yes′—​so˘ she˘ breathed′ in′ the˘ earth′y˘ gar′den˘ sweet′ smell′

39

40

Literature

as˘ she˘ stood′ talk′ing˘ to˘ Miss′ Pym′.” Scanned in this way, the passage has five double stresses (“Ah yes,” “breathed in,” “sweet smell,” “stood talk,” and “Miss Pym”). Moreover, most of these are preceded by double unstressed syllables (“so she,” “as she,” “ing to”; “Ah yes” is itself preceded by “irises,” thus two unstressed syllables as well). This is a very rhythmic pattern. However, I suspect that most readers would not become self-​consciously aware of that pattern. Some would not experience the pattern at all; that is, they would not encode it. Others, however, would experience aesthetic pleasure due to encoding the rhythm, but would not necessarily think self-​consciously about that rhythm. A work or passage might not only foster encoding, but make stylistic features salient, thus more likely to be self-​consciously noticed. I  have referred to a work or passage of this sort as not only having a style, but being “stylized.” If I  judge from what my students say, it seems that readers may be more sensitive to sound patterns than to rhythmic patterns in subvocalization. Even a simple sentence such as “There were roses; there were irises” may count as stylistically salient. This is not to say that readers will be able to explain what it is about the sound of the passage that is unusual. They may only be able to observe that the sentence sounds poetic, perhaps stressing the relation between “roses” and “irises.” Even so, their attention has been drawn to the sound. Beyond stylization, a work or passage may have such density or extent of stylistic deviations from extrinsic norms that it is virtually impossible not to notice the relevant features. The case of Sin City provides an example. It is difficult to imagine a viewer who is unaware of the fact that the film is in black and white, but uses color for some items (such as the woman’s dress). The same point holds for the various styles in the later chapters of Ulysses. How could one fail to notice the archaic diction in the “Oxen of the Sun” episode, for example? On the other hand, these “mannered” styles do not necessarily distract from our understanding of or response to the works in question. Of course, the “Oxen of the Sun” chapter of Ulysses is notoriously difficult. That difficulty is connected with the style, since the reader needs to re-​parse the syntax and look up unfamiliar words. But, for most dedicated readers, the experience of the style serves ultimately to enhance their understanding and response. In contrast, at a certain point, the stylistic features of a work may become so obtrusive that it becomes difficult to pay attention to what they are communicating or to respond to them as anything other than a form of display for its own sake. We may refer to this as “euphuism” (perhaps unfairly to John Lyly). Gradations of attentional orientation to style are important at two points. First, as already noted, for style to have any consequences for a reader, the reader must encode the relevant features. Such encoding is perhaps particularly crucial for emotional response. For example, in his film Sujata, Bimal

Literary Style

Roy seeks to intensify the viewer’s emotional response to the main character’s Untouchability by portraying her as isolated at a considerable distance from other members of her adoptive, non-​Untouchable family. He sets out to achieve this through an aspect of visual style—​staging in depth. However, in order to experience this emotional effect, a viewer must encode the spatial relations among the characters. If a viewer concentrates solely on the figure or figures in the foreground, ignoring the distant background, then he or she will not encode the spatial relations and thus will not feel the intensified sense of Sujata’s isolation.13 Second, beyond encoding, some degree of self-​conscious awareness of stylistic features is often important for grasping the thematic implications of style. In Roy’s film, there is no need for the viewer to be self-​conscious about spatial relations—​to reflect on them or identify them explicitly to himself or herself—​ in order to experience their emotional force. However, when interpreting a work for its political or ethical implications, such self-​consciousness does seem to be necessary. Consider Roy’s use of visual parallels between Sujata and nature, another stylistic feature of the film. Those parallels serve to suggest that Sujata is as much a manifestation of divinity as is the natural world (see my “On the Meaning” for discussion of this point). They thereby contribute to the thematic criticism of Untouchability. However, it is unlikely that any viewer would become aware of this thematic point unless he or she became self-​conscious about the visual parallelism. Of course, this is not to say that thematic uses of style are invariably salient or obtrusive. A reader’s or viewer’s self-​consciousness about a feature of style may be the result of critical scrutiny. Moreover, encoding is not simply a function of the nature of the text. Training and attentiveness play a central role. Indeed, enhancing and extending the reader’s or viewer’s processes of understanding and response are part of what gives stylistic study its importance.

Level Again, style is a functional pattern of features that is distinctive for some scope and level. We have considered scope. What, then, is a level in this context? In the preceding passages, I have made frequent reference to verbalization, as well as occasional reference to story features (e.g., in Woolf ’s treatment of romantic love). These are two different levels of a narrative. Though we often think of style solely in terms of words (or images, in the case of film), there are styles of story formation, styles of character definition, and styles of all other components of a narrative.14 Specifically, as indicated in the preceding definition of style, a level is any category of response-​relevant features that may define a distinctive, functional pattern. As this suggests, it is possible to define various sorts of level, and I do not claim that the following specification is the

41

42

Literature

only option. However, I do expect that the levels I will be considering are likely to prove the most fruitful for stylistic analysis. First of all, we may distinguish levels that are “internal” or “external” to the narrative. The internal levels of a narrative work—​which is to say, the levels that define components of the narrative proper—​have largely been isolated by narratologists. These are storyworld, story, narration, plot, verbalization, and, in some cases, textualization. The “external” levels of a narrative are external in the sense that they bear on the relation of a reader to the narrative. We may distinguish three such levels, as follows: 1) the interpretive profile (with its ambiguities); 2) the emotional profile (with its ambivalences); and, finally, 3) the thematic profile (with its varying degrees of equivocation and insistence, paralleling ambiguity and ambivalence). Note that these levels may be connected with a variety of scopes. For instance, we may consider the storyworld features of a novel (e.g., Mrs. Dallaway) or a genre (e.g., science fiction). We may consider patterns in the interpretive profile and characteristic ambiguity of an author (e.g., Woolf) or a movement or period (e.g., postmodernism). INTERNAL LEVELS

To understand the various internal levels, we need to begin with what is perhaps the fundamental division in narrative theory, that between story and discourse. As many narratologists have discussed (see, for example, Chatman), story is what happens in a narrative, whereas discourse is how that story is presented. Suppose Jones kills Doe, but frames Smith for the murder. This is recounted in a trial. Jones testifies; Smith testifies; the defense introduces further witnesses, and so on. The representation of the story through those testimonies is clearly very different from the story itself, the actual events as they occurred. For example, the events are told in a different order from that in which they took place. Discourse has three components. The first is the communicative component—​the narrator and narratee. In the case of a trial, we have a number of “embedded” character narrators, that is, narrators who are part of the storyworld. They recount bits of what happened, often with distortion (e.g., with actual deceit, in the case of Jones). The second component of discourse is “plot.” This is what is told about the story and the manner in which it is told. For example, suppose one witness saw Smith pull a bloody handkerchief out of his pocket shortly after the time of the murder. Smith later explains that he had a nosebleed earlier that day. We thus learn about the compromising exposure of the handkerchief before we learn about the nosebleed, whereas the nosebleed in fact preceded the exposure of the handkerchief. This is a simple case where the plot time (first the handkerchief, then the nosebleed) is different from the story time (first the nosebleed, then the handkerchief).

Literary Style

The third component of discourse is verbalization or, more generally, textualization. Verbalization is the process of putting the plot into words. Textualization—​ alternatively, perceptual manifestation—​ is the process of making the plot into an object of experience, thus putting it into some form of representation, whether words or images, as in the case of graphic narrative. This is not to say that different verbal or textual realizations can preserve the same plot (or, for that matter, the same story; see Abbott, 41, on disagreements regarding story repeatability). Indeed, it seems clear that changes in verbalization or manifestation necessarily to some degree change the plot, as they change just how features of the story are represented. Even so, it seems clear that there can be greater or lesser congruence of a plot across different textualizations (e.g., across a short story and a film version of the short story), just as there can be greater or lesser congruence of a story and a plot. In general, I will be using “textualization” as equivalent to verbalization in works of verbal art. This is because relatively few authors determine specifically perceptual features of their works. The main exception is the determination of lines and stanzas in poetry. In addition, some authors take up typographical features. In that case, aspects of typography may be taken into account stylistically.15 We may consider these internal levels, beginning with the most basic, storyworld. “Storyworld” is often used as an equivalent of “story.” However, it is valuable to distinguish between the two. The story is best understood as the intertwined causal sequences of the narrative. The storyworld, in contrast, is the set of characters and conditions (social and physical circumstances) that underlie the causal sequences and make these possible. Thus, the storyworld of Mrs. Dalloway includes all the characters of the novel with all their propensities and interests, the political conditions in which they live (largely taken over from the real world outside the novel), the encompassing history (e.g., the facts of the First World War), and so on. The story, in contrast, comprises the actions and events that constitute the causal sequences. For example, the story—​or stories—​of Mrs. Dalloway include Septimus’s suicide. Literary works often include a great deal of attention to aspects of the storyworld that are somewhat peripheral to the causal sequence of the story—​ or, alternatively, they suggest that the causal sequence of the story should be understood and responded to in the context of a wider range of elements from the storyworld. Put differently, literary works often suggest a maximization of relevance16 whereby a range of non-​causal storyworld (as well as discourse) features are germane to our understanding of and/​or response to a story. For instance, in the storyworld of Hamlet, there would be a regular changing of the guard at Elsinore. That changing of the guard has no particular relevance to the causal sequences that define the stories of the play. There is, in consequence, no direct causal-​explanatory reason to depict such events in the play. Nonetheless, Hamlet begins with one such changing of the guard. That part of the storyworld is largely irrelevant to the main events of the play. It is included

43

44

Literature

for other reasons. For example, it has emotional consequences by stressing the isolation and despair of the guard, who explains, “I am sick at heart” (I.i.7). The sentiment recurs at the end of the play when Hamlet, perhaps anticipating his own death, tells Horatio, “thou wouldst not think how ill all’s here about my heart” (in Hubler, V.ii.213–​21417). Here, again, the important point is that distinctive patterns may occur at each level for different scopes. Thus, we find textual, authorial, genre, and other patterns at the level of the storyworld. For instance, the textual storyworld of Mrs. Dalloway includes focal characters who experience relatively extreme mood states often related to mystical feelings that are to some extent in conflict with their concrete relations to particular individuals. At the start, Clarissa shows a highly elevated mood state, punctuated by angry and depressive thoughts regarding Miss Kilman. Her elevated states might be connected with her sense of the unified relations among humans (“she being part . . . of people she had never met; being laid out like a mist between the people she knew best, who lifted her on their branches . . . it spread ever so far, her life, herself ” [9]‌). Septimus shows a deeply depressed mood state, punctuated by more ecstatic moments. The depressed mood is bound up with his thoughts about Evans (as Clarissa’s moments of deflation are often connected with Kilman). The ecstatic experiences are linked with his mystical hallucinations (“There is a God. . . . A sparrow . . . sing[s] freshly and piercingly . . . how there is no death” [24]). Moreover, both have admirers who are simultaneously fascinated and disturbed by their mystical imaginations (Peter [see 149] and Rezia). Indeed, we see a further instance of this pattern in the alternately depressed and religiously elevated Miss Kilman and her ambivalent protégé, Elizabeth. (Outside individual works, a simple example of a storyworld pattern in a genre may be found in the mysterious dwelling of so many gothic fictions.) Given the nature of stories, textual story patterns are less common than authorial or social patterns. This is simply because a pattern requires repetition, and story repetition is less likely to occur in a single narrative. On the other hand, it is not impossible, particularly in novels, which may have multiple stories. Thus, as we have already noted, we find in Mrs. Dalloway one textual story pattern of what might be called the “demystifying” treatment of romantic love. The point is particularly clear with what might be called “normative” romantic love—​a strong mutual, heterosexual passion. The love stories of Clarissa and Peter, Richard and Clarissa, Peter and Daisy, and Septimus and Miss Isabel Pole all violate key features of the romantic prototype. The Clarissa-​Sally and Septimus-​Rezia stories also fail to fit the romantic prototype fully. They come much closer to the ideal, but there is something amiss in each case, if judged by social norms. The relation of Clarissa and Sally is not heterosexual. The relation of Septimus and Rezia is marred by Septimus’s mental breakdown—​a response to war that is very different from the “ideal” of a conquering hero who gets the girl after defeating the enemy (Septimus

Literary Style

has served with distinction in the war [94]). (I put “ideal” in scare quotes, since Woolf suggests that this is far from an ideal. Septimus’s mental breakdown is due precisely to the human sensitivity that makes him sympathetic in this novel.) Thus, we may say that there is a complex textual stylistic pattern here. The love stories all violate the expectations created by literary prototypes, but they do so in a somewhat lesser degree when—​as in the cases of Clarissa and Sally or Septimus and Rezia—​the relations are in some way socially non-​ normative. In Mrs. Dalloway, lesbian love is more romantic than heterosexual love, and the love of a war hero is destroyed, rather than perfected, by the war. Story patterns in authorial canons are usually more obvious and more common. For example, we find extensive patterns across Shakespeare’s heroic works. These patterns include (among many others) a recurring revision of the heroic prototype in which the deposed ruler sides with an invader (as in Lear siding with France) or in which a usurping character suffers a terrible personal loss at a critical point (as in Macbeth’s loss of his wife).18 Supra-​individual story patterns might include the proliferation of revenge narratives in the English Renaissance. Emplotment, or the selection and organization of story information, is an important stylistic domain for these various scopes as well. A  case of supra-​individual scope may be found in the genre of the detective story, which involves a typical organization, where the crime is presented first, then various clues, then the discovery of the perpetrator. As already noted, modernist narratives often forgo Labov’s orientation, the introduction of contextualizing information. In c­ hapter  6, I  will argue that a recurring technique in Ozu’s films—​thus, a case of style of emplotment for an authorial canon—​involves deleting an expected narrative climax, simply leaving out the culminating point in a series of events. As to individual works, in Hamlet, Shakespeare repeatedly interrupts causal sequences at points of tension or expectation (see chapter six of Hogan, How). Patterns in narration too occur for all the different scopes. At the textual level, for example, Mrs. Dalloway involves a wide-​ranging, indirect stream of consciousness. Rather than confining herself to a few characters (as Joyce does in Ulysses or Faulkner does in The Sound and the Fury), Woolf allows her narrator to enter into the thoughts of many characters, including many minor characters. Moreover, rather than restricting herself to the subvocalized, thus verbal reflections of these characters, she seeks to represent a broader range of their experience, including non-​verbalized perceptions, memories, and feelings. Finally, she presents these in the narrator’s voice, rather than in the voice of the character himself or herself. She is thus able to utilize all the linguistic capacities of the highly articulate narrator in representing the complex inner life of these different characters. Indeed, one may go beyond these observations to much more specific and distinctive features. For example, the multiple and shifting internal

45

46

Literature

focalizations of the novel (i.e., the shifting access to the thoughts of a range of characters) raise a potential problem. Specifically, Woolf needs some way of treating the transition from one focalizer to another elegantly. This is not a problem in a work such as The Sound and the Fury or As I Lay Dying, where the shift is marked by a chapter break. It is also not as serious a problem in Ulysses as the shifts are far less frequent and there are fewer focalized characters involved. Woolf treats this difficulty through recurring stylistic techniques. For example, in some cases, she shifts from the inner thoughts of an initial focalizer to some objective, exterior fact available to both the initial and the subsequent focalizer, often oriented toward the perceptual perspective of the latter.19 For instance, the opening page of the novel takes the reader into Clarissa’s thoughts. Soon, she has left her home to buy the flowers and has experienced the morning air and the squeak of the door hinges. After this, she is preoccupied by her memories of her youth at Bourton. We only learn that she is walking along the street when there is a new paragraph, begun by the following sentence: “She stiffened a little on the kerb, waiting for Durtnall’s van to pass” (4). The sentence is ambiguous between internal and external focalization. Presumably Clarissa is brought out of her own thoughts as she comes to the intersection and must pay attention to the traffic. Moreover, she presumably experiences her own stiffening kinesthetically. On the other hand, this is all information available to an external observer—​in striking contrast with the preceding sentences which concern her memories of Peter Walsh. Indeed, one might argue that “stiffened” is more in line with the way an observer would construe her pause, less the way she would experience it herself. In any case, it involves only objectively available information. In addition, this is information available at a distance. The following sentence switches the internal focalization to a neighbor: “A charming woman, Scrope Purvis thought her.” Purvis considers how like a “bird” Clarissa is, then returns to the image of Clarissa on the kerb, thinking, “There she perched . . . very upright” (4). Though “perched” is a metaphor from the mind of Purvis, the sentence returns us to the image of Clarissa stopped at the kerb and thus to the information available to different characters. It thereby facilitates the return to Clarissa’s thoughts, which begins the next paragraph. Indeed, here, the complexity of these transitions is clear. There is the shift to shared, objective information. However, the shift back to Clarissa is a bit less objective (more marked by Purvis’s thought) than the initial shift to Purvis. One would expect greater guidance for the shift to Purvis than the shift back to Clarissa, given the fact that Clarissa is a major character while Purvis is a minor character and given the fact that the shift to Purvis is the first such change in the novel. Moreover, the circularity of the organization—​beginning and ending with the image of Clarissa on the kerb—​makes the second case easier to recognize. Finally, in this case, Woolf also uses paragraph divisions to formally mark the exit from and re-​entry into Clarissa’s thoughts.

Literary Style

Another instance of this stylistic technique is found with Rezia and Septimus. Rezia has just been reflecting on how Septimus had threatened to kill himself. She looks over and sees him, “in his shabby overcoat, his legs crossed, staring, talking aloud” (24). This provides a transition to Septimus’s thoughts. Woolf ’s stylistic technique for narrational transitions is not confined to Mrs. Dalloway (see, for example, To the Lighthouse, 242). Similarly, her use of indirect stream of consciousness is not unique, but may be seen as a partially distinctive variant on broader high modernist practices. Some high modernist writing is characterized by a very strict internal focalization. There are differences as to whether a character’s internal experience is presented directly (thus in the character’s voice) or indirectly (in the narrator’s voice) and whether it is confined to subvocalization (interior monologue) or includes the character’s non-​verbal experiences (stream of consciousness). But the elaboration of internal focalization is a supra-​individual style of this period and literary tendency. The mention of stream of consciousness versus interior monologue brings us to the topic of verbalization, thus patterning at the sublevels of sound, diction, morphology, syntax, and so on.20 At the same time, it raises an important issue regarding the relations across levels. I have been discussing levels as if they are entirely distinct. However, as with scopes, there are close relations from one level to the next. The point is particularly clear with respect to narration and verbalization. If we are dealing with interior monologue—​or even ordinary autodiegetic (first-​person) narration—​then the patterns of verbalization are themselves a function of the narration, in just the same way that speech patterns in dialogue are a function of the character speaking. Specifically, if Clarissa is thinking verbalized thoughts, then the verbalization of those thoughts in the novel will reflect Clarissa’s idiom. However, if Woolf is representing Clarissa’s non-​verbal experiences, then there is a further issue of how those experiences will be translated into speech. (The situation is obviously somewhat different in film, since some perceptual experiences may be represented perceptually—​for example, through point-​of-​view shots. We will return to this topic in part II.) More technically, one level may be stylistically “bound” with respect to another level or stylistically “autonomous.” For instance, a character’s own sentences are bound to the character insofar as they are governed by that character’s idiolect. In contrast, sentences representing a character’s perceptions may readily be autonomous. For example, they may be represented in words that would be unfamiliar to the character (though they may also be restricted to the way a character might have articulated them himself or herself, thus bound to that character). The distinction applies outside verbalization as well. For example, it seems reasonable to say that a strictly chronological plot is bound to the story in its temporal sequence (as opposed to a plot that includes flashbacks, flashforwards, temporal overlaps across scenes, and so forth). The

47

48

Literature

point is consistent with the observation of Leech and Short that “plain chronology . . . may be considered the neutral order for the telling of any story” (142). They add that another common principle of temporal order is “psychological sequencing,” in which the sequence of events in the plot follows the sequence in which the narrator (or some character) learns of those events. This too would be a case of binding. In the case of Mrs. Dalloway, Woolf did not choose to bind her verbalization to the idioms of the particular focalizers. Rather, she used her own prodigious verbal skills to present the various streams of consciousness of the characters. The result is consistent with her aesthetic aims. As we have seen repeatedly, the verbalization of this novel is highly poetic and musical; it is also highly semantically resonant. We might contrast Woolf ’s technique with the binding of verbalization to narration in many chapters of Joyce’s Ulysses or Faulkner’s As I  Lay Dying. Frequently, Joyce’s representation of the interior thoughts of characters is interior monologue, thus necessarily fixed by the idiolect of the focalizer. In Faulkner’s novel, the soliloquies are stream of consciousness, thus not confined to interior monologue. However, they take up the idiom of the focalizer in articulating non-​verbalized experience. Sometimes, Joyce binds verbalization to narration in more complex and unexpected ways, as when he represents Gerty’s thoughts through a linguistic style characteristic of the popular fiction she liked and that had guided her ideas about life in general and love in particular. Whether bound or unbound, verbal style may be analyzed in a number of ways. For example, the sound and rhythm patterns analyzed above are instances of verbal style. Classic texts in stylistics have isolated a range of relevant properties, such as “length” and “grammatical variety” of sentences, “the deviation of the normal pattern or arrangement of words in a sentence,” and “the deviation from the ordinary and principal kind of signification of words” (Corbett and Connors, vii). Corbett and Connors, for instance, analyze the components of verbal style into “kind of diction,” “length of sentences, “kinds of sentences,” “variety of sentence patterns,” “coherence devices,” “figures of speech,” and “paragraphing” (24). Verbal style has arguably been the primary focus of critics and theorists treating style. Many of these writers have great sensitivity to nuances of verbal style. They have so meticulously analyzed the distinct varieties of verbal style that it is an area that really does not require further elaboration here.21 Thus, I will largely leave aside the aspect of style that is most commonly treated by other writers. This is not because I believe it is unimportant, but because I believe it has been so well treated by others. For example, there is no need for me to go through the various figures of speech, such as parallelism (for a useful sketch, see Corbett and Connors, 73–​75). Verbalization has the same breadth of scope as any other level. For example, in verbalization, as in narration, we may see the textual style of Mrs. Dalloway as at least to some degree a particularization of more encompassing

Literary Style

stylistic patterns at the authorial level and at the supra-​individual level. Woolf paid particular attention to the poetic qualities of her prose, in many works, including Jacob’s Room, To the Lighthouse, and The Waves. The precise results of this attention are not identical across these works. (Similarly, they are not identical across passages of Mrs. Dalloway itself.) Moreover, it is also clear that high modernist works commonly make prose poetic and they regularly do so in part by manipulating the relation between verbalization and focalization, as we find in Mrs. Dalloway. In this way, there is stylistic continuity across a range of high modernist novels, including Woolf ’s writings (which are, partially in consequence of this, paradigmatic of high modernism). Nonetheless, the precise nature of such attention to verbalization differs across high modernist writers. Self-​evidently, the supra-​individual pattern of style in high modernism is more general than the authorial styles of Woolf or Joyce, and the latter are, in turn, more general than the textual styles of Mrs. Dalloway or Ulysses. We have only one level remaining—​textualization. Textualization operates as a stylistic level only sometimes. In European writing, we find this in concrete poetry—​thus a movement—​but generally textualization is understood as something added by the publishers in their choice of font and page layout; thus it is not part of the literary work proper. Chinese poetry is sometimes somewhat different (giving us a partial case of textualization patterning in a national tradition). Chinese poetry has long been connected with calligraphy and therefore visual art (on calligraphy as a visual art, see Michaelson and Portal, 6, 84). Thus, it is perhaps unsurprising that textualization should sometimes function stylistically in that tradition. In keeping with this, it may involve visual patterning, primarily for aesthetic effect. Consider the poem “Táo Yāo” (“桃夭”) from the Classic of Poetry or Shījīng (詩經). (I have followed it with a translation in which I have sought to capture some of the implications of the word play in lines 4, 8, and 12.) 桃夭 桃之夭夭、 灼灼其華。 之子于歸、 宜其室家。 桃之夭夭、 有蕡其實。 之子于歸、 宜其家室。 桃之夭夭、 其葉蓁蓁。 之子于歸、 宜其家人。

49

50

Literature

(Tender Peach Tender, tender peach tree Bright, bright its flowers. The child goes to marry, Suited for a room in the family’s house. Tender, tender peach tree, Its fruit full grown. The child goes to marry, Fitting for the family home. Tender, tender peach tree, Its leaves luxurious. The child goes to marry, Just right, at home, with her family.) Even readers with no familiarity with Chinese are likely to see a broad division in the visual type of the characters. Some have many strokes and seem to form relatively dense blocks; others have fewer strokes and seem more sparse and linear. Representing the former with “X” and the latter with “I,” we see a series of visual waves, ending with a variation that fosters a sense of closure. XI 桃夭 XIII 桃之夭夭、 XXXX 灼灼其華。 IIIX 之子于歸、 XXXX 宜其室家。 XIII 桃之夭夭、 XXXX 有蕡其實。 IIIX 之子于歸、 XXXX 宜其家室。 XIII 桃之夭夭、 XXXX 其葉蓁蓁。 IIIX 之子于歸、 XXXI 宜其家人。 In this case, then, we find an example of stylistic patterning at the level of textualization. On the other hand, even in Chinese tradition, the patterns are far more restricted than we find with other levels. EXTERNAL LEVELS

The study of style is usually focused on internal levels. However, by the general definition of style given earlier, it is clear that interpretive, thematic,

Literary Style

and emotional profiles may evidence stylistic patterns. Still, external levels are perhaps less central to stylistic analysis and we may consider them more briefly. By the interpretive level, I  am referring to the profile of ambiguity of a work.22 Literary works typically do not present us with unequivocal meanings in all respects. Of course, they do present us with some—​indeed, many—​meanings that are unequivocal for all practical purposes, which is to say, for any alternatives that have any relevance to the functions of the work. For example, we know that Rezia has been given some sort of drug after Septimus’s suicide. We do not know precisely what the drug is, but that hardly matters. On the other hand, we also do not know what Rezia will do when the drug wears off. Both are forms of indeterminacy in the novel. The former is, presumably, inconsequential; the latter, in contrast, is significant. One form of indeterminacy is produced by complete absence, as in the case of Rezia’s future. There are events that we as readers have reason to ask about or care about, but that are simply passed over in the text. Another form of indeterminacy is found in texts that depict events or actions with underlying ambiguities. Hamlet behaves in a mad way. But it is not clear whether he is or is not mad. In each of these cases, there is some degree of constraint. No one is likely to imagine that Rezia is just thrilled that Septimus is out of the way. Virtually all readers are likely to envision her as grief-​stricken, though there may be differences in the extent to which readers believe she will reconcile herself to the loss and perhaps even see some degree of benefit to it. Similarly, it seems clear that Hamlet is not completely delusional, since he is able to devise and carry through plans. But at the same time, his callous response to the murder of Polonius suggests that there is at least some degree of pathology. Ellipses and opacities in a work combine with more straightforward aspects to produce the profile of ambiguity for that work. Some elements of the work are unproblematic; they have little ambiguity. Others have a range of possible meanings. Of that range, it is unlikely that all will be equally plausible. One possibility might be nearly certain, while another might simply introduce a nagging doubt. But it is important that the work includes both. We may think of ambiguity as a sort of graph, with meanings on the x-​axis and plausibility on the y-​axis. A fully unequivocal aspect of a work would be represented by a single point, marking the 100 percent certainty of a particular meaning. A more ambiguous passage might be represented by a curve, with various possible meanings rating different degrees of plausibility. A passage that may be either ironic or not—​thus, as meaning, roughly, p or -​p—​may be represented by a line crossing the y-​axis, indicating, say, a 70% possibility of p and a 30% possibility of -​p. For example, such a graph might represent a 70% possibility that the author supports the particular political program

51

52

Literature

outlined in the work and a 30% possibility that the author is treating this program ironically. (I of course do not imagine that we could assign precise probabilities here; the numbers are merely illustrative of broad likelihood, given textual evidence.) Ambiguity in interpretation applies principally to the story or storyworld, in the sense that the uncertainties we care about ultimately concern the story or storyworld. However, those uncertainties commonly derive from plot, narration, or verbalization. Rezia’s future, or any other ellipsis, is something not presented in the plot. Uncertainty about a character’s state of mind may result from polysemy or vagueness in language. If we cannot fully decide on whether a particular statement is or is not ironic, that is often the result of uncertainty about the reliability of the narrator. In each case, the ambiguity may be patterned. A work or body of work by an author may recurrently involve ellipsis, verbal ambiguity, or unreliable narration. Literary periods and movements sometimes exhibit stylistic differences of this sort as well. To take a well-​known example, we find greater indeterminacy in postmodern works than in works of earlier movements or periods. Of course, authors create interpretive ambiguities for reasons, thematic or emotional. These too define external levels that may exhibit stylistic patterns. Regarding the former, we might consider Bertolt Brecht’s The Measures Taken. The work clearly criticizes various Romantic tendencies of political activists. In doing this, Brecht takes up an orthodox Marxist approach. However, at the same time, he develops the characters in such a way as to encourage greater sympathy with the Romantic revolutionary than with the more orthodox party members. Moreover, on at least one of the issues under debate, recent history at the time of the play suggested that the orthodox position was badly mistaken. (Specifically, in one part, the orthodox Communists advocate a united front position in China, but that policy had recently proven disastrous. For discussion of these ambiguities in the play, see Hogan, How, 115–​127.) On the one hand, the play may be read as a quite orthodox, even Stalinist work of propaganda. However, it may also be understood as much more equivocal in its politics. It undoubtedly maintains a broadly Marxist framework. However, it seems to face us with a more complex and equivocal, thematic profile than is commonly recognized. Specifically, it presents alternative positions that should provoke questioning and debate among audience members, not simple acceptance of an orthodox position. A thematic profile, then, is to some extent equivocal, in the way that the interpretive profile is to some extent ambiguous. However, the latter is ambiguous, fundamentally, about the storyworld and story, whereas the thematic profile is equivocal about the implications of the storyworld and the story for the real world and the reader’s action in that world. Moreover, both levels may be more or less overt about ambiguity or equivocation, drawing attention to it or not. The thematic level may, in addition, vary in its degree

Literary Style

of thematic insistence, that is, the degree to which the work advocates a particular view of or behavior in the real world. These degrees may range from didactic to athematic (e.g., apolitical). Moreover, this insistence may vary in the course of a work. An interesting, if unusual case of equivocation and insistence may be found in some films by Shyam Benegal. Though I enjoy many of Benegal’s movies very much, I sometimes find them to be inscrutable in their political point. This is problematic as the films often seem to (implicitly) insist that they have a political point through their focus on political topics. This is arguably a stylistic feature (perhaps a stylistic flaw) in those works. As with interpretation, there are stylistic consequences of thematic equivocation for every scope—​a chapter, a work, the canon of an author’s writings, and so on. To take a simple case, one author or movement (e.g., Socialist Realism) may be highly didactic, another may have little thematic concern at all. The references to insistence bring us to the final external level, that of emotion. In the case of emotion, the variability is a matter of ambivalence, rather than ambiguity or equivocation (though of course the three may be related in any given case). In order to consider this topic, we need to distinguish the normative from the actual emotions for a work. By “normative emotions,” I do not mean emotions that the reader really should feel. Moreover, I do not necessarily mean emotions that an author would claim that a reader should feel. Rather, I have in mind the emotions presupposed by the implied author of a work. As used here, “implied author” refers to the receptive intent of the real author. Again, a real author produces a work for any number of reasons and due to any number of personal precedents. He or she revises the work. Tacitly taking up the imaginative position of another reader, he or she tries to produce an effect that seems right. When the author feels that he or she has produced that effect, he or she is implicitly imagining certain sorts of understanding and emotional response on the part of the reader. Readers may or may not follow that imagination, may or may not experience that emotion. However, that emotion sets up an authorial norm, even if that norm is not shared by the reader. In referring to a profile of emotion, as in other aspects of literary analysis, we could concern ourselves with a wide range of targets. For example, in studying the influence of Joyce on Woolf, we might wish to consider the profile of Woolf ’s emotional response to Joyce’s work. However, in most cases, we are concerned with the authorial norm. Thus, a given reader may be disgusted by Bloom’s masochistic fantasies in the “Circe” episode of Ulysses; another may be sexually aroused. However, it seems that Joyce’s own normative response was one of largely non-​judgmental, even compassionate or affectionate amusement. That is the emotion that is likely to concern us, whether we personally happen to find the relevant passages sympathetically comic (or disgusting or arousing).

53

54

Literature

Of course, Joyce is unlikely to have had only one emotional response to Bloom, even receptively. Normative emotion is likely to be somewhat mixed (as my phrasing of this case already suggests). In other words, there is a profile of emotional ambivalence for any given work, just as there is a profile of interpretive ambiguity and there are profiles of thematic equivocation and insistence. Again, as with internal levels, we may distinguish textual, authorial, and supra-​authorial or social patterns at each of the external levels (i.e., the levels may bear on specific passages, whole works, authorial canons, genres, and so on). At an interpretive level, a text may be highly ambiguous or not. More interestingly, it may also be characterized by particular sorts of ambiguity. For example, Italo Calvino’s If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler is repeatedly elliptical about storyworld facts. A  more distinctive feature of Calvino’s novel is that this absence of information may be explicitly asserted, as when the narrator remarks, “The city outside there has no name yet, we don’t know if it will remain outside the novel” (14). Ordinarily, such an absence of information is just that—​an absence, something that is not narratively verbalized, as in the case of Rezia’s future. Part of the style of Calvino’s text involves not only enhancing storyworld indeterminacy, but foregrounding that indeterminacy, or elaborating on it. For example, he writes “everything I am leaving out of the main narration” may lead “the person who follows my story” to feel “cheated,” since the narrator (presenting himself as author) is employing “a trick of the narrative art” (109). In contrast, a work such as Alain Robbe-​Grillet’s In the Labyrinth is ambiguous as to precisely what parts of the work are real and what parts are a dream, or even if the storyworld is following the ordinary principles of reality. Here, the ambiguity is less salient, but is still signaled in this case by contradictions. As these references to Calvino and Robbe-​Grillet suggest, these two are instances of a broader, social pattern of intensified interpretive ambiguity in postmodern works. These two instances also suggest that there are differences in the specification of postmodern interpretive style in individual works. Of course, there are differences in interpretive profile that do not bear on postmodernism. Consider a pattern found in some of Rabindranath Tagore’s stories from the early 1890s—​the culmination of the narrative in the sudden disappearance of a central character, with no clear information about that character’s fate. We find cases of this sort of disappearance in “Little Master’s Return” (1891), “Fool’s Gold” (1892), “Unwanted” (1895), and “Guest” (1895). In each of these stories, a main character leaves and is never heard from again. These narrative ellipses in turn draw our attention to the irresolution of other stories, such as “The Postmaster,” where we know that the character Ratan stays back in the village, but we have no knowledge about her future. As this suggests, narrative irresolution is a form of interpretive ambiguity. It may be developed in different ways. Tagore’s development, particularly in the version

Literary Style

where a main character simply leaves, constitutes a distinctive stylistic element of limited authorial scope. The “authorial scope” is “limited” because the feature recurs across different works, but does not characterize all or even most of his works, even for the genre (short stories) and period (1891–​1895) in question. Parallel points hold for thematic profile. Consider again the example of Brecht’s The Measures Taken. I  have argued that the work is thematically equivocal in presenting incompatible views on Marxist activism. But this does not mean that the text makes it difficult to understand which position the author wishes to support, or not exactly. Rather, the text conveys that the author wishes to support both views in such a way as to foster reflection and debate. We might say that Brecht embeds thematic equivocation within a sort of (dialectically) unequivocal meta-​thematics, which is to say an ethical and political treatment of how one should address ethical and political issues (through dialectic). Needless to say, this does not occur for every scene of the play. However, it occurs for enough of those scenes to constitute a pattern, thus a textual style for the thematic level. Specifically, many of the scenes have an overt political point as well as more subdued political implications that are often incompatible with the more evident themes. Recognition of the subdued implications requires greater historical or theoretical knowledge or a fuller analysis of the text. As to supra-​individual style, we find something of this sort in many Ṣūfī works. Facing possible censorship or accusations of heresy, Ṣūfī writers often conceal their thematic claims, following a Ṣūfī practice of being “secretive, paradoxical and esoteric” (Davis, 13). Moreover, as with Brecht, the concealed points are generally accessible only with specialized knowledge or through unusual textual analysis. Interestingly, Brecht and the Ṣūfī writers share a thematic feature. In both cases, there is often tacit criticism of authoritarianism and its intolerance of unorthodoxy. This suggests, unsurprisingly, that social conditions of authoritarianism and intolerance foster certain sorts of thematic equivocation. Of course, thematic equivocation is often bound up with interpretive ambiguity. If one cannot entirely ascertain what an author is saying about the storyworld, then it is often difficult to tell just what he or she is saying about the real world as well. This ambiguity may be a form of strategic concealment, as in the case of Ṣūfism, or an attempt to foster dialogue, as with Brecht. However, it may also involve a criticism of thematic simplification (such as the simplification found in some didactic literature), or it may simply be a sign of a lack in thematic clarity on the part of the author. Consider, again, Shyam Benegal—​specifically, his 1985 film Trikal. This work concerns Goa just before the Indian annexation. The context is so clearly political that one expects some sort of political position to emerge from the film. Obvious positions would be support for, opposition to, or ambivalence about the

55

56

Literature

Indian annexation. Other possible themes might include, say, the greater political importance of individual human lives relative to the big stories of national domination. But by the end of the film I am left uncertain as to what Benegal’s political views might be. Again, the difficulty arises because the topic and aspects of the treatment lead me to expect a political theme, which I do not find. Perhaps Benegal does develop such a theme, but it is subtle enough that I  have failed to recognize it. Alternatively, Benegal may have failed to communicate the political ideas and attitudes he wished to convey. Another possibility is that he was tacitly aiming for a degree of equivocation that is so extensive as to in effect constitute a repudiation of most thematic filmmaking. Finally, we have the emotional level. Texts, authors, and genres or periods may be marked by different degrees or kinds of ambivalence. For example, in Julius Caesar, Shakespeare follows an almost mechanical procedure of establishing sympathy with one group (Brutus and Cassius or Marc Antony and Octavius Caesar) only to undermine that sympathy in the following scene (for discussion, see Hogan, How, 58–​61). The procedure tends to foster considerable ambivalence regarding the sides in the conflict. The point has thematic consequences insofar as it suggests that the nature of violence (e.g., in war) makes it virtually impossible to identify one side as simply right and the other as simply wrong in violent conflict. Indeed, that thematic concern is bound up with emotional ambivalence throughout Shakespeare’s heroic plays (thus at the authorial, rather than textual level), even if the treatment of ambivalence in other plays is not so regularized. 23 Note that, in this case, ambivalence about the story and storyworld suggests greater thematic consistency—​and insistence—​in the criticism of the ideology of war, not greater thematic ambivalence. In contrast with Shakespeare’s heroic plays, one of the hallmarks of melodramas of self-​sacrifice is that there is very little emotional ambivalence. Or, rather, there may be a great deal of ambivalence about the hero’s or heroine’s self-​sacrifice (self-​sacrifice being a common motif in melodrama; see Carroll, “Film,” 36). But there is no ambivalence about who is the hero and who is the villain. Indeed, our distress over the hero’s self-​inflicted suffering is due to our unequivocal sympathy with him or her and our relative dislike of at least some of those who will benefit from the sacrifice. For example, Guru Dutt’s Paper Flowers concerns a sympathetic protagonist who is driven to alcoholism by an unhappy marriage and unrequited love for another woman. Toward the end of the film, he conceals himself from his beloved daughter from whom he had been separated. He conceals himself—​despite his own attachment and longing—​at least in part to spare her the problems that might result from their reunion. It is a disturbing act, rendered all the more disturbing by the ways it will benefit the daughter’s (unsympathetic) mother. This combination of clear character preference and ambivalence about the actions of that preferred

Literary Style

character is not confined to Dutt’s film, but is a recurring characteristic of the style of the genre.

Function The final word we need to explain in the definition of style is “functional.” Again, style is a functional pattern of features that is distinctive for some scope and level. What does it mean to say that the pattern is functional? To say that a pattern in a work is functional is to say that it contributes to fulfilling the purposes of that work. Those purposes are the same as the external levels, since the external levels of style are themselves defined by the purposes of the work. The purposes are precisely what relate a work to a reader or readership. Thus, these purposes are a matter of fostering a certain understanding about the storyworld, story, or discourse; conveying thematic implications bearing on the real world; and/​or affecting recipients’ emotional response to the work.24 Given this relation between purposes and external levels, it is trivially true that distinctive patterns in external levels are functional. The key point here is that stylistic patterns of internal levels are functional also. That is not trivial and is therefore the more significant consequence of the definition. We may consider these purposes in sequence.25 UNDERSTANDING NARRATIVE

There are obvious and straightforward ways in which style bears on understanding. Indeed, many of the stylistic features we have considered already make a clear contribution to narrative comprehension. For example, Woolf ’s techniques of transitioning between internal focalizers serve this function. The shift to an external point of view on information shared by two focalizers takes us out of the initial focalizer’s mind, thus facilitating the following shift. The effect is reinforced when it is accompanied by the formal mark of a paragraph division. Consider again the following passage (3–​4): Peter Walsh . . . it was his sayings one remembered; his eyes, his pocket-​ knife, his smile, his grumpiness and, when millions of things had utterly vanished—​how strange it was!—​a few sayings like this about cabbages. She stiffened a little on the kerb, waiting for Durtnall’s van to pass. A charming woman, Scrope Purvis thought her . . . . It seems clear that the second sentence of the second paragraph has the following meaning:  Scrope Purvis saw Clarissa waiting at the kerb and thought that she was charming. (It is somewhat ambiguous whether he had the subvocalized thought “A charming woman” or the narrator verbalized Purvis’s non-​verbalized thought in this way.) This is confirmed at the end of the paragraph, when we read, “There she perched, never seeing him, waiting to cross”

57

58

Literature

(4). Contrast the following way that the passage might have appeared, without the stylistically characteristic transition:26 Peter Walsh . . . it was his sayings one remembered; his eyes, his pocket-​ knife, his smile, his grumpiness and, when millions of things had utterly vanished—​how strange it was!—​a few sayings like this about cabbages. A charming woman, Scrope Purvis thought her . . . . In this case, it would be perfectly possible to interpret the final sentence as an indirect representation of Clarissa’s thought—​roughly, “Scrope Purvis thinks I am a charming woman.” In other words, the representation of Purvis’s thought could be misunderstood as embedded in Clarissa’s reflections. Since Peter Walsh clearly thought Clarissa was charming, and Clarissa was presumably aware of this, it would hardly be impossible for Clarissa to move from thoughts about Peter to this thought about Purvis. Indeed, on the few occasions when Woolf, so to speak, economizes on her usual techniques, readers may be confused as to the nature of the focalization. For example, in the scene where Richard, Hugh, and Lady Bruton are composing a letter, Woolf moves between focalizers with limited shifts to external points of view and with little grammatical or textual marking. Consider the sentence (98): [Hugh’s fountain pen] was still in perfect order; he had shown it to the makers; there was no reason, they said, why it should ever wear out; which was somehow to Hugh’s credit, and to the credit of the sentiments which his pen expressed (so Richard Dalloway felt) as Hugh began carefully writing capital letters with rings round them in the margin, and thus marvellously reduced Lady Bruton’s tangles to sense, to grammar such as the editor of the Times, Lady Bruton felt, watching the marvellous transformation, must respect. The sentence begins with what is observable behavior by Hugh—​a story that he tells (about showing his pen to the makers) and is indirectly reported by the narrator. The sentence goes on to an internal thought of Richard, responding to the story. It shifts from there to an observable account of what Hugh writes. It then shifts to an internal thought of Lady Bruton’s. That internal thought involves her imagination of the impact of the letter on an editor. There is some ambiguity as to just who thinks Hugh has “marvellously reduced Lady Bruton’s tangles to sense,” though the most obvious candidate is Lady Bruton herself. (Lady Bruton has lamented her insufficiency at letter writing and she is apparently the one thinking that there has been a “marvellous transformation,” suggesting the initial use of “marvellously” was hers.) Here, we find a case of Woolf ’s usual technique, but in a reduced form that makes the demarcations in focalization less clear. We see this, for example, in Lisa Zunshine’s highly influential reading of the passage, where she takes it to involve multiple embeddings (31–​35).

Literary Style

As I  have just indicated, it does not seem that there is, in fact, much embedding in this scene. It is, rather, a case of the usual shifting focalization that characterizes Mrs. Dalloway generally. Nonetheless, Zunshine’s interpretation does get at something significant in the text. The clarity of the differentiation among focalizers is definitely reduced here. Crucially, that is in keeping with what is going on in the story. The scene represents an act of multiple authorship. Hugh is rewriting the ideas of Lady Bruton, presumably with the input of Richard Dalloway. In the final letter, the contributions of each will not be fully distinguishable. Again, this does not mean that the focalization is embedded. (Hugh is not thinking about Richatd’s inference regarding Lady Bruton’s imagination about the editor’s assessment, or whatever.) It does, however, suggest that Woolf may have used her technique of focalizer transition in nuanced ways. She could calibrate the narrative extent and grammatical distinctness of the “externalizations” (the shifts to information shared across focalizers). In doing so, she was able to modulate our sense of the separation or interconnection of the characters. It was, in consequence, possible for her to use the style to enhance understanding. The relation between Clarissa and Scrope Purvis is distant and not mutual (Clarissa does not see him). The relations among Hugh, Richard, and Lady Bruton are, at that moment, very closely interwoven as they collaborate on the letter. The style conveys this. Indeed, the fact that “marvellously reduc[ing] Lady Bruton’s tangles to sense” may at first seem to be Richard’s thought (rather than Lady Bruton’s) is consistent with the fact that both presumably express approval of what Hugh has done. Indeed, we might imagine one or both to have uttered the word “marvellous” regarding Hugh’s sentences. I suspect that both passages have their effects without self-​conscious inference. The point is simpler in the first case. The shift to Scrope Purvis as internal focalizer would seem to be enabled by the reader automatically simulating an external view of Clarissa pausing at the kerb. In other cases, the contribution of style to narrative understanding is likely to be ineffective if it is not self-​ consciously recognized. This is perhaps particularly the case with discourse understanding. (The stylistic function of understanding is usually—​and, perhaps in all cases, ultimately—​a matter of story and storyworld. However, it may also bear on aspects of discourse.) For example, the first part of David Lynch’s film Mulholland Drive has chronological narration, no consistent focalization (as it shifts among scenes where different characters are present), and apparently no internal focalization. The second part has non-​chronological narration, largely consistent focalization on one character (Diane), and access to Diane’s thoughts. Some relations between these two parts, including some sense of what is and what is not inside Diane’s thoughts, are likely to go unnoticed if viewers do not self-​consciously recognize the narrational difference and infer its significance, in general and at specific points (e.g., when the representation shifts from the current, external world to Diane’s memories).

59

60

Literature

It is also important to point out that style may not only have the function of facilitating understanding. It may operate to defer understanding. For example, in the second part of Mulholland Drive, Lynch cuts into Diane’s thoughts and memories without any clear marker that we are dealing with thoughts and memories. That lack of a signal (the opposite of the transitions among focalizers in Mrs. Dalloway) initially serves to obscure what is happening, thus to baffle understanding—​though viewers should soon be able to figure out that shifts are taking place between current experience and memory, for example. I  doubt that sowing confusion as such is ever the function of style. In such cases as Mulholland Drive, the actual function of obscuring understanding is probably the emotional one of fostering interest, a sense that there is something intriguing that one needs to figure out. In other cases, the function might be thematic—​bearing, for example, on what the work suggests about the comprehensibility of other people’s psychological states. CONVEYING THEMES

Theme requires relatively little separate analysis. Comprehending themes is broadly comparable to understanding stories and discourses. It is largely a matter of interpretation, if interpretation that goes from the storyworld to the real world. As the preceding comments on Mulholland Drive suggest, the thematic functions of style occur most obviously when they are recognized self-​consciously. As I have already noted, one aspect of the style of Bimal Roy’s film Sujata is that it establishes visual parallels between Sujata herself (e.g., her movements) and aspects of nature. This combines with some aspects of dialogue to suggest a thematic criticism of Untouchability. Viewers may encode these parallels without considering them self-​consciously. The parallels may contribute to story understanding in that case. For example, the parallel between Sujata’s twisting hand and a plant twisting in a storm may foster a greater, implicit understanding of her inner turmoil—​or of the intensity of that turmoil—​after she has learned that she was born an Untouchable. However, it seems unlikely that viewers would see the link with nature as suggesting the falsity of caste divisions (put simply, their unnatural character) if they have not considered the stylistic parallelism self-​consciously. On the other hand, thematic concerns need not be so cerebral and inferential. There are cases where one need not think explicitly about stylistic features for them to have consequences for our comprehension of themes. Consider the criticism of gender ideology in Mrs. Dalloway. This is not as straightforward or salient as the criticism of gender ideology in To the Lighthouse, nor is it necessarily best illuminated by reference to style. However, in both cases, the style does take us into the minds of the characters. As such, it exposes us to the effects of gender ideology in a way that more external characterizations may not. Those effects may encourage readers to question the ideology, and it

Literary Style

seems clear that readers do not need to reflect explicitly on style in order to engage in such questioning. Take, for example, Septimus’s joining the army: “Septimus was one of the first to volunteer. He went to France to save an England which consisted almost entirely of Shakespeare’s plays and Miss Isabel Pole in a green dress walking in a square” (84). The brief sentence encapsulates an aspect of Woolf ’s style that we have not considered. Part of her psychological technique in the novel involves building up a character’s memories, then alluding to those memories in such a way as to communicate the great force of his or her feelings without needing to spell out those feelings. Spelling out the feelings would eliminate their specificity by reducing them to common nouns, such as “love” or “admiration” (in the case of Septimus’s attitude toward Miss Pole). Of course, in some respects, this technique is common enough. It is merely refined and extended by Woolf. In this particular case, Woolf partially specifies the technique by, so to speak, suffusing the memories with attachment feelings—​and associated attachment bonds—​particularly, attachment bonds that are crucial to Septimus’s intellectual and social maturation. Miss Isabel Pole is Septimus’s first love and his great inspiration for learning and self-​cultivation. (A parallel point holds for Clarissa’s attachment to Sally.) More precisely, when we read about Septimus joining the army, we have already learned how he had left home and “flowered” (83) by reading Shakespeare and by writing poetry—​both under the guidance of Miss Isabel Pole. He exhibits the usual, attachment-​based tendency to idealize. He not only found her “beautiful” (a sentiment that goes along with attachment), but “believed her impeccably wise” (83). His feeling for Shakespeare is inseparable from this inspiring and improving attachment bond with Miss Pole. Having prepared us thus far, Woolf simply mentions a brief experience. We are left to understand its profound significance for Septimus. She explains that “he saw her, one summer evening, walking in a green dress in a square” (83). When the war comes, we learn what leads Septimus to join. It is a form of patriotism. But it is a patriotism that is rendered both ludicrous and deeply sympathetic by its provenance. Septimus does not love England, as such. He, rather, vaguely feels that—​as a man—​he must defend his beloved. He goes to fight in order to “save” someone who was not endangered, but whom he thought of with such tenderness that he absurdly expanded his feelings of attachment-​based protectiveness and care. Woolf does not mention gender here. But it is clear that, in volunteering, in affirming a sort of patriotism, Septimus was both following and belying gender ideology. He was following that ideology in “saving” his beloved, like the knight riding out to protect the damsel endangered by the dragon. At the same time, he was belying it in that his action was based on what is stereotypically a “feminine” bond, attachment, and a specific attachment, bound up with poetry and with a young woman’s

61

62

Literature

superiority as a teacher and guide. His (pseudo-​)patriotism was not angry and stereotypically masculine, but yielding and affectionate. Thus, even without mentioning gender, the passage may foster qualms in the reader—​not qualms about Septimus, but qualms about the entire idea of war, of patriotism, and of the gender norms that align with war and patriotism. This attitude is no doubt extended when we learn that, “in the trenches  .  .  .  he developed manliness” (84). Interestingly, Woolf introduces the idea, but does not elaborate on it; she does not explain what she means by saying that he developed manliness. Rather, she goes on to explore another attachment bond, that with his officer, Evans. Evans is “killed, just before the Armistice,” thus in what is presumably a particularly devastating way, a way that should have given rise to intensified grief because the tragedy was so close to being avoided.27 Yet, “far from showing any emotion or recognising that here was the end of a friendship,” Septimus “congratulated himself upon feeling very little and very reasonably” (84). Without saying it explicitly, Woolf has made clear what it means to have “developed manliness.” It means developing a pathology, as Septimus thinks later, that one “could not feel” (85). More precisely, it means that the fundamental relations of attachment, the relations that underlie joy and beauty, were somehow strangled, suffocated, before they could bring joy or beauty (“beauty was behind a pane of glass” [85]). A reader’s sense of this results in part from Woolf ’s stylistic technique of clustering associations—​especially attachment-​based associations—​then activating them in the reader. She often does this without explicit reference to the theme those associations so clearly surround. Even without any self-​ conscious evaluation of gender ideology broadly or manliness in particular, this technique has powerful thematic consequences. It is hard to imagine an attentive reader coming away from this passage not feeling that there is at least something amiss in the gender norm that adjures men to be emotionless—​ particularly, perhaps, with respect to attachment and such associated feelings as grief. In short, style may contribute to thematic comprehension in much the same ways it contributes to the understanding of story and discourse. It is more likely to operate through self-​conscious inference, as thematic understanding is presumably more likely to operate through such inference generally. But style may serve thematic functions implicitly as well. If style operates implicitly, it may involve one of a number of cognitive techniques, such as directing our attention to things we might not have noticed, increasing the likelihood that we will link two pieces of information or that we will distinguish two aspects of the narrative (e.g., the perspectives of different characters), aspects we might have been inclined to confuse otherwise. It may also operate by fostering emotional responses that lead us to question or modify our thoughts about and relations to the real world. This connection with emotion leads us to our final function.

Literary Style FOSTERING AND MODULATING EMOTION

Drawing on and extending the work of writers such as Tan, Sternberg, Plantinga (Moving), and others and developing the narratological isolation of levels, we may distinguish five varieties of emotion that enter literary works and that therefore may have bearing on style. The first is storyworld emotions. These are emotions about characters or conditions in the storyworld. The representation of character consciousness—​thought, experience, feeling—​has clear (if also variable) implications for our emotional response. Contrast, for example, the interior and exterior views of Septimus. Dr. Bradshaw has only the exterior view. From the outside, Septimus no doubt would seem sullen, uncooperative, and delusional—​someone rather too much like other cases that Bradshaw had examined. But we know Septimus from inside. We see his life pervaded by something very specific—​stifled grief over the loss of a friend and what is in effect a phobic reaction to attachment. At the same time, we see that he becomes deeply attached and dependent on attachment figures. For example, he needs Rezia to “hold his hand to prevent him from falling down, down . . . into the flames!” (65). We also know that these attachments may be profoundly insecure; when Rezia can no longer wear her wedding band because her hand is too thin, he thinks that “his wife had thrown away her wedding ring” and “left him” (66). Though the representation of interior states is by no means specific to Woolf, but is rather a supra-​individual style, she uses it particularly well to develop our emotional response to characters. Indeed, the tragedy of Septimus’s suicide is, in part, the fact that the reader has a keen sense of the subjectivity that is erased from the world with this death. The mention of Septimus’s suicide brings us to story emotions. Story emotions are our response to the events of a narrative. As Ed Tan has emphasized, this response involves a preferred outcome and a sense of how likely or unlikely that outcome is. More precisely, in prototypical stories, characters have goals that they pursue. We have emotions related to those goals and their likely fulfillment, with the likelihood of fulfillment changing as the story progresses. We also have more proximate responses to the intrinsic quality of particular events. A murder may be horrifying even if there is no prior narrative context that made us fear the event or hope that it would not occur. In addition, we have emotional responses to the character’s own emotional responses (e.g., we may know that the hero will triumph in the end, but still sympathize with his or her despair at a point where he or she sees no possibility of success). Clearly, story style is likely to bear on our story emotions. Thus, part of Woolf ’s manipulation of prototypical story structures has an emotional function. As already discussed, Woolf tacitly relies on readers’ familiarity with features of the romantic prototype. These features include the overpowering intensity of the lovers’ passion, which makes death appear to them as preferable

63

64

Literature

to separation; the almost transcendental connectedness of the lovers (which may on occasion be spoiled by jealousy), the suffering and bravery of their struggle against a prejudiced society out to destroy their bond, and so on. These points really do not apply at all to the “normal” love relations in the book. Clarissa does not choose overpowering passion, but something more like friendship (and a somewhat tepid form of friendship at that); Peter’s separation from Daisy seems a relief rather than a descent into Hell; neither Peter’s relation with Clarissa nor his relation with Daisy appears to inspire much more than discomfort from society. However, with Septimus and Rezia we see something like the prototypical features just mentioned. Though temporarily separated, in part by jealousy (recall how Septimus interprets Rezia not wearing her wedding band), the two show a remarkable attunement at the end, both anticipating and fearing the arrival of Bradshaw. We see this, for example, when the tiny Rezia tries to stand up against Holmes in order to protect Septimus, since she knows what he feels about Holmes’s visit. Moreover, we see that—​despite what he sometimes reflects—​life for Septimus is far worse than death if it means separation from Rezia. Thus, he kills himself rather than be parted—​like Romeo, Juliet, or the heroes of a Japanese love suicide tragedy. Thus, Woolf sets up an anti-​ prototypical, intrinsic norm of story style, only to violate it radically in the case of Septimus and Rezia (and, in a different way, Sally and Clarissa), by partially returning to a version of the extrinsic, social prototype. To my mind, this double violation significantly intensifies the emotional impact of the suicide and consequent separation. On the other hand, Woolf ’s story style is such that she never really gives us a prototypical instance. Rather, even the case of Septimus and Rezia violates extrinsic norms. In this case, one of the lovers has suffered severe attachment disturbance due to the loss of his friend Evans and his inability to grieve for that loss. In part as a result of that loss, Septimus’s attachment dependency on Rezia is not of the usual sort. It is not a dependency of joy, with separation being Hell because that joy is absent. Rather, Rezia is needed to hold his hand, to prevent his descent into Hell (65). The entire story is scaled back, like other love stories in the book. But in other cases (Richard and Clarissa or Peter and Daisy, for example), the prototypical grandeur of the love is missing. Here, it is still present. What has changed is the valence. With the other couples in the novel, the great ecstasy of love turns out to be not all that great; its loss appears not so terrible. In the case of Septimus and Rezia, too, there is no ecstasy. However, the alternative is truly devastating. For Septimus, attachment love is not Heaven. But it is the only force that counterbalances the terrors of Hell. This too has emotional (and probably thematic) functions. Again, beyond storyworld and story, we have the components of discourse—​ plot, narration, and verbalization/​ textualization. Emplotment involves the selection and organization of story information. In consequence,

Literary Style

it involves emotions related to selection and organization. These are, for the most part, versions of story or storyworld emotions. For example, we noted the importance of characters’ internal experience for our response to characters in Mrs. Dalloway. Our access to such experience is a function of emplotment, specifically Woolf ’s selection of just what she would present as part of the narrative. For Septimus, this selection includes visionary elements—​elements that constitute a sort of sublime verbal art—​as well as elements that are less like mystical experiences and more a matter of mere delusion. The thoughts represented by Woolf are sometimes “very beautiful,” as Rezia said of Septimus’s writings (144), but sometimes pathetic or comic. To make this stylistic pattern clearer, one might contrast Septimus with Joyce’s Leopold Bloom. Septimus would presumably have all the mundane varieties of thought that Joyce reports for Bloom—​for example, his reflections on his bowel movement. But Woolf ’s style of emplotment does not include these banalities. One aspect of emplotment stressed by narratologists is temporal order. In connection with this, many writers would follow Sternberg in isolating surprise, suspense, and curiosity as the distinctive emotions surrounding emplotment. Surprise is a function of the degree to which we anticipate an event along with the emotional significance of the event. (We would typically not say that we were surprised by a trivial occurrence, such as the hero stopping for a glass of water.) Altering the usual narratological usage, we may say that curiosity is an interest in a sequence of events for which we do not have a preferred outcome or for which the outcome is already well established.28 Suspense is our uncertainty regarding the outcome, relative to our preferences. The possibility of learning the outcome early indicates that the interest discussed by Tan (i.e., interest based on a preferred outcome) is, to some extent, a matter of emplotment (rather than story). For example, a story may begin with the ending, then use a flashback to recount the events that led to the ending. This will produce a different effect than a more fully chronological emplotment.29 Other temporal shufflings occur and have emotional consequences as well. For example, as noted briefly before, one prominent stylistic feature of some of Ozu’s films is ellipsis in which a main plot event is not shown directly, but skipped over and only reported later. This is in part a matter of selection (since we are never shown the relevant scene) and in part a matter of ordering (we are given the information, but out of chronological order). For example, in Equinox Flower, a father disapproves of his daughter’s marriage and may not attend the wedding. We do not see the wedding itself, but we learn later that he did attend. I take it that, in Ozu, the main function of this aspect of plot style is to modulate our emotional response, to render our response one of relief and mild pleasure, rather than teary sentimentality. (We will consider the issue in detail in ­chapter 6.) Emplotment style may affect many other sorts of emotional response as well. For instance, selection and organization may face the reader with a

65

66

Literature

steep trajectory of change from one emotional state to another, even when the story itself would involve a much more gradual alteration. Thus, in Hamlet, Shakespeare presents us with a fully mad Ophelia only a brief while after we saw her quite sane. Here the plot time has left out a great deal of story time. That story time presumably included the onset of Ophelia’s symptoms. Rather than being presented with several scenes of gradual change, however, the viewer is faced with a stark transformation. This leads most obviously to surprise, but more importantly it may enhance feelings of outrage and compassion, as we have not become habituated to Ophelia’s condition. Such plot compression is a stylistic device that occurs elsewhere in the play, most obviously with Hamlet’s appearance as mad and with Laertes’ rushing on the scene with murderous rage. Like plot emotion, narration emotion also has a sort of dual quality, in part inflecting story emotions and in part involving distinct discourse emotions. To the extent that the narrator is personified—​and there are different degrees to which a narrator may be personified—​he or she has properties that make him or her part of a storyworld and a story.30 This is not necessarily the main story, but at least some minimal world of persons and conditions. In this case, narration has the usual properties of storyworld and story emotion and stylistic techniques of narration have the functions of such emotion. A key point here is that narrators are usually to some degree personified. Specifically, they commonly have some specifiable, personal properties. For example, a narrator may express evaluative views regarding a character or situation (cf. Bordwell, Ozu, 52, on narrator “attitudes”), may verbalize the narration in a distinctive idiom, or may have a specifiable spatial location. These minimal personifications may entail little or no story involvement on the part of the narrator, but our emotional response to a narrator as a person is not entirely dependent on such involvement. For example, we may feel identification or antagonism with a narrator due to his or her dialect (such as a third-​person narrator’s Afrikaans-​ influenced diction in a South African novel). More exactly, we may distinguish degrees of restriction on the narrator, thus degrees to which he or she is limited in cognition (e.g., ability to draw certain sorts of inference), spatial perspective (e.g., describing a scene from a specific location), temporal knowledge (e.g., knowing or not knowing the future), or other aspects of information processing. We may also distinguish degrees to which the narration expresses moral, aesthetic, political, or other values explicitly or implicitly, and the degree to which it suggests emotional response. These and other factors contribute to the personification of a narrator, even when the narrator is anonymous and “extradiegetic” or third-​person. There are differences in first-​person narrators as well. Some first-​person narrators are less personified than others, though in this case it might be clearer to say that they are less individuated. Moreover, the storyworld surrounding even a first-​person narrator may be more or less elaborated. As Black notes, “Some

Literary Style

first-​person narrators seem unaware of an audience, or of the fact that they are narrating at all” (59). These and other stylistic choices in narration affect our emotional response. Our feelings about narrators tend to be limited. For example, our response to a narrator will typically not include a sense of goals, thus the sorts of hope or fear that Tan treats. (An obvious exception to this is in embedded narration, where the narrator is part of a frame story, as when Scheherazade is telling the stories of 1001 Nights to avoid being executed.) But, to the extent that we have a sense of personality, however minimal—​or even simple personhood—​we are likely to have at least the basic emotional responses that we ordinarily have to persons. The most obvious response of this sort is, roughly, liking or disliking. However, there is an emotional response that is perhaps even more fundamental than that. Our orienting, affective relation to other people may be one of trust versus distrust, which fosters or inhibits the development of liking or disliking. In real life, when a person is a stranger or is identified as an out-​group member, one’s response is generally one of distrust.31 That distrust renders the development of liking—​or even individualized disliking—​difficult. Our first response to a narrator—​with his or her presumptive authority for the story—​is probably a matter of trust, which may be lost, rather than distrust, which may be overcome.32 The key point, however, is that we are likely to have a fundamental emotional response to even the most minimally personified narrator and that emotional response is first of all a matter of some degree of trust (or distrust). The point is obviously relevant to the function of narration in a work or set of works. The narrator informs us about the storyworld and the story. Our trust in him or her modulates the way we take his or her emplotment and translate that into the story, thus the way we respond emotionally to the events (as we infer and simulate them), and the way we construe the thematic implications of the work for our relation to the real world outside the text. Narration in Mrs. Dalloway is in some ways very simple in this regard. Much of the book is stream of consciousness. Thus, the information we are given derives from highly personified sources—​Septimus, Rezia, Clarissa, and so on. In some cases, we modulate that information significantly, as when we discount Septimus’s visions. In other words, we very quickly distrust Septimus’s comments about the external world. Moreover, we sometimes have different characters recalling the same events. Though they are not delusional, we do not entirely trust the characters’ memories. Indeed, Woolf ’s narration style of floating internal focalization may enhance our distrust of any given character’s views of the external world, since the technique serves to make clear the diversity of character construals of that world. At the same time, we are likely to have more or less complete trust in the representation of the characters’ internal experience—​not in its accuracy regarding the external world, not even in characters’ self-​evaluations, but in the veracity of the representation that, at a given moment, a character is thinking and feeling just this and not something

67

68

Literature

else. The point is simply that stream of consciousness at least purports to be an accurate account of what is going on in a character’s mind at any given time and, it seems, we trust the overarching narration in that respect. On the other hand, in some ways the style of narration in Mrs. Dalloway is extremely complex. The complexity is due to the fact that we are not simply given a transcription of the focalizer’s thoughts. We may contrast the situation in Woolf ’s novel with that in the “Penelope” episode of Ulysses. In “Penelope,” we are presented with direct interior monologue. In other words, we are given a transcription of Molly’s subvocalized thoughts. The “narrator” here has only the function of reporting that subvocalization.33 In contrast, as we have seen, Woolf presents a range of interior thought, not confining herself to subvocalization, and she does so indirectly. In other words, the narrator has to present the thoughts of the characters partially in that narrator’s own words, since the character is not verbalizing the thoughts himself or herself. That indirect representation and verbalization mean that the narrator is in some degree changing what the character thinks. We are not given precisely what Peter Walsh dreams, for example, but what Peter Walsh dreams as construed by the narrator. This construal can in principle raise issues of trust or distrust, as well as more complex emotional responses to the narrator and to the characters represented by the narrator. Consider, for example, the ending (190). Sally is leaving to speak with Richard. We are not told that she leaves, but evidently she walks away. Here is what follows: “I will come,” said Peter, but he sat on for a moment. What is this terror? What is this ecstasy? he thought to himself. What is it that fills me with extraordinary excitement? It is Clarissa, he said. For there she was. The narrator presents the “said Peter” and “he sat on for a moment” as narratorial description of facts. The same holds for “he thought to himself ” and “he said.” “For there she was” is presumably the narrator as well. The questions, however, seem to be presented as subvocalizations, suggesting that Peter thought to himself, “What is this terror?,” etc. This, however, seems unlikely. It seems more plausible that we are to understand Peter as having vague feelings, which the narrator construes as “terror” and “ecstasy.” But it makes a difference whether Peter or the narrator interprets Peter’s feelings as, precisely, terror and ecstasy. The combination of these terms and the sudden appearance of Clarissa seem designed to suggest a theophany. This is, of course, not to say that it is literally a theophany. Rather, the suggestion is that the vague feelings Peter has are somehow akin to the feelings of terror and ecstasy that accompany a religious experience. But why? Is the narrator poking fun at Peter? Is Peter poking fun at himself? Does the narrator, or Peter, or the implied author wish us to

Literary Style

take this as a genuinely religious feeling? The questions are not simply interpretive; they bear on our emotional response as well, and they are in part a matter of the degree to which we trust the good faith and psychological acuity of the narrator (who is hardly personified at all). In some respects, this sacralization of Peter’s response to Clarissa is an instance of a broad stylistic technique in the novel, a technique that links “normal” characters with the delusions of Septimus. Septimus has mystic visions that transform ordinary events into transcendent experiences bearing divine revelations. Other characters have more limited—​and less sublime—​ experiences of the same sort. This includes, for example, Clarissa’s sense of being diffused as a mist among the trees (9)—​an idea echoed in Septimus’s thought that “trees were alive” and “the leaves [were] connected by millions of fibres with his own body” (22). This technique modifies our emotional response to all these characters, perhaps making Peter and Clarissa at bit more strange and ironic and Septimus a bit less so. This is a more complex emotional operation of narration style than simple trust versus distrust or skepticism. It includes a sense of irony and an ambiguity about the precise attitude of the narrator—​or even the implied author—​ to the sacralization of ordinary life, whether “sane” (as in Clarissa and Peter) or “delusional” (as in Septimus). The reader’s attitude here might develop into a feeling of something like complicity with the narrator, as the latter pokes gentle fun at Peter, or into a more critical feeling that, say, mystical sentiments should be treated with greater respect. Just as narration is integrated with storyworld and story (as well as plot and verbalization), so too the emotions of narration are extended and complicated by their relation to the real world and thus the thematic import of the work (e.g., what Woolf may be suggesting about religious feeling or mental illness). On the other hand, the most striking quality of narratorial representation here is not the possibility of irony. Indeed, that possibility seems to arise very rarely in the course of the novel. Perhaps the ending is not really ironic at all. Perhaps this is simply a case where Woolf and I have different judgments. She thought that Peter might subvocalize these questions, while I do not; she thought that Peter could really have an almost spiritual experience, whereas it seems to me overstated. His attachment bond with Clarissa is clearly very strong; in consequence, it might be imagined to have more of a spiritual quality than I am willing to countenance. Such an experience does seem broadly consistent with the sublimity of his feelings, even if it is (in my view) hyperbolic. In short, rather than irony, this might be a fault—​either in Woolf ’s development of the conclusion or, what is more likely, in my personal response to the passage (I have always felt that the ending of the novel does not quite succeed). In contrast, it seems fairly clear that narratorial construal in this novel has the function of aestheticizing the thoughts and experiences of the focalizers. Put simply, this is one of the most beautifully written books ever published.

