The Story-Shaped World: Fiction and Metaphysics: Some Variations on a Theme 9781472554437, 9781472507846, 9781472510723

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For Teresa, especially and for Mary, Philip and Lucy as well

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Preface

W e have been saying for a l o n g time n o w that literature is an indispens­ able witness i n the courts o f the philosopher and the theologian; and conversely that the literary critic can n o longer afford to be a mere visitor i n the t e r r i t o r y o f the speculative thinker. I n this b o o k I have tried to bear witness i n t w o places at once, b y discussing some c o m m o n themes from b o t h points o f view. I n Part One I have tried to explore the philosophical and theological implications o f t w o main ideas: the idea that metaphor, especially as understood b y linguists, is endemic i n all communication since i t is simply one o f the t w o 'poles' o f language itself; and the idea that metaphor is never an 'innocent' figure b u t always implies a subterranean metaphysic. I n Part T w o I t r y to show h o w the conclusions d r a w n from these provocative and sometimes unwelcome thoughts illuminate the w o r k o f various m o d e r n writers o f fiction. I should perhaps indicate briefly h o w the material o f the b o o k is organised. I have subtitled i t 'some variations o n a theme' to suggest h o w each chapter, w h i l e retaining a measure o f self-sufficiency and u n i t y o f purpose, contributes f r o m a particular v i e w p o i n t to a c o m m o n set o f preoccupations. A f t e r an introduction i n w h i c h I introduce some basic elements o f m y theme, I t r y i n Chapter i to show the hidden connections between m o d e r n theories o f language and the traditional concepts o f 'analogy' and 'metaphor'. Chapter 2 pursues this investiga­ tion further b y considering the concept o f narrative, i n w h i c h the related dimensions o f analogy and metaphor play a crucial role. Chapters 3 and 4 explore t w o concepts that have arisen i n the preceding discussion: those o f 'Nature' and ' G o d ' . These four chapters consti­ tute the 'theoretical' aspect o f m y enquiry. I n Part T w o I approach m y theme from the critical end, b y essays on three pairs o f contrasting masters o f fiction i n the present century: Lawrence and Joyce, W a u g h and Beckett, Robbe-Grillet and Mailer. I n each case some aspect o f

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what has already been discussed i n a theoretical w a y is as i t were tested out i n the practice o f narrative art. T h u s the various sections o f the b o o k circle around a set o f related notions that constitute its central preoccupation. But the theme as such I do n o t attempt to 'state' directly, t h o u g h I hope i t emerges w i t h increasing clarity f r o m the juxtaposition o f different approaches. F o r it is not a thesis but rather an exploration o f the relations that h o l d , I believe, between apparently disparate concepts drawn f r o m a variety o f disciplines: linguistics, literary criticism, the philosophy o f language, speculative theology. I shall be satisfied i f a few new connections between these disciplines have been made and not too many wires have become crossed i n the process. M y thanks are due to many people w i t h w h o m I have discussed the content and f o r m o f this b o o k , b u t especially to I a n Gregor, D a v i d L o d g e and W a l t e r Stein w h o have all made i m p o r t a n t suggestions and saved me f r o m many mistakes, although they are i n n o sense responsible for those that remain. I must also thank the editors o f New Blackfriars (Herbert McCabe) and The Journal of Narrative Technique (George Perkins) for accepting parts o f the b o o k for publication as articles. T h e poem Myxomatosis b y Philip L a r k i n is reprinted f r o m The Less Deceived by permission o f M r L a r k i n and T h e Marvell Press, England. Finally, I must thank m y sister, M r s Shirley Edwards for d r a w i n g a diagram, M r s Sylvia Buchanan for help w i t h the b i b l i o g r a p h y and index, and especially m y wife and family for p u t t i n g up w i t h me w h i l e the w o r k was w r i t t e n . Department o f Extramural Studies University o f Birmingham 1974

B.W.

Note

I n addition t o the numbered footnotes, notes o f a more extended and discursive character are to be f o u n d at the end o f each part, o n pages 107-13 and 2 0 8 - 1 2 respectively. Asterisks are used to refer the reader to these notes.

Introduction: Metaphor and Metaphysics in Fiction

T h e novel has always been the most comprehensive and ill-defined o f literary forms. B u t today the novelist is faced w i t h an unprecedented number o f m u t u a l l y incompatible choices, n o t merely o f subjectmatter and style, b u t between basic conceptions o f w h a t a novel is and indeed o f what k i n d o f w o r l d the novelist himself is l i v i n g i n and t r y i n g to depict. N o t o n l y do critics debate among themselves the 'poetics' o f fiction, b u t novelists too are often i n v o l v e d i n the critical argument. A m o n g the strands w i t h i n the current discussion, and among the various kinds o f w o r k s that offer themselves to the reader under the general rubric o f 'novels' one particular disagreement seems to me to be especially significant. I t can be illustrated b y reference to t w o w e l l - k n o w n names i n the w o r l d o f the contemporary novel: A l a i n R o b b e - G r i l l e t and N o r m a n Mailer. A t the level o f style, the disagreement between the t w o may be seen i n their differing attitudes to the use o f metaphor i n fiction. F o r Mailer, a rich metaphorical diet is a necessity for the w o u l d - b e novelist o f today. A s he himself puts i t , r e p o r t i n g his o w n thoughts as those o f a character i n one o f his o w n 'non-fiction novels', 1

technology had penetrated the modern m i n d to such a depth that voyages i n space had become the last w a y to investigate the meta­ physical pits o f that w o r l d o f technique w h i c h choked the pores o f modern consciousness—yes, w e w o u l d have to go o u t i n t o space u n t i l the breadth and mystery o f new discovery w o u l d force us to comprehend the w o r l d once again as poets, comprehend as savages See the series of articles on 'Towards a Poetics of Fiction' in Novel, beginning in V o l . i (Fall 1967); also Lodge, The Novelist at the Crossroads, Josipovici, The World and the Booh, Bergonzi, The Situation of the Novel. 1

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Introduction

w h o k n e w that i f the universe was a lock, its key was a metaphor rather than measure. 2

Mailer's plea f o r a return to an older poetic and metaphorical w a y o f l o o k i n g at and describing the w o r l d is incarnated i n the v e r y style o f the plea itself: a 'savage' poetry i n w h i c h metaphors proliferate and mingle i n the effort to encompass the p r o b l e m o f the novelist con­ fronted b y the mystery o f a new discovery; w h i c h is also the re­ discovery o f an ancient w i s d o m . R o b b e - G r i l l e t o n the other hand, sees i t as the j o b o f the m o d e r n novelist to get r i d o f all metaphors, to cleanse his linguistic palate o f the taste o f w h a t he calls this 'never innocent figure o f speech'. T o use metaphors, for example to speak o f 'capricious' weather, 'majestic' mountains o r the 'merciless' sun, is to taint a mere object w i t h an i l l i c i t l y anthropomorphic and m o r a l mean­ i n g . Such a t t r i b u t i o n is never disinterested, for i t stems f r o m a dangerous yearning for reassurance that the w o r l d I inhabit is c o n f o r m ­ able to m y designs u p o n i t , that i t has the meaning I w a n t i t to have. A n d furthermore, the price I necessarily pay for this reassurance is extortionate: f o r i t is n o t h i n g less than the sacrifice o f m y personal liberty. I f I . . . confuse m y o w n sadness w i t h the sadness I attribute to the landscape, i f I claim that this is no superficial relationship, I am thereby recognising that m y present life is to some extent pre­ destined. T h e landscape existed before me; i f i t is really it that is sad, i t was sad before I was, and the h a r m o n y I feel today between its f o r m and m y m o o d was w a i t i n g f o r me l o n g before m y b i r t h ; I have always been destined for this sadness.. . 3

But such a subjection o f man to nature is n o t i n fact inescapable. T o d a y , Robbe-Grillet believes, we can see h o w to escape the 'metaphysical pact' that other men made i n days gone b y . Despite their contradictory conclusions about the value o f metaphor, the impulse from w h i c h the arguments o f the t w o novelists spring is the same: a search for freedom. T h e y differ because they have different conceptions o f w h a t enslaves them and their fellow-men. F o r RobbeGrillet, the apparent despot is 'Nature': 2

3

A Fire on the Moon, pp. 379-80. Snapshots and Towards a New Novel, p. 80.

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. . . i t is precisely Nature—animal, vegetable and mineral—that is the first to be tainted w i t h our anthropomorphical vocabulary. T h i s Nature, whether mountain, sea, forest, desert or valley, is b o t h o u r model and our heart. She is i n us and i n front o f us at the same time. She is neither temporary n o r contingent. She petrifies us, judges us, and assures our s a l v a t i o n . . . [Therefore] to reject o u r alleged 'nature' and the vocabulary that perpetuates its m y t h , to treat objects as purely external and superficial, is not—as people have claimed—to deny man, b u t to refuse to accept the 'pan-anthropic' content o f traditional, and probably every other, humanism. I n the final analysis i t is merely to carry m y claim to personal l i b e r t y to its logical conclusion. 4

B u t the real despot, as R o b b e - G r i l l e t goes o n to show i n discussing nineteenth-century romantic fiction, is a bourgeois ideology w h i c h presents its particular mode o f interpreting the world-—the 'humanist' mode, the romantic mode, a metaphorical mode—as i f i t were ultimate and unchallengeable. I n Mailer's case, however, the immediate cause o f man's subjection is technology, the denaturing transformation o f the human habitat b y a seemingly irresistible historical force w h i c h o p ­ presses the m o d e r n individual's soul. B u t behind that immediate diagnosis Mailer arraigns w h a t he calls 'corporation-land', that is to say American super-power capitalism and all its cultural spawnings. F o r example, the ultimate significance o f the A p o l l o I I moon-voyage was that ' i t could yet p r o v e a revelation o f the nature o f the men w h o governed the w o r l d and the men w h o m i g h t take that rule away f r o m t h e m ' . T h u s , i n a sense, Mailer's t y r a n t also, like Robbe-Grillet's, is the enslaving power o f a bourgeois ideology. A l l o w i n g then for the p r o f o u n d differences o f historical background between the Frenchman and the American, the Parisian and the N e w Y o r k e r , i t is possible to see beneath the apparent conflict about vocabu­ lary, or 'style' a certain consensus about the fundamental determinants o f contemporary life. Each o f them i n his o w n w a y admits the t r u t h u n d e r l y i n g Robbe-Grillet's affirmation that i n humanistic and romantic fiction 'anthropomorphic analogies [i.e. metaphors] are too insistently, too coherently, repeated n o t to reveal a whole metaphysical system'. 8