69

70

Literature

But people’s thoughts are almost certainly not this beautiful (at least mine are not). The aesthetic value—​and the reader’s consequent aesthetic emotion—​ comes from the narrator’s intervention, his or her presentation of the interior experience (perceptions, memories, feelings) of the characters in partial independence of their own subvocalizations. Indeed, the differences between the novel’s interior monologue (thus the characters’ subvocalizations) and stream of consciousness (phrased by the narrator) is often striking. This brings us to verbalization. Clearly, in literature, the words—​or, more properly, the language (not only words, but sentences and larger segments of discourse)—​are the medium through which we have access to the plot and narration, which in turn mediate our relation to the story. Thus, language enables all the emotional functions we have considered to this point. In addition to representing, organizing, and construing, words also bring sets of associations that guide expectations, nudge us toward particular affective attitudes, orient attention, and produce a range of other effects. Thus, language both fosters and modulates our response to characters, our feelings about their goals, and so forth. In Woolf ’s novel, it is also the main way in which the narrator beautifies the thoughts of the focalizers. Again, one of the most striking stylistic patterns in Mrs. Dalloway is the verbal aestheticization of the stream of consciousness passages. The primary function of this aestheticization is straightforwardly emotional—​to produce aesthetic pleasure, the feeling of beauty or sublimity. There may be other emotional purposes as well. In some ways, Mrs. Dalloway is very classical in its aesthetics. Despite some close similarities between this novel and Joyce’s Ulysses, for example, it seems clear that Woolf has no interest in depicting the sordid realities of life. She wants the reader to recognize human pain and to oppose that pain, insofar as it is a result of social error (as in the case of war or then-​ contemporary psychiatric practice). But she does not wish to provoke disgust by reminding us of our animal nature (as Nussbaum would put it [205–​206 and  221]). Like Woolf, Joyce has a stunning command of language. But, in much of Ulysses, at least, he uses that command differently. Woolf elevates normalcy, purifies it, turns it into exquisite, shimmering, poetical prose. She does not remind us of bowel movements or mucus. In addition to its direct emotional effects, Woolf ’s stylistic aestheticization of stream of consciousness modulates her presentation of other emotions.34 Consider, for example, Clarissa’s hatred of Miss Kilman. This could have produced an extremely aversive response on the part of readers. However, Woolf qualifies this by giving it a sort of sublimity—​in part through the concrete imagery and metaphor, in part through the harsh, but aesthetically patterned sounds of the verbalization: “It rasped her, though, to have stirring about in her this brutal monster! To hear twigs cracking and feel hooves planted down in the depths of that leaf-​encumbered forest, the soul” (12). In combination with Clarissa’s self-​criticism for this hatred, the aestheticization would seem

Literary Style

to reduce the degree to which a reader is likely to condemn Clarissa for these unkind feelings. Put differently, the sublimity of their expression makes them less aversive (at least speaking for myself). The narrator’s aestheticism makes Clarissa a poet—​just as it makes Septimus a poet, and a mystic. Of course, aesthetic pleasure is not confined to verbalization. Emplotment can foster a sense of beauty or sublimity, as can narration; stories can be beautiful; characters may be sublime. Thus, any stylistic feature at any level may have an aesthetic function. But the aesthetic import of verbalization is often particularly salient.

Conclusion An affective-​cognitive stylistics sets out to isolate a form of style that is open to systematic psychological description and explanation in terms of the mind’s information processing (or cognition) and motivational systems (or emotions). In connection with this, I  defined style as a functional pattern of response-​ relevant features that is distinctive for some scope and level, with functionality determined by authorial, receptive intent. (We may say that the authorial receptive intent is successful insofar as it converges with the experiences of other readers—​for example, when readers find a passage comic in the way the author receptively imagined.) Distinctive patterns are recurring features that do not conform to extrinsic norms or the prototypical ways of writing at any given level. Such extrinsic norms commonly form hierarchies. For example, the norms of a genre in a given period or literary movement commonly vary the norms of that genre more generally. Intrinsic norms are the norms established for a particular target (e.g., a passage, a work, or a genre) in contradistinction from the more encompassing, extrinsic norms. Thus, the intrinsic norms of a particular work might vary the extrinsic norms of the encompassing genre. Both extrinsic and intrinsic norms may have primary or default cases and prominent alternatives. The scope of style ranges from short passages to sections, single works, authorial canons or parts of canons, up through supra-​individual categories such as movements or literary periods. The levels may be internal or external. Internal narrative levels are storyworld, story, narration, plot, verbalization, and textualization. Key external levels are as follows: 1) (story or discourse) information, which defines the degree of indeterminacy or “profile of ambiguity” in a work; 2) theme, which defines the insistence and consistency of a work’s real-​world admonitions (usually ethical or political)—​what might be called the “profile of commitment”; and 3) emotion, thus the work’s “profile of ambivalence.” The functions of style are the purposes served by stylistic patterns. Though there are many purposes a stylistic feature may have in a given case (e.g.,

71

72

Literature

evading censorship), three functions are prominent. These are, first, conveying information about storyworld, story, or discourse; second, communicating themes; and, third, eliciting or modulating emotions. The different levels of narrative are in part characterized by different emotions, such as trust or distrust in the case of narration and suspense in the case of plot. Cognition and emotion are to be found only in the people who write and read literature (not in, say, texts). Thus, our concern in affective-​cognitive stylistics is with people. There are many different people who might be relevant to stylistic analysis. However, we are most often fundamentally concerned with the author. But the author’s cognition and emotion involve a wide range of attitudes, aims, and associations, changing at different times and in different contexts. Simplifying, we may divide these into productive psychology (linked with the author’s initial impulses and associations) and receptive psychology. Receptive psychology is the author’s simulation of a reader’s response to his or her work; it occurs in the process of revision and involves the author’s intuitive judgment that the work will or will not produce the effect he or she desires. It is this simulating, receptive author that is most clearly significant for an affective-​cognitive account of style.

2

Story Structure SHAKESPEARE AND THE INTEGRATION OF GENRES

As noted briefly in the introduction, the analysis of literary style is, in practice, largely a matter of examining what Peter Stockwell calls the “verbal texture” of individual works (Texture). Similarly, the analysis of film style is primarily concerned with the visual and to a lesser extent aural features of a work—​ camera movement, lighting, the use of music, and so on. Thus, style is often tacitly limited to what we might think of as the most “surface” aspect of a work, the medium of contact.1 This is verbal in literature, visual and aural in film. We may refer to this as the “textual manifestation” or, more broadly, “perceptual interface.” This is clearly important. It is the part of the work that we encounter most directly, the basis on which we understand other aspects of the work, such as the story. Thus, I am by no means critical of writers who choose to focus on, for example, verbalization. However, as discussed in the preceding chapter, the psychological properties and processes that define style come into play no less importantly at other levels. In this and the following chapter, then, I will consider two other levels of style—​story and narration. Specifically, in this chapter, we will look at the relation of authorial style to story genre, examining some of the ways in which William Shakespeare combined different cross-​cultural genres to produce his own story style.

What Is Genre? Again, stylistic analysis involves isolating distinctive features of the target—​the passage, work, canon, or whatever. As such, it will necessarily make reference to larger categories to which the target belongs, as these define the comparison set in relation to which the target may be understood as distinctive. The distinctive character of Romeo and Juliet cannot be given solely in terms of lovers encountering social opposition that separates them, leading to their deaths, as

Style in Narrative. Patrick Colm Hogan, Oxford University Press (2021). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197539576.001.0001

74

Literature

this is a standard structure in romantic tragedies. As this example indicates, the categories at issue in stylistic analysis prominently include genre. There are two ways in which such categories enter into stylistic analysis. First, an articulation of the target’s overall style will include reference to the prototypical features shared by the target and the genre. A stylistic analysis of, say, the story of Romeo and Juliet (the target) will include the prototypical features of romantic tragedy (the genre), since the patterns of that play include those romantic elements (along with other aspects of the work). That overlap is, after all, what makes the play an instance of the category. Second, and more importantly, stylistic analysis of a target includes the ways in which the target varies standard elements of the category. For example, I have argued elsewhere2 that a given work will result from development principles—​more precisely, specification and alteration principles—​operating on prototypical genre structures. Prototypical genres are abstract. Any given work will necessarily particularize the genre structure. For example, Romeo and Juliet does not simply involve a generic pair of lovers and generic social impediments to their union. It presents us with the individualized characters, Romeo and Juliet, with their particular attitudes and histories, the Montague-​ Capulet feud, and other specifics. In addition, a given story will often to some extent alter the prototypical trajectory of events or the prototypical character properties and relations. For example, some of Shakespeare’s heroic plays change the prototypical heroic structure in a stylistically distinctive way by associating the apparent hero with the invading enemy—​as when Coriolanus joins the Volscians, Lear and Cordelia are part of the French forces, MacDuff and Malcolm work with England to invade Scotland, or (in an attenuated form) Hamlet gives his “voice” to Fortinbras (V.ii.298). This leads us to the question of just what constitutes genre. There has obviously been a great deal of discussion of this topic in literary study. Different writers on genre of course agree that genre is fundamentally a way of “grouping texts together on the basis of certain shared features,” as Heta Pyrhönen put it (109). However, there are different ways of approaching the definition of genre, and theorists are rarely clear about these differences. First of all, as with style, we may define genres by reference to any narrative “level”—​narration, emplotment, story, and so on. Thus, we might distinguish works in verse and works in prose as two genres of verbal style. Regarding emplotment, we may distinguish chronologically ordered works from works that employ anachrony. Probably the most common sorts of genre divisions refer to story structures. To discuss story genres, we need to begin with a sense of what stories are. Minimally, a story is a particular causal sequence. It should also be non-​ habitual. “The sun rose this morning” is not a story, or not a very good example of a story, because it is an entirely habitual sequence of events. The non-​habitual character of story sequences is a desideratum for stories, so that

Story Structure

they inspire interest in recipients (listeners, readers, viewers). “The sun rose” is unlikely to inspire interest. To inspire interest, the story must engage our emotions and/​or have consequences for our real lives. In other words, it must fulfill at least one of the Horatian criteria for good literature; it must entertain (or otherwise elicit our emotional response) or teach. Most often, both the emotional and thematic value of a story are furthered by having a specific sort of causal sequence, one that concerns matters of significance in human life. “I went to bed late last night” may not be habitual, but it is not a very good case of a story, in part because it does not (apparently) treat matters of significance. In the great majority of cases, the story will address the topic of significance through the interests and actions of characters. Specifically, stories most often set out a goal that a protagonist pursues with more or less success. A prototypical story therefore involves a causal sequence of actions and events in which a protagonist tries to achieve some particular aim, such as uniting with his or her beloved. Moreover, the protagonist’s and reader’s emotional engagements are commonly enhanced by complications in the course of the goal pursuit, particularly the existence of obstacles to goal attainment. The story most often ends when the protagonist achieves the goal or when that achievement becomes impossible. Given this account of story, we may define story genres by reference to any component of the story structure. For example, the two common endings—​ where the protagonist achieves the goal and where he or she finds the goal unattainable—​define the genres of comedy and tragedy. The development of themes may yield works of “pure entertainment” (with no thematic concerns), didactic works (with insistent, perhaps obtrusive thematic developments), Marxist or Christian works, and so on. The quality of our emotional engagement with that work will define a work as a melodrama (enduring and intensifying sorrow), farce (repeated mirth), as well as tragedy and comedy when these are defined by audience response to the ending rather than by the protagonist’s goal pursuit. Other genres are defined by character types, such as ghost stories (which obviously involve ghosts) or myths (which involve deities). The conditions of goal pursuit are central to adventure stories. The means of overcoming obstacles suggest genres ranging from providential comedy to “self-​made man” stories. These points would seem to suggest that there is great variation in genre. The idea is almost commonplace today. For example, one current approach understands genres as highly variable clusters of features (see, for example, McDonald, 38). In that account, the variability of such clusters means that individual works in a genre share only “family resemblances,” as Mowat puts it. The recognition of variability is important. Indeed, I  have argued that genres are best understood in terms of prototypes, rather than necessary and sufficient conditions (see, for example, the discussion of prototypical story structures in The Mind and Affective). But prototypes are more hierarchically

75

76

Literature

structured than mere family resemblances. They do not simply involve an unordered series of features that may or may not be shared across instances. A prototype is, rather, a sort of average case for a given category. Instances of a category may be roughly ranked in terms of the degree to which they approximate the prototype. Our sense that genres vary widely is in part the result of approaching the study of genre through what we might call unrestrained induction. We see that text a resembles text b in certain respects; b resembles c in some of the same ways as well as some other ways, and so on. Rather than proceeding with such a wide-​ranging search for resemblances, we are better advised to focus on particular types of features. When considered through unrestrained induction, a given set of works is likely to share many properties of different types. Thus, we find that Shakespearean romances involve a heterogeneous set of features, from family separation to travel in alien environments. Such concatenations of properties are likely to make us feel that genres are more or less random collocations of elements, produced by historical accident, and exhibiting only family resemblances. However, an approach of this sort commonly fails to recognize the way sub-​clusters of properties recur in more comprehensible patterns. A more revealing analysis of genre—​one that is more likely to lead us to explanatory insights—​involves distinguishing which patterns are most significant. One way of going about this sort of analysis is by seeking to determine which types of genre have psychological prominence, which is to say, which are most likely to play a central role in our creation and reception of stories, not only our fictional simulations, but our narrativization of real-​life experiences, in for example history. (The use of story genres to organize historical understanding has been an important topic of research since Hayden White’s Metahistory.) In The Mind and Its Stories and Affective Narratology, I have argued that particular sorts of story structure recur with great frequency across genetically and areally distinct traditions of literature and orature (i.e., traditions that have separate origins and that have not interacted substantially). In Understanding Nationalism and Imagining Kashmir, I have argued that these structures have profound consequences for our thought about political topics—​nationalism, war, and so forth. These story universals are the most obvious candidates for taking up a fundamental role in genre analysis, as their cross-​cultural recurrence and their presence in fiction and non-​fiction indicate their psychological importance. These story universals begin with the goal of the protagonist’s pursuit and the relation of that pursuit to the recipient’s (e.g., the reader’s or audience member’s) emotional experience. Specifically, the theory of these story universals maintains that agents, whether real or fictional, pursue goals generally because they believe that achieving those goals will bring happiness. Happiness results from the satisfaction of some motivational impulse, thus

Story Structure

some goal-​defining emotion system. In consequence, the types of happiness goals are a function of emotion systems, either separately or together. Emotion systems include sexual desire, attachment (or bonding), pride, guilt, anger, fear, shame, and others. One’s happiness goals may therefore be defined by any of these systems. For example, sexual desire combines with attachment in romantic love. Romantic love, in turn, defines a happiness goal of union with the beloved. Pride may be individual or social, thus in the latter case a matter of some in-​group (familial, ethnic, religious, national, or whatever). Pride, whether individual or social, commonly involves goals of social prestige and authority. Thus, the pursuit of pride-​related happiness is likely to produce stories treating the pursuit of social prestige and authority, for the individual and/​or for his or her in-​group. The theory of genre universals goes on to claim that the emotional function of storytelling is largely a matter of guiding and enhancing the recipient’s emotional response to character goals and goal pursuit. This response is most often empathic, and thus parallel with that of the protagonist. In other words, in the typical story, the recipient (e.g., the reader) feels empathy with the protagonist and thus hopes for his or her achievement of the goal. Ordinary processes of emotional experience and the intensification of such experience organize the prototypical trajectory of the protagonist’s goal pursuit. For example, change in hedonic value will typically enhance the outcome emotion.3 If we learn that Jane and John are in love, it is nice to hear that they get married. We are more intensely pleased by the marriage, however, if they first encountered social opposition, were forcibly separated, and seemed destined to live miserable lives of mutual isolation. In story development, then, emotion intensification principles are applied to the pursuit of goals defined by emotion systems. The result is a set of prototypical story patterns that recur cross-​culturally and that are arguably the most important kinds of story structure. The most common genres are romantic, heroic, sacrificial, and familial, with seduction, criminal investigation, and revenge genres turning up in different traditions, but less commonly. Very briefly, the romantic plot involves lovers separated due to social divisions, often enforced by parents. The separation commonly includes exile and suggestions or imagery of death, before the lovers are reunited. (For all the genres, I will outline the comic version; tragic versions are in effect failed or shortened variations on the comic versions.) The romantic plot often develops a love triangle subplot as well, in which a socially preferred rival seeks to take the place of one of the lovers. The heroic genre principally concerns pride and has individual and social trajectories. The individual trajectory prototypically depicts a social leader who is illegitimately displaced from his or her position by a rival (commonly a family member) and often exiled. The social trajectory prototypically portrays the in-​group’s loss of autonomy through domination by an out-​group (e.g., a foreign nation that conquers the home society). The displaced leader may then

77

78

Literature

rally the home society to defeat the out-​group, restoring his or her individual status and that of the in-​group. The sacrificial story treats guilt and reparation. A  representative figure of the in-​group (e.g., a political leader) or members of the in-​group generally have violated some moral law, often due to seduction by some out-​group member. The result is social devastation (e.g., famine). To restore social well-​ being, the guilty parties must be purged from the society and/​or an innocent in-​group representative must be sacrificed. The familial narrative concerns attachment and treats the separation and reunion of parents and children. The separation may be due to parental neglect, filial disloyalty, or parental self-​sacrifice for the good of the child. The seduction narrative treats sexual desire. Prototypically, it involves a man seducing a woman and abandoning her, her pursuit, and their eventual marriage or death. Revenge narratives develop the goals of the anger system. Prototypically, the protagonist has suffered some attachment loss, due to the murder of a family member or sexual betrayal. He or she seeks to punish the perpetrator, often mistaking the culprit or accidentally harming innocents in the process. The criminal investigation genre often begins with the same sort of situation that we find in revenge stories. However, it shifts the motivation from egocentric anger to moral feeling (and perhaps empathy) on the part of a personally uninvolved representative of the state (e.g., a police detective or a judge). One could say a great deal more about each of these genres. But this should be enough to make clear their basic elements and sequence. Again, the nature of emotion systems and the principles of emotion intensification yield generative principles for the main features of these genres.4 In consequence, there is something fundamental to the genres that is not simply a random accretion of properties. Again, these are not necessary and sufficient conditions. Particular works may be more or less good cases of a given genre. But we are not faced with greatly diffuse family resemblances. The view of genres as defined by prototypes allows for diversity of manifestation, while establishing some properties as more central or definitive than others. One result of the last point is that the historical contingencies of genre become less important. Heroic plots in the English Renaissance undoubtedly had certain features that differed from heroic plots in, say, fourteenth-​century China, features relating to historical differences (e.g., differences between the War of the Roses and the Three Kingdoms period). But the psychologically definitive features are likely to be much more similar. Indeed, the generative principles of these genres allow romantic, heroic, sacrificial, familial, seduction, revenge, and criminal investigation plots to have psychological reality and availability even if one or another of these genres is not current in the literary milieu of a given author. The consequences of this are important. Consider a parallel case from formal principles of poetic composition. Paul Kiparsky has argued that poetic practices are not simply limited

Story Structure

to the features or rules that are current in an author’s language. In some cases, they are limited only by the features and rules of universal grammar. For example, Kiparsky explains that “because the category of syllable onset is defined in universal grammar, words with identical syllable onsets are recognized as an equivalence class (i.e. they alliterate) whether or not the grammar of the language happens to contain rules referring to syllable onsets” (192). In our terms, we have the relevant encoding sensitivity, whether or not that sensitivity operates in our particular language. A parallel point would seem to apply to story genre. The genres generated by emotion systems and principles of emotion intensification should be available to an author or recipient, even if those genres have little or no salience in that author’s or recipient’s literary environment. One consequence of these points is that the mere statistical correlation of genre features at a given time and place (e.g., the English Renaissance) does not constrain genre effects on individual works at that time and place. The point holds a fortiori for ideas about genre current at the author’s or recipient’s time. For example, Orgel is undoubtedly correct in noting “how fluid the concept of genre was for Shakespeare’s age” (6). But the explicit or self-​conscious concept of genre has only limited consequences for the author’s creation of a work or a recipient’s processing of the work; it is the (at least partially implicit) prototypes for genres—​especially the psychologically consequential, universal prototypes and their emotion-​based, generative principles—​that are fundamental for both production and reception.

Genre Integration and Shakespeare’s Story Style In How Authors’ Minds Make Stories, I have argued that Shakespeare developed heroic stories in distinctive ways—​including, for example, the tragic hero’s support of the invading forces, as mentioned earlier; these define a Shakespearean heroic story style. In other words, many of his plays are best understood as involving heroic stories in the sense just outlined. These stories are, however, not merely generic. They are particularized. That particularization involves both specification and alteration of prototypical features. As one would expect, these processes of specification and alteration exhibit recurring properties across Shakespeare’s heroic works, defining a Shakespearean story style for those works. It is possible to do the same sort of analysis for Shakespeare’s romantic works, and perhaps for works in other genres as well, such as familial separation and reunion stories, which we find recurrently in the later plays. Mentioning “works in other genres,” however, raises an issue with such analyses. At least one important feature of Shakespeare’s story development is not captured by this focus on single genres. That is genre mixing.5 Various

79

80

Literature

story genres occur in Shakespeare’s canon. In many works, one genre clearly dominates. In some works, however, it may be more difficult to settle on a primary genre, with other genres entering in a secondary or tertiary role. For example, Hamlet is widely seen as a revenge tragedy. But it is equally a heroic, usurpation story and arguably in part a criminal investigation story. Moreover, even in the case of works with a predominant genre, the story style is often greatly affected by the other genres involved and the precise ways in which they are interrelated. Indeed, it seems wrong to refer to the mere “mixing” of genres in Shakespeare’s works. One of the stylistic features of those works is that genres are integrated with one another in such a way as to form plot sequences that are simultaneously heroic and familial or romantic and sacrificial. Many authors mix genres. For example, a Hollywood film might include both a heroic and a romantic story. But the degree of integration of the genres varies considerably. The simplest way of combining genres is through merely adding plots and subplots. These may be so distinct that they share only peripheral characters. This is what we often find in, for example, “network narratives,” as discussed by David Bordwell (see chapter seven of Poetics), when these parallel narratives are in different genres. More common forms of linking involve giving important roles to the same characters in different story sequences. For example, in a film about a war that also includes a romance story, the main protagonist of the heroic story may be the same as one of the main protagonists of the romantic story. Often, Shakespeare’s works involve a more thorough integration.6 Shakespeare does not simply identify characters in one story sequence with characters in another story sequence—​having, say, the lover in a romantic story also serve as the defender of the nation in a separate, heroic story. Rather, he identifies causally important events in one story with causally important events in another story. For example, in King Lear, the main plot involves a complex heroic usurpation sequence (with Goneril, Regan, and Cornwall usurping the throne) as well as a version of familial separation (with the disowning of Cordelia). It fuses the familial reunion with the (failed) restoration of the usurped ruler, as well as other elements of the two genres. This sort of subtle and complex integration of genres recurs in Shakespeare’s work, defining one characteristic of his story style (albeit one that is not wholly unique). It also begins to suggest how we might think about genre integration more generally.7 Genre integration is of course part of the creation of particular works. The process of creation may be understood as involving a set of operations on pre-​existing structures, prominently including those of genre. To isolate the operations, we need to consider the differences between the structures and the particular works. Again, structures are abstract, while works are particular; thus, structures must be specified. Structures are also elliptical. Much of what links one part of a story with another is undefined in the prototype.

Story Structure

Thus, prototypes need to be completed. The structures are prototypical; thus, they are not restricted to a set of necessary and sufficient conditions. This does not require that the structures be varied, but it does allow for such variation. Finally, one prototype-​based sequence may always be linked with another through embedding or interpolation; thus, it may be extended through the incorporation of other prototype-​based sequences, or indeed structures defined by rules (thus necessary and sufficient conditions) or exemplars (instances) rather than prototypes. For example, two lovers may be separated by a war in which the lover has to serve, such that the love story is in part developed by the heroic story. (Note that this is different from having two parallel plots, even if the two plots have overlapping characters.) These various processes produce an individual work from prior structures. That production is not random. Like any other cognitive and affective processes, these are patterned, thus part of style. As already noted, I have elsewhere used the phrase “development principles” to refer to the generative regularities that guide the production of particular works from prototypes, prominently the universal story prototypes. In that work, I distinguished alteration principles from specification principles, using “specification principles” very broadly. In light of the preceding observations, we might distinguish not only alteration principles (which change prototypical elements) and specification principles (which particularize abstract features), but also completion principles (which fill ellipses) and extension principles (which embed one structure in another). These processes all involve bringing together information from different sources. For example, locating a love story in Verona (a matter of both specification and completion) involves bringing together the romantic prototype with one’s ideas about cities, about Italy, perhaps about Verona in particular. In some cases, the information is a matter of other genres. Though genre integration is most obviously a case of extension, it may contribute to alteration, specification, or completion as well.8 Genres have elements that are similar or parallel; for example, many genres involve the exile of the hero. Genres also have elements that are different, either contingently or necessarily. For example, some aspects of romantic union (courting and marriage) are necessarily different from what we find in parent-​child or sibling familial reunion; when those differences are not respected, conflicts result (as in Oedipus the King). Finally, one genre may have elements that simply do not correlate with prototypical elements in another genre. For example, there does not seem to be a parallel to the love triangle conflict in the sacrificial prototype. Genre integration may begin with some preliminary mapping of the genres onto one another. This allows the possibility of parallel elements being combined. For example, the romantic and heroic prototypes both involve exile. A particular story combining the two might make the exile of the usurped political leader simultaneously into an exile of the lover from the beloved. The

81

82

Literature

mapping may also suggest ways of completing, extending, or altering each structure in light of the other. As the discussion of the functions of style suggests, a key part of genre integration is making the various integrated elements work together emotionally and thematically. The former is perhaps especially important and difficult. Specifically, the author needs to resolve three possible problems that might result from genre integration. The first and most obvious problem is inconsistency in the story itself, thus logical or causal inconsistency. The multi-​ genre work must be causally comprehensible; the resulting story must make sense in terms of character motivation, action, conjunctions of events, and so forth. The same point holds for thematic consistency. Different genres sometimes have incompatible thematic orientations. For example, heroic and romantic emplotments are often contradictory in their treatment of nationalism and other identity-​related concerns (as I  have discussed in Understanding Nationalism). Specifically, heroic works tend to affirm social identity categories (opposing the home society to the aggressive enemy), while romantic works tend to criticize such categories (as they separate the lovers). The final problem is that the author needs to reconcile the different emotions involved in the integrated genres. An author’s emotional task is always to some extent a matter of managing ambivalence (see my How, 42). That task may become particularly complex when different genres are involved. For example, genre-​based conflict makes some of Shakespeare’s problem comedies problematic, as these often combine romantic and seduction prototypes. Finally, it is important to remark on one further aspect of genre integration. I have noted that authors and recipients both have structural expectations about stories. In other words, both think about stories in part through genre prototypes. It is important to add that characters do something along these lines as well. One genre may be embedded in another at the level of the storyworld, thus what “really happens” in the fiction. But one genre may equally be embedded in some intentional or simulated world of a character. Indeed, this sort of embedding is important in Shakespeare’s works. For example, there is no love triangle in the storyworld of Othello, but there is a love triangle in Othello’s imagination or construal of that storyworld. Thus, there are different levels of intentionality at which genres may be integrated.

Romeo and Juliet A useful example of genre integration may be found in one of Shakespeare’s most successful works, Romeo and Juliet. This is a highly prototypical romantic tragedy; thus, unlike some of Shakespeare’s plays, Romeo and Juliet is fundamentally defined by one genre. It involves two lovers who are separated due to social identity conflict; that conflict is, in the usual way, intensified by the

Story Structure

involvement of the lovers’ parents and their preference for a rival (Paris); the parents’ preference gives rise to a love triangle plot; the separation is manifest in the exile of one of the lovers; the middle of the story involves false rumors of one lover’s death. Of course, Romeo and Juliet alters that fundamental genre prototype. First, the play is not a tragi-​comedy, but a tragedy. This is not in itself a surprising alteration. Indeed, it is a standard variation. But what is interesting here is that it takes up elements of the comic version that would not ordinarily appear in a tragic version. Specifically, it does not simply transform the apparent deaths of the lovers—​the miscommunication that one of the lovers has died or the imagery of death—​into real demise. That is, after all, the obvious way of making the tragi-​comedy into a tragedy. Instead, it maintains the false death, making it precipitate the real suicides. Indeed, it takes up a specific form of the false death motif, one that Shakespeare himself used elsewhere in his works—​the strategic misrepresentation of the lover’s death, which we find (used in different ways) in Much Ado About Nothing, A Winter’s Tale, All’s Well That Ends Well, and Two Gentlemen of Verona. Rather than a mere shortening of tragi-​ comedy into tragedy, this is in effect a fusing of the comic and tragic forms. In other words, this is a sort of genre integration, though in this case the integrated genres (or, here, versions of genres) are both romantic. Another striking alteration in the prototypical form of the story is that the lovers keep their love hidden from their families and the larger society. This is important because, in the standard form of the romantic story, conflict with parents is caused by the lovers’ announcement of their feelings and intentions. In Romeo and Juliet, however, that conflict—​and the associated love triangle—​ must develop in the absence of public knowledge about Romeo and Juliet’s bond. Finally, the marriage itself takes place before the parental conflict and the love triangle begin, rather than after they have been resolved. This is, of course, related to the secrecy of the lovers’ relations. There are many possible sources for the secrecy here. Simulation—​that is, our capacity to imagine non-​actual situations and trajectories of events—​ enables us to vary features of causal sequences in order to evaluate possibilities. In keeping with this, we may vary our imagination concerning the course of forbidden love by shifting from public to concealed love. Nonetheless, there is commonly some particular source for imagining alternative trajectories. We alter variables for a reason, not merely at random. Here, the transformation appears to rely tacitly on the seduction prototype. That prototype commonly involves a man deceiving a woman, pretending that his feelings involve genuine and enduring love that will lead to lifelong commitment, but then abandoning her after seduction; in some cases, there is coercion rather than seduction, with the same abandonment. In any case, the relation of the two people is usually concealed, as this enables the abandonment. This plot is often part of Shakespeare’s imagination of the romantic

83

84

Literature

genre. Variations on it figure in such works as Measure for Measure, All’s Well That Ends Well, and Two Gentlemen of Verona. Indeed, as the preceding list indicates, it contributes to making some works into “problem comedies.” Measure for Measure and All’s Well That Ends Well are problematic because we cannot really hope for the union of the lovers; this is due in part to the fact that the man is quite dislikeable as he is not a lover but a seducer or a rapist. The seduction plot seems to be part of what we might call the “cognitive background” of Romeo and Juliet. It is suggested in Romeo’s relation to Rosaline. He laments her chastity and regrets the fact that she will not “ope her lap to saint-​seducing gold” (I.i.207). Though elevated by a classical allusion, this primarily means that Romeo was trying to prostitute, thus seduce Rosaline. Though spoken in the context of Romeo’s feelings for Juliet, Friar Lawrence’s later admonition about “violent delights” applies more obviously here. Specifically, Friar Lawrence says that “violent delights have violent ends” (II.v.9). My students take this to mean that Romeo and Juliet are wrong to fall in love, since love leads to one’s own destruction; indeed, some take this to suggest that the parents of Romeo and Juliet are right. But the friar explains his meaning. The point is that impetuous desires will dissipate quickly, once they are satisfied. As the friar goes on to explain, these delights “in their triumph die like fire and powder” (II.v.9). He opposes such temporary feelings to love that is “Long” (II.v.14) or enduring. In other words, the caution put forth by the friar is that impetuous desire risks being ephemeral. This is clearly the situation of Romeo and Rosaline. His feelings for her were not enduring, but faded as soon as he saw Juliet. Had he succeeded in his appeal to Rosaline, theirs would have been a seduction story, not a romantic story. Moreover, Juliet has this story structure in mind when she encounters Romeo under her window. She responds peevishly to his appeal for “satisfaction” (II.i.167), which he protests is not an appeal for sexual favors but for an affirmation of feelings. She goes on to articulate what is in effect a hope that this is a romantic story rather than a seduction story, calling out to him, “If that thy bent of love be honorable,/​Thy purpose marriage” (II.i.185–​186). Here we find the seduction prototype operating in a character’s simulations. But its presence in a character’s imagination only serves to enhance the author’s and recipient’s inclination to think more generally in terms of that structure, again establishing the seduction genre as a background for the play. Finally, the next day’s pursuit of Romeo by Juliet’s nurse, and the vulgar mockery to which the latter is subjected, seem more in keeping with the seduction plot than with the romantic structure. In the seduction plot, the woman commonly follows the seducer, to seek the promised marriage. Thus, the most striking alterations in this love plot may be understood as a sort of implicit genre mixing, the integration of comic and tragic versions of the romantic structure and the integration of romantic and seduction prototypes.

Story Structure

Genre mixing is involved in the specification of the romantic structure as well. Romeo and Juliet are in effect lovers from different sides in a war. The social division that separates them is not one of unequal class standing, or racial difference (as in the case of Othello and Desdemona). It is a matter of opposing camps that are battling one another. This particularization of the social opposition is most obviously relevant to the heroic genre. Shakespeare’s lovers are in a single city, but their opposed social groups are more like enemy armies than like neighboring families. Moreover, this civil conflict is characterized from the outset as a “mutiny” (Prologue l. 3), a rejection of the legitimate government. In other words, the lovers’ relationship is embedded in social rejection of legal authority and in military conflict. In this way, the development of Romeo and Juliet appears to draw on both the usurpation and threat-​defense scenarios of the heroic prototype. Other specifications of the story apparently derive from this integration of romantic and heroic genres as well. A particularly significant case concerns the manner of the lovers’ union. Lovers are often united with the aid of a “helper,” who may be an alternative social authority. The friar fits this role, and is thus consistent with the romantic prototype. However, the details of the friar’s help are unusual. Specifically, he justifies uniting the lovers, without parental approval, by appeal to the effects of their union on the Capulet-​Montague conflict. The model for this is clearly the forging of a marital alliance in order to quell national conflict. Though such a form of reconciliation is not part of the heroic prototype as such, it is clearly part of the larger set of associations that accompany that prototype. Thus, the friar’s apparently idiosyncratic plan is itself in part a matter of genre integration. Another peculiar element of the friar’s plotting is the intentional communication of misinformation about the death of one of the lovers; again, this appears to be a story element taken over from the comic version of the romantic structure. In this case, however, we do not have mere misinformation. We have an actual burial, seemingly with an actual corpse. Here too we have a mixing. Specifically, the misinformation motif is combined with the idea of death and resurrection. Juliet is in several respects associated with Jesus. Her anguish over whether or not to drink the sleeping potion may recall Jesus’s agony in the Garden of Gethsemane and his wish that he need not “drinke” from the “cuppe” (Matthew 26:429). More obviously, she apparently dies, then revives in the tomb on the third day (see IV.i.105), just as Jesus did. In our secular society, these may seem to be only very distant associations. However, in a context where life was pervaded by Christian thought and imagery, such associations would, I suspect, appear almost obvious. Put simply, one imagines that almost all Elizabethans would give the answer “Jesus” to the question, “Who does this remind you of—​apparently dies, is put in a tomb, revives on the third day?”

85

86

Literature

Thus, the second, and apparently stranger half of Friar Lawrence’s plan appears to derive in part from a connection between Juliet and Jesus, a sort of integration of Juliet’s story with that of the Savior. But why would this occur? At this point it will probably come as no surprise that genre integration appears to enter here as well. The story of Jesus is part of a larger, sacrificial story. Indeed, this is the paradigmatic sacrificial story in the Christian world. Again, the sacrificial structure concerns some sin that leads to communal devastation. That devastation can be overcome only through sacrifice, often the sacrifice of an innocent member of the society—​in this case, the sacrifice of Jesus. That sacrifice restores the well-​being of the society. This is precisely what we find in Romeo and Juliet. The (fundamentally romantic) story of the play is extended to encompass a reconciliation of society due to Juliet’s sacrifice. Specifically, the prologue explains that Verona is devastated by an “ancient grudge” (l. 3), thus a fault so remote in time that no one appears to remember what it is. That fault is, so to speak, the original sin that has given rise to the murderous devastation of the society. The chorus explains right at the start that the “death” of the lovers will “bury their parents’ strife” (l. 8); indeed, excepting these “children’s end,” “naught could remove” the “parents’ rage” (ll. 10–​11). In other words, only the death of the children can overcome the civil war. It is especially Juliet’s death that accomplishes this, for the Capulets have been the more bloodthirsty since the start. In the first scene, the Capulets provoke the brawl, and one of the Montague side—​Benvolio—​tries to be a peacemaker. In keeping with her salvationary role, Juliet is innocent in ways that Romeo is not. She also supplies the parallel for Jesus. In keeping with this sacrificial structure, we find Verona returning at long last to peace at the end of the play, the devastation now finally ended. We have, then, a further genre integration, with the introduction of the sacrificial plot. Part of that integration involves alteration and specification of the sacrificial prototype. For example, we have the somewhat unusual particularization of the social devastation as civil conflict. This results from the integration of the heroic genre, already noted. Thus far we have seen alteration, specification, and extension resulting from genre integration in Romeo and Juliet. What about completion? Of course, one cannot expect any given work by Shakespeare to include genre integrations leading to all four sorts of story development. But we do find this in Romeo and Juliet. Specifically, the prototypical romantic structure does not define any particular type of incident that will lead to a lover’s exile. This is an ellipsis that must be filled in by the author. There may be a particular difficulty in this play, due to the unusual development of the story, including the secrecy of the lovers’ bond, the nature of the social conflict, and the importance of keeping Romeo from being tainted by the familial hatred (which might have turned Romeo and Juliet into a problem play). The revenge sequence provided a way of filling in this part of the story.10 The ongoing violence of the heroic

Story Structure

conflict provides a context in which all the characters are continually at risk of losing loved ones through murder. The death of an attachment figure is the prototypical initiator of revenge in a revenge story. Tybalt’s killing of Mercutio is precisely such an event. Romeo’s response is a straightforward revenge. Of course, this is a very brief revenge narrative. The murder occurs and the revenge follows immediately. But this is what one would expect, given that the function of integrating the revenge sequence is simply to fill in an ellipsis in the romantic story. On the other hand, Shakespeare does make a somewhat surprising use of one motif from the revenge structure. Specifically, many revenge stories involve the killing of innocents as the revenger pursues his or her goal. We see this in Hamlet, for example, when Hamlet kills Polonius. Here, the innocent victim is Mercutio, and he dies not due to Romeo’s misdirected pursuit of revenge, but due to his (misguided) attempt to interrupt a cycle of revenge. Thus, we find an alteration in the revenge narrative. In this case, the alteration is at least partially enabled by the integration with a heroic plot which makes mortal violence a constant danger. But here an obvious objection arises. I have been speaking of alterations in the romantic genre as if those alterations are all produced by Shakespeare. But Shakespeare’s main source alters the genre in almost all of these ways. In other words, most of the genre integration in Shakespeare’s play simply follows Arthur Brooke’s Tragicall Historie of Romeus and Juliet. Shakespeare’s additions to Brooke are limited in this respect. It is only in the context of Shakespeare’s other works that we may see the genre integration here as characteristic of Shakespeare’s style. I have chosen to focus on this work in part because it so aptly illustrates the various sorts of genre integration. As just noted, we might to some extent see these integrations as characterizing the style of Brooke’s poem rather than Shakespeare’s play. Even so, Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet bears on Shakespeare’s stylistic inclination toward genre integration in two perhaps less consequential, but still significant ways. With regard to these, it has stylistic interest, not despite its close relation to the source, but because of it. First, if it is correct that Shakespeare had a stylistic preference for genre integration, then we might expect this to turn up not only in his own operations on (simpler) source materials, but also in his attraction to source materials, at least in some cases. In other words, Shakespeare’s interest in genre complexity might manifest itself not only in his elaboration on sources, but also in his choice of sources. That appears to be what we find in this case. Of course, recurrent mixing of genres could easily prove problematic. Starting out with a complex source and adding further complication could result in a mere muddle. This brings us to a second process that we find at times in Shakespeare’s work. We might refer to this as the highlighting of genre specificity. In some cases, Brooke’s poem involves a genre other than romantic narrative, but that genre is not salient. Shakespeare’s reworking of Brooke often

87

88

Literature

brings the contributory genres into greater focus, thereby making the sources of the story elements clearer. I do not mean that they make the audience self-​ conscious about those connections. They presumably do not. But Shakespeare’s development of the secondary and tertiary genres should make some cognitive structures more readily available to audience members, “priming” them, as cognitive scientists would say. That priming should then facilitate an audience member’s cognitive organization of relevant parts of the play, through the implicit availability of the genre structures. More precisely, Shakespeare uses a number of techniques to slightly alter the prominence and clarity of genres integrated in Romeo and Juliet and its principal source. First, he foregrounds causal connections bearing on the genre. This is most obvious in his framing of the play with the sacrificial genre, especially in the statements of the prologue that the devastating violence of the society could not have been overcome without the death of the lovers. In contrast, the reconciliation of the warring families in Brooke’s poem appears incidental, not providential. The difference is particularly important for understanding the thematic import of the lovers’ deaths. Brooke’s poem frames these deaths as just retribution for disobedience (“neglecting the authority and advice of family and friends” [“To the Reader”]). Shakespeare clearly sees the lovers as far more sinned against than sinning. A second technique used by Shakespeare is the development of allusions to prominent instances of genres, as in the paralleling of Juliet’s and Jesus’s time in the tomb (contrast Brooke ll. 2164–​2171). Here, too, the sacrificial nature of Juliet’s death is rendered clearer—​indeed, her two days in the tomb tie her anguish over the potion more strongly to Jesus’s agony in Gethsemane. This parallel between Juliet and Jesus further contrasts the two works’ thematic evaluations of the lovers. In the case of the revenge sequence, Shakespeare does something that is rather surprising, given his usual practices. He enhances the prototypical quality of the events, so that Romeo’s conflict with Tybalt is more distinctively a matter of revenge. Indeed, in Brooke, it is not developed as revenge at all (though the conflict is introduced by reference to revenge [l. 970]). It is, rather, a simple instance of heroic conflict (cf. the friar’s account of the event [l.  1423]; for Painter’s version, see 228–​229). By making Romeo’s fight with Tybalt a clear instance of revenge for the death of a companion, Shakespeare highlights the destructive quality of revenge and its conflict with the rule of law, thus emphasizing another thematic element of the play. This contrast is highlighted by allusion through the Prince’s name, Escalus. This name recalls the author of the Oresteia, probably the most famous literary work treating the substitution of the rule of law for familial revenge. Though the name is derived from the sources and is thus not specific to Shakespeare, it does not have this generic and thematic resonance in those sources. As to the heroic genre, Shakespeare’s play shares with Brooke the motivation of the friar to join the feuding families through the marriage (see Brooke

Story Structure

ll. 608–​610). However, in Brooke, the friar also indicates that he will wait until the families are reconciled before he reveals the marriage (ll. 2168–​2170), and he later indicates that a greater motivation was to prevent the sin of fornication (ll. 2923–​2924). Both works do characterize this union as an “alliance” (Shakespeare II.iii.94; Brooke l. 427; the political usage of “alliance” extends back two centuries before Shakespeare [see “Alliance”]). Thus, both make the heroic genre more salient through verbal expression. However, Brooke puts the “alliance” characterization in the mouth of Juliet, as if she sees her relation to Romeo in heroic terms. In contrast, Shakespeare places this construal in the mouth of the friar. Thus, the genre construal has a different sort of intentional embedding in the two cases. (Again, by “intentional embedding,” I mean presenting a particular construal of events or attitude toward events as part of a character’s thought.) Shakespeare improves on Brooke by more reasonably having the friar—​rather than Juliet—​construe the situation in relation to war and thereby to the heroic prototype. In doing this, Shakespeare once again clarifies the genres involved in the integration, as attributing the idea to Juliet somewhat confuses her motivation and thus emotive goal-​pursuit. In contrast with these cases, Brooke elaborates a criminal investigation sequence after the lovers’ deaths. In this sequence, the prince considers testimony and pronounces judgments of criminal culpability. One might argue that there is a very minimal version of this in Shakespeare’s play. However, it is less a criminal investigation than an explanation of the events. Indeed, while Brooke’s prince punishes the nurse for conspiring with the lovers (l. 2988) and has the apothecary hanged (l. 2993), Shakespeare’s prince explains that the Capulets and Montagues have already been punished for their “hate” (V.iii.301). This difference has several functions. First, it does not shift the audience’s emotion away from the lovers’ deaths to interest in a criminal case. Second, it reinforces the thematic differences between the works, since it does not condemn the lovers, but the parents. Finally, and consistently with the preceding points, it enhances the sacrificial properties of the play by indicating that there has been a sort of communal punishment in the entire sequence of events leading to the play’s resolution and the restoration of peace.

What Genre Is It? Some Further Distinctions Thus, by considering Romeo and Juliet in relation to its sources, we see that Shakespeare not only integrates genres more thoroughly than many authors, he also manipulates the saliency of those genres—​through varying prototypicality, extending or contracting the development of a given genre, and other techniques—​in order to intensify or attenuate emotion, clarify story information, or develop thematic implications. In connection with this, we might draw a series of further distinctions that may help us to understand

89

90

Literature

genre integration more fully and to articulate that understanding more precisely. Specifically, when a work integrates genres, we usually have the sense that it is principally one genre, not that it is a jumble of genres. Romeo and Juliet is fundamentally romantic, despite the presence and importance of other genres. On the other hand, a play such as King Lear presents a more complex case. It is of course a heroic story, with a complex usurpation and a foreign invasion—​albeit a typically Shakespearean invasion with two of the heroes on the side of the invader. At the same time, it is a family separation and reunion narrative. Or, rather, in both the main plot and the subplot, there is a heroic narrative (the usurpation and invasion of England and the usurpation of Edgar, which transposes the heroic narrative from the nation to the family). Moreover, in both, there is a family separation and reunion narrative as well (the alienation and reconciliation of Lear and Cordelia; the alienation and reconciliation of Gloucester and Edgar). I suspect that most readers would see the heroic plot as primary. But that is not entirely straightforward. Finally, even if we settle on a dominant genre, the complications of genre integration do not end there, as not all non-​dominant genres are equal. For example, the sacrificial structure has far greater importance or centrality in Romeo and Juliet than does the revenge or heroic structure. Indeed, a case could be made that it is predominantly a sacrificial story, but not that it is predominantly a revenge or heroic story. How might we account for these points? The first distinction we might draw is between a continuous genre representation and an episodic genre representation. A continuous genre is one that is present more or less consistently throughout the course of a work. The author does not depart from the continuous genre for many scenes, but returns to it relatively quickly when a divergent story sequence has been introduced. For example, a fundamentally romantic story may be integrated with a heroic story, such that major events of one are designed to coincide with major events of the other. Nonetheless, there may be long stretches of the narrative in which the heroic events are in the background, while the romantic scenes are more rarely and more briefly interrupted. In connection with this, there are different degrees to which a given genre is elaborated. Perhaps the romantic plot involves extensive scenes with many details while the heroic scenes are merely summarized by, for example, a messenger or a chorus. Placement is also crucial in establishing the importance of a genre. Romeo and Juliet is framed by the sacrificial structure. That genre makes only limited, largely allusive appearances in the course of the play (e.g., in the connections between Juliet and Jesus). Nonetheless, the fact that it frames the play means that it has a key role in the genre of the play. By appearing at the beginning, it orients our understanding of and response to what follows. By reappearing at the end, it lingers after we have finished watching or reading. Given the degree of genre integration in Shakespeare’s source for Romeo and Juliet, it seems wise to consider genre integration in another work as

Story Structure

well. It would be particularly valuable to contrast one of Shakespeare’s works with a work by another author that might initially appear to be similar. A nearly ideal case of this sort is Shakespeare’s Hamlet and, by way of contrast, Kyd’s Spanish Tragedy, a highly successful work that also had an influence on Shakespeare. However, before going on to this, I would like to draw one final distinction. This distinction is, I believe, of considerable theoretical importance, even though it only rarely has practical consequences. This is the distinction between perspicuous and unacknowledged genres. Given my account of the cognitive structures defining genres, it should be clear that an author can have one genre self-​consciously in mind, while he or she implicitly follows a very different genre structure in his or her composition of the story. Indeed, the latter need not be a genre that is salient in the literary milieu of the time. Again, the cross-​cultural genres may be generated by ordinary principles of emotion-​ defined goal pursuit and emotion intensification. Thus, authors’ compositional practices are not confined to the genres that predominate in his or her society. An author may be more likely to self-​consciously view his or her work as a case of such socially predominant genres, and the author’s audience seems very likely to do that as well. But such self-​conscious categorization may be misguided, relative to the cross-​cultural alternatives. (For example, as I have already indicated, the standard organization of Shakespeare’s plays—​ into histories, comedies, tragedies, and romances—​is seriously misleading [see Hogan, How Authors’ Minds, 47–​48].)

Hamlet and The Spanish Tragedy This leads us to Hamlet and The Spanish Tragedy. Kyd’s play is clearly a revenge tragedy. It involves genre mixing. But, despite the other genres, it is a play that in effect insists on the dominance of revenge. Shakespeare’s play is more complicated. It is commonly read as a revenge play. But maybe that’s not the best way of thinking about it. That genre categorization is what has led critics to worry obsessively over the question of why Hamlet delays his revenge. The question makes sense only if it is a revenge play to begin with. Of course, it does incorporate the revenge genre, and it presents itself pretty clearly as a revenge play—​its revenge elements are “perspicuous,” as I am using the term. But it is not at all clear that it is principally a revenge play. Before turning to Hamlet, though, we should consider some aspects of Kyd’s play. As Charles Prouty explains, The Spanish Tragedy, first published in 1592, “was among the most popular plays of the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries” (Prouty, v). It seems to have been one of Shakespeare’s favorites, as he drew on it in writing Hamlet and other plays—​including, I would argue, Romeo and Juliet and King Lear.11 Neill notes that The Spanish Tragedy was “the

91

92

Literature

first revenge tragedy in English” and “exercised a formative influence on later examples of the genre, including . . . Shakespeare’s Hamlet” (xi). The play begins with the ghost of Andrea, the lover of Bel-​Imperia, niece of the King of Spain. Andrea was killed in a Spanish-​Portuguese war by Balthazar, son to the Viceroy of Portugal. The ghost of Andrea is accompanied by the spirit of Revenge. Thus, the genre of the entire play is signaled by this semi-​allegorical opening in which the spirit of revenge brings the dead back to witness the punishment of the wrong-​doer. Indeed, this is a framing structure, appearing at the beginning and the end of the play, as well as the conclusions of acts I, II, and IV. Thus, this part of the revenge structure is relatively continuous and strategically placed, strongly reinforcing it in the genre hierarchy. The frame stresses Andrea’s desire for revenge on his own murderer, an interesting variant on the more usual revenge sequences. Specifically, the more common structure would involve a living person desiring revenge for the murder of an attachment object (such as a parent) or betrayal by an attachment object (such as the sexual infidelity of a spouse). We may refer to these as the homicide and adultery versions of the prototypical revenge story. (On the revenge structure, see chapter four of Hogan, Affective.) The fact that Andrea himself has been murdered creates the complication that the “hero” who initially seeks revenge does not have any agency. Andrea cannot pursue or execute the revenge himself. Shakespeare takes up this problem in Hamlet, giving the ghost agency, for he can appeal to Hamlet and exact revenge through him. The opening of Kyd’s play also introduces the relationship between Andrea and Bel-​Imperia. There are hints of a romantic narrative here, but they are undeveloped. The introduction of this love interest seems principally to allow the revenge plot to be extended to include the adultery sequence along with the homicide sequence. In keeping with this, the first scene involves the prediction that Bel-​Imperia herself will kill Balthazar. This is in part direct retribution for killing Andrea—​a nice reversal of standard sex roles, where the man would be expected to take revenge for wrong done to his beloved. But it also already hints that the adultery sequence will enter, with Bel-​Imperia preserving her fidelity. It is not unexpected, then, that Balthazar soon develops a romantic interest in Bel-​Imperia. The second scene is principally heroic, addressing the conflict between Spain and Portugal. This introduces the heroic genre. On the other hand, we are dealing with the end of the heroic story. The battle has been won by Spain, returning society to the status quo. Moreover, this is a very minimal heroic story, without usurpation and even without invasion of the home society—​or, for that matter, much of a sense that there is a home society, since the original, English audience would have had little motivation to identify with the Spanish crown. Indeed, at one point, Hieronomo stages a play that symbolizes the dominance of England over both Portugal and Spain in three briefly narrated, heroic histories (I.iv.136–​167). Through these histories, Kyd in effect places his

Story Structure

(English) audience above any national-​heroic interest the encompassing play might develop. (The situation is more complicated in Hamlet, as we will see.) In any event, this minimal heroic development in Kyd’s play seems designed principally to give some structure to the relations among the main characters in order to allow the revenge story to proceed. The third scene takes us to Portugal. This scene develops the genre orientation of the play in a revealing way. Specifically, the Viceroy implicitly construes his relation to Spain as one of betrayal. In connection with this, he anticipates that the Spanish will kill his captured son, Balthazar, out of “revenge” (I.iii.48). Thus, we find the very minimal, apparently heroic sequence reconstrued as part of a revenge story. This in effect multiplies the possible sequences of revenge, adding a potential revenge by the King of Spain onto the revenge by Andrea. As we will see, this is a recurring pattern in the play, a central part of its story style. Specifically, Kyd tends to transform as many narrative sequences as possible into trajectories of possible or actual revenge. In part, this simply reinforces the generic categorization of the play. In part, it also addresses a difficulty with the genre. Specifically, one problem with revenge dramas is that the act of revenge almost invariably involves the punishment of innocent individuals as well as guilty ones. By multiplying the guilty parties, Kyd reduces this difficulty, since so many of the characters are guilty of something. The multiplication of crime-​revenge sequences is part of a still broader stylistic pattern in this play, one that sometimes includes the criminal investigation genre. In keeping with this, the second scene introduces another storyline. Villuppo slanders Alexandro, claiming that the latter is a traitor. The Viceroy has Alexandro arrested and condemns him to death. This takes up the heroic structure insofar as it involves reference to a military conflict and disloyalty. However, that use of the heroic structure is intentionally embedded; it is purely a matter of Villuppo’s fabrication. In fact, Villuppo is maneuvering to advance himself by eliminating Alexandro. Kyd returns to this sequence at the start of Act III, where Alexandro proclaims, “My guiltless death will be avenged on thee,/​On thee, Villuppo” (III.i.51–​52). But this reconstrual of the events in terms of revenge turns out to be intentionally embedded in Alexandro’s imagination. Soon after this, the Ambassador enters and clears Alexandro of Villuppo’s charges. The result is the freeing of the former and the condemnation of the latter. Thus, in the end, this is not a revenge story per se. It is an instance of the closely related genre of criminal investigation. But Kyd stresses the connection with revenge. The fourth scene of the first act shifts from the Portuguese court back to Spain, where Bel-​Imperia expresses her love for Andrea’s close friend, Horatio. Given their awareness that Andrea is a witness to these events, audience members are likely to feel some discomfort at this development. Does it suggest some disloyalty on the part of Bel-​Imperia and Horatio, some betrayal

93

94

Literature

of Andrea? It is difficult not to recall that sexual betrayal is likely to initiate revenge, and it may suggest that Horatio and Bel-​Imperia might suffer the fate of traitors in revenge stories. On the other hand, Bel-​Imperia stresses that her love for Horatio is possible because of his friendship with Andrea (“From whence Horatio proves my second love?/​Had he not loved Andrea as he did,/​He could not sit in Bel-​Imperia’s thoughts” [I.iv.61–​63]). Moreover, this connection will help her avoid the embraces of Balthazar, who is pursuing her even while a prisoner of war. Indeed, Horatio will aid her in taking her revenge for Balthazar’s killing of Andrea (“second love shall further my revenge” [I.iv.66]), a killing that she characterizes as dishonorable and an act of “cowardice” (I.iv.73). It is worth stressing again that Kyd develops the revenge in unexpected ways—​making the woman into the main initiator of revenge (rather than the man), as already noted, and making her apparent sexual infidelity into a means of exacting revenge (rather than part of the crime that initiates revenge). The second act begins with Balthazar’s romantic longings for Bel-​Imperia, recalling the rival in romantic plots. In keeping with this, Bel-​Imperia’s family members—​particularly her brother, Lorenzo—​favor Balthazar over Horatio as a mate for Bel-​Imperia. On the other hand, the narrational focus on Balthazar makes him in some ways comparable to the romantic hero, who typically receives much more narrative attention than the rival. This focus on Balthazar allows the subsequent development, which already may come as no surprise to readers of this analysis. Balthazar learns of Bel-​Imperia’s love for Horatio and, as if Balthazar were Andrea, reacts as if he has been betrayed. He concludes that “I know on whom to be revenged” and resolves that he “must . . . take revenge” (II.i.114, 116). Thus, we find part of a romantic story too transformed into a story of revenge. This gives us Andrea seeking revenge against Balthazar; Alexandro suggesting revenge against Villuppo; Bel-​Imperia seeking revenge against Balthazar, with the aid of Horatio; and Balthazar seeking revenge against Horatio and Bel-​Imperia, as well as the Viceroy envisioning that the King of Spain is seeking revenge against him. Again, Kyd’s integration of genres is largely a matter of taking up non-​revenge genres and turning them into revenge sequences (at times in the intentions of characters). Moreover, this is part of the stylistic pattern of multiplying revenge stories in the work. In addition, there is a suggestion that Lorenzo seeks revenge against Horatio in part because Horatio received some of the glory of the battle against Portugal. The following scene is a peculiar one. It involves a development of the romantic relation between Horatio and Bel-​Imperia, while Lorenzo and Balthazar eavesdrop on their dialogue. This is peculiar because it places Lorenzo and Balthazar in a position directly parallel with that of Revenge and the ghost of Andrea. This would seem to suggest a sort of parallel between these pairs of characters hoping for revenge.

Story Structure

The third scene develops the romantic plot, with the King and his brother—​ Bel-​ Imperia’s father—​ agreeing that Bel-​ Imperia should marry Balthazar. The fourth scene further elaborates on the romantic story, to the extent that the reader may begin to feel that this is predominantly a story of love rather than revenge. Specifically, the second scene develops the lovers’ feelings for one another, while the third scene presents us with the parental generation arranging Bel-​Imperia’s marriage to the rival, Balthazar. The fourth scene continues to develop the love of Horatio and Bel-​Imperia, furthering the sense that this is a romantic story. The lovers are suddenly interrupted by Lorenzo and Balthazar, who capture Bel-​Imperia. This is an unusually violent version of the separation of the lovers and the confinement of one. However, they do not merely separate Horatio and Bel-​Imperia; they kill Horatio. This produces a shortened romantic tragedy. It also develops the story of Balthazar’s revenge against Horatio. In the next scene, we see just what we have come to expect from Kyd’s style of story integration. He turns the romantic tragedy into a new revenge narrative. Specifically, Horatio’s father, Hieronimo, discovers his son’s corpse and explains, “in revenge my heart would find relief ” (II.v.41). He later takes a handkerchief drenched in Horatio’s blood and swears, “Seest thou this handkercher besmeared with blood?/​It shall not from me till I take revenge” (II.v.51–​52). Subsequently, he contemplates suicide, but decides that he should not die before revenging his son’s murder (II.v.79–​80). This initiates a further revenge narrative, adding to those of Andrea, Bel-​Imperia, and Balthazar (as well as the related case of Alexandro). Moreover, as we might have anticipated, the murder of Horatio and Bel-​ Imperia’s abduction extend the revenge story of Bel-​Imperia, intensifying her rage at Balthazar and adding Lorenzo to her enemies. In the following act, she writes a letter in her own blood, strongly urging Hieronimo to take revenge upon both Balthazar and Lorenzo (III.ii.23–​31). These events have a similar effect on Andrea, also extending his revenge story, as Horatio was his close friend (II.vi.3). A series of events follows in which the criminals eliminate witnesses who might betray them (or might have betrayed them). This is a common motif in criminal investigation stories.12 Unsurprisingly, Kyd has the criminals—​ specifically, Lorenzo—​refer to this as “revenge” (III.iv.28). On the other hand, in this case, the other genre is not so much transformed into a new revenge story as simply labeled “revenge.” (While Lorenzo does [falsely] suspect Serberine of disloyalty, he has only prospective worry about Pedringano, yet he takes “revenge” explicitly on the latter.) This sequence is developed at some length. In part, it suggests the motif from criminal investigation stories—​and presumably from real life—​in which the low-​level criminals are punished while the criminal bosses escape the law (though, in this case, the escape of the bosses is temporary). The link is not accidental, as the criminal investigation

95

96

Literature

genre is closely related to the revenge genre and makes an appearance in The Spanish Tragedy also, as already noted. The relation between criminal investigation and revenge stories is suggested not only by the events just mentioned (and the story of Alexandro and Villuppo), but also by Hieronimo’s “soliciting for justice and revenge” in the following scene (III.vii.14). In this play, the genres are linked most strongly by Hieronimo’s response to Bel-​Imperia’s letter. He comments, “I . . . will by circumstances try/​what I  can gather to confirm this writ” (III.ii.48–​49). He does not so much seek evidence for the crime as have evidence fortuitously delivered into his hands. Just as he has the good fortune to receive Bel-​Imperia’s letter, he happens to be handed a letter written by Pedringano, supporting the accusations in Bel-​Imperia’s letter. Of course, this confirms Hieronimo in his pursuit of revenge (the “deed . . . shall thus by this be vengèd” [III.vii.46, 48]). Subsequently, the criminal investigation genre is suggested when Hieronimo seeks to present his grievances to the king, thereby pursuing legal channels for redress, rather than taking punishment into his own hands. He, however, fails. This leaves revenge as the only option. The idea is reinforced in one of the 1602 additions to the play. Hieronimo meets a painter who seeks “justice” for his “murd’red son” (Addition 4:81, 90). Hieronimo explains to him that no justice is to be found in this world; it can be provided only by God. Subsequently, Hieronimo questions whether he should take revenge or leave it in the hands of God (III.xiii.1–​5). The conflict between revenge and criminal proceedings returns when a petitioner comes to Hieronimo, asking him to plead the petitioner’s case “for his murdered son” (III.xiii.79). Hieronimo tears the petition; he repeats that “on this earth justice will not be found” (III.xiii.108) and chides himself for “neglect[ing] . . . sweet revenge” (III.xiii.106–​107). Hieronimo’s wife too expresses anguish over not being “revengèd” (III. viii.12) and hints at suicide. Subsequently, she does take her own life, in some ways intensifying a motif from the family separation genre, where for example a mother might die due to separation from her child (as in Romeo and Juliet). This too enhances Hieronimo’s commitment to revenge. Subsequent scenes return us to the love story, as Lorenzo aids Balthazar in his wooing of Bel-​Imperia and the royals discuss the engagement of the two. More significantly, Kyd has Lorenzo invite Hieronimo to perform an entertainment for the court—​including all the principal characters in the play, Spanish and Portuguese. Hieronimo schemes (not very plausibly) to use the play as a cover for his revenge. In the course of the performance, he kills Lorenzo, while Bel-​Imperia kills both Balthazar and herself. The result is that all the targets of revenge—​whether guilty (Lorenzo and Balthazar) or innocent (Bel-​Imperia)—​have died (Horatio, Villuppo, Serberine, and Pedringano having been dispatched already). The risk at this point is, of course, that Lorenzo’s father and the Viceroy might feel compelled to begin a new revenge story, pursuing the death of Hieronimo. This issue is resolved by Hieronimo’s

Story Structure

suicide. This is preceded by his murder of Lorenzo’s and Bel-​Imperia’s father—​ whose opposition to Bel-​Imperia’s love for Andrea may perhaps be seen as one source of the entire tragedy, though this recruitment of the romantic narrative to the revenge story is only hinted at in the course of the play. Though The Spanish Tragedy does involve some moments when it might appear to be developing into a romantic story, it is for the most part insistently a revenge narrative. This is not to say that it does not incorporate other genres, or not exactly. Again, some literary works intertwine different genres while keeping them largely distinct (perhaps coinciding only in characters). These merely add storylines to one another. Like Romeo and Juliet, The Spanish Tragedy integrates the story genres, mapping major events onto one another. But Kyd goes farther than Shakespeare in this. He does not merely integrate the other genres with the dominant genre, revenge; he in effect reduces the other genres to the dominant genre, transforms them into revenge sequences, thereby multiplying storylines with the same generic profile. In The Spanish Tragedy, this results in the multiplication of revenge stories, so that almost all the main characters are seeking some sort of revenge. In contrast, Hamlet integrates genres in such a way as to preserve their distinctive qualities. The play may be understood in part as a revenge narrative and in part as a heroic narrative. The revenge narrative is more dominant than the heroic narrative. But the heroic narrative is not reduced to the revenge narrative. The story still concerns the usurpation of the throne and the disenfranchisement of the royal heir, as well as a conflict with a foreign power (Norway). The romantic story of Hamlet and Ophelia does lead to a second revenge sequence, doubling the main storyline in the way that the Gloucester sequence doubles the Lear sequence in King Lear. But the romantic story still operates as a romantic story—​or perhaps as a seduction story (it is ambiguous). On the other hand, it is never presented so consistently or continuously on its own so as to lead us to wonder, even temporarily, if the play as a whole is principally a romantic (or seduction) narrative. Returning to Kyd for a moment, we may note that, from the perspective of stylistic analysis, there are perhaps two very limited exceptions to the subsumption of all genres under revenge in The Spanish Tragedy. Both are brief. First, there is the temporary independence of the love story between Bel-​ Imperia and Horatio. As we have seen, this is developed with a surprising degree of continuity in the second act. More significantly, there is the elliptical, criminal investigation story involving Alexandro and Villuppo. While the romantic story is fully assimilated into the dominant revenge genre, the story of Alexandro begins with suggestions of revenge, but then develops in a way that suggests a departure from revenge and an appeal to social authority. On the other hand, the case involves the Viceroy personally in the events, since Alexandro is being punished for the death of the Viceroy’s son and the Viceroy rather too readily accepts Villuppo’s accusations (see I.iii.53–​95); this personal

97

98

Literature

involvement of the official adjudicator (the Viceroy) blurs the lines between revenge and criminal investigation, since the Viceroy is able to take revenge by exercising his judicial authority. Moreover, the presence of this sequence may remind us that Hieronimo thinks that he should seek evidence for Bel-​ Imperia’s initial accusations—​like an objective, neutral, legal authority—​and that a petitioner comes to ask Hieronimo to undertake legal proceedings in response to the murder of the petitioner’s son. In each of these cases, however, Hieronimo does not proceed in the manner of a criminal investigator, but of a revenger. I stress these minor points about Kyd’s play because one of the surprising stylistic features of Hamlet is that it develops a dominant genre that is, arguably, unacknowledged. Kyd has fashioned a revenge tragedy in which he keeps telling us explicitly that it is a revenge play. Shakespeare too has the Ghost, Claudius, Laertes, and above all Hamlet refer to revenge, leading us to believe that it is centrally a revenge drama. Of course, it is in some ways a revenge drama. It is also a heroic usurpation story (as I have already stressed); indeed, there are clear indications of this, as when Hamlet explains to Horatio that Claudius “killed my king” (V.ii.65, rather than “killed my father,” which would be more relevant to a revenge story) and “popped in between th’election and my hopes” (V.ii.66), thus usurped the throne. But perhaps above all we find that Hamlet is undertaking a criminal investigation. Like Kyd’s Hieronimo, he is concerned about the validity of the testimony he receives regarding his relative’s murder. Indeed, Bel-​Imperia and the Ghost of King Hamlet are in many ways more akin to litigants than to impartial witnesses. Also like Hieronimo, Hamlet is in a difficult position in this regard. Unlike the petitioner (whom he rejects), Hieronimo has no official authority to whom he can appeal for an impartial investigation. The crime concerns the court and thus the objectivity and disinterest of the members of the court are compromised. Hamlet’s situation is even worse, since the likely criminal is the King himself, not merely the King’s nephew (Lorenzo). Thus, in both cases, the possibilities for an official criminal investigation are limited or non-​existent. Nonetheless, unlike Hieronimo, but like a criminal investigator, Hamlet sets out to acquire the corroborating information he needs. In order to do this, he adopts a disguise, in effect going “undercover” like a character on an American crime show or the renowned Judge Dee of eighteenth-​century Chinese detective fiction. He also fabricates circumstances in order to provoke the criminal into giving himself away. Indeed, it is striking that he employs a literary performance to do this (just as, for example, Judge Dee does in one of his cases; see van Gulik, 201–​203). (Recall that Kyd’s play within the play is, in contrast, a somewhat baffling means of enabling the revenge, relying on the counterfactual assumption that stabbing someone in reality is indistinguishable from pretending to stab someone on stage.)

Story Structure

It is worth noting here that some traditional problems in Shakespeare criticism may be resolved by recognizing their source in genre mixing. In the case of Hamlet, the protagonist’s famous “delay” is due in part to his undertaking a criminal investigation. Delay in punishment is required by the need to establish guilt beyond possibly unreliable testimony. In other plays, the introduction of different genres works similarly. For example, All’s Well That Ends Well and Measure for Measure are considered “problem comedies,” in part because their supposedly happy endings are likely to be very displeasing to many audience members, given that (relatively) sympathetic women characters are married off to objectionable male characters. These appear anomalous because they are commonly seen as romantic narratives. But in both cases, Shakespeare has integrated the seduction genre into the play, and seduction stories are often highly ambivalent. This is not to say that the more obvious genre is absent in these cases. Hamlet retains elements of a revenge plot. All’s Well That Ends Well and Measure for Measure are partially romantic; the genre ambiguity of these two plays is not unlike that of the Hamlet-​Ophelia sequence in Hamlet. Indeed, one way of thinking of the difference in story style between Hamlet and The Spanish Tragedy is that the former integrates genres ambiguously, rather than univocally. In other words, the genre hierarchy is clear in the case of Kyd’s play, but uncertain in the case of Shakespeare’s. Such genre ambiguity marks the two problem plays just mentioned, as well as other works of Shakespeare, such as King Lear (which is, again, often ambiguous between a family separation-​ reunion story and a heroic narrative). Hamlet begins with a military watch, which already suggests the invasion component of a heroic plot. We learn that a ghost has appeared, but this does not yet tell us much about the play’s genre. We subsequently learn that the ghost is in the “warlike form” of the dead king (I.i.45). More precisely, as Horatio recounts, the ghost wears “the very armour he had on/​When he th’ambitious Norway combated” (I.i.59–​60). The suggestion is clearly one of military threat, thus the heroic plot. Subsequently, Marcellus notes that the watch is part of more general war preparations and Horatio explains that young Fortinbras of Norway has gathered an army to attack Danish lands. Interestingly, those lands were previously taken from Norway, thus leaving the precise emplotment ambiguous. Fortinbras could be seen as the enemy invader, as Horatio suggests by characterizing him as “ambitious” (I.i.60). But it is also possible to view him as restoring the sovereignty taken by Denmark. The “landless” soldiers he recruits (I.i.197) may simply be peasants, but they might also be men dispossessed by the loss of Norway’s territory. The second scene of the play takes us to the court and links the impending invasion by Fortinbras with the recent death of Denmark’s King Hamlet. It goes on to detail the new king’s response to the threat from Norway. This is obviously consistent with the heroic invasion plot from the first scene.

99

100

Literature

However, the bulk of this scene treats Hamlet’s grief over his father’s death. Moreover, Horatio reports to Hamlet that the ghost exhibited more “sorrow than . . . anger” (I.ii.229). This might suggest the family separation genre, the usurpation part of the heroic genre (in which the rightful leader is murdered and his or her place taken by a rival), or a revenge genre (in which the hero loses an attachment figure to murder or in which there is some sexual betrayal, as Hamlet suggests regarding his mother). There is a hint that Hamlet suspects one or more of these, as he connects the appearance of the ghost with “foul play” (I.ii.255). The third scene introduces a completely different storyline, the relation of Hamlet and Ophelia. Laertes warns Ophelia not to trust Hamlet, suggesting that their relationship is not the sort found in romantic narratives, but in seduction narratives. He stresses that she should not open her “chaste treasure . . . To his unmastered importunity” (I.iii.31–​32). Ophelia responds that Laertes should not himself act the part of a rake, engaging in the very practices against which he admonishes his sister. The reciprocity presents a pleasing gender symmetry, which we sometimes find elsewhere in Shakespeare’s works (as when the devotion and deceit of Lear’s daughters are mirrored in the devotion and deceit of Gloucester’s sons). Polonius enters and inverts the order, beginning with advice to Laertes, then turning to Ophelia. He particularly takes up Ophelia’s relation with Hamlet, telling her to abjure his company for fear she will end up pregnant and abandoned—​in short, the heroine of a seduction tragedy, rather than a romantic comedy. Of course, we should not simply assume that Laertes and Polonius are correct. Ophelia protests that Hamlet has been “honourable” (I.ii.111). Ophelia’s judgment is just what we would expect from the naïve young woman in a seduction narrative. But Polonius’s and Laertes’s opposition to the liaison is just what we would expect from the lovers’ families in a romantic narrative. In these ways, the scene is ambiguous between romantic and seduction genres. On the other hand, the seduction genre is clearly more emphasized in this scene. The fourth scene returns us to the watch. Hamlet introduces the issue of the ghost’s trustworthiness, by asking if he comes from heaven or hell (I.iv.22), a question that will subsequently have bearing on the criminal investigation genre. On the other hand, at this point, the most obvious genre remains heroic. The action continues in the fifth scene, when Hamlet and the Ghost are alone. Here, finally, the revenge genre is introduced when the spirit adjures Hamlet to “Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder” (I.v.25). Hamlet chimes in that he will “sweep to my revenge” (I.v.31). This explicitly signals that the dominant genre of the play is revenge. The connection becomes clearer when we learn that the murderer has also seduced King Hamlet’s “seeming-​virtuous queen” (I.v.46), Hamlet’s mother, Gertrude. Thus, we have both the murder and betrayal components of the revenge genre, intensified by making the criminal

Story Structure

a close relative, King Hamlet’s brother, thus Hamlet’s uncle (and adoptive father), Claudius. On the other hand, this is not entirely unequivocal. When the Ghost reveals his murderer, he explains that the one who took “thy father’s life/​Now wears his crown” (I.v.39–​40). The first line stresses that the murderer killed Hamlet’s beloved father, making the sequence paradigmatic for revenge. But the second line emphasizes that the murderer has usurped the throne, making the sequence paradigmatic for heroic usurpation. Somewhat surprisingly, Hamlet already has a plan to “put an antic disposition on” (I.v.173), thus to pretend madness. We have already noted that this fits with the criminal investigation genre. But it also fits with both the revenge and heroic genres. The first act ends with Hamlet observing that “The time is out of joint” (I.v.189). The comment is vague. But it seems more in keeping with the major social upheaval associated with violation of the divine right of kings than with individual misconduct that calls for revenge or criminal investigation. In all these ways, the same set of events is ambiguous among these different genres. Thus, the genres are integrated, but still independent, developing according to their own principles. The reference to Hamlet’s playacting an “antic disposition” suggests both “undercover” (criminal investigation) work and (heroic) espionage, as well as deceit in revenge. The second act begins with Polonius giving instructions for undercover work or espionage to learn about Laertes’ behavior, including whether he is sexually active. This recalls the third scene of the first act and, like that scene, this one includes a discussion between Polonius and Ophelia regarding Hamlet. In this dialogue, however, Polonius learns of Hamlet’s apparent madness and concludes that theirs was not a seduction narrative, but a genuine love story. He now sets out to repair his misguided separation of the lovers. Of course, the audience knows about Hamlet’s “antic disposition” and its relation to the Ghost. Thus, we cannot follow Polonius in attributing his madness to Ophelia’s withdrawal. In consequence, we do not know whether Hamlet’s earlier expression of love for Ophelia was a manipulative technique, designed to seduce her, or an expression of genuine attachment. On the other hand, we can recognize that, in the latter case, Ophelia’s withdrawal would only increase the traumatic feelings of attachment loss that followed from his father’s death and his mother’s remarriage. The theme of espionage returns with the introduction of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern in scene two. They have come to acquire intelligence on Hamlet. More importantly, this scene presents the results of Claudius’s actions regarding the threat from Norway. This seems to end the heroic invasion narrative. However, the development is complicated. The army raised by Fortinbras will pass through Denmark to march against Poland. At the end of the play, the army returns, victorious over Poland. At this point, the Danish royal household has been killed off. Hamlet lingers on long enough to hear of Fortinbras’s

101

102

Literature

arrival. He predicts that Fortinbras will become King of Denmark and expresses his support for Fortinbras’s succession to the throne. This is a striking development. As with Romeo and Juliet, we find the play framed by a genre that has very little overt presence in the main body of the work. In this case, it begins and ends with a heroic invasion narrative. Moreover, in both cases, the trajectory of the genre is discontinuous in that the ending resolves the beginning without being pursued by the protagonists as part of that story sequence. Romeo and Juliet do not seek to resolve the civil war in Verona through their deaths. Nonetheless, the play ends with their deaths accomplishing just that. Fortinbras gives up his idea of winning back land from Denmark and he does not enter Denmark, along with his army, to accomplish that restoration. Nonetheless, the play ends with the land apparently restored—​and indeed the rest of Denmark added to it. Moreover, the conclusion echoes the end of (the clearly heroic) Julius Caesar, with Fortinbras behaving toward the deceased Hamlet like the victorious Octavius behaves toward Brutus. (Julius Caesar is another play in which it is not clear just which side is the legitimate government and which side is usurping.) Returning to act two, we find that, once the threat from Fortinbras has been forestalled, Claudius returns to the topic of Hamlet. Polonius suggests that Hamlet is in love. It seems clear that Claudius suspects that Hamlet is a threat—​either as the next in line for the throne (thus a threat in the heroic usurpation narrative) or as the son of the man he murdered (thus a threat in the revenge narrative). Polonius recommends espionage. Claudius agrees. This sequence and what follows fit the romantic, heroic, and revenge genres. Subsequently, Hamlet appears. Polonius approaches him and Hamlet responds with mockery, including suggestions that Ophelia might end up pregnant if she is allowed to go about freely. It is difficult to say whether this suggests that Hamlet’s relation to Ophelia was one of a seduction narrative or that he is aware of Polonius’s prior worries in that regard. As Rosencrantz and Guildenstern enter, Polonius leaves. Presumably due to preparation by Claudius, they suggest that Hamlet suffers from “ambition” (II.ii.246). Taking our cue from Claudius’s use of the term in act three (III.iii.55) and Horatio’s in act one (I.i.60), we might reasonably infer that ambition refers specifically to an aspiration for political power. If so, the espionage of Hamlet’s schoolmates suggests that they are seeking to ascertain his feelings on the kingship (thus as part of the heroic usurpation genre). Prudently denying the charge of ambition, Hamlet soon confronts his visitors with the question of whether they have been called to Denmark by the King. Rosencrantz subsequently reports that a traveling troupe of actors will soon be arriving at the court. When they arrive, Hamlet tacitly recalls Gertrude’s nuptial response to King Hamlet’s death (i.e., wedding her brother-​ in-​law) and has the players recount the grief of Hecuba at the death of her husband, King Priam. The actor’s tearful response to this monologue apparently

Story Structure

contributes to Hamlet’s idea of using a play to provoke a telling response from Claudius, an indication of Claudius’s guilt or innocence. At the end of the scene, he refers to his delayed “revenge” (II.ii.562), stressing the obvious connection with the revenge genre. But he also states that his ghostly informant is not necessarily trustworthy. Like a criminal investigator, he will use the play to acquire “grounds/​More relative” (II.ii.580–​581)—​thus clearer evidence—​for determining the guilt of his uncle. The third act begins with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern reporting back to the King and Queen, followed by Polonius and Claudius spying on Hamlet’s meeting with Ophelia. Ophelia begins their dialogue by returning the gifts Hamlet has given her. Hamlet, predictably, responds with anger. He claims that he loved her and that he did not love her, again keeping the precise nature of his interest—​and thus the genre of their story—​unclear. He advises her to go to a “nunnery” (II.i.122). At one level, this suggests a chaste relation between the two. But editors of the text always point out that the term was used for a brothel as well. Thus, it is possible to infer that Hamlet is expressing contempt for Ophelia as sexually available—​presumably sexually available to him. In this way, one can interpret his response as manifesting the disgust of the seducer in the seduction plot. I myself am strongly inclined to think of this as anger at attachment loss, consistent with a romantic narrative. For example, I am inclined to see evidence for this when Hamlet says that even if she is “as chaste as ice,” she will be condemned as licentious. On the other hand, he does go on to suggest that she will make a cuckold of her husband. In any case, the point is that the same represented events are open to construal in terms of both genres. The scene ends with Claudius inferring that Hamlet’s madness is a danger, presumably to Claudius himself. He explains that he will be sending Hamlet away—​the standard exile motif, common particularly in heroic (and romantic) plots. We subsequently learn that this exile was intended to result in Hamlet’s death. The following scene presents the play within the play, used by Hamlet to derive greater certainty about the crime. The problem of course is that, as Claudius notes, there is “offence” in “the argument” (III.ii.213, 212). Even if Claudius were innocent, it would be difficult for him not to read the play as an accusation—​or, alternatively, as a threat, since the Duke’s nephew murders the Duke. In this respect, Hamlet’s credentials as a detective are questionable. On the other hand, we can hardly conclude that Hamlet is not taking up the role of a criminal investigator simply because the play provides at best only equivocal evidence for the King’s guilt. (The scene also includes sexual talk from Hamlet to Ophelia that may suggest they have been intimate or merely that he is taunting her from anger—​or that he engages in sexual harassment—​thus once again rendering the genre unclear.) The third scene of the act begins with Claudius referring explicitly to the threat posed by Hamlet. Guildenstern and Rosencrantz immediately construe

103

104

Literature

this as a threat to the well-​being of the society, which depends upon the health of the monarch (III.iii.9–​24). This construal tacitly interprets the relation of Hamlet and Claudius as part of the heroic usurpation plot. However, when Hamlet arrives to find Claudius apparently in prayer, he refrains from killing him. If Hamlet were seeking restoration (in the heroic genre) or legal retribution (in the criminal investigation genre), then there does not seem to be good reason for this restraint. He stops himself from killing Claudius then because it might send Claudius’s soul to Heaven. That, he reflects, “is hire and salary, not revenge” (III.iii.79). This suggests that the predominant genre is revenge, at least for those few lines. In the final scene of the act, Hamlet confronts his mother. In doing so, he inadvertently kills Polonius. Though it can of course occur in heroic stories, this sort of misdirected murder is typical of revenge narratives. Indeed, part of the contrast with criminal investigation narratives is that it should be less common for the wrong people to end up dead when there are systematic legal procedures in place and disinterested investigators and prosecutors. On the other hand, Hamlet characterizes Gertrude’s crime in terms more appropriate the heroic genre than to the revenge genre—​“kill[ing] a king” (III.iv.28). It is now clear to Claudius that Hamlet intends to kill him. Nonetheless, he does not pursue legal means of responding to the threat—​he does not enforce “the strong law” (IV.ii.3)—​due to Hamlet’s status with the people. That status is presumably related to his position as heir to King Hamlet. Thus, Claudius’s quandary at this point suggests both heroic and criminal investigation concerns. The scene ends with Claudius’s order for Hamlet’s execution in England. This is curiously followed by a very brief scene in which Fortinbras enters with his army. Claudius’s order to England was likely to appear illegitimate to Shakespeare’s audience, not only due to a fondness for Hamlet (which they presumably shared with the Danish multitude), but due also to English national preference. Most audience members would presumably have bristled at the idea of Danish sovereignty over England. It is suggestive that Shakespeare would arouse such feelings prior to reintroducing Fortinbras. All this brings the heroic structure into prominence, and it does so in a complex way that at least potentially challenges Danish supremacy. On the other hand, in the Second Quarto (though not the Folio), the reintroduction of Fortinbras is followed by Hamlet’s reflections on his own “revenge” (IV.iv.9.23), reinstating the genre ambiguity.13 Before going on, I should repeat that genre prototypes operate not only in the author’s generation of story sequences, but also in the reader’s reception, as the preceding references to the national identifications of Shakespeare’s original audience indicate. (Again, “readers” prominently include the author as reader.) Thus, encountering hints of a romantic story or a seduction story, a reader’s mind will incline toward one set of expectations and construals or the other. For example, a reader with a seduction structure primed by the

Story Structure

text might be inclined to interpret Hamlet’s professions of love as duplicitous, whereas a reader with a more active romantic structure might favor interpreting them as sincere. This does not at all mean that the reader thinks of these structures self-​consciously. It merely means that they contribute to his or her understanding and emotional response. In other words, genre is a cognitive and affective structure operating in the minds of authors and readers. It is not an autonomous property of the object. The following scene reintroduces Ophelia. She has gone mad. The usual interpretation is that her madness has resulted from her father’s death. But the situation is more complicated. Certainly, that trauma has had an impact. But, when she enters, she sings a song about a true love who has gone on a pilgrimage. She then sings about someone who has died, then about a woman who surrenders her virginity to a man who promises to marry her, but then refuses marriage after deflowering her. There are certainly hints of grief about her father. But most of her laments more obviously concern her relationship with Hamlet than that with Polonius. Indeed, even the death could refer to Hamlet, given that courtiers would likely be cognizant of the possible consequences of Claudius’s sending Hamlet away just at this time. In short, the songs suggest that Ophelia has indeed slept with Hamlet and now finds herself abandoned, the discarded mistress of the seduction genre, represented by her song in that genre. This all fits very well with her eventual suicide by drowning—​a possible response to grief over a parent’s death, but a more obvious response to the shame of being seduced (possibly even impregnated) and abandoned. The scene also presents us with Laertes’ rash attack on Claudius. Despite the people’s cry that “Laertes shall be king” (IV.v.102), this is not a heroic usurpation. It is clearly a matter of revenge (as Laertes asserts [IV.v.131]). Moreover, the King forestalls the execution of a misdirected revenge precisely by invoking the legal procedures of criminal investigation. Specifically, he proposes that Laertes “Make choice of whom your wisest friends you will,/​And they shall hear and judge ‘twixt you and me” (IV.v.199–​200). This suggestion of criminal investigation, however, is not developed beyond restraining Laertes at this point and leading him to shift his plans for revenge from Claudius to Hamlet. In the fifth scene of act four, Horatio receives a letter from Hamlet that recounts his collaboration with pirates to secure his escape, an adventure motif that recurs in a number of genres, but perhaps has its most obvious place in heroic stories. The sixth scene recurs to Laertes and his commitment to “revenge” (IV.vii.29). Claudius counsels him on the means to exact revenge—​which are, of course, simultaneously Claudius’s means to preserve his usurpation of the throne. The first scene of the final act centers on Ophelia’s interment. Before the burial, Hamlet converses with a gravedigger who recalls again the conflict between King Hamlet and Fortinbras, keeping that part of the heroic genre active in the thoughts of audience members. At the burial itself, Hamlet dives into

105

106

Literature

Ophelia’s grave, affirming his love, thus suggesting that it was all along a love story and that her suicide was unnecessary. Indeed, Gertrude says that she had hoped for Ophelia’s marriage to Hamlet (V.i.228). The final scene of the play brings Hamlet and Laertes together in the rigged fencing match. Before the match, Hamlet explains again that Claudius “killed my king” and prevented Hamlet’s own accession to the throne (V.ii.65–​66), thus construing the sequence of events in heroic terms again. As the match is about to begin, however, Laertes refers once more to his “revenge” (V.ii.183). In the well-​known conclusion of the play, Laertes does kill Hamlet, exacting his revenge. Gertrude is killed by accident, again a common motif in the revenge genre. Hamlet kills Claudius. Thus, the two revenge sequences—​those of Hamlet and Laertes—​are resolved through the deaths of both the guilty target and the revenger himself, also a common motif in revenge tragedy. The events, including testimony from Laertes, simultaneously resolve the criminal investigation sequence. The romantic or seduction sequence (of Hamlet and Ophelia) is also resolved through the deaths of the lovers. The heroic sequences, however, lack a conclusion. The usurpation has been ended, but no proper ruler has acceded to the throne. Moreover, the conflict between Denmark and Norway might appear to linger still, despite the official submission of the latter earlier in the play. Again, the story is framed by references to this heroic conflict. Fortinbras enters in the final moments, slipping into the place left vacant by the deaths of Claudius and Prince Hamlet (and, earlier, King Hamlet). Thus, we have a replacement for the usurping monarch, and, along with that, a resolution of the invasion sequence of the heroic plot as Norway regains its lost lands. The play draws on a range of genres—​revenge, criminal investigation, heroic usurpation, heroic invasion, romantic, and seduction. It integrates these genres, often by making their main events coincide so that it is difficult to tell just which genre is at issue. On the whole, we would probably say that revenge predominates slightly in the main storyline (of Hamlet and Claudius); revenge predominates strongly in one subordinate storyline (that of Laertes and Hamlet); and romance predominates slightly in another subordinate storyline (that of Ophelia and Hamlet). Nonetheless, there are complications. Some parts of the main storyline are more clearly a matter of criminal investigation, and it is frequently difficult if not impossible to pry apart revenge and heroic restoration orientations. Moreover, even if we conclude that Hamlet’s feelings for Ophelia were predominantly romantic, it remains the case that this is never unequivocal and the series of events leading up to and including Ophelia’s suicide often seem more suggestive of a seduction story. Only Laertes’ case seems relatively straightforward—​and even that is to some extent complicated by Claudius’s involvement, with its suggestions of preserving and extending heroic usurpation (and the brief reference to criminal investigation).

Story Structure

The result of all this is a work that has considerable emotional ambivalence, as well as interpretive and thematic ambiguity. Our precise attitude toward Hamlet, for example, varies with the genre in which we implicitly understand his relation to Ophelia. Our understanding of Hamlet’s famous delay is in part contingent on the degree to which we view him as a revenger or a criminal investigator. Thematically, it is difficult to say just what moral point Shakespeare might favor or what the political attitude of the play might be toward war or usurpation—​an issue that is affected, though not resolved, by whether we consider the play or parts of the play to be primarily in the heroic genre (thus a matter of national prerogatives) or the revenge genre (thus a matter of Hamlet’s personal anger over an attachment violation).

Conclusion In sum, we may understand genre in many different ways, but perhaps the most useful is in terms of cross-​cultural structures. In the case of stories, these are romantic, heroic, sacrificial, and so on. These structures are defined by the protagonist’s goals, the emotion systems that establish those goals, and principles for enhancing the emotional experience of the protagonist and, even more importantly, the emotional experience of the recipient of the work. In consequence of their generative sources, these genres are available to an author in prototypical form even when they are not prominent in his or her historically specific literary environment. The production of individual works may be seen as resulting from the application of development principles to general structures, including genres. These development principles may alter, specify, complete, or extend the prior structures. The function of such developments is ultimately a matter of enhancing the emotional or thematic impact of the work, but it may more immediately involve the manipulation of story or discourse information—​for example, focusing the recipient’s attention on important aspects of the story that he or she might otherwise have missed. Authors have their own characteristic ways of developing stories, which define their story style. For example, there are recurring features—​beyond the genre prototype—​that mark Shakespeare’s heroic stories. The same point applies to targets with different scope—​from individual passages within works to genres, periods, or movements. One important kind of story development involves the mixing of genres. Genres may be mixed episodically, in which case we have more or less separate story sequences that are connected by more or less incidental features. However, genres may be more fully integrated as well. Such integration is a striking feature of some of Shakespeare’s works, as may be seen in Romeo and Juliet. On the other hand, such integration is not always original with

107

108

Literature

Shakespeare. In the case of Romeo and Juliet, he frequently drew the integration from his primary source. Indeed, he was probably attracted to that source initially due in part to that integration. Recognizing this, however, helps us to see something else about Shakespeare’s style, and about the possibilities for style more generally. An author may enhance or diminish the saliency of genres integrated in a work. That enhancing or diminishing may result from the emphasis placed on causal connections, the degree of prototypicality of the genre development, the resonance of precise phrasing (including allusion), the use of intentional embedding (where the genre occurs not in the story itself, but in a character’s imagination of the story), and presumably other factors as well. In all these cases, the salience of the genre may have consequences for the ease of story comprehension, the quality of emotional response, and/​or the development of thematic implications. Considering the similarities and differences between Hamlet and Thomas Kyd’s Spanish Tragedy, we saw that there are other important stylistic distinctions that bear on genre mixing as well. We find different degrees of genre predominance and genre subordination, such that in some works the dominant genre is very clear, while the generic status of other works or even of individual storylines within those works may be ambiguous. In addition, integration may leave the integrated genres relatively autonomous, thus having their own distinctive emotional or thematic points; alternatively, it may be reductive, where storylines introduce different genres only to transform them into instances of the dominant genre, as when Kyd takes up romantic or other sequences principally to produce new revenge stories. The hierarchy of genre dominance is affected by a number of stylistic techniques. These include the degree to which a given genre is continuously presented, the degree to which it is elaborated, the degree to which it has causal primacy (defining the conditions for the development of storylines from other genres), the degree to which its placement gives it prominence or salience (e.g., if it frames the rest of the story), and the degree to which it is acknowledged (e.g., through repeated references to revenge) or obscured (e.g., through a lack of explicit signals of criminal investigation). To a great extent, The Spanish Tragedy reduces other genres to revenge. In contrast, Hamlet maintains the autonomy of genres, producing considerable generic ambiguity and thereby complicating the emotional and thematic profiles of the work as well.

3

Verbal Narration AMBIGUITIES OF FAULKNER’S AS I LAY DYING

In the preceding chapter, we considered stylistic features of story structure. Authors tell stories in ways that reflect their “story idiolect,” the complex of principles and parameters that guide their telling of tales—​or, rather, the part of that complex governing authors’ simulation of what happens. They have similar complexes of principles and parameters governing, not the what, but the how of telling tales, thus the simulation of narrators, narratees, focalizers, and so on. More exactly, we do not tell stories through random generation any more than we utter speech through random generation, or walk or swim or throw baseballs or do anything else through a series of accidental motions. In each case, our actions are rule-​governed. I do not mean that we subject our behaviors to scrutiny, comparing them to norms that we seek to follow. Of course, we do that also. Children learn, for example, not to run in certain places. Johnny begins to sprint toward the pew in church, but then remembers that sprinting is not appropriate in a holy place and reins himself in. But Johnny’s act of running is not like that. It instantiates or embodies complex principles governing musculature, balance, and other matters. Similarly, Sally might shout, “That sucks!” or “That blows!” when at the baseball game, but not in church, because she judges the utterance normatively inappropriate in the latter context, but not in the former. However, she does not reflect on her use of the third-​person suffix—​[s]‌in the first case, [z] in the second. Nonetheless, it is clear that her behavior follows the usual rule whereby the third-​person suffix is unvoiced following an unvoiced sound ([s] following [k] in “That sucks!”), but voiced following a voiced sound ([z] following [o] in “That blows!”). Moreover, in the case of speech too there are multiple levels of principles operating. Thus, Sally knows to put the subject “that” before the verb “sucks” or “blows”; she knows that neither verb commonly takes a direct object in this context, and so on.

Style in Narrative. Patrick Colm Hogan, Oxford University Press (2021). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197539576.001.0001

110

Literature

In the case of both language and narrative, the principles by which we generate and understand targets often incorporate prototypes (roughly, average or standard cases) and/​or exemplars (instances). For example, the semantics of natural languages commonly involve concepts that are not specified by strict necessary and sufficient conditions, but by gradients of prototypicality. In geometry, “triangle” is defined by a rule giving necessary and sufficient conditions. But in ordinary language, “love triangle” involves central and peripheral cases (e.g., the relation among two spouses and the lover of one of the spouses is a more central or definitional case than the relation of two parents and a child or two spouses and a deceased former spouse). Moreover, the principles, prototypes, and exemplars may be universal, idiosyncratic, or somewhere in between (thus defined at the level of a national language, dialect, sociolect, and so on). The same points hold for narrative. There too production and reception involve principles with prototypes and exemplars. Those principles may be universal, idiosyncratic, or somewhere in between. In this chapter, we will consider how style operates in relation to the level, not of story, but of discourse, specifically the level of discourse termed “narration.” Narration concerns first of all who is articulating or, in some cases, experiencing a given narrative or part of a narrative. When categorized in terms of narrational technique, William Faulkner’s As I  Lay Dying is often considered to be a “stream of consciousness” novel. As a rough, general approximation, that works well enough. But a more fine-​grained account of the work suggests that this characterization is misleading in various ways. Understanding how it is misleading allows us to isolate that particular work’s narration style. More exactly, following a few basic definitions drawn from narratology, we will examine some of the ways in which the soliloquies in Faulkner’s novel—​ each presenting a single character’s point of view—​deviate from stream of consciousness. In connection with this, we will consider the functions of narration and specifically multiple narration in the novel, including the relation of Faulkner’s technique to Cubism. The narrational technique used by Faulkner in this novel is most obviously characterized as a form of stream of consciousness involving what we might call “extended, hypothetical focalization.” The functions of this narrational practice are largely a matter of multiplying discourse perspectives in order to yield an integrated sense of story reality. However, the style of narration in Faulkner’s novel is not simply a matter of multiplication. Faulkner complicates our sense of character distinctness and point of view. Among other issues, aspects of the text lead us to question just what particular characters know and how they know it. Thus, the style is not simply a matter of articulating a variety of partial perspectives in order to enhance our access to a fuller reality. It also involves a repeated challenge to the status of these perspectives, rendering their information uncertain in a way that does not seem to be the case for such otherwise comparable writers as

Verbal Narration

Joyce, Woolf, or Dorothy Richardson. Indeed, there are even hints that we might take the multiplication of narrators as false, as the manifestation of a single, underlying focalization, that of Addie Bundren. This is not to say that Addie is in fact the (largely) concealed narrator of the whole work, but that the status of narration in the work is far less clear than it initially appears. In this way, the narration style of the novel involves uncertainty not only about the story, but about even the narration itself.

A Few Basic Terms Again, narration concerns, first of all, who articulates a given text or represents a given series of events. If the representation is purely perceptual, as in most film, we may refer to this as the perceptual narrator. In silent film, the perceptual narrator is the visual narrator; in sound film, the perceptual narrator is usually a visual and auditory narrator, though it is possible to dissociate the two, yielding distinct visual and auditory narrators.1 In literature (leaving aside graphic narrative), we are commonly given only a verbal narrator. As Genette pointed out, there may be a perceiver also. But, unlike in film, the perceiver’s experience is conveyed through the words of the verbal narrator, who may be different. For example, the narrator may report only what a particular character experiences, articulating what Jones sees and hears—​or thinks—​but not what Smith sees and hears (or thinks). In that case, we refer to the perceiver/​ thinker as the focalizer. Of course, it is often the case that a verbal narrator reports on facts independent of a character’s observations (“Jones believed that the stones were diamonds; they were not”) or reports on the experiences of different characters. Thus, we may refer to focalization that is more or less strict (rigorously confined to particular characters) and singular or multiple (involving one character only or several). A narrator may report what a (focalized or non-​focalized) character says or thinks. If the report explicitly states that it is a report, it is called “tagged.” If the status as report is not tagged, it is “free.” Moreover, if the speech or thought is from the character’s point of view, it is called “direct.” If not, is it “indirect.” Consider, for example, a story with the following sentences: “He walked into the usual classroom, but no one was there. ‘Where is everyone?,’ he asked himself.” This is tagged (by “he asked himself ”) and direct (since it gives the thought exactly as the character formulated it). Contrast, “He walked into the usual classroom, but no one was there. Where was everyone?” The latter is free, since it does not say that the character thought the question. It is also indirect, as it does not represent the precise way the character thought it, but shifts to the perspective of the narrator (signaled by the change to past tense). Interior monologue is free, direct, inner (or “subvocalized”) speech. Your interior monologue is what you think in words. But interiority is not limited to

111

112

Literature

words. It includes external and internal perceptions, emotions, and memories that are not verbalized. In one use of the phrase, stream of consciousness refers to this verbal and non-​verbal inner experience. In order to convey the quality of a character’s stream of consciousness, an author usually chooses between two possibilities. The author may use all the linguistic means available to him or her in order to capture the non-​verbal experiences. Alternatively, he or she may seek to represent the character’s non-​verbal experiences using the idiom of the character—​his or her vocabulary, characteristic phrases, and so on. As mentioned in ­chapter 1, I refer to stream of consciousness that relies on the idiom of the character as “bound” and stream of consciousness that recruits all the resources of the author as “autonomous.”2

As I Lay Dying and Stream of Consciousness As I Lay Dying involves a great deal of character-​bound stream of consciousness, thus including non-​verbal experience articulated in the idiom or voice of the character himself or herself. For example, the book begins with a description of Jewel and Darl walking from the field to their home. The chapter is focalized on Darl. As such, it represents his experience of the walk. Moreover, the language is very characteristic of Darl. For example, when he takes an adjective and turns it into an abstract noun, we see a recurring characteristic of Darl’s speech. Thus, he does not refer to an “empty and dilapidated building, shimmering in the sunlight” (though the word choice in this phrase would already point to Darl more than to any of the other Bundrens). Rather, he speaks of “empty and shimmering dilapidation in the sunlight” (3). Though this represents Darl’s idiom, it seems unlikely that he is articulating his experience in this way as he walks. Rather, the words are designed to represent what he experiences as he might have articulated it. On the other hand, not all chapters are precisely like this. When Cora Tull thinks, “So I saved out the eggs and baked yesterday” (5), it seems that she is speaking to someone. Of course, interior monologue may be oriented to an addressee (indeed, I have argued that this is usually the case in life, though not in literature [see my Ulysses, 192–​196]). But in many cases it is difficult to imagine any context in which a character might have an internal thought of just the sort Faulkner gives us, whether oriented toward an addressee or not. Put simply, there is something artificial about these soliloquies. Indeed, they are rather like soliloquies in drama or dramatic monologues in poetry. They are not like representations of spontaneous, inner thought. Among other things, they are extremely restricted in what they communicate, both generally and on specific topics. For example, as to general restrictions, Cash, Darl, and Jewel never seem to think about sex, which is somewhat unlikely, given their youth (cf. Nisbett, 54, on the frequency of sexual thoughts among college

Verbal Narration

students). This suggests that we are not simply being given a transcription of their inner lives. As to specific restrictions, it seems nearly certain that Darl set Gillespie’s barn on fire. However, he does not appear to think about it at all, which seems highly unlikely. Similarly, it seems very likely that Anse has been in contact with the second Mrs. Bundren before leaving for Jefferson. But she never appears in his thoughts. We might conclude that, unlike interior monologue and stream of consciousness in Richardson, Woolf, or Joyce, the soliloquies in Faulkner’s novel represent a selection of what the characters might have thought or said in some particular context that has not occurred and will not occur. We might refer to these as involving extended, hypothetical, and selective (bound) stream of consciousness. Put differently, a key aspect of the narration style of As I Lay Dying is that the streams of consciousness of the various characters are mediated by another narratorial presence that places the characters in hypothetical contexts and restricts the information they convey.3

The Function of Multiple Perspectives Before we continue with the complex layers that characterize the novel’s narration style, we should consider the most obvious stylistic feature of its narration and the function of that feature. The feature I am referring to is its multiple, discrete focalizations that are signaled by formal divisions in the text. There are many different narrators or focalizers, with each chapter having one. I say “narrators or focalizers” as the precise discourse status of these characters is not entirely clear. Developed through free, direct thought in his or her own idiom, a character may be conceived of in either way. These characters are most obviously conceived of as narrators. If my preceding inference about hypothetical and restricted focalization is correct, however, they are focalizers. In either case, there are lots of them, which leads to the question—​what is the function of this multiplication of perspectives? The most obvious function is to enable readers to construct a complex simulation of reality, built up from the partial and fallible views of a multiplicity of characters. It is a sort of Cubist idea. As Jaakko Hintikka explains, many commentators on modern art view Cubism as highly abstract. However, “the pronouncements of the most important early cubists and of their best interpretators . . . emphasize that the aim of cubists was to restore to painting the sense of concrete, solid reality which had been lost by the impressionists and by the symbolists” (223) In connection with this, Hintikka cites a “statement by Picasso Gertrude Stein reported: ‘I do not paint things the way they look, but the way I  know they are’ ” (229). Hintikka goes on to stress how “cubists often depicted the same subject from several different angles at one and the same time” (232). For example, Picasso famously presented the viewer

113

114

Literature

with the frontal image of a face and, simultaneously, with the profile, giving us two spatial perspectives. Though less commonly noted, Picasso sometimes seems to present two distinct temporal perspectives also. For example, in The Weeping Woman (1937), he seems to suggest that the woman is blotting her right eye with the corner of her handkerchief, blotting her left eye with the corner of her handkerchief, and biting the handkerchief, though these acts would presumably have occurred in sequence, not all at once. It is no accident that Darl repeatedly uses analogies drawn from painting and recalls or imagines scenes in a way that “embodies . . . the passing of time in the . . . timeless structure of an art form” (Perlis, 104). Most strikingly, he refers directly to Cubism (Faulkner, As I Lay Dying, 126). In keeping with these points, differences in spatial perspective are highlighted throughout the novel. Indeed, the opening lines of the novel stress such differences, contrasting what Darl and Jewel can see with what “anyone watching [them] from the cottonhouse” would see (3). Discrepancies in temporal perspective are more subdued, but more significant. It is easy to read the novel and think that it is simply in chronological order. But that is not the case. There are straightforward discrepancies in story time. For example, the obvious way to understand Addie’s soliloquy makes it occur before she dies. Thus, if the story were presented in strict chronological order, her soliloquy would occur before page 30 (of the Norton edition). But it begins on page 98. Similarly, we learn of Whitfield arriving at the Bundrens’ home for the memorial service on page 51, but Whitfield himself soliloquizes his journey and arrival on pages 103 to 104. Thus, “story time” and “discourse time”—​the time in which the events take place and the time in which they are soliloquized—​may initially seem to be parallel. But they are not. In itself, this is not terribly striking or particularly distinctive. But something else about the relation of narration and time sequence is more revealing of the complex and unusual style of the novel. I would imagine that for most readers the soliloquies appear to be roughly contemporaneous with the events they recount. But this too is not always the case. Thus, we have two important types of temporal relations and associated temporal discrepancies. There is the relation between the time of the soliloquization and the time of the events soliloquized, and there is the relation between the time of the chapters in the novel and the time of the soliloquies. To clarify the point, it might be useful to think of an analogy. In different places, several people—​call them A, B, and C—​write in their diaries about what they are experiencing during an air raid. For example, one might write, “I hear the whistling, then the explosion. This one is nearer than the others,” and so on. Days or weeks later, some other people—​call them X, Y, and Z—​write what they experienced during the same air raid. In the case of A, B, and C, we would say that the story time and the discourse time were (roughly) simultaneous. In the case of X, Y, and Z, they were not. In addition, it may happen

Verbal Narration

that the diaries were written at different times—​A, B, and C at different points in the air raid; X, Y, and Z at different times later. Now suppose that three editors take up these diaries and publish edited versions of them. One editor publishes the diaries in the order of the events recounted. Those happening to Y occurred first, then those to A and B, then those to X, then C, then Z. The second editor publishes them in the order in which they were written, which is A, C, B, Z, X, Y. The third editor publishes them in alphabetical order by the authors’ last names. We might say that there is a level of basic story time (the events themselves, taken up by the first editor), and two levels of discourse time—​that of the diaries or narrations (taken up by the second editor), and that of the chapters (which, in the case of the third editor only, differs from both the story and narration sequences). Similarly, Faulkner’s novel presents a story level for the time of the events, a first discourse level for the time of the soliloquies, and a second discourse level for the order of the chapters. Alternatively, we could say that there are events that are recounted in the soliloquies and that constitute a primary story. In addition, there are the events of the soliloquies. In other words, the soliloquies themselves constitute events—​the event of what Darl thought, what Dewey Dell thought, and so on. Again, there is a hypothetical element to many of the soliloquies, often an implicit, imaginary context of speech to a narratee. Nonetheless, most if not all seem to be associated with some actual series of thoughts on the part of the character in question. The temporal location of these thoughts is indicated by the use of tense and aspect markers, as well as references to objective events. The worldly events of Addie’s death and burial constitute the story told by the soliloquies, whereas the soliloquies constitute the story told by the narration of the book as a whole. It is easy to assume that the main events at the story level are synchronous with the recounting of the events in the first discourse level, even if the order of the soliloquies is not fully chronological. For example, the novel begins, “Jewel and I come up from the field, following the path in single file” (3), and so on. It appears that we are being given a transcription of Darl’s stream of consciousness as the events are occurring. Sometimes, that is almost certainly true. But at other times the events have occurred in the past, perhaps even the distant past, suggesting that the novel involves not only a range of spatial perspectives, but also a range of temporal perspectives in narration. I am not referring here to the banal fact that stream of consciousness will include memories, which of course include events that occurred before the focalizer remembered them. I am referring to the apparently ongoing events of the main storyline. There are small suggestions of this throughout. For example, Peabody begins his first soliloquy with the past tense (25), before shifting to the present, though this could simply signal a recollection preceding the alignment of the discourse and story times. One of Tull’s soliloquies, however, is in past tense throughout, and a reference to “these here Christmas masts” (42) seems to suggest that the

115

116

Literature

time of the soliloquy is December, rather than July (when the recounted events took place [see 3, 65]). Another soliloquy of Tull’s begins by recalling Cora’s reaction when he told her about the events he is about to recount (88). One of the most emotionally consequential instances of this sort occurs at the end of the novel, in the concluding soliloquy by Cash. Though it is consistently in past tense, it remains easy to view Cash as not knowing anything about what will happen after they leave Jefferson. This is emotionally significant as the future of Cash himself seems unclear, given the mistreatment of his broken leg. When Cash sees his father and new stepmother coming with the graphophone, he thinks, “everytime a new record would come from the mail order and us setting in the house in the winter, listening to it, I would think what a shame Darl couldn’t be to enjoy it too” (149). Evidently, the discourse time—​the time when Cash is speaking—​is at least five or six months after the events recounted in the chapter and possibly several years after. The calm of the scene, and the fact that they have the wherewithal to buy records, suggest that the final outcome of the events was not as tragic as it might have been, or rather not as tragic with respect to Cash and the family’s finances. But Cash’s thought here also conveys that Darl has not been released from the psychiatric institution. The later we imagine this to be, the better it is for Cash, but the worse it is for Darl.

Narrational Anomalies So, to this point, we see that Faulkner’s narration style involves a sort of Cubistic generation of multiple perspectives. These include spatial and temporal perspectives, as well as the more obvious psychological perspectives. In each case, the verbalization of a given perspective is bound to the idiom of the focalizer. Even so, the resulting sream-​of-​consciousness soliloquies are in part hypothetical. Faulkner proliferates and segregates these perspectives, varying them in complex ways and occluding some of the changes in temporal perspective particularly, in part by developing two levels of discourse—​that of the soliloquies (with the main events as the story) and that of the book as a whole (with the soliloquies as the story). The result is that the narration appears straightforward, and is to a degree, but becomes more difficult to pin down as one becomes aware of its details and nuances. The emotional functions of these narrational techniques include intellectual engagement due to their novelty and our desire to solve the puzzles they pose. The emotional functions also include story emotions that derive from our reconstruction of story events through careful re-​reading of the work, as in the inference about Cash’s retrospective recounting of the novel’s concluding events. Thematically, the convoluted narrational techniques may serve to suggest the difficulty of overcoming the biases of one’s point of view, or the necessity

Verbal Narration

of reconstructing what is real by drawing on multiple perspectives. Or it may suggest uncertainty about what is a fact beyond what we imagine to be facts. The last gains greater plausibility as we begin to consider some of the contradictions and anomalies that arise in the course of the novel. A very simple case concerns what Brother Whitfield says in the Bundren home. Tull recounts him saying, “The Lord comfort this house. . . . His grace be upon this house” (51). Whitfield’s own recollection is slightly different, “God’s grace upon this house” (104). In this case, the discrepancy is very small, though even this is perhaps consequential as Tull recalls an invocation of divine comfort, not recollected by Whitfield. In any case, it is important that we have no way of deciding which, if either, recollection is correct. Such uncertainty bears on a number of issues in the novel. Perhaps more significantly, the novel includes various apparent anomalies as well as contradictions. For example, Darl seems to have unusual, almost prophetic sensibilities. He is aware of Dewey Dell’s pregnancy and the fact that Jewel is not Anse’s child. The novel is generally realistic in the sense of confining itself to the laws of physics and biology, so it would be strange for Faulkner to give Darl prophetic gifts. Moreover, if Darl did have such gifts, it seems strange that they sometimes fail so completely. For example, Darl has no clue as to what Jewel is doing when he goes out at night to work. More significantly, Darl does not know that he will be arrested toward the end of the novel. On the other hand, even there he shows a degree of premonition when he says to Cash, “I thought you would have told me” (137). The statement suggests that Darl had considered the possibility that he would be arrested and sent to the asylum, though he was very wide of the mark in anticipating a forewarning from Cash. In each of these cases, it is possible to construct some sort of naturalistic explanation for part of the knowledge. Dewey Dell thinks that Darl “had been there and saw” her and Lafe (17). On the other hand, the context makes clear that she did not see Darl when she was with Lafe. Rather, she believes that Darl wordlessly conveyed to her that he saw them. Moreover, even if he did see them, it would hardly mean that he knew she was pregnant. Indeed, Darl “can almost tell . . . the day” when Dewey Dell realized she was pregnant (24), which is difficult to explain naturalistically, unless perhaps we assume that he was keeping track of his sister’s menstrual cycle. It is even more difficult to come up with a naturalistic account of how Darl and Dewey Dell communicate so precisely. Dewey Dell explains that she asked him, “Are you going to tell pa are you going to kill him?,” but she did so “without the words” (17). In contrast, Darl reports that “She just keeps on saying Are you going to tell pa? Are you going to kill him?” (24). Darl’s phrasing suggests that Dewey Dell actually utters the words, which would of course explain how they both think of the same phrases. But one would expect Dewey Dell to know if she had actually said this, rather than conveying it “without the words.” In addition, Darl’s

117

118

Literature

soliloquy signals quoted statements by inverted commas. But the quotation marks are missing in this case, apparently suggesting that Dewey Dell did not in fact utter the words at all. Darl knows other things too, or at least seems to know them. Michael Gorra notes that “one character provides an eyewitness account of events at which he was not present” (“Introduction,” ix). Gorra understates the case, since this at least seems to happen more than once. For example, in his second soliloquy, Darl is located at the house, but he appears to describe in detail what is happening with Jewel in the barn. A  case such as this may be accounted for by simply taking Darl to be imagining what Jewel is doing. We know Darl engages in such imaginations. Indeed, the second sentence of his first soliloquy involves the imagination of someone “watching [him and Jewel] from the cottonhouse” (3). Other cases, however, are more vexing. Perhaps the most striking is Addie’s death. Our information about Addie’s death comes from a soliloquy by Darl. However, as Anse explains at the start of the soliloquy, Darl and Jewel are not in the Bundren home; they have gone “to make one more load” (28). There are three italicized passages in the soliloquy. The first shifts the scene from the Bundren home to where Darl and Jewel are on the road, struggling with a broken wheel. This might lead one to think that the italicized paragraphs are Darl’s soliloquy and the Roman typeface paragraphs are in the voice of some general narrator. But the Roman typeface paragraphs are clearly in Darl’s idiom. For example, the statement, “Pa leans above the bed in twilight, his humped silhouette partaking of that owl-​like quality of awry-​feathered, disgruntled outrage within which lurks a wisdom too profound or too inert for even thought” (29), has the learned diction, the unusual lexical formations (e.g., “awry-​feathered”), and the abstractions that are characteristic of Darl. The scene at home continues and Addie dies. Soon after the death, Faulkner gives us the third italicized paragraph. In that paragraph, Darl announces to Jewel that “Addie Bundren is dead” (31, italics in the original). Of course, here too Darl could simply be imagining what is going on back home. Perhaps we are not supposed to take the depiction of events as precisely accurate. Perhaps it is just coincidence that Darl imagines Addie dying and that she does die when he and Jewel are gone. Or perhaps he learned about the events later and this is retrospective—​though the entire soliloquy is in present tense, making it appear that story and discourse time are synchronous in this chapter. There are additional peculiarities in the soliloquy that are, if anything, still more recalcitrant. Embedded in Darl’s thought is Anse’s comment on Addie’s death, “Now I can get them teeth” (30), virtually the same phrase that we find later in Anse’s thought (“But now I can get them teeth” [63]), suggesting again some sort of prophetic power on Darl’s part, or an earlier statement by Anse to this effect. Moreover, the second italicized passage presents us with a passage predicting what Dewey Dell will do (“She will go out where Peabody is”

Verbal Narration

[30, italics in the original] and say, “you could do so much for me if you just would” [30, italics in the original]; despite the phrasing, the context suggests that she would think this, but not utter it). The next soliloquy is Vardaman’s, confirming that Addie has died and suggesting that at least the timing of Darl’s imagination is correct. More significantly, the soliloquy after Vardaman’s is Dewey Dell’s, and it begins with Dewey Dell thinking about Peabody, “He could do so much for me if he just would” (35), more or less confirming the prophecy from Darl’s soliloquy. There are further oddities as well, as when two characters share what seem to be highly idiosyncratic thought patterns. For example, Dewey Dell meditates on pregnancy in terms of being alone and not being alone, and “the process of coming unalone” (36). This leads her to repeat the name of her child’s father over and over (36). Similarly, Addie thinks of her pregnancy as “aloneness” being “violated” (99) and she thinks about Anse’s name until it becomes a strange image for her (100). The coincidence is not impossible, but it is at least surprising. Stranger still, Cora reports a prophecy by Addie that Jewel “will save [Addie] from the water and from the fire” (97). If this prophecy appeared on its own, we would assume that it merely meant that Jewel would be the most loyal and devoted of her children. Given that he is the child of her adulterous affair, it might also be taken to mean that Jewel will remind her of her sin and lead to her repentance and salvation—​perhaps in the way that Pearl may be said to lead Hester Prynne to salvation by exposing her adultery in Hawthorne’s Scarlet Letter.4 But, as it turns out, the prophecy is much more literal, for Jewel saves Addie’s corpse from the river and from the burning barn.

Style and Function: Ambiguity and Narration In short, there are many complex features of the narration style in this novel, features that are at least in some degree distinctive of this work. The narrators are separated out explicitly only to be confounded or intermingled implicitly. It is of course possible that this is just error on Faulkner’s part. The fact that Faulkner drafted the entire book in forty-​eight days and did only minimal revisions (see Gorra, “Introduction,” viii), and the fact that the discrepancies are not easy to notice (e.g., students do not generally pick up on them spontaneously) may make this plausible. Writing a literary work is a cyclical process in which the author produces part of a work, re-​reads and revises, produces more, and so on. The initial production is guided by the author’s cognitive and affective structures—​principles, prototypes, and exempla. These are diverse and context-​sensitive. What they yield initially is in part consistent and patterned. But the diversity of principles, prototypes, and exempla is likely to result in some structures being activated at some times and other structures

119

120

Literature

being activated at other times, leading to inconsistencies. (A striking case of this may be found in the racist and anti-​racist elements in Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin [see chapter three of Hogan, Narrative].) When an author revises, part of that process involves reconciling the discrepancies in his or her earlier, more expressive or spontaneous productions. Through the overall writing process, both the (partially contradictory) drafts and the (usually more reconciled) final version manifest patterns, thus authorial style, as they all result from the internal structures that guide the author’s writing. However, discrepancies in the various drafts may not be functional. They may, rather, be inadvertent byproducts of the author’s creation of the work in changing contexts (both textual contexts, as he or she develops the story, and life contexts, as he or she sits down to write at different times). If Faulkner sensed the anomalies in his novel and felt that they were appropriate, then we may conclude that they are functional in the sense that Faulkner tacitly felt that they would contribute to the emotional impact or thematic significance of the work. This does not mean that he needed to have thought self-​consciously about either the discrepancies or their function. It simply means that, if we are going to seek their function in relation to authorial, receptive intent, they needed to be part of his experience of the work. Conversely, insofar as he did not encode them—​thus insofar as they did not enter into his cognitive processing or emotional response, even implicitly—​we cannot conclude that they have any function in the work. My inclination is to think that some of the apparent anomalies in As I Lay Dying are the product of negligence, but not all of them, and probably not even most of them. Rather, Faulkner created a fundamentally realistic work, in which he developed and multiplied narrational perspectives, with complex interrelations that enhanced ambiguity.5 That ambiguity operates to increase interest or general emotional engagement through a sort of puzzle-​like quality. It also functions thematically to indicate the difficulty and uncertainty of understanding just what the facts are in any given case, both the objective facts about what actually happened and the equally important subjective facts about how people understood what happened and how that understanding (or misunderstanding) guided their behavior. The theme is banal when stated baldly, as I have just done. But the novel presents us with an intricate web of beliefs, hopes, and material facts that is more nuanced—​and more intriguing—​than any abstract thematic statement could be. In sum, the narration style of Faulkner’s novel presents us with an extensive, superficially discrete multiplicity of narrators or focalizers. Their narration is selective, being restricted in both general and specific ways and it is in part hypothetical. The narrators are psychologically distinct, and yet coincide psychologically at points in surprising ways. There are complex relations between story time and different levels of discourse time, such that these are in some cases aligned and in some cases disaligned, partially or wholly.

Verbal Narration

Moreover, the discrepancies in narration sometimes create anomalies that make it difficult—​perhaps impossible—​to ascertain what in fact happened. This all enhances the ambiguity of certain aspects of the novel, with the emotional and thematic functions just noted. On the other hand, there are intimations of a way we might reconcile many of these discrepancies. It largely explains the novel’s anomalies, but it simultaneously enhances the uncertainty of the novel’s narration. I am not suggesting that this is the right way to interpret the novel. I am, rather, suggesting that this is one interpretive possibility hinted at by the novel and thus a possibility that contributes to the work’s ambiguity and, indeed, ambivalence (which are, again, matters of style for external levels). We do in some cases wish to make an argument that one interpretation is the most encompassing or most plausible. However, as I have discussed elsewhere (see Hogan, Narrative, 19–​20), we may at other times wish to try to spell out some of the main possibilities that constitute a work’s profile of ambiguity, its range of possible meanings. The latter is particularly likely to be valuable in cases where the work appears to be unusually ambiguous, as here. There is an obvious way of explaining the fact that Addie and Dewey Dell have similar thoughts, or that Addie predicts Jewel’s future actions, or that Darl can foretell what Dewey Dell will say to herself. It is that these are not in fact separate people, but products of a single imagination that knows about all the characters and thus may envision Addie and Dewey Dell in similar ways or provide characters with information about the future or about other characters’ minds. Indeed, in one sense, this is the only explanation, since it is after all Faulkner who is creating these characters and providing them with this information. However, insofar as it is only Faulkner, this may appear to be accidental for the novel’s story and discourse and therefore non-​functional. Certainly, Faulkner is making the choices here. But if Faulkner gives Darl knowledge he shouldn’t have, that does not provide us with an explanation from within the novel; put differently, it could just be Faulkner’s mistake. One possible response to these problems is to take the title of the novel seriously. The title, As I Lay Dying, suggests that all of what follows, thus the entire book, takes place while the “I” is dying. The “I” here would most obviously be Addie. If so, it does not concern actual events, but Addie’s imagination of events leading up to and following her death. If Addie is envisioning what Darl or Jewel or Dewey Dell would think or do, we would expect motifs to recur. If Addie imagines Dewey Dell pregnant, she would imagine Dewey Dell’s thoughts on the model of her own, including such points as both being two months into pregnancy (101, 116). Since she is not recounting the past, but imagining the future, she is free to imagine the fulfillment of the prophecy—​ thus the water and the fire. As she is simulating the thoughts of the different characters, she is able to convey those thoughts from one to another. The point also fits with Addie’s soliloquy, occurring much after her putative death in the

121

122

Literature

story (though, as already noted, this may be understood as a simple anachrony or shift out of chronological sequence). This might in addition help account for such peculiarities as the rather sudden onset of Darl’s madness after he has been arrested for confinement in the asylum. There is a radical change in Darl’s consciousness that is more plausibly explained as a radical change in someone else’s simulation of Darl’s consciousness. Again, my point here is not to claim that Addie really is the narrator of the novel. It is, rather, to suggest that the narrational ambiguity of the novel includes the possibility of embedding the named narrators or focalizers of the various chapters in the imagination of an encompassing narrator. Insofar as the novel allows this possibility, it renders the facts still more uncertain. Addie would presumably rely on many things she knew, but would also create things, some with justification, some without. For instance, the sequence with the new Mrs. Bundren might be based on something in Anse’s prior behavior or on Addie’s unjustified assumption that Anse would forget her as soon as she was buried, if not before. Put differently, an account of this sort would render all the soliloquies (except Addie’s) hypothetical—​and, indeed, hypothetical without any specific foundation in the characters’ thoughts, experiences, or attitudes.

Narrators, Implied Authors, and the Voices of Tradition But what, then, should we make of Addie’s own soliloquy? It is a curious monologue, with its confessions of adultery and sadistic impulses. One way of beginning to consider this question is by starting with a possibly surprising feature of the title—​its use of the first-​person pronoun. Of course, all the soliloquies involve first-​person reference to the speaker. But we might expect the title to be neutral in voice, thus phrased in third-​person—​“As She Lay Dying,” for example. Put differently, we might initially expect the title of a work to be in the voice of the implied author. But if we were to take it that way, the “I” would refer not exactly to William Faulkner, the flesh-​and-​blood person, but the authorial voice that provides a norm for the book and that, so to speak, mirrors Faulkner’s receptive intent, his sense that a particular sequence of events or turn of phrase (such as “As I Lay Dying”) is apt or feels right in the context of the whole project. I believe it is worth considering seriously the idea that the “I” in the title is in some sense the implied author or Faulkner, not as the initial producer of the text, but as the recipient, as the privileged reader, the one who can alter the text until its feels right. If we connect “Implied Faulkner” (as we might call him) with “I,” then, it seems that we thereby connect Implied Faulkner with Addie. This faces us with the immediate problem that the voice most obviously related to Faulkner’s own is that of Darl. Or, rather, features

Verbal Narration

of Darl’s style seem to recur elsewhere in Faulkner’s work, not necessarily in association with any character. In other words, Darl’s monologues appear to manifest a stylistic pattern that constitutes a sort of default narratorial voice in Faulkner’s writing at this time. For example, as already noted, Darl has a peculiar penchant for referring to abstractions rather than concrete objects. Thus, early in the opening soliloquy, he remarks that the cottonhouse “leans in empty and shimmering dilapidation in the sunlight” (3), where we might have expected something more like, “the dilapidated frame leans to one side, empty and shimmering in the sunlight” (i.e., the frame of the building would be shimmering, not the “dilapidation”). At first glance, we seem to find something similar in the (non-​personified) narration at the beginning of Faulkner’s immediately following work, Sanctuary. For example, we might think that references to “broken  .  .  .  reflection” (1), “a soundless feathering” (4), and “alert . . . secrecy” (6) are of the same sort. However, as soon as we look at these specific examples, we begin to see that they are not in fact of the same sort at all. Darl’s abstractions are contrived; they do not enhance emotional response, thematic precision, or communicative clarity. Indeed, they do exactly the opposite. Dilapidation does not shimmer; it is some part of the ruined building that shimmers. Darl has sacrificed accuracy for novelty. In terms of recent, cognitive work in creativity theory, he has made something new or unexpected, through a surprising phrase. But, as writers in this field argue, creativity results, not from novelty alone, but from innovation that is also a functional advance, a solution to problems or an improvement on previous practices relative to current purposes, such as clarity of narrative communication (for this basic, and generally uncontroversial view of creativity, see Sternberg and Kaufman, 467). The examples from the “default narrator style” of Sanctuary are all very different. Indeed, considered in context, they are not even abstractions. They are, rather, part of finely drawn depictions of particular, sensory experiences that make the reader’s simulations of events more vivid, and thereby foster a sort of perceptual empathy with the characters. The description of how “the man leaned his face toward the broken and myriad reflections of his own drinking” (1)  does not present a static and generalized state. Rather, it seeks to capture the ephemeral, first-​person experience of the man, as he approaches the glimmering, fragmented image of himself in the moving water. I am not making these points in order to criticize Darl. After all, these are the character’s thoughts, not writings that he is trying to publish as literary art. Rather, the point is that, at first, Darl may appear to be a Faulkner-​like figure, specifically for stylistic reasons. However, as soon as we look carefully at the stylistic features at issue, we see that they are in fact quite different, both in themselves and in their literary functions. Put crudely, Darl is not Faulkner, but a sort of failed attempt at Faulkner.

123

124

Literature

This returns us to the connection of Implied Faulkner with Addie. If there is some link here, what does it imply, including perhaps about Faulkner’s difference from Darl? In considering this issue, I would like to explore a possible implication of style and narrative that is rather different from what we have been considering up to this point. Style is, as we have seen, often associated with individuation, the distinctive particularity of a target—​an individual work, a period or genre, but especially an author. When authorial style is both distinctive and successful (emotionally, thematically, and/​or communicatively), which is to say that it is both novel and apt—​thus, creative—​we often refer to it as “voice.” Thus, we say that a successful author has found his or her “voice,” a particular quality that we can identify as his or hers, much as we can identify a person by his or her actual voice. It is not merely coincidental that we also use the term “voice” to refer to the distinctive qualities of narrators, as when we speak of the voice of Darl. When successfully developed, these narrator voices have the same qualities of distinctiveness and (thematic, emotional, or communicative) functionality. Indeed, the ability to create such narrational voices is part of Faulkner’s (narrational) style, thus his “voice.” A range of theorists, from T. S. Eliot to Walter Jackson Bate and Harold Bloom, have addressed the issue of how an author develops this voice, though they sometimes phrase the issue differently. One recurring answer—​at this level, an answer that is in fact shared by Eliot, Bate, and Bloom—​is that an author can do this only by his or her engagement with the past, through the encounter of individual talent with tradition (for Eliot), through confronting “the burden of the past” (as Bate has it), through struggling with “the anxiety of influence” (according to Bloom). Theorists differ in their accounts of just what this response to the past can or should involve. For some writers, it is necessarily antagonistic. For example, some feminists (drawing on theorists such as Cixous) have urged that women express themselves through “feminine writing,” thus cultivating a female voice (or perhaps not distorting their own female voices through imitating male models). What is more relevant here, a number of American writers have urged that authors in the United States seek to write in an identifiably non-​British, American voice (cf., for example, Whitman’s comments on “native idiomatic words” in “the national blood” [qtd. in Ayeres, 569]). This returns us to Implied Faulkner’s connection with Addie. This is not the place to explore an affective-​cognitive theory of influence and the bearing of influence on poetic voice and national identity (though I  have sought to address some of these issues in Joyce, Milton, and the Theory of Influence). However, we can begin to see some perhaps surprising implications of the Faulkner-​ Addie connection, implications that potentially tell us something about the sources of Faulkner’s literary voice, and about some of the ways narrational style may function in a literary work, including—​perhaps surprisingly—​in relation to national identity.

Verbal Narration

Specifically, if we think about Addie’s monologue in the context of Faulkner’s development of literary voice and his response to tradition, we are likely to be struck by a peculiar feature of that monologue, or rather a peculiar set of features. These features are a matter of the monologue’s relation to precursors, especially James Joyce and Nathaniel Hawthorne. As to the Joyce, Sykes observes that, speaking broadly, “Faulkner’s work . . . abounds in parallels and echoes . . . from Ulysses” (513). We may specify the general point for As I Lay Dying. Faulkner clearly uses Addie’s one monologue to allude to, but also to reconfigure, Molly Bloom’s one monologue in Joyce’s Ulysses. We see this most obviously in the fact that both recount an adulterous affair, as well as the marriage proposal of the speaker’s (eventual) husband. In addition, the striking parallels between Addie and Dewey Dell recall the parallels between Molly and her daughter, Milly. Beyond these connections, by making Addie a teacher, Faulkner partially incorporates some elements of Stephen Dedalus into Addie. The connections here are so clear that it seems impossible to imagine Faulkner is simply overwhelmed by unconscious influence. He, rather, alludes to Joyce’s great novel and expects that the most widely read members of his audience will recognize the allusions self-​consciously. But why would he do this? I doubt that he had a self-​conscious, articulated purpose in mind. However, I  would suggest that part of the reason such allusions felt right to Faulkner was that, in forming his own style or voice, a crucial part of the process involved learning from Joyce’s novel—​and transforming it, among other things, by shifting it to America. This brings us to Nathaniel Hawthorne. Hawthorne was clearly a great exemplar for Faulkner from early on. Faulkner changed his name, adding a “u,” just as Hawthorne changed his name, adding a “w” (see Gorra, “William Faulkner,” 377, and Waggoner, 5); he named his first book, The Marble Faun, taking a title from Hawthorne. In Addie’s monologue, he follows Joyce in having her focus on her adultery. But the act of adultery is not Molly Bloom’s affair with a young impresario. It is, rather, an affair with a preacher and it issues in a child. She names the child “Jewel.” Here, too, Faulkner is clearly not overwhelmed by unconscious influence. He is self-​consciously alluding to the most famous literary case of adultery with a minister, at least the most famous in American literature—​Hester’s affair with Arthur Dimmesdale, which issued in the child named for a valuable ornament, not a jewel, in this case, but Pearl.6 The connection here has a range of implications for Faulkner’s novel generally, and this chapter in particular. For example, Addie has the peculiar image that she and Brother Whitfield are “dressed in sin” (101). This idea makes more sense when connected with Hester’s punishment of wearing on her clothing the mark of her sin, the “scarlet letter.” In this way, the link with Hawthorne has informational value, as well as emotional resonance, thereby serving both functions.

125

126

Literature

The links with both Joyce and Hawthorne are arguably functional for Faulkner in a way we have not previously considered. Specifically, they figure importantly in Faulkner’s definition of his own voice. To some extent, Faulkner is suggesting a stylistic relation to these particular authors, and these particular works. Part of Faulkner finding his own style or voice involves implementing simulative processes derived from these works. At a very simple level, he takes from Joyce the principle of a wife’s interior monologue bearing on adultery. Drawing on Hawthorne, he substitutes some general features of the affair for those in Joyce. He then shifts Hawthorne’s lovers out of their context in Puritan New England to the rural South in the early twentieth century. This is an ordinary sort of simulative shifting of parameters, as we routinely imagine what we would do in different circumstances or how a particular sequence of events would have unfolded if the conditions were changed. Indeed, this sort of shifting is central to the adaptive functionality of simulation. I suspect that these points have a subdued thematic import as well. Specifically, stylistic choices often function to allow an author to assert affinities with groups of authors (e.g., movements). This assertion of affinity is often thematically consequential. For example, Whitman’s use of American idioms in his poetry is inseparable from his clear thematic affirmations of American identity. Even in cases where there is not a separate thematic concern, stylistic association can serve to suggest a group affiliation, though this need not be a self-​conscious choice on the author’s part. In the case of As I Lay Dying, I take it that the thematically crucial affinities are not with Joyce and Hawthorne specifically, but with international modernism as well as the historically more extended tradition of American literature. These two may seem contradictory. The former is, again, international and modernism is in some respects a rejection of the tradition that preceded; it certainly signals a different approach to narrative than is found in most prior literature. In contrast, the American tradition is national, and this part of the tradition (Hawthorne) is continuous with long-​standing techniques of storytelling. I  take it that the partial contradiction is both real and “productive,” the latter in the sense that it serves to foster and direct innovation by Faulkner. There is a complex, cognitive interaction here in which the international associations provoked in Faulkner’s thought discourage narrow parochialism, while the American particularity discourages slavish imitation of (non-​American) modernist precursors. The process is enhanced by Faulkner’s further integration of Southern geography, economy, and social history, his particularization of narrative principles associated with modernism or with canonical (largely Northern) American literature, a particularization produced by simulation that drew on his memories of his own sub-​culturally different experiences. In these ways, Faulkner’s narrational style suggests a

Verbal Narration

tacit, and ambivalent, assertion of a complex, tense, and partially contradictory or shifting set of literary identifications—​international, national, and sub-​ national (or regional).

Conclusion The preceding comments are particular to Faulkner’s novel. However, they suggest points about narration style that are more broadly applicable as well. The most general implication of the preceding analysis is simply that narration may be distinctively patterned and thus that it forms an apt level for stylistic analysis. To analyze narration style, we might begin with the usual narrator categories, such as first-​person and third-​person. However, more distinctive features may include the number of focalizers or narrators, the degree to which focalizers or narrators are segregated formally (e.g., assigned to separate chapters), the extent to which any stream of consciousness is or is not bound, hypothetical, or restricted (with respect to broad topics, such as sex, or with respect to specific story events, such as the barn burning), the ways in which the work relates story and discourse time (taking into account different levels of discourse time), and whether there is or may be embedding of the narration (e.g., if the apparent narrators or focalizers may be encompassed by another, less apparent narrator, as Addie might encompass the various explicit narrators, making them all focalizers in Addie’s story). The preceding analysis suggests that an important aspect of style may be the degree to which a given work enhances or limits ambiguities and ambivalences, in this case through features of narration. Perhaps most surprisingly, the preceding observations indicate that certain features of narrational style, particularly those bearing on the relation between a narrator and the implied author, may point to thematic resonances. One such set of resonances concerns the author’s literary forebears, thus the implied author’s affirmation of affinities or identifications. These identifications may themselves be purely literary, but they may also involve national or other socially consequential identity groups. For example, they may bear on regional identity in the case of the American South. Moreover, these identifications need not be untroubled. They too may be—​probably often are—​changeable, contradictory, and pervaded by ambivalence.