6

Ibid., p. 8 1 . L o c . cit. Snapshots, p. 78. O n the distinction between analogies and metaphors, which Robbe-Grillet here fails to acknowledge, see below Chap. 1 passim. 4

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Introduction

T h a t is to say, they b o t h admit that to adopt a metaphorical 'style' is to adopt a metaphysical w o r l d - v i e w . W h a t divides them is the question whether the adoption o f such a v i e w helps o r hinders men's search for freedom. I f Robbe-Grillet maintains, as the basic tenet o f his philosophy that ' M a n looks at the w o r l d , b u t the w o r l d doesn't l o o k back at h i m ' , and that the recognition o f this fact is a pre-condition o f freedom, Mailer holds just the opposite: the universe is a 'lock' to w h i c h man has the key, and freedom lies i n just this intimate reciprocity between M a n and Nature. ( T h a t the k e y must be metaphor is o f course obvious f r o m the fact that even to state the principle i t is necessary to speak b y w a y o f metaphor.) 7

I t is n o t m y concern here to explain why these t w o novelists, b o t h strongly individualistic b u t also remarkably representative o f general trends, should stand philosophically o n such opposed sides o f a funda­ mental divide. B u t i t is to m y purpose to draw attention to a remarkable parallel between the current literary debate about the vocabulary appropriate to fiction and a corresponding debate about the appro­ priate language for describing religious experience. F o r i t is m y c o n ­ tention, as I hope to show i n subsequent chapters o f this b o o k , that the arguments i n each case are ultimately about the same problem; and that the solution, i f there is one, to the apparent contradictions is equally applicable to each area o f concern. Indeed, I want to maintain that neither is fully intelligible w i t h o u t reference to the other: for the relation o f fact to fiction, o f the real w o r l d to the w o r l d o f story, is itself a k i n d o f 'metaphysical pact', a secret to w h i c h the narrator's art is the metaphorical key. W e may establish the parallel, to begin w i t h , b y n o t i n g that the difference between those w h o t h i n k like Robbe-Grillet and those w h o t h i n k like N o r m a n Mailer is remarkably like the difference diagnosed three hundred years ago, b y Pascal—'the first modern man' —between the mode o f t h i n k i n g o f the philosophers and that o f the poets o r story­ tellers. Pascal's famous opposition between the G o d o f the P h i l o ­ sophers and the G o d o f Abraham, Isaac and Jacob is i n the first place an opposition between styles o f language. B u t Pascal k n e w w e l l enough, as we do also, that the choice o f a style is also the choice o f a w h o l e w o r l d - v i e w . W h e n the poets and story-tellers talked o f G o d i n the language o f Mailer's 'savages', b y w a y o f metaphor, they were also 8

7

Ibid., p. 82.

Goldmann, The Hidden God, p. 171.

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choosing its accompanying metaphysic. Whereas, w h e n the p h i l o ­ sophers, remote ancestors o f Robbe-Grillet's liberated man, spoke o f H i m they d i d so ( i f at all) i n the sophisticated abstract language o f geometrically-defined objects and value-free physical laws. N o w the baneful intellectual dissociation w h i c h Pascal diagnosed as afflicting Christianity i n his o w n time is far f r o m cured today: indeed its ravages are as evident as ever. Consider for instance the contemporary diver­ gence between the 'savage' poetic language o f an all-too-religious counter-culture, w i t h its pop-poetry and its pentecostal speaking w i t h tongues, and the cool calculated understatements o f canny p h i l o ­ sophers and cautious academics. O n the one hand we have language like this: w e want t o zap them w i t h holiness we want to levitate them with joy we w a n t to open them w i t h love vessels we want to clothe the wretched w i t h linen and l i g h t we w a n t to p u t music and t r u t h i n our underwear 9

and o n the other hand we have the g r i m determined probings o f academic philosophers, uncertainly p i c k i n g their w a y amid treacherous linguistic craters like inexperienced astronauts on their first m o o n walk: W h a t is the contemporary Christian d o i n g w h e n he uses the w o r d ' G o d ' as he does? . . . the first step t o w a r d an answer . . . w i l l [be t o ] See Roszak, The Making of a Counter Culture, p. 152, quoting a poem by Julian Beck published in Paradise Now {International Times, London, 12-25 July 1968). 9

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Introduction

draw attention t o , and clarify the idea of, the edges o f language. T h e second step w i l l clarify, i n the l i g h t o f o u r earlier reflections o n language, the linguistic behaviour o f speaking at the edges o f language, beginning first w i t h some patterns o f behaviour more o r less closely related to that o f religion . . . the t h i r d step w i l l show that this initial analysis o f religious discourse produces a more adequate description than those w h i c h present i t as a set o f factual propositions . . . etc. e t c . 10

T o anyone versed i n h i s t o r y there should be n o t h i n g surprising about this rift between the 'sophisticated' value-free language o f the philosopher and the 'savage' metaphorical language o f the poet and story-teller. T h e times w h e n the t w o have danced harmoniously together have been v e r y few. I f Pascal, the greatest religious m i n d o f the Cartesian r e v o l u t i o n , sought a solution o f the conflict i n the ultimate v i c t o r y o f the poets' metaphors over the philosophers' 'measures', Aquinas—the greatest theologian o f the medieval w o r l d — could develop his religious philosophical synthesis o n l y b y under­ v a l u i n g the cognitive value o f poetry and narrative i n theology. F r o m the eighteenth-century onwards anyone w h o sought to mend the quarrel had to take, as his basic premiss, the fact o f this initial separa­ t i o n . F o r Pascal the new theology o f Descartes led to the divorce between G o d the author o f mathematical truths and the order o f the universe and G o d the source o f personal love and consolation. T h i s divorce was later made absolute b y Laplace. I n the nineteenth century the same divorce was recognised b y thinkers such as Coleridge and N e w m a n and even M i l l ( n o t to m e n t i o n Dickens) as h a v i n g been further hardened b y the new m o r a l i t y o f Benthamism, w h i c h was given per­ verted expression i n the commerical utilitarian calculus o f V i c t o r i a n hard times. Against this they placed the demands o f a sensitive m o r a l conscience, the internal culture o f the individual's feelings, an aware­ ness o f lost c o m m u n i t y and o f the divine as a personal presence w i t h i n the privacy o f the soul. T o d a y the grounds for the divorce have shifted yet again. I f the quarrels among theologians and philosophers are less heated this may be because they feel there is no need to l o o k o u t for an innocent or a Van Buren, The Edges of Language, p. 76. I use V a n Buren's example here simply to illustrate a general point, not to suggest that his work is any more 'academic' than many others in the field. 1 0

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g u i l t y partner. B u t i f this new-found liberalism is to be welcomed for legal or moral reasons, i t may w e l l be that i t is rooted i n a new i n ­ difference to the w h o l e idea o f a marriage. T h i s certainly seems to be the case w i t h the religious adherents o f the 'counter-culture', w h o see the philosophical treatment o f religion as o l d hat, useless, i r ­ relevant. T h e relatively modern efforts o f thinkers like T e i l h a r d de Chardin to mend the marriage often appear like the w o r k o f elderly marriage-counsellors i n an age w h i c h rejects n o t o n l y the marriage b u t the w h o l e family o f concepts that surrounds i t . Y e t i f the theological debate is less heated, the corresponding literary argument seems today to be more intense. I t is as t h o u g h the issues have n o t been resolved, o n l y transferred to another arena, i n w h i c h the conceptual weapons used appear more up-to-date and relevant. T h e fact that tends to be forgotten amid the current literary quarrel between—to use v e r y crude labels—the 'Americans' led b y Mailer and the 'French' led b y Robbe-Grillet is that b o t h regard their task as helping to free the individual f r o m a system o f emotional and cultural constraints w h i c h they see rooted i n the inherited ideology o f their respective societies. H o w then is i t that they come to such mutually incompatible conclusions at the level o f fictional expression? I t can o n l y be because the one sees the possibility o f such freedom as l y i n g i n the recovery o f a liberating metaphysic l o n g ago disastrously abandoned, w h i l e the other sees any such metaphysic as historically and necessarily part o f the oppressive ideology itself. I t is impossible n o t to sympathise w i t h b o t h views, for each contains a large measure o f t r u t h . T h e p r o b l e m then is n o t to decide between them b u t to t r y to discover w h y they should ever have come to the p o i n t o f o u t r i g h t conflict. W h a t has happened to make such profound diagnoses i n ­ compatible w i t h each other? I t h i n k the clue can o n l y lie i n the mutual recognition that to admit the validity o f metaphor at all is ipso facto to admit a whole metaphysical system. T h i s is the c o m m o n g r o u n d . T h e divergence comes, I want to suggest, when the cognitive role o f metaphor is misunderstood t h r o u g h the weakening o f a necessary counter-balancing force w h i c h I shall call—for the time being, risking some misunderstanding w h i c h I hope to remedy later—the p u l l o f analogical language. T h e medieval philosophical synthesis o f Aquinas and others, i n w h i c h a h i g h l y developed theory o f analogical language played a crucial part, was w r o u g h t at the expense o f underplaying the importance

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Introduction

o f poetry and story-telling: that is to say, b y undervaluing, o r even misunderstanding the role o f metaphorical language. T o p u t i t shortly, the medievals had a h i g h l y developed sense o f the analogical, but a correspondingly under-developed sense o f the metaphorical uses o f words. Inevitably, therefore, when the medieval achievement dis­ integrated this h i g h l y developed theory o f analogical language was the first v i c t i m o f the collapse. Thenceforth thinkers like Pascal could rescue essential imaginative truths o n l y b y substituting a theory o f metaphor for the defunct theory o f analogy. A n d almost all subsequent debate has been conducted (at least u n t i l quite recently, w i t h the revival o f interest i n what the medievals actually said) w i t h i n the terms set b y the d i c h o t o m y that faced Pascal. A great deal o f the debate about metaphysical language i n the tradition o f Anglo-Saxon linguistic philosophy, and consequently a great deal o f the 'new theology' that has been built u p o n i t , is to m y m i n d vitiated b y pre-supposing, as a starting point, the futility o f the medieval (i.e. thomist) account o f analogical predication; and this has happened just at the time when there m i g h t have been the possibility o f a new k i n d o f synthesis based u p o n a marriage o f the t w o partners, metaphor and analogy. T h e p r o m o t i o n o f such a courtship is a basic purpose o f this book.