127

PART II

Film

4

Film Style

Style in film has the same basic definition as it does in literature. It is a functional pattern of response-​relevant features that is distinctive for some scope and level, with functionality defined by authorial, receptive intent. Moreover, most aspects of literary stylistic analysis (e.g., regarding the integration of genres) carry over from literature to film. However, the natures of the two media, as well as the ways films are made and distributed, lead to differences in the implications of the basic definition and differences in some aspects of narration, emplotment, and, of course, manifestation or perceptual interface. These differences bear particularly on the distinctiveness (thus the nature of norms or patterns), the scope (what range of material can be patterned), and the level (just what types of properties may be patterned). As Ryan and Thon observe, “stories and their worlds are crucially shaped by the affordances and limitations of the media in which they are realized” (“Storyworlds,” 2). While some aspects of style are, in their terms, “medium free,” others are “medium specific” or somewhere in between (3). In this chapter, I outline some aspects of style that are characteristic of film (as opposed to literature) and that we therefore need to be aware of in isolating stylistic patterns in individual films, authorial canons, movements, and so on.

Distinctiveness: Extrinsic and Intrinsic Norms in Cinema Perhaps the fundamental difference in distinctiveness between literature and film is that there is a single set of extrinsic norms that bears on virtually every work. This is the Hollywood system of “continuity.” As David Bordwell has pointed out, this system of “classical filmmaking” is “not just one stylistic school, on the same footing as Soviet montage or Italian neorealism. The classical tradition has become a default framework for international cinematic expression, a point of departure for nearly every filmmaker” (The Way, 12). We will consider some properties of the continuity system in a moment, and some Style in Narrative. Patrick Colm Hogan, Oxford University Press (2021). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197539576.001.0001

132

Film

complications of its normative function. Before going into that, however, we need to recall some of the differences in production and distribution between film and literature, differences that contextualize the relative standardization of some extrinsic norms. Film requires considerable financial investment and investors expect to turn a profit on that investment. This requires distribution networks. Though film involves words, a great deal of film is non-​verbal, a matter visual and sound properties that are more or less accessible to anyone, no matter what their language competence. Moreover, the industry has developed in such a way that dubbing and subtitling have been routinized in many cases—​at least for mainstream Hollywood films—​often through distribution companies (see Bordwell and Thompson, 14). One result of these factors—​as well as the relatively recent development of film, historically—​is that films have the possibility of being global to a greater degree than do works of literature. The global reach of film distribution, in a period of US economic hegemony, has contributed to a global domination of Hollywood cinema. Some nations do not have the wealth to produce much of a national cinema. (On national differences in the production and distribution of films, see Diversity and the Film Industry.) Others lack the infrastructure to translate films readily into other languages for global distribution or lack access to distribution networks. Moreover, due to the relatively short history of cinema, and its globalization from the beginning, Hollywood has been dominant for most of the history of film. This all contrasts strikingly with literature—​or, more generally, verbal art—​where every language has its own orature and most have their own written literatures. There has been a decrease in this diversity of traditions in verbal art in recent decades as many languages have died out and a small number of global languages (particularly English) have advanced enormously. But the situation is still very different from that of film. Moreover, even if there were a narrow, contemporary hegemony of one national literature, there would still be longer traditions in all likelihood exerting some normative pressure on various local practices. Of course, there is an element of this even in cinema. For example, traditions of Japanese theatrical practices have some effects on Japanese cinema that they do not have on French, Iranian, or US films. Nonetheless, even those influences remain limited and do not occur in isolation from cross-​cultural practices. One result of the global hegemony of Hollywood film is that the norms of Hollywood cinema become the extrinsic norms for films throughout the world. Within these global extrinsic norms, we may distinguish general from categorical norms. General norms apply to all works. Categorical norms apply to works of a particular type. Categorical norms are most often genre norms. Thus, there are, for example, general norms for lighting or story construction and norms that apply specifically to horror films. The categorical norms may often be understood as specifiable deviations from general norms. For

Film Style

example, as a general norm, the main source of lighting is usually above the actor and a “fill light” is used to remove shadows on the actor’s face (e.g., from his or her nose). In contrast, some scenes in horror films may have the main source of lighting below the actor and may avoid the use of a fill light, resulting in long, upward shadows. There may be greater relative freedom of distinct film traditions (e.g., national traditions) in categorical norms. Indeed, the norms of a national tradition (e.g., Japanese cinema) or a movement (e.g., the French New Wave) operate in effect as categorical norms. In other words, they establish distinct practices as extrinsic norms within their traditions (e.g., there are extrinsic norms for a French New Wave film). But these extrinsic norms are, so to speak, subsidiary to the general (extrinsic) norms of Hollywood. This is to say that, like genre norms, they are marked deviations from general Hollywood practices. For example, the use of jump cuts in French New Wave film (see Bordwell and Thompson, 488)  has its effects by contrast with the more general standard of continuity established by Hollywood. (Jump cuts are edits that produce a sense that the action has “jumped” from one spot to another; they violate a standard, continuity editing principle of moving the camera at least 30 degrees between shots [see Bordwell and Thompson, 336].) Perhaps the best way to understand the general extrinsic norms of Hollywood is as a default set of expectations that audiences bring to a film of any sort and that the filmmakers therefore presuppose in their receptive response to a film or segment of a film.1 Subsidiary extrinsic norms (e.g., for a national tradition) operate in the same way, but the subsidiary norms qualify rather than displace the general extrinsic norms. In other words, the subsidiary norms specify local alternatives to general norms (as in the occasional use of jump cuts in some French New Wave films). Intrinsic norms enter film as well, just as they do in literature. They are established, for example, in the course of an individual work or section of a work. These intrinsic norms may displace the subsidiary extrinsic norms in the expectations of a viewer, but it seems likely that they do not easily displace the general extrinsic norms. In other words, it seems likely that the general extrinsic norms provide a sort of background for the responses of viewers even in highly unusual works. This is why, for example, the ultimately quite regular stylistic techniques of Ozu strike so many viewers as novel even when they are constantly repeated in Ozu’s films. One is simply so accustomed to the general norms of continuity editing that the intrinsic norms of Ozu’s films come to seem strange. In my personal experience, it is only after watching many Ozu films in a row that I begin to find his stylistic preferences unobtrusive—​thus that I stop responding to them in relation to Hollywood continuity standards. Before going on to sketch continuity norms, it is important to note one further complication here, treated partially in the first chapter. Just as intrinsic norms may violate extrinsic norms (general or subsidiary), so too may

133

134

Film

individual instances violate intrinsic norms. In some cases, the violation of general intrinsic norms will establish its own counter norm. Thus, a given film—​or work of literature—​may establish intrinsic expectations which it then proceeds to violate singly or in a regularized way. In either case, the violation constitutes a stylistic choice as we understand and respond to it in the context of the stylistic norms it violates. (We will return to singular or unpatterned stylistic choices in ­chapter 8.) That use of intrinsic norm violations—​whether anomalous (thus singular) or counter-​normative (thus establishing an alternative pattern)—​should be part of the stylistic analysis of a work since it is likely to affect a viewer’s response and to do so with the usual functions (story definition, emotion modulation, and/​or thematic communication). In short, the relation of such violations to intrinsic norms is parallel to the relation of subsidiary to general extrinsic norms. Again, these violations are important for stylistic analysis generally and bear on both literary and film analysis. The preceding points lead to a small refinement of my previous definition of style, as follows:  Style is a functional pattern of response-​relevant features that is distinctive for some scope and level along with deviations from that pattern insofar as those deviations are understood in relation to the pattern. For example, a work may have a pattern of often using jump cuts, but still using continuity cuts regularly. We would not say that a continuity cut is a distinctive stylistic feature because we would probably not view it as an exception to the intrinsic norm of the film; in other words, viewers—​including the implied author—​would probably not respond to the continuity cuts in relation to jump cuts. In contrast, we are likely to find even brief camera movement to constitute a distinctive stylistic violation in a film that uses virtually no camera movement (such as one of Ozu’s works). To illustrate these points, we might briefly return to David Lynch’s Mulholland Drive. Again, the film has two parts. The first part establishes an intrinsic narrational norm that is, roughly, a version of the rather loose extrinsic narrational norms of Hollywood storytelling. In this case, the story is presented in apparently chronological order; there is no focalization; and there is apparently no internal access to characters’ thoughts, perceptions, or memories. Put differently, the first part involves narration style that might feel relatively “objective” to a viewer. In this case, then, the intrinsic norms of the film are a specification—​or, in Bordwell’s term, replication—​of extrinsic norms, which are necessarily not fully specific. The second part of the film, however, soon faces us with anomalies, as when characters seem to appear and disappear in scenes, their clothing changes in mid-​scene, and so on. Moreover, for a large portion of the second part, we are presented only with scenes involving Diane. It soon becomes clear that the second part is systematically changing the intrinsic narrational norms (i.e., the scope of these [initial] intrinsic narrational norms is confined to part of the film; it does not extend to the film as a whole). Techniques that appear at first

Film Style

to be exceptions eventually come to be new norms. In other words, it becomes clear that they are counter-​normative. Thus, the intrinsic norms for the second part include focalization on Diane, internal access to Diane’s memories, as well as temporal organization guided by that internal focalization—​thus an earlier, remembered scene may come after a subsequent, current scene (with “current” defined by the narrational “now”). Late in the second part, this second intrinsic norm at least appears to be violated when we are shown a scene evidently removed from Diane’s perception and, more strikingly, when we are taken to another such scene after Diane’s death. These violations are too isolated to define a new pattern and are therefore anomalous (in the terminology introduced above). Note that both counter-​normative and anomalous violations are functional. Viewers sensitive to the narrational norms of the film are likely to be struck by these various violations and feel prompted to reflect on them—​ specifically, their informational, thematic, or emotional consequences—​in relation to both the extrinsic and the intrinsic norms of the second part of the film. For example, with regard to theme, the film might reasonably be taken to suggest criticisms of standard modes of representing reality. One of the striking, stylistic features of Mulholland Drive is that it is so contrary to the tendencies of the Hollywood continuity system. This is true even when the film seems to be literally following some continuity norms, since the second part of the film at least appears to imply that the first part is not objective at all, but highly contrived and ideological. The specific techniques that constitute the continuity system include a range of narrational, visual, aural, and other techniques. I will mention a few of those techniques, but only by way of illustration.2 My primary concern here is with the broad principles defining the continuity system. Specifically, we may identify a fundamental experiential characteristic of continuity style and a central function for that style. In addition, we may delimit one common exception to each. In other words, there is a default property and function, as well as a common alternative property and associated alternative function. The main experiential property of continuity editing is that style should be unobtrusive. In terms of the preceding scale of stylistic salience, the continuity system is, then, ideal as a “background” style, a style against which stylization or mannerism would stand out. The main exception to the unobtrusiveness of style occurs when some salient signal is used to convey important information, often some sort of broad narrational shift. For example, a lingering close-​up of a character’s face, with his or her gaze evidently averted from any current activity in the scene, is a common way of signaling an impending shift to that person’s thoughts or memories; a change from color to black and white might be used to signal a shift from the present to the past. In cases of this sort, there is usually a punctual violation of the unobtrusiveness norm. That violation either ends (as in the close-​up, which shifts to the remembered scene) or

135

136

Film

quickly becomes a scene-​based intrinsic norm that is relatively unobtrusive (as in the shift to black and white, which we stop noticing self-​consciously as the scene unfolds). As the preceding example suggests, the primary function of general Hollywood techniques is communicating story information clearly (the point has been shown in detail by Bordwell in his On the History). Thus, establishing shots serve to give the viewer a general sense of spatial relations in order to facilitate his or her subsequent understanding of movement, direction of character attention, and other aspects of the story and storyworld. The standard lighting system operates most obviously to give the viewer a readily identifiable perception of the character or the surroundings. The main exception to this occurs when the emotional requirements of the film demand that story information not be communicated, often in order to sustain interest, as in suspense. In such cases, the visual narrator may not be “forthcoming” or “communicative” and some extrinsic norms will be violated—​as when the face of the villain is not clearly lit (e.g., when it is backlit from the perspective of the victim and the features are not discernible). As this example indicates, in some cases the violations of continuity editing in this regard are part of subsidiary norms for categories, such as mystery or horror genres. More precisely, a narrator may not provide information—​for example about the identity of the murderer—​if he or she does not have it due to constraint on knowledge or, what is probably more common in film, if he or she does have it, but is not forthcoming, due for example to the emotional requirements of a genre, such as a murder mystery (on the narrator’s communicativeness, see Bordwell, Ozu, 52). Before going on, it is important to mention two partial qualifications to this general domination of the continuity system. First, there is greater historical variability in the continuity system than the preceding discussion may suggest. Most obviously, it did not suddenly appear in its full form with the birth of cinema. It developed and changed. Moreover, there is considerable variation within the system, probably at all periods. This is what one would expect. The cognitive operation of extrinsic norms is related to that of prototypes, not necessary and sufficient conditions. As already noted, prototypes are (roughly) average cases. Many actual instances of a prototype-​based category may be quite distant from the prototype. (In contrast, necessary and sufficient conditions would equally include all individual instances.) As part of this change and variability, there is some tendency toward increasing the obtrusiveness of stylistic techniques in recent Hollywood film and, in keeping with this, toward advancing the function of emotional engagement—​particularly dishabituation—​rather than the simple clarity of communicating story information. (When we habituate to a stimulus, we cease to respond to it [see LeDoux, Synaptic, 138]. Part of the function of taking up new techniques is to produce emotional arousal—​at minimum, interest—​when earlier techniques have been repeated enough to produce habituation.)

Film Style

The second partial qualification concerns not history but, so to speak, geography. Despite its hegemony, Hollywood is not the largest film industry in the world, if we understand size in terms of the number of films produced in a country (see Diversity). That honor goes to India. Though Indian cinema has not had anything like the global impact of Hollywood, it has had a very significant impact both within India and elsewhere. That impact has meant that Indian cinema has to some extent established its own extrinsic norms. Since the mid-​1950s, Indian cinema has developed a much more obtrusive visual and aural style and one much more oriented toward emotional effects. On the other hand, the practices of Indian cinema are not unrelated to the general practices of the continuity system. For example, they tend make use of similar techniques for orienting the viewer spatially, to follow the same principles of continuous motion across cuts in editing, and so forth. Thus, it is not correct to say that the extrinsic norms of Indian commercial cinema are identical with those of the Hollywood continuity system. However, it is probably even less correct to say that they are a separate system. In this way, there is some variation in the extrinsic norms of film, both within Hollywood and elsewhere. One should not be too rigid in one’s expectations. Nonetheless, it still is the case that, in contrast with literature, there is relative uniformity in extrinsic norms for film and greater social and economic pressure enforcing those norms.

Stylistic Scope in Film The scope of a cinematic style involves the same sorts of category that we find in the scope of literature. Thus, we may refer to the narration style of a segment of a film (as in the case of Mulholland Drive), the visual style of a genre (as in the lighting techniques of horror films), and so on. However, complications arise with the idea of an authorial canon—​or, indeed, any other reference to authorship, including the limitation of function to authorial receptive intent. In a field where the “auteur” has been so theoretically important, one might imagine that the authorial scope would translate simply into the “auteurial” scope. But things are more complicated than that. I will not consider the issue here, as I  have discussed it in some detail elsewhere (see Hogan, Narrative Discourse, 89–​112). The key point is that films are extensively collaborative and in that sense have different auteurs. In many films, the director is the most significant auteur. He or she often sets out the general principles to be followed by the cinematographer, art director, actors, and so forth. Moreover, he or she typically decides which alternative framing or camera movement, which set design, which take of a scene, to include in the final film. Nonetheless, even with a dominant director, there are contributions of some degree from various participants and each may define a relevant scope.

137

138

Film

This is not an inconsequential matter. It bears directly on what we consider to be an appropriate stylistic scope. For example, the use of “occlusive foregrounds”—​placing something between the camera and the focal target so as to partially block our vision of the target—​is a characteristic of some Indian films from the 1950s (see Hogan, “Auteurs”). After preliminary observation, one might conclude that this is a characteristic of director Guru Dutt’s visual style. Alternatively, one might conclude that it is a characteristic of cinematographer V. K. Murthy’s visual style. Our decision on this point will determine just what we set up as the canon for analyzing this feature of authorial style and how we treat apparent exceptions. In short, the same basic principles apply to scope in literature and film. However, scope in film involves further complications. Due to these complications, determining just what stylistic feature goes with what scope (e.g., the canon of Dutt or the canon of Murthy) is not always straightforward.

Levels in Film The levels of film style are almost entirely the same as those of literature—​ except, of course, the perceptual interface or manifestation, which is confined to words in verbal literature, but extends to visual images and sound in film. Except for the specific issue of construal, I will not treat manifestation separately in this chapter as I take it that the basic differences here are straightforward and familiar enough that they do not require spelling out. In ­chapter 5, we will consider some more complex and less obvious aspects of the perceptual interface as these are taken up in films that draw on visual art. However, the continuity of the other levels across literature and film does not mean that there are no style-​relevant differences in those levels. The perceptual nature of film alters some of the properties that may occur at a given level, thus the nature of the level and just what may be patterned at that level. Storyworld and story—​including story genre—​are the most similar to their corresponding levels in literature. The storyworld is still what is constant; the story is still the causal trajectory of events. We may often understand story as the result of integrating storyworld with genre—​for example, bringing together the characters of Jack and Rose, the history of the Titanic, etc. (the storyworld), with the romantic tragedy genre to yield the particular story of Titanic. The broad story genres are more or less the same in literature and film—​prominently the universal genres of romantic tragi-​comedy, and so forth. There are historically and culturally specific genres that develop with film, but that is true for literary traditions also. Discourse is another matter. Both narration and emplotment are affected by the difference in medium.3 Consider narration. In film we may distinguish verbal, visual, and auditory narration. The verbal narrator presents

Film Style

story information through words; the visual narrator presents story information through visual images; the auditory narrator presents story information through sounds. To say that these are in principle distinct from one another does not mean that the three are always separate from one another, or even that they are very often separate from one another. Indeed, the visual and auditory narrators are commonly linked such that it makes more sense to refer to the perceptual narrator. The separability of visual and auditory narration is found most clearly in cases of conflicting sound/​image montage—​where, for example, we hear what is occurring in one place (say, a dialogue), but see what is happening elsewhere. The key point, however, is that the three are conceptually distinct and indeed operate differently. For example, when we are given the verbalized thoughts of some focalized character in a film, we are often given shots showing that character, rather than shots reflecting his or her optical point of view. Indeed, we need not be presented even with what he or she hears, since we may hear non-​diegetic music (i.e., music that is not part of the storyworld, thus presumably not part of what the character hears). In these cases, then, verbal narration is separate from both visual and auditory narration. Before considering narration and emplotment in more detail, it is important to note that all levels in film have the same sorts of relations as levels in literature. Thus, one level may be bound to a prior level or autonomous with respect to that level. For example, film continues the default order of emplotment as chronological, thus binding plot to story in the case of chronological representation. In addition, techniques of visual or auditory narration may be bound or autonomous. For instance, we may refer to the characters of primary narrative concern as “topicalized.” (A more intuitive term would be “focal,” but that risks confusion with “focalization.”) If a topicalized character moves away from a scene, we expect the camera to follow him or her. Thus at least some (plot-​level) tracking shots are bound to (story-​level) character movement. The same point holds for shot/​reverse shot. The default or bound option is for the shot to cut to the speaker. There is autonomy in shot/​reverse shot only when the director or director of photography (or editor) alters this pattern, for example when the camera lingers on the face of someone who has stopped speaking and is now listening. Given the focus of Hollywood on the story and on communicating story information, it is unsurprising that the continuity system generally enhances binding across levels. In contrast, the “art cinema” and perhaps especially avant garde works pursue autonomy across levels. An obvious case of this may be found when Godard shoots dialogues so that we often do not see the speaker’s face (as in parts of Le Gai Savoir). For example, the camera may be behind the speakers, as in the opening dialogue of Vivre Sa Vie. It is worth noting that Ozu—​a filmmaker who would be widely classed as artistic, but not avant garde—​sometimes films characters from behind as well. However, the cases are functionally different. Ozu’s scenes serve to present the

139

140

Film

viewer with postural emotion expressions. This serves to convey the feeling of the scene in a more subdued, but potentially more effective way than would a focus on the more agitated facial expression. The latter may produce an emotional excess that is aversive for viewers. In contrast, Godard seems to use the back-​of-​the-​head shots to frustrate a viewer’s spontaneous processing of the emotions or attitudes of the speakers, thereby perhaps provoking something along the lines of Brechtian alienation and associated reflection. (This may also be what Ceylan is aiming for when he uses a related technique in Once Upon a Time in Anatolia.) NARRATION

Like literature, film may involve verbal narration. There are four common varieties of verbal narration in film: character-​addressee narration (especially frame narration), commentator narration, orientation narration, and mentalistic narration (see Hogan, Discourse, 135 and 189, though the terminology there is somewhat different). In character-​ addressee narration (or, more briefly, character narration), one character tells a story to another character; when the character narration is a frame narration, then the main story is character narrated—​sort of. Commonly, the narration begins with a character’s speech, but shifts to perceptual narration. For example, in Titanic, the first part of the film takes place in the present and leads to the discovery of Rose. Rose then begins to tell the story of the ship’s foundering. She is a character and frame narrator of this verbal part of the narration. However, the narration quickly shifts from verbal to perceptual and we witness the events rather than hearing about them. Obviously, there are character and frame narrators in literature. One difference from literature is that frame narration in film seems rarely to impose strict constraints on the perceptual narration. The narration of the main part of Titanic might have been limited by Rose’s knowledge. But the camera takes us to places where Rose never was, thereby presenting us with visual and aural information that was not available to her. Thus, the extrinsic norms for frame narration or for the relation between verbal and perceptual narration are often fairly loose. The ways authors choose to handle these relations is an important area of narrational style in film. The commentator narrator is a somewhat less personified form of narration in which the narrator comments on the characters or events of the story. Like literary forms of narration, commentator narration may be first or third person. In sound film, this form of narration is almost invariably given in a voice-​over. We also find this form of narration in non-​dialogue inter-​titles in silent films, and it occasionally occurs through titles in sound films (as in the ending of Dušan Makavejev’s Montenegro, where a title informs the viewer that the fruit eaten by the characters was poisoned). Employing a commentator narrator is certainly not the default option for most films. In consequence, it

Film Style

is probably already unusual enough to count as a stylistic choice on the part of an author. In any case, it is certainly an area of narration that is open to stylistic manipulation in film. Orientation narration is usually presented in titles and is as non-​ personified as narration can be. It has the function of stating simple, unequivocal truths that orient the viewer, such as where and when a particular scene occurs—​“Moscow, 1917” or “Meanwhile, back at the ranch. . . .” It rarely figures significantly in the style of a film, though sometimes genres or periods might make somewhat distinctive use of orientation narration, as the association between westerns and “Meanwhile, back at the ranch . . .” may suggest. Mentalistic narration is either the transcription or report of the internal experiences of a character. It is stylistically significant in the way we would expect from literature. The main difference is that, in stream of consciousness, film does not face the problem of verbalizing non-​verbal experience. Though it is in the same boat as literature with respect to smells, tastes, the feel of emotions, and so forth, it can present some version of visual and aural experience wordlessly. As this suggests, the main narrational difference between literature and film is that film need not have a verbal narrator at all, but does necessarily have a perceptual narrator—​a visual narrator in silent film, and a visual-​ auditory narrator in sound film. Film also allows for perceptual focalization. That occurs most obviously with point-​of-​view shots. However, in most cases, film “objectifies” the focalizer, presenting the focalizer himself or herself in the image, along with an approximation of his or her sensory experience. We see more or less the same scenes that the focalizer sees and for the most part hear the same sounds, but the optical perspective is not identical. We might say that the extrinsic norm for focalization in film involves epistemic point of view (what the character knows about the perceived world), with optical point of view entering only occasionally (in, for example, some shot/​reverse shot sequences). There are clearly many possibilities for stylistic variation in perceptual narration and focalization. There is no need to go through all aspects of perceptual narration here, since the main differences from verbal narration are fairly straightforward. However, it is worth noting a few points, which may be less immediately self-​ evident. It may seem that perceptual narration must present us with perceptual facts about the storyworld. But a moment’s reflection reveals that this is not true. Perceptual narration may of course present the real storyworld. But it may also present a dream or fantasy, a lie (e.g., a false testimony in court), or some other imagined scene. It may also be literal or figurative (as in Chaplin’s famous linking of a crowd with a flock of sheep in Modern Times). In connection with the last point, it is worth noting again that it may integrate or dissociate visuals and sound—​or it may relate them in unexpected ways, as when, in Madhumati, Bimal Roy shifts from visual to auditory perspective in indicating

141

142

Film

the location of the fog-​obscured lovers. It may involve realistic approximation to human experience or may distort or enhance the images or sounds. It may also include non-​diegetic music or other sound. EMPLOTMENT

The second component of discourse is, again, plot. Here once more the general structure carries over from literature to film, but with some differences due primarily to the presence of visual and auditory narration. We may once again divide plot into selection and organization. Selection in cinematic emplotment is roughly the same as in literary emplotment. The main exception is that visual (and to a lesser extent auditory) properties are more fully specified by default. In other words, in a literary work, perceptual details (e.g., a character’s hair color) must be affirmatively selected by the author if they are going to be part of the work. In a film, however, many perceptual details will simply be recorded by the camera if the director has not made a choice to obscure those details. The organizational features of cinematic emplotment are perhaps more interesting and significant. We may subdivide organization into temporal, structural, and attentional components. Temporal organization refers most importantly to the sequence and duration of the presentation of story information; structural organization refers to the causal or associative connections linking different bits of story information; attentional organization refers to the features of emplotment that affect the degree to which bits of story information foster or discourage processing, spontaneous (and implicit) or self-​ conscious. We cannot examine these aspects of cinematic emplotment in any detail (this is not an introduction to film, after all). However, it is worth considering some illustrative points. As to temporal sequence, there are three obvious temporal relations that one piece of story information—​commonly the representation of an event—​ may have to another: it may precede, follow, or occur simultaneously with that other representation, just as one story event reported may precede, follow, or occur simultaneously with another event. The first and third possibilities are straightforward and we may leave them aside. Film has a number of techniques for presenting simultaneity. The most common one is cross-​cutting. This has a direct parallel in literature, where a text may shift back and forth between scenes. On the other hand, given its relatively limited use in literature, cross-​ cutting is much more likely to constitute a distinctive stylistic feature of a particular work in literature, while in film it is part of the set of extrinsic norms. Another possible technique is superimposition. This is of course not available in literature. In film, it is limited in its usefulness, due to the degradation of visual information resulting from the process.4 On the other hand, this means that its use is more likely to count as a significant stylistic feature. A  final

Film Style

technique is split screen; this too is not available in literature (even an avant-​ garde text presenting us with apparently simultaneous sequences must be read one sequence at a time). The relative infrequency of split screen means that it too is a prime candidate for stylistic manipulation—​as we will see when we turn to James Franco’s adaptation of As I Lay Dying. Duration is commonly divided into pause (where there is discourse time, but no story time passes, as in the description of a scene), stretch (where the discourse time is longer than the story time), scene (where the discourse and story times are the same), summary (where the discourse time is briefer than the story time), and ellipsis (where story time passes, but not discourse time—​as in a skip to “Nine years later”). (On these types of duration, see Chatman, 68.) Here, too, film may make use of the usual, literary techniques when there is verbal narration. It may also make use of specifically perceptual techniques. For the most part, these are straightforward and do not require further articulation here. For example, a simple case of a pause is found in the freeze frame, as well as the sort of montage sequence in which the viewer is introduced to a new place by a series of shots that occur outside the development of the story. Here, as elsewhere, distinctive timing patterns define stylistic features of a work’s emplotment—​as, for example, in the unusual degree of congruence between story time and plot time (thus the prominence of “scene”) throughout High Noon. Structural relations concern the connections across distinct characters, events, or scenes. These connections may be causal or more loosely associative. Indeed, one might argue that causal relations are simply one specification of associations. Associational organization in effect asks us to think of two or more events, scenes, or characters in relation to one another. That conjunction may involve causal inference, but it may equally involve comparison or contrast, inference to a common thematic point, or something else. Causal relations are complex, but do not seem to involve much that is particular to cinema. Of course, film has perceptual means of suggesting causal and non-​ causal associations, means that are not available in literary works, at least not in the same way. The perceptual concreteness of cinema makes it easier for the emplotment of a film story to introduce storyworld and story associations unobtrusively. A simple means of connecting two characters or scenes involves sharing of perceptual properties, including what are usually called motifs, such as repetitions of color—​for example, the repetition of the color blue in Sonja Prosenc’s 2014 film, The Tree. In this case, the connection is a matter of simple recurrence. Functionally, it helps the viewer to link, for instance, the somewhat enigmatic image of water in which the boy submerges his face and the door between his home and the outside world (which suggests both security within and the possibility of escape). A motif of this sort is a visual version of the color symbolism one finds frequently in literature. But property connections may extend beyond motifs, as these are usually understood. For

143

144

Film

example, if the apparent hero and villain of a film are presented with similarly distinctive lighting, the two could be linked in contrast with other characters. (Functionally, the director may wish to suggest an underlying similarity or contrast between the two, or merely to encourage us to think of the two together.) This is still a repetition of visual properties, but of a different sort than color symbolism, a sort more difficult to replicate in literature. Moreover, film can make use of repetitions of sound (e.g., musical motifs) toward the same ends. Once again, any of these means of creating associations may form the basis for distinctive, stylistic patterning. Moreover, the various associative connections may be open to the encoding of a spectator (i.e., they may be available for his or her perceptual selection and cognitive processing) without being highlighted in the way that would be likely if they were selected for verbal description in a novel. Indeed, this possible subtlety affects causal connections as well. For example, a film treating a murder may show a rifle on one wall of a character’s home without cutting in to a close-​up of that rifle, but rather leaving it as part of the background. It is more difficult for a verbal narrative to communicate this information without explicitly calling attention to it (e.g., “There was a rifle mounted on the back wall of the room”). These are largely a matter of nuance. The basic patterning of such stylistic features is virtually the same in the two cases of literature and film. But that does not mean that the difference is insignificant. The reference to cases of possible, but unobtrusive causal association brings us to attentional orientation. Attentional orientation is a concern in both verbal and visual art. Among other things, it is crucial that recipients encode the right information to follow the story. This is arguably more of a problem in film than in literature—​for the same reason that unobtrusive availability of information is often more possible in film. Specifically, film can present the viewer with a complex and dynamic mass of information that is much less likely in literature. For example, a novel might mention that our heroine is wending her way through a crowd in a train station. The phrasing draws our attention to the heroine while also making us aware of the crowd. A film is more likely to show us the heroine in the crowd. But that risks us not spotting her. Thus, filmmakers resort to various techniques to help guarantee our recognition of the heroine. They will typically center the heroine in the frame; they might give her a distinctive outfit, rendering her more salient by an unusual color; they might limit what parts of the crowd are in focus. Here, too, all the means of emplotment—​those shared with literary works and those available only in film—​may be manipulated in distinctive ways to produce stylistic patterns. MANIFESTATION

As already noted, the main differences between verbal and perceptual manifestation seem to be both straightforward and familiar. Thus, they require

Film Style

little explicit attention. However, one function of words—​arguably part of emplotment—​is construing targets (events, characters, or scenes) in certain ways. Construal is a matter of selection. However, it is not a matter of choosing which objects and events to represent, given the multiplicity of objects and events in the (story)world. It is a matter of choosing how to represent a particular object or event, given the infinite number of ways it might be represented. The operation of construal in visual media is less straightforward and less familiar. Thus it merits some attention. We might begin by distinguishing between direct and indirect construal. Direct construal occurs through verbalization. Indeed, the theorization of construal (prominently by Elizabeth Anscombe) has been a theorization of verbal characterization. Suppose a friend and I are in a cabin. He goes out early in the morning and engages in an activity with an axe that may be verbalized, thus construed, as “preparing firewood for the rest of the day,” “getting a little exercise,” “violating nature,” or “making a lot of noise that wakes me at an ungodly hour when I’m supposed to be getting some much deserved and much needed rest on a vacation!” Clearly, the usual sorts of direct construal are available in film. However, they are much more difficult to present, as they must concern events reported by characters, events described in commentator narration, or events that are verbalized in some other way. Some forms of indirect construal are open to both film and literature. For example, Noël Carroll has stressed that genre produces “criterial prefocusing,” in effect a form of selective attention and construal (“Film,” 30–​33). A young woman walking alone down the street has one meaning in a slasher film and another in a romantic comedy. The action is the same in the two cases, but the genre norms bearing on our construal of the action are different. In addition, perceptual narration may be used to affect the construal of a scene. Perhaps the most obvious cases are auditory—​music and sound effects (e.g., the “boing” sound when someone is hit, which characterizes the violence as innocuous). Visual means would include the use of camera or editing techniques, such as “soft” focus for gentle intimacy or rapid cutting for, say, urgency or panic. Indeed, any aspect of visual narration may contribute to construal—​color, lighting (quality, direction, relation to object—​e.g., hard or soft, with or without a fill light), staging, camera placement (distance, height, angle), and so on. In some cases, the relation of a technique to construal is general, the result of patterns that exist outside film. These connections are not even a matter of extrinsic norms; they are, rather, a matter of the default operation of the human mind. (There are, of course, intermediate cases as well [see Bordwell, “Convention”].) For example, it seems likely that a close-​up of a face with a standard emotion expression will be construed as someone in an intensified emotional state relative to a more distant shot. Such a sense of intensification would result primarily, perhaps solely, from our psychological propensities, independent of experience with cinema and its norms.

145

146

Film

In other cases, construal seems to be at least in part a matter of cinematic convention. These are the prototypical cases of extrinsic norms. However, even here, we should not overstate the degree of conventionality. As David Bordwell has shown (“Convention”), cinematic conventions are not like linguistic conventions in that they are not wholly arbitrary. For example, as a number of authors have noted, our normal sources of lighting—​the sun and the moon—​ are above. We therefore expect light to have a source above a person. When the source is below, we tend to see this as distorting. Thus, it is not a mere cinematic convention that lighting from below is associated with non-​normal conditions, thus heightened vigilance. On the other hand, it may be a cinematic convention if lighting from below prompts us to construe a character as threatening or even monstrous. There are, of course, features linked with construal that are particular to a film as well. For example, Wim Wenders’s Der Himmel über Berlin uses color in part to construe the world as experienced in different ways by focalizers. Though the general orientation of the construals is fairly straightforward, the precise nature of those different construals is not unequivocal.5 One possibility is that, roughly speaking, the angels (as focalizers) experience only empathic emotions in the black and white scenes, but egoistic emotions, such as romantic love, in the color scenes. This would be parallel to verbally construing an observed character as “a sad woman” versus “his dear Marion.” Whether or not one understands the construal in just this way, it clearly involves an intrinsic norm, not some general, extrinsic norm. In sum, as we would expect, the manipulation of direct or indirect construal may define a stylistic feature of a particular film, an authorial canon, or some supra-​authorial body of works, such as a genre.

A Note on James Franco’s Film of As I Lay Dying In the following chapters, we will examine particular cases of the three key areas in which film style may be strikingly different from literary style—​the perceptual interface, emplotment, and narration. Before going on to that, however, it may be valuable to illustrate some of the differences between literary and film style by briefly considering some aspects of narration and emplotment in James Franco’s adaptation of As I  Lay Dying. Medium-​based differences in style become particularly salient in adaptations and related reworkings of stories from one medium to another.6 To my mind, Franco’s film is one of the most successful visual adaptations of a novel, and the most successful adaptation of a stream of consciousness novel that I have seen. This is largely because Franco draws on the stylistic possibilities of film in order to in some degree recreate the stylistic features of the novel. This is in part a matter of conveying subjective consciousness, a topic emphasized by media theorists, such as Thon, who explains that “the subjective representation

Film Style

of consciousness can be considered a genuinely transmedial phenomenon,” but it varies in how “it is realized across a wide range of media, each with its own specific limitations and affordances” (“Subjectivity,” 67).7 Moreover, Franco does this in such a way as to suggest the importance of Cubist multi-​perspectivism for both works. This continuity with the analysis of the novel given in c­ hapter 3 helps to highlight the stylistic consequences of the differences in medium. In other words, the fact that Franco and I appear to interpret the novel similarly gives us a firmer basis on which to isolate stylistic features that differ due to medium (rather than being due to differences in our interpretations of the novel). In many cases, Franco opts for the simplest solution to altering the narration of the novel. Specifically, he has the characters deliver parts of their soliloquies. But there are already striking stylistic differences here. For example, Franco presents us with three different methods of filming the soliloquies. There are voice-​overs in which the events on the screen represent the scene depicted in the soliloquy. There are also soliloquies in which the character speaks to the camera (see figure 4.1). This suggests the artificial, hypothetical nature of some of the soliloquies in the novel. Finally, there is an intermediate approach, used by Franco for Darl’s final soliloquy. Darl is lying in the grass, staring vacantly in the direction of the camera; we hear a voice-​over in which Darl asks himself why he is laughing. Franco actually alters Faulkner’s novel here, but to good effect, I  believe. Specifically, he transfers part of Addie’s speech to Darl. To my mind, he thereby gives Darl greater narrational authority. The precise nature of the borrowing also serves to suggest that Darl is not laughing due to a sudden fall into madness, but due to dismay over betrayal. (Evidently, Franco too saw Darl’s sudden change as problematic and therefore requiring some

FIGURE 4.1 

camera.

From Franco’s As I Lay Dying: Cash delivers part of his monologue directly to the

147

148

Film

further explanation. It is striking that he too turns to Addie’s soliloquy for this, though he takes up that soliloquy differently.) This complex reconfiguration of the soliloquies is part of the stylistic distinctiveness of the film, and it has the usual stylistic functions. The pairing of soliloquy and perceptual depiction of the events clearly contributes to the selection and construal of story information. The foregrounding of the artificiality of the soliloquies suggests a thematic point about the way we understand other people’s minds, or even our own. There is invariably something crafted, almost artifact-​ like, in our thoughts about people’s attitudes and ideas. Even our self-​construal is often oriented toward an imaginary recipient and shaped by concerns about impression, even when there is no real addressee, thus no real impression, involved. On the other hand, the main impact of most of these stylistic choices is emotional. From Faulkner’s language to the inflections of the actors’ and actresses’ voices and their facial expressions or expressive postures, the representations of the soliloquies may be moving, frightening, or aesthetically engaging. Spatial and temporal perspective are, again, of key importance in Faulkner’s narration and emplotment. Both may be treated differently in films, and that cinematic treatment may be stylistically significant. A recurring technique Franco uses to present spatial point of view is a split screen. Often, the split screen presents us with what would be conveyed by cutting between a character point of view and the target (what the character is observing). This may be another person, in what would usually be represented through shot/​ reverse shot sequences (see figure 4.2). On the other hand, sometimes Franco gives us two spatial perspectives on a single target, which may represent two different character views or may simply fill out the three-​dimensionality of the

FIGURE 4.2 

From Franco’s As I Lay Dying: The split screen roughly approximates a shot/​reverse shot sequence.

Film Style

object. In some cases, he gives us a character’s full face and profile, almost certainly alluding to Picasso’s famous technique of simultaneously presenting full face and profile (see figure 4.3). A particularly interesting use of split screen in representing different perspectives occurs in a sequence in which Darl draws Jewel’s attention to buzzards circling above, with their suggestion that Addie has died (see fi ­ gures 4.4–​4.6). In all these cases, the spatial perspectives are physically close together. At other times, however, Franco represents greater physical distance, as when we see Dewey Dell in the pharmacy on one side of

FIGURE 4.3  From Franco’s As I Lay Dying: The split screen image of Darl recalls Picasso’s simultaneous presentation of full face and profile.

FIGURE 4.4 

the right).

From Franco’s As I Lay Dying: Darl (on the left) looks up and sees the buzzards (on

149

150

Film

FIGURE 4.5.  From Franco’s As I Lay Dying: Jewel (on the right, thus seen by Darl) looks back and sees Darl gesturing toward the buzzards.

FIGURE 4.6  From Franco’s As I Lay Dying: Jewel turns and sees the buzzards. The left side of the screen remains the target of Jewel’s vision, while the right side remains the target of Darl’s vision, roughly approximating the perspective of Darl.

the screen and, on the other side of the screen, the brothers digging the grave in the cemetery (see figure 4.7; though the latter does not clearly represent a precise character perspective, the camera movement toward Darl and Jewel may suggest Dewey Dell’s point of view in returning to the gravesite, which would make this a case of temporal distance as well). In all these cases, the stylistic technique has obvious story communication functions. These techniques commonly have emotional or thematic functions as well. For example, the

Film Style

FIGURE 4.7  From Franco’s As I Lay Dying: Dewey Dell is in the pharmacy; the brothers, digging Addie’s grave, are at some distance.

FIGURE 4.8  From Franco’s As I Lay Dying: The split screen represents different moments of the same action.

representation of Dewey Dell in the pharmacy and the brothers digging the grave stresses the isolation of the pregnant girl, seeking an illegal abortion. The contrast between the images—​and the spatial relations they imply—​is both affecting and politically suggestive (respecting Dewey Dell’s dilemma). Franco also uses split screen to convey different temporal points of view. Sometimes, this involves events separated by only a few seconds or less (see figure 4.8). Sometimes it represents the difference between an event and a

151

152

Film

FIGURE 4.9  From Franco’s As I Lay Dying: The left image presents the general context for Anse’s speech (on the right), but is not synchronized with that speech.

more general condition in which the event occurs, as when one panel shows Anse speaking while the other shows him sitting motionless with Tull (see figure 4.9). These techniques may convey a sense that we often recall emotionally consequential experiences (prominently, traumatic experiences) in fragmentary, disordered ways—​and may even to some extent experience them as incoherent or disrupted from the start. This may have emotional consequences, insofar as the incoherence resonates with our own emotional experiences. It may also have thematic implications regarding our comprehension of traumatic events (such as the death of a loved one) and the artificiality of our attempts to make smoothly consistent narratives out of those events.

Conclusion The definition of style remains the same for film as for literature. The scope of style in cinema is parallel to that for literature. It ranges from sections of a film through whole films, parts or all of an authorial canon, to movements, and so forth. On the other hand, one significant difference between literature and film is that film is a collaborative undertaking. While the director is often the figure most appropriate for defining authorial scope, there are other options as well—​director of photography, script writer, composer, editor, and so on. Another important difference between cinema and literature concerns distinctiveness relative to extrinsic norms. In cinema, the practices of continuity editing serve as extrinsic norms for films generally, even when there are

Film Style

contradictory norms associated with a movement (e.g., the French New Wave) or national cinema (e.g., that of India, to take perhaps the most consistently independent case). As with literature, any level may involve stylistic patterns. Thus, a stylistic analysis of film may treat storyworld, story, narration, plot, or perceptual interface/​ manifestation (the last category encompassing verbal and textual components as well as visual and aural representations). The perceptual features of cinema create some limited differences from literature in story and storyworld. However, there is considerable overlap, in genre (thus events), as well as character (usually linked to genre), setting (e.g., division into home and alien places), and other features. Narration involves greater divergence between literature and film. This is due principally to the addition of visual and auditory—​or, in combination, perceptual—​narration. Perceptual narration is, of course, sensory. It presents us with visual images or sounds, either as actual perceptions or as pseudo-​ perceptual experiences, such as dreams or memories. Moreover, perceptual narration may represent a character’s visual or auditory point of view. However, it need not do so; indeed, it does so, most often, only in limited circumstances. Perceptual narration may be focalized to one or more characters. However, even when focalized, it most often involves an “objectification” of the focalizer’s experience. In other words, it most often does not present the focalizer’s experience from his or her perceptual point of view. Indeed, the focalizer is far more likely to be seen by the visual narrator than to provide the optical perspective of the visual narrator. Auditory narration encompasses diegetic and non-​diegetic music and non-​musical sounds, as well as speech, including voice-​overs. As the mention of voice-​overs indicates, there is of course verbal narration in film as well. Beyond cases where a character simply tells a story within the film, we may distinguish four main types of verbal narration, as follows:  character narration (including frame narration), commentator narration, orientation narration, and mentalistic narration. All these are open to distinctive stylistic patterning. Emplotment may be divided into selection and organization. The perceptual quality of film gives rise to some obvious differences in selection between film and verbal arts. For example, for a wide range of storyworld features, a writer must choose positively to include a perceptual property (e.g., by describing a character’s clothing). In contrast, a filmmaker must choose to exclude such a feature (e.g., by making the scene so dark that the character’s clothing cannot be seen). The differences in organization are perhaps more significant. These may be divided into temporal, structural, and attentional organization. Temporal organization most importantly includes order and duration. Film involves particular techniques of each sort, such as the use of cross-​cutting, superimposition, and split-​screen for simultaneity. Structural organization may be causal or associative. Here, too, there are both similarities

153

154

Film

and differences between literature and film. We find obvious examples of differences in the use of visual or auditory features (such as lighting or musical motifs) to associate scenes or characters. Finally, the means of drawing attentional focus in films would include techniques such as cutting in to a close-​ up or centering the target within the visual frame. Perhaps more significantly, film may more readily make information available without drawing attentional focus, which may be important in, for example, the development of a mystery (as when clues are presented in the background, visible but not obtrusive). All these possibilities too are subject to stylistic manipulation. The sensory manifestation or perceptual interface in film includes language, but obviously goes beyond language into non-​verbal sound and visuals. Style-​relevant patterns in the visual and sound features of a film encompass all the usual patterns one might isolate in visual art, music, or sound design. In addition, lighting, color, camera placement, music, sound effects, and other perceptual features may suggest ways of construing perceptually presented information, thus substituting indirect for direct (verbal) construal. Finally, anticipating the discussion in c­ hapter 7, I might note that perceptual representations may be particularly likely to elicit bodily responses from viewers. Such responses may include resonance of one’s own skills or remembered actions with the actions presented onscreen—​as when a dancer watches another dancer performing (see Keestra, 235, and Calvo-​Merino and colleagues). Such “embodied” responses certainly occur in literature, at least in part through simulation. But the perceptual representation of movement seems far more likely to make such embodied resonance a key feature of recipient response, and thus a key feature of style.8 In film, as in literature, the introduction of stylistic patterns serves one of three main internal functions—​the communication of story information, the arousal or modulation of emotion (including emotions connected with embodied resonance), and the conveyance of themes. In addition, film style may be more or less narratively ambiguous, thematically equivocal or insistent, or emotionally ambivalent. In other words, it shares the external functions with literature as well. Some aspects of the convergence and divergence of literary and film style are well illustrated by James Franco’s version of As I Lay Dying. Franco stages the verbal narration of the novel, effectively preserving its emotional and thematic resonances, and in some cases enhancing them through the facial and vocal expressiveness of the actors and actresses, along with other perceptual additions. More significantly, he develops complex, nuanced techniques of perceptual narration and emplotment in order to recreate in film the informational, emotional, and thematic qualities of Faulkner’s verbal narration and emplotment. As the story and storyworld levels of film style do not differ greatly from those of literature, I will set those aside in the following chapters on particular

Film Style

aspects of film. Again, these chapters will focus on the more distinctive levels of perceptual manifestation, plot, and (perceptual) narration. They will also treat different scopes—​genre, authorial canon, and individual work, respectively, with the last taking up embodiment in emotional response. Here, as elsewhere, the examination of even these topics is not intended to be in any way complete. It is, rather, illustrative of some under-​discussed aspects of these topics.

155

5

Perceptual Interface and Painterly Cinema THREE MINUTES OF ROBERT RODRIGUEZ’S SIN CITY

Again, as instances of a (partially) verbal and (often) narrative medium, films are open to most types of stylistic analysis that figure in the study of literature. In addition, as instances of a visual medium, films are open to most of the types of stylistic analysis that figure in the study of visual art—​those bearing on composition, lighting, color, and so forth. This is particularly clear in the relatively small genre of films that take their inspiration from other types of visual art, principally painting, but also graphic fiction. This genre of films is in some ways reminiscent of those high modernist novels, such as Mrs. Dalloway, which drew inspiration from poetry to craft their highly musical prose. In this chapter, I will note some of the stylistic features that characterize this genre of film, focusing in particular on the opening of Robert Rodriguez’s Sin City, a highly stylized, indeed mannered adaptation of Frank Miller’s graphic fiction. Specifically, Sin City begins with a three-​minute sequence that is an aesthetic gem, arguably the finest segment of the film. Indeed, the sequence is a work of art in itself, independent of the larger context. In keeping with this, it was shot before the film was even begun. Rodriguez used it to recruit the collaboration of actors such as Bruce Willis and the creator of the Sin City graphic novels, Frank Miller. The supplementary material on the DVD of the film includes their testimony to the appeal of this brief sequence. Specifically, this opening mini-​narrative involves a careful visual aesthetic. In part, that visual aesthetic is an imitation of graphic narrative.1 One way of examining the film would be to treat these mimetic properties in detail, particularly in relation to Frank Miller’s work. However, in the following pages, I will, instead, examine these three minutes of film in relation to larger patterns, on the one hand, and as particular to an autonomous work, on the other. As to the larger patterns, what Rodriguez has done fits into a category that is much broader than adaptations of Frank Miller. Specifically, some movies take up a non-​cinematic visual art as a model, often to produce a distinct

Style in Narrative. Patrick Colm Hogan, Oxford University Press (2021). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197539576.001.0001

158

Film

visual style.2 Typically, this visual art has been painting, though it might also be sculpture, tapestry, video games—​or graphic narrative. Given this breadth, one might refer to such films as “visual art” cinema. However, that appears to suggest that cinema itself is not a visual art. I will therefore refer to such films as “painterly” cinema. The following discussion will first sketch the opening of Sin City, giving a basic interpretation and appreciation of the style of that part of the film. Subsequent sections will outline varieties of painterly cinema and some of its usual functions. The final section will return to the three minutes of Rodriguez’s film, examining the extent to which he takes up the usual ways of using visual art—​the usual ways of “re-​styling” visual art in film—​and the standard reasons for such re-​styling. It should therefore serve to enhance the initial interpretation and to explain some of the initial appreciation.

A Very Short Film on Love and Death The sequence begins with the ambient sound of a city, prominently a wailing siren in the distance, paralleled by the nondiegetic wailing of a saxophone. The meandering and spare quality of the music suggests film noir and such genres as “hard boiled” detective stories.3 The connection is significant primarily due to the often highly stylized or mannered nature of such genres, particularly in their language. We find that stylization in the voice-​over, which is characterized by poetic devices, without employing “poetic” diction. Thus, the first line of the voice-​over, delivered by a man’s voice, is “She shivers in the wind like the last leaf on a dying tree.” The use of a simile is already suggestive of poetry. Moreover, the image involves foreshadowing (as we learn when the woman in question dies at the end of the sequence). Perhaps more strikingly, the line employs standard devices of sound patterning, notably alliteration (“She shivers,” “like the last leaf ”) and assonance (“She . . . leaf . . . tree,” “shivers in the wind,” “like . . . dying”). More significantly for present purposes, this poetical treatment of the speech is matched, in fact intensified, by the visuals. The sequence is shot in black and white with high contrast that makes shadows—​most importantly, “attached” shadows on the character’s faces and bodies—​stark. It has something like the effect of enhancing “lateral inhibition” in visual perception. When we see the world, some visual receptors are strongly activated. In order to produce a more defined and clearly patterned image of the world, some closely related receptors are suppressed in the course of perception (see Solso, 61–​72). Rodriguez’s high contrast black and white photography has a similar effect of intensifying definition enhancement. At the same time, the extensive darkness suggests a series of contexts, presumably triggering emotional memories in viewers. Initially, these remembered contexts would most obviously be either

Perceptual Interface and Painterly Cinema

threatening (darkness as danger) or romantic/​sexual (darkness as intimacy). As we will see, both are relevant. The distinctive, stylistic qualities of the visuals are not confined to visual contrast. Two other features are particularly important. First, contour enhancement is extended by the use of rim lighting (e.g., around the edges of a character’s face) and, so to speak, echoed in the tracing of other, fine lines (such as the streaks of light Rodriguez uses to represent rain). Second, the scene is not entirely black and white. There is highly selective use of color. Specifically, there are two colors—​prominently red, but also, briefly, green. We will consider the function of these colors below. However, at the very least, it is obvious that they serve to select segments of the visual field for increased attention (cf. Belton, 62). We may also guess that they have some sort of emotional or thematic resonance. Narratively, the story begins with a young woman walking out onto a large balcony. We see her from behind. In the stark silver and white of the cityscape before her, the red of her dress is striking. The attached shadows contour her spine extending down the plunging, open back of the dress, and the curves of her hips. Here, the red suggests passion, perhaps passion that is out of place in the otherwise dispassionate city. A voice-​over, a man’s voice, delivers the line quoted above—​“She shivers in the wind like the last leaf on a dying tree.” We see her dress rippling in the breeze and how she grasps herself around her bare shoulders in the silvery light, which may now seem cold, almost ice-​like. The conjunction of the sensuous walk and the red dress with the breeze, the cold, and the ominous commentary brings together the narrative concerns of love and death. Later, the red dress will not be a signal of passion but will recall instead a pool of spilled blood (a point noted by Belton, 62). The camera cuts to the other side of the balcony railing. Now, we are facing the woman. We see the shadows molding her shoulders and breasts in the low neckline of the red dress. We see her red lips. All this intensifies the sexuality of the scene. Behind her, a man is approaching. The inside of the building is brilliantly lit and diffuse clouds of light billow out from the glass doors (see figure 5.1). It is almost heavenly. But the man is in darkness. He explains that he lets her hear his footsteps. The point of this communication is that we, the viewers, should not be anxious. He is not sneaking up on her. He explains that “She only goes stiff for a moment.” On first viewing, the line suggests just the anticipation of some sort of encounter, perhaps one that is sexual or romantic. By the end of the sequence, however, we realize that she has anticipated her own death. She experienced a moment of fear, followed by reconciliation. He offers her a cigarette. Initially, it appears to be a come-​on. Afterward, it recalls the last cigarette of someone condemned to death. The following dialogue seems like a scripted pickup, though there is some ambiguity as to whether or how well these two know one another already. The man compliments the woman’s face, figure, and voice. However, he stresses

159

160

Film

FIGURE 5.1 

From Rodriguez’s Sin City: A highly salient, stylized manipulation of light, shadow,

and color.

her eyes and what he sees in them. Just before he starts speaking about her eyes, her irises begin to shine green and jewel-​like. Again, the effect of color in the monochrome context is striking. The color green also hints at jealousy—​ “the green-​eyed monster,” as Shakespeare’s Iago has it, in a famous phrase (II. ii.166)—​and perhaps a story as to just what has led the woman to her present state. Specifically, she has hired an assassin, though (contrary to the usual script) not one to kill a cheating lover. The man describes the “crazy calm” that he sees in the woman’s eyes. As he speaks, she faces away from him, out over the city, into the camera. Her eyes are unnaturally wide and unblinking. When she turns back to him, they are brimming over with tears. The reference to “crazy calm” suggests both passion and resolve. The tears are consistent with the passion. The fact that no tears fall is consistent with the resolve. We only come to understand what the resolve is at the end of the sequence. Retrospectively, the ending also explains why the tears well up. They suggest her realization of her own death. The man explains that there is something that she must face, but she does not want to face it alone. She agrees—​that is the moment when her eyes fill. Before the ending, all this appears largely romantic. In keeping with this, the following shots show the man and woman kissing and the voice-​over explains that he would protect her, take her far away, because he loves her. As the voice-​over recounts this, we see the man’s lips move, forming the words, “I love you.” The visual features of this part are still more striking and extreme than those we have seen up to this point. First, it begins to rain and the rain is marked by long silvery streaks in the air. Then, when they kiss, there is a

Perceptual Interface and Painterly Cinema

FIGURE 5.2 

From Rodriguez’s Sin City: The assassin’s kiss—​a black/​white-​reversed silhouette.

cut to two white figures embracing before the white railing of a balcony (see figure 5.2). This is a black/​white-​reversed silhouette (a recurring technique in Miller). But in the background, the buildings are still black and the windows are still white. Thus, the black/​white reversal occurs only in the foreground. In some ways, this shift simply extends and complicates the intensified contrast of the entire sequence. But here the white is genuine white, a lack of color, not the silver that is prominent elsewhere. It is somehow linked with her being “weightless” (as the man explains) and with a sort of unreality in the kiss and the emotions it expresses. In keeping with this, it is the shot that is most visually similar to the means of representation found in graphic narrative, where the pure white is simply the color of the blank page. Unreality is suggested by another aspect of the shot as well. When the man approaches initially, the woman turns to face him. As he speaks, she turns away again. In both cases, Rodriguez is careful to adhere to extrinsic norms, matching the action perfectly so that the continuity is seamless across cuts. This care in continuity is strikingly absent in the cut to the reverse silhouette and the cut back to reality. Specifically, in the initial cut, the couple is perpendicular to the railing when they kiss. But in the silhouette, they are parallel to the railing. Moreover, the woman’s hand is clearly placed on the man’s neck during the silhouette, but apparently not after. Of course, this could simply be “cheating” on Rodriguez’s part. However, his great care with continuity in other parts of the scene suggests, rather, that these discontinuities are somehow functional for him. Again, the most obvious function is in suggesting that the scene is in some respect unreal. After the cut out from the silhouette, the man’s face is largely dark, except for rim lighting giving its outline. There is a soft fill light on the woman’s face,

161

162

Film

FIGURE 5.3 

From Rodriguez’s Sin City: Moments before the gunshot—​the assassin in silhouette with rim lighting; the target with soft fill light.

so that it is not in darkness (see figure 5.3). Again, this could give the man’s face particularly a sense of intimacy or of threat. As he says that he will save her and confesses his love, it appears to be the former. But just after he says that he loves her, there is a gunshot, visually stressed by an almost imperceptible cut to and from white. This cut to white recalls the kiss and contributes to the ambiguity of the woman’s death. We now see the man as a threat. But the threat is inseparable from intimacy—​a point emphasized by the voice-​over characterization of the gunshot, modified by a silencer, as a “whisper,” just what the couple had been exchanging. In death, she collapses into him. He explains that he holds her “close until she’s gone.” He has, in a sense, taken her far away, as he promised. Subsequently, we are given an overhead shot. Her red dress spreads out over part of the balcony like a pool of blood. The man looks up amid the silvery strands of rain. He explains that he will “never know what she was running from.” At this point, the viewer is uncertain, not only of the woman’s dilemma, but of the man’s motivation for the murder. Then comes the “punch line,” ironic but also poignant. He explains that he will cash her check in the morning. She has hired an assassin for her own death.

Kinds of Painterly Cinema Painterly cinema uses visual art to create a distinctive visual style. The distinctiveness commonly derives from a school or period of painting. However, it may take other forms as well, such as the general means available for visual

Perceptual Interface and Painterly Cinema

representation in a medium (e.g., painting or graphic narrative). Rodriguez most obviously draws on graphic narrative at two levels—​the level of the particular work (Miller’s Sin City) and the level of the medium. These various forms are part of a continuum. Specifically, we may distinguish a range of degrees to which cinema may be seen as painterly. At the minimal end, we find films that incorporate allusions to works of visual art—​particular works or broader schools. These are marginal cases. Here, we may further distinguish between isolated allusions and more systematic or continuous allusiveness. Generally, isolated allusions would not be adequate to make a work painterly. As the use of allusion is extended, becoming more integrated into the visual aesthetics of the work, the work becomes more painterly in style. In keeping with this, isolated allusion is commonly highly salient, even obtrusive, and reliant upon connection with a specific source (e.g., a particular, well-​known painting). In contrast, continuing allusiveness is likely to be less foregrounded and to be less tied to specific sources. Ongoing allusiveness approaches the next kind or degree of painterly film—​work that uses visual art as a model. Indeed, the two are continuous with one another; there is no strict cut-​off point between them. Modeling may or may not forgo particular allusions. But if it includes allusions, they are not the main stylistic feature of the work. Insofar as specific allusions enter into the work, they serve as instances of more enduring properties—​for example, properties of the school of painting at issue. Thus, in both ongoing allusiveness and modeling, a painterly film incorporates some features of the visual art source into the fabric of the film itself, commonly into the visual style. This careful fashioning of the visual style tends to mark such works as more or less stylized. Modeled painterly films commonly develop stylistic features so as to make those features more salient, more likely to draw attentional focus, more likely to be the objects of interpretation, and so on. Typically, allusive works tend to be less broadly or consistently stylized than modeled works, though their allusions do commonly draw attention to themselves more locally. Here, it is valuable to draw a further distinction. As already noted, isolated allusions are often highly salient, even obtrusive. Ongoing allusiveness and modeling, though they draw attention, tend to be more moderately salient than specific allusions, at least when the allusions involve renowned originals. On the other hand, stylistic features of allusive or modeled works sometimes become highly conspicuous. This is particularly likely when stylistic choices are to some degree inconsistent with principles of realistic representation. Indeed, the obtrusiveness of particular allusions often derives from the unrealistic quality of the allusion—​the high improbability that, for example, a real scene would form itself into the particular configuration of a famous painting. When allusiveness or modeling makes style unrealistic to the point

163

164

Film

of necessarily drawing attention, then we may judge the work to be mannered, rather than stylized. To illustrate these points, we might begin with Luis Buñuel’s Viridiana. In that film, a young woman decides to help some beggars. At one point, the beggars are having a feast and they form themselves into the configuration of da Vinci’s Last Supper (see figure 5.4). The image was clearly intended to stand out and does stand out. It is, of course, an allusion to a painting. However, the film as a whole does not have a style that we would call painterly. The allusion coheres with the film’s style primarily in being ironic. In contrast, we might consider Deepa Mehta’s Water. This film treats the condition of widows in early twentieth-​century India. Even if widowed at a very young age, women were expected not to remarry. The central story concerns one young widow, Kalyani, who falls in love with a young man, Narayan. Violating social taboos, she goes to meet him in the middle of the night. He waits for her, playing his flute. Mehta stages and photographs the scene in such a way as to recall visual representations of the nighttime meetings between Rādhā and Kṛṣṇa (see figures 5.5 and 5.6).4 Kṛṣṇa was the incarnation of the great god, Viṣṇu, also called Nārāyaṇa (meaning “moving on the waters” [Daniélou, 151], a significance clearly suggested by the title and imagery of the film). Rādhā was his devotee. Though married to someone else, Rādhā’s one true love was Kṛṣṇa. When Kṛṣṇa called to her with the sound of his flute, she would come to him, whatever the time. Moments of this story and other aspects of Kṛṣṇa iconography were famously represented in paintings and other visual media that Mehta clearly seeks to recall for the viewer in this sequence. There may or may not be allusions to specific paintings in this scene.

FIGURE 5.4 

Buñuel recreates da Vinci’s Last Supper in Viridiana.

Perceptual Interface and Painterly Cinema

FIGURE 5.5  From Mehta’s Water: With the painterly illumination of a candle, Kalyani leaves for her nighttime tryst with Narayan, recalling the iconography of Rādhā’s midnight trysts with Kṛṣṇa.

From Mehta’s Water: Narayan plays his flute and waits to meet Kalyani as Kṛṣṇa plays his flute to call Rādhā. FIGURE 5.6 

However, the function of the allusiveness does not rely on an identification of specific sources. What is important is the broad connection. In keeping with this, the link is not obtrusive, though it is evident and likely to draw the attentional focus of viewers familiar with the iconography. Note, however, that this allusiveness is localized in the film, which does not develop such distinctive stylistic features consistently. In contrast with both the preceding cases, Eric Rohmer’s Die Marquise von O . . . is a paradigmatically modeled work. In this film, Rohmer consistently draws on Neoclassical painting for his visual style (see fi ­ gures 5.7–​5.10 for some characteristic instances). Thus, Crisp remarks on Rohmer’s fidelity to “painters of the time” (84; though Dalle Vacche indicates that the film’s “neoclassical style” is inflected with a “protoromantic sensibility” [9]‌). The use of Neoclassical models is clear in many details, ranging from the placement of the figures to the folds of the fabrics. In this case, the modeling is consistent from

165

FIGURE 5.7 

From Rohmer’s Die Marquise von O . . . : A variation on a standard composition in Western painting, with Neoclassical (and proto-​romantic) elements characteristic of the film as a whole. (This particular scene might for some viewers recall such works as Jacques-​Louis David’s Portrait of Madame Récamier [1800], but also his Death of Marat [1793].)

FIGURE 5.8  From Rohmer’s Die Marquise von O . . . , a balanced composition with motifs from the history of painting (such as the bowl of fruit) and the busts recalling classical sculpture.

FIGURE 5.9 

From Rohmer’s Die Marquise von O . . . , a balanced composition with sculptural

parallel.

FIGURE 5.10 

From Rohmer’s Die Marquise von O . . . , a pregnant moment of the sort famously advocated by Lessing (though concerning literal pregnancy in this case).

168

Film

the beginning of the film to the end. As with Water, there may be allusions to particular paintings in the course of the film. Indeed, in this case, there certainly are, as Dalle Vacche shows. However, the operation of the modeling does not rely on such allusions. Simply due to its extent, the visual style of Rohmer’s film is somewhat more salient. However, it does not violate principles of realism, at least in any obvious way. Thus, the style does not demand the sort of attentional preoccupation that is provoked by mannered works. For example, a mannered style might encourage the viewer to take up stylistic features in understanding the storyworld. Parts of Sin City would probably appear somewhat baffling to viewers unfamiliar with graphic fiction. In contrast, the viewer does not need to refer to Rādhā/​Kṛṣṇa paintings to explain any storyworld feature of Water; nor does he or she have to refer to Neoclassical painting to explain any storyworld feature of Die Marquise von O . . .  . (Of course, his or her thematic inferences benefit from self-​conscious attention to style in both cases, but that is not so particular to mannered works.) In short, both films may be aptly characterized as stylized, rather than mannered. We have seen that there is a so to speak sub-​minimal case of painterly cinema in allusion, a minimal or transitional case in allusiveness, and a central case in modeling. The movement from allusion to allusiveness involves an expansion from a localized moment to larger and larger segments of the recipient or “target” work (i.e., the film). The movement from allusiveness to modeling involves an expansion of the “source” from particular works (such as da Vinci’s Last Supper) to broader features of a school or period (such as Neoclassicism). What we might call the “upper limit” of painterly cinema continues this trajectory. This limit is reached when the film (the target) is pervasively modeled on painting broadly (as source), incorporating features that range across movements and periods. Thus, at the upper limit of painterly film, we have works that draw on very widespread properties of art for their visual aesthetic—​such properties as the creation of perspective, the patterning of color, the formation of planes of depth. We may refer to these as works of painterly sensibility. Of course, in some ways all aesthetically sensitive films involve features of this sort (that is why this is a “limit” case). A film is painterly to the extent that its aesthetic sensibility in such features is particularly informed by painting or other visual arts. It is more difficult to draw the line between painterly and non-​painterly film at the upper end of the continuum than at the lower end—​though, in fact, at both ends there is no single cut-​off point. Nonetheless, there are some relatively clear cases. One obvious instance is M.  F. Husain’s film Meenaxi. Until his death in 2011, Husain was perhaps the most renowned contemporary Indian painter. It is unsurprising that he would draw on his experience as a painter, his aesthetic sensibility as a painter, in making a film. Moreover, his reputation as a painter is likely to sensitize the viewer to painterly techniques

Perceptual Interface and Painterly Cinema

in his cinematic work—​a point relevant to his receptive intent regarding that cinematic work. These techniques range from the use of gauzy curtains to create a sense of depth in space, to the careful use of echoing colors, to unusual sensitivity to the source of light in a scene, to the use of mirrors in a way more reminiscent of painting than of cinema—​as well as allusion to images or types of composition from the history of painting (see figures 5.11 and 5.12). Of course, in most

FIGURE 5.11  A sequence from Meenaxi takes place amidst disconnected doorways reminiscent of Giorgio de Chirico or Surrealism. During the sequence, Meenaxi sings about making pictures or paintings (“tasvīr”).

FIGURE 5.12 

From Husain’s Meenaxi: a variation on a standard composition in Western painting (cf. ­figure 5.7).

169

170

Film

of these cases, one could equally find cinematic sources for the techniques. (The apparent exception is the use of curtains, which seems more specifically painterly.) But Husain’s precise use of particular techniques often seems to recall painters more than filmmakers. For example, Husain’s sensitivity to hues and saturations of color seems more characteristic of a painter than of the usually less nuanced use of color by filmmakers (e.g., in the common, cinematic development of some prominent color motif).5 Consider, for example, Husain’s deployment of mirrors. There are scenes in which a character’s image appears in a mirror to give us different, simultaneous perspectives, as we might expect in painting (see figure 5.13). Indeed, Husain seems to be aware of the difference between this use of mirrors and the more usual use of mirrors in film. In one scene, he places a mirror on a dining table in front of the main character, who is turned away from the camera and whose face therefore appears in the mirror. The placement makes no sense realistically and seems to function as a sort of parody of the common use of mirrors in film—​a link enhanced by the fact that, at this time, Meenaxi is looking at him through small binoculars reminiscent of a director’s loupe (figure 5.14). Specifically, in film, mirrors are often used to solve practical problems (e.g., of filming a character who would be facing a wall or of filming two faces simultaneously when they would not be turned in the proper way). Here, there is obviously no practical problem, since the scene could simply be shot from the other side of the table. Nor is there

FIGURE 5.13  In Husain’s Meenaxi, Husain at times uses mirrors to give different perspectives on a subject and to create a balanced composition. Moreover, the organization of the shot is extremely careful. For example, the use of color is meticulously crafted. Among other things, the yellow of Meenaxi’s clothing is echoed in the curtain on the left (as well as the mirror image), and the brown of the mirror frame parallels that of the door.

Perceptual Interface and Painterly Cinema

FIGURE 5.14  The unnecessary use of a mirror in this scene of Husain’s Meenaxi is reminiscent of standard practices in film, an association enhanced by Meenaxi’s use of (equally unnecessary) binoculars, reminiscent of a director’s loupe.

any story-​based motivation for this mirror. It is simply a strange, obtrusive presence. Indeed, one might argue that even some less obvious innovations in Meenaxi’s cinematographic style have one source in Husain’s experience as a painter. For example, it is common for filmmakers to dolly in on a character as the emotion of the character or the interest in his or her speech intensifies. It is common to dolly out in order to reveal a broader context. But in some scenes, Husain seems to dolly in and out simply to alter the viewer’s perspective on the character. The pattern is, in that way, more reminiscent of a painter or viewer moving up to, then back away from a canvas. In some cases, Husain does violate principles of realism in his story. Indeed, he does so quite blatantly. However, these violations do not in general seem to rely on stylistic features of visual style. In keeping with this, I would say that Husain’s film too is stylized rather than manneristic.

Functions of Painterly Techniques Of course, none of these painterly techniques has any value or particular interest if it does not serve some function in the film. Here, as elsewhere, these functions are ultimately emotional and/​or thematic (in the latter case, typically bearing on ethics and/​or politics). They may more directly serve informational purposes (such as clarifying story information by directing viewer attention). But, in film as in literature, those informational purposes are themselves commonly means to emotional and/​or thematic ends.

171

172

Film

The allusion to da Vinci in Viridiana is likely to produce laughter in at least some viewers. Thus, it has an emotional (comic) function. It also has thematic consequences. As with many works of art, the theme is not simple and equivocal. Thus, it is not easy to state as a sort of Aesopian moral. However, there is clearly an ironic representation of Christian self-​sacrifice in the film and this scene contributes to that irony.6 Similar points apply to Water. The most obvious emotional consequences of Mehta’s allusiveness in this film bear on artifact emotion, our response to a work as the product of creative activity.7 To some extent, one may admire Mehta for successfully imitating Rādhā/​Kṛṣṇa iconography. Indeed, this is a common feature of painterly films. Successful works of this sort may involve technical achievements that inspire the respect of viewers. The point holds even more clearly for Rohmer’s imitation of Neoclassical painting. A more important form of artifact emotion bears on the aesthetic qualities of style. Imitating another visual art form is not usually an end in itself. The value of the crossover in media is not primarily one of impressing the viewer with technical skill. Rather, the value of drawing on a very different source to alter a target is primarily in the degree to which the use of the source enhances the target’s achievement of its own intrinsic goals. Thus, the primary value of drawing on painting to alter film comes in the degree to which the final film satisfies the desiderata for film. Put differently, the value is in the creativity of the filmmaker. Creative cognition research suggests that creativity is a function of both novelty and task-​appropriateness and that both are advanced by integration of knowledge across diverse areas that are not commonly integrated (see, for example, Martindale, 252). In connection with this, one may argue that the brief section devoted to the nighttime meeting of Kalyani and Narayan is highly task-​appropriate as it is one of the most beautiful in Mehta’s film. She has not only imitated Kṛṣṇa/​Rādhā art. She has used it to create visually splendid scenes. In addition, there are consequences for the story emotions of the work (i.e., our emotions regarding the characters and events). As to character, a viewer’s associations with the well-​loved Rādhā come to be linked with Kalyani. For viewers familiar with the Kṛṣṇa/​Rādhā stories—​thus most Indian viewers—​ this is likely to enhance their affection for Kalyani. Such viewers’ emotional response to the event of the meeting would presumably be affected similarly. As these emotional points suggest, the allusiveness in this film is thematic as well. Linking Kalyani with Rādhā means invoking perhaps the highest ideal of Hindu devotion in order to understand and evaluate the life of this widow. The (divinely guaranteed) rightness of Rādhā’s love for Kṛṣṇa strongly suggests the rightness of Kalyani’s love for Narayan. Moreover, in taking up this connection, the film strongly suggests that the ideal of absolute wifely devotion to a husband is false. Rādhā did not maintain that absolute devotion even while her husband was alive. It appears particularly perverse to require such absolute

Perceptual Interface and Painterly Cinema

devotion in widows, as demanded by the society represented (and criticized) in Mehta’s film. The complexity of function only increases as we move from allusiveness to modeling and from there to painterly sensibility. The pervasiveness of the Neoclassical style in Rohmer’s film potentially affects the viewer’s artifact emotions, story emotions, and thematic inferences in a number of ways. Perhaps most interestingly, to a great extent the modeling seems to invite complex and equivocal, in some degree ambiguous and ambivalent responses, except in the case of artifact emotion. Specifically, the fundamental fact of the storyworld is that the main male protagonist (the Count) has, first, saved the Marquise from violent rape, then raped her himself, if non-​violently. (He had sexual relations with her when she was in a drugged sleep.) One fairly clear effect of Neoclassical style is that it dignifies its characters. It elevates and to some extent perfects them. This dignity is, of course, precisely what is lacking in the events of the film. Indeed, the events of the film are highly indecorous. Neoclassical aesthetics and Neoclassical style are, above all else, highly decorous. The framing of intimate and disgraceful actions in a dignified style tends to, so to speak, quarantine their indecorous quality—​and, of course, in this case the indecorous actions themselves are never directly represented. Put differently, the stylized and “elevated” visual narration of the film selects and construes story events in a particularly dignified way. Complexity enters with the precise emotional response the film projects for the implied viewer. One might argue that the film is, in effect, covering up rape and that it expects us to cheer for the happy union of the couple at the end. However, one might equally argue that there is an ironic distance between a visual narrator who dignifies the rape and the implied filmmaker. Specifically, one way of interpreting the film involves seeing the Neoclassical representation of the events as, precisely, a way of avoiding disagreeable aspects of ordinary life. The suddenness of the film’s “happy” ending may, indeed, suggest that we cannot take the representation entirely seriously. On the other hand, this does not mean that the film is simply a thematic condemnation of Neoclassicism. The sheer visual beauty of the film, the great aesthetic appeal of its visual style, speaks against such a condemnation. But, in this interpretation, the film might be suggesting that beauty may be misused and that we therefore need to approach Neoclassicism (or other forms of aesthetics) critically. Moving beyond modeling, we find that in some ways the most complex case is that of painterly sensibility. But in other ways it is the simplest. Here, there is no specific allusive or modeling source. Thus, there is not necessarily any specific “extrinsic” information to bring into play in understanding and responding to the target work. (Of course, such films, like any other works, may use allusion. But that is not what defines their painterly sensibility.) For this reason, our interpretation of and response to a film specifically as a

173

174

Film

work of painterly sensibility is more unequivocally focused on the film itself. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the most striking visual feature of Husain’s Meenaxi is its great and complex visual beauty. Indeed, the sensitivity to depth, light, texture, color patterning and color variation may be particularly complex because it is not guided by a specific school such as Neoclassicism. For this reason, the patterns and types of interrelation can vary from scene to scene or shot to shot. Of course, they do not vary randomly. There are relations across scenes as well—​relations that are part of the film’s aesthetic sensibility.8 But there is no straightforward way of characterizing the stylistic norms of the work in terms of a source (e.g., by saying that they are defined by a particular movement). Thematic concerns too arise subtly out of the development of the work itself, rather than by reference to sources. Thus, the painterly quality of the film contributes to a thematic treatment of life as a sort of artificial and illusory creation, filled with symbol and paradox. But it does so only because the narrative of the film explicitly treats these issues. The main story concerns a writer who is penning a new novel. Within this frame, there are two embedded stories, both representing the novelist’s attempts at a narrative. In each case, there are complexities and ambiguities. Most strikingly, the novelist himself enters into one of his novels and discusses the story with one of his characters. In addition, Husain himself appears briefly in the frame story, which is itself marked by apparent paradoxes. In this context, Husain’s treatment of the film’s visual style as a sort of painting, or series of paintings—​thus the very painterly depiction of the “real” storyworld—​contributes to the theme of the illusory quality of life. (The theme is ultimately developed in terms of Ṣūfī mysticism.9) In particular cases, specific painterly techniques may be interpreted in relation to this theme—​for example, the use of diffuse light around Meenaxi herself (related to metaphors of spiritual illumination or enlightenment), the layering of curtains suggestive of partial concealment (a common metaphor for worldly illusion), the use of mirrors (an important Ṣūfī symbol bearing on self-​understanding and spiritual self-​realization), and so on.

Sin City as Painterly Cinema The opening of Sin City includes all the elements of painterly cinema that we have been considering. These most obviously range from specific allusions to Frank Miller’s work to broader modeling on graphic narrative more generally. Undoubtedly, many viewers have strong artifact emotions in response to the work, greatly admiring Rodriguez’s ability to mimic the visual qualities of Miller’s graphic narrative. Such admiration is also bound up with the more general use of modeling in the work. I suspect that many viewers think that he has done a remarkably good job of creating the visual experience of a graphic novel on screen.

Perceptual Interface and Painterly Cinema

However, for other viewers, what is remarkable about the film generally, and these three minutes in particular, is the way Rodriguez has enriched the visual style of the film, not the way he has mimicked something else. Indeed, the film is as striking for its difference from the visual style of graphic narrative as it is for its similarity to that style. The sense of shadow, depth, contour, lighting, color—​these are all inspired by the limited options available to the graphic novelist. However, Rodriguez has transformed them by synthesizing them with cinema. Consider a simple case. When the rain falls in the last shot, Rodriguez represents it as continually changing streaks of silvery light tumbling into puddles that splash tiny beads of water around the young woman’s corpse. This takes up a common convention of graphic narrative—​that lines represent motion. When the motion involves raindrops falling, then the lines are downward streaks in the sky. But these streaks in graphic novels are simply static line segments that conventionally communicate an idea. They are about as aesthetic as the word “rain.” In the film, by contrast, the continually altering traces of raindrops in the shimmering light, their movement surrounding the motionless corpse, serve at least potentially to enhance several emotional responses in the viewer. First, the changing light and texture of the rain are themselves aesthetically pleasing. Aesthetic pleasure is a far more consequential artifact emotion than mere admiration that he managed to imitate downward streaks for rain. Moreover, the contrast of motion with the woman’s stillness increases the pathos of the scene, intensifying the story emotion. Here, one might ask if it would have been better simply to shoot the scene in an ordinary way with ordinary rain. We would still have the falling rain and the unmoving corpse. At this point, I believe, another aspect of the modeling enters. Unlike the Neoclassical sources used by Rohmer, the visual style of graphic narrative is blatantly non-​realistic. In keeping with this, Rodriguez greatly constrains the options for visual style and he does so in ways that clearly violate realism—​or, rather, ways that violate expectations based on realism. The difference is important, because it is the expectations that are crucial here. Insofar as our ordinary expectations are fulfilled, we are likely to not even notice objects or events. This is because we are habituated to normalcy. The point is well established in cognitive psychological and neurological research (on the attentional and emotional effects of habituation, see Frijda, 318, and LeDoux, Synaptic, 138, respectively). It also has a long history in literary and aesthetic theory (see Kant, 80, and Shklovsky, 741). Cognitive and neurological studies indicate that, as a stimulus is repeated, we respond less and less. The corpse in rain is, by now, so commonplace as to be unremarkable—​or irritatingly trite, if noticed. It almost certainly has no great emotional impact (except perhaps irritation). Rodriguez’s changed representation of a corpse in the rain—​his violation of expectations based on realism—​in effect follows the

175

176

Film

Russian formalist instruction to dishabituate the viewer’s perception and thus revive his or her response. There are several things to say about deviations from expectation in this context. First, they illustrate the process of creativity resulting from the use of a distant source for problems faced in a target medium. In this case, graphic narrative is the source, and the problem is enhancing both story emotion and artifact emotion—​particularly, aesthetic emotion—​in film (here, for a death scene). This is precisely what we would expect from the creative cognition research noted earlier. The importance of expectancy deviation also indicates again that the artifactual quality of the target work—​the aesthetic force of its visual style—​cannot be attributed to the source alone. Features of graphic narrative that are, frankly, banal in their original context may become aesthetically powerful innovations when integrated into a new context—​here, the target medium of film. It is also important to note that the constraint on style and the violation of realistic expectation mean that Sin City is, by and large, manneristic. Indeed, the style is almost continually foregrounded, such that the mannerism affects other possible forms of habituation, including those associated with film itself. For example, Rodriguez’s highly selective use of color is one feature that distinguishes the work from standard black and white film. The use of color is particularly noteworthy in the case of the woman’s eyes. The green color fades in and out in a way that mirrors the man’s—​and the viewer’s—​interest in the eyes. Alternatively, these changes may represent a surge of feeling (perhaps recollected jealousy) in the woman. In any case, neither color nor the more general black and white photography becomes a banal background for habitual normalcy here. There is a further foregrounding of the non-​realistic quality with the clear violations of continuity in the cut to the kiss. Moreover, as already noted, that shot reverses silhouette coloring in the foreground, as if in a photographic negative, but maintains ordinary black/​white relations in the background. This shot is the one that most closely approximates the visual properties of graphic narrative. But even that is dishabituated by the shift in medium and by the use of changing, relatively realistic rain in the near foreground (between the camera and the couple). This enhanced dishabituation is related to the film’s increase in other pattern-​intensifying properties, such as heightened contrast, which are themselves extensions of pattern-​intensifying processes of human cognition, such as lateral inhibition. All this bears on the final aspect of the work, particularly these three minutes—​its broad painterly sensibility. This goes beyond allusion or modeling to Rodriguez’s larger sense of visual aesthetics and the emotional effects of style. Finally, though the main function of the section appears to be emotional, it is not entirely lacking in thematic resonances. The man is a sort of modern

Perceptual Interface and Painterly Cinema

manifestation of the angel of death. The woman is a modernly icy version of the Medieval figure of despair. But there is a sort of unreality about their relationship, about the comfort of the man’s profession of love, about the underlying despondency of the woman, whose red lips smile at his assurances. Both the modernity and the unreality are communicated not only by aspects of dialogue and action, thus the story and storyworld, but by the features of visual style that we have been considering. The punch line, again, comes at the end when we learn that the exterminating angel is bought and paid for. In place of God, we have a check—​a replacement that is, perhaps, not unlike the substitution of a bright red dress for blood.

Conclusion The genre of painterly cinema comprises films that draw on sources in other visual arts—​ prominently painting, but also sculpture, tapestry, mosaics, etc.—​particularly, though not exclusively, for features of visual style. Hints of painterly cinema may be found in localized allusions in which a filmmaker configures a shot or cluster of shots to recall a particular work of visual art or some limited set of works (e.g., Hindu devotional paintings of Kṛṣṇa and Rādhā). When localized allusions—​either to specific works or to identifiable sets of works—​are extended to scenes or larger sections of a film, we may speak of allusiveness. We may consider allusiveness to be a minimal condition for painterly cinema. When a filmmaker is consistently drawing on the techniques of a period, movement, or other style larger than a single work, we may speak of modeling. Modeling is the prototypical case of painterly cinema. If we conceive of painterliness as a sort of arc, moving from allusion through allusiveness to modeling, we may see the upper limit of the trajectory in painterly sensibility. Allusiveness extends allusion from local to broader use in the target film. Modeling extends allusiveness from particular source works or limited sets of works to more encompassing techniques of a period, school, or similar body of works. Painterly sensibility generalizes modeling. It broadens the source to the entire range of that particular visual art (e.g., painting), independent of movement or period. Thus, the filmmaker of painterly sensibility draws on techniques available to, say, painters, independent of their particular school. Like modeled works, works of painterly sensibility most often expand the scope of painterly quality to the entire target film. In each case—​allusion, allusiveness, modeling, and painterly sensibility—​ the use of features from other visual arts may serve thematic or emotional purposes. The emotional purposes often bear on the aesthetics of the film as an artifact or on story or storyworld emotions (though they may also affect recipients’ responses to narration or emplotment). In cases of modeling and painterly sensibility in particular, the relations between source features and the

177

178

Film

new work’s themes may be to some extent ambiguous. Similarly, the relation between the source features and story emotions may be somewhat ambivalent. In contrast, the artifactual consequences of painterly techniques seem more often to conduce toward straightforward visual beauty, or perhaps sublimity, with relatively little ambivalence. This is linked with the creativity and dishabituation that tend to result from the integration of distant sources and targets. The opening of Sin City comprises three exemplary minutes of painterly cinema. It manifests the allusiveness, modeling, and painterly sensibility that we associate with works that have sources in the traditional fine arts, though it draws on graphic narrative rather than painting. Moreover, it evidences a parallel creativity in drawing on a distant medium. Finally, the resulting film segment has the usual, complex thematic and emotional consequences—​the latter bearing principally on our response to the story and storyworld and on our aesthetic pleasure in the work. The consequences of this painterly style for artifact emotion—​here bound up with mannerism and thus foregrounding of style—​are perhaps the most significant for this visually compelling sequence.

6

Emplotment ELLIPSIS AND EXCESS IN YASUJIRO OZU’S POSTWAR FILMS

In the preceding chapter, we focused primarily on the perceptual interface, the visual style of film. Again, like verbal style in literature, this is the aspect of film style that has been explored most consistently by earlier writers, though not in the particular genre of painterly films. One of the key points of the opening chapter is that it is important to expand our analysis of style beyond verbal and visual properties to other narrative levels. This and the following chapter therefore take up emplotment and narration respectively. Of course, in each case, we will also be concerned with perceptual properties of the film, since these differentiate film from literature. Nonetheless, the main concern will be with the ways in which these two levels of cinematic discourse have stylistic properties as well—​across an individual canon (in this chapter) or in an individual work (in the following chapter). Style has long been an important topic in discussions of Yasujiro Ozu, in part because some visual features of his films are highly distinctive and apparently at odds with the dominant system of continuity editing. In connection with this, treatments of Ozu’s style often focus on camera height (which is unusually low), his use of a wider range of camera positions around characters (he does not confine himself to 180 degrees, roughly imitating a theatrical perspective, but uses the full surrounding space), his insertion of shots of scenery which do not appear to have any clear informational value (sometimes called “pillow-​shots”1), and so on. These differences from Hollywood conventions are often attributed to Ozu’s cultural background. The plausibility of the claim is apparently lessened by the fact that these are not common features of Japanese films. It might seem that culturally determined differences from Hollywood cinema would be common in the culture at issue. To some extent, critics respond to this problem by viewing Ozu as almost uniquely Japanese—​ the “most Japanese” of directors (see, for example, Thompson, 329, on “the ‘most Japanese’ label”).

Style in Narrative. Patrick Colm Hogan, Oxford University Press (2021). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197539576.001.0001

180

Film

In this chapter, I will touch on some features of Ozu’s distinctive visual style. However, my attention to these features will be ancillary to my focus on plot. Moreover, I will be concerned with the relation of Ozu’s style to Japanese cultural traditions. However, I will develop that concern only in connection with cross-​cultural, human emotion. After all, I myself am deeply moved by Ozu’s films. I do not find them alien and inscrutable. At the same time, I recognize that some aspects of the films are effective across cultures precisely because they concern human sensitivities that are given particular emphasis in Japanese tradition. Thus, I will consider strains of Japanese culture that facilitate cross-​cultural experience, rather than inhibit it. Again, the story is the sequence of actions and events with their causal relations, and the storyworld is the total set of agents and objects with their spatial, temporal, social and other relations. The plot is formed by the selection and organization of the story and storyworld. The selection involves components that are explicit and components that are implied. For example, a given narrative might say “Jones was shot directly in the heart.” This does not state explicitly that he died; however, his death is clearly implied and thus part of the plot. Among other things, organization includes what is recounted when, thus temporal sequence, as well as what is linked with what (e.g., what is reported together or separately), thus facilitating or inhibiting a recipient’s inferences about causal or other connections. For example, in a murder mystery, suppose a character has a limp and there is reason to believe that the murderer has a limp. The character’s limp might be noted in the narrative in close proximity with the discovery of the murderer’s limp. Specifically, the narrative might include a passage along the following lines, “An article in the newspaper said that marks in the dust at the murder site suggested that the murderer may have had a limp. Smith immediately thought of Jones’s stiff leg, that dragged slightly when he walked.” Alternatively, we might be informed about Jones’s limp fifty pages before any evidence surfaces about the murderer’s gait. In film, the same point holds, though in that case we are more likely to see the limp—​ that of Jones or that of the murderer. As the preceding examples indicate, organization includes at least certain aspects of foregrounding and backgrounding. We find these literally in film, where some elements of a scene are in focus immediately before us. But we also find correlates of the literal difference in literature and we find metaphorical foregrounding and backgrounding in film (e.g., a character’s limp may be stressed by means other than literally putting the limping character in the foreground). In all cases, the point is that organization makes some information (including information pertinent to causal inference) more salient than other information. From the perspective of the world itself (so to speak), there is no such thing as salience. Salience appears only relative to some observer. That observer-​relative salience is one of the features of story and storyworld that are manipulated in emplotment.

Emplotment

As with other aspects of style, plot style serves emotional, thematic, or story functions. Part of the argument of the present chapter is that a range of stylistic features in emplotment (or elsewhere) may have little surface similarity, but may form a larger, more encompassing pattern that shares a function. In the case of Ozu, I will argue that seemingly diverse practices of selection and organization may be grouped together due to their common emotional purposes. Once identified, those purposes reveal similarities across the practices themselves. In the following section, I  outline some key features of Ozu’s style of emplotment. I  then turn to function, connecting this with some additional stylistic features. There is a sort of experiential hierarchy here. Large ellipses in the plot form a fundamental stylistic practice in Ozu’s storytelling; other components of his emplotment style become evident and reveal their function at least partially through their relation to such ellipses. An important part of this analysis is the integration of apparently opposed stylistic patterns. Specifically, I argue that the elliptical and “superfluous” or “excess” aspects of Ozu’s plot style—​for example, his use of “pillow-​shots”—​are actually part of the same complex of stylistic principles, serving the same function. Following the introduction to Ozu’s plot style and its function, the subsequent section sketches some of the evidence for the analysis of Ozu’s emplotment style by going through a selection of his postwar films. The two sections that follow this overview seek to give a further explanation of these stylistic patterns. The first considers the degree to which Ozu’s practices may be understood to derive from features of Japanese culture. The second sets out to specify and explain the emotional function of Ozu’s style by reference to current ideas in affective science. Specifically, that section considers how the main features of Ozu’s emplotment style function to advance his aims of fostering and modulating emotional response. Note that one implication of these two sections is that an affective-​cognitive account of style—​or anything else—​is not incompatible with cultural explanations. It cannot be, as our cultures must be compatible with our affective and cognitive neuropsychology.

Ozu’s Style In film, as elsewhere, plot is most obviously a matter of what parts of the story are included or excluded. But in film there is a further division between what is perceived (thus seen or heard) and what is reported. One of the striking features of Ozu’s emplotment style is that we are often not allowed to witness scenes that we expect to witness. We know that the events occurred and we know some details about them either because they have consequences for what we see later (e.g., if two people are looking for one another and subsequently

181

182

Film

appear together, we know that at some point they found one another) or because they are reported later (e.g., when we do not see a wedding, but hear a character recount things about it). David Bordwell refers to this as “suppressive narration” (69). Of course, there is a parallel to this in verbal narrative. An event may be directly presented by a narrator or recounted by a character. Indeed, the ellipsis in a film is precisely a matter of the perceptual narrator omitting an event, which may be summarized by a character. The difference from verbal narrative is, then, a function of the difference between verbal and perceptual narration. Bordwell’s references to “suppressive narration” show that the most general point I wish to make about Ozu’s style has hardly gone unnoticed. Thompson refers to “complete ellipses of vital events” in Late Spring (342), such as the introduction of the lovers and indeed their wedding (343). In addition to his statements about suppressive narration, Bordwell refers to the “blatant refusal” of “Ozu’s narration” to “communicate certain pieces of story information” (69) and “the gap-​ridden presentation of the action” (71). He cites examples from Passing Fancy, Early Spring, and other works. It is certainly the case that Ozu leaves out many elements of the storyworld that we would expect to see. However, all such ellipses are not equal. We may notice that, in Late Spring, we do not see Noriko’s father and aunt discussing how they might mislead Noriko regarding his possible remarriage. But this is not an excision of the same magnitude as passing over Noriko’s wedding—​or the wedding in Equinox Flower, or the father-​ daughter reconciliation scene in the latter film. One way of characterizing these ellipses is in terms of narrative climax. Ozu often leaves out precisely the scene toward which some part of the story was leading as its culmination. Instead, he often prepares us for the crucial scene, then conveys through dialogue that it has occurred. Of course, Ozu does not always leave out culminating scenes. So, what exactly is the stylistic pattern? Here, we might consider the usual function of such climactic scenes. The ellipses in Ozu’s films are the opposite of what we expect. Emplotment commonly intensifies anticipation (e.g., suspense), in order to give us an emotionally powerful dénoument. Picking up on the violation of expectation, Ritchie maintains that the function is to provide surprise (58–​59). This does work in some cases. In Late Spring, Ozu suppresses the information that Hattori is engaged. We therefore think that a romance is budding between him and Noriko. But Noriko apparently knew all along. When we find out, it is indeed a surprise. But this is suppressed information, not an absent scene. Moreover, even in this case, I suspect that the main function is not surprise as such. Rather, I suspect that Ozu wanted to foster the audience’s interest in a partner for Noriko, and to suggest Noriko’s openness to male companionship other than that of her father, but he did not want to make Noriko pathetic due to the loss of a love object. He accomplished these tasks

Emplotment

by making the audience ignorant of something that was known to Noriko all along. Surprise is simply a by-​product here. Instead of stressing the unexpected quality of withheld information in cases of this sort, we might look instead to the emotional function of the dénoument. An obvious possibility here is that Ozu is modulating the emotional impact of the culminating sequence, to some extent damping down the audience’s feeling. This would seem consistent with some other stylistic features of Ozu’s work. For example, Ozu sometimes films characters from behind, so that we do not see their faces, or see only part of their faces. In moments of intense emotion, when for example a character is weeping, we will get some sense of his or her emotion—​both knowledge of what it is and empathic sharing of that emotion—​from posture and movement seen from behind. However, we will have a much-​reduced sense of that emotion, relative to what we would have if we saw the character’s weeping face. As Sapolsky points out, “Though we derive subliminal information from bodily cues, such as posture, we get the most information from faces” (88). Thus, these unusual choices of camera placement—​which are choices of selection in emplotment—​ serve to diminish something about the emotion of the scene. Specifically, they reduce the intensity of the emotion conveyed; we might say that they lessen the possible melodrama. The same point holds for aspects of acting. Acting is in part a matter of the story itself, since the actors embody what (presumably) actually occurred in the storyworld. However, there is also a sense in which the acting serves to select, organize, and construe the underlying motives that drive the actions of the characters and thus the story. In this way, it has an emplotment-​like function. This is clear, for example, in one common acting sequence for sorrow and weeping in Ozu. Often, we find characters growing visibly sorrowful (e.g., with welling tears), but partially concealing their grief behind a polite smile, until a tipping point causes them to break into sobs. Most commonly, these characters immediately conceal their faces. Sometimes, they leave the room. In each case, the function for the film is obvious. The concealment or the departure prevents us from seeing the character’s facial expression of sadness at its most intense. This occlusion modulates the emotional effect of the face, which would otherwise appear fully distorted by sorrow and which members of the audience would otherwise mirror (in the manner discussed by Plantinga in “The Scene”).2 The parallel with elided climactic scenes seems obvious. In both cases, preliminary developments point toward a culmination that we do not see. Both sorts of ellipsis would appear to have their primary function in reducing melodramatic emotion contagion. None of this is to say that the ellipsis of scenes or of weeping faces prevents emotional response. In fact, Ozu’s work is often highly emotional, in some respects more emotional than the usual alternatives. However, there is something different about the quality of the emotion—​or at least that seems to be

183

184

Film

Ozu’s goal in these cases. In keeping with these points, Bordwell explains that, with his actors, “Ozu would insist on many repetitions to remove excess emotion.” In connection with this, he worked with his actors on “the restraining of feeling.” Bordwell quotes Ozu, “Get rid of all the dramatics and show a sad character; without using drama, make the audience feel the emotion” (85). (We will return to the issue of the quality of emotion below.) In sum, a recurring feature of Ozu’s plot style is ellipsis or occlusion; specifically, Ozu repeatedly reduces or eliminates the perceptual representation of emotional culminations, especially those that may have a melodramatic quality (we have not yet considered the precise nature of that quality). This stylistic tendency includes a range of phenomena, from the excision of large story events to the concealment of intense emotion expression on the part of characters. This point has the theoretical consequence that a single stylistic principle may manifest itself at sometimes quite different sub-​levels (here sub-​ levels of plot that bear on acting, camera position, and event selection). In this case, the identity is suggested by both a surface property (the occlusion or absence of an expected, emotionally charged element) and a shared function (modulating audience emotion). On the other hand, this is not to say that the principles that develop in an author’s mind are confined to that surface property and that function. In fact, a stylistic feature is likely to result from sets of interacting principles that develop over time and that lead to a range of practices, some of which are closely interrelated and very similar, while others are more distantly related. For example, there are many sets of principles that could generate Ozu’s practices. For the most part, we have no way of determining which principles were actually operating in his case. However, one plausible model would include internalized, extrinsic norms of standard causal and representational trajectories, generating expected or routine sequences of larger or smaller events and ways of filming those events. These norms lead Ozu and his audience to expect that eyes welling up with water will result in the character bursting into tears, perhaps with a close-​up of the anguished face; marriage discussions will lead to a (filmed) wedding ceremony, and so on. This model would also encompass intrinsic principles for modulating emotions, including whatever emotions Ozu found excessive or melodramatic, as well as techniques for occluding emotion expression or representing scenes indirectly rather than directly (e.g., by verbal report rather than by perceptual narration—​a technique widely available for avoiding indecorous, obscene, or overly distressing scenes). The interaction of these principles would make it more likely that melodramatic plot climaxes or emotion expressions would be favored candidates for removal or occlusion. These principles could produce other outcomes as well. A  principle of eliminating a key feature in a story sequence could operate on its own, leading Ozu to remove components other than the emotional climax and to do so

Emplotment

in order to achieve other emotional, thematic, or story functions. As already noted, in the case of Late Spring, we have a sequence of events in which two young people, one male and one female, enjoy doing things alone together. Extrinsic norms bearing on the causal trajectory of stories, along with knowledge of romance and courtship in the real world, suggest the likely outcome of (filmed) marriage. However, this trajectory is prevented by one of the parties, Hattori, being engaged. When Ozu was looking for a way of fostering audience commitment to Noriko’s marriage, but also seeking to avoid the pathos of rejection, he had the principle of plot ellipsis available as one prominent means of achieving this. If Noriko had the knowledge, but the audience did not, that would help to achieve both of his goals. The contradiction between character knowledge and audience knowledge could be achieved by plot ellipsis. Presumably, there were other techniques that could have achieved the same goal. But this one was prominent in Ozu’s stylistic repertoire (the complex of rules that formed his narrative idiolect). The technique of ellipsis does not function in the usual manner in this case, and it interacts with other principles in somewhat atypical ways. But the extension of stylistic routines beyond prototypical cases is exactly what we would expect, given the general operation of human cognition and emotion. The point is not confined to the particular case of Noriko and Hattori. It suggests, for example, why Ozu’s narration may be more broadly suppressive. Indeed, the larger structure of the principles implied by this analysis points to further possible extensions and unifications of stylistic practice as well. Specifically, the preceding points suggest an account in which style may be understood as a hierarchy of embedded complexes of principles where apparently general practices (such as suppressive narration) result from the complex interaction of more specific principles (such as those leading to the prototypical removal of emotional culminations from perceptual narration). Moreover, the more fundamental principles yield homologous patterns across a number of sub-​levels (here including large event representation, camera placement, and acting). All this may lead us to ask if there might not be other principles with less straightforward relations to the core stylistic patterns, principles that nonetheless join in the larger stylistic complexes. For example, in music, one motif may be related to another not merely by forms of parallelism, such as transposition to another key, but also by such transformations as inversion. We hear F, F, F, D and E-​flat, E-​flat, E-​flat, C as related, though the pitches are different. But, as indicated by the opening of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 in C Minor (Opus, 67), we also hear both as related to G, G, G, E-​flat, even though the pitch interval is different; moreover, we hear all three as related to B, B, B, D and C, C, C, E-​flat, even though the movement of the pitches is not parallel (see measures 3–​4, 8–​9, 1–​2, 35, and 37, respectively, in the first violin part, reproduced in figure 6.1).

185

186

Film

FIGURE 6.1  Segments of the first violin part from Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 in C Minor (Opus, 67). Listeners hear these as related (as variations), despite their differences in absolute and even relative pitch.

In connection with this, I would suggest that Ozu’s ellipses and occlusions in emplotment are closely related to another striking feature of his style. Just as Ozu does not give us parts of the story and storyworld that we would ordinarily expect, he also does give us parts of the storyworld that we would ordinarily not expect. Specifically, he often gives us parts of the storyworld that seem unnecessary or uninformative. We may distinguish several types of such shots, along two axes. The first axis is unnecessary perception in space or time. Regarding space, there are the so-​called pillow-​shots of objects or scenes that have no clear story function—​for example, shots of alleyways or buildings in the vicinity of the action. I  will refer to these as excess shots. With respect to time, there are shots that continue on a target far longer than appears reasonable to convey any relevant story information. For example, in Late Spring, after Noriko has left for her wedding, the camera returns to and stays on the mirror in her paternal home. I will refer to these as lingering shots. The other axis concerns the precise target in relation to the story. First, there are empty shots (see Ritchie, 168), shots without characters or events. These are common in Ozu’s films and in some cases may actually substitute for absent, culminating scenes. For example, the lingering, empty shot of Noriko’s mirror in Late Spring occurs where we would expect to see her wedding. The other, rarer pole of this second axis is what we might call replacement shots. These are shots that parallel what we would expect to have seen, but did not. For example, in Early Summer, Noriko’s marriage is “skipped over,” but then “represented in absentia by the bridal procession . . . in the epilogue” (Bordwell, Ozu, 318).

Emplotment

The second axis makes it particularly clear that these superfluities (as we might say) are closely interconnected with the ellipses or absences with which we began. They are part of the same, broad complex of stylistic principles. Given this, we would expect them to share the same overall function. We might slightly reformulate that function, in light of Ozu’s comment that the actors should “make the audience feel the emotion” without “dramatics” (qtd. in Bordwell, Ozu, 85). The function of the ellipses and occlusions is to modulate the emotion of the scene in such a way as to convey the emotion, but limit its melodramatic quality. This would seem to fit the “superfluous” aspects of Ozu’s style quite well. For example, the lingering, empty shot of Noriko’s mirror conveys the loneliness that the father is likely to feel when he returns to the home where he will now be alone. It is, in short, very sad. But it is sad without the melodrama of weeping. More generally, as Ritchie explains, “The various still lifes in his films  .  .  .  recall both what once happened in these rooms and the characters who lived there” (57). The irrelevant wedding procession in Early Summer is an emotional occasion, but very moderate in comparison with the emotions that would accompany Noriko’s own marriage. Lingering shots more generally allow time for the emotional quality of a scene to have an effect without requiring an intense onset; conversely, when related to a melodramatic emotion, they allow a moment for the melodrama to dissipate. To some extent, the excess and lingering shots operate like “counting to ten” when agitated; they do not rid the spectator of the emotion entirely, but alter its quality. (We will consider just what quality is altered in a subsequent section.) The key theoretical point here is that style may incorporate not only obvious, formal parallelism, but more complex relations across patterns. Again, this is what we would expect from cognitive science. When two sets of formally diverse patterns may also be related functionally, they may be linked in the mind of a creator (or recipient) and thus be part of the same complex of stylistic practices. Of course, here too the integration is not absolute. Lingering, excess, empty, or replacement shots, like feature elimination in plot ellipses, may have various functions beyond the central one of modulating melodramatic qualities of emotion (see, for example, Ritchie, 168–​176, on empty shots). Here, too, the point is predicted by cognitive analysis. Once a psychological process exists, it can often operate in a range of contexts beyond those of its original development. The point applies to style no less than anything else.

Some Films Before continuing, we should consider some examples of these patterns drawn from a selection of Ozu’s fifteen postwar films. His first postwar film was the

187

188

Film

1947 Record of a Tenement Gentleman (more properly, A Who’s Who of the Tenements [Bordwell, Ozu,  296]). This film concerns an older woman who finds herself stuck with an apparently abandoned child. She tries to get rid of him, but fails. Just as she forms an attachment bond with him, his father returns. The woman is now alone, missing the child. There are many events not shown in the film, most obviously those relating to the child’s separation from his father and his subsequent life with his father. However, these could be left out from any filmmaker’s treatment of the story, which focuses on the woman. A more distinctive moment of the film concerns a portrait that the woman has taken of herself and the boy. As Bordwell discusses (Ozu, 300–​ 301), the spectator is placed in the position of the camera taking the portrait as the photograph is snapped. After a moment of darkness (as if we are inside the camera with the shutter closed), we are shown the empty studio. The camera pauses over this empty space, presenting the viewer with a lingering shot (in the terminology introduced earlier). By the end of the film, it is clear that this prefigures the absence that the woman will feel when the boy leaves. She will have only the photograph, not the person. Moreover, in a sense, this is always the case, since the moment captured in the photograph is always gone. Another filmmaker might instead have had the woman pull out the photograph at the end and start crying over it. Ozu avoids such dramatics, even while making clear the woman’s attachment loss. In the 1948 Hen in the Wind, a woman (Tokiko) engages in one night of prostitution to pay for her son’s medical treatment. We are shown almost nothing of the prostitution. Bordwell points out that we see “only her customer, not Tokiko herself ” (Ozu, 303). Indeed, the scene of the customer is itself inexplicit. In a manner typical of Ozu, we learn about the incident with certitude only later, in a scene where Tokiko’s close friend chastises her for what she has done. Bordwell suggests that the absence of Tokiko from the scene with the customer “absolves her” (303). That may be true. But I suspect that the purpose is principally to modulate the pathos of her grief and shame. (There is absolution; however, it would seem to result principally from the situation in which she finds herself.) We might contrast, for example, the rape scene in Mizoguchi’s Ugetsu (1953), where we see the woman’s grief, shame, and anger. Of course, Tokiko’s grief and shame are clear in the scene where her friend criticizes her action—​but with Ozu’s usual, stylistic modulation. At first, we see Tokiko’s response from somewhat behind (see figure 6.2). Subsequently, we see the milder form of emotional expression in her face—​tears welling up in her eyes (see figure 6.3), one rolling down her cheek. Finally, she breaks into sobs, immediately hiding her face (see figure 6.4). This scene is followed by empty shots. There are other important ellipses in A Hen in the Wind. Most obviously, Ozu does not show us Tokiko’s confession of her act to her husband. There, too, we learn about the—​no doubt highly

Emplotment

FIGURE 6.2  From Ozu’s A Hen in the Wind: Tokiko’s response to her friend’s inquiries and criticisms is initially muted by the limited visual information given in the shot from behind. (Tokiko is on the right.)

emotional and agitated—​interaction between the spouses only when Tokiko informs her friend. As I  have already noted, Late Spring (1949) concerns a marriage, but skips the wedding. Moreover, in place of the wedding, we are given a lingering shot of the mirror in Noriko’s now-​empty room (see figure 6.5). The father-​ daughter separation is poignant, though it is only suggested by the quiet and the absence of anyone to look into the mirror. The film includes other exemplary moments where intense expression of emotion is obscured. For example, disheartened over the prospect of her father remarrying, Noriko begins to tear up (see figure 6.6). But just as she begins to weep, she covers her face (see figure 6.7) and, a moment later, Ozu cuts to a shot of her back (see figure 6.8), thereby minimizing our exposure to her emotion expression. Early Summer (1951) also concerns a marriage—​in this case, Noriko and Yabe. Noriko lost a brother in the war. Yabe’s wife has died, leaving him a widower and leaving his daughter motherless. Thus, both Noriko and Yabe begin with painful attachment losses, intensified by witnessing the loss experienced by others: Noriko sees the grief of her mother; Yabe sees the deprivation experienced by his daughter. Their situations are in a way complementary;

189

FIGURE 6.3 

From Ozu’s A Hen in the Wind: Tokiko’s eyes well up with tears.

FIGURE 6.4 

From Ozu’s A Hen in the Wind: Tokiko breaks into sobs, concealing her face.

FIGURE 6.5  From Ozu’s Late Spring: An empty shot of the mirror before which Noriko dressed for her wedding.

FIGURE 6.6 

From Ozu’s Late Spring: Tears begin to well up in Noriko’s eyes.

FIGURE 6.7 

From Ozu’s Late Spring: When she begins to weep, she quickly hides her face (recalling the sequence with Tokiko in ­figures 6.2 and 6.3).

FIGURE 6.8  From Ozu’s Late Spring: Soon, Ozu cuts to a shot of Noriko’s back, minimizing our perception of her emotion expression as she weeps. (This shifts the order found in A Hen in the Wind, perhaps suggesting that Ozu realized ending with the shot from behind is more consistent with his goals.)

Emplotment

both need a secure attachment bond. The groundwork for this bond is laid by Yabe’s friendship with Noriko’s lost brother, which serves to link him with Noriko’s affectionate feelings for that brother. Their relationship becomes genuinely significant when they are searching for Noriko’s young nephews who have disappeared. Readers unfamiliar with the film will not be surprised to learn that the search for the boys and their recovery are just what we are not shown—​along with the wedding itself. In context, Yabe helping Noriko to find a lost attachment object would have been likely to provoke strong feelings on Noriko’s part. Ozu passes over that emotion, as well as much of the suspense leading up to it. It is also important to note that the film includes a number of smaller ellipses. For example, Yabe’s mother suggests to Noriko that she marry Yabe. As Bordwell points out, Ozu largely shoots Noriko from the back, so that we cannot see her facial expressions during this conversation (Ozu, 318). Tokyo Story (1953) recounts an elderly couple’s visit to their children just before the wife/​mother unexpectedly dies. The most dramatic moments of her illness—​the initial sickness and the final attack—​are omitted from the film. As to emotion expression, at several points, we see a character with a tear rolling down her cheek or eyes brimming with tears. Nonetheless, these expressions are quiet. More agitated emotions do occur in the story. But their expression is omitted from the plot, just as the mother’s coma (i.e., the mother lying as if asleep) is presented, but not the crisis preceding the coma. A powerfully affecting instance of an averted expression of agitated emotion comes toward the end of the film, when the most admirable character in the film criticizes her own selfishness while despairing over her life. First, her polite smile is twisted into a barely controlled grief. Soon, the grief breaks through in weeping and she immediately covers her face (see ­figures 6.9, 6.10, and 6.11). Early Spring (1956) concerns a love affair between a married man and a young woman. There are, of course, ellipses in the story of the affair, as when a kiss is followed by a shot of the couple’s clothes on pegs. But this is ordinary decorum, not Ozu’s distinctive use of ellipsis. Moreover, the emotions of the young woman, eventually abandoned by her married lover, are not concealed. In this case, the stylistic use of ellipsis occurs elsewhere, more subtly, in the backstory to the married couple’s alienation. They had a child who died. There are references to this throughout the film, but only late in the film are we given any details. Specifically, the husband recounts part—​but certainly not all—​of the story (and there are certainly no flashbacks, of the sort that we would expect in a Hollywood film). Thus, what is potentially the most melodramatic element in the film is presented only partially and indirectly, giving us a hint of the pathos, but modulating it considerably. In Tokyo Twilight (1957), Ozu takes up the abandoned woman motif again, combining it with a different sort of earlier trauma. Instead of having the man in the affair suffer from losing a child, he has the woman—​Akiko—​suffer from being abandoned by her mother. As in Early Spring, this earlier trauma is filled

193

FIGURE 6.9 

From Ozu’s Tokyo Story: Noriko smiles politely as she speaks with her father-​in-​law following her mother-​in-​law’s death and funeral.

FIGURE 6.10 

From Ozu’s Tokyo Story: Her father-​in-​law’s kind words and her own feelings of loneliness and guilt make it difficult for Noriko to modulate her emotion expression.

Emplotment

FIGURE 6.11 

From Ozu’s Tokyo Story: Breaking into tears—​over the deaths of her husband and mother-​in-​law and over her own life—​Noriko lowers her face and conceals her expression with her hands.

in partially, through dialogue. There are other ellipses as well. Some are simply a matter of decorum, as when we do not see Akiko committing suicide. But we also do not see her telling her lover that she is pregnant; we see, rather, a subsequent scene where the boyfriend knows. Nor do we see her die, though we see an earlier scene in the hospital, where it appears that she will recover. In each case, we get the necessary information, but we witness, at most, only alternative, substitute scenes that reduce the emotional agitation that would presumably have accompanied the absent scenes. Similar points may be made about the other story sequence, in which Akiko’s sister leaves her husband, then later returns to him. We do not witness anything that precipitates the separation; nor do we see the reunion. Equinox Flower (1958) treats the alienation between a father and a daughter over the latter’s choice of a husband. The suspense of the film principally concerns whether the father will attend the wedding. Unsurprisingly, Ozu does not show us the wedding. We learn through dialogue that the father attended, but did not give the couple his blessing. This would undoubtedly have been an emotionally highly wrought scene. Learning the facts after the event modulates the impact. Moreover, we hear the facts in the context of a discussion in which another character convinces the father to travel to his daughter’s new home (in another city) in order to reconcile with her. The film

195

196

Film

ends with the father leaving to do just that. Though we know it will occur, we do not see the final reunion. This is the sort of concluding ellipsis that a range of creators might use. It nonetheless does fit with Ozu’s stylistic pattern of emotion modulation through ellipsis. Late Autumn (1960) concerns a young girl who refuses to marry because it will involve abandoning her widowed mother, Akiko. When it appears that her mother might take a new husband, the daughter agrees to marry. However, in the end, the mother remains alone. We do not see the daughter’s wedding ceremony as such, but we do see the couple posing for photographs at the wedding. Given this, it may seem that the film is less elliptical than other films we have considered. Even so, it is more elliptical than we would expect from other directors (e.g., in not presenting the courtship, as Bordwell notes [Ozu, 361]). Perhaps most importantly, we are never really shown the mother’s feelings. Throughout the film, the mother wears a polite smile that for me is almost irritating in its sometimes obtrusive falsity. At the end of the film, however, when no one is around, the mother drops her polite smile. Her emotion expression is minimal even then, but in context it is salient. When I first saw the film, I found the bare hint of sad reminiscence on her face to be piercing (see ­figures 6.12 and 6.13). This is a fine example of how the overall emotional impact of a work may be enhanced by the inhibition of emotion expression—​or the reduction of melodrama—​over the course of the work.

FIGURE 6.12 

From Ozu’s Late Autumn: Akiko’s polite smile.

Emplotment

FIGURE 6.13  From Ozu’s Late Autumn: The mildly sorrowful expression on Akiko’s face becomes deeply touching in the context of her earlier expressive opacity.

An Autumn Afternoon (1962), Ozu’s last film, includes many instances of the stylistic practices we have been considering. Some instances are minor. For example, a group of men collects money for an old teacher who now runs an eatery. Their representative visits the teacher in the restaurant, leaving the money on a table. Ozu ends the scene before we find out whether the teacher discovers the money. Later, the teacher reports that he did find the money. The teacher’s sense of gratitude on discovering the gift would have had some degree of melodrama, given the nature of the character, as developed in the film (and showing this scene without dramatics might have made the teacher appear ungrateful). Other ellipses in the film are more significant. Most importantly, one of the men asks his daughter, Michiko, if she would agree to meet a young man, to judge whether she might consider marrying him. She agrees. But, as Bordwell discusses (Ozu, 373–​374), Ozu then skips to the wedding proper. Despite the fact that everything in the film seemed to be leading to this courtship, the courtship is not presented. Moreover, the wedding is not presented, just the moments before the wedding—​with a lingering shot of the empty room in effect substituting for the wedding. There is also a suggestion early in the film that Michiko’s father may be interested in a woman who, he believes, resembles his deceased wife, but we do not see any development of that possible bond. Once again, we have only the mitigated and inferred sorrow of attachment separation.

197

198

Film

Japanese Culture In this and the following section, I consider some further ways in which we might think about just what Ozu is trying to accomplish through the modulation of emotion—​specifically, what is being modulated and why. One way of approaching the topic is cultural. The muted quality of the emotion expression in Ozu’s ellipses and occlusions is likely to recall Japanese “display rules” for many readers. Emotion expressions are facial, vocal, postural, and other qualities that signal or communicate the presence of a particular emotion. These expressions (or “expressive outcomes,” alternatively “communicative outcomes” [see Matsumoto, 175–​176, and Rolls, 55–​56]) are spontaneous and, in many cases, largely cross-​cultural. However, they may be modulated by cultural practices. The principles governing such modulation are called “display rules” (see Hall, 282–​283), as they are rules governing what expressions one should display. For example, it was established in early research that Japanese display rules are more restrictive, leading for instance to the “masking” of “a facial expression of fear or disgust . . . with a polite smile” (Oatley, Keltner, and Jenkins, 69). One might reasonably take it that Ozu’s ellipses and occlusions and his damping down of melodrama are continuous with the restrictiveness of display rules in Japanese culture more generally—​especially as Ozu’s damping down includes the use of the polite smile, as we have seen. There are several problems with an approach that tries to explain Ozu’s style by reference to “Japaneseness” (for a compelling critique of this approach, see Bordwell, Ozu, 26–​30). As Thompson points out, studies of Japanese films “reveal no directors consistently using the features characteristic of Ozu’s style” (328–​329). For example, Kinugasa’s Gate of Hell develops suspense up to a horse race, then shows us the horse race; it does not skip the event and rely on subsequent dialogue to inform us about it. Moreover, Ozu’s style has proven “puzzling to Japanese critics and filmmakers” (330), which hardly seems to suggest “Japaneseness.” There are occasional exceptions, when features of another film are reminiscent of Ozu. Often, these are likely to be “imitations” of Ozu (Thompson, 329). In other cases, they may reflect more general principles that are not particularly Japanese. For example, Kinugasa’s Gate of Hell does develop tension about a military conflict, which it does not show. But the focus of the film is on a personal relationship that resulted from the development of the conflict. Thus, the conflict itself is largely irrelevant to the story and would be a distraction from the exposition of the story. Another sort of ellipsis may be found in Mizoguchi’s Ugetsu Monogatari. There is a rape in that film, but the act itself is not shown. This, however, is clearly a matter of decorum, a cross-​cultural concern. Similarly, in Life of Oharu, the lover’s decapitation occurs off camera; we do not see the head falling from the body—​a scene that would be likely to appear indecorous (or, if imperfectly done, ludicrous). Of course, decorum may

Emplotment

reflect a related aversion to the melodramatic features of an emotion episode, and that is important. Ozu is not engaged in a wholly idiosyncratic undertaking, but developing practices that resonate with viewers, both Japanese and non-​Japanese. But the crucial point for the present analysis is that the specific stylistic features of Ozu’s work are not characteristic of Japanese cinema more generally. On the other hand, to find some continuity between Ozu’s practices and Japanese culture, we do not need to reify and fetishize Japaneseness. Rather, we can recognize that emotional restraint is prized to some degree and in some contexts by perhaps every culture. From here, we can note that some cultures have developed a particular sensitivity to restraint, and that such sensitivity may have artistic consequences. Indeed, Japanese aesthetic theories and practices have incorporated a high degree of emotion modulation, with great success. This does not mean that Japanese people necessarily have more immediate and spontaneous appreciation of the resulting art, such as nō drama, or the associated theories, such as those articulated in Zeami’s treatises. Nor is the cultural-​aesthetic context a magical device that will directly make sense of Ozu’s style. Nonetheless, it may help us to gain a better sense of how emotion modulation operates in Ozu’s ellipses. For instance, an obvious possible precursor for Ozu’s approach to acting may be found in the great fourteenth-​to fifteenth-​century dramatist Zeami Motokiyo, who famously urged his actors to feel 10, but express 7 in their movements (75). I take it that both elements of the instruction are important. The intense feeling of the actor will manifest itself in subtle ways, rather than in grand gestures. The key point here is not exactly understatement, though that is part of it. The understatement should affect the quality of the emotion communicated. The quality is suggested by, for example, the importance of sabi as an aesthetic value. Though associated with the seventeenth-​century poet Matsuo Bashō, rather than Zeami, this concept has clear relevance. It refers to “the beauty of loneliness” involving, according to different authors, “stillness” or “deprivation” (Miner, Odagiri, and Morrell, 295). The conjunction of Zeami’s instruction and the norm of sabi indicates not merely that aesthetic representation should restrain movement, but that aesthetic feeling itself should involve less motion, even stillness. If correct, this would suggest that, at least in this strain of Japanese aesthetics, the emotions fostered by art should involve reduced arousal, to use a term from current affective science. This, in turn, fits with other admonitions by Zeami. Specifically, Zeami excluded “rage” from the repertoire of emotions suitable for nō as it contradicts “grace” (i.e., yūgen) and thus gives leads to “improper nō” (44). Rage would be an emotion high in arousal and would tend to promote a high degree of arousal in the audience. In contrast, Zeami aims to “pacify people’s hearts” (40) and keep the audience “at ease” (48). In connection with this, Zeami urges his actors to avoid roughness (46–​47). They should

199

200

Film

aim, instead, for “tranquility,” “gentleness” (121), and “delicacy” (122). This all seems to point toward an intensity of emotion with reduced or modulated arousal, which is one way of understanding emotion without “dramatics” or melodrama.

Cross-​Cultural Emotions and Affective Science Again, the preferences of Zeami are not generalizable in Japan; they are not a matter of “Japaneseness,” which has its traditions of rage and other forms of emotional arousal and dramatics both within and outside of art. Moreover, Zeami’s dedication to a gentle form of emotional intensity is not confined to Japan, but is found in European and other traditions, and affects non-​ Japanese audience members in their appreciation of Zeami’s plays. We might conjecture that part of what is going on here might be a reduction in the aversive quality of emotional arousal, at least in the case of negative emotions such as sorrow and anger. In connection with this, one might imagine that a reduction in such arousal could even enable an increase in compassion. Alternatively, a reduction in overall arousal might enhance our emotional response simply by reducing habituation. For example, in Late Autumn, as noted earlier, Akiko goes through the entire film (thus the perceptual plot) wearing a polite smile. We are able to infer her feelings through reasoning and more subtle aspects of expression. However, these feelings are very muted. When she returns home at the end of the film, to begin her life alone after her daughter has married, Ozu at last allows us to see her face without the polite smile. At least in my experience, the very minimal expression of loneliness at that moment is heart-​rending. It is hard to believe that the effect would have been as powerful had we been subjected to, say, her weeping and tear-​stained face earlier in the film. But such conjectures and imaginations are groundless until we have a clearer sense of just what is occurring with emotion modulation in these cases. I have already suggested what I take to be the emotional quality Ozu and Zeami are seeking to curb—​arousal. In saying this, I am referring to current affective science. There are two dominant accounts of emotion within affective science—​basic emotion theory and dimension theory. Basic emotion theory posits that there are discrete emotion systems, such as fear, anger, and disgust. Dimension theory posits that there are, rather, psychological properties that form different possible combinations. We select some of those combinations and give them emotion names, but only the properties are psychologically real. Those properties are themselves organized along different “dimensions,” often two or three. (For a brief overview of the dimensional account of emotion, see Fontaine.) Even if one is an advocate of discrete emotions theory, dimension theory may be reasonably assumed to isolate properties that are shared by

Emplotment

emotion systems. After all, there must be something that makes them all count as emotion systems. Dimension theories differ in precisely what dimensions they posit. Gillioz and colleagues propose four dimensions, which they refer to as valence, power, novelty, and arousal. Valence marks the degree to which an emotion is or is not pleasant. Power, alternatively dominance, concerns being “in control versus being controlled” (McNally, 42). Novelty is a matter of the degree to which the elicitors of the emotion are expected or unexpected. Fowles explains that arousal involves “excitatory processes—​usually an increase in behaviour or physiological activity” (50). Similarly, Frijda explains “activation” as “an organism’s state of readiness for action” (90). Once expressed in this way, it seems clear that highly arousing emotions would be particularly inappropriate in most circumstances involving art, where action relevant to the emotion is impossible (as Norman Holland emphasized [Literature, 55]). This is perhaps especially true in theater and film, where audience members’ movement is highly constrained. On the other hand, Zeami and Ozu seem to go well beyond an admonition not to get the audience so worked up that they attack the actors or tear down the screen. They seem to suggest, rather, that the appropriate emotions minimize autonomic arousal (on the place of autonomic arousal in emotion, see Frijda, 168–​171). Autonomic system arousal or inhibition would seem particularly important for any concerns about “pacify[ing] people’s hearts” (Zeami, 40). Put rather crudely, the aesthetic approach we have been considering would seem to suggest a relative preference for parasympathetic over sympathetic nervous system dominance, which is of course not unrelated to action. Frijda explains that sympathetic nervous system dominance bears on activity, while parasympathetic dominance “reflects energy conservation, either in pleasantness and rest or in sitting it out under adverse conditions until things have blown over.” Some forms of parasympathetic dominance involve “conditions in which coping action is impossible or unavailable” (160). Moreover, a “baseline” autonomic nervous system condition is “perhaps . . . presented by balanced parasympathetic dominance or ‘peacefulness’ ” (161). Though it would be over-​simple to identify aesthetic emotion with “balanced parasympathetic dominance,” something along these lines provides a good preliminary way of thinking about the distinctive character of emotional effects explicitly sought by Zeami and implicitly sought by Ozu. In short, the idea of emotional arousal, specified in relation to autonomic nervous system activity, allows us to clarify the emotional function of Ozu’s elliptical style. Extending the point somewhat, we might say that creators create artworks by using a palette of emotions, just as a painter paints—​or a color cinematographer films—​using a palette of colors (as well as a palette of emotions). The colors matter not only in their specificity, but in their various types or dimensions. One film might have highly saturated colors, or might vary the

201

202

Film

hues of some dominant color, such as red or blue. Similarly, a literary author or filmmaker might focus on one or another dimension of emotion. The most obvious case of this is valence, which marks the differences between comedies and tragedies, in one sense of these terms. A  creator might also stress novelty, seeking to produce surprise, or intensity, leading perhaps to melodrama or, at the other extreme, (Brechtian) alienation. Ozu, it seems, draws on the full palette for valence, novelty, and intensity. However, he works with a much more restricted palette on the dimension of arousal. The stylistic techniques we have been considering serve in effect to limit that palette. In keeping with this, Gillioz and colleagues rate emotions by degree of arousal. The low arousal emotions include tenderness, disappointment, nostalgia, regret, sadness, and grief—​perhaps the primary negative emotions in Ozu (along with loneliness, which Gillioz and colleagues do not address). As for the audience, we should add another low arousal emotion from Gillioz and colleagues’ list—​ compassion (145). This inhibition of arousal is also consistent with Ozu’s clear emphasis on attachment, arguably the key emotion in the majority of his films. As Sachser explains, “The positive effects of a bonding [or attachment] partner on the organism’s physiological state are reflected by the reduced activity” of the sympathetic nervous system. Thus “the bonding partner” is “arousal-​reducing”  (131).

Conclusion Thus, we find a multi-​component, functional pattern of emplotment style in Ozu’s postwar films. The stylistic pattern cannot be isolated adequately without reference to its function. Specifically, Ozu reduces the presentation of highly aroused emotion expression in order to intensify low arousal emotions, principally empathic and compassionate feelings related to attachment, which is itself linked with arousal reduction. A pattern of this sort is to some extent fostered by Japanese cultural preferences and Japanese aesthetic values, such as those expressed in the concepts of sabi and yūgen. Even so, the pattern is explicable in terms of cross-​cultural emotion processes and is clearly effective across cultures as well. Ozu develops this stylistic pattern in part through acting and staging techniques that present either low-​arousal expression (e.g., a tear quietly rolling down a character’s cheek) or conceal high-​arousal expression (as when a violently weeping character buries his or her face in his or her hands). More strikingly, Ozu uses camera placement to the same end, as when he films a weeping character from behind. Most significantly, this stylistic propensity manifests itself in story ellipsis. Story ellipsis may be very localized, as when a character receives bad news and leaves the scene without being followed by the camera. However, it often encompasses larger events, as when a wedding is not shown,

Emplotment

even though it has been the main concern of the film. Typically, the ellipsis is filled in by dialogue, with characters recounting the needed information. Consider two cases we have not discussed. In An Autumn Afternoon, Michiko receives bad news (the man for whom she had feelings is already engaged). However, she shows little emotion and leaves the scene, apparently without any significant affective response. Soon after that, however, her brother enters and reports that Michiko seems to have been crying. Even more strikingly, in A Hen in the Wind, Tokiko speaks to her unconscious son, asking him not to die. The scene is very affecting, but Tokiko’s emotion expression is subdued (see figure 6.14). Subsequently, we see two women working in the hospital. One asks the other if she doesn’t hear someone crying. The implication is that they hear Tokiko, who is weeping loudly enough to be heard elsewhere in the building. Unsurprisingly, the two scenes are surrounded by empty shots reminiscent of the mother’s situation (with its deep sense of loneliness), but also peaceful. Thus, in both films, we are informed about the intense emotion expression without being exposed to it in an emotionally arousing way. These points are presumably generalizable. Specifically, when examining style, it is clearly important to examine emplotment patterns. Those patterns may encompass a range of techniques, such as camera placement (or, more generally, perceptual point of view), ellipsis, and the substitution of verbal report for perceptual presentation. Such patterns may be superficially diverse, but

FIGURE 6.14 

From Ozu’s A Hen in the Wind: Tokiko asks her son not to die.

203

204

Film

united by a shared function, such as the muting of emotional arousal toward the end of intensifying low-​arousal emotions—​or, as usual, the clarification of story information, or the development of themes. Moreover, the functional unification of stylistic patterns need not be confined to plot, but may bear on any other narrative level. Finally, it is important to note that functional unification does not preclude other uses of a stylistic technique. For example, on occasion, Ozu may use ellipsis to misdirect viewer expectations, though that is not its usual purpose. In other words, a creator’s stylistic techniques may be typically linked to a particular, characteristic function. But that does not mean he or she is limited to that function.

7

Visual Narration EMBODIMENT AND POINT OF VIEW IN LU CHUAN’S NANJING! NANJING!

In the fifth and sixth chapters, we considered topics in the stylistic analysis of perceptual interface and genre, then emplotment and authorial canon. This roughly paralleled the brief treatment of verbal style in the opening chapter, then in ­chapter 2 the treatment of story structure in an authorial canon. As the third chapter addressed verbal narration style in a single work, the present chapter takes up perceptual narration style in a single work. This chapter also introduces another important aspect of cognition and emotion—​ embodiment. Specifically, in this chapter we will consider the nature and variety of a fundamental technique of visual narration, the point-​of-​view (PoV) shot. Following some theoretical discussion, I will analyze how Lu Chuan uses PoV shots in Nanjing! Nanjing! and how these may be understood to engage a recipient’s embodied response to the film, in the service of Lu’s emotional and thematic aims.

Point-​of-​View Shots and Identification For a number of years, many film theorists discussed point of view in relation to “identification with the camera” (see, for example, Heath, 49). In these discussions, point of view and camera identification were linked with character in complex ways (on the variety of “looks” involved, see Heath, 147). Taking up character perspective, Berys Gaut notes that “the point-​of-​view shot is often thought of as the locus of character identification in film.” However, he continues, “it is the locus of perceptual identification” in particular; “it does not follow that the viewer identifies with the character in all other respects” (“Identification,” 208–​209). The conclusion holds a fortiori for “identification

Style in Narrative. Patrick Colm Hogan, Oxford University Press (2021). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197539576.001.0001

206

Film

with the camera,” an opaque notion, not greatly clarified by the Lacanian theorizing in which it is frequently embedded. Extending work by Noël Carroll, Carl Plantinga has argued convincingly that a viewer’s emotional response is likely to be engaged by the apparent feelings of the person he or she is watching (“The Scene”). Our identification, then, is not with the camera—​thus, the visual narrator, or even the character whose point of view the camera represents. Our identification is, rather, with the grieving mother whose tearful face fills the screen or the agonized soldier writhing in pain on the battlefield before our eyes.1 Plantinga is certainly right and his argument was and remains an extremely valuable corrective to standard views at the time, which still linger in poststructuralist criticism. But that is not to say that the visual—​or more generally perceptual—​narration of a film is not important for our response. Indeed, we may fully accept Plantinga’s analysis and still maintain that the optical point of view presented by the camera may be crucial for our cognitive processing and emotional reaction. The perceptual point of view through which a film unfolds does not become irrelevant simply because the objects that we see and the sounds we hear are usually the most powerful elicitors of emotional response and the most consistent triggers of identification or engagement. Plantinga particularly emphasizes the effect of seeing the human face. We are cheered by happy faces, disheartened by sad ones, partially sharing the emotions we witness. Or, rather, this is mostly the case. The basic idea is certainly correct; however, we need to complicate the account somewhat. Specifically, we respond differently to the same emotional expression depending on our interpersonal stance, our precise relation to the other person or target.2 For example, if we categorize the target as an out-​group member, we are less likely to have a parallel emotional response, repeating the (positive or negative) valence of his or her emotion; if he or she feels grief, we may feel Schadenfreude rather than sorrow (see Hain and colleagues, 155; see also Klimecki and Singer, 542). Nonetheless, the main point holds. We are more often inclined to take up a parallel than a non-​parallel (antagonistic or “complementary”) response toward a story’s protagonists or even toward peripheral characters. This is especially true for targets who are in pain. Specifically, other things being equal, it seems that we are inclined to empathize with the suffering that is given individual particularity by the face. Our parallel response in such cases is opposed to the unsympathetic uniformity of out-​groups, suggested by the idiom of the “faceless” enemy. In keeping with this, Holland, Holyoak, Nisbett, and Thagard note that individuating information tends to displace group stereotypes (219, 221). Other aspects of the perceptual target are important here, in addition to the face (as noted by Plantinga, Moving, 125). Sounds, most obviously the human voice, elicit emotion and signal individual particularity. The same points may be made about posture and movement. Sadness, happiness, and

Visual Narration

other emotions manifest themselves in characteristic bodily orientations and actions. Postures and movements also involve individual characteristics that allow us to identify people by such features as gait (see Cutting and Kozlowski). The references to posture and gait serve to remind us that our emotional response to other people’s emotion expressions is at least in part a matter of embodiment and our own sensory, kinesthetic, and motor experience. Our response to other people’s frowns or downturned eyes, stooping posture, and lethargic movement may in part result from our own mimicry of those features—​a small contraction of muscles hinting at a frown, an averted gaze, a slight drooping of the shoulders (see Plantinga, “Scene,” 243–​244 and citations therein). Alternatively, it may partially activate motor or other routines that do not result in overt behaviors but that nonetheless engage associated emotion systems, or at least the emotional memories that are linked with those routines.

Film, Embodiment, and Enactivism Suzanne Keen has noted that some “theories of character” attend to “embodiment.” Most important for our purposes, such theories may involve “reference to the lived experience of embodiment shared by readers” (Narrative, 67). That experience includes such matters as our comfort or discomfort and the distractions present in our immediate surroundings (see Keen, “Narrative”). In other words, it includes the sorts of activities that Italo Calvino articulates in the opening pages of Se una notte d’inverno un viaggiatore—​closing the door, informing others that you need quiet, sitting down, or maybe lying down. But of course the precise sequence of activities outlined by Calvino is unlikely to be that of any real reader; indeed, it cannot be, as he gives alternative possibilities. One recognizes the sort of activities Calvino sketches. But one does not engage in precisely what he describes. That is because the activities of real readers are idiosyncratic. That does not make them unimportant. But they are not clearly important to anyone other than the particular readers themselves. For example, on a particular occasion, I  might have dry, itchy eyes when reading Calvino’s novel. That is important to me but probably not to anyone else. Here, we might wonder whether embodiment enters into literature or film at any level other than the idiosyncrasies of the real reader or viewer. It obviously enters with the real author. His or her bodily condition is more likely to be of interest to a range of readers (e.g., if he or she has been almost entirely immobilized, as in the case of Jean-​Dominique Bauby when composing The Diving Bell and the Butterfly). Nonetheless, except in rare cases, it too is likely to remain idiosyncratic and largely irrelevant to our experience of the work itself.