I

Metaphor and 'Analogy'

I n this chapter I want to explore the idea that the use o f metaphorical language necessarily involves w h a t R o b b e - G r i l l e t calls a 'whole metaphysical system'. I n particular I shall t r y to show what such an assertion m i g h t mean b y discussing the implications o f contemporary ideas o f 'metaphor' and 'analogy' and kindred terms.

T h e classical theorists l o o k e d o n the use o f metaphor w i t h a certain lofty disdain. ' A l l such arts are fanciful and meant to charm the hearer. N o b o d y uses fine language w h e n teaching geometry', said Aristotle; and Aquinas seems to have shared something o f the same o u t l o o k . Metaphor i n the classical scheme then was simply a device o f 'style', a rhetorical instrument. A different v i e w o f metaphor could o n l y be formulated, perhaps, w h e n theorists o f language began to recognise the role that language had i n f o r m i n g and n o t just expressing, the contents o f the m i n d . F r o m the time o f Giambattista V i c o the t r u t h has been emerging that metaphor is n o t just a w a y o f describing things b u t is a w a y o f experiencing them. T h e neo-classical idea o f 'mathe­ matical plainness' espoused b y Thomas Sprat i n the seventeenth century gave w a y eventually to Coleridge's heady enthusiasm: T w o u l d endeavour to destroy the o l d antithesis o f W o r d s and T h i n g s ; elevating, as i t were W o r d s into T h i n g s and l i v i n g T h i n g s t o o ' . T h e basis for this change was the recognition that metaphor is a lamp, n o t just a m i r r o r , held up to nature. T h i s is w h y Shakespeare's 1

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Rhetoric, I I I 1404a; Aquinas, Summa Theologiae, I , Q . 1, Art. 9. See also Hawkes, Metaphor, pp. 6 - 1 1 , and for a more positive view of Aristotle's theory of metaphor see Burrell, Analogy and Philosophical Language, pp. 7 1 - 5 . Also See below p. 112, note to p. 95. Letter to Godwin, Sept. 1800 in Collected Letters, p. 626. 1

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Part One: Theoretical

poetry had the effect, as Coleridge said, o f m a k i n g the reader himself i n t o a k i n d o f poet, an 'active creative being'. T o make and to under­ stand a metaphor are alike acts o f the creative imagination. A n d further­ more, such acts are social as w e l l as individual: for the language b y w h i c h we see the w o r l d is itself a social reality. T h u s insofar as language is incurably metaphorical, and what I . A . Richards called the ' o m n i ­ present p r i n c i p l e ' is embedded i n every utterance we make, every metaphor is a co-operative endeavour. I t not o n l y joins us to things, i t joins us to each other. 3

B u t i f the Romantic tradition supports the thesis o f some con­ temporary writers (Mailer is the obvious example) that metaphor is necessary even for understanding, let alone describing, the findings o f m o d e r n consciousness, the dangers inherent i n i t must be recognised and credit be given to other modern writers, like R o b b e - G r i l l e t , for alerting us to them. T h e recurring temptation to self-indulgence and even dishonesty that goes w i t h a dedication to metaphorical language is far f r o m conquered today. Y e t there is a deeper danger even than this: namely that language itself may become a barrier between our­ selves and the w o r l d , instead o f a lamp held up to illuminate i t . I f all language is metaphorical, as I . A . Richards seems to suggest, then all things automatically tend to become humanised and the w o r l d is delivered up to the n o t always tender mercies o f man's o w n thirst for meaning. W e need the corrective presence o f the not-human, o f the other, o f that w h i c h is impervious to linguistic manipulation, i f we are not to be led astray b y w h a t R o b b e - G r i l l e t calls our 'grandiose aspira­ tions'. Ruskin's demand that we should repudiate the pathetic fallacy was n o t o n l y a t i m e l y reminder to his contemporaries: i t is also timely for us. I n the w o r l d o f fabulations and allegories, w h e n o u r story­ tellers are o n l y too anxious to tell us about 'hidden persuaders, hidden dimensions, plots, secret organisations, evil systems, all kinds o f conspiracies against spontaneity o f consciousness, even cosmic take­ o v e r ' , we need v i g i l a n t l y to maintain a countervailing respect for things as they are. A s F r a n k Kermode has put i t , 'there is a recurring need for adjustments i n the interest o f reality as w e l l as o f c o n t r o l ' . 4

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The Philosophy of Rhetoric, p. 92. Richards voices the 'modern' theory in a notably clear and persuasive way in the last two chapters of this book, taking as his starting point the view that 'not until Coleridge do we get any adequate setting of these chief problems of language' (p. 103). Tanner, City of Words, p. 16. The Sense of an Ending, p. 17. 3

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Metaphor and ' A n a l o g y '

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N o w I t h i n k the value o f certain modern ideas about language is that for the first time they provide us w i t h a counterweight to the dangerous p u l l o f metaphor w i t h o u t denying its cognitive importance. T h e y do so b y placing metaphor i n opposition, n o t to some supposedly literal language (Sprat's 'mathematical plainness') b u t to metonymic language. T h a t is, they admit, one m i g h t say, that metaphor is an 'omnipresent principle' b u t they deny that i t is the only, o r o v e r - r i d i n g principle. O n the contrary, i t is o n l y one aspect, o r axis o f language and has to be constantly seen i n partnership w i t h another aspect o r axis to w h i c h i t is always complementary, namely the metonymic axis. I n order to show w h a t this assertion means we must first o f all go back to the w o r k o f Saussure, the 'father' o f modern linguistics. Saussure showed that any actual utterance always involves t w o distinct kinds o f act: (a) the act o f choosing certain particular linguistic items (e.g. phonemes, w o r d s ) rather than others o f the same k i n d , and (b) the act o f c o m b i n i n g the chosen items i n this w a y rather than i n some other possible w a y . T o take an obvious, i f over-simplified example, the sentence ' y o u may stay today' may be regarded as the unique utterance i t is because (a) out o f all possible personal pronouns, o n l y you is chosen, out o f all possible auxiliary verbs o n l y may is chosen, out o f all main verbs o n l y stay is chosen and out o f all possible adverbs o n l y today is chosen: and ( b ) because out o f all the various possible orders, or functional arrangements, between these particular w o r d s w h i c h English grammar allows, the speaker has arranged his items i n this particular order. A n y alteration, whether i n the choice o f an item or i n its functional position o r role w o u l d result i n a different sentence, w i t h a different meaning. T h u s , to substitute another personal p r o n o u n — say 'he' for you—would produce a different sentence. But similarly to change the order o f the words—say b y placing may before you and thus changing the sentence into a q u e s t i o n — w o u l d equally alter the sentence and its meaning. N o w Jakobson, f o l l o w i n g Saussure, has further pointed out that these t w o different kinds o f act—the act o f selecting items from a range o n the one hand and the act o f combining the chosen items i n a certain w a y on the other— rest u p o n different, but complementary principles. F o r the act o f selection always implies the possible substitution o f a 6

6

Jakobson and Halle, Fundamentals of Language, pp. 58-62.

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different b u t similar item, i n place o f the item chosen, w i t h o u t distur­ bance o f the functional arrangement, or 'context' as a whole. Whereas the act o f combination always sets up a functional arrangement or structure such that this arrangement could take a number o f different forms w i t h o u t affecting the actual choice o f the items included i n i t . I n other w o r d s , the same items can be arranged i n different ways just as different items can be arranged i n the same w a y . T h u s we have t w o sets o f linked principles, each set constituting one side o f a binary opposition: Selection Similarity Substitution

v. v. v.