207

208

Film

On the other hand, Calvino’s comments do point us toward another way in which embodiment may enter into the experience of literature and film. Calvino may seem at first to be addressing the real reader. But in fact he is addressing a narratee. Indeed, Calvino himself is not addressing the narratee; his narrator is doing so. This indicates that perhaps features of a work’s discourse—​in this case, features of narration—​may have consequences for a recipient’s embodied experience. More exactly, a wide range of features from a literary work or film may engage a recipient’s embodied response. The most obvious feature involves a simulated or perceived person (in literature for the former and in film for the latter3). This returns us to Plantinga’s analysis, since that person is the target whom we mirror (with varying degrees of actual motor engagement). But it would seem that the perspective itself—​a discourse feature—​ could in some circumstances engage the same sorts of processes. In other words, there are two elements in any mirroring response—​one’s perception of the target and one’s experience of oneself. It is well established that changes in one’s facial configuration (e.g., shaping one’s lips in a certain way), without mirroring any target, can have emotional consequences (see, for example, Dimberg and Söderkvist). Insofar as narration can in some degree imitate that self-​experience, it would seem possible to produce the same effect. But how could narration produce approximate self-​experience? In literature, it might be able to accomplish this through the detailed “instructions for mental composition” (Scarry, 244), which is to say, instructions for simulation given in narration. If we simulate the perspective of a character in adequate detail and vividness, we may be able to create some intimation of the associated experience. The approximation is clearer in film. In film, we are in a sense placed within a particular visual and aural perspective. That would appear to much more readily facilitate the orientation of one’s emotional response through narration. This is where the PoV shot enters. Yet the usual PoV shot does not seem to have this effect. Consider the standard PoV sequence described by Noël Carroll in his influential essay on the PoV shot (“Toward”). We see a character looking somewhere—​the “point/​ glance” shot (in Branigan’s terminology); we then cut to his or her perception of the target (e.g., the appearance of the character’s nemesis)—​the “point/​object” shot (i.e., the PoV shot proper). We might add to this the category of the “reaction” shot. A reaction shot reveals a character’s emotional response to the information we have received from the point/​object shot. The reaction shot may be the same as the point/​glance shot or it may be different. For example, a character may turn on hearing a noise; the point/​glance shot may reveal only interest in finding out what made the noise. Following a point/​object shot of the character’s nemesis, we may have a further shot of the initial character, this one revealing his reaction of terror.

Visual Narration

Typically, the PoV shot in these cases is isolated and static. We understand and experience the relevant emotion principally through our view of the character’s face (in the reaction shot), with its emotional expression (e.g., fear at the appearance of the nemesis), and our knowledge of the object or how the character understands the object (e.g., that he recognizes the nemesis). The point/​object shot does little more than inform us about the cause of the character’s emotion. Our emotional response is enhanced when we have both the character’s expression and information about its cause. But that information could be conveyed without a PoV shot (though presumably not without some sense of what the character is perceiving and thinking). Thus, we would expect the emotional effects of PoV shots to be, to a great extent, dependent on the perceptual presentation of the person’s emotional expression. We will be more likely to share Jones’s emotion if our sharing Jones’s point of view is supplemented with a perception of his fearful face, trembling hands, and cringing demeanor. But is there any way in which the PoV shot itself might be made more effective for fostering our emotional response? Here, we might take a clue from Enactivism. Writers such as Alva Noë have argued that perception is an active process that engages our motor system as we shift our eyes and head, turn our torso, step forward and back. We seem to perceive the world in a sort of smooth, static way. But in fact we are bobbing and swerving all the time. One of the problems with the usual point/​glance to point/​object sequence is that the PoV component is so static. It provides us with the information regarding what the character perceives. However, it does not provide us with anything at all similar to the shifting exploration that characterizes the “noetic” pole of perception (to advert to the Phenomenological term for the subjective processes of cognition operating on a “noema” or intentional object4). This leads us to ask if there may be other ways of presenting optical point of view.

Point-​of-​View Shots and Cinematic Narration We might begin our consideration of optical point of view in film by recalling a basic distinction between the mechanical smoothness of dolly shots or crane shots and the rougher trajectory of handheld camera shots. Technological developments, such as the Steadicam, have allowed filmmakers to film without the aid of tracks or wheels, while still keeping the image relatively unperturbed during camera movement. Nonetheless, there is perceivable movement, and that movement is recognizable as relatively natural, as a matter of a person walking. The match is imperfect. Nonetheless, our experience of a handheld camera is close enough to that of perceptual experience that it might have the effect of fostering the sense of shared subjective experience, perhaps enhancing emotional sensitivity as well. In other words, it may conduce toward

209

210

Film

some degree of identification in the way that earlier film theorists attributed to the PoV shot more generally. In this way, then, there may be emotional consequences of narrational features bearing not only on what a character perceives (e.g., an antagonist), but also on how he/​she perceives that target. Of course, we do not experience an emotion simply because a camera is moving in a non-​mechanical way. Even a PoV shot that has an almost virtual reality quality to it will not, in itself, cause us to feel empathic joy or sorrow. Our emotional response to a given shot is a function not only of experiential quality, but of just what the target of the narration is at a given moment (i.e., what we are seeing), as well as the information that went before, our interest in the character, and interpersonal stance toward him or her (e.g., the degree of our “allegiance,” to use Murray Smith’s term), along with other factors. If the aim is to enhance our emotional response to the character whose PoV we are adopting, then we are likely to benefit from a reaction shot involving that character as well. But, again, our main concern in the present context is not the object as such; it is, rather, the experiential quality of the point/​object shot. The static point/​ glance to point/​object sequence would convey the necessary information—​as would a cut or pan that involved no PoV component. Here, we might draw a distinction between a PoV shot that serves merely to present the content of what the character perceives and a PoV shot that seeks to imitate the manner in which that character perceives an object. We may refer to the former as an epistemic PoV shot and the latter as a mimetic PoV shot. Moreover, we may characterize the difference as one of motor approximation in the case of the mimetic PoV shot (often achieved through the use of a handheld camera). In sum, we might expect our emotional response to a film to be affected by our embodied response not only to story and storyworld features (thus the events of the former and the characters and circumstances of the latter), but also by narrational features. Those narrational features will prominently include PoV shots that mimic our motoric, bodily engagement in perception, as discussed by Enactivist theoreticians and writers on embodied cognition. The hypothesis would appear to receive some preliminary support from empirical work by Vittorio Gallese and others on “camera movements . . . simulating an observer’s own movement” and their “embodied simulative function” (Heimann and colleagues, 2088), specifically enhancing “motor simulation” (Gallese and Guerra, 114). Moreover, it is consistent with the comments of other theorists on what are sometimes (rather vaguely) called “subjective” shots. For example, Choi refers to an “affective mechanism” that leads us to “feel dizziness when there is a swift change in the visual field,” as in some subjective shots (22). More exactly, we may distinguish different components of narration in film that bear on this topic. Thus, we may have PoV shots that are or are not paired with reaction shots and PoV shots that do or do not involve motor

Visual Narration

approximation (thus are mimetic or epistemic). Reaction shots would appear to inspire emotional response through mirroring. Mimetic PoV shots would seem to involve a similar, but not identical process. Specifically, we do not observe the rough motion of the stream of perception and partially imitate it, in the way we observe and imitate a facial expression. Rather, we in some way coordinate our perceptual experience with the uneven course of the shot. We might then say that a mimetic PoV shot, with its motor approximation, like our bodily response to rhythm in music, operates through entrainment, rather than mirroring as such. To take a personal example, I  have sometimes felt motion sickness in watching a film with some sorts of swift camera movement. In fact, I had to walk out of the one 3D film I ever attended, because I felt severely nauseated. This is a different sort of experience from feeling nauseated because I  see someone vomiting on screen. The latter is in part a matter of mirroring. The former is what I am referring to as “entrainment.” In the following sections, we will consider a number of complications bearing on PoV shots. We might consider a perhaps particularly surprising one here, in order to illustrate the point. A mimetic PoV shot need not index a character. David Herman has pointed out that literary works sometimes include a sort of hypothetical point of view, as when the narrator says that “someone looking out of the second-​story window would have seen a tiny red speck on the horizon” (see “Hypothetical”). Such a hypothetical point of view is perhaps more interesting and consequential—​and almost certainly more common—​in film. The placement of the camera always defines an optical point of view. The link to a character is typically established by the point/​ glance to point/​object sequence or some equivalent. But some techniques, such as motor approximation, may indicate optical point of view without ever giving us a point/​glance or reaction shot to specify the focalizer (i.e., the character defining the point of view represented in the shot). More precisely, there are four possibilities here:  1) epistemic shots indexed to a particular character’s point of view; 2)  epistemic shots not indexed to a particular character’s point of view; 3) mimetic shots indexed to a particular character’s point of view; 4) mimetic shots not indexed to a particular character’s point of view. Instances of the second category exist, but seem relatively rare as we would not typically have reason to connect a “free” (non-​indexed) epistemic shot with a hypothetical point of view (though, as we will see, there are exceptions to this). In contrast, motor approximation seems fairly likely to lead us to feel that the free mimetic shot does manifest a point of view. It may be hypothetical, or tied to an unidentified character, thus “anonymous.” More generally, we may refer to it as “unspecified.” That unspecified PoV shot could not be paired with a reaction shot of the same character, since that character is unspecified; indeed, there may be no character there to begin with.

211

212

Film

Unspecified PoV shots are among the many PoV techniques used by Lu in his film. He also uses more standard point/​glance and point/​object sequences, as well as a range of other variants, often involving an appeal to embodied experience. Lu takes up these variants to produce different informational, emotional, and thematic effects. For example, he sometimes uses unspecified PoV shots to give the viewer a sense of a generic soldier’s experience. As this indicates, a particular technique does not maintain a single, constant function. The functions vary with their precise context and specification, though some lend themselves to certain functions more obviously than others. In any case, Lu’s film effectively develops the use of PoV shots in a way that may greatly further our understanding of their stylistic possibilities and purposes, particularly in relation to embodiment.

Varieties of Embodied Cognition and Enactivism and What Is Required for the Present Account Before turning to Lu’s film, however, we should return briefly to the theoretical topics of embodiment and Enactivism. “Embodiment” is a polysemous term. In some contexts, an embodied account of cognition refers simply to physicalism. Thus, some people who advocate “embodied cognition” simply mean that they are not dualists, but believe that the substrate of the mind is the brain. A more technical conception of embodiment views motor and sensory processes as fundamental to cognition and emotion, including forms of cognition and emotion that do not initially appear to be concrete and bodily. In this view, for example, the apparent abstractions of semantics are based on sensory and motor experience, as when we think about understanding in terms of the physical process of grasping. There are stronger and weaker forms of this view. In the stronger view, there is ultimately no such thing as abstraction. All cognition begins and remains bodily. An intermediate view might allow some degree of abstraction, but still ground that abstraction on bodily experience and activity. The weakest version of embodiment theory would simply claim than many forms of abstract cognition have non-​obvious bodily sources. Of course, those who reject embodied cognition entirely would claim that abstract cognition is fundamentally different from body-​based inference, modeling, and so forth. It is important that some researchers study the possibility that embodiment is pervasive in cognition, and it is important that some researchers explore the possibility that embodiment is at best a peripheral part of human thought, limited perhaps to some aspects of metaphor. Nonetheless, it seems likely that a weak version of embodied cognition theory will turn out to be most plausible. On the one hand, there does seem to be abundant evidence for various processes of social imitation and mirroring that crucially involve

Visual Narration

the body, processes in which sensory and motor operations are central to our cognition. On the other hand, research indicates that some arithmetic operations involve no activation of sensory or motor cortex (see Libet, 22), and the embodied account of language (beyond some aspects of semantics) seems implausible (see Hickok). Moreover, we appear to be capable of isolating a range of very abstract patterns, involving for example logarithmic functions or rule-​based hierarchical organizations (as in language), in ways that are highly abstract, not embodied in any clear sense. My own view is that the degree to which cognition is embodied is in part a matter of the type of cognition involved. I feel confident that some aspects of human cognition are embodied in the technical sense. However, I feel similarly confident that many aspects, while developed out of embodied cognition, nonetheless become independent once abstracted. For example, this may be the case with arithmetic (in the research cited by Libet). Moreover, I see no compelling reason to doubt that there are cognitive processes—​human and non-​human—​that are abstract from the start, involving for example a sense of mathematical patterning. These would be embodied only in the very broad sense of operating through a physical substrate. Similarly, with Enactivism, I  certainly agree that our ongoing engagement with the world involves the motor activity stressed by Enactivists. But that hardly invalidates the research on cognitive structures, processes, and contents in isolation from enactive processes. As with linguistics, I am inclined to view that sort of “steady state” (thus non-​Enactivist) examination as the main concern of scientific study, the undeniable importance of pragmatics (which parallels Enactivism) notwithstanding. To take another example, we focus our study of physics on laws and other regularities, despite the importance of engineering problems related to the complex and changing conditions in which laws are instantiated. In short, I am committed to only a limited version of embodied cognition and Enactivism. More importantly, such a limited version is, I believe, all that is presupposed by the preceding arguments. But this does not make either the embodiment or the Enactivism unimportant.

Introductory Comments on Lu Chuan’s Nanjing! Nanjing! The Nanjing Massacre or “Rape of Nanjing” was a series of war crimes committed by the Japanese army in its conquest and occupation of Nanjing in 1937–​1938. To take the usual figures, 300,000 people were killed and 20,000 women were raped (see Daqing Yang for complications and disputes regarding these numbers). It is an enduring trauma in Chinese historical memory, perhaps particularly for the people of Nanjing (on the relation of the film to trauma, see Sedgwick). In 2015, I had occasion to speak about Lu Chuan’s film in Nanjing and found many people still responded to the events with strong

213

214

Film

and deep feelings, even to the extent of vilifying the filmmaker for developing a Japanese perspective in the film—​despite the fact that this Japanese perspective concerns a character so horrified by the brutality of his comrades and so filled with guilt and shame that he commits suicide. Haiyan Lee puts the point well, when she writes that “Although Lu’s film focused mainly on Chinese sacrifices and victimization, it raised some ire for its non-​one-​dimensional portrayal of a Japanese solider” (317). The ire was sometimes intense and verged on violence. Stephanie Brown explains that “Lu even received death threats against his family” (2). This is consistent with much social discourse surrounding the massacre. The Japanese invaders are often dehumanized in Chinese cinema, and frequently referred to as “devils” (guǐzi鬼子; see, for example, Wen). We find this demonic characterization even in the sculptures outside the Nanjing Massacre Memorial (see Koivula). On the other hand, the museum at the memorial gives particular pride of place to Lu’s film, suggesting its value in treating the topic. In Nanjing! Nanjing! (English title, City of Life and Death), director and screenwriter Lu Chuan seems to have set himself two tasks. First, he wished to convey the horror and brutality of the conquest and occupation of Nanjing. This is both a nationalist and a humanist purpose. On the one hand, he was interested in the massacre because it happened in his homeland to fellow Chinese. On the other hand, he was interested in the massacre due to the great human suffering it involved. As Zhu maintains, “This film places this historical conflict in the global context of warfare and atrocities and examines the relationship between human nature and war and the impacts of war on the human psyche” (85). In connection with this humanist orientation, Lu clearly wished not only to avoid, but to oppose the dehumanization of the Japanese (as Dai puts it, the film undertakes “the recuperation of Japanese humanity” [135] and as Jing Yang explains, Lu set out “to transcend the conventional Self/​Other dichotomy on Chinese screens” [686]). In short, Lu faced the complex task of presenting the inhumanity of the occupation without making the occupiers non-​human. Lu’s solution to this problem was in part a matter of presenting a complex interplay of perspectives, prominently including that of a Japanese soldier (a point emphasized by Zhu in a sensitive analysis of the film). To some extent, this is a matter of the story. But to some extent it is a matter of visual style and the related style of narration—​ specifically, the use of focalization. In connection with this, Lu explored a remarkable range of PoV shots, to the extent that the film is a virtual catalog of optical point of view techniques. Put differently, his widespread and systematic use of PoV shots is distinctive of the narrational style of the film. His PoV sequences ultimately serve both Lu’s thematic purposes. Specifically, they foreground the experiential subjectivity of the characters, including the experiential subjectivity of the Japanese, whom some Chinese viewers might be inclined to reduce to dehumanized, demonic, out-​group members. Emotionally,

Visual Narration

these shots foster a degree of empathy for a wide range of characters. Whether treating the Chinese victims or the Japanese aggressors, the shots help to communicate the traumatic nature of the Japanese occupation in part by more closely approximating a sense of bodily presence in the city. That enhanced sense of embodiment may, in turn, foster a more visceral feeling for the destructiveness, pain, and grief caused by the conquest and occupation. Lu develops this stylistic and narrational effect especially through mimetic PoV shots using motor approximation.

Varieties of Point-​of-​View Shots in Nanjing! Nanjing! The film begins with a series of postcards serving as background for the titles. The first shot of the storyworld is an image of balloons with banners concerning the siege of Nanjing (see figure 7.15). This is accompanied by a piercing flute sound, a motif associated in other scenes with Japanese nationalist violence. Lu cuts to the face of a Japanese soldier, Kadokawa (see figure 7.2). The angle of Kadokawa’s face, pointing upward toward the sky, would suggest that what preceded was a PoV shot. But Kadokawa’s eyes are closed. In the next shot, Kadokawa opens his eyes, which clearly reflect a light (figure 7.3). The subsequent point/​object shot gives us, not balloons, but a withering sun (figure 7.4). The banners suggest a number of things—​for example, the character for the sun, “日” (rì) is part of a reference to the Japanese army. This links the army of the rising sun with the brutal heat suggested by the image of the celestial body. The key point for our purposes, however, is simply that the sequence draws the viewer’s attention to the film’s concern with point of view and focalization. By foregrounding this concern in a striking and puzzling series of images at the start, it may sensitize at least some recipients to the use of point of view in the narrational style of the film more generally.

FIGURE 7.1 

From Lu’s Nanjing! Nanjing!: The first storyworld image in the film.

215

FIGURE 7.2 

From Lu’s Nanjing! Nanjing!: Kadokawa dreaming or imagining the banners.

FIGURE 7.3 

From Lu’s Nanjing! Nanjing!: Kadokawa opens his eyes, which reflect the light.

FIGURE 7.4 

From Lu’s Nanjing! Nanjing!: Point/​object shot of the sun, rather than the banners.

Visual Narration

FIGURE 7.5  From Lu’s Nanjing! Nanjing!: The camera follows Kadokawa, approximating the motion of a person walking through the trench.

FIGURE 7.6 

From Lu’s Nanjing! Nanjing!: Even single frames reveal the motion-​approximating bobbing of the camera, as shown by the slight change in perspective between ­figures 7.5 and 7.6. (Note, for example, the heads of the soldiers on the bridge.)

Just after Kadokawa awakens and sees the sun, he is called by another soldier off-​screen. He gets up and the camera follows him along the barricade. Lu uses a handheld camera for this sequence, and the shot involves motor approximation (see figures 7.5 and 7.6). The technique is used throughout the film with many variations. Again, its purpose seems to be one of fostering the embodied engagement of the spectator. The shot leads to Kadokawa’s meeting with his comrade (figures 7.7 and 7.8), who offers Kadokawa water, much needed in the blistering heat. The shot is of course not precisely from Kadokawa’s point of view. It is, rather, a complex shot that lets us to some extent “walk in Kadokawa’s shoes” through a sort of embodied entrainment; it also allows us to see the gesture of comradeship from his friend, and to view

217

218

Film

FIGURE 7.7 

From Lu’s Nanjing! Nanjing!: In a continuation of the same shot, Kadokawa’s fellow soldier offers him water. This shot gives the information of the point/​object shot through a continuing, approximate PoV shot.

FIGURE 7.8 

From Lu’s Nanjing! Nanjing!: Kadokawa gratefully accepts. This shot gives us the information of a reaction shot, while still continuing the approximate PoV shot.

his response (without the separation of a point/​glance, point/​object, and reaction shot sequence). Again, in the course of the film, Lu develops a virtual catalog of PoV shots. The most obvious cases are what we might call “direct” PoV shots (as in figures 7.1 and 7.4), where the camera is placed at the precise position of the focalizer, giving his or her exact optical perspective (leaving aside such issues as the different field and focus of eyes and cameras). Lu also presents us with a series of approximate PoV shots, shots in which the position of the camera reveals the experience of the focalizer, with some small, identifiable change. Approximate PoV shots depart from strict optical point of view for some purpose. For example, rather than presenting the object from the full distance of the focalizer, the point/​object shot might bring us closer to the target in order

Visual Narration

FIGURE 7.9  From Lu’s Nanjing! Nanjing!: A common variety of approximate PoV shot in which the camera is placed very near to the focalizer, but in such a way as to signal to the viewer that this is (approximately) the character’s point of view.

to give us further information (perhaps information already available to the focalizer, such as the identity of the target). One common alteration involves including the focalizer in the frame, as in the sequence just discussed (for a simpler example, see figure 7.9). Among other things, this serves to signal that we are being given the focalizer’s perspective. In connection with this, it is worth distinguishing “recurrent focalization,” such as we get with Kadokawa, and “occasional focalization,” the limited or local focalization of a particular character, who may not even figure elsewhere in the story (e.g., he/​she might simply be some anonymous soldier). Since the camera always presents an optical point of view, it is important that films involve techniques to personify or personalize that point of view (to take up terms used by Bordwell [61] and Margolin [56]). The most common is the point/​glance, point/​object technique, where we are given a character’s perceptual orientation (his or her glance). This fosters gaze following on the part of the spectator (as Carroll has explained) and leads us to infer that the cut is to the target of the character’s perception (i.e., the object). We saw a case of this at the beginning of the film, though it is of course used throughout, often in the approximate form that makes the perspectival quality of the shot clear (as in figures 7.10 and 7.11). Other common options include the shot/​ reverse shot, also often approximate (as in figures 7.12 and 7.13). Occlusion is another technique used to signal that we have a PoV shot. Since a camera can be placed anywhere, it can always be positioned in such a way as to give us maximum perceptual information. Partial occlusion therefore tends to suggest a human perspective, the occlusion rendered necessary by the situation of a character (see figure 7.14). Lu often uses the unspecified PoV version of this technique to suggest the experience of some soldier or of soldiers more generally.

219

FIGURE 7.10  From Lu’s Nanjing! Nanjing!: Kadokawa stares in horror at what he and his comrades have done. The clear direction of the look and the emotional expression on Kadokawa’s face foster our inclination toward gaze following.

FIGURE 7.11 

From Lu’s Nanjing! Nanjing!: The approximate PoV (point/​object) shot (over Kadokawa’s shoulder) fulfills our interest in gaze following and makes the perspective of the shot salient, revealing the dead bodies that Kadokawa observes with horror.

FIGURE 7.12  From Lu’s Nanjing! Nanjing!: A young Chinese soldier and prisoner of war shows no fear in exchanging looks with his commander not long before the Japanese order the group’s execution. The approximate PoV shot emphasizes the commander’s view of the boy. (The commander’s head is partially visible on the right of the shot.)

Visual Narration

FIGURE 7.13  From Lu’s Nanjing! Nanjing!: The Chinese commander looks at the boy with a hint of compassion. Subsequently, the commander will in effect shield the boy with his body, allowing the boy to escape the massacre. The approximate PoV shot makes salient the boy’s experience of the commander’s look. (The boy’s head is partially visible on the left of the shot.)

FIGURE 7.14  From Lu’s Nanjing! Nanjing!: The occlusion here suggests the perspective of a soldier trying to see the enemy while concealing himself from their fire. This type of shot may be used for unspecified focalization because the occlusion itself suggests a character’s PoV, thereby rendering the point/​glance shot unnecessary.

Conversely, a film may signal that a particular shot is not a character PoV shot, most obviously by making the perspective impossible for a character, either at a given moment or as a trajectory in shots that are not static. A striking case of this in Lu’s film occurs when we see a Japanese commander from behind. Initially, we may feel that this represents the point of view of a soldier. However, the smoothly advancing and rising camera movement strikingly contrasts with human motor approximation (see figures 7.15 and 7.16). The contrast may lead viewers to respond to the shot as transcending human perspective and revealing something that individual experience could not ordinarily encompass.

221

222

Film

FIGURE 7.15 

From Lu’s Nanjing! Nanjing!: This view of the Japanese commander may at first seem to suggest the perspective of a Japanese soldier (but see ­figure 7.16).

FIGURE 7.16 

From Lu’s Nanjing! Nanjing!: The camera moves forward (from its position in fi­ gure 7.15), then rises to a place that no human could occupy, surveying the field of executed Chinese.

There are also intermediate cases. For example, sometimes Lu uses a shot that does not appear to be from the perspective of anyone in particular but that suggests a sort of group point of view. For example, early in the film, there is a shot of Nanjing under attack (figure 7.17). The shot is from a trench outside the city, but there is no indication that the trench is occupied. This rather static shot does not appear to suggest the point of view of Kadokawa, whom we had just seen looking toward the city. The following shot shows us the massed Japanese soldiers facing in the direction of the city (figure 7.18). The suggestion appears to be that this view of the city is what the soldiers saw generally. Of course, there is no such thing as a group point of view. In that sense, this is not really a human, optical perspective at all. But it serves to suggest what is

Visual Narration

FIGURE 7.17  From Lu’s Nanjing! Nanjing!: The besieged city of Nanjing. The centering of this shot, its relatively static quality, and the absence of weapons or people in the trench all work against seeing it as representing a specific human point of view, even though it follows a shot of Kadokawa looking toward the city.

FIGURE 7.18 

From Lu’s Nanjing! Nanjing!: The intent, shared gaze of the Japanese soldiers suggests that the directly preceding shot of Nanjing (­figure 7.17) represents what they see, thus constituting a sort of group PoV shot.

common to what all the soldiers perceive. This perception is contrasted soon after with the multiple and varied activities within the city, invisible to the Japanese soldiers. In keeping with this, some unspecified, mimetic PoV shots emphasize the subjective experience of a hypothetical individual as this is shared by a group. A striking case of this occurs when chaos in a church leads the Japanese soldiers to panic and fire on some unarmed women. The quick pans (or swish pans) in the scene (see figure 7.19) embody the frantic movement of people seeking crucial information in a potentially dangerous situation. There is no

223

224

Film

FIGURE 7.19  From Lu’s Nanjing! Nanjing!: Quick pans blur the images and thus limit the information they communicate, while simultaneously conveying the sense that this information is felt to be urgently needed. The motor approximation suggests a person’s bodily movement in panic, potentially enhancing the viewer’s empathic response to that panic. In this case, the shot proceeds without linking the point of view with a particular focalizer.

FIGURE 7.20  From Lu’s Nanjing! Nanjing!: The Japanese soldier’s eyes follow the camera, thus reinforcing the sense that the camera occupies a particular, human point of view (since the soldier is presumably looking at someone in the storyworld).

reason to link the pans to a specific character. They nonetheless serve to mimic individual experience and thus, potentially, to enhance our visceral sense of the confusion and panic on both sides. As the case of the swish pans illustrates, one of the most important forms of PoV signaling in Lu’s film is the use of motor approximation. This may be combined with other techniques, such as gaze following from other characters toward the camera (as in figure 7.20). The gaze of the character suggests that the camera is in the position of someone whom that character is observing. This case stresses the individuality of the shot’s point of view, its link with a particular, observable character in the storyworld.

Visual Narration

Though motor approximation is often used to suggest a particular character’s direct, optical point of view, some of the more interesting cases involve unspecified or approximate point of view shots. We saw an instance of approximate point of view in the opening of the film (­figures 7.5–​7.8), where the camera followed the focalizer, a fairly common technique. The camera may also move in parallel with the focalizer. For instance, a little later in the film, Kadokawa is walking through the city, witnessing various atrocities. At one point, Lu uses a handheld camera to pass behind a row of corpses (figure 7.21). The motor approximation signals that this is a PoV shot, and suggests the (embodied) experience of the character. This is clarified by the subsequent reaction shot of Kadokawa. But the reaction shot (figure 7.22) occurs when the camera tilts up and reveals Kadokawa on the other side of the corpses,

FIGURE 7.21 

From Lu’s Nanjing! Nanjing!: A mimetic PoV shot takes the viewer behind a row of

corpses.

FIGURE 7.22  From Lu’s Nanjing! Nanjing!: Without a cut (following the shot in 7.21), the camera tilts up to reveal Kadokawa observing the same row of corpses (who are positioned as if looking up at Kadokawa).

225

226

Film

indicating a parallel route. Here, the difference in perspective is great enough that we might hesitate to refer to it as “approximate.” On the other hand, the difference is clear and systematic; we witnessed what Kadokawa witnessed, with the same trajectory, but from the head of the corpses, rather than the feet. We may therefore refer to this as a parallel PoV shot. In this case, its purpose may be in part a matter of suggesting the perspective of the corpses “looking up” at Kadokawa as well. EMOTIONAL AND THEMATIC FUNCTIONS

Needless to say, Lu is not merely including PoV shots randomly in the film. The narrational style here is functional in the usual ways. I have stressed the possible emotional consequences of mimetic PoV shots generally. We may get a fuller sense of the functionality of Lu’s narrational style by briefly considering the three types of characters to which such mimetic PoV shots are connected—​unspecified individuals, groups, and specified individuals. Again, Lu sometimes sets out to adopt the PoV of unspecified soldiers or civilians, through for example visual occlusion (see figure 7.14). This may foster a degree of empathic resonance between the viewer and a (simulated) character who is trying to obtain information that is crucial for his or her safety, but has to put himself or herself in grave danger to do so—​a connection with both emotional and thematic consequences. The point is even clearer in the panic-​ridden scene in the church, where the disorientation of the soldiers and civilians leads to the frenzied motion of swish pans (see figure 7.19), which may readily entrain the viewer’s sense of panic and disorientation, in part through priming memories of his or her own futile search for urgently needed information. The sequence serves to elicit emotions associated with such events. It also serves to underscore the theme that some atrocities—​such as the massacre of innocents in the church—​are an almost inevitable result of war itself, whatever the personal morality or intentions of the combatants. This theme is related to the emotional operation of the scene, for it is precisely such uncertainty and panic that explain the atrocity here and make similar atrocities likely to occur repeatedly. In contrast with these cases, when Lu presents the PoV of groups, this may have a depersonalizing effect. Thus, the Japanese forces’ group vision of Nanjing (­figures 7.17 and 7.18) presents us with a view of the city that has no people. Here, the effect is not primarily embodied and emotional, but thematic, suggesting that the group mind fostered in military conflict depersonalizes the out-​group. A more powerful instance of this general sort occurs when Lu seems to set up a Japanese soldier’s point of view (figure 7.15), but then cranes up to an impossible, godlike shot of the Japanese officers surveying a field of Chinese corpses (figure 7.16). Here, the act of abandoning the individual, embodied PoV is foregrounded by the camera movement and position, which

Visual Narration

may suggest the lofty indifference to the deaths of the depersonalized out-​ group; it may even be taken to hint at the rationalization of violence through an association of the in-​group with divine preference.6 Finally, Lu also gives us the PoV of particular individuals. Especially in the case of mimetic PoV, this serves to entrain a more embodied sense of their condition, fostering sensitivity to their plight and (in the case of out-​ group members, such as Kadokawa) discouraging their dehumanization. I will conclude with a particularly striking case of this sort. One of the Chinese characters, Miss Jiang, has been covertly saving Chinese soldiers from execution. She is eventually caught and is being taken away by the Japanese. She realizes, as we do, that she will be subjected to gang rape before being killed, or perhaps be raped so brutally that she will die in the process. Earlier in the film, she learned that Kadokawa speaks English and has humane inclinations, despite his involvement in the invasion. As she passes him, she whispers, “Shoot me,” in barely comprehensible English. First, we are given her PoV as she is taken away. Kadokawa follows. We move alongside him in an approximate, mimetic PoV shot. We hear a gunshot and see Miss Jiang fall. We then see a close-​up of the shooter’s arm and gun, as if we were directly beside him. The camera pans as if the viewer were turning his or her head. We see Kadokawa expressing what I take to be horror at what he has done, even though he feels he had to do it (see ­figures 7.23–​7.28). The sequence is, in my experience, devastating. The mimetic PoV shots give us a (partial) embodied sense of Miss Jiang’s movement, then of Kadokawa’s. Combined with our imagination of what the characters are experiencing, this fosters a sense of Miss Jiang’s dread and Kadokawa’s empathy, which is now driving him to follow her instructions and kill her. Yet that murder remains a murder, and it crystallizes Kadokawa’s sense of guilt for his involvement in the entire invasion. The sequence nudges us toward an embodied, empathic sense

FIGURE 7.23 

From Lu’s Nanjing! Nanjing!: A mimetic PoV shot puts the viewer in the position of Miss Jiang as she asks Kadokawa to shoot her.

227

FIGURE 7.24 

From Lu’s Nanjing! Nanjing!: A mimetic PoV shot puts us approximately in the place of Kadokawa as he follows Miss Jiang.

FIGURE 7.25 

From Lu’s Nanjing! Nanjing!: We hear and see the shot piercing Miss Jiang’s head and discern a spray of blood.

FIGURE 7.26 

From Lu’s Nanjing! Nanjing!: Miss Jiang falls dead.

Visual Narration

FIGURE 7.27 

From Lu’s Nanjing! Nanjing!: The viewer sees the gun as if held by someone standing next to him or her.

FIGURE 7.28 

From Lu’s Nanjing! Nanjing!: The camera pans, as if the viewer is turning his or her head, to Kadokawa’s face.

of his feelings of horror and guilt as well, thus preparing us for Kadokawa’s eventual suicide.

Conclusion The arguments of the preceding chapters indicate that perceptual narration—​ including focalization—​is a potentially important level of style and stylistic analysis. A key technique available to authors in developing visual narration is the PoV shot. Though they have not generally focused on the topic as part of stylistic analysis, writers in film studies have debated the nature and function of PoV shots and reaction shots, particularly in relation to viewer response. Arguments by theorists such as Carl Plantinga indicate that reaction shots are

229

230

Film

generally far more important for providing eliciting conditions for emotion, and are particularly key for empathy (“The Scene”). However, emotion derives not only from our experience of the target of perception, including mirroring of that target (e.g., when we see a face expressing grief). It derives also from our subjective or “noetic” orientation. That orientation elicits emotions by a process akin to mirroring, but not identical with it, as it does not involve our response to objects of perception. We may refer to this noetic process as “entrainment.” For example, we might experience a sort of entrainment when we see a target as if we were turning our head, rather than observing someone turning his or her head. Though mirroring is bound up with embodiment, the embodied nature of entrainment is perhaps more obvious, since its more salient instances involve an imitation of motor activity on the part of the viewer. While mirroring is connected with reaction shots (focused on the target), entrainment is linked with PoV shots. PoV shots are, however, various. For example, we may distinguish epistemic PoV shots, which serve only to convey information, and “mimetic” PoV shots that approximate motor processes (e.g., through the use of a handheld camera). The latter may be particularly important for enhancing our emotional experience of a work through fostering embodied entrainment. Indeed, the idea is consistent with recent empirical work by Vittorio Gallese and others (see Heimann and colleagues). Other types of PoV shots include direct versus approximate; individual, collective, and unspecified; and shots with PoV signaled by a point/​glance shot, visual occlusion, or the observation of another character (looking at the camera). All these may contribute to functional patterns of perceptual narration, thus narration style, in a film. Lu Chuan’s 2009 film, Nanjing! Nanjing!, addresses the problem of understanding and empathizing with other people’s emotional perspectives, especially in the context of war. In exploring this topic, Lu makes extensive use of PoV shots, presenting us with a virtual catalog of their varieties. His use of mimetic PoV shots seems particularly effective. Examining his use of PoV shots therefore serves to illuminate the thematic concerns and emotional effects of this important film and to extend our understanding of film style and its relation to empathy and embodiment.7

PART III

Graphic Narrative

8

Stylistic Choices in Graphic Narrative PARTICULARITY AND ITS FUNCTIONS IN ART SPIEGELMAN’S MAUS

In recent years, literary critics and theorists—​including those treating style—​ have become interested in visual aspects of storytelling. This interest extends from the centuries-​old practices of “storytelling with pictures” (Mair, xi) in India, China, and elsewhere, to contemporary graphic narrative. It appears that storytellers have accompanied narratives with illustrations for as long as we have had visual representations. Like graphic narrative today, historically important and popular types of narrative in a range of traditions have used visual representations of key scenes as part of storytelling (see Jain and Mair). Of course, the balance of language and visual representation differed from case to case, ranging from purely visual story sequences (where the narrative involves no words) to occasional illustrations of significant points in a story (as, for example, Eisner emphasizes [103]). Moreover, the relative autonomy of the works has varied. Some sequences of images were designed to accompany oral narration; others served simply to remind viewers of familiar stories, often key religious narratives. In each of these cases, we could isolate specific stylistic concerns, including extrinsic and intrinsic norms. In other words, at any given historical period, in any given place, there would be some common stylistic practices (extrinsic conventions and expectations) related to storytelling in general and related specifically to the use of visual representations in storytelling. Indeed, there might be various clusters of stylistic practices, bearing on different sorts of visual narrative. (There would, of course, also be intrinsic norms that differed from one individual work to another.) We have considered one form of visual narrative in film. Film is related to the common practice of enactment, the dramatic representation of stories that we find in a range of literary traditions. But enactment is different from the sort of visual representation that we find in, for example, the premodern Indian and Chinese texts discussed by Victor Mair, as well as recent graphic

Style in Narrative. Patrick Colm Hogan, Oxford University Press (2021). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197539576.001.0001

234

Graphic Narrative

fiction. The stylistic possibilities of storytelling with pictures clearly require separate treatment. The recent rise of graphic narrative to the status of a fine art provides us with an appropriate kind of literary work for this part of our study. As Baetens and Frey explain, graphic novels may be differentiated from earlier “comics” by a number of features. In addition to treating more obviously literary and personal topics (such as the experience of the author’s father in Nazi Germany, rather than crime-​fighters with supernatural powers), they “foreground more individual styles,” including for example “unusual layout techniques” (9). They are also noteworthy for “emphasizing  .  .  .  the narrator” (10). In our terms, graphic novels stress the development and violation of norms intrinsic to individual works or to authorial canons. In contrast, earlier comics may have placed greater stress on the extrinsic norms of particular companies (such as Marvel) or series (such as Batman). Moreover, that attention to stylistic differentiation extends to more levels, prominently including discourse features of emplotment and narration.1 As with cinema, there are aspects of story, plot, and narration that are shared between graphic narrative and more exclusively verbal art, such as the purely verbal novel. There are others that are shared between graphic narrative and film. I will make some reference to these topics.2 However, my main concern will be with stylistic variations that bear on the unique features of graphic narrative, which is to say features of the medium. When one first says that the distinctive features are defined by the medium, it seems clear and uncontroversial. But then the question arises as to just what constitutes a medium (a point raised and discussed valuably by Ryan). We may define medium in this context as the complex of perceptual and linguistic features that delimit the identity of a type of artwork, such that changing any of these features would produce a change in the work. For example, the medium of painting includes all the visual features of the paint, from details of brushstrokes to larger configurations of color or line.3 The medium of a print (e.g., a woodcut) includes just those visual features that carry over in printings from the original artifact. The medium of (verbal) literature includes language features plus a few visual features, which principally have consequences for verbal understanding, such as paragraph divisions or italics. Thus, we do not usually count font or margins as part of a novel. The novel is the same whether it is printed in Times or in Garamond with one-​inch or .75-​inch margins, and so on. Lineation in poetry may be seen as an exception to this, requiring some perceptual transfer. As such, poetry and prose count as distinct media by this definition. This may seem odd, but I do not believe it is a problem. There are clearly some media that have greater similarity than others. Poetry and prose would be very similar media. Alternatively, a medium could be understood as including whatever types of information a recipient should ideally encode as part of his or her

Stylistic Choices in Graphic Narrative

understanding of and response to the work. Thus, for a film, a recipient should generally encode the meaning of the language, the ambient sounds from the soundtrack, and a range of visual qualities (though not those that are accidental features of a particular print, such as scratches). For a novel, one needs to encode language features, but not features of font size. Graphic narrative includes a set of visual and textual-​linguistic features, including aspects of framing, lettering, representational detail, and other matters. I would say that it includes whatever carries over from one version to a reprint. However, that is circular. The reprint may vary some features, but should not vary others. We need to know what variation is in principle permissible. The absolute size of the publication, the size of the page margins, and a few other features of this sort may (usually) be varied. However, the relative size of the individual representations or panels, their frames (or absence of frames), the relative size of the panel margins, and so on, are typically not open to change. Thus, they are all possible aspects of style (e.g., see Groensteen, 31–​ 34, on the ways in which a graphic author may manipulate margins). As with the chapters on film, it makes most sense to focus this chapter on the distinctive aspects of graphic narrative. It would certainly be possible to discuss graphic narrative in terms of story style, considering for example patterns in the stories developed in superhero comics, or in testimonial graphic novels, or in some other group of works.4 It would be possible to treat the ways in which a particular artist, or a particular studio, tends to present narration, or how emplotment devices (such as cliffhangers) are used in some graphic narrative genre. However, the general principles for the stylistic analysis of story or discourse seem to carry over fairly well from other forms of narrative, so that there is little reason to address these here. In contrast, the linguistic and perceptual interface of the work of graphic narrative is distinctive. It shares some features with film, and of course verbal literature. However, if one spoke of the style of graphic narrative only in terms of the style of textual literature or cinema, one would miss many of the most interesting and significant stylistic features of graphic narrative. More precisely, one would miss many types of stylistic feature. Moreover, my sense is that the distinctive features of the perceptual interface in graphic narrative are less familiar to most stylisticians. There are of course many analysts of style who focus particularly on graphic narratives. (For the benefit of such readers who may not be interested in the preceding chapters, I have recapitulated some of the key points in this chapter.) However, there does not seem to be the same broad literacy about the perceptual features of graphic fiction as about the interface features of verbal literature or film. In consequence, these require a bit more spelling out. There is, however, one important difference from the approach of preceding chapters. I have been stressing the patterned recurrence of features. Such patterned recurrence is, here as elsewhere, a definitive feature of style.

235

236

Graphic Narrative

However, stylistic analysis also addresses particular stylistic choices that may not recur in such a way as to define a pattern, thus to be part of, say, a text’s or author’s style per se (a point noted briefly in ­chapter 4). A particular feature of a work constitutes a stylistic choice if its (informational, emotional, or thematic) function depends on recurring stylistic patterns. For example, suppose a poet writes in iambic pentameter throughout a poem, but shifts to a disordered series of stressed and unstressed syllables in a single line (perhaps a line about some accidental, disruptive event). We would probably not say that the line itself has a particular style or that the disordered series constitutes a stylistic pattern. However, this deviation from intrinsic (and extrinsic) norms would clearly be a stylistic choice in that it would require analysis in relation to the norm of iambic pentameter for the rest of the poem. Moreover, such stylistic choices are ultimately the result of idiolectal principles on the part of the author, even if they do not manifest themselves in a clear, surface pattern. The individual choices, then, are directly relevant to stylistic analysis, despite their apparent lack of such observable patterning. In the following pages, I will recapitulate some of the main points about the functions of style, further developing some aspects of the emotional function, particularly in relation to aesthetics, in order to better analyze the particularity of graphic fiction. From there, I will turn to features of page layout and panel presentation, the primary areas of distinct visual style in graphic fiction. This will serve as the basis for an analysis of some stylistic features of Maus and the functions of those features. I should say right at the outset that I will not be dealing with many of the features treated by Scott McCloud in his brilliant Making Comics. McCloud draws on film models to discuss aspects of framing and figure placement in ways that are likely to greatly enhance the sensitivity and appreciation of readers. Moreover, he explains the various stylistic components of comics in deeply illuminating ways, drawing on cognitive and affective science. Thus, there is no need for me to go over, for example, facial expression in figures or the uses of decentered framing. As with, for example, Leech and Short in literature, or Bordwell in film, I have not tried to redo what they have already done better. Moreover, as this is not an introduction to theories of style, but an attempt to advance the study of style, I have not summarized the contributions of these authors, except where that summary was important for the further points I wished to make.

Theory of Graphic Narrative: A Note on Benoît Peeters However, before going on to reconsider the functions of style and to sketch the distinctive features of the perceptual interface in graphic narrative, we might take a brief look at some aspects of Benoît Peeters’s theoretical work. That work

Stylistic Choices in Graphic Narrative

is characterized by Baetens and Frey as “the most important theoretical contribution to the discussion on page layout in comics and graphic novels” (108). Peeters makes a broad division into narrative and composition. In terms of the preceding discussion, narrative comprises the various levels of storyworld, story, narration, and plot, while composition is the visual interface. Peeters argues that there are two key variables in graphic narrative. First, either narrative or composition may “dominate” in a work; second, narrative and composition may be either interdependent or autonomous. These variables yield four alternatives. The narrative may dominate and the composition serve the narrative; the narrative may dominate and the composition may proceed on its own; the composition may dominate and the narrative may serve the composition; the composition may dominate and the narrative may proceed on its own. I am not sure I  entirely follow Peeters’s account of these four options. Moreover, my purpose here is not to assess the usefulness of Peeters’s theory as one possible approach to the analysis of graphic narrative. However, it is valuable to contrast his approach to style and the approach I have been developing and will extend to graphic narrative in the following pages. First, I imagine Peeters is right that sometimes composition is more important for an author and sometimes narrative is more important. This is what one would expect from an artform that combines narrative with visual art. Some graphic artists are primarily visual artists, interested in the figures, spatial relations, and other aspects of the work that overlap with painting and related arts. Others are principally storytellers. For my purposes, however, that division is not particularly consequential. It does suggest that composition-​dominant works will sometimes lack stylistic features that function to facilitate the communication of story information. But that is true in any case. Moreover, they still should have emotional or thematic functions. On the other hand, my guess is that a great degree of composition dominance in graphic narrative is rare. The issue of independence or autonomy is similar. There are certainly cases where the visual features of the work have some emotional or thematic consequences, and these consequences affect the recipient separately from the emotional or thematic consequences of the narrative (whether the storyworld, story, narration, or plot). However, my inclination is to think that the various emotional responses and thematic suggestions of a work—​both those from the narrative and those from the perceptual interface—​almost always interact. Moreover, they do so in such a way as to make the story and storyworld emotions fundamental, modified by the emotions of narration, plot, and visual style. (Note that here, the crucial division is between story and storyworld on the one hand, and all other levels on the other hand, thus not between narrative and composition.) The main exception to this is that visual aesthetic pleasure or other artifact emotions may be “fundamental” in the sense that they may be the emotions of greatest importance to the recipient. Moreover, they may be modulated by “narrative” emotions, rather than

237

238

Graphic Narrative

the reverse—​as when one finds a drawing beautiful, but the storyworld and story repugnant in a way that affects one’s experience of the beauty. Paintings that depict classical stories of rape often provide instances of this sort. To take an example from film, this is likely to be the case for many viewers of Leni Riefenstahl’s Triumph of the Will, with its beautifully composed shots of Nazis. Nonetheless, this is almost certainly not the usual direction of our emotional response. As these points indicate, I take it that the crucial, theoretical organization here is not a matter of composition and narrative, and the crucial relations are not a matter of dominance or subordination. Rather, the theoretically key features are the levels of narrative—​storyworld, story, narration, plot, perceptual interface—​and the key relations are those between these levels and the thematic, emotional, or informational functions that they serve in any given case. In some contexts, it may be useful to distinguish points where, for example, the story guides the panel size and cases where the panel size (partially) guides the story. Similarly, it may be useful to distinguish cases where the specific rhymes in a poem are guided by what the poet is seeking to convey and cases where what the poet says is (partially) guided by the rhyme scheme. But, even in these cases, the full analysis is likely to be best served by a broader articulation of narrative levels and functions, which will almost always make story and storyworld fundamental.

The Functions of Style in Graphic Narrative: The Perceptual Interface Peeters’s approach is clearly very different from the one I have been developing in the course of this study. A key part of that difference concerns the functions of style, which provide a framework for describing and explaining style. The point is no less clear in the work of some other theorists. For example, Groensteen sets out “six important functions of the frame.” These include “the function of closure” and “the rhythmic function.” But clearly closure cannot be a definitive function for the frame or anything else, since we would never read or write a narrative simply to produce the closure of an image. (The “closure” at issue here is not the resolution of an encompassing story trajectory, which in any case would be emotional and informational.) I  take it, rather, that such image closure is a common means of facilitating the communication of story information; thus, the function is the communication of story information, not the closure of the image. As to rhythm, this presumably points toward the establishment of a temporal pattern which has consequences for the reader’s emotional engagement. Indeed, in each case, the “functions” set out by Groensteen seem to combine particular techniques with one or more of the three main functions we have been considering from the outset, drawing on a long tradition of literary study.

Stylistic Choices in Graphic Narrative

In light of this difference from much mainstream work in the stylistic analysis of graphic narrative, it may be valuable to briefly review the functions of style, relating them more directly to graphic narrative. This holds most clearly for aesthetics, since that is an area where there may be some dissociation between the perceptual interface and other levels, which is to say, a dissociation of the general sort stressed by Peeters. Again, in my account, the functions of style remain the same in graphic narrative as in purely verbal fiction and in film. Theme and emotion are the ultimate functions, with the communication of story or storyworld information serving as a frequent intermediate goal. As to theme, this is commonly political or moral, though here as elsewhere thematic concerns may in some cases be philosophical, religious, pragmatic, or bear on another significant aspect of the reader’s relation to the real world outside the fiction. Thus, a graphic novel might treat such political issues as the Kashmir conflict (as in Kashmir Pending by Naseer Ahmed, Saurabh Singh, Anindya Roy, and Sarnath Banerjee) or such moral topics as filial obligation (as in Ian Pollock’s adaptation of King Lear). Emotion goals begin with the engagement of interest, which is perhaps better characterized as pre-​emotional or para-​emotional. Interest involves the orientation of attention and a degree of vigilance that prepares one for a full-​ fledged emotional response. Interest is engaged first of all by novelty or unexpectedness (conversely, interest is diminished by habituation); an anomaly sparks our attention and our ongoing attempt to explain the anomaly, to change it from an exception to a rule-​governed event. Once we have enough information to subsume the event under a rule, we know whether it is a threat, an opportunity, or neither. After interest, any human emotion may be engaged by the story, though some emotions are more common than others. Romantic love, individual and group pride and shame, individual and group guilt, attachment, and anger (as well as happiness and sadness) are perhaps the most common; they are the emotions that define the cross-​cultural genres—​love stories, heroic stories, sacrificial or redemptive stories, and so on. In the reception of fictional narrative, these emotions are principally allocentric (i.e., felt by the recipient on behalf of others), thus empathic or sympathetic, rather than egocentric (i.e., felt by the recipient for himself or herself). (Drawing on Berys Gaut’s analysis [see A Philosophy, 261], I use “sympathy” to refer to care about the character’s interests and “empathy” to refer to care about his or her actual feelings; for example, a drug addict may feel the desire to get heroin [which feeling would be shared in empathy], whereas entering a treatment program may be in his or her interest [thus an outcome of sympathy]. I see empathy as more fundamental as I take sympathy to be a matter of attending to a person’s feelings in the longer term—​in effect, empathy with his or her future self.) Again, emplotment fosters emotions that bear on selection and arrangement, such as fear (which relies on temporal sequence) or curiosity. Narration

239

240

Graphic Narrative

emotions principally concern trust or distrust. One’s feeling of trust may bear primarily on the narrator’s knowledge of observable facts, his or her understanding of more complex issues, his or her evaluative judgment, or his or her goodwill. (The varieties of distrust yield the different types of unreliability; for an analysis of types of unreliability that partially overlaps with, but partially differs from this, see Phelan and Martin.) In the cases of both story and discourse emotion, the analyses of c­ hapters 1 and 4 carry over with little alteration. Artifact emotions are, again, our affective responses to a target as a designed and made thing. These emotions include, most importantly, aesthetic pleasure. Aesthetic pleasure is in part a matter of non-​habitual pattern recognition. As such, it is closely related to style, which is often seen as having an aesthetic function. As noted earlier, aesthetic pleasure appears to be fostered by a limited set of cognitive and emotional factors (see chapter one of Hogan, Beauty). The cognitive factors include non-​habitual approximation to a prototype and non-​habitual rule isolation. Again, prototypes are, more or less, average cases of a particular category. Thus, a beautiful face is a face that most approximates a prototypical or, roughly, average face (see Langlois and Roggman). The idea may seem implausible, but an average face is in fact quite uncommon. For example, if one averages faces, the result is a symmetrical face—​precisely because real faces are asymmetrical; however, their different asymmetries cancel one another out over a wide enough range of cases. If symmetrical faces were ordinary, we would find facial symmetry habitual, and thus not a cause of aesthetic pleasure. Rule isolation means that one recognizes a pattern and would sense violations of the pattern, even though one may not be able to articulate the rule. The idea is clearest in music, where we can recognize variations on a theme, and enjoy them insofar as they are not habitual, even though most of us could not state the rule defining the theme and variations. In graphic narrative, as elsewhere, the development of style is often closely related to aesthetic enjoyment. Moreover, the aesthetic qualities of graphic fiction have a close relation to particular properties of the perceptual interface. These include properties of the images themselves, the same sort of properties we find aesthetically pleasing in other visual arts. For example, I find Satrapi’s intertwining of Marjane and her boyfriend (290; see figure 8.1) to be very aesthetically engaging. The alteration of black lineation (for the facial features and hands) with white lineation (for the black clothes in the darkness) is visually unexpected in the context of the novel, but fluid and pleasing. More importantly for our purposes, the aesthetic qualities of graphic narrative have a close relation to more distinctive properties of the medium, such as page layout. The point is related to the distinction between extrinsic and intrinsic norms. Again, the extrinsic norms are the standard practices for a given genre, medium, or other category. The intrinsic norms are the standard practices within a given work. Rule-​governed, intrinsic norms may initially

Stylistic Choices in Graphic Narrative

FIGURE 8.1  From Marjane Satrapi’s Persepolis (290): The ambivalent embrace of the lovers, who will eventually marry, and divorce.

foster aesthetic pleasure, since they are pattern-​defining and non-​habitual (relative to the extrinsic norms). However, since they are repeatedly instantiated in the course of a work, intrinsic norms may become habitual. Single violations of extrinsic or intrinsic norms constitute stylistic choices (in the sense defined earlier). When they form patterns, such stylistic choices come to define styles for a particular scope. Thus, repeated violations of extrinsic norms in the course of a novel define a general or default intrinsic norm for that novel; a pattern of violations for intrinsic norms might, in contrast, define a subsidiary intrinsic norm (e.g., for a section or specific story element). For example, graphic novels usually have a default row and column structure. In other words, any given graphic novel will tend toward a standard number of frames from left to right and a standard number of frames from top to bottom. Moreover, that default tends to fall within a certain, limited range. Peeters indicates that a standard format (defining an extrinsic norm) would have four rows and between two and five panels per row (par. 6). Along with this default, extrinsic norms encourage the graphic artist to vary the usual pattern to some extent. An artist’s establishment of intrinsic norms may involve simply specifying extrinsic norms or violating them. We would find specification when the artist sets up, say, a 4 × 4 structure of rows and columns as the

241

242

Graphic Narrative

default. This would constitute an intrinsic norm within the (extrinsic) standard range. If the artist followed a two row per page structure with two panels per row, that would violate the extrinsic norm. Moreover, if he or she did not vary the intrinsic default structure, or did so only rarely, he or she might be seen as violating the extrinsic norm in that respect as well. Violations as such are likely to produce interest. Again, interest is often a function of novelty, though it also results from the intrinsic emotional quality of a target. Violation of norms most often entails a break with expectations. If that break with expectation is rule-​governed or prototype-​approximating, then it becomes a possible source of aesthetic pleasure. For example, suppose a graphic novel has a default 4 × 4 layout, with each panel 2" × 2". On one page, the author varies this by changing the second row to two panels, the first being 6" and the second being 2". He or she then alters the facing page so as to maintain the default for the first, second, and fourth rows, while substituting a 2" and a 6" panel in the third row (see figure 8.2). The two pages would form a pattern, the rule being “rotate 180 degrees,” since the 180-​degree rotation of the first pattern yields the second. It is worth noting that a full figure rotation of this sort is less routine than some other patterns, thus we may find full figure rotations more interesting than, for example, row or column displacements. However, some other rules are more productive, thus more likely to generate novelty on subsequent pages. If we apply 180-​degree rotation to the second page in fi ­ gure 8.2, we simply get the same layout as the first page. In contrast, suppose we find the layouts in figure 8.3. This could instantiate different rules. One possibility is “flip top to bottom.” Another is “displace the odd row downward by one row.” The latter is productive as it may be reapplied, yielding the structure given in figure 8.4.

FIGURE 8.2  The

structure of two page layouts, with the second produced by a 180-​degree rotation

of the first.

FIGURE 8.3  The

structure of two page layouts, with the second produced from the first by one of at least two possible rules.

Stylistic Choices in Graphic Narrative

FIGURE 8.4  The

structure of three page layouts, with the second and third produced by the rule “displace the odd row down by a single row.”

Of course, none of these options is something we would be likely to label “beautiful.” This is in part because the patterns are so limited. In a piece of music, we commonly experience not only a single transformation, such as a sequence of four notes played in one octave, then played an octave lower, then played an octave lower (a rough parallel to the last variation, figure 8.4). The music is likely to involve scale features, harmonic qualities, timbre, and dynamics—​not to mention development beyond shift in octave. The same point holds for graphic novels. In these cases, too, there will be many other relevant features—​such as figural representations in the panels, speech, and a contextual sequence of story events. But our limited aesthetic response to the preceding figures is not solely a matter of the patterns being cognitively thin. Aesthetic response also involves emotions, crucially attachment feelings. Aesthetically pleasing works tend to connect in some way with our attachment system (see chapter one of my Beauty and the research cited therein). In general, graphic narrative seems likely to affect our attachment systems principally through the usual means, most obviously through elements of the story, though also through features of visual representation. For example, the embrace of Marjane and Reza (figure 8.1) recalls Marjane’s attachment needs and vulnerabilities, which have been developed extensively to this point in the memoir. More precisely, the suggestion of careful reticence in Reza’s hand over Marjane’s head and the hint of tenderness in Marjane’s hand, combined with the general intimacy of the intertwining bodies, contrasts touchingly with the apparent alienation betrayed by their faces (e.g., the fact that they are not looking at, but away from one another).Though the feeling of attachment is modulated, it is undoubtedly important, at least to my aesthetic response to that panel. (I do not expect everyone to respond as I do to the panel. However, I do expect any response of aesthetic pleasure to involve some sensitivity to attachment in the scene.) At the same time, it seems at least possible that the medium of graphic narrative would have particular resonances with attachment concerns, for two reasons. First, the representations in graphic fiction may be simplified in such a way as to foster a sense of cuteness, in the manner of dolls, which may foster attachment-​linked “care” responses (on care, cuteness, and dolls, see

243

244

Graphic Narrative

Haidt, 155). Second, many readers had their first experiences of graphic narrative in childhood. Graphic narratives might in some cases connect with the childhood memories of readers insofar as these are linked with the medium. Such connections may or may not contribute to a feeling of aesthetic pleasure, depending on their use in a particular context, the reader’s habituation to the relevant features of the work, and other factors. For example, in reading the childhood parts of Persepolis, I  find the characters often adorably cute. Moreover, I am reminded of childhood cartoons, as well as my own childhood experiences, which undoubtedly contribute to my sense of tender affection for the characters and my aesthetic appreciation of the work (see figure 8.5). In sum, stylistic features, including those bearing on the perceptual interface, may be located at any narratological level (storyworld, story, narration, or plot), and may serve a variety of emotional, thematic, and informational functions. These include the usual sorts of aesthetic functions, even though graphic narrative is perhaps not so widely recognized for its aesthetic possibilities as purely verbal literature or film. In each case, it seems that the theoretical framework developed in the preceding pages applies as readily to graphic narrative as to film and purely verbal literature. Having reviewed the fundamental, cross-​medium functions of style (and having contrasted this account with representative theories of graphic narrative from Peeters and Groensteen), we may now turn to a more systematic treatment of the distinctive features of the medium.

FIGURE 8.5  From Satrapi’s Persepolis (3; from the part originally entitled, Persepolis: The Story of a Childhood): Satrapi introduces the topic of an Islamic dress code by focusing on young girls. Personally, I find the children very cute. I also find myself responding with affectionate reminiscences of my own childhood (e.g., playground activities), in part enhanced by my associations of graphic narrative with that time in my life. Put differently, childhood associations are “primed” (or made more accessible [see, for example, Garman, 293–​294]) due to the medium itself. Satrapi enhances those associations for me (and presumably other readers), fostering aesthetic and other attachment-​related effects.

Stylistic Choices in Graphic Narrative

Specific Perceptual Features of Graphic Narrative There are different ways in which one might organize the visual features of graphic narrative. One useful division begins with layout and panels. Layout has the page as its basic unit, though there are cross-​page aspects of layout, such as those sketched earlier in fi ­ gures  8.2, 8.3, and 8.4. These may be connected with still larger units of book or chapter design. We may think of the inter-​page and intra-​page features as “external” and “internal” aspects of page layout. Panels may themselves be considered in terms of “internal” and “external” features as well. In addition to these purely visual properties, we need to touch on some conceptual properties insofar as these are closely connected with the perceptual interface. Visual features of graphic novels obviously serve to convey meanings. Again, to a great extent, what we make of these meanings—​the storyworld and story—​are relatively consistent across media, thus not of particular concern in examining graphic narrative in particular. Even so, some aspects of semantics may have particular inflections in graphic narrative. The primary instances of this are the various forms of text that are included in graphic works, though a range of visual properties often involve semantic implications as well. Book and chapter organization are of course important for graphic novels. However, these are largely the same as book and chapter organization in verbal novels. For our purposes, the major significance of this level of organization is that chapters or other large sections (above the page) may mark stylistic as well as topical divisions. For example, one chapter of Maus I gives us some of Spiegelman’s earlier work. There is a change in topic and time period, from Spiegelman’s interviews with his father for Maus to ten years earlier, when he was treating his mother’s suicide in his art. More importantly, there is a striking change in visual style that accompanies this shift in time and topic. But this sort of change may be found in verbal novels, for example As I Lay Dying or Joyce’s Ulysses, which has very different chapter styles for about half of the book. On the other hand, this does not make these divisions irrelevant to the study of graphic narrative, since the material organized remains graphic rather than solely verbal. Moreover, there are some differences affecting book and chapter organization in textual and graphic novels. For example, chapter divisions in the latter are more likely to include visual elaboration and we are more likely to take the visual properties of the chapter divisions—​and even the title page and book cover—​as integral to the work, as part of the overarching conception and intent of the author, thus part of the style, rather than as features added by the book publisher. Turning to page layout, the first external feature—​which could equally be considered a book feature—​is the default row and column structure. Again, there appears to be a broad extrinsic norm of between two and five panels per row, with around four rows per page. As already noted, the default layout in a

245

246

Graphic Narrative

given graphic narrative may specify this norm or violate it. For example, the default for Maus II is two panels and four rows and that for Persepolis I is three panels and three rows. This default is not rigid. Indeed, exact repetition for many pages is unlikely. Some variation is part of the default. In considering default row and column organization, it is valuable to take into account not only the number of panels, but also where the panels begin and end, horizontally (for rows) and vertically (for columns). The default for panels in Maus II is, again, two per row. When he widens the panels, Spiegelman tends to extend one panel to two-​thirds of a row, with the second panel squeezed down to one third. We could conceive of this in terms of a default division of the row into equal halves, with an alternative of thirds, when the default is violated. The violation of a default is, again, a key feature of layout. It may take a number of forms, such as the expansion or contraction of a panel or several panels. However, there are other types of variation, such as changes in framing panels (or not framing them) or changes in the shape of panels (e.g., rectangle, circle, and so on [see Groensteen, 28]). Part of the default for page layout is a standard use of framing, thus whether the perimeter of the panels is marked by a line or not and, if so, how the line is drawn. Another part is a standard shape for panels—​most often, a rectangle.5 On any particular page, a framed, rectangular, 2 × 4 structure might be varied to include an unframed rectangle, a framed circle, or some other variant. Both externally and internally, the most important layout feature of such variations is probably symmetry or, more generally, pattern. Dropping the frame for one panel may be best understood as a feature of that panel alone, serving a function that bears on that panel only. However, if such panels appear in some pattern across rows or across pages, then we may take it to have a page layout function as well. That function is often aesthetic. For example, a single page layout as in figure 8.6 exhibits an internal pattern (a 180-​degree, horizontal rotation). Patterns may also involve the contents of panels. For example, on the first row of a page, an artist might have all close-​ups presenting two characters in dialogue; he or she might then follow this on the second row with a single “establishing” panel, showing the context of the conversation—​for example, a drawing of the characters’ car on the highway. A page or two later, the artist may punctuate another series of dialogue panels with a full row depiction of

FIGURE 8.6  A 180-​degree, horizontal

flip of the first two rows yields the third and fourth rows, giving the reader an easily identifiable pattern.

Stylistic Choices in Graphic Narrative

an automobile constituting the second row. This is likely to lead the reader to connect the content of the two scenes, with many possible functions. The similarities or differences may draw the reader’s attention to particular points of story information. Alternatively, they may enhance or dampen emotional responses to the events. In short, a structural repetition of this sort may have informational, emotional, or thematic functions. These patterns of page layout are related to what is sometimes called “tabularity” and is distinguished by Peeters and others (see Baetens and Frey, 129) from sequentiality. The division here is roughly one between space and time. Sequentiality guides our response to the plot, manifest in the ordered series of panels and pages that we take as our initial temporal trajectory. (I say “initial” as we may understand part of a sequence as out of chronological order, as in a flashback.) For example, imagine a work with a default layout of three rows of three panels per page. On one page, there is a series of panels in which two people in a car are having a conversation. In the top panel, covering all of the first row, we see a car facing to our right, evidently moving along the highway. In the next row, the passenger asks a question in the first panel. The driver responds in the second panel. In the third panel, they both look surprised and have exclamation marks over their heads. (Let’s say that the characters have realized that they forgot the picnic basket.) The third row comprises a single panel outside the car, which is now facing to the left on the highway. The spatial pattern of the visuals here is integrated with the temporal sequence of the plot, but it is not simply a result of emplotment. Rather, it involves the establishment of a local, visual pattern that breaks with the intrinsic norms of the page layout. I sometimes have students who are thrilled by one particular implication of the spatial/​temporal division of page layout—​specifically, the idea that graphic narrative allows one to read it in any direction. (Evidently this tells us that graphic narrative is revolutionary and deconstructive.) We could begin with any panel and skip to any other panel. Unlike my students, I personally don’t find this particularly exciting, and usually point out that there is nothing that prevents us from skipping around from sentence to sentence in verbal fiction. The key point, however, is that one part of our reading involves the sequentiality of, in this case, leaving for a destination, realizing that one has forgotten something, then returning to the point of departure (presumably with the intent of leaving for the destination again). We are of course free to read the return immediately after the departure, or even before the departure, and we are free to pair different answers with the questions (“Who told you about the party?” “The turkey from last night.” “What did you put in the sandwiches?” “My old roommate from college.”). But we don’t do this. We construe the series of events in keeping with the conventions of reading graphic narrative which enable temporal understanding. For the most part, these follow the conventions of reading generally (left to right, top to bottom for English).

247

248

Graphic Narrative

On the other hand, there are greater opportunities for ambiguity in reading sequence for graphic narratives and, in some cases, this may have functional consequences. For example, we have a default 3 × 3 layout in Persepolis. At one point, Marjane’s parents decide to smuggle a poster into Iran by sewing it into the father’s coat. The page layout has three roughly normal panels forming the leftmost column. To the right of these is a single panel extending the length of the page. Thus, there are only four panels on the page. We have two options for reading the sequence here (see figure 8.7). The uncertainty is quickly overcome, however, as the column on the left treats the act of sewing the poster into the coat and the one panel in the column on the right concerns the result of this process. Thus, the reading sequence is clearly that in ­figure 8.7a, not 8.7b. The normative order of reading (here guided by causal sequence as well as left-​to-​right and top-​to-​bottom conventions) is sequentiality, while the structural simultaneity that in principle allows for multidirectionality is tabularity. As this suggests, sequentiality can be complex and variable. Perhaps more significantly, the illustrations accompanying articles in Jain’s volume indicate that, historically and cross-​culturally, sequentiality is not always present and, when present, need not be uniformly associated with a particular reading direction. For example, illustrations of tortures in hell (see Jain, 15) need not suggest a particular temporal order. When there is sequentiality, it may proceed right-​ to-​left, even with Hindu works (see 33 and 36), though their scriptures are written left-​to-​right (see 46 for a left-​to-​right example); in addition, sequentiality in these illustrations may be bottom-​to-​top (39, though see 37 for a top-​to-​bottom example). Even so, in current graphic fiction, sequentiality is usually fairly straightforward. Tabularity encompasses the non-​linear, spatial, and configural properties of the page layout and the relations across pages, including book and chapter design. Tabularity involves seeing the panels, not as a temporal series, but as a simultaneous tableau. In the case just discussed (concerning the car facing right, then facing left), it involves seeing the page as marked by roughly mirror

FIGURE 8.7  The

sequence.

layout of page 128 of Satrapi’s Persepolis, with its potential ambiguity in reading

Stylistic Choices in Graphic Narrative

images in the top and bottom rows—​the former a car facing right, the latter a car facing left. The rule-​governed designs we have considered, both within and across pages (see fi ­ gures 8.2, 8.3, 8.4, and 8.6) are all cases of tabularity, in this terminology. While many stylistic features of graphic narrative are sequential, many are tabular. Turning to paneling, we find, once more, extrinsic norms, intrinsic norms, patterned violations of norms (thus secondary, intrinsic patterns), and stylistic choices that yield unpatterned violations of norms. One important variable in paneling is size. In most cases, this is correlated with the number of panels per row and/​or column. If a given panel takes up two-​thirds of a row, it generally involves a reduction in the number of panels in that row. On the other hand, this is not inevitable. A  4 × 4 default layout could have a row with a panel taking up half the row, followed by three panels reduced from one-​quarter to one-​sixth of the length of the row. The same point holds for rows themselves (e.g., if one row covers half of a page, rather than one-​quarter). Moreover, an author may change the row and column structure in other ways. I probably do not need to belabor the issue of function here. The size of a panel most obviously affects our attention to what the panel is presenting—​perhaps its importance for our understanding of the story, perhaps its consequentiality for other events in the story, perhaps its emotional or thematic significance. Another external aspect of paneling, related to size, is overlap with other panels. For most works, the default relation between panels is spatial separation. One panel ends; it is surrounded by a gutter or “inter-​iconic space”; around it, separated by the gutters, other panels are individually defined. However, two panels may blur into one another or be embedded in one another. Thus, we may have a square panel that covers half a page, with a distinct panel inset in part of that space. The inset may, for instance, embed the narrator in a story scene (as on page 74 of Maus I). It often suggests simultaneity or some other non-​default temporal relation. For example, in Maus I, Vladek and Anja are at a sanitarium (I: 34). The embedding or base panel represents what we might think of as a typical scene at the sanitarium, with Anja and Vladek walking together. The inset shows a moment of one conversation between them (see figure 8.8). The option of blurring the divisions between panels brings us to other possible variants. Panels are usually framed. However, in some cases, a panel may be presented without a frame. Alternatively, part of the panel may be framed, but another part may be unframed or outside the frame. Moreover, the lineation of the frame may vary. The line may be thin or thick, mechanical or “humanized” (not “perfect,” but exhibiting the slight curves that characterize ruler-​free, hand-​drawn lines). The lines may also be straight or form various shapes. The frame may vary in story status as well. Typically, the frame simply signals the difference of one moment of the story from others. However, in some cases, the frame itself may be part of the storyworld, as when two

249

250

Graphic Narrative

FIGURE 8.8  From Spiegelman’s Maus (I: 34): A difference in timing marked by an inset in an encompassing panel. The temporal difference between the two moments is signaled in part by the fact that Anja is to Vladek’s right in the base panel, but to his left in the inset.

FIGURE 8.9  The layout of page 7 from Satrapi’s Persepolis. The three bottom panels have no gutters and represent a continuous conversation between Marjane and her grandmother.

characters look at a painting, then the next panel represents the painting and the frame of the panel is elaborated to represent a picture frame. Frames may also have a metaphorical function. For example, if an artist wished to suggest that a particular character’s self-​presentation is overly theatrical, he or she might develop the frame of a given panel into a proscenium arch. Frames may be varied in order to nuance the relations between different bits of story information. For example, Satrapi usually uses gutters between panels. However, she eliminates the gutters in one conversation between Marjane and her grandmother, giving that scene greater formal unity and perhaps suggesting a special intimacy between the two (see figure 8.9). Related to both overlap and framing, sometimes panels may be used for something other than distinct moments in the story. In one case, an artist might make a particularly important or enduring moment into a large frame,

Stylistic Choices in Graphic Narrative

covering, say, half a page. But in some circumstances he or she might choose to expand the representation across half a page or more, while maintaining a division into, say, a 2 × 4 structure. In that case, we might see parts of the scene in the different panels, as if they were windows and we were looking in on a single scene (see figure 8.10). This may suggest endurance across time, importance,

FIGURE 8.10 

From Spiegelman’s Maus (II: 116): Vladek’s image divided by window-​like panels, suggesting the fragmentation of his life (itself linked with the fragmentary and incomplete memories recorded by the photographs he has just looked through).

251

252

Graphic Narrative

or something else—​perhaps a sense of fragmentation—​depending on the context. Finally, panels may differ in shape and orientation. The extrinsic default for panels is rectangular of some sort; the intrinsic default is most often a specific size of rectangle. The orientation is almost always aligned with the edges of the page. However, an artist might deviate from the default by introducing a circular or irregularly shaped panel—​for emphasis, to present a scene as shocking, to recapitulate the content of the panel (as when a panel about microscopic organisms is in the shape of an amoeba). Similarly, he or she may take up the default, rectangular shape, but tilt it, dislodging it from the regular grid of the page. These variations too can serve a wide range of informational, emotional, or thematic purposes, though they are often a matter of stressing particular contents or simply breaking up the monotony of the default layout. Stylistic features within the frame may be divided according to the usual distinction between story and discourse. Figures and scenes or places, as well as lighting effects, comprise the “iconic” elements of the story representation. Lettering covers the representation of sound, both onomatopoetic and linguistic, as well as any writing in the storyworld. (Most lettering in graphic narrative represents oral speech, not writing.) Somewhat intermediate between iconic and verbal elements are “runes,” images that convey information in non-​mimetic, but also non-​linguistic ways. These include, for example, “speed lines” indicating movement (see Forceville and colleagues, 492–​493). Lettering may be part of the story (as in character dialogue) or part of the narration (in narratorial comments). Narration also includes the visual perspective represented in the panel. The visual perspective obviously bears on information, since it determines in part just what is presented in the frame and what is foregrounded or backgrounded. It also governs such matters as the reader’s distance from particular figures, the angle of perception—​for example, whether a character is seen from above or below—​and related matters. Unlike film, visual perspective seems to only rarely represent a character’s optical point of view. Nonetheless, as in film, the importance of visual perspective tends to be found principally in what it reveals to the viewer and with what degree of saliency, as in the difference between close-​ups and distant representations. There are, in addition, some perhaps surprising features of visual perspective drawn from film. One such feature is canting, the tilting of the image within an upright frame. For example, in a canted image, characters might appear to be standing on a diagonal, rather than on a horizontal plane parallel to the base of the frame (see figure 8.11). This technique may be used for any number of ends, such as enhancing the emotional expressiveness of the panel or suggesting a narratorial attitude. Lettering too involves defaults and variations. Both bear on the perceptual and linguistic features of the text itself and the location and framing of the text.

Stylistic Choices in Graphic Narrative

FIGURE 8.11  From Marjane Satrapi’s Persepolis (5): A canted image representing an attempt by Marjane’s mother to disguise herself after she is photographed while demonstrating “against the veil” (5).

The lettering may vary in thickness, contour, or texture of the lines. In other words, the lettering may have broad or slender lines, angular or more curving shapes, and rough or smooth edges. It may vary in font or case (capitals versus lower case) as well as size. Conventional techniques include, for instance, rough-​edged, large capitals for angry outbursts. Linguistically, it may employ all the usual devices of verbal style—​from rhythm and sound patterning to figures of speech to dialect. Verbal text comes in two varieties: narrator comments and character speech or thought. There are common, default ways of marking these. As anyone familiar with comics knows well, the usual convention is to signal character speech by smooth text balloons with a pointed tail, aligned with the character’s mouth (on some other ways of marking speech, and designing text balloons, see McCloud, Making, 142–​143). A  character’s thought is conventionally indicated by a more cloud-​like text balloon, and a series of disconnected circles between the character’s head and the balloon. Narrators’ comments are often printed in the frame, without a balloon, or just outside the frame. Again, here

253

254

Graphic Narrative

there are defaults and variants. For example, variations may affect the lineation of the balloons. As Groensteen explains, “the saw-​toothed outline is traditionally reserved for voices mediated by a device,” such as a radio (74); Forceville and colleagues point out that “spiky edges” are “associated with anger” (491; see figure 8.16 later in this chapter). Similar observations apply to panel frames, such that “a cloud-​like wavy line might suggest a dream scene or a flashback” (Forceville and colleagues, 487). In general, deviations from the default lineation suggest some change from the usual mode or attitude depicted, such as a change from fact to imagination or from neutral tone to emotional arousal. We might also include the various non-​linguistic runes that serve conventionally to represent movement in graphic narrative. For example, curling lines behind a car indicate that the car has started moving with some suddenness and velocity. These are in part conventional, and thus appropriately classed with lettering. But they in part iconic as well. The lines behind a car to some extent imitate the trail of smoke behind a vehicle after it moves, and at the very least they involve a relation between where the vehicle was and where it has gone, marking the trajectory with the lines. To see that this is not wholly conventional, one need only think of a signal that would be wholly conventional, such as the sentence “The car sped off ”—​or, say, an image of a starfish in the upper left-​hand corner of the panel. Finally, we have the iconic content of the panels—​what they depict. Here, too, there are differences in the thickness, contour, and texture of the line.6 There are also differences in detail. It is often useful to distinguish detail of the main figures from detail of setting. It is also important to distinguish degrees and kinds of realism as these affect the panel as a whole as well as components of the panel. For example, one work might have detailed, finely drawn, realistic representations of people, but incomplete backgrounds. Another might include rough-​edged, minimal sketches of both the characters and the setting. A  third might vary in these features depending on the nature of the scene being depicted. An important aspect of representation is its relation to audience appeal, thus emotion. Ewert cites Scott McCloud’s view that “the less detailed the depiction of a cartoon character, the more ‘universal’ its potential for identification” (97, citing McCloud, Understanding, 31). She goes on to explain that “Spiegelman’s initial sketches for Maus, which illustrate a progression from extremely detailed to extremely simple drawings, suggest that his intention is to ‘universalize’ his mice in McCloud’s sense of the term” (97).7 In fact, studies of human figures indicate that the situation is slightly more complicated. Realism appears to enhance sympathy with a character up to a point; however, after that point it inhibits sympathy, sometimes drastically (see Plamper, 27–​28, and Misselhorn). Presumably, enhanced realism regarding rodents reduces empathy more quickly than enhanced realism regarding human figures. In any case, McCloud’s—​and thus Ewert’s—​points still hold broadly, with this reformulation.

Stylistic Choices in Graphic Narrative

FIGURE 8.12  From Spiegelman’s Maus (II: 43): Spiegelman as a child mouse, a synthesis of two visual metaphors.

In addition to the iconic quality of the graphic representations, stylistic considerations enter with both metaphorical and formal features. Graphic representations facilitate visual metaphors in a way that is difficult for film (other than animated film), and not possible in textual fiction (because it does not include visual representations). Thus, it does not seem terribly odd that Spiegelman represents Jews as mice and Germans as cats. (In contrast, I suspect that a film with actual mice and cats, dubbed with human voices, or people wearing mouse and cat outfits, would be more difficult to make successful.) These metaphors may be multiplied or synthesized, as when Spiegelman, the character, is a mouse who feels as insecure and helpless as a child. Spiegelman the artist then draws Spiegelman the character as a baby mouse, combining the two metaphors (see figure 8.12). Finally, the visual representations may manifest formal, stylistic features of structural balance, symmetry, and the like, with aesthetic and other functions.

Maus To illustrate and further explore these points, we may consider perhaps the most celebrated graphic narrative to date, Art Spiegelman’s Maus. The narrative was published in two parts, the first volume in 1986, the second in 1991. Each volume is divided into chapters, each chapter marked off by a title page with a single graphic panel that partially orients the reader to what will follow.

255

256

Graphic Narrative

The main story concerns the experiences of Spiegelman’s father, Vladek, during the Second World War, including his time in Auschwitz. The full narrative involves a frame story about a graphic artist, Art Spiegelman, who is trying to write a graphic memoir recounting his father’s experiences. Spiegelman (the character) goes to speak with his father and record his father’s recollections. These recollections form the embedded story of Vladek Spiegelman. Thus, in terms of discourse, we have the author, Art Spiegelman, who writes Maus, treating a character (also Art Spiegelman) who narrates a story about recording his father’s recollections, which are then illustrated as the embedded story, narrated by his father. The narration by the father is signaled by the epistemic point of view of the embedded story (i.e., what information is reported), though not typically the perceptual point of view (e.g., Vladek is usually in the panels representing his story, which thus clearly do not represent his actual perception of the events). Moreover, it is marked by Vladek’s distinctive English, which is strongly influenced by his native languages.8 In contrast, the sections narrated by Art Spiegelman are defined by Art’s epistemic point of view. For example, when he supplies information about the Holocaust, he may indicate how he has picked up this information; clearly, it is not from experience, as with Vladek. Second, these sections are articulated in standard English. These are stylistic choices that—​by their connections with the real life of the author—​should most obviously function to enhance the credibility of the story, thus increasing both its emotional impact and its thematic import. (The dialogues between characters in Vladek’s story are in standard English, presumably to represent the contextually standard versions of the languages the characters are speaking.) Art is also an active narratee, who interrupts his father’s story to ask questions that might have occurred to a reader or to highlight important points (e.g., regarding the collaborationist Jewish police [I: 87]). The defaults are established fairly quickly. Again, in the first volume, the page layout is predominantly four rows per page and two panels per row. Over two-​thirds of the pages have four rows and about sixty percent of the rows have two panels. The most common alternatives are three rows per page (about thirty percent) and one or three panels for a row (about fifteen percent each).9 One interesting trend in row and column division bears on the first volume as a whole. Specifically, the one-​panel rows become less common in the last twenty-​five pages of the first volume, while the three-​panel rows become far more frequent. This stylistic feature—​increasing the number of panels per row—​may be particularly noteworthy because it bears on the larger structure of the memoir, not simply on page layout or paneling. In my reading, the (functional) result is a feeling that more information is being crowded into a small space as events unfold more quickly—​in a sense, too quickly for the characters to resist—​leading to the capture of Spiegelman’s parents and their removal to Auschwitz. In keeping with this, Pierre Masson claims that,

Stylistic Choices in Graphic Narrative

in general, “the greater the number of panels, the stronger the impression of rapidity” (qtd. in Groensteen, 46; Groensteen rightly objects that this is an overgeneralization, but it does seem to fit the case of Maus I). The disequilibrating effect of this acceleration may be enhanced by various kinds of non-​standard layout and paneling that appear sometimes with greater frequency in the last twenty-​five pages of the volume. For example, one alteration mixes panels of different sizes, making it difficult to divide the pages into rows. On I: 136 (of 159 pages total), the bottom left panel takes up one-​ quarter of the entire page; thus it is the equivalent of two panels in height. To its right, Spiegelman stacks three single panels one above the other, each of ordinary width, but less than two-​thirds the default height of a panel. (This is less than two-​thirds because the three panels and two inter-​panel gutters take up what would ordinarily be the space of two panels with one inter-​panel gutter.) The complexity of this page layout is furthered by the top half of the page, which has a first row of two panels, but with a reduced height, also at less than two-​thirds the default height. It is followed by a row of four panels with one-​ third of a page height, thus larger than the default (see figure 8.13). This sort of page layout has a number of possible functions. Most obviously, it provides interest-​provoking variation and a suggestion of aesthetic patterning. But it may also contribute to a sense of increasing change as the narrative proceeds. On I: 142, the upper left has a panel that takes up one-​third of the printable space vertically, as we would expect from a three-​row page layout; however, it takes up two-​thirds of the printable page horizontally. It is followed by two panels that are one-​third the width of a row, stacked on top of one another, each covering roughly one-​sixth of the vertical space, as opposed to the default one-​fourth. The middle third of the vertical space begins with two stacked panels, like those just mentioned, followed by two tall panels. This is further complicated by the fact that the two tall panels are not rectangles, but are formed by a diagonal division of a larger rectangle of the same sort that we find in the upper left corner of the page (see figure 8.14). Here, again, we find variation promoting interest, plus a pattern giving an aesthetic function to the tableau. As to the latter, the layout of a large panel followed by the two stacked panels is repeated, with a horizontal flip, in the subsequent three panels. This is further varied with the division of the second large rectangle

FIGURE 8.13 

Structure of the panel configuration on page 136 of Spiegelman’s Maus I.

257

258

Graphic Narrative

FIGURE 8.14  The page layout for page 142 of Spiegelman’s Maus I. The slash marks indicate that the middle right rectangle is segmented into two panels in the manner indicated.

FIGURE 8.15  The page layout for page 143 of Spiegelman’s Maus I. The broken, vertical line marks a structural division that segments off a part of the larger panel. That part is repeated in the two following panels. Specifically, the broad, middle-​row panel depicts a room and a closet (indicated here by the space to the right of the broken line). The narrower, middle-​row panels depict the closet only.

into two non-​rectangular constituents, which serve as distinct panels. The difficulty of identifying rows, which define the sequence of reading, may be mildly disorienting, at least with the two small rectangles on the middle left. Specifically, one could read the two panels on the left first or one could read the top left, then right, then bottom left. McCloud remarks that this sort of ambiguity may provoke “split-​second confusion” (33), which an author may use for a particular effect in a particular context. Finally, the division in the middle right rectangle serves to emphasize the division between Vladek and the Polish woman who is hiding him and his family, as this is depicted in the two panels. (Note also that both of these pages have ten panels, rather than the usual eight, in keeping with the overall trend toward increase in panel density toward the end of the volume.) The following page too has a peculiar structure (see figure 8.15). The functions are largely the same general sort as those we have been considering for the other pages. For example, in relation to story emotion, the narrow panels of the second row serve to enhance the sense of cramped enclosure that Vladek and his wife Anja experience when hiding in a closet (as depicted in these panels). The layout on this page, while certainly interesting, seems somewhat aesthetically unbalanced and less pleasing. But that is not a criticism; the

Stylistic Choices in Graphic Narrative

emotional effect of the events depicted in the memoir probably should not be too consistently qualified by aesthetic pleasure. Other peculiarities of the last twenty-​five pages include some variations on framing shape. On I: 140, the first frame on the page is circular, rather than rectangular. Four pages later, there is another circular frame, giving a close-​up of Anja. There are only a couple of other circular frames in the volume, as well as a couple of circular background designs. It is difficult to discern any function to these beyond supplying variation. A further type of variation is more obviously significant for the developing fear and confusion of the final part of book I. This is the use of canted representations, either figures that are tilted relative to the frame or tilting the frame itself. There are three instances of canted representations in the pages we are considering; all three clearly constitute stylistic choices in the technical sense. The first is particularly striking. It depicts a Polish woman looking out of her window and denouncing the Spiegelmans as Jews (I: 137; see figure 8.16). Spiegelman has in effect taken the content of the frame and tilted it counter-​ clockwise, so that the corners of the window protrude into the surrounding panels. This not only draws attention to the panel, but in context contributes to the feeling of violent disruption and surprise. The speech balloon is saw-​ toothed, rather than smooth, and the lettering is large and in boldface. These are, of course, conventional ways of conveying speech volume and agitated emotion, in this case anger and associated, malevolent violence.10 In addition,

FIGURE 8.16  An

emotion-​intensifying canted panel, with boldface lettering and a spiky speech balloon from Spiegelman’s Maus (I: 137).

259

260

Graphic Narrative

the speech balloon expands into the following panel, in effect following Vladek and Anja as they run to conceal themselves. The second canted representation is much less dramatic. It depicts a different Polish woman telling Vladek that he can stay in her barn as long as he agrees not to say that she allowed this (139). The function of the variation is less clear here. For stylistically sensitive readers, it is may recall the earlier denunciation, enhancing the sense of foreboding. The final instance (155), a tilted frame, is particularly noteworthy. The frame is spikey, rather than smooth. This in part points to the violence of the scene, but it also suggests the rough edges of paper ripped off rather than neatly cut, as if this part of the memoir had itself suffered violence. In keeping with that almost embodied sense of ripping, this very salient, nearly obtrusive panel concerns the Nazi’s discovery of Vladek and Anja, and depicts the Gestapo ripping the Polish mask from Vladek’s face (a metaphor for the Gestapo finding out that they are Jews). The tilted frame overlaps the frame below it, as if it had been torn from its place and pulled out, like the mask pulled away from Vladek’s face (see figure 8.17). The final stylistic variation that has particular importance in these final pages is the panel depicting the famous entrance to Auschwitz with its

FIGURE 8.17  From Spiegelman’s Maus: The Gestapo officer rips the mask from Vladek’s face, and the tilted, spiky frame, dislodged from the grid of panels, suggests a parallel to that act (I: 155).

Stylistic Choices in Graphic Narrative

notorious slogan, “ARBEIT MACHT FREI” (“WORK SETS FREE”). This panel signals that Vladek and Anja have arrived at Auschwitz. It ends the testimonial part of the first volume. The plot function here is obviously that of a cliffhanger, since Auschwitz presents the greatest danger Vladek and Anja have yet faced. What follows in the book are simply two pages of the frame story—​Art Spiegelman talking with his father. Thus, the Auschwitz entrance panel is the emotional culmination of the first volume. Its thematic importance is no less clear, since Auschwitz is perhaps the most notorious symbol of Nazi genocide. There are several aspects of this panel that make it arresting. For example, it is more detailed and involves more activity than most panels in the book. This is principally because it is the largest panel in the book, which is obviously consequential for its impact. Perhaps the most noteworthy property of the panel, and one that partially accounts for its pre-​eminence in size, is that it does not respect the margins of the page. Every other page of the book has a roughly half-​inch margin around the block of images, with only slight deviations, as the edge of a panel may spread a millimeter or two into the page margin. But the Auschwitz panel expands all the way to the edge of the page. Emotionally, this may foster a sense of the camp as being the end beyond which there is nothing. Indeed, Vladek reports their feeling on arriving at Auschwitz: “And we knew that from here we will not come out anymore” (157). The panel in a sense engulfs the page as Auschwitz engulfs its victims. Thus, the conclusion of Maus I (roughly, the last sixth) has stylistically distinctive features that suggest informational, thematic, and above all emotional functions. Of course, there are many stylistic features that are continuous throughout the work. The most obvious is the use of metaphor or allegory. Following Orwell’s Animal Farm, Spiegelman portrays all the national groups as species. The Jews are mice; the Germans are cats; the Poles are pigs; the French are frogs; the Americans are dogs. The metaphor fits most obviously with the Nazi violence against Jews, indicated by the cat’s apparent cruelty toward mice11; also, in the war, the Nazis and Americans fought like cats and dogs (in the common idiom). The metaphor also suggests Nazi racialism in that it assimilates differences between human groups to species differences. As such, it recasts the Nazi idea that Jews are vermin, shifting them from rats to their related, but timid fellow rodents, mice.12 This timidity is brought up explicitly when Art Spiegelman (the character) expresses bewilderment that the Jews didn’t resist in Auschwitz (II: 73). Beyond these thematic suggestions, I  suspect that the representation of Jews as mice is designed to have an emotional function. This is not, however, the usual function of enhancing empathic sorrow. It is, rather, a modulatory function. It serves to inhibit our fellow feeling with the victims of the Holocaust, perhaps because the terror is just so extreme that it can be devastating. This would seem to be particularly true for Jews or others who are particularly likely to identify with the victims in the sense of imagining that this

261

262

Graphic Narrative

literally could have happened to them as well. This is also connected with the de-​romanticized representation of Vladek’s character. As Art Spiegelman (the character) discusses in the second volume (II: 45), Vladek was in many ways admirable for his ability to save himself and his wife in almost inconceivably horrible circumstances. But it is also difficult to genuinely like someone who is such a clever deal-​maker and so attuned to pursuing his own interests. There is, in that sense, a Brechtian quality to Maus. In connection with this, we might understand Brecht’s “alienation effect” as centrally a matter of modulating emotional response, so that we are perhaps better able to think about the characters, events, and actions of the work in ways that are not simply a matter of praising the figures we identify with and damning those we do not. After all, the Holocaust was no less real and no less of a moral horror given that its victims were sometimes rather dislikable, ordinary people, and not sacrificial saints. There are of course other aspects of the work’s style that are significant, including narration and plot features. For example, Spiegelman often leaves panels unframed when they shift from the Nazi atrocities back to the encompassing narrative of Art Spiegelman (the character) and his father (for one of many possible examples, see I: 20), though longer sequences developing the latter are generally presented through panels that are framed. This is a small, orienting device, in a way comparable to Woolf ’s shift to a publicly observable scene before switching focalizers. Both techniques have an informational function. We find another technique with a similar, transitional function when Spiegelman (the author) marks the shift from the frame narrative to the Holocaust narrative. Specifically, one large panel represents the young Vladek at a family dinner. Inset in the upper left is a smaller panel with the older Vladek recounting the story (74). This is consistent with other uses of the inset, as a temporal change is part of the narrational shift. Some of the most stylistically striking parts of the memoir involve the repetition and intensification of techniques we have already considered, sometimes with the transfer of a technique from one feature to another. Consider, for example, the tilting and overlapping of panels. Late in the second volume of the memoir, there is a sequence in the frame narrative in which Vladek takes out a box of old photographs to show to Art (II: 113). Some of the photos are of people who survived. Most are images of the dead. Spiegelman depicts the photos over the images of Vladek and Art; the photos are tilted in various ways, partially occluding the father and son, as if memories of the past obscure the present. They accumulate until a large pile of disordered photographs clutters the bottom of the page so that we can hardly make out Vladek and Art in the background (II: 114–​115). This precedes and explains an image I touched on earlier—​the fragmented image of Vladek, as he thinks about these photographs and the people they represent (II: 116; see figure 8.10).

Stylistic Choices in Graphic Narrative

One technique Spiegelman uses throughout the memoir is setting out distinctive images that in some degree recall one another, often through structural similarities. This mess of photographs suggests two parallels from earlier in the memoir. First, it recalls the pile of corpses that appear below Art’s drawing table (II: 41), a visual metaphor for the past that (to take up Marx’s metaphor) “weighs like a nightmare on the brain of the living” (Marx, 300). The photos are images of living persons who should have continuing life, like Vladek; the corpses are the material detritus, what remained after the photographs. The parallelism here serves to intensify the sense of loss and unfairness, as we see so many dead juxtaposed with so few living. The second parallel stresses the cause of these deaths. As the photographs pile up, they spill onto the margins, ultimately running all the way to the bottom edge of the page. This overflow of the image may remind readers of the introduction of Auschwitz (I: 157), where the image had the same formal feature of overrunning the margin. Rather than going through the various other stylistic techniques used by Spiegelman, I  will conclude by commenting on one sequence of panels, culminating in a panel that I find particularly affecting. The sequence occurs about halfway through the first volume (I: 83–​84). The Nazis have hanged four Jews for trading on the black market. Vladek had traded extensively with one of them and is therefore afraid for his own safety. However, he is also grieved by their deaths, as the subsequent panel shows. On the page where the hanging is represented (see figure 8.18), Spiegelman begins with three standard panels, closely following the intrinsic norm for the book. They serve to introduce the topic. But the fourth panel is strikingly different, a rotated “L” shape which presents Vladek’s point of view. As the narratorial text explains, “I walked over to Modrzejowska Street and saw them” (83). The drawing in itself suggests that the point of view is not only epistemic, but optical as well. In other words, it represents not only what Vladek learned through seeing the hanged men, but almost exactly what he saw. Specifically, the perspective appears to be below the men. I  suspect that this sense is enhanced by the L shape, as it has the effect of stretching one part of the panel up toward the sky, an effect furthered by the lifted head of the man on the far right. The page concludes with a final row of two standard panels. But the content of the panels is not standard. We see, rather, the dangling feet of the men. This tends to confirm the optical point of view as we are likely to envision the feet at roughly the height of Vladek’s face. Like the central, background figure in the final panel, Vladek is presumably looking slightly down at the feet. The suggestion is that he has averted his gaze from the faces of the dead men. This entire sequence is remarkable in part because it develops optical point of view, which—​unlike epistemic point of view—​is rare in Maus and, from what I can tell, in graphic narrative generally. Before going on to the culmination of this sequence, it is important to remark on a striking formal connection here. Spiegelman uses the flipped

263

264

Graphic Narrative

FIGURE 8.18 

From Spiegelman’s Maus: Vladek’s optical point of view on the hanged men (I: 83).

L shape one other time in Maus I (I: 20; see figure 8.19). It concerns Vladek’s abandonment of Lucia for the much wealthier Anja. In that case, too, the page begins with three standard panels and ends with a standard row of two panels. Moreover, the L-​shaped panel involves an upward look and, more strikingly, the penultimate panel focuses on shoes. I suspect that the reason for this parallel has to do with Spiegelman’s compassion for Lucia and the relevance of that compassion to the dead wife of one of the executed men. Specifically, Vladek’s story of witnessing the dead men ends with a comment on Pfefer, “a fine young man.” Vladek explains that “He was just married.” Faced with his execution, “His wife ran screaming in the street” (83). Her anguish would be touching but rather abstract, given how little we are told. The slight hint of Vladek’s abandonment of Lucia may serve to connect the current case with that of a woman whom we came to know more fully and sympathetically at the start of the book. (The link might also suggest a touch of remorse on Vladek’s

Stylistic Choices in Graphic Narrative

FIGURE 8.19  From Spiegelman’s Maus: Vladek abandons Lucia (I: 20) in a sequence that has striking, stylistic parallels with that of the hanged men (I: 83).

part, a point suggested earlier by Vladek’s request that his son not recount the story of Lucia in his book [I: 23].) The full story of the hanged men does not conclude with Mrs. Pfefer. There is a final panel representing the dread experienced by Vladek and Anja (figure 8.20). In this panel, Vladek sits, looking out the window at night. He cannot see the hanged men, but his physical orientation embodies his mental preoccupation with the them. That mental preoccupation is made manifest in their ghostlike presence within the frame. Vladek and Anja are black silhouettes, solid presences in the real world. Though their features are disturbingly clear, the executed men are not so starkly set out; they are more like patterns in the looming shadows. The optical point of view presented in the panel is from behind Vladek and Anja. We sense Vladek’s despair from his drooping posture.

265

266

Graphic Narrative

FIGURE 8.20 

From Spiegelman’s Maus: After the hanging (I: 84).

But we do not see his face. Rather, we in effect have access to his thoughts, what he is seeing in his mind’s eye—​the Jews on the Nazi scaffold. The figures themselves are among the most affecting in the entire book. The first figure on the left has the unfocused, staring, sightless eye of the dead before an attendant has pressed down the eyelids. Though a drawing, it is, so to speak, uncannily dead. The second seems to be looking down on Vladek and Anja as if from Heaven. The third is caught in the moment of agony just before dying. He is a less terrible version of the Jews burned at Auschwitz in the second volume, in what is probably the single most terrifying panel in the memoir (II: 72), as well as other nearly identical images of people crying out in pain and anguish (see I: 115 and II: 92). (We will return to the fourth victim.) Thus, these three figures convey the absoluteness of death (the first, unseeing man), the pain of the execution (the third, gasping, anguished, possibly screaming man), and perhaps—​much less clearly—​a hint of possible

Stylistic Choices in Graphic Narrative

salvation (the second man, who may be construed as looking down on the living). The points are both thematic and emotional, for the panel helps to convey the human depth of the atrocities, and to foster horror (at death), empathy (with pain), and perhaps a glimmer of hope. For me, however, even these powerful images are outdone by two other aspects of this panel. The first is Anja. Vladek’s wife suffers from deep anxiety and depression. They lead, eventually, to her suicide. But here she is in the role of comforter. She places her hand gently on her husband’s back, seeking to console him, though he is clearly inconsolable. This expression of affection and associated empathy is particularly striking due to Anja’s fragility. We know that it takes enormous effort for her to hold herself together to try to soothe her husband’s worries. Even more profoundly moving than Anja, however, is little Richieu, the tiny first son of Vladek and Anja, destined to die in the later course of the Holocaust. Though he is far from the center of the panel, a bright light draws attention to the little boy. He sits alone on the floor, holding a doll like the Madonna holding the baby Jesus. He and his mother are both images of attachment bonding and care. Richieu is a boy, but he has taken up the stereotypically female role. As such, he is a striking contrast with the pathological hypertrophy of stereotypical masculinity acted out by the Nazi cruelty, which will soon claim him as a victim. The warm tenderness of Richieu’s mothering of the doll contributes to our sense of horror at his fate. That fate is signaled by the Star of David above his head, an image from the jacket of the executed Jewish prisoner. Then, above the star, is the head of the fourth hanged man. Richieu looks down and slightly to his right, partially revealing his left eye. The fourth hanged man does the same. While Richieu looks at the doll, the hanged man looks past the Star of David to Richieu. They are parallel figures in the frame. The parallel hints at the a premature and cruel death that is Richieu’s destiny as well.

Conclusion To a great extent, the stylistic principles of graphic narrative carry over from literature and film. The basic definition of style remains the same. As with film, the stylistic issues for storyworld, story, narration, plot, and verbalization remain more or less constant. The differences are largely confined to the perceptual interface.13 Consider, for example, style and obtrusiveness. This has been an important issue for writers on graphic narrative. Thus, the dominance of narrative versus the dominance of composition is one of the two fundamental oppositions invoked by Peeters to categorize graphic narratives. Groensteen similarly differentiates types of graphic narrative on two bases, one of which

267

268

Graphic Narrative

is the opposition between discreet and ostentatious (98–​99). Coming out of a structuralist tradition, both Peeters and Groensteen are inclined to formulate their taxonomies in bipolar terms. In the first chapter, I suggested a more fine-​ grained list of degrees of stylistic salience: Normalcy (no unusual attentional orientation) < styling (style forms part of a recipient’s experience, without drawing self-​conscious attention) < stylization (style becomes salient, thus more readily noticeable) < mannerism (localized attention to style is unavoidable) < euphuism (distracting obtrusiveness) The division seems to carry over quite well to graphic narrative. Similarly, the functions of graphic narrative carry over from verbal literature and film. Function too has been a recurring consideration in stylistic analyses of graphic narrative. However, those discussions at times proliferate functions without adequately differentiating actual purposes from techniques or targets. In previous chapters, I stressed the importance of distinctive patterning in the definition of style. Patterning is, indeed, crucial. However, it makes sense to refer to particular features of a literary work, film, or graphic narrative as stylistic choices, even if they do not appear to involve pattern-​defining repetitions. Stylistic choices comprise single elements of story or discourse that serve informational, emotional, or thematic functions in part through their relation to stylistic patterns, as when they violate an intrinsic norm. (Stylistic choices do instantiate underlying principles; however, there may be too little surface manifestation of the relevant principles for a pattern to be clear.) Thus, in graphic narrative and elsewhere, it is sometimes important to consider not only overt stylistic patterns, but individual stylistic choices related to these patterns as well. Most of the present chapter has focused on distinctive features of graphic narrative, thus aspects of the perceptual interface that differentiate it from verbal fiction and film. If we are going to analyze and appreciate the style of graphic narrative, we need to be aware of and responsively sensitive to the features of graphic work that can be altered in stylistic choices and that can form distinctive patterns. These variables include the nature of the text, the framing of the text, the differentiation of narrator from character voice, the quality and detail of representations, the shape and size of panels, the framing of the panels, the gutters between panels, the overall design of the page (beginning with its usual number and size of rows and panels per row and including its use of margins), as well as other matters. Patterns may be of virtually any sort—​for example, the gradual change in the number of panels per page or the repetition of a distinctive configuration in page layout. In each case, the pattern may serve a function of communicating (or obscuring) the thematic purposes of the work, modulating (enhancing or inhibiting) its emotional effect, and/​or conveying (or withholding) story information in such a way as to contribute eventually to the thematic or emotional ends of the work.

Afterword

Keep Stylistics Great A NOTE ON POLITICS AND THE ANALYSIS OF STYLE

Consistent with general trends in literary study, a great deal of stylistic analysis has been devoted to political topics. I have not focused on political topics in this book, but this is not due to a lack of interest in the topic. In fact, I enthusiastically support the political application of stylistic analysis and hope that the preceding theoretical principles and particular studies will prove valuable to authors continuing and advancing the insightful and illuminating work that has been and is being done in political stylistics. (For some excellent examples, see Jeffries, Charteris-​Black, and Toolan, Language). In terms of the affective-​cognitive account I have been developing, politics enters straightforwardly into treatments of the thematic operation of style. Of course, much political work in stylistics is more aptly characterized as critique than as thematic interpretation. In other words, it need not concern what a work is designed to convey (e.g., about race, sex, class, or other topics), but what it, perhaps inadvertently, reveals. It is important to distinguish between the self-​conscious political attitudes of writers or readers and their implicit attitudes. In connection with this, it is important to carefully examine verbal, cinematic, and graphic narratives with an eye toward isolating these implicit attitudes, as they are expressed in or manipulated by verbal or visual media. Stylistics can—​indeed, does—​contribute to this sort of work. Needless to say, the general point is not a new one. Indeed, the ability of stylistic analysis to reveal non-​obvious political implications has been central to such analysis since the heyday of Structuralism. On the other hand, one might worry that the theoretical turn away from psychoanalytically influenced interpretive techniques, and the substitution of affective-​cognitive analysis, might leave us unable to discern unconscious, but consequential implications of stylistic features. Of course, if true, this would be regrettable only if the unconscious meanings were real, something with psychological sources in the authors and psychological consequences in the recipients. If, say, an

Style in Narrative. Patrick Colm Hogan, Oxford University Press (2021). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197539576.001.0001

270

Afterword

unconscious fantasy content is merely confabulated by the psychoanalytic methodology, then its loss is hardly something to lament. Consider, for example, Roman Jakobson’s famous and influential analysis of Dwight D. Eisenhower’s campaign slogan, “I Like Ike,” articulated in one of the foundational texts of modern stylistic analysis, “Linguistics and Poetics.” Jakobson analyzed this slogan in terms of sound patterns, particularly stressing the assonance which takes the initial diphthong, /​ay/​(“I”) and embeds it in /​ ayk/​(“Ike”), which is in turn embedded in /​layk/​(“Like”). He concludes with a symbolic interpretation of this sound patterning as an “image of the loving subject [“I”] enveloped by the beloved object [“Ike”]” (357), in an attempt to explain the slogan’s “impressiveness and efficacy” (357). While I  agree that this is an effective slogan, I  am skeptical of the psychoanalytically inspired, allegorical interpretation that views the words as personified and as representing a sort of idealized nuclear family. Indeed, the reading goes beyond allegory, for it indicates not only that this is a sort of concealed meaning, but also that this meaning has emotional effects on people who encounter the slogan, roughly reproducing the experience of the secure, familial embrace in the reader. But it is very difficult to see what reason we would have to infer that voters generally—​or indeed ever—​responded to the slogan in this way. In consequence, the “deep” analysis of the style (i.e., the analysis that goes beyond noting assonance and rhyme) seems wrong on both the level of meaning or significance and on the level of rhetorical or psychological effect. An affective-​cognitive approach is, I believe, no less capable of guiding intricate analyses and of producing non-​obvious results. Moreover, these results are likely to be far more plausible than those of Jakobson’s famous analysis. In consequence, they are likely to be of far greater value, both for our understanding of the political discourses being studied and for our practical responses to those discourses. Following Jakobson’s example, I will therefore end with a few, very brief—​but, I hope, illustrative—​observations on stylistic features of a campaign slogan. However, I will switch from Eisenhower’s euphonious “I Like Ike” to a less straightforward, but currently more relevant case—​Donald Trump’s 2016 campaign slogan, “Make America Great Again.” At the level of textualization, the phrase is well-​balanced visually. It has two halves of two words each; the first two words total eleven letters and the last two total twelve letters, again balancing the visual presentation. Verbally, the stress pattern is also balanced, as follows: ′ ˘ ′ ˘ ˘ ′ ˘ ′. I would not give this symbolic significance (e.g., regarding stability). However, the roughly symmetrical structure does seem more likely to foster a feeling of rhythmic balance and aesthetic pleasure in the resulting equilibrium in a way that many alternatives would not. In addition, the first and second words alliterate, as do the third and fourth; we find assonance in the first and third words, and partial assonance in the second and fourth. In short, it is a phrase with considerable

Afterword

aesthetic patterning that may convey a feeling of balance or equilibrium as part of its aesthetic quality. At the level of story, it quickly conveys a minimal version of the basic nationalist narrative, heroic tragi-​ comedy (see Hogan, Understanding Nationalism, 16, 20). In this story structure, the home society has been defeated and has come to be dominated by some enemy. A heroic leader rallies the society to respond to the enemy, winning back national autonomy and indeed ushering in a utopian period. At the level of the plot, the slogan does not specify an enemy. This leaves the particularization of that role up to the individual recipient. Some recipients may see the enemy as Islam or Muslims and construe the domination in terms of terrorism and actual military conflict. Others may concretize the plot in terms of economic domination, with China taking up the enemy role. White supremacists might view the usurpation sequence of the heroic prototype as instantiated in the presidency of an African-​ American. Moreover, indeterminacy of the enemy in this emplotment leaves Trump free to shift the enemy as conditions and priorities change. Finally, there is the level of narration. The slogan implies a narrator (or speaker) and a narratee. The nature of both, and of their relation, may be illustrated by contrast with an alternative, such as “Making America Great Again.” “Making America Great Again” would suggest that the responsibility for undertaking national improvement is in the hands of the candidate, Donald Trump. The relation to the addressee would implicitly be an appeal to his or her trust. In contrast, “Make America Great Again” implies that the burden is on the electorate. Specifically, the implication is that the fate of the home society in the heroic struggle lies in the hands of voters who may or may not choose the hero who will defeat the enemy. Moreover, the authority of this candidate is made particularly clear by the implied illocutionary force of the statement. It is some form of directive, most obviously when printed (as was sometimes done) with the exclamation mark, “Make America Great Again!” This puts Trump in the position of the leader ordering the citizenry to do what is necessary in order to defeat the enemy. Of course, not everyone responded to the slogan in ways consistent with this analysis. Moreover, of those who did respond to these features, many—​ unsympathetic with the hints of nationalist authoritarianism—​were repulsed by it. The point is that there is a great deal of political suggestiveness in the slogan, suggestiveness that may be revealed by a multi-​level, affective-​cognitive stylistic analysis, treating not only verbalization, but story, plot, and narration as well. We might briefly contrast this with the bland “I’m With Her” slogan of the Hillary Clinton campaign. This has no clear aesthetic appeal, no suggestion of a narrative, no implications of what Clinton’s election would entail. It most obviously recalls the popular T-​shirt, “I’m with Stupid.” Indeed, the T-​shirt often had an arrow (pointing toward the wearer’s companion), just as the Clinton slogan often had an arrow. This slogan seems so egregiously bad

271

272

Afterword

that one wonders if it was designed as sabotage by the Trump supporters who came up with “Make America Great Again!” This is, of course, only a very slight example—​despite the noble lineage it might claim due to the precedent of Jakobson’s widely read analysis. However, I hope it serves to suggest that the fine-​grained description fostered by stylistics, and the complex, precisely formulated, and empirically well-​grounded explanations allowed by cognitive and affective science, may serve political analysis—​and even political activism—​in productive ways. Of course, readers familiar with the politically oriented, stylistic analyses of Jeffries, Charteris-​ Black, Toolan, and others will have inferred this already.

NOTES Introduction 1. A concise and useful overview may be found in Busse and McIntyre. 2. Readers interested in an alternative approach, linked to New Historicist trends, may consult Busse. 3. The latter do, however, define an important and flourishing area of research that complements the present undertaking (for work of this sort, see Peplow and Carter). At a later stage, such empirical, response-​oriented work could and should be integrated with interpretive, production-​oriented study, to yield a more encompassing account of style. 4. Though my theoretical approach is very different, I  have been sensitized to the interaction of arousal and modulation by Norman Holland’s classic Dynamics of Literary Response, where he treats literary works as involving both a fantasy content and a series of defenses against the threatening elements of that fantasy. My account, however, draws on the understanding of emotion modulation developed in affective science (see Frijda, 401–​ 450) and in some cases called “mood repair” (see Forgas, “Affect,” 258). 5. For a brief account of the differences between affective science and affect theory, see chapter two of my Literature and Emotion. 6. Other critics have certainly been concerned with emotion and style. For example, David Wyatt’s recent book on Hemingway convincingly argues that Hemingway’s late style is not characterized by the same sorts of omission as his early style and that this change in bound up with the emotional quality of the work. However, critics such as Wyatt have generally not treated style or emotion in a systematic, theoretical way. This is not a criticism, just a statement that their project is different. 7. On literary response—​or, more broadly, aesthetic response—​and Bayesian processing, see my Beauty, 134, 146, 149–​151. 8. For example, early critics took Mrs. Dalloway to be much more opaque than we are likely to feel today. Thus, in an insightful essay on style and individuality in the novel, Armstrong speaks of Woolf “placing her language beyond the familiar rules of communication” (351). 9. That style involves a range of possible objects has of course been noted by other writers. For example, Nelson Goodman maintains that “A style is a complex characteristic that serves somewhat as an individual or group signature” (34). Thus, it may refer to “features . . . that are characteristic of author, period, place, or school” (35). 10. Recognizing such divergences, Ryan stresses that narrative analysis should be “media-​conscious.” A parallel point applies to stylistic analysis. Ryan expertly articulates the nuances and ambiguities of terminology in this area—​prominently, the vagueness of the term “medium.” The various distinctions drawn by Ryan would certainly have implications for future stylistic analysis, though unfortunately I  will not be able to consider such implications here.

273

274

Notes

Chapter 1 1. The connection between self and style is not confined to Buffon or Western tradition, but is consistent with views we find elsewhere. For example, though not referring explicitly to style as such, Dore Levy notes that “the assumption that writing is a mirror of an author’s personality is fundamental to the Chinese tradition” (916). 2. I should note that here and elsewhere in the book I am using “relevant” in the broad, ordinary language sense. A feature is relevant to recipient response if it has some potential impact on an aspect of that response that we care about, typically an aspect that bears on the functions of the work—​emotional impact, thematic perspicuity, or story understanding. I  am not confining the idea of relevance to the technical sense of Sperber and Wilson, though that account of relevance has certainly been important for stylistic analysis (see, for example, Clark). 3. In the final chapter, we will consider some qualifications to this point with respect to localized stylistic choices. 4. The relation between sound and emotion is not simple. In any given case, it results from a complex set of factors. As Tsur and Gafni argue in their highly illuminating work on this topic, phonetic sounds do not have a fixed and univocal relation to emotions or meanings. Rather, “Different relevant qualities of a given speech sound are selected by the meaning across lexical items and poetic contexts.” Emotional resonances are, of course, not unrelated to the features of the speech sounds; that is what it means to say that the features are “selected.” Even so, the specific emotion in a particular case is produced only through foregrounding some features (while backgrounding other features) and contextualizing the recipient’s response to the foregrounded features (e.g., through lexical meaning, imagery, or narrative sequence). This is just what we find in the cases from Woolf. 5. There are, of course, other aspects of verbalization that may be productively considered in relation to stylistic patterning and emotion. For example, Louw and Milojkovic discuss how “Understanding the primary meanings and subtle associations of a word can be resolved by using its typical co-​text (its collocations) as the instrument for analysis” (263). These forms of stylistic study are advanced by quantitative methods and computer-​ assisted work, such as that discussed by Stubbs and by Fialho and Zyngier. In keeping with this, Peter Stockwell points out that some words involve emotional associations that are not necessarily obvious on the surface, as when “phrases such as ‘set in’ are found to collocate almost always with unpleasant states” (“Atmosphere,” 369). There are also specific features of dialogue style, such as who speaks most or most often (see Short). Other verbalization patterns may be even less immediately apparent, as with some effects of iconicity discussed by Fischer. In addition, there are patterns to such organizational properties as paragraphing (see Mahlberg) or features of vocalization (as discussed by Jobert). Biber and Conrad give an extensive list of “linguistic features that might be investigated in a register analysis” (78–​ 82). The list could just as readily inform stylistic analysis. Clearly, there are many important aspects of stylistic analysis regarding verbalization that have been explored insightfully by stylisticians or could be explored in future studies. However, most of these cannot be included in a book—​such as the present volume—​that is not an encyclopedic overview, but rather aims to systematize some fundamental descriptive and explanatory principles in an affective-​cognitive framework and to explore some previously under-​studied areas of style using that framework. 6. See chapter five of Hogan, Sexual, and Hogan, “How.”

Notes 7. See Siefkes for an empirical study bearing on modernist and postmodernist style. 8. The point is related to Noël Carroll’s arguments concerning category-​ based evaluations (see On Criticism, especially chapter four). 9. Extrinsic norms appear in particularly rigorous forms in poetic genres, with fixed meters, rhyme schemes, and the like. Individual poetic style operates within or in some cases against those norms. Examples from English poetry are no doubt familiar to American and European stylisticians. For examples from Chinese tradition, see Cai (“Pentasyllabic,” 103–​104, and “Recent-​Style,” 161–​172). 10. In connection with these beginnings, it is worth noting how Fish’s analyses suggest that opening (and closing) sentences have their own recurring stylistic features (see How, 99–​132). This in turn indicates that there may be other ways of defining the scope or substrate for stylistic analysis—​including, for example, opening sentences across a work (e.g., for different chapters), across works of a given genre or period, and so on. 11. Grice’s ideas have figured significantly in stylistic analysis. For an overview of some work in this area, see Lambrou. 12. On the nature and operation of cognitive models, see Johnson-​Laird. 13. I should perhaps stress here that the sort of encoding that matters most here is not a matter of objective, visible distances. It is, rather, one’s sense of what Gallese and Guerra refer to as ”motor space” (see 21–​22), the degree to which, for example, members of Sujata’s family are literally within reach of one another, but (literally) beyond Sujata’s reach. 14. Other authors have made similar points. Speaking of film, Wuss maintains that “A narrow concept of style, which only relates to the cinematic techniques that shape a ‘visual style,’ is not adequate. . . . Instead, we must also include . . . narrative relationships and other dramaturgical categories” (217). 15. On some features of typographical style, see Nørgaard. 16. On maximization of relevance, see Hogan, The Mind,  33–​40. 17. The phrasing in the edition of Greenblatt, et al., which I use elsewhere in this book, is slightly different. 18. For a more detailed discussion of such patterns in Shakespeare, see chapter three of Hogan, How. 19. She also at times marks a shift simply through the use of parenthetical insertion, as Cui discusses. 20. For a lucid and informative, if somewhat impressionistic treatment of stylistic verbalization stressing the sentence, see Fish, How to Write a Sentence. 21. For example, there would be little reason for me to examine Shakespeare’s verbal style when there is such an abundance of excellent work by writers with much greater relevant expertise (see, for example, the essays in Ravassat and Culpeper). 22. See Hogan, Narrative, 13–​14 and 19–​20, for further discussion of the profile of ambiguity. 23. One possible exception to this is Henry V (see Hogan, How, 56–​58 and citations therein). 24. Jonathan Culler advocates an approach to literary study—​“poetics”—​that would seem to include stylistic analysis as a key component. However, Culler appears to view poetics as an alternative to hermeneutics or interpretation (see viii on the “precedence” of poetics over hermeneutics; on the other hand, he certainly does not see them as mutually exclusive [see 5–​6]). David Bordwell’s comments on interpretation in the final chapter of

275

276

Notes Making Meaning seem to point in the same general direction. My approach is different, as interpretation—​both of story and of theme—​is most often crucial to a treatment of the function of a style. 25. I have confined this treatment to the purposes of the work. However, a stylistician may have aims for stylistic analysis that go beyond these purposes. For example, he or she may have the purpose of discerning authorship. In that case, certain sorts of patterns will be important even though they may have no bearing on understanding, theme, or emotion. (On style and authorship, see for example, Meskin, 490–​491, and Kenny.) As already noted, author attribution is not an aspect of stylistics that I will be considering in this book. 26. Here, I  follow a common practice. Stylisticians often stress the usefulness of “comparing” a text “with unwritten alternatives” to help recognize “stylistic value” (Leech and Short, 106). 27. This is a version of the “near miss” phenomenon. For example, people feel worse about just barely missing a flight than about missing it by hours (see Miller and Taylor, 370). 28. On some problems with the usual treatment of plot emotions and for discussion of alternatives, including this revised treatment of curiosity, see Hogan, Literature, 155–​159. 29. On the other hand, there are ways in which our anticipations and hopes are somewhat insulated relative to a known conclusion, particularly with respect to short-​term or proximate sequences of events. In consequence, we often do react with suspense or, subsequently, surprise even when we know the outcome. (On such spontaneous anticipations, see Hogan, “Sensorimotor,” and Understanding Indian Movies, 180–​193.) 30. On the personification of narrators, see Bordwell, Narration, 61. 31. See the research cited by Oatley, Emotions, 73, and Fiske, Harris, and Cuddy, 1482–​1483. 32. On some of the factors involved in trust and distrust of narrators, see Hogan, Discourse, 164–​169. 33. Actually, there are a couple of points at which we seem to be given non-​subvocalized thought, but the generalization is accurate enough for purposes of highlighting the difference from Woolf. 34. In this respect, aestheticization has a “damping” effect not entirely unlike that identified by Leo Spitzer in reference to ratiocination in Classical French tragedy (110). This is also the sort of effect that Norman Holland was suggesting when, in a psychoanalytic framework, he treated “form” as a “defense,” modifying the fantasy content of a literary work (see chapter four of Dynamics).

Chapter 2 1. I should note here that the field of stylistics covers much more than style. Thus, introductions to stylistics, such as Jeffries and McIntyre’s valuable text, rightly treat a broad range of topics, as it is necessary to represent what is being done in the discipline as a whole. My concern in the present book is with stylistics in the narrow sense of the analysis of style, not in the broad sense of work undertaken in an academic field called “Stylistics.” 2. See chapter two of How.

Notes 3. On outcome emotion and change, see Han and Lerner, 111. On the enhancement of outcome emotion due to effort, see Ortony, Clore, and Collins, 73. Both sets of observations suggest the point, though their focus is somewhat different. 4. I  should note that my use of “generative” here is different from that sometimes found in narratology. A set of principles is generative in my sense if the principles apply to inputs to yield some aspect of a narrative output. For example, certain aspects of the personification of the narrator generate the dialect in which a particular narration is verbalized. This is not a matter of pre-​set principles producing a strictly defined set of outputs that are “correct” and excluding another set that is “ungrammatical” or “ill-​formed.” For example, “story” is, in my account, a prototype concept. There are more and less story-​like sequences, not a set of stories separated by a gulf from non-​stories. 5. By “genre,” here, I of course have in mind the sorts of story structures just outlined. Thus, I  am not discussing the mixing of tragedy and comedy, though that too is an important feature of many of Shakespeare’s plays, as discussed with great insight by Susan Snyder (The Comic). More significantly, I am not adopting the standard genre categories for Shakespeare’s plays (comedy, tragedy, history, and romance), categories which are I believe misleading (see chapter three of How; for a discussion of the standard genre categories in their historical context, see Snyder, “The Genres”). 6. Though he is speaking in a different context and referring to tragedy and comedy, I believe that Danson captures the point well when he writes that Shakespeare “mixed the genres with a difference . . . producing a fullness of potentiality rather than a mere switcheroo.” Moreover, such integration is so pervasive in Shakespeare’s work that “the mixed mode is the Shakespearean default mode” (102). Discussions of genre in Shakespeare generally take up different genre categories than I am using here and adopt a historical, rather than a cognitive approach. These ways of treating genre do not have to be mutually exclusive, though they are clearly different. Readers interested in such approaches—​which I see for the most part as complementary to my own—​may wish to take up Danson’s essay, and those of the other contributors to Guneratne’s collection. 7. It is perhaps worth mentioning that causal integration, as opposed to mere sequencing of events, is a literary technique of wide application, not confined to bringing genres together. For example, Franco Moretti’s work on detective fiction suggests that one difference between Arthur Conan Doyle’s detective fiction and that of his rivals is that Doyle integrated clues into the causal sequence of the detective’s ongoing investigation, whereas the rivals included clues only incidentally (72–​73). 8. As my use of the word “integration” indicates, this process is broadly similar to conceptual integration, as treated by Fauconnier and Turner. There are perhaps more significant similarities with the metaphorical processes identified by Lakoff and Turner. On the other hand, as the references to generative principles indicate, the present account is also influenced and inspired by generative linguistic analysis. 9. Quoted from the 1568 Bishops’ Bible (available at https://​archive.org/​stream/​ holiebiblecontey00lond#page/​n1355/​mode/​2up [accessed December 7, 2016]), the translation “Shakespeare knew and used most often” (Greenblatt Will). 10. Critics have noted the relevance of revenge to the play, principally as the motivation driving cycles of violence (see, for example, Watson, 167–​169). 11. See Ardolino, 166, on some of Shakespeare’s works that draw on Kyd.

277

278

Notes 12. For a non-​European instance, see the eighteenth-​century Chinese “Double Murder at Dawn” portion of van Gulik. 13. See IV.iv.9n. 1 on the Second Quarto and Folio.

Chapter 3 1. David Bordwell has argued vigorously against the idea of a film narrator as a general category. Everyone agrees that some films have narrators. In other cases, Bordwell refers to an “impersonal narrational system” rather than a perceptual narrator (Ozu, 79; see also 80). I’m not sure that this is a substantive disagreement, rather than a terminological and rhetorical one. No one, I  imagine, envisions the perceptual narrator as a homunculus who literally perceives things and, say, telepathically conveys them to the viewer. Moreover, whether we use the word “narrator” or not, we do give the narration personal features. For instance, we may refer to the narration as “forthcoming” or “communicative” (see Bordwell, Ozu, 52); after all, it is people who are forthcoming or communicative. Just to be clear, the implied author or implied filmmaker knows everything that went on in the storyworld of the film. The film itself necessarily presents only part of that storyworld. Moreover, what the film presents may be true or false and, if true, informative or misleading. “Perceptual narrator” is simply a name we give to the agency conveying this potentially false or misleading information. (Perception here covers illusion, fantasy, simulations, and both accurate and inaccurate memories—​hence, the possibility that it is misleading.) Bordwell might respond that it is simply the filmmaker who makes these choices, selects true (but perhaps misleading) information or fabricates untrue representations. This is entirely correct, of course. However, we experience the perceptual point of view in a film as a human point of view, just as we perceive non-​character speech in a novel as human; we spontaneously fill in a perceiver (however vaguely), for there aren’t perceptions without perceivers. That filled-​in perceiver may exhibit certain patterns (e.g., biases) and may be very different from the implied filmmaker. Of course, there is not really any perceptual narrator there; the only real agent is the filmmaker. But the same point applies to verbal narrators in novels and, for that matter, to characters in both media. We would not want to refrain from talking about patterns in characters or in the narrators of verbal fiction just because those characters and narrators do not really exist, being, rather, the product of an author. 2. For further discussion of these points, see Hogan, Ulysses, 83–​86, 107–​108, 218–​219. 3. In speaking of “hypothetical . . . stream of consciousness,” I am in part drawing on David Herman’s idea of “hypothetical focalization” (Story, 303). However, hypothetical focalization concerns what someone might have perceived if present (303). I am referring, rather, to how a specific character would have verbalized an experience if he or she were in a position to do so. 4. Hawthorne’s novel is an important source for Faulkner’s story of Addie, Whitfield, and Jewel; we will return to this connection. 5. As to the realism, Bedient remarks that “the basic impulse underlying the book is unmistakably a yearning for reality” (274). 6. Of course, a range of critics have recognized the link between these novels. For an overview of some critical approaches to this link, outside the context of stylistic analysis, see Wolter,  31–​34.

Notes

Chapter 4 1. I should note that none of this implies that the Hollywood norms are arbitrary. There may be good reasons—​for example, reasons having to do with human visual processing—​ that make some continuity practices effective (a point articulated and developed by Bordwell, “Convention”). 2. Readers interested in an overview of Hollywood practices may wish to consult Bordwell, Staiger, and Thompson. 3. This is part of the reason for the recent recognition that narratology needs to be medium-​sensitive (see Ryan). 4. I am grateful to Ben Singer for pointing this out to me. 5. On some complications in the use of monochrome versus color photography in Wenders’s film, see my “Metaphor.” 6. For an attempt to systematize varieties of such reworkings, see Hogan, “An Analytic.” 7. For an extended discussion of “medium-​specific as well as transmedial aspects of strategies of subjective representation” (Thon, Transmedial, 233), readers may wish to consult Thon’s Transmedial Narratology, especially chapters six and seven. Thon explores aspects of this topic not treated in the present study. On media theory more generally, Meyrowitz has usefully distinguished three main approaches—​roughly, political, aesthetic, and communicative. Unsurprisingly, these are parallel with the three purposes of style we have been considering throughout this book (i.e., contribution to theme, emotion, and narrative understanding, respectively). 8. As should be clear, I  take the embodied resonances of literary, film, and other representations to include a broader range of sensory phenomena than those that constitute a recipient’s direct contact with the work (e.g., vision and hearing, in the case of film). Thus, I believe Antunes is correct in distinguishing “a medium source of stimuli and the resulting perceptual experience” (5), though I had not thought about this so specifically before I came upon his book. I also broadly agree with Antunes that our experience of film—​ or literature—​is generally ”multisensory,” though here too I had not really considered the topic before. I seem to diverge from Antunes in that I would account for this multisensory quality through simulation, memory, and other processes (contrast Antunes, 16). On the other hand, by my account, this does not mean that we only ”experience ourselves” in these cases (16), since our simulation involves the same sort of neurological experience as actual perception (see Kosslyn, 295, 301, and 325).

Chapter 5 1. For an insightful analysis of the close similarities, and differences, in the visual styles of the film and the original graphic narratives, see Emily Anderson. 2. There are different degrees to which art may inspire film, some extending beyond style to narrative (see Fragola). 3. On the film noir quality of the work, see Bould. 4. Critics have pointed to the importance of Kṛṣṇa references in the work (see, for example, Caldwell, 118). However, they do not seem to have recognized the specifically iconographic resonances (e.g., Hopgood sees the source of the film’s visuals in Satyajit Ray, 145). 5. I should perhaps note that I am not criticizing filmmakers here. Filmmakers have to deal with many more variables in creating a work that includes multiple scenes and

279

280

Notes stretches over a couple of hours. Moreover, viewers—​including filmmakers viewing their own film footage—​cannot engage in the same lingering attention to the nuances of a film as they can to those of a painting. Therefore, we would not expect even highly sensitive filmmakers to apply the same fineness of attention to aspects of hue and saturation as we would expect from painters. This is one of the reasons why a painterly sensibility may be innovative—​and stylistically distinctive—​in filmmaking, as in the case of Husain. 6. The scene has been interpreted variously. For a representative discussion, see Gutiérrez-​Albilla. 7. On artifact emotion, see Plantinga, “The Scene,” 69 and 74. 8. These patterns and relations require separate, detailed analysis. For an illuminating treatment of “Husain’s painterly dramaturgy of color” (Lalita Hogan, 114), see Lalita Hogan, 114–​119. 9. For a discussion of the film in relation to Ṣūfism, see 108–​121 of Hogan, Affective.

Chapter 6 1. On some problems with the idea of “pillow-​shots,” see Bordwell, Ozu, 104ff. 2. Moreover, this mirroring might elicit emotion expressions (e.g., sobs) on the part of individual viewers, which would in turn intensify the responses of other viewers, through the sorts of “audience effect” that have been so valuably analyzed by Hanich.

Chapter 7 1. In fact, Plantinga rejects the concept of identification as excessively vague. However, his argument clearly bears on the sort of experience that many other theorists refer to as “identification.” 2. On interpersonal stance, see Frijda and Scherer (10) and Hogan, Literature, 41 and 181. 3. The point applies to other forms of visual art also, as one would expect from the work of Freedberg and Gallese. 4. Other writers have treated PoV shots in relation to Phenomenology and embodiment. See, for example, Dalmasso for another approach, drawing on Maurice Merleau-​Ponty’s  work. 5. For help in making sense of this image, I am grateful to Sungchul Kim, Joonhyuk Kim, Peter Zarrow, and Sungchul’s mom, Wonsook Kim (who went to school under Japanese occupation). 6. On the association of God with the in-​group, see Hogan, Understanding Nationalism, 118–​123. 7. Recently, film critics and theorists have developed an interest in embodiment. For a range of perspectives on film and embodiment—​in this case stressing metaphor—​see Coëgnarts and Kravanja, in addition to Gallese and Guerra.

Chapter 8 1. It is worth noting that the foregrounding of a narrator is not a monopoly of modern visual narrative art. We find it in much earlier works (see, for example, the figures on 37 and 40 of Jain, reproducing works of the eighteenth and sixteenth centuries, respectively).

Notes 2. Relevant elements of narration include focalization. For a valuable analysis of focalization in graphic narrative, the reader may wish to consult Horstkotte and Pedri, which includes an insightful treatment of part of Spiegelman’s Maus. 3. I realize that this definition has the consequence that a perfect replica of the work of art—​encompassing all visual features, such as the way light reflects from the edges and furrows defining individual strokes of paint—​would count as the work of art. I believe that is true in the sense that a perfect replica would give us the same experience as the original. It of course would not count as the same individual commodity, just as a print copy of a novel counts as the same work of art as the author’s original manuscript, but it does not count as the same individual commodity. 4. For a treatment of universal story structures in graphic fiction, see Frederick Aldama’s Your Brain,  84–​88. 5. The rectangle is a very strongly dominant norm. For example, even when Spiegelman uses a circle, it is usually embedded in a partially delimited rectangle, defined by the text and the adjacent panels (see I: 43, 51, 64, and 140). 6. See, for example, Hatfield on “Clear Line” versus “more expressionistic styles” (61). 7. This need not be the only reason for Spiegelman’s choice of a particular style of visual representation (one so different from Spiegelman’s earlier “Prisoner on the Hell Planet:  A Case History,” included in Maus I). For example, Doherty contends that it involves “low-​definition revision of the high-​definition detail of the newsreel Nazis and the Holocaust footage” (77). 8. On some of the complex implications of Spiegelman’s treatment of English in the novel, see Rosen. 9. There are actually some complications in determining just how one should count rows and panels per row. Different decisions on these issues will result in somewhat different figures. But the basic trends for the default or intrinsic norm and main alternatives are clear. 10. The agitation need not involve anger. For example, in another scene, Spiegelman uses the sawtooth speech balloon to convey grief (I: 122). 11. On some critical debates relating to this cat-​and-​mouse metaphor in the novel, see Loman; for a concise overview, see Philip Smith, 500–​502. 12. On the Nazi representation of Jews as rats, see Spiegelman, “Why.” I am grateful to my students Jacob Raggon and Amanda Tierney for bringing this article to my attention. 13. Of course, some perceptual features carry over as well. For example, as Forceville and colleagues note, a graphic panel may present a close-​up or a long shot, an eyeline match (linking a glance with an object glanced at), and other visual configurations familiar from cinema.

281

WORKS CITED Aldama, Frederick. Postethnic Narrative Criticism:  Magicorealism in Oscar “Zeta” Acosta, Ana Castillo, Julie Dash, Hanif Kureishi, and Salman Rushdie. Austin:  University of Texas Press, 2003. Aldama, Frederick. Why the Humanities Matter:  A Commonsense Approach. Austin: University of Texas Press, 2008. Aldama, Frederick. Your Brain on Latino Comics: From Gus Arriola to Los Bros Hernandez. Austin: University of Texas Press, 2009. “Alliance, n.” OED Online. Oxford University Press, September 2016. Web. https://​www. oed.com. Accessed: November 20, 2016. Anderson, Emily. “Sin City, Style, and the Status of Noir.” In Critical Approaches to the Films of Robert Rodriguez. Ed. Frederick Luis Aldama. Austin:  University of Texas Press, 2015, 81–​101. Antunes, Luis Rocha. The Multisensory Film Experience: A Cognitive Model of Experiential Film Aesthetics. Bristol, UK: Intellect, 2016. Ardolino, Frank. “The Induction of Sly:  The Influence of The Spanish Tragedy on Two Shrews.” Explorations in Renaissance Culture 31.2 (2005): 165–​187. Armstrong, Nancy. “A Language of One’s Own: Communication-​Modeling Systems in Mrs. Dalloway.” Language and Style 16 (1983): 343–​360. Ayeres, Harry. “The English Language in America.” In Trent, et al., vol. 3, 1921, 554–​571. Baetens, Jan, and Hugo Frey. The Graphic Novel: An Introduction. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015. Ball, Philip. The Music Instinct:  How Music Works and Why We Can’t Do without It. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010. Bate, Walter Jackson. The Burden of the Past and the English Poet. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1970. Bedient, Calvin. “Pride and Nakedness: As I Lay Dying.” In Faulkner, 2010, 262–​275. Beethoven, Ludwig van. Fünfte Symphonie (Op.  67). Leipzig:  Breitkopf & Härtel, n.d. Available at https://​musopen.org/​music/​2 567-​s ymphony-​n o-​5 -​i n-​c m-​op-​6 7/​ (accessed August 2, 2018). Belton, John. “Painting by the Numbers:  The Digital Intermediate.” Film Quarterly 61.3 (2008): 58–​65. Bent, Samuel. Familiar Short Sayings of Great Men. 6th ed. Boston, MA:  Ticknor, 1887. Bartleby.com, 2012. Available at http://​www.bartleby.com/​344/​67.html (accessed December 5, 2016.) Biber, Douglas, and Susan Conrad. Register, Genre, and Style. Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 2009. Black, Elizabeth. Pragmatic Stylistics. Edinburgh, UK: Edinburgh University Press, 2006. 283

284

Works Cited Bloom, Harold. The Anxiety of Influence:  A Theory of Poetry. Oxford:  Oxford University Press, 1973. Bonanno, George, Laura Goorin, and Karin Coifman. “Sadness and Grief.” In Lewis, Haviland-​Jones, and Barrett, 2008, 797–​810. Bordwell, David. “Convention, Construction, and Cinematic Vision.” In Post-​ Theory: Reconstructing Film Studies. Ed. David Bordwell and Noël Carroll. Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press, 1996, 87–​107. Bordwell, David. Making Meaning: Inference and Rhetoric in the Interpretation of Cinema. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1989. Bordwell, David. Narration in the Fiction Film. Madison:  University of Wisconsin Press, 1985. Bordwell, David. On the History of Film Style. Cambridge, MA:  Harvard University Press, 1997. Bordwell, David. Ozu and the Poetics of Cinema. Princeton, NJ:  Princeton University Press, 1988. Bordwell, David. Poetics of Cinema. New York: Routledge, 2008. Bordwell, David, Janet Staiger, and Kristin Thompson. The Classical Hollywood Cinema:  Film Style and Mode of Production to 1960. New  York:  Columbia University Press,  1985. Bordwell, David, and Kristin Thompson. Film Art:  An Introduction. 7th ed. Boston, MA: McGraw-​Hill,  2004. Bould, Mark. Film Noir: From Berlin to Sin City. New York: Wallflower, 2005. Branigan, Edward. Point of View in the Cinema. New York: Mouton, 1984. Brecht, Bertolt. “Alienation Effects in Chinese Acting.” In Brecht on Theatre: The Development of an Aesthetic. Ed. and trans. John Willett. London: Methuen, 1974. Brooke, Arthur. The Tragicall History of Romeus and Juliet (1562). Canadian Adaptations of Shakespeare Project. University of Guelph. Available at:  http://​www. canadianshakespeares.ca/​folio/​Sources/​romeusandjuliet.pdf (accessed December 7, 2016.) Brown, Stephanie. “Victims, Heroes, Men, and Monsters: Revisiting a Violent History in City of Life and Death.” Quarterly Review of Film and Video 32.6 (2015): 527–​537. Buñuel, Luis, dir. Viridiana. Screenplay by Julio Alejandro de Castro and Luis Buñuel. Unión Industrial Cinematográfica, 1961. Burke, Michael, ed. The Routledge Handbook of Stylistics. New York: Routledge, 2014. Busse, Beatrix, and Dan McIntyre. “Language, Literature and Stylistics.” In McIntyre and Busse,  3–​12. Busse, Beatrix. “Recent Trends in New Historical Stylistics.” In McIntyre and Busse, 2010,  32–​54. Cai, Zong-​Qi, ed. How to Read Chinese Poetry: A Guided Anthology. New York: Columbia University Press, 2008. Cai, Zong-​Qi. “Pentasyllabic Shi Poetry:  The ‘Nineteen Old Poems.’” In Cai, How, 2008, 103–​117. Cai, Zong-​Qi. “Recent-​Style Shi Poetry: Pentasyllabic Regulated Verse (Wuyan Lüshi).” In Cai, How, 2008, 161–​180. Caldwell, Thomas. “River of Life and Death: Women, Religion, Power and Purity in Water.” Screen Education 64 (2012): 115–​120.