Combination Contiguity Context

O f these principles, o n l y contiguity remains so far undefined. Con­ tiguity is Jakobson's term for the relation o f each item to the items next to i t i n the 'context'. T h a t is to say, i f (as we have already established) the relation o f a chosen item to another item o f the same k i n d w h i c h has not been chosen is one o f 'similarity', the relation o f that item to those others o f different kinds w h i c h have been chosen must be the functional one o f ' c o n t i g u i t y ' . T h u s , to pursue our exemplary sentence further, whereas we may say that e.g. all the personal pronouns w h i c h could be chosen as its subject are 'similar' to each other i n the sense that they are items o f the same k i n d , and can undertake the same func­ t i o n i n the context, the four separate words themselves (you-may-staytoday) constitute a 'chain', each l i n k o f w h i c h is contiguous, that is connected b y its particular role, to the next. A number o f other terms are c o m m o n l y used to denote certain aspects o f Saussure's distinction, and some o f these are important for the present argument. T h e most important o f these are the terms syntagmatic and paradigmatic. Syntagmatic, o f course, is just another term for Jakobson's 'combination': for i t denotes functional arrange­ ment. B u t the term paradigmatic draws our attention to the 'selection' and 'substitution' features o f the opposite principle, since an item chosen from a range o f similar items may obviously be regarded as a 'paradigm' o f all items o f that k i n d . N o w the terms syntagmatic and paradigmatic go back to Saussure and are clearly related to his distinc­ t i o n between la langue ('the language') and la parole ('speech'). ' T h e language' is that treasury o f linguistic units and rules w h i c h exist independently o f the individual speaker, and into w h i c h he is b o r n as

Metaphor and ' A n a l o g y '

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he learns to talk. 'Speech' o n the other hand refers to the individual's d r a w i n g u p o n this treasury for the purpose o f actual utterance. A l l utterance involves b o t h 'langue' and 'parole'. B u t i n Saussure's sense it seems clear that 'the language' is to be placed on the 'paradigmatic' side and 'speech' on the syntagmatic: for 'the language' is the treasury o f items, or paradigms, f r o m w h i c h the user selects, and 'speech' is the act o f l i n k i n g them into a significant chain, o r syntagm. ( A closely related pair o f terms, used particularly b y theorists such as Barthes, when speaking o f non-verbal 'languages', or communication systems, is 'code' (paradigmatic) and 'message' (syntagmatic).) A n o t h e r pair o f c o m m o n l y used terms, and one more directly to our purpose, is that o f metaphor and metonymy. These are clearly related to the contrasting concepts o f 'similarity' o n the one hand and o f 'context ' o n the other. A metaphor after all is the verbal recognition o f a similarity between the apparently dissimilar: whereas a metonymy— that is the use o f a part, attribute o r symbolic object for a whole or t h i n g signified—is clearly a case o f the contextual principle. A s Jakobson puts i t , 'any linguistic u n i t at one and the same time serves as a context for simpler units and/or finds its o w n context i n a more complex linguistic u n i t ' , and this is clearly the principle at w o r k i n the case o f a metonymy. Consider the dictionary examples o f 'sceptre', ' c r o w n ' or ' W h i t e House' used to indicate the sovereign authority o f the state. Here the smaller u n i t (sceptre, c r o w n , W h i t e House) has its context i n the larger u n i t (sovereignty) and finds its significance i n precisely that relationship. T h u s a larger list o f the terms necessary to describe the structure o f any actual utterance w o u l d have to include the f o l l o w i n g : 7

Language Code Paradigmatic relation Selection Substitution Metaphor

Speech Message Syntagmatic relation Combination Context Metonymy

Such a m u l t i p l i c i t y o f terms may w e l l seem exasperating. I n introduc­ i n g yet another ingredient into this already rich mixture, therefore, I w a n t to make i t clear that I do so i n order to clarify, and perhaps simplify, w h a t is already there. M y new ingredient is the term analogy. 7

Ibid.

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N o w i t should be made plain at the outset that I am not using this w o r d i n its common-or-garden sense: the sense i n w h i c h , for example, RobbeGrillet can speak o f 'anthropomorphic analogies' w h e n he means metaphors. Analogy i n the sense I intend is not a genus o f w h i c h meta­ phor is just one species. I am speaking o f analogy i n the sense i n w h i c h it was used, as part o f a theory o f language, b y e.g. Aquinas. I n this sense analogy is more like m e t o n y m y than i t is like metaphor. T h u s Aquinas's simplest illustration o f w h a t is meant b y an analogy is the application o f the w o r d 'healthy' to a person and to his 'urine'. ( A modern medical equivalent m i g h t be complexion, i n that we regard a healthy complexion as a sign o f a healthy man just as medieval o p i n i o n regarded healthy urine as a sign o f general health.) N o w i t is obvious that i n this example we have a part, or attribute that 'stands for' the whole: a m e t o n y m y . B u t i t is also important to note the k i n d o f relation that holds between a healthy complexion and a healthy man: namely that one is an effect o f the other as cause. T h i s u n d e r l y i n g causal relation­ ship is fundamental to the scholastic conception o f analogy. F o r analogical language is concerned w i t h a system o f reliable signs. T h i s is w h y , for example, a healthy bank balance (unlike a healthy c o m ­ plexion) is n o t a true 'analogue' o f a healthy man. * 8

9

N o w , i f analogy always has a causal basis, i t seems a w o r t h w h i l e hypothesis to suggest that perhaps all genuine metonymies have a causal basis. O r , to p u t i t another w a y , that analogy i n the scholastic sense is just another term for w h a t is meant, i n the structuralist schema, b y the metonymic, or syntagmatic (contextural) relation. So far f r o m being just another w o r d for metaphor, analogy then becomes a necessary opposing principle to metaphor: and the t w o terms refer to the t w o 'poles' (Jakobson) or 'axes' o f communication, and as such are inter­ changeable w i t h such other binary oppositions as syntagm/paradigm and combination/selection. N o w clearly the question whether all metonymies have a causal basis can hardly be decided b y examining every possible example. B u t i t is at least clear that the standard diction­ ary examples o f m e t o n y m y fit i n t o m y hypothesis. T h e relations o f ' c r o w n ' and 'sovereign', 'sceptre' and 'authority', ' W h i t e House' and 'President' etc. are clearly explicable i n causal (historical) terms. Each is a reliable sign, or symbol, o f the other o n l y for that reason. W i t h o u t the u n d e r l y i n g causal historical l i n k we could not reliably assume that, 8

See Herbert McCabe, in Summa Theologiae, iii, p. xvii.

9

Summa Theologiae, I, Q . 13, Art. 5.

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for example, statements that emanate f r o m the W h i t e House have the authority o f the President, or that prosecutions undertaken under the aegis o f the c r o w n have the w e i g h t o f government backing behind them. I n the absence o f some such explanation for the l i n k i n g o f the t w o elements i n these metonymies, we w o u l d surely find ourselves confronted w i t h n o t h i n g b u t an arbitrary juxtaposition o f disparate elements, not a system o f meaningful signs. T o put the point i n another w a y , a m e t o n y m y w h i c h lacked causal explicability w o u l d constitute a breach o f the 'grammar' o f the communications system itself. However, i t is necessary to m y hypothesis to be able to show that a causal connection underlies all the items o n the 'syntagmatic' side o f the equation (see above p . 15), and not merely those w h i c h we can clearly label m e t o n y m y . F o r i t is an essential feature o f the schema itself that all the terms on each side refer to the same general principle. T r u e , the various words used are designed to emphasise, or b r i n g out, particular aspects: b u t these are aspects o f a single idea. T h u s even i f the term syntagmatic emphasises the aspect o f functional arrangement, and the term contiguity emphasises the aspect o f contextual 'closeness', o f the various elements, nevertheless these t w o are to be understood as aspects only, o f a single principle. Therefore, i f m y hypothesis is to h o l d , i t is necessary to show that there is a causal nexus present, i n some f o r m or other, w i t h i n any syntagm, any combination, any con­ text, any contiguity, any message. B u t surely i t is not plausible to say that, for example, the different words i n a sentence are necessarily related to each other causally? O r that the different elements that go to make up a single context are causally connected w i t h each other? W e l l , let us consider the implications o f the fact that another term for the syntagmatic, or contextual relation is contiguity. T h i s term draws attention to the fact that the relation between, say, 'John' and 'hits' i n the sentence 'John hits Joe' is akin to the relation o f t w o links i n a chain, or t w o patches o f colour i n a picture. W e r e i t not for the con­ t i g u i t y between them, the chain could n o t be continuous, the assorted patches o f colour w o u l d not constitute a unified picture. So perhaps the old-style grammar books w h i c h spoke of, say, transitive verbs 'requiring' an object to complete their sense were not far w r o n g . F o r even i f the particular rules they proposed were far from accurate, i t remains true that any system o f communications w i l l have to include some rules whereby i t is possible to distinguish valid from invalid

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'combinations', continuous f r o m discontinuous 'chains', contexts w h i c h are unified f r o m mere juxtapositions o f disparate elements. I n other words, there w i l l have to be rules governing the w a y i n w h i c h one element may be said to 'require' another. A n d this is o n l y another w a y o f saying that one thing's presence w i t h i n the chain or context w i l l cause another t h i n g to be present also. F o r example, b y being i n t r o ­ duced as subject, the w o r d 'John' i n the sentence 'John hits Joe' causes some contiguous w o r d to be its verb and another to be that verb's object: the grammar o f the whole system i n w h i c h the sentence 'John hits Joe' exists ensures this. I t h i n k such a w a y o f speaking o n l y sounds far-fetched because we have an associationist prejudice about causality itself. T h a t is to say, we tend—as post-Humean empiricists—to suppose that the causal relation is a matter o f external association o f t w o or more entitities and that i t must therefore present itself as a temporal process. Cause, we feel, must precede effect. A n d clearly, i n the case o f a simultaneously co-existing structure such as a sentence or a picture, there is no question o f one part preceding another i n time. ( O f course, a sentence w i l l take time to utter or w r i t e o r read; and a picture w i l l take time to paint or to scan fully: b u t once there i t is a simultaneous w h o l e , a 'gestalt' that exists i n a comprehensive present.) W h a t we have i n a sentence or a picture, or other k i n d o f complex artificial sign, is a f o r m o f internal causal relation that may best be called m u t u a l contextual determination. T h a t is to say, i t is because element A o f the total 'context' has such and such function, that elements B , C, D etc. have their particular functions, and vice versa. C o n t i g u i t y i n this sense implies causality. N o w i t m i g h t be retorted that such contextual determination cannot, strictly speaking, be a cause/effect relation because i t is a symmetrical relation. But this is simply the result o f Humean prejudice, whereby we tend to t h i n k that i f A is a cause o f w h i c h the effect is B , then B cannot at the same time be a cause o f w h i c h the effect is A . T h e mistake is to suppose that the o n l y w a y o f speaking o f causality is to speak o f it as a relation between t w o or more distinct entities: a relation w h i c h must o f its nature be asymmetrical. But we regularly use the w o r d because i n cases where n o t h i n g o f the sort applies. T h u s , i n a t w o party political system, we may w e l l want to say that party A is the opposition party because the party B is at present the government, and 10

1 0

See below, Chap. 3, pp. 5 0 - 1 .

Metaphor and ' A n a l o g y '

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19

also to say that party B is the government because party A is the opposition. G i v e n the t w o - p a r t y system, b o t h propositions are true, although i n the Humean sense, neither can be said to be either 'effect' o r 'cause'. I f we want to find 'the cause' o f the situation w h i c h allows us to affirm simultaneously these t w o 'because' propositions, we must l o o k for i t i n the nature and effects o f the two-party-system itself. I t is the system w h i c h brings i t about that these t w o propositions can b o t h be t r u l y affirmed. I n the same w a y , u n d e r l y i n g the mutual contextual determination w h i c h allows us to say at one and the same time (a) that i t is because John is grammatical subject that hits is verb, and because hits is transi­ tive Joe is object, and ( b ) that i t is because Joe is grammatical object that hits is verb, and because hits is verb John is grammatical subject, there is the causal agency o f the language itself. I f , f o l l o w i n g Saussure, we say that the utterance {laparole) 'John hits Joe' exists as a significant utterance o n l y because i t draws u p o n the treasury o f rules and signs that exists, i n solution as i t were, i n the language itself {la langue), then i t becomes clear that beneath the level o f mutual contextual determination governing the relation o f various words i n the sentence there is a fundamental and one-directional causal relation l i n k i n g that particular utterance to something that m i g h t be called its creative source: namely the language itself. N o w this suggests that the language is itself an agent: n o t an inert treasury o f linguistic units and rules, b u t an active ingredient i n the business o f communicating i n words. C h o m s k y has distinguished himself from Saussure b y explicitly recognising this point. A l t h o u g h his term linguistic competence is related to Saussure's concept o f 'the language', C h o m s k y insists that i t is necessary to reject the v i e w o f 'the language' as merely a systematic i n v e n t o r y o f items, and to return to w h a t he calls the H u m b o l d t i a n conception o f underlying competence as a system o f generative processes. I n other words, Chomsky goes beyond even Saussure's admission that 'the language' is a feature o f human brains and not just an abstraction; for h i m i t is an active influence or agency i n the production o f speech. Whether we say that c o m ­ petence, or the linguistic faculty, is to be located i n the brain o f every human individual, or is simply a structural feature o f human nature i n some less 'materialistic' sense, is unimportant for the present purpose. 11

1 1

Chomsky, Aspects

Linguistics, p. 162.

of the Theory of Syntax, pp. 3-4. See also Crystal,

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W h a t does matter is that i n either case we are here dealing w i t h an active factor i n the production o f speech. I t seems to f o l l o w then that m y original hypothesis, namely that there is an u n d e r l y i n g causal relation implied i n all the differing ways o f stating the d i s t i n c t i o n - w i t h i n - u n i t y listed above (p. 15) is so far confirmed. N o w , this was precisely the purpose o f i n t r o d u c i n g the term analogy ( i n the scholastic sense) i n t o the discussion. Just as structuralism speaks o f the syntagmatic and the paradigmatic as complementary axes, or 'poles' o f a communications system, so I have referred to the metaphorical and the analogical to indicate just the same distinction. B u t using this t e r m i n o l o g y also serves to emphasise a point w h i c h is easily overlooked i f we keep to the usual linguists' vocabulary: namely that the w h o l e scheme o f distinctions depends ultimately u p o n a non-Humean concept o f causality. N o w this fact has particular philosophical, indeed, ideological implications. T h u s a cause, it m i g h t be said, is n o t a relationship but a t h i n g : an agent that brings about some effect b y the exercise o f what can o n l y be called its o w n 'natural tendency' to behave i n a certain w a y . Pace H u m e , and empiricists and associationists generally, causality therefore involves a metaphysical n o t i o n o f Nature; for according to this theory, agents behave regularly i n certain ways according to w h a t can o n l y be called their 'nature'. T h i s concept o f a natural order made up o f the sum o f the natural tendencies o f agents underlies all those commonsense inferences w h i c h exemplify at every t u r n the principles o f analogical reasoning. T h u s , a healthy complexion is a reliable sign, or analogue, o f a healthy man o n l y because we believe there is a natural order, or b o n d between the t w o things. A n d if, per impossible such a b o n d d i d n o t exist, i t w o u l d have to be invented. T h i s seems so obvious a p o i n t that its importance may easily be missed: w h i c h is that, i f true, i t rules out from the start the whole farrago o f post-Humean associationist thought about causality. I t further suggests that the discoveries o f structuralism i n linguistics and elsewhere are not the neutral, valuefree or un-metaphysical propositions they may sometimes seem to be. O n the contrary, they i m p l y a w h o l e philosophy o f ' N a t u r e ' w i t h ­ out w h i c h the structuralist schema itself w o u l d fall apart. 1 2

13

However, i t should not be overlooked that a re-instatement o f ' A cause is . . . a thing exerting itself, having its influence or imposing its character on the world' (McCabe, in Summa Theologiae, iii, Appendix 2, 'Causes'). See below, Chap. 3. 1 2

1 3

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'analogy' in the scholastic sense o f the t e r m w o u l d also open up the possibility (far f r o m universally welcome) o f re-instating the theo­ logical uses o f analogical language. F o r many o f the metaphors o n w h i c h we c o m m o n l y rely and indeed on w h i c h officially or unofficially m u c h o f the w o r l d - v i e w o f any society is b u i l t , rest u p o n the c o m m o n recognition o f some basic analogies. T h u s , as Levi-Strauss points out, m u c h o f men's sense o f cultural i d e n t i t y comes f r o m the transference o f facts observed i n nature to the human situation. T o take just one example, i t is not o n l y the 'savage m i n d ' w h i c h raises the contrast between, say, the edible and the inedible i n t o a social fact, distinguish­ i n g 'us' from 'them' according to the kinds o f food each regards as edible. Even i n modern Europe, the English regard the French as 'frogs' and the Germans as 'krauts' because they go i n for foods w h i c h 'we' regard as relatively inedible. O n the basis o f such analogies, o r metonymies, many o f o u r metaphors are constructed. Terence Hawkes, in his b o o k o n metaphor, gives three excellent examples f r o m Shake­ speare: 14

. . . the gallant monarch is i n arms, A n d like an eagle o'er his aery towers T o souse annoyance that comes near his nest. {King John) Yet looks he like a K i n g , behold his eye, A s b r i g h t as is the eagle's lightens forth C o n t r o l l i n g majesty. {Richard

II)

T h e n the w h i n i n g schoolboy w i t h his satchel A n d shining face, creeping like snail U n w i l l i n g l y to school. {As You Like It) F r o m these illustrations we can readily see h o w the metaphorical similarities between the monarch and the eagle ( b o t h are ' h i g h ' i n their respective spheres) and between the schoolboy and the snail ( b o t h ' l o w ' ) are available only because o f an u n d e r l y i n g analogical chain, or vertical syntagm w h i c h stands to the particular metaphors as language 1 4

p. 86.

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stands to speech. I n the case o f Shakespeare, o f course, this syntag­ matic chain was the 'Great Chain o f Being' whereby, as A . O . L o v e j o y comprehensively showed, all the various levels o f reality i n the medi­ eval and renaissance w o r l d were linked together to f o r m a continuous hierarchy o f 'contiguous' levels b i n d i n g earth to heaven, and man to the animals below and to G o d above h i m . N o w this medieval picture o f the universe was b u i l t - u p o n the analogical principle i n the strict sense. T h a t is to say, b y v i r t u e o f its particular place i n the hierarchy, a particular species or k i n d could t r u l y serve the philosopher or the poet as a reliable sign, or natural symbol o f some other level i n the hierarchy. ( F o r instance, the sun was chief among the planets, the l i o n was chief o f the animals, the head was the chief organ o f the b o d y etc.) F o r this reason a huge repertoire o f natural symbols, or analogies was available n o t o n l y for exploitation b y the poet—whose eye, ' i n a fine frenzy r o l l i n g d o t h glance f r o m heaven to earth, f r o m earth to heaven'—but also b y the philosopher, the scientist and the theologian. ( T h e sacramental theology o f medieval Christendom was rooted i n such a system o f natural symbols.) But what was true i n the medieval period is still i n principle true for our o w n time: the analogies themselves may have changed, and the repertoire o f metaphors w i t h them, b u t the analogical principle itself, and its capacity for generating metaphors, has not. F o r u n d e r l y i n g the medieval 'Great Chain o f Being' was a causal conception—that o f creation—which was simply another application o f the relationship we have already encountered, between language and speech, between competence and performance, code and message, system and syntagm i n the structure o f human communication itself. T h u s , the argumenta­ tive structure o f Aquinas's 'Five W a y s ' involves the n o t i o n that God's existence can be established from the existence o f causal chains such as m o t i o n , or the coming-into-being and passing-away o f things, b y just the same sort o f analogical reasoning w h i c h tells us that the utterance o f a sentence, or the employment o f a gesture requires the existence o f a language, or a code o f gestures. T h i s is because the structuralist principle too involves a hierarchy of causes just as the medieval w o r l d picture d i d : and w h i l e the exact f o r m o f the hierarchy is different, the consequences o f this fact are fundamentally the same.

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ii Perhaps i t w o u l d be as w e l l to illustrate the points so far made b y means o f some examples. A n examination o f a couple o f short poems may help to explain the necessary connection, as I see i t , between the metaphorical and the analogical axes o f language, and the metaphysical basis o f the connection itself. First o f all, to take a fairly obvious, indeed o v e r t l y theological case, consider the f o l l o w i n g sonnet o f Gerard Manley H o p k i n s : God's Grandeur T h e w o r l d is charged w i t h the grandeur o f G o d . I t w i l l flame out, like shining f r o m shook foil; I t gathers to a greatness, like the ooze o f o i l Crushed. W h y do men then n o w n o t reck his rod? Generations have t r o d , have t r o d , have t r o d ; A n d all is seared w i t h trade; bleared, smeared w i t h t o i l ; A n d wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil Is bare n o w , n o r can foot feel, being shod. A n d all for this, nature is never spent; There lives the dearest freshness deep d o w n things; A n d t h o u g h the last lights o f f the black W e s t w e n t O h , m o r n i n g , at the b r o w n b r i n k eastward, springs— Because the H o l y Ghost over the bent W o r l d broods w i t h w a r m breast and w i t h ah! b r i g h t wings. 1 5

T h e most i m p o r t a n t metaphors i n this poem come i n the first line and the last t w o . I n them w e find, n o t a mere comparison o f specific attributes, b u t the apparently unlimited attribution o f one k i n d o f life to a being w h i c h i n reality has life o f another k i n d . I n the first line, H o p k i n s does n o t just liken God's grandeur to an electrical storm: he says, to quote Gardner's commentary, that 'the w o r l d is [ m y italics] a thundercloud charged w i t h beauty and menace, w i t h the electricity o f God's creative love and potential w r a t h ' . * H o p k i n s himself made clear the basis o f his metaphor: ' A l l things are charged w i t h love, are charged 18

1 5

1 6

Collected Poems, p. 70. Gardner, Gerard Manley Hopkins, ii, p. 230.

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w i t h G o d and i f w e k n o w h o w to touch them give off sparks and take fire, y i e l d drops and flow, r i n g and tell o f h i m ' . T h e metaphor, then, consists i n the quite unqualified assertion that G o d is an electric charge i n the w o r l d . T h i s is n o t an assertion o f likeness i n some particular respect or respects: the extent o f the comparison is indeterminate. Its basis is a k i n d o f identity, or at least a k i n d o f mutual participation. H o w i t is possible to make a meaningful assertion o f this k i n d I shall have to discuss later. I t is i n any case a k i n d o f mystery. 1 7

N o w one o f the features o f any metaphor that is rooted i n a c o m ­ m o n l y accepted framework o f analogies is that i f , i n some sense, the metaphor holds, then w e can draw f r o m i t ideas w h i c h perhaps the w r i t e r himself had no t h o u g h t o f w h e n he w r o t e i t . H o p k i n s , i n his comment quoted above, has d r a w n some o f the implications f o r us, b u t there may w e l l be others just as valid. F o r example, despite the m o d e r n i t y o f the electrical image i t is possible to see i t as merely a w a y o f extending a v e r y traditional idea. Perhaps i t is o n l y a modern w a y o f asserting God's unpredictable and shockingly lethal power—the power that, for instance, k i l l e d Uzzah w h e n he p u t o u t his hand to steady the ark o n its w a y to Jerusalem (2 Sam. 6:6) or w h i c h caused hinds to calve prematurely i n a thunderstorm (Psalm 2 9 ) . B u t there are other things one m i g h t draw f r o m the metaphor that could have theological implications for the future as w e l l as for the past. F o r instance, one m i g h t consider the fact that since man has begun to harness electricity for his o w n use, a new dimension has been added to the w a y he thinks about G o d . W e can n o w make an electrical discharge at w i l l , w e can charge our batteries, w e can measure the strength o f electrical charges b y means o f the gold-leaf electroscope ( f r o m w h i c h , no doubt, H o p k i n s first g o t his metaphor). Does this mean that the significance o f the metaphor has changed beyond all recognition? Must we n o w t h i n k o f G o d as somehow w i t h i n our control? O r has the metaphor simply become inappropriate? I f so what shall w e replace i t with? These are difficult questions, b u t whatever o u r reply, w e can certainly say that the metaphor is n o t o n l y i n c o n t i n u i t y w i t h a tradi­ tional idea, b u t that i t has added something to i t , l i n k i n g the past tradition w i t h modern t h o u g h t and culture. I t has developed theo­ logically.* A different k i n d o f metaphorical example is to be f o u n d i n the last Notebooks and Papers, p. 342 and note.

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t w o lines o f the poem, i n w h i c h the H o l y Ghost 'broods' over the w o r l d . T h i s metaphor, I suppose, comes ultimately f r o m the first verse o f Genesis, b u t i t is mediated to us, as Gardner points out, via Paradise Lost ( i , 1 9 - 2 2 ) : T h o u f r o m the first Wast present, and w i t h m i g h t y w i n g s outspread D o v e - l i k e satst b r o o d i n g o n the vast Abyss A n d mad'st i t pregnant. N o w i n the original Genesis image, 'God's spirit hovered over the water', and the reader was supposed to recall D e u t e r o n o m y ( 3 2 : 1 1 ) i n w h i c h Y a h w e h is said to be L i k e an eagle w a t c h i n g its nest, H o v e r i n g over its y o u n g , H e spreads his w i n g s o u t to h o l d h i m H e supports h i m o n his p i n i o n s .

18

B u t w h e n w e read the Genesis lines i n the context o f D e u t e r o n o m y , w e see that what has happened is that the Genesis poet has made the D e u t e r o n o m y simile into a metaphor.* B u t as a metaphor for creation ex nihilo o f course i t is philosophically unsatisfactory.

19

F o r the waters

o f Genesis are already created—they are the offspring o f God's Spirit, w h i c h n o w hovers over them w i t h watchful care. N a t u r a l l y , the Genesis metaphor is unsatisfactory to M i l t o n on philosophical grounds, because i t does n o t exactly square w i t h creation ex nihilo. Y e t i t is o b v i o u s l y n o t s i m p l y a creation m y t h o f the pagan type. I t w o u l d be better to say that here is a metaphor struggling to express something that can o n l y be stated i n analogical terms. B u t M i l t o n does n o t f o l l o w that path. I t w o u l d hardly make for great poetry. Instead, he takes up the metaphor and re-interprets i t magnificently i n terms o f 'impregna­ t i o n ' and 'hatching out'. But o f course p r o p e r l y speaking, such a metaphor can o n l y apply to a process w i t h i n the w o r l d . I t can h a r d l y help to express the idea o f original creation as such. So finally H o p k i n s , no d o u b t recognising this, and appropriating also the image o f the H o l y Spirit as a dove, transforms the metaphor into one appropriate to Jerusalem Bible version. All Biblical quotations are from this version (hence­ forth J.B.). See also J.B. note on Gen. 1:2. Creation ex nihilo only becomes explicit in 2 Mac. 7:28. 1 8

1 9

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the H o l y Spirit and his role i n overseeing the world-process. I t has become a metaphor for that continuously creative energy w i t h i n the w o r l d that is the presence o f the H o l y Spirit. T h u s the metaphor has organically developed over a period o f time and i n the hands o f several authors. One o f the most important and characteristic features o f any metaphor is that we can, indeed we must, deny its literal t r u t h i f we are to understand its metaphorical significance. Whatever M i l t o n o r H o p k i n s may say, G o d is n o t a b r o o d y b i r d , even t h o u g h they w a n t to say that metaphorically speaking he is. I t is at this p o i n t that w e can b r i n g out one o f the crucial differences between metaphor and analogy. F o r i n analogical talk about G o d , we do n o t have to deny before w e can affirm; we s i m p l y affirm that the statement is o n l y true as l o n g as we remember that i t is no more than analogical. W h e n we say that G o d is the cause o f the existence o f the w o r l d , for example, the w o r d cause is being used analogically. B u t this does n o t mean that (as w i t h metaphor) we w a n t to deny the literal t r u t h o f the statement. O n the contrary, the p o i n t o f such analogical language is that, i f the theory o f analogy is true, we can stretch the meaning o f the w o r d i n question to cover things w h i c h , i n everyday talk, we do n o t have i n m i n d . O f course, such 'stretching' is possible o n l y i n the case o f words w h i c h are sufficiently open-ended to be stretched w i t h o u t breaking. T o take an example from the H o p k i n s poem, the w o r d bird is n o t v e r y elastic, i n that o n l y a fairly restricted, and well-established range o f entities can legitimately be called birds. T h i s is w h y we can o n l y call G o d a b i r d b y w a y o f metaphor: that is, b y a means w h i c h involves the denial o f the literal t r u t h o f the expression i n order to make the metaphorical p o i n t . O n the other hand, the w o r d cause is v e r y elastic indeed, i n the sense that there is no p r i o r , established l i m i t to the range o f things that can be causes. I t is i n virtue o f this fact that i t is possible to say that G o d is a cause w i t h o u t necessarily stretching the w o r d to breaking point. I n fact, we d o n ' t k n o w w h a t its breaking p o i n t is. Remembering this distinction, we can n o w l o o k for the analogical language ( i f any) that is to be found i n the H o p k i n s sonnet. I t is not far to seek. There is o n l y one t r u l y analogical statement i n the poem, and this centres i n the w o r d because. I t is because the H o l y Ghost broods over the w o r l d 20

O n the capacity of a metaphor to grow in this way, see below p. 107, note to p. 24. 2 0

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that, even i n the darkest moment o f g l o o m , dawn begins to spring. G o d , H o p k i n s suggests, is i n some sense the cause even o f the most permanent and unchanging r h y t h m s o f nature, like the movements o f the planets. Behind all the secondary causes—the electrical storm, the industrial factory, the desolation o f the countryside b y man's activity, the slow r e v o l u t i o n o f the earth—'broods' the perpetual creative causality o f G o d the H o l y Ghost. I m p l i c i t i n the w o r d because is the idea o f G o d as a cause o f all the changes i n creation; and i t is this attribution o f causality to G o d that is the fundamental analogical state­ ment i n the poem. One m i g h t summarise the general sense o f this poem b y saying that the sestet, w h i c h is m a i n l y an analogical statement centring on the w o r d because, gives the answer to the question posed i n the p r i m a r i l y metaphorical octave. Indeed, at a deeper level still i t m i g h t even be suggested that w h a t the poem is saying is simply that metaphorical language is itself incomplete w i t h o u t an analogical underpinning. Metaphor (the octave) raises questions that o n l y analogy (the sestet) can answer, w h i l e conversely analogy can o n l y answer questions that are raised i n a metaphorical f o r m . I n the octave a metaphoric relation­ ship is established between G o d and the w o r l d . G o d is present i n the w o r l d as thunder and l i g h t n i n g , as the dynamism o f the human industrial process. I n this sense G o d has been b r o u g h t d o w n to the level o f the w o r l d ' s concerns, he has become 'like' the w o r l d . B u t he is p u t o n the w o r l d ' s level partly b y a k i n d o f positive absence. T h e w o r l d ' s concerns have blotted G o d out, for 'all is seared w i t h trade' and 'the soil is bare now'—bare o f the growth-processes that were once the true signs o f God's creative power. H e is b o t h i n the w o r l d and n o t i n the w o r l d , he is embodied i n i t (the storm, the oil-crushing plant) and absent from i t (the bare soil, the commercialism). T h e w o r l d b o t h accommodates and banishes h i m at the same time. I t is because o f this paradox that the question arises: w h y do men n o w not reck his rod? Men cannot obey G o d unless he is sufficiently embodied i n the w o r l d to be recognisable, b u t they cannot refuse to do so unless he is banished effectively enough for men to be able to forget or ignore h i m . T h e octave o f the sonnet is designed to generate this problem. I t does so b y creating a single metaphorical relationship between G o d and the w o r l d w h i c h makes the question inevitable. T h e answer that the sestet gives is the assertion o f an u n d e r l y i n g causal relationship between G o d and the w o r l d . G o d is n o t o n l y the cause o f the planetary revolution that

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ensures that every dusk is followed b y a new dawn. H e is also the cause o f the perpetual 'freshness deep d o w n things' and the fact that 'nature is never spent'. H e is still available. T h i s second part o f the poem is therefore one single, complex causal proposition, corresponding to the single metaphorical proposition o f the octave. But whereas the effect o f the metaphors i n the octave is to b r i n g G o d d o w n on to the h o r i ­ zontal level o f the w o r l d b y identifying h i m as the inner dynamism o f the w o r l d ' s o n g o i n g process, the effect o f the analogy, w i t h its u n ­ mistakably vertical implications ( G o d is above the w o r l d , penetrating i t 'deep d o w n ' w i t h a causal energy, or presence, that comes f r o m the abode o f a b i r d that lives on h i g h ) is to separate G o d f r o m the w o r l d , to maintain h i m at a different level f r o m the plane o f finite w o r l d l y experience. Considered as a w h o l e therefore, the poem embodies i n its v e r y structure the i n t e r - t w i n i n g o f t w o 'axes'. H o w e v e r , each o f the t w o parts does contain some elements o f the other. W i t h i n the metaphorical relationship o f the octave, we find an analogical relationship embedded. T h i s is the implicit 'because' w h i c h underlies the w h o l e metaphorical argument o f the octave. G o d is being ignored and forgotten b y the w o r l d because man's is preoccupied w i t h trade, t o i l and technology. I n this sense, the relation o f man to the w o r l d , w h i c h has been so 'bleared' that it can no longer descry God's presence, is one o f analogy. T h a t is to say, the 'seared', 'smudged' w o r l d is a fit analogue, a reliable sign o f man's o w n materialism, just as a man's complexion is a reliable sign o f his health. T h e spoiled w o r l d reveals man's natural tendency to r u i n his environment b y forgetting God's creative and recreative power. A n exactly corresponding point can be made about the sestet o f the poem. W i t h i n its p r i m a r i l y ana­ logical emphasis o n the causal relationship between G o d and the w o r l d we find buried metaphors o f w h i c h the most obvious is the ' b r o o d i n g ' metaphor itself. T h i s metaphor is simply the imaginative embodiment o f what is at stake logically i n the analogical w o r d because. T h e meta-phor fills out the analogy, b y adding a new dimension to i t , a dimension o f significance that can o n l y come from the metaphorical 'axis'. N o w i t w o u l d be easy to say at this p o i n t that, b y choosing an overtly theological poem, I have twisted the evidence to suit m y o w n case. Perhaps therefore a second, v e r y different poem may be i n t r o ­ duced to make the same fundamental point. I choose a poem b y Philip Larkin.

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Myxomatosis Caught i n the centre o f a soundless field W h i l e h o t inexplicable hours go b y What trap is this? Where were its teeth concealed? Y o u seem to ask. I make a sharp reply T h e n clean m y stick. I ' m glad I can't explain Just i n w h a t jaws y o u were to suppurate: Y o u may have thought things w o u l d come r i g h t again I f y o u could o n l y keep quite still and w a i t . 2 1

I n this case the metaphorical and the analogical dimensions each penetrate the w h o l e poem: yet i t is clear that the poem's meaning still depends u p o n their d i s t i n c t i o n - w i t h i n - u n i t y , as w e l l as u p o n the causal underpinning implicit i n the analogical foundation o f the whole. I t h i n k the rabbit, sprawling helplessly o n the g r o u n d instead o f leaping up and d o w n i n its normal healthy w a y is an image o f a more general condition, o f pain and entrapment. T h i s seems to me implicit i n the suggestion o f intelligible communication between animal and man: ' W h a t trap is this? . . . y o u seem to ask'. F o r men, like trapped animals, are i n a state o f disorientation, ignorance and helplessness; ' I ' m glad I can't e x p l a i n . . . ' Y e t to the rabbit the poet, w i t h his natural physical height and superiority, must appear as a G o d . Indeed he has—and uses—his G o d - l i k e power over life and death to deny life to the animal 'beneath' h i m . Nevertheless the disastrous course o f events that has led up to the rabbit's torture and pain is parallel to man's o w n predicament o n l y because, cutting across the 'horizontal' dimension o f temporal calamity is a vertical axis o f analogy, a sustaining natural b o n d between the animal and human species. I t is o n l y because o f this vertical, analogical dimension that the rabbit's catastrophe is a reliable sign, or natural s y m b o l o f man's o w n . T h u s , despite the sardonic agnosticism o f the last couplet, w i t h its denial o f any hope o f cure, the essential vertical structure o f natural hierarchy is still discernible beneath the apparent 'flatness' o f the poem's surface message. T h e poet may be obscurely assimilating human beings to animals l y i n g o n the g r o u n d i n the throes o f agony, but i t appears that he can do so o n l y b y (inadvertently?) i n t r o d u c i n g exactly the opposite idea, namely man's 2 1

The Less Deceived, p. 3 1 .

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natural superiority i n the hierarchy. W i t h o u t this, the metaphorical similarity between the epidemic o f myxomatosis among rabbits and the epidemic o f universal sickness among men w h i c h seems to be the core o f the poem's meaning w o u l d be literally unstateable. T h e metaphor could not be put into action w i t h o u t the analogical (causal) underpinning. B u t just because o f man's superiority to the animal, he appears and behaves towards the rabbit like a G o d . O f course that this G o d is one w h o 'can't explain/Just i n what jaws y o u were to suppurate', one whose ignorance and inability to relieve suffering are the principal attributes o f his person, is the leading idea o f this v e r y black poem. Y e t this v e r y idea is i n a sense counteracted b y the fact that the order o f Nature i n the poem, w i t h its analogical hierarchy o f the t w o species, nevertheless preserves a capacity for breeding new metaphors—of w h i c h a human 'myxomatosis' is, o f course, a notable example. T h u s the poet w h o claims to be an ignorant and impotent G o d r u l i n g over the rabbit turns out, i n a paradoxical way, to be still potent after all; still creative, still able to renew the w o r l d b y the creation o f just such new metaphors as this poem itself. I n short, even i n this act o f stating the w o r l d ' s u n i n t e l l i g i b i l i t y , the w o r l d ' s i n t e l l i g i b i l i t y — i t s natural ordering—shines t h r o u g h . Indeed we m i g h t go so far as to say that the poem seems to confirm the v i e w , w e l l expressed b y N o r m a n Mailer, that the universe is a lock to w h i c h the key is a metaphor.

iii I have suggested that there is an i m p l i c i t ( i f unacknowledged) ideo­ logical undercurrent to the structuralist principles w i t h w h i c h this essay has dealt. T h i s comes out i n the incompatibility o f the causal theory that we have found i n the analogical/metonymic/syntagmatic dimension w i t h the prevailing associationist concepts that still tend to surround 'scientific' thought. Historically, such associationism and such concepts o f 'science' can be traced to the Enlightenment; i n England, to the period o f Locke, Hartley and H u m e . I t is not surprising therefore that today i t should be w i d e l y rejected as just part o f an oppressive and o u t w o r n bourgeois ideology. F o r the fundamentally arbitrary and unintelligible character o f associationist t h i n k i n g lends itself v e r y easily to the creation o f a false ideology. Once the meta­ physical idea o f Nature, as an order w h i c h exists independently o f

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human thought, has been rejected, i t is perhaps inevitable that people should t u r n for their sense o f intelligibility and meaning to what they can create for themselves, and to call this 'Nature'. A g o o d deal o f Romantic t h i n k i n g can be traced i n this w a y to associationist influences even when their results—say the extremer manifestations o f Bentham­ ism—are the object o f explicit rejection.* F r o m such a 'Nature' formed by men i n their o w n image, the o v e r w h e l m i n g urge to manipulate b o t h Nature and other men for the sake o f a 'meaningful' existence easily follows. Man's 'grandiose aspirations', to use Robbe-Grillet's phrase, are soon satisfied once external reality, o r Nature i n the pre-Enlightenment sense, ceases to stand i n our w a y . F o r example, the height o f a mountain means n o t h i n g to the romantic devotee o f such a 'Nature', as Robbe-Grillet points out, i f i t doesn't present the moral spectacle o f 'majesty'. A n d f r o m such associations, all kinds o f undesirable moral attitudes tend inevitably to f o l l o w : the things that surround h i m are like the fairies i n fairy stories each one o f w h o m brings the n e w - b o r n child one o f the traits o f his future character as a present. T h u s the mountain w o u l d perhaps have been the first to communicate the feeling o f majesty to me . . . this feeling w o u l d then . . . i n its t u r n breed others—magnificence, prestige, heroism, n o b i l i t y , pride. A n d i n m y t u r n I w o u l d apply them to other objects . . . and the w o r l d w o u l d become the de­ pository o f all m y grandiose aspirations and at the same time be their image and their justification for all e t e r n i t y . 22

Given such results o f the associationist ideology, i t is not surprising that men like Robbe-Grillet should t r y to find some alternative. B u t neither is i t surprising to find that they reject—if m y argument is correct—the o n l y true alternative, namely a genuinely analogical 'Nature'. F o r such a conception is frankly metaphysical, and indeed potentially theological. Hence the attempt b y anti-metaphysical thinkers to find an answer i n some theory o f value-free objectivity, a w o r l d i n w h i c h there is a choice o f meanings based on the primacy o f mere phenomena; on surfaces rather than depths. Such a one-dimen­ sional universe w i l l consist according to Robbe-Grillet o f objects and gestures, pictures and novels w h i c h ' w i l l be there, before they are something; and w i l l still be there afterwards, hard, unalterable, everpresent, and apparently quite indifferent to their o w n m e a n i n g ' . T h a t 23

2 2

Snapshots, p. 79.

2 3

Ibid., pp. 54-5.

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talk about 'things w h i c h are s i m p l y there before they are something', that is to say about things w h i c h are n o t things o f any kind and to w h i c h no category-terms can be applied, is incoherent should not b l i n d us to the m o r a l force o f this appeal o r the legitimacy o f its motives. F o r surely we must admit that once a chain o f associations o f the k i n d Robbe-Grillet describes has been established w i t h the force o f a prevailing ideology, i t is indeed very hard to break: so hard that o n l y a radical reappraisal o f fundamental positions can enable us to be liberated from i t .

2 Metaphor and 'Fiction' T h i s chapter is concerned to demonstrate the necessity o f m a k i n g up 'fictions' i f we are to understand and explain our o w n experience. I n the first section I discuss h o w the relation o f paradigm and syntagm i n language is paralleled b y a similar relation that is perceived i n the external w o r l d . T h e distinction between metaphors and analogies exists n o t o n l y i n w o r d s b u t i n the l i v i n g things around us. B u t the metaphorical similarities that we recognise between ourselves and other species, and w h i c h traditional societies have understood and used over the ages as means for explaining their o w n social relations, cannot be p u t to effective use w i t h o u t the telling o f stories. M y t h s and m y t h o ­ logies are necessary for the activation o f the perceived metaphors i n nature, and thus for any useful explanation o f man's o w n predicament w i t h i n i t . I n the second section o f the chapter, I go o n to consider another k i n d o f narrative explanation w h i c h I take to be complementary to that o f the traditional m y t h : namely the fairytale. B y a fairytale I mean a story that uses the idea o f magic: and I argue that magic i n narrative is complementary to the perception o f natural metaphors, since i t is essentially a k i n d o f c o n t i g u i t y , the syntagmatic relation i n 1

its purest f o r m . B u t what fairytales explain is a metaphysical rather than a social relation: that is to say, men's relationship to the superior w o r l d , that o f the 'gods' or G o d , rather than their relationship to each other. A s such they are complementary to myths i n their explanatory power. Finally I discuss briefly another aspect o f narrative explanation: namely the k i n d o f narrative we have to tell about our o w n personal experience i n order to understand i t . Autobiographical narrative too is a necessary part o f human understanding. B y 'fictions' here I mean any story that tells of something that has not in fact happened or in a way markedly different from the way it happened. It thus includes myths, legends, fairy-tales and even some autobiographies, as well as novels. F o r an interesting study of the reasons why the telling of stories is necessary even for the philosopher, see the discussion of the role of myths in Plato's theory of analogical language in Burrell, pp. 58-60. 1

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I t is n o t an accident that i n books on linguistics the section on the paradigmatic/syntagmatic distinction is often graced w i t h a table or diagram. A n d this diagram is usually drawn up, like a graph, about t w o axes, vertical and horizontal, at r i g h t angles to each other. D a v i d Crystal i n his Linguistics (p. 166) provides the f o l l o w i n g typical example: he

can

go

tomorrow

syntagmatic

relationships T3

she

may

come

soon

T

will

ask

next

could

sleep

now

you

I n this table, w h a t is said is that he stands to the other words i n the first c o l u m n {she, I, you etc.) as a paradigm o f personal pronouns; can stands to may, will, could etc. as a paradigm o f auxiliary verbs; and so o n . Whereas he stands to can, go, and tomorrow i n the top line o f the diagram i n a syntagmatic relationship; i n the second line she stands to may, come and soon i n another syntagmatic relationship; and so o n . N o w t w o things need first o f all to be noted about this diagram. One is that sentences are formed as i t were b y drawing a graph t h r o u g h the square o f words. T h u s a graph o f the f o r m

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w o u l d give the sentence 'he may ask n o w ' while a graph o f the f o r m

w o u l d give the sentence ' I may ask soon' and so o n . O n l y i n this two-dimensional matrix can a sentence be properly formed; for as I argued i n the previous chapter utterance always consists o f t w o kinds o f act: selection o f paradigm and combination into a syntagm. Each dimension o f the diagram represents one o f these t w o acts. T h e second point to note is that there is n o t h i n g sacrosanct about the w a y the diagram is drawn: i t could just as w e l l be given the other w a y r o u n d , thus: he

she

I

you

can

may

will

could

go

come

ask

sleep

tomorrow

soon

next

now

paradigmatic relations

I n other words, i t is o n l y a matter o f convention, not a fact o f 'nature' that we tend to t h i n k o f the syntagmatic as the horizontal and o f the paradigmatic as the vertical dimension. ( I n a language such as Chinese,

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for example, i n w h i c h the letters are read vertically rather than h o r i ­ zontally, just the opposite m i g h t seem the more 'natural' w a y o f presenting the case.) H o w e v e r , 'conventional' differences such as these tend to be rooted i n very deep cultural soil: and i f structural anthropologists like L e v i Strauss are correct, there is always some relation between cultural conventions such as those g o v e r n i n g language, w h i c h have i m p o r t a n t social functions, and c o m m o n observation o f what occurs i n the natural w o r l d . Differing cultural conventions are signs o f differing ways o f experiencing the w o r l d o f l i v i n g things. T h u s i t seems obvious to the simplest societies that the various species w i t h i n the biosphere occupy different 'levels' or 'niches' w i t h i n the environment. Birds f l y i n the air above, snakes w r i g g l e on the g r o u n d below, fishes s w i m i n the deeps, men can w a l k on the earth or ride above i t and so on. Furthermore, w i t h i n each o f these various kinds, some are more equal as i t were than others. Flat fish live deeper i n the sea than r o u n d fish, kangaroos can j u m p higher than rabbits, hawks fly higher than sparrows. A n d there are some anomalous kinds, such as ostriches, that ' o u g h t ' to be able to fly but can't. T h u s the l i v i n g w o r l d o f nature itself, we may say, has its o w n two-dimensional (vertical/horizontal) structure. F o r individuals o f the same species, or k i n d , governed as they are b y a relation o f similarity, all occupy the same natural level. Similarity, i t m i g h t seem, is a horizontal relation i n nature. Whereas the relationship that governs the connections between the different kinds, o r species may be understood as a vertical, or hierarchical relation: a syntagmatic relation between the various 'levels' or ecological 'niches' o f the biosphere. (Indeed i t may be literally thought o f as a relation o f contiguity, as when one species preys u p o n , or invades the t e r r i t o r y o f another.) Y e t this cannot be the whole t r u t h . F o r there is another sense i n w h i c h men c o m m o n l y perceive a similarity, or metaphorical relation­ ship between the different species on their different levels, and use this perceived similarity as a w a y o f explaining their o w n situation. Story­ tellers the w o r l d over, from anonymous myth-makers to modern novelists, employ a vast repertoire o f vertically-organised metaphors d r a w n from the similarities they perceive between men and the other species, to explain or enrich the 'horizontal' chain o f events, or plot, w h i c h they are concerned to unfold to their hearers o r readers. T h u s Shakespeare w i l l liken the k i n g , w h o is at the top o f the social hierarchy,

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to an eagle and the w h i n i n g schoolboy w h o is at the b o t t o m to a snail, i n order to express his Elizabethan concept o f the social order; and E v e l y n W a u g h w i l l use animals that have been dragged o u t o f their natural environment to express his vision o f modern social chaos. W h a t this shows is that metaphor is more than the simple perception o f similarity: i t is always perception o f a likeness w i t h i n a larger dis­ similarity. T h e initial dis-similarity is just as important as the similarity itself. T h i s is w h y w e have to deny the literal t r u t h o f a metaphor i f we are to grasp its meaning. ( T o call the k i n g 'lion-hearted' or G o d a ' r o c k ' o n l y helps us to understand the t r u t h as l o n g as we recognise that kings are n o t really lions and that rocks are n o t really divine.) A