Works Cited Calvino, Italo. If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler. Trans. William Weaver. New  York: Harvest, 1981. Calvino, Italo. Se una notte d’inverno un viaggiatore. Milano, Italy: Oscar Mondadori, 2006. Calvo-​Merino, B., D. Glaser, J. Grezes, R. Passingham, and P. Haggard. “Action Observation and Acquired Motor Skills: An fMRI Study with Expert Dancers.” Cerebral Cortex 15.8 (2005): 1243–​1249. Carroll, Noël. “Film, Emotion, and Genre.” In Plantinga and Smith, 1999, 21–​47. Carroll, Noël. “Toward a Theory of Point-​of-​View Editing: Communication, Emotion, and the Movies.” Poetics Today 14.1 (1993): 123–​141. Ceylan, Nuri, dir. Once Upon a Time in Anatolia. Istanbul, Turkey: Zeynofilm, 2011. Charteris-​Black, Jonathan. “Political Style.” In Stockwell and Whiteley, 2014, 536–​557. Chatman, Seymour. Story and Discourse:  Narrative Structure in Fiction and Film. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1980. Choi, Jinhee. “Leaving It Up to the Imagination: POV Shots and Imagining from the Inside.” The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 63.1 (2005): 17–​25. Chomsky, Noam. Knowledge of Language: Its Nature, Origin, and Use. New York: Praeger,  1986. Chomsky, Noam. Rules and Representations. New York: Columbia University Press, 1980. Cixous, Hélène. “The Laugh of the Medusa.” Trans. Keith Cohen and Paula Cohen. Signs 1.4 (1976): 875–​893. Clark, Billy. “Stylistics and Relevance Theory.” In Burke, 2014, 155–​174. Coëgnarts, Maarten, and Peter Kravanja, eds. Embodied Cognition and Cinema. Leuven, Belgium: Leuven University Press, 2015. Corbett, Edward, and Robert Connors. Style and Statement. New York: Oxford University Press, 1999. Crisp, C. G. Eric Rohmer: Realist and Moralist. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1988. Cui, Yaxiao. “Parentheticals and the Presentation of Multipersonal Consciousness:  A Stylistic Analysis of Mrs. Dalloway.” Language and Literature 23.2 (2014): 175–​187. Culler, Jonathan. Theory of the Lyric. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2017. Cutting, James, and Lynn Kozlowski. “Recognizing Friends by Their Walk: Gait Perception without Familiarity Cues.” Bulletin of the Psychonomic Society 9.5 (1977): 353–​356. Dai Jinhua. “I Want to be Human: A Story of China and the Human.” Trans. Shuang Shen. Social Text 29.4 (2012): 129–​150. Dalle Vacche, Angela. “Painting Thoughts, Listening to Images: Eric Rohmer’s The Marquise of  O . . .  . ” Film Quarterly 46.4 (1993): 2–​15. Dalmasso, Anna Caterina. “Le plan subjectif reversible: Sur le point de vue au cinema à partir des écrits de Merleau-​Ponty.” Studia Phaenomenologica 16 (2016): 135–​162. Danson, Lawrence. “The Shakespeare Remix:  Romance, Tragicomedy, and Shakespeare’s ‘Distinct Kind.’” In Guneratne, 2012, 101–​118. Davis, Dick. “Introduction.” In Farid ud-​Din Attar. The Conference of the Birds. Trans. Afkham Darbandi and Dick Davis. New York: Penguin, 1984. De Grazia, Margreta, and Stanley Wells, eds. The Cambridge Companion to Shakespeare. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001. Damasio, Antonio. Descartes’ Error:  Emotion, Reason, and the Human Brain. New  York: Avon, 1994. Daniélou, Alain. The Myths and Gods of India. Rochester, VT:  Inner Traditions International, 1985.

285

286

Works Cited Dimberg, Ulf, and Sven Söderkvist. “The Voluntary Facial Action Technique: A Method to Test the Facial Feedback Hypothesis.” Journal of Nonverbal Behavior 35.1 (2011): 17–​33. Diversity and the Film Industry:  An Analysis of the 2014 UIS Survey on Feature Film Statistics. Montreal, Canada: UNESCO Institute for Statistics, 2016. Available at http://​ uis.unesco.org/​sites/​default/​f iles/​documents/​diversity-​and-​the-​f ilm-​industry-​an-​ analysis-​of-​the-​2014-​uis-​survey-​on-​feature-​film-​statistics-​2016-​en_​0.pdf (accessed April 22, 2018). Doherty, Thomas. “Art Spiegelman’s Maus:  Graphic Art and the Holocaust.” American Literature 68.1 (1996): 69–​84. Dostoyevsky, Fyodor. The Brothers Karamazov. Trans. Constance Garnett. New  York: Dover, 2005. Eisner, Will. Comics and Sequential Art. New York: Norton 2008. Eliot, T. S. “Tradition and the Individual Talent.” In Selected Essays: 1917–​1932. New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1932, 3–​11. Evans, Dylan. Emotion: A Very Short Introduction. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001. Ewert, Jeanne. “Reading Visual Narrative:  Art Spiegelman’s Maus.” Narrative 8.1 (2000): 87–​103. Fabb, Nigel, Derek Attridge, Alan Durant, and Colin MacCabe, eds. The Linguistics of Writing:  Arguments between Language and Literature. New  York:  Methuen, 1987, 67–​75. Fauconnier, Gilles, and Mark Turner. The Way We Think:  Conceptual Blending and the Mind’s Hidden Complexities. New York: Basic Books, 2003. Faulkner, William. As I Lay Dying. Ed. Michael Gorra. New York: Norton, 2010. Faulkner, William. Sanctuary. New York: Random House, 1958. Fialho, Olivia, and Sonia Zyngier. “Quantitative Methodological Approaches to Stylistics.” In Burke, 2014, 329–​345. Fischer, Olga. “Iconicity.” In Stockwell and Whiteley, 2014, 377–​392. Fish, Stanley. Is There a Text in This Class? The Authority of Interpretive Communities. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1980, 21–​67. Fish, Stanley. How to Write a Sentence and How to Read One. New York: Harper, 2011. Fiske, Susan, Lasana Harris, and Amy Cuddy. “Why Ordinary People Torture Enemy Prisoners.” Science 306.5701 (November 26, 2004): 1482–​1483. Fontaine, Johnny. “Dimensional Emotion Models.” In Sander and Scherer, 2009, 119–​120. Forceville, Charles, Elisabeth El Refaie, and Gert Meesters. “Stylistics and Comics.” In Burke, 2014, 485–​499. Forgas, Joseph P. “Affect and Information Processing Strategies: An Interactive Relationship.” In Forgas, Feeling, 2000, 253–​280. Forgas, Joseph. “Introduction: The Role of Affect in Social Cognition.” In Forgas, Feeling, 2000,  1–​28. Forgas, Joseph, ed. Feeling and Thinking:  The Role of Affect in Social Cognition. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000. Fowles, Don. “Arousal.” In Sander and Scherer, 2009, 50. Fragola, Anthony. “Art as a Source of Imagistic Generator for Narrative.” Journal of Film and Video 42.3 (1990): 41–​50. Franco, James, dir. As I  Lay Dying. Screenplay by James Franco and Matt Rager. Cinematography by Christina Voros. Burbank, CA: Rabbit Bandini Productions, 2013.

Works Cited Freedberg, David, and Vittorio Gallese. “Motion, Emotion and Empathy in Esthetic Experience.” Trends in Cognitive Science 11.5 (2007): 197–​203. Frijda, Nico, and Klaus Scherer. “Affect (Psychological Perspectives).” In Sander and Scherer, 2009, 10. Frijda, Nico. The Emotions. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986. Gallese, Vittorio, and Michele Guerra. The Empathic Screen:  Cinema and Neuroscience. Trans. Frances Anderson. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2019. Garman, Michael. Psycholinguistics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990. Gaut, Berys. “Identification and Emotion in Narrative Film.” In Plantinga and Smith, 1999, 200–​216. Gaut, Berys. A Philosophy of Cinematic Art. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010. Gaut, Berys, and Dominic McIver Lopes, eds. The Routledge Companion to Aesthetics. 2nd ed. New York: Routledge, 2001. Gillioz, Christelle, Johnny Fontaine, Cristina Soriano, and Klaus Scherer. “Mapping Emotion Terms into Affective Space: Further Evidence for a Four-​Dimensional Structure.” Swiss Journal of Psychology 75.3 (2016): 141–​148. Godard, Jean-​Luc, dir. Le Gai Savoir. Written by Jean-​Luc Godard. Cinematography by Georges Leclerc. Paris: ORTF, 1969. Goodman, Nelson. Ways of Worldmaking. Indianapolis, IN: Hackett, 1978. Gorra, Michael. “Introduction.” In Faulkner, As I Lay Dying, 2010, vii–​xiii. Gorra, Michael. “William Faulkner:  A Chronology.” In Faulkner, As I  Lay Dying, 2010, 377–​380. Graff, Gerald. “The Pseudo-​Politics of Interpretation.” Critical Inquiry 9.3 (1983): 597–​610. Greenblatt, Stephen. Will in the World:  How Shakespeare Became Shakespeare. New York: Norton, 2004. (Unpaginated Kindle edition.) Greenblatt, Stephen, with Walter Cohen, Jean Howard, and Katherine Maus, eds. The Norton Shakespeare. New York: Norton, 1997. Grice, Paul. Studies in the Way of Words. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1989. Guneratne, Anthony R. Shakespeare and Genre:  From Early Modern Inheritances to Postmodern Legacies. New York: Palgrave, 2012. Gutierrez-​Albilla, Julian Daniel. “Picturing the Beggars in Luis Buñuel’s Viridiana:  A Perverse Appropriation of Leonardo da Vinci’s Last Supper.” Journal of Romance Studies 5.2 (2005): 59–​73. Haidt, Jonathan. The Righteous Mind: Why Good People Are Divided by Politics and Religion. New York: Pantheon, 2012. Hain, G., G. Silani, K. Preuschoff, C. D. Batson, and T. Singer. “Neural Responses to Ingroup and Outgroup Members’ Suffering Predict Individual Differences in Costly Helping.” Neuron 68 (2010): 149–​160. Hall, Judith. “Nonverbal Communication.” In Sander and Scherer, 2009, 282–​283. Han, Seunghee, and Jennifer Lerner. “Decision-​Making.” In Sander and Scherer, 2009, 111–​113. Hanich, Julian. The Audience Effect:  On the Collective Cinema Experience. Edinburgh, UK: Edinburgh University Press, 2018. Hatfield, Charles. Alternative Comics: An Emerging Literature. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 2005. Heath, Stephen. Questions of Cinema. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1981.

287

288

Works Cited Heimann, Katrin, Maria Alessandra Umiltà, Michele Guerra, and Vittorio Gallese. “Moving Mirrors: A High-​Density EEG Study Investigating the Effect of Camera Movements on Motor Cortex Activation during Action Observation.” Journal of Cognitive Neuroscience 26.9 (2017): 2087–​2101. Hemingway, Ernest. “A Very Short Story.” In The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway: The Finca Vigía Edition. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1987, 105–​108. Herman, David, ed. The Cambridge Companion to Narrative. Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 2007. Herman, David. “Hypothetical Focalization.” Narrative 2.3 (1994): 230–​253. Herman, David. Story Logic: Problems and Possibilities of Narrative. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2004. Herman, David, Manfred Jahn, and Marie-​Laure Ryan, eds. Routledge Encyclopedia of Narrative Theory. New York: Routledge, 2008. Hickok, Gregory. The Myth of Mirror Neurons:  The Real Neuroscience of Communication and Cognition. New York: Norton, 2014. Hintikka, Jaakko. The Intentions of Intentionality and Other New Models for Modalities. Boston, MA: Reidel, 1975. Hogan, Lalita Pandit. “Color and Artefact Emotion in Alternative Cinema: A Comparative Analysis of Gabbeh, Mirch Masala, and Meenaxi:  A Tale of 3 Cities.” Projections 3.2 (2009): 105–​123. Hogan, Patrick Colm. Affective Narratology:  The Emotional Structure of Stories. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2011. Hogan, Patrick Colm. “An Analytic of Adaptation and Related Processes.” In Adaptation: Theory, Criticism and Pedagogy. Ed. Ljubica Matek and Željko Uvanović. Aachen, Germany: Shaker Verlag, 2018, 17–​36. Hogan, Patrick Colm. “Auteurs and Their Brains: Cognition and Creativity in the Cinema.” In Visual Authorship: Creativity and Intentionality in Media. Ed. Torben Grodal, Bente Larsen, and Iben Thorving Laursen. Copenhagen, Denmark: Museum Tusculanum P/​ University of Copenhagen, 2005, 67–​86. Hogan, Patrick Colm. Beauty and Sublimity:  A Cognitive Aesthetics of Literature and the Arts. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016. Hogan, Patrick Colm. The Cambridge Encyclopedia of the Language Sciences. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011. Hogan, Patrick Colm. “How an Author’s Mind Made Stories: Emotion and Ethics in Tagore’s Short Fiction.” Frontiers of Narrative Studies 3.1 (2017): 158–​178. Hogan, Patrick Colm. How Authors’ Minds Make Stories. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013. Hogan, Patrick Colm. Imagining Kashmir: Emplotment and Colonialism. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2016. Hogan, Patrick Colm. Joyce, Milton, and the Theory of Influence. Gainesville:  University Press of Florida, 1995. Hogan, Patrick Colm. Literature and Emotion. New York: Routledge, 2018. Hogan, Patrick Colm. “Metaphor in Cinematic Simulation, or Why Wim Wenders’s Angels Live in a Colorless World.” In Embodied Metaphors in Film, Television, and Video Games: Cognitive Approaches. Ed. Kathrin Fahlenbrach. New York: Routledge, 2016, 51–​66.

Works Cited Hogan, Patrick Colm. The Mind and Its Stories: Narrative Universals and Human Emotion. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003. Hogan, Patrick Colm. Narrative Discourse: Authors and Narrators in Literature, Film, and Art. Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 2013. Hogan, Patrick Colm. On Interpretation: Meaning and Inference in Law, Psychoanalysis, and Literature. Athens: University of Georgia Press, 2008. Hogan, Patrick Colm. “On the Meaning of Visual Style:  Cognition, Culture, and Visual Technique in Bimal Roy’s Sujata.” Projections:  The Journal for Movies and Mind 3.2 (2009): 71–​90. Hogan, Patrick Colm. The Politics of Interpretation: Ideology, Professionalism, and the Study of Literature. New York: Oxford University Press, 1990. Hogan, Patrick Colm. “Rabindranath Tagore, Implied Painter: On the Narratology of Visual Art.” South Asia: Journal of South Asian Studies 35.1 (2012): 48–​72. Hogan, Patrick Colm. “Sensorimotor Projection, Violations of Continuity, and Emotion in the Experience of Film.” Projections: The Journal for Movies and Mind 1.1 (Summer 2007): 41–​58. Hogan, Patrick Colm. Sexual Identities:  A Cognitive Literary Study. Oxford:  Oxford University Press, 2018. Hogan, Patrick Colm. Ulysses and the Poetics of Cognition. New York: Routledge, 2014. Hogan Patrick Colm. Understanding Indian Movies:  Culture, Cognition, and Cinematic Imagination. Austin: University of Texas Press, 2008. Hogan, Patrick Colm. Understanding Nationalism:  On Narrative, Identity, and Cognitive Science. Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 2009. Hogan, Patrick Colm. What Literature Teaches Us about Emotion. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011. Hogan, Patrick Colm. “Why Ratan Fell in Love Unnoticed and Why Ashu Was Ashamed: Tagore’s Short Fiction and the Ethics of Feeling.” Journal of Contemporary Thought 34 (2011):  89–​ 99. Reprinted in Rabindranath Tagore in the 21st Century:  Theoretical Renewals. Ed. Debashish Banerji. New Delhi:  Springer India, 2015, 101–​112. Holland, John H., Keith J. Holyoak, Richard E. Nisbett, and Paul R. Thagard. Induction:  Processes of Inference, Learning, and Discovery. Cambridge, MA:  MIT Press, 1986. Holland, Norman. The Dynamics of Literary Response. New York: Norton, 1975. Holland, Norman. Literature and the Brain. Gainesville, FL: PsyArt Foundation, 2009. Holland, Norman. Poems in Persons:  An Introduction to the Psychoanalysis of Literature. New York: Norton, 1975. Hopgood, Fincina. “The Politics of Melodrama in Deepa Mehta’s Water.” Metro Magazine 149 (2006): 142–​147. Horace. “The Art of Poetry.” Trans., Burton Raffel. In Richter, 1989, 68–​77. Horstkotte, Silke, and Nancy Pedri. “Focalization in Graphic Fiction.” Narrative 19.3 (2011): 330–​357. Hubler, Edward, ed. The Tragedy of Hamlet Prince of Denmark. By William Shakespeare. New York: Signet, 1987. Husain, M. F., dir. Meenaxi: Tale of 3 Cities. Written by M. F. Husain and Owais Husain. Yash Raj Films, 2004.

289

290

Works Cited Jahn, Manfred. “Focalization.” In Herman, Jahn, and Ryan, 2008, 173–​177. Jain, Jyotindra, ed. Picture Showmen:  Insights into the Narrative Tradition in Indian Art. Mumbai, India: Marg Publications, 1998. Jakobson, Roman. “Linguistics and Poetics.” In Style in Language. Ed. T. Sebeok. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1960, 350–​377. Jeffries, Lesley. Critical Stylistics: The Power of English. London: Palgrave, 2009. Jeffries, Lesley, and Daniel McIntyre. Stylistics. Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 2010. Jobert, Manuel. “Phonostylistics and the Written Text.” In Stockwell and Whiteley, 2014, 231–​248. Johnson-​Laird, Philip. The Computer and the Mind: An Introduction to Cognitive Science. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1988. Kahneman, Daniel, and Dale T. Miller. “Norm Theory:  Comparing Reality to Its Alternatives.” Psychological Review 93.2 (1986): 136–​153. Kant, Immanuel. Critique of Judgement. Trans. J. H. Bernard. London:  Hafner Press,  1951. Kaufman, James C., and Robert J. Sternberg, eds. The Cambridge Handbook of Creativity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010. Keen, Suzanne. “Narrative and the Embodied Reader.” In Edinburgh Companion to Contemporary Narrative Theories. Ed. Zara Dinnen and Robyn Warhol. Edinburgh, UK: Edinburgh University Press, 2018, 43–​55. Keen, Suzanne. Narrative Form. 2nd ed. New York: Palgrave, 2015. Keestra, Machiel. “Bounded Mirroring: Joint Action and Group Membership in Political Theory and Cognitive Neuroscience.” In Valk, 2012, 222–​248. Kenny, Anthony. The Computation of Style:  An Introduction to Statistics for Students of Literature and Humanities. New York: Pergamon Press, 1982. Kiparsky, Paul. “On Theory and Interpretation.” In Fabb, Attridge, Durant, and MacCabe, 1987, 185–​198. Klimecki, Olga, and Tania Singer. “Empathy from the Perspective of Social Neuroscience.” In The Cambridge Handbook of Human Affective Neuroscience. Ed. Jorge Armony and Patrik Vuilleumier. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013, 533–​549. Knapp, Steven, and Walter Benn Michaels. “Against Theory.” In Against Theory:  Literary Studies and the New Pragmatism. Ed. W. J. T. Mitchell. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1985, 11–​30. Koivula, Anniina. “A Duty to Visit the Nanjing Massacre Memorial.” Gbtimes.com (December 12, 2016). http://​gbtimes.com/​travel/​duty-​visit-​nanjing-​massacre-​memorial. Kosslyn, Stephen. Image and Brain:  The Resolution of the Imagery Debate. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1994. Kyd, Thomas. The Spanish Tragedy. Ed. Michael Neill. New York: Norton, 2014. Labov, William. Language in the Inner City. Philadelphia:  University of Pennsylvania Press, 1972. Lakoff, George, and Mark Turner. More Than Cool Reason: A Field Guide to Poetic Metaphor. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1989. Lambrou, Marina. “Stylistics, Conversation Analysis and the Cooperative Principle.” In Burke, 2014, 136–​154. Lang, Berel, ed. The Concept of Style. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1979.

Works Cited Langlois, J., and L. Roggman. “Attractive Faces Are Only Average.” Psychological Science 1 (1990): 115–​121. LeDoux, Joseph. The Emotional Brain:  The Mysterious Underpinnings of Emotional Life. New York: Touchstone, 1996. LeDoux, Joseph. Synaptic Self: How Our Brains Become Who We Are. New York: Penguin,  2002. Lee, Haiyan. The Stranger and the Chinese Moral Imagination. Stanford, CA:  Stanford University Press, 2014. Leech, Geoffrey. “Analysing Literature through Language: Two Shakespearean Speeches.” In McIntyre and Busse, 2010, 15–​31. Leech, Geoffrey and Mick Short. Style in Fiction:  A Linguistic Introduction to English Fictional Prose. 2nd ed. Harlow, UK: Pearson Education, 2007. Levinson, Stephen. “Pragmatics, Universals in.” In Hogan, Cambridge, 2011, 654–​657. Levy, Dore. “Literary Theory and Criticism.” In The Columbia History of Chinese Literature. Ed. Victor Mair. New York: Columbia University Press, 2001, 916–​939. Lewis, Michel, Jeannette Haviland-​Jones, and Lisa Feldman Barrett, eds. Handbook of Emotions. 3rd ed. New York: Guilford Press, 2008. Libet, Benjamin. Mind Time:  The Temporal Factor in Consciousness. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2004. Loman, Andrew. “‘Well Intended Liberal Slop’: Allegories of Race in Spiegelman’s Maus.” Journal of American Studies 40.3 (2006): 551–​571. Louw, Bill, and Marija Milojkovic. “Semantic Prosody.” In Stockwell and Whiteley, 2014, 263–​280. Lu Chuan, dir. and writer. Nanjing! Nanjing! (City of Life and Death). Beijing, People’s Republic of China: Beijing Film Studio, 2009. Mahlberg, Michaela. “Grammatical Configuration.” In Stockwell and Whiteley, 2014, 249–​262. Mair, Victor. Painting and Performance: Chinese Picture Recitation and Its Indian Genesis. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1988. Makavejev, Dušan, dir. Montenegro. Written by Donald Arthur, Dusan Makavejev, and Branko Vucicevic. Paris: Europa, 1981. Margolin, Uri. “Character.” In Routledge Encyclopedia of Narrative Theory. Ed. David Herman, Manfred Jahn, and Marie-​Laure Ryan. New York: Routledge, 2008, 52–​57. Martindale, Colin. “Creativity and Connectionism.” In The Creative Cognition Approach. Ed. Steven Smith, Thomas Ward, and Ronald Finke. Cambridge, MA:  MIT Press, 1995, 249–​268. Marx, Karl. “The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte.” In Karl Marx: Selected Writings. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1977, 300–​325. Matsumoto, David. “Facial Expression of Emotion.” In Sander and Scherer, 2009, 175–​176. McCloud, Scott. Making Comics: Storytelling Secrets of Comics, Manga, and Graphic Novels. New York: HarperCollins, 2006. McCloud, Scott. Understanding Comics: The Invisible Art. New York: Harper, 1994. McDonald, Russ. Shakespeare’s Late Style. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006. McEachern, Claire. The Cambridge Companion to Shakespearean Tragedy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002. McIntyre, Dan, and Beatrix Busse, eds. Language and Style. London: Palgrave, 2010. McNally, Richard. “Anxiety.” In Sander and Scherer, 2009, 42–​44.

291

292

Works Cited Mehta, Deepa, dir. Water. Written by Deepa Mehta and Anurag Kashyap. Toronto, Canada: Hamilton-​Mehta Productions, 2005. Meskin, Aaron. “Style.” In Gaut and Lopes, 2001, 489–​500. Meyrowitz, Joshua. “Power, Pleasure, Patterns: Intersecting Narratives of Media Influence.” Journal of Communication 58 (2008): 641–​663. Michaelson, Carol, and Jane Portal. Chinese Art in Detail. Cambridge, MA:  Harvard University Press, 2006. Miller, Dale, and Brian Taylor. “Counterfactual Thought, Regret, and Superstition: How to Avoid Kicking Yourself.” In Heuristics and Biases: The Psychology of Intuitive Judgment. Ed. Thomas Gilovich, Dale Griffin, and Daniel Kahneman. Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 2002. Miner, Earl, Hiroko Odagiri, and Robert Morrell. The Princeton Companion to Classical Japanese Literature. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1985. Misselhorn, Catrin. “Empathy and Dyspathy with Androids: Philosophical, Fictional and (Neuro-​)Psychological Perspectives.” Konturen 2 (2009): 101–​123. Moretti, Franco. Distant Reading. London: Verso, 2013. Mowat, Barbara. “ ‘What’s in a Name?’ Tragicomedy, Romance, or Late Comedy.” In A Companion to Shakespeare’s Works, Volume 4:  The Poems, Problem Comedies, Late Plays. Ed. R. Dutton and J. Howard. Oxford: Blackwell, 2005, 129–​149. Neill, Michael. “Introduction.” In The Spanish Tragedy. By Thomas Kyd. Ed. Michael Neill. New York: Norton, 2014, xi–​xl. Nisbett, Richard. Mindware:  Tools for Smart Thinking. New  York:  Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2015. Noë, Alva. Varieties of Presence. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2012. Nørgaard, Nina. “Multimodality: Extending the Stylistic Tool-​Kit.” In McIntyre and Busse, 2010, 433–​448. Nussbaum, Martha. Upheavals of Thought:  The Intelligence of Emotions. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001. Oatley, Keith. Best Laid Schemes:  The Psychology of Emotions. Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 1992. Oatley, Keith. Emotions: A Brief History. Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2004. Oatley, Keith, Dacher Keltner, and Jennifer Jenkins. Understanding Emotions. 2nd ed. Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2006. Ong, Walter. “The Writer’s Audience is Always a Fiction.” In Interfaces of the Word: Studies in the Evolution of Consciousness and Culture. Ithaca, NY:  Cornell University Press, 1977,  53–​81. Orgel, Stephen. “Introduction.” In The Winter’s Tale. Ed. Stephen Orgel. Oxford:  Oxford University Press, 1996, 3–​83. Ortony, Andrew, Gerald Clore, and Allan Collins. The Cognitive Structure of Emotions. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988. Ozu, Yasujiro, dir. An Autumn Afternoon. Screenplay by Kogo Noda and Yasujiro Ozu. Cinematography by Yuharu Atsuta. Tokyo: Shochiku, 1962. Ozu, Yasujiro, dir. Early Spring. Screenplay by Kogo Noda and Yasujiro Ozu. Cinematography by Yuharu Atsuta. Tokyo: Shochiku, 1956. Ozu, Yasujiro, dir. Early Summer. Screenplay by Kogo Noda and Yasujiro Ozu. Cinematography by Yuharu Atsuta. Tokyo: Shochiku, 1951.

Works Cited Ozu, Yasujiro, dir. The End of Summer. Screenplay by Kogo Noda and Yasujiro Ozu. Cinematography by Asakazu Nakai. Tokyo: Toho, 1961. Ozu, Yasujiro, dir. Equinox Flower. Novel by Ton Satomi. Screenplay by Kogo Noda and Yasujiro Ozu. Cinematography by Yuharu Atsuta. Tokyo: Shochiku, 1958. Ozu, Yasujiro, dir. A Hen in the Wind. Screenplay by Ryosuke Saito and Yasujiro Ozu. Cinematography: Yuharu Atsuta. Tokyo: Shochiku, 1948. Ozu, Yasujiro, dir. Late Autumn. Novel by Ton Satomi. Screenplay by Kogo Noda and Yasujiro Ozu. Cinematography by Yuharu Atsuta. Tokyo: Shochiku, 1960. Ozu, Yasujiro, dir. Late Spring. Story by Kazuo Hirotsu. Screenplay by Kogo Noda and Yasujiro Ozu. Cinematography by Yuharu Atsuta. Tokyo: Shochiku, 1949. Ozu, Yasujiro, dir. Record of a Tenement Gentleman. Screenplay by Yasujiro Ozu and Tadao Ikeda. Cinematography by Yuharu Atsuta. Tokyo: Shochiku, 1947. Ozu, Yasujiro, dir. Tokyo Story. Screenplay by Kogo Noda and Yasujiro Ozu. Cinematography by Yuharu Atsuta. Tokyo: Shochiku, 1953. Ozu, Yasujiro, dir. Tokyo Twilight. Screenplay by Kogo Noda and Yasujiro Ozu. Cinematography by Yuharu Atsuta. Tokyo: Shochiku, 1957. Ozu, Yasujiro, and Kogo Noda. Tokyo Story:  The Ozu/​Noda Screenplay. Trans. Donald Richie and Eric Klestadt. Berkeley, CA: Stone Bridge Press, 2003. Painter, William. The Palace of Pleasure. (1567). Second Tome. Early English Books Online: Text Creation Partnership. University of Michigan Library. Available at https://​ quod.lib.umich.edu/​e/​eebo/​A08840.0001.001/​1:6?rgn=div1;view=fulltext (accessed December 7, 2016). Peeters, Benoît. “Four Conceptions of the Page.” Trans. Jesse Cohn. ImageTexT: Interdisciplinary Comics Studies. 3.3 (2007). Available at http://​www.english.ufl.edu/​ imagetext/​archives/​v3_​3/​peeters/​ (accessed May 9, 2018.) Peplow, David, and Ronald Carter. “Stylistics and Real Readers.” In Burke, 2014, 440–​454. Perlis, Alan. “As I Lay Dying as a Study of Time.” South Dakota Review 10.1 (1972): 103–​110. Phelan, James, and Mary Martin. “The Lessons of ‘Weymouth’: Homodiegesis, Unreliability, Ethics and The Remains of the Day.” In Narratologies: New Perspectives on Narrative Analysis. Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 1999, 88–​109. Pinker, Steven. The Better Angels of Our Nature:  Why Violence Has Declined. New  York: Penguin, 2011. Plamper, Jan. The History of Emotions: An Introduction. Trans. Keith Tribe. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015. Plantinga, Carl. “The Scene of Empathy and the Human Face on Film.” In Plantinga and Smith, 1999, 239–​255. Plantinga, Carl. Moving Viewers: American Film and the Spectator’s Experience. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2009. Plantinga, Carl, and Greg Smith. Passionate Views: Film, Cognition, and Emotion. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1999. Prouty, Charles. “Introduction.” In Kyd, 2014, v–​viii. Pyrhönen, Heta. “Genre.” In Herman, Cambridge, 2007, 109–​124. Ravassat, Mireille, and Jonathan Culpeper, eds. Stylistics and Shakespeare’s Language: Transdisciplinary Approaches. New York: Continuum, 2011. Rhode, Deborah. The Beauty Bias: The Injustice of Appearance in Life and Law. New York: Oxford University Press, 2010.

293

294

Works Cited Richter, David, ed. The Critical Tradition: Classic Texts and Contemporary Trends. Boston, MA: Bedford, 1989. Ritchie, Donald. Ozu. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1974. Rodriguez, Robert, Frank Miller, and Quentin Tarentino, dirs. Sin City. Writing by Frank Miller. New York: Dimension Films, 2005. Rohmer, Eric. Die Marquise von O . . .  . Written by Eric Rohmer, from the story by Heinrich von Kleist. New York: Janus Films, 1976. Rolls, Edmund. Emotion Explained. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007. Rosen, Alan. “The Language of Survival:  English as Metaphor in Spiegelman’s Maus.” Prooftexts 15 (1995): 249–​262. Ryan, Marie-​Laure. “Story/​Worlds/​Media: Tuning the Instruments of a Media-​Conscious Narratology.” In Ryan and Thon, Storyworlds, 2014, 25–​49. Ryan, Marie-​Laure, and Jan-​Noël Thon. “Storyworlds across Media.” In Ryan and Thon, 2014,  1–​21. Ryan, Marie-​Laure, and Jan-​Noël Thon, eds. Storyworlds across Media: Toward a Media-​ Conscious Narratology. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2014. Sachser, N. “Adult Social Bonding: Insights from Nonhuman Mammals.” In Attachment and Bonding: A New Synthesis. Ed. C. S. Carter, L. Ahnert, K. E. Grossmann, S. B. Hrdy, M. E. Lamb, S. W. Porges, and N. Sachser. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2005, 119–​135. Sander, David, and Klaus Scherer, eds. The Oxford Companion to Emotion and the Affective Sciences. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009. Satrapi, Marjane. Persepolis:  The Story of a Childhood. Trans. Mattias Ripa. New  York: Pantheon, 2003. Scarry, Elaine. Dreaming by the Book. New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 1999. Sedgwick, James. “Crying Shame: War Crimes, Sexual Violence, and the Cost of ‘Speaking Out.’” Acta Academica 47.1 (2015): 60–​77. Shakespeare, William. Romeo and Juliet. Ed. Jonathan Bate and Eric Rasmussen. New York: Modern Library, 2009. Shakespeare, William. The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. In Greenblatt and colleagues, 1997, 1659–​1759. Shakespeare, William. The Tragedy of Othello, the Moor of Venice. Ed. Alvin Kernan. New York: Signet, 1986. Shklovsky, Victor. Theory of Prose. Trans. Benjamin Sher. Elmwood Park, IL:  Dalkey Archive Press, 1991. Short, Mick. “Analysing Dialogue.” In Stockwell and Whiteley, 2014, 244–​259. Siefkes, Martin. “Perceptual Qualities of Literary Style.” Scientific Study of Literature 7.1 (2017): 52–​78. Smith, Jeff. “Movie Music as Moving Music.” In Plantinga and Smith, 1999, 146–​167. Smith, Murray. Engaging Characters: Fiction, Emotion, and the Cinema. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995. Smith, Philip. “Spiegelman Studies Part  1 of 2:  Maus.” Literature Compass 12.10 (2015): 499–​508. Snyder, Susan. The Comic Matrix of Shakespeare’s Tragedies:  Romeo and Juliet, Hamlet, Othello, and King Lear. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1979. Snyder, Susan. “The Genres of Shakespeare’s Plays.” In de Grazia and Wells, 2001, 83–​97. Solso, Robert. Cognition and the Visual Arts. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1996.

Works Cited Spiegelman, Art. Maus:  A Survivor’s Tale (I:  My Father Bleeds History). New  York: Pantheon, 1986. Spiegelman, Art. Maus:  A Survivor’s Tale (II:  And Here My Troubles Began). New  York: Pantheon, 1991. Spiegelman, Art. “Why Mice?” New York Review of Books: NYR Daily (October 20, 2011). Available at: http://​www.nybooks.com/​daily/​2011/​10/​20/​why-​mice/​ (accessed May 9, 2018). Spitzer, Leo. Linguistics and Literary History: Essays in Stylistics. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1967. Sternberg, Robert J., and James C. Kaufman. “Constraints on Creativity: Obvious and Not So Obvious.” In Kaufman and Sternberg, 2010, 467–​482. Stockwell, Peter and Sara Whiteley, eds. The Cambridge Handbook of Stylistics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014. Stockwell, Peter. “Atmosphere and Tone.” In Stockwell and Whiteley, 2014, 360–​374. Stockwell, Peter. Texture:  A Cognitive Aesthetics of Reading. Edinburgh, UK:  Edinburgh University Press, 2012. Stubbs, Michael. “Quantitative Methods in Literary Linguistics.” In Stockwell and Whiteley, 2014,  46–​62. Sykes, John. “What Faulkner (Might Have) Learned from Joyce.” The Mississippi Quarterly 58 (2005): 513–​528. Taylor, Gary. “Thomas Middleton:  Lives and Afterlives.” In Thomas Middleton:  The Collected Works. Ed. Gary Taylor and John Lavagnino. Oxford:  Oxford University Press, 2007, 25–​58. Thompson, Kristin. Breaking the Glass Armor:  Neoformalist Film Analysis. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1988. Thon, Jan-​ Noël. “Subjectivity across Media:  On Transmedial Strategies of Subjective Representation in Contemporary Feature Films, Graphic Novels, and Computer Games.” In Ryan and Thon, Storyworlds, 2014, 67–​102. Thon, Jan-​Noël. Transmedial Narratology and Contemporary Media Culture. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2016. Toolan, Michael. The Language of Inequality in the News: A Discourse Analytic Approach. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018. Toolan, Michael. Narrative: A Critical Linguistic Introduction. London: Routledge, 1988. Trent, William, John Erskine, Stuart Sherman, and Carl Van Doren, eds. The Cambridge History of American Literature. 3 vols. (published in one text). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1917, 1918, and 1921. Tsur, Reuven, and Chen Gafni. “Phonetic Symbolism:  Double-​Edgedness and Aspect-​ Switching.” The Literary Universals Project. https://​literary-​universals.uconn.edu/​ 2019/​07/​20/​phonetic-​symbolism-​double-​edgedness-​and-​aspect-​switching/​ (July 20, 2019) (accessed December 19, 2019.) Valk, Frank Vander, ed. Essays on Neuroscience and Political Theory:  Thinking the Body Politic. New York: Routledge, 2012. van Gulik, Robert, ed. and trans. Celebrated Cases of Judge Dee. New York: Dover, 1976. Waggoner, Hyatt. Nathaniel Hawthorne. Minneapolis:  University of Minnesota Press,  1962. Wales, Katie. A Dictionary of Stylistics. 3rd ed. Harlow, UK: Pearson Education, 2011.

295

296

Works Cited Walton, Kendall. Marvelous Images:  On Values and the Arts. Oxford:  Oxford University Press, 2008. Watson, Robert. “Tragedies of Revenge and Ambition.” In McEachern, 2002, 160–​181. Wen Jiang, dir. Devils at the Doorstep (Guǐzi Láile; 鬼子来了). Beijing:  Beijing Zhongbo-​Times,  2000. White, Hayden. Metahistory:  The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-​Century Europe. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1973. Wimsatt, W. K., and M. C. Beardsley. “The Intentional Fallacy.” The Sewanee Review 54.3 (1946): 468–​488. Wollheim, Richard. Art and Its Objects. 2nd ed. Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 1980. Wollheim, Richard. “Pictorial Style: Two Views.” In Lang, 1979, 129–​145. Wolter, Jürgen. “Southern Hesters: Hawthorne’s Influence on Kate Chopin, Toni Morrison, William Faulkner, and Tennessee Williams.” Southern Quarterly 50.1 (2012): 24–​41. Woolf, Virginia. Mrs. Dalloway. Ed. Bonnie Kime Scott. New York: Harvest, 2005. Woolf, Virginia. To the Lighthouse. New York: Harvest, 1955. Wuss, Peter. “The Documentary Style of Fiction Film in Eastern Europe:  Narration and Visual Style.” In Film Style and Story: A Tribute to Torben Grodal. Ed. Lennard Højbjerg and Peter Schepelern. Copenhagen, Denmark:  Museum Tusculanum Press, 2003, 215–​236. Wyatt, David. Hemingway, Style, and the Art of Emotion. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017. Yang, Daqing. “Convergence or Divergence? Recent Historical Writings on the Rape of Nanjing.” American Historical Review 104.3 (1999): 842–​865. Yang, Jing. “Reconstructing the Patriotic Discourse in Contemporary Chinese Cinema: City of Life and Death and Cow.” Journal of Popular Culture 50.4 (2017): 685–​703. Zeami Motokiyo. On the Art of the Nō Drama: The Major Treatises of Zeami. Trans. J. Thomas Rimer and Yamazaki Masakazu. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1984. Zhu, Yanhong. “A Past Revisited: Re-​Presentation of the Nanjing Massacre in City of Life and Death.” Journal of Chinese Cinemas 7.2 (2013): 85–​108. Zunshine, Lisa. Why We Read Fiction: Theory of Mind and the Novel. Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 2006.

INDEX For the benefit of digital users, indexed terms that span two pages (e.g., 52–​53) may, on occasion, appear on only one of those pages. Figures are indicated by f following the page number acting, and emotion in postwar films of Yasujiro Ozu,  183–​84 aesthetic qualities, in graphic narrative, 240–​41 affective-​cognitive stylistics, 5–​6; authors and, 7–​ 10; defining, 3–​5; Mrs. Dalloway (Woolf) as example of, 10–​13; readers and, 7–​10 affective science, cross-​cultural emotions and,  200–​2 ambiguity, and levels of literary style, 51–​53,  54–​55 ambiguity, and verbal narration in Faulkner's As I Lay Dying, 109–​11, 127; authorial voice and literary tradition, 124–​27; distinctive style and function, 119–​27; implied authorship, 122–​24; influence of James Joyce's Ulysses, 125–​26; influence of Nathaniel Hawthorne, 125–​26; multiple perspectives, function of, 113–​16; narrational anomalies, 116–​19; stream of consciousness narration, 112–​13; types of narration,  111–​12 As I Lay Dying (Faulkner): scope of literary style in, 27; verbalization and literary style, 48 As I Lay Dying (Faulkner), film adaptation of, 146–​52, 147–​52f; soliloquies and voice-​overs, 147–​48; temporal and spatial perspectives,  148–​52 As I Lay Dying (Faulkner), verbal narration and ambiguity in, 109–​11, 127; authorial voice and literary tradition, 124–​27; distinctive style and function, 119–​27; implied authorship, 122–​24; influence of James Joyce's Ulysses, 125–​26; influence of Nathaniel Hawthorne, 125–​26; multiple perspectives, function of, 113–​16; narrational anomalies, 116–​19; stream of consciousness narration in, 112–​13; types of narration, 111–​12 attentional orientation, and emplotment in film, 144 authors: and affective-​cognitive stylistics, 7–​ 10; authorial voice and literary tradition,  124–​27

authorship, implied, 122–​24 Autumn Afternoon, An, emplotment in, 197, 203   Bate, Walter Jackson, authorial voice and literary tradition, 124 Beardsley, M.C.: "Intentional Fallacy," 6 Beckett, Samuel: recurrence of stylistic patterns, 29 Benegal, Shyam: Trikal, interpretive ambiguity in,  55–​56 Bloch, Bernard, on defining style, 23–​24 Bloom, Harold, authorial voice and literary tradition, 124 Bordwell, David: on classical filmmaking, 131–​32; on narration, 2781; on schemas and literary norms, 33–​34; suppressive narration in postwar films of Yasujiro Ozu,  181–​82 Brecht, Bertolt, interpretive ambiguities, 52, 55 Brothers Karamazov, The (Dostoyevsky): narrative orientation in, 34–​35 Buffon, Comte de, on literary style, 23–​24 Buñuel, Luis: Viridiana, as example of painterly cinema, 164f, 172   Calvino, Italo: embodiment and narrative, 207, 208; narrative ambiguities, 54 campaign slogans, and political stylistics,  270–​72 Carroll, Noël, on point-​of-​view sequence, 208 character-​addressee narration, in film, 140 characters: and emotion in narrative, 6–​7 Chinese poetry, textualization and, 49–​50 cinema, painterly, 162–​71, 177–​78; degrees of, 163–​64; Die Marquise von O …, 165–​ 68, 166–​67f, 173; functions of painterly techniques, 171–​74; Meenaxi., 168–​71, 169–​71f, 173–​74; Sin City, 158–​62, 174–​ 77; Viridiana, 164f, 164, 172; Water, 164–​65; Water, as example of painterly cinema,  172–​73 cinematic narration. See visual narration

297

298

Index cinematic norms, extrinsic and intrinsic, 131–​ 37; continuity norms, 133–​34, 135–​36; and distribution networks, 132; general vs. categorical norms, 132–​33; Indian cinema, norms of, 137 cinematic style. See film style City of Life and Death. See Nanjing! Nanjing! cognition: bearing of emotion on, 4–​5; embodied cognition, varieties of, 212–​13 comedy: prototypes in romantic comedy, 35–​36,  44–​45 comics, vs. graphic novels, 234 commentator narration, in film, 140–​41 Comte de Buffon, on literary style, 23–​24 construal, and manifestation in film, 144–​46 cross-​cultural emotions, and affective science,  200–​2 Culler, Jonathan, analysis of literary style, 275–​76n24   definition, of literary style, 23–​26 Der Himmel über Berlin, and construal in film, 146 deviation, from stylistic norms, 39 dialogue, and levels of film style, 139–​40 Die Marquise von O …, as example of painterly cinema, 165–​68, 166–​67f, 173 dimensions theory, emotions and, 200–​1 discourse: components in film, 138–​40; components in film, emplotment, 142–​44; components in film, narration, 140–​42; components in literary narrative, 42–​43 distinctiveness, of literary style, 23–​24 distribution networks: and cinematic norms, 132 Dostoyevsky, Fyodor: narrative orientation in The Brothers Karamazov,  34–​35 Dubliners (Joyce): and stylistic scope, 25 duration, and emplotment in film, 143 Dutt, Guru, emotional ambivalence in works of,  56–​57 Dynamics of Literary Response (Holland), 273n4   Early Spring, emplotment in, 193 Early Summer, emplotment in, 189–​93 Eliot, T. S., authorial voice and literary tradition, 124 ellipsis, as feature of Yasujiro Ozu's postwar films, 184–​85,  186–​87 embodiment, in film, 207–​9; embodied cognition, varieties of, 212–​13 embodiment, in Lu Chuan's Nanjing! Nanjing!, 205, 229–​30; context and orientation of film, 214–​15; emotional functions in visual narration, 226–​29; historical background of film, 213–​14; point-​of-​view shots and

character identification, 205–​7; point-​of-​ view techniques, 212; thematic functions in visual narration, 226–​29; and variety of point-​of-​view shots, 215–​29f,  215–​29 emotion: and acting in postwar films of Yasujiro Ozu, 183–​84; authors and effects of, 7–​10; bearing on cognition, 4–​5; characters and, 6–​7; cross-​cultural emotions and affective science, 200–​2; dimensions theory and, 200–​1; emotional functions in visual narration of Nanjing! Nanjing!, 226–​29; engagement of in graphic narrative, 239–​40; fostering and modulating, 63–​71; and functions of style, 5; and levels of literary style, 53–​54, 56–​57; narration emotion, 66–​70; in narrative and style, 2–​3, 5; plot emotion, 85–​86; readers and effects of, 7–​10; role in rational behavior, 4; sound and, 2744; story emotions, 63–​64; storyworld emotions, 63; varieties in literary works, 63–​71; and verbalization, 274n5 emplotment: functions of, 181; and levels of film style, 142–​44; and levels of literary style, 45,  65–​66 emplotment, in Yasujiro Ozu's postwar films, 202–​4; acting and emotion, 183–​ 84; Autumn Afternoon, An, ellipsis and excess in, 197, 203; and cross-​cultural emotions, 200–​2; distinctive visual style, 179–​80,  181; Early Spring, ellipsis and excess in, 193; Early Summer, ellipsis and excess in, 189–​93; Equinox Flower, ellipsis and excess in, 195–​96; Hen in the Wind, A, ellipsis and excess in, 188–​89, 189–​90f, 203f, 203; Japanese culture and, 198–​200; Late Autumn, ellipsis and excess in, 196–​ 97f, 196; Late Spring, ellipsis and excess in, 189, 191–​92f; lingering and excess shots, 186; occlusion as feature of, 184–​85, 186–​87; Record of a Tenement Gentleman, ellipsis and excess in, 187–​88; stylistic practices, unification and extension of, 185, 187; suppressive narration, 181–​83; Tokyo Story, ellipsis and excess in, 193, 194–​95f; Tokyo Twilight, ellipsis and excess in, 193–​95; Who's Who of the Tenements, A, ellipsis and excess in, 187–​88 enactivism, in film, 209, 212–​13 epistemic point-​of-​view shots, 211 Equinox Flower, emplotment style in, 65,  195–​96 excess shots, in Yasujiro Ozu's postwar films, 186 explanatory principles, and intellectual purposes of stylistics, 15

Index facts, and emergence of literary style, 23–​24 familial narrative, defining genre of, 78 Faulkner, William: film adaptation of As I Lay Dying, 146–​52, 147–​52f; stylistic scope, 27; verbalization and literary style, 48 Faulkner, William, verbal narration and ambiguity in As I Lay Dying, 109–​11, 127; authorial voice and literary tradition, 124–​27; distinctive style and function, 119–​27; implied authorship, 122–​24; influence of James Joyce's Ulysses, 125–​26; influence of Nathaniel Hawthorne, 125–​26; multiple perspectives, function of, 113–​16; narrational anomalies, 116–​19; stream of consciousness narration, 112–​13; types of narration,  111–​12 film style, 18, 131, 152–​55; attentional orientation, 144; and cinematic norms, 131–​37; duration, types of, 143; emplotment, 142–​44; As I Lay Dying (Faulkner), film adaptation of, 146–​52, 147–​52f; levels of, 138–​46; manifestation, 144–​46; narration, varieties of, 140–​42; perceptual narration, 141–​42; structural relations, and emplotment, 143–​44; stylistic scope, 137–​38; temporal sequence, 142–​43 Fish, Stanley: affective stylistics, 5–​6, 27510; Is There a Text in This Class?,  5–​6 focalizer, as type of narrator, 111 Franco, James, film adaptation of As I Lay Dying, 146–​52, 147–​52f; soliloquies and voice-​overs, 147–​48; temporal and spatial perspectives,  148–​52 function, of literary style, 57–​71; and conveying themes, 60–​62; fostering and modulating emotion, 63–​71; and understanding narrative,  57–​60 function, of painterly techniques in cinema,  171–​74   Gaut, Berys, on point-​of-​view shots, 205–​6 genres: defining, 73–​79; identifying, 89–​91; identifying distinctions among, 89–​91; integration of, 2777; and prototypes, 75–​76; similar or parallel elements of, 81; types of,  77–​78 genres, integration of in Shakespeare, 73, 107–​8; defining genres, 73–​79; genre integration, aspects of, 82; Hamlet as example, 97–​107; identifying distinctions among genres, 89–​91; in King Lear, 89–​ 90; Romeo and Juliet as example, 82–​89; and story style, 79–​82; types of literary genres,  77–​78 genres, stylistic features of, 29–​30

graphic narrative, style in, 19, 233–​36, 244; aesthetic qualities, 240–​41, 241f, 243; artwork vs. narrative, 237–​38; attachment-​linked reader responses, 243–​44, 244f; book and chapter organization, 245; character speech or thought, 253–​54; emotion, and engagement of interest, 239–​40; framing, functions of, 238; framing norms, 241–​42; functions of style, 239; graphic novels vs. comics, 234; layout, stylistic norms, 242–​43f, 242–​43, 245–​46, 247; lettering, 252–​53; metaphorical features, 255f, 255; movement, depicting, 254; narrative levels, 236–​37, 238; narrator comments, 253–​54; paneling, 249–​52, 250–​ 51f; paneling, iconic contents of, 254; pattern of stylistic choices, 235–​36; patterns and the contents of panels, 246f, 246–​47; perceptual features of, 245–​55; reading sequence, ambiguity in, 247–​48, 248f; row and column organization, 246; sequentiality, 248; story vs. discourse, 252; tabularity, 247, 248–​49; textual features of, 235; variations in style, 246; visual features of, 235; visual perspectives, 252, 253f   Hamlet (Shakespeare): as example of genre integration,  97–​107 Hawthorne, Nathaniel, influence on William Faulkner,  125–​26 Hemingway, Ernest, and narrative orientation, 34–​35,  273n6 Hen in the Wind, A, emplotment in, 188–​89, 189–​90f, 203f, 203 heroic genre: defining, 77–​78; and Romeo and Juliet,  88–​89 Holland, Norman, Dynamics of Literary Response, 273n4 Husain, M. F.: Meenaxi, as example of painterly cinema., 168–​71, 169–​71f,  173–​74   identification. and point-​of-​view shots, 205–​7 If on a Winter's Night a Traveler (Calvino): narrative ambiguity in, 54 Indian cinema, norms of, 137 intentionality, of literary style, 24–​25 interior monologue, as type of narration, 111–​12 In the Labyrinth (Robbe-​Grillet), 54 Is There a Text in This Class? (Fish), 5–​6   Japanese culture, and emplotment in postwar films of Yasujiro Ozu, 198–​200 Joyce, James: deviation from stylistic norms, 40; emotion as function of literary style, 53–​54; influence on William Faulkner, 125–​26; stylistic patterns, 37; stylistic scope, 25; verbalization and literary style, 48

299

300

Index Keen, Suzanne, on embodiment, 207 King Lear (Shakespeare), genre integration in,  89–​90 Kyd, Thomas, genre mixing in The Spanish Tragedy, 91–​97, 108 Labov, William, and orientation in storytelling,  34–​35 Late Autumn, emplotment in, 196–​97f, 196 Late Spring, emplotment in, 189, 191–​92f levels, of film style, 138–​46; attentional orientation, 144; duration, types of, 143; emplotment, 142–​44; manifestation, 144–​46; narration, varieties of, 140–​42; structural relations, and emplotment, 143–​ 44; temporal sequence, 142–​43 levels, of literary style, 41–​42; ambiguity, 51–​ 53, 54–​55; discourse, components of, 42–​ 43; emotion, 53–​54, 56–​57; emplotment, 45, 65–​66; external levels, 50–​57; function, 57–​71; function, and conveying themes, 60–​62; function, and fostering and modulating emotion, 63–​71; function, and understanding narrative, 57–​60; internal levels, 42–​50; internal vs. external, 42; storyworld, 43–​45; textualization, 49–​50; verbalization,  47–​49 levels of stylistic analysis, 17 lingering shots, in Yasujiro Ozu's postwar films, 186 literary periods, stylistic features of, 29–​ 30; authorial voice and literary tradition,  124–​27 literary style, 17–​18, 23, 71–​72; defining, 23–​26; definition of, 26; deviation from stylistic norms, 39; distinctiveness of, 23–​24; and factual basis of writing, 23–​24; functional features of, 25–​26, 57–​71; genres, stylistic features of, 29–​30; intentionality of, 24–​25; levels, external, 50–​57; levels, internal, 42–​ 50; levels, internal vs. external, 42; narrational transitions, 45–​47; and orientation in narrative, 34–​35; patterns, recurrence of, 27–​29, 36–​41; prototypes and, 31–​34; scope and norms, 30–​36; scope of, 25, 26–​30; social styles, 30–​34; stylization, reader awareness of, 40–​ 41; textualization as level of, 49–​50; verbalization as level of, 47–​49 literary tradition, authorial voice and, 124–​27 Lu Chuan, embodiment and point of view in Nanjing! Nanjing!, 205, 229–​30; context and orientation of film, 214–​15; emotional functions in visual narration, 226–​29; historical background of film,

213–​14; point-​of-​view techniques,  212; thematic functions in visual narration, 226–​29; and variety of point-​of-​view shots, 215–​29f,  215–​29 Lynch, David: and cinematic norms in Mulholland Drive, 134–​35; understanding narrative in Mulholland Drive,  59–​60   Madhumati: stylistic patterns in, 36–​37 Making Comics (McCloud), 236 manifestation, and levels of film style, 144–​46 Maus (Spiegelman), 255–​68; discourse, characteristics of, 256; framing, 259, 260f, 260; historical background of, 255–​56; layout and paneling, 256–​59, 257–​58f; metaphorical features, 255f, 255, 261–​62; narration and plot features, 262; optical point of view, 263–​67,  264f; paneling in, 250f, 251; stylistic features, conclusion and, 260–​61, 265–​66f; visual perspective, 259f, 259–​60,  262–​63 McCloud, Scott, Making Comics, 236, 254 Measures Taken, The (Brecht): interpretive ambiguities, 52, 55 medium, defining and demarcating a, 234–​35 Meenaxi, as example of painterly cinema, 168–​ 71, 169–​71f,  173–​74 Mehta, Deepa: Water, as example of painterly cinema, 164–​65, 165f,  172–​73 mentalistic narration, in film, 141 mimetic point-​of-​view shots, 211 Mrs. Dalloway (Woolf): conveying themes, 60–​ 62; emotion and cognition in, 4; as example of affective-​cognitive stylistics, 10–​13; fostering and modulating emotion, 63–​71; and Modernist prototypes, 34; narrational transitions in, 45–​47; narrative orientation in, 35; narrative patterns in, 45; prototypes in romantic tragi-​comedy, 35–​36, 44–​45; reader response to emotion in, 8; rhythm and stress in, 11–​13; scope and literary style in, 27–​29; stylistic patterns in, 37–​39; textual storyworld of, 44–​45; understanding narrative, 57–​59; verbalization and literary style,  48–​49 Mulholland Drive: and cinematic norms, 134–​ 35; understanding narrative in, 59–​60   Nanjing! Nanjing!, 205, 229–​30; context and orientation of film, 214–​15; emotional functions in visual narration, 226–​29; historical background of film, 213–​14; point-​of-​view techniques, 212; thematic functions in visual narration, 226–​ 29; variety of point-​of-​view shots in, 215–​29f,  215–​29

Index narration, suppressive, 181–​83 narration, varieties in film, 140–​42 narration, verbal, 109–​11, 127; authorial voice and literary tradition, 124–​27; distinctive style and function, 119–​27; implied authorship, 122–​24; multiple perspectives, function of, 113–​16; narrational anomalies, 116–​19; stream of consciousness narration, 112–​13; types of narration, 111–​12 narration, visual, 205; embodiment in film, 207–​ 9; enactivism in film, 209; point-​of-​view shots and, 209–​12; point-​of-​view shots and character identification, 205–​7 narration emotion, 66–​70 narrative: discourse, components of, 42–​43; emotion and, 2–​3, 5; emotion and characters, 6–​7; functional patterns in, 57–​60; graphic narrative, style in, 19; narrational transitions, 45–​47 norms, and literary style, 30–​36   occlusion: as feature of Yasujiro Ozu's postwar films, 184–​85, 186–​87; occlusive foregrounds in Indian cinema, 138; and point-​of-​view shots in Nanjing! Nanjing!, 219, 221f orientation, in literary narrative, 34–​35 orientation narration, in film, 141 Ozu, Yasujiro: and continuity norms in cinema, 133 Ozu, Yasujiro, emplotment in postwar films, 202–​ 4; acting and emotion, 183–​84; Autumn Afternoon, An, ellipsis and excess in, 197, 203; and cross-​cultural emotions, 200–​ 2; distinctive visual style, 179–​80, 181; Early Spring, ellipsis and excess in, 193; Early Summer, ellipsis and excess in, 189–​93; Equinox Flower, ellipsis and excess in, 195–​ 96; Hen in the Wind, A, ellipsis and excess in, 188–​89, 189–​90f, 203f, 203; Japanese culture and, 198–​200; Late Autumn, ellipsis and excess in, 196–​97f, 196; Late Spring, ellipsis and excess in, 189, 191–​92f; lingering and excess shots, 186; occlusion as feature of, 184–​85, 186–​87; Record of a Tenement Gentleman, ellipsis and excess in, 187–​88; stylistic practices, unification and extension of, 185, 187; suppressive narration, 181–​83; Tokyo Story, ellipsis and excess in, 193, 194–​95f; Tokyo Twilight, ellipsis and excess in, 193–​95; Who's Who of the Tenements, A, ellipsis and excess in, 187–​88   painterly cinema, 162–​71, 177–​78; degrees of, 163–​64; Die Marquise von O …,

165–​68, 166–​67f, 173; functions of painterly techniques, 171–​74; Meenaxi, 168–​71, 169–​71f, 173–​74; Sin City, 158–​62, 174–​77; Viridiana, 164f, 164, 172; Water, 164–​65; Water, as example of painterly cinema,  172–​73 Paper Flowers, emotional ambivalence in, 56–​57 patterns, recurrence in literary style, 27–​29, 36–​ 41; story patterns in authorial canons, 45 Peeters, Benoît, levels of graphic narrative,  236–​37 perceptual narration, 111 perceptual narration, in film, 141–​42 perceptual target, point-​of-​view shots and,  205–​7 Persepolis (Satrapi): aesthetic qualities of, 240, 241f, 243; attachment-​linked reader responses, 243–​44, 244f; reading sequence in, 248f, 248, 250f perspectives, function of multiple, 113–​16 Plantinga, Carl, on character identification and emotional response, 206, 280n1 plot: as component of discourse, 42; verbalization and textualization of, 43 plot emotion, 85–​86 point of view, in Lu Chuan's Nanjing! Nanjing!, 205, 229–​30; context and orientation of film, 214–​15; emotional functions in visual narration, 226–​29; historical background of film, 213–​14; point-​of-​view techniques, 212; thematic functions in visual narration, 226–​29; variety of point-​ of-​view shots, 215–​29f,  215–​29 point-​of-​view shots: character identification and, 205–​7; cinematic narration and,  209–​12 political stylistics, 269–​72; affective-​cognitive approach, 270; campaign slogans and, 270–​72; and examining implicit political attitudes, 269–​70; narration, level of, 271; story, level of, 271; textualization, 270–​71 political topics, and cognitive-​affective stylistics, 19 Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (Joyce): stylistic patterns in, 37; and stylistic scope, 25 Prem Patra: stylistic patterns in, 36–​37 prototypes: genres and, 75–​76; and social styles in literature, 31–​34; and romantic tragi-​ comedy, 35–​36,  44–​45   readers: and affective-​cognitive stylistics, 7–​10 Record of a Tenement Gentleman, emplotment in,  187–​88 rhythm: in Mrs. Dalloway,  11–​13

301

302

Index Robbe-​Grillet, Alain, narrative ambiguities, 54 Rodriquez, Robert, Sin City, 157–​58, 160–​62f; deviation from stylistic norms, 39, 40; as example of painterly cinema, 174–​77, 178; opening scenes, 158–​62 Rohmer, Eric: Die Marquise von O …, as example of painterly cinema, 165–​68, 166–​67f, 173 romantic genre, defining, 77 Romeo and Juliet (Shakespeare): as example of genre integration, 82–​89 Roy, Bimal: conveying themes, 60; recurring stylistic patterns, 36–​37; secondary stylistic patterns, 34   sacrificial story: defining genre of, 78; and Romeo and Juliet, 88 salience, in cinematic storyworld, 180 Satrapi, Marjane, Persepolis: aesthetic qualities of, 240, 241f, 243; attachment-​linked reader responses, 243–​44, 244f; reading sequence in, 248f, 248, 250f scope, of literary style, 25, 26–​30; scope and norms, 30–​36; social styles, 30–​34 self-​righteousness, literary criticism and, 14 Shakespeare, William, and integration of genres, 73, 107–​8, 277n6; defining genres, 73–​79; genre integration, aspects of, 82; genres, identifying distinctions among, 89–​ 91; Hamlet as example of, 97–​107; in King Lear,  89–​90; Romeo and Juliet as example, 82–​89; and story style, 79–​82; types of literary genres, 77–​78 Shakespeare, William, emotional ambivalence in works of, 56–​57 Sin City, 157–​58, 160–​62f; deviation from stylistic norms, 39, 40; as example of painterly cinema, 174–​77, 178; opening scenes,  158–​62 social justice, literary criticism and advancement of,  13–​14 social styles, literary norms and, 30–​34 soliloquies, in film adaptation of Faulkner's As I Lay Dying,  147–​48 Spanish Tragedy, The (Kyd), 91–​97, 108 spatial perspective, in film adaptation of Faulkner's As I Lay Dying,  148–​52 Spiegelman, Art, Maus, 255–​68; discourse, characteristics of, 256; framing, 259, 260f, 260; historical background of, 255–​56; layout and paneling, 256–​59, 257–​58f; metaphorical features, 255f, 255, 261–​62; narration and plot features, 262; optical point of view, 263–​67, 264f; paneling in, 250f, 251; stylistic features, conclusion and,

260–​61, 265–​66f; visual perspective, 259f, 259–​60,  262–​63 story: definition in film, 180; story emotions, 63–​64; story patterns in authorial canons, 45; vs. discourse, 42–​43 storyworld: definition in film, 180; as level of literary style, 43–​45; salience of in film, 180; storyworld emotions, 63 stream of consciousness: in Faulkner's As I Lay Dying, 112–​13; as type of narration, 111–​ 12; in Woolf 's Mrs. Dalloway, 45 structural relations, and emplotment in film,  143–​44 structure of stories, genre integration and, 73, 107–​8; defining genres, 73–​79; genre integration, aspects of, 82; genres, identifying distinctions among, 89–​91; Hamlet as example, 97–​107; King Lear, 89–​ 90; Romeo and Juliet as example, 82–​89; and story style, 79–​82; types of literary genres,  77–​78 style: and emotion, 2–​3, 5; film style, 18; functions of, 2–​3; graphic narrative, style in, 19; literary style, 17–​18 style, rationale for studying, 12–​16; intellectual purposes of stylistics, 15; practical purposes of stylistics, 15–​16; self-​righteousness, literary criticism and, 14; social justice, literary criticism and advancement of,  13–​14 stylistic analysis: of film style, 18; of graphic narrative, 19; levels of, 17; of literary style, 17–​18; and theoretical principles, 18–​ 19; types of, 16–​17 stylistic practices, unification and extension of, 185, 186f, 187 stylistics: affective-​cognitive stylistics, 3–​6; defining, 1–​2; intellectual purposes of, 15; and political topics, 19; practical purposes of, 15–​16; stylistic analysis, levels of, 17; stylistic analysis, types of, 16–​17 stylization, reader awareness of, 40–​41 Sufi narratives, interpretive ambiguities, 55 Sujata: conveying themes, 60; secondary stylistic patterns in, 34 suppressive narration, 181–​83   Tagore, Rabindranath: narrative ambiguities, 54–​ 55; recurrence of stylistic patterns, 29 temporal perspective, in film adaptation of Faulkner's As I Lay Dying,  148–​52 temporal sequence, and emplotment in film, 142–​43 textualization: Chinese poetry and, 49–​50; as component of discourse, 43; as level of literary style, 49–​50

Index themes: literary style and conveying, 60–​62; thematic functions in visual narration of Nanjing! Nanjing!,  226–​29 theoretical principles, stylistic analysis and, 18–​19 Titanic, narration in, 140 Tokyo Story, emplotment in, 193, 194–​95f Tokyo Twilight, emplotment in, 193–​95 Trikal, interpretive ambiguity in, 55–​56 types of stylistic analysis, 16–​17 Ulysses (Joyce): deviation from stylistic norms, 40; emotion as level of literary style, 53–​54; influence on William Faulkner, 125–​26; scope and literary style in, 27; verbalization and literary style, 48 verbalization: as component of discourse, 43; and emotion in narrative, 70–​71, 274n5; as level of literary style, 47–​49 verbal narration, 109–​11, 127; authorial voice and literary tradition, 124–​27; distinctive style and function, 119–​27; in film, 140–​ 41; implied authorship, 122–​24; multiple perspectives, function of, 113–​16; narrational anomalies, 116–​19; stream of consciousness narration, 112–​13; types of narration, 111–​12 "Very Short Story, A" (Hemingway): narrative orientation in, 34–​35 Viridiana, and painterly cinema, 164f, 164, 172 visual narration, 205; embodiment in film, 207–​ 9; enactivism in film, 209; point-​of-​view shots and, 209–​12; point-​of-​view shots and character identification, 205–​7

voice-​overs, in film adaptation of Faulkner's As I Lay Dying,  147–​48 Water, as example of painterly cinema, 164–​65, 165f,  172–​73 Wenders, Wim, Der Himmel über Berlin, and construal in film, 146 Who's Who of the Tenements, A, emplotment in,  187–​88 Wimsatt, W.K.: "Intentional Fallacy," 6 Wollheim, Richard: functional features of literary style, 25–​26; scope and norms of literary style, 30 Woolf, Virginia: conveying themes, 60–​ 62; emotion and cognition in Mrs. Dalloway, 4; fostering and modulating emotion, 63–​7 1; and Modernist prototypes, 34; Mrs. Dalloway as example of affective-​ cognitive stylistics, 10–​1 3; narrational transitions, 45–​4 7; and narrative orientation, 35; narrative patterns, 45; prototypes and romantic tragi-​c omedy, 35–​3 6, 44–​4 5; reader response to emotion in Mrs. Dalloway, 8; rhythm and stress in Mrs. Dalloway,  11–​1 3; stylistic patterns, 37–​3 9; stylistic scope, 27–​2 9, 30; textual storyworld, 44–​ 45; understanding narrative, 57–​5 9; verbalization and literary style, 48–​4 9 Zeami Motokiyo, and Japanese culture and dramatic arts, 199–​200

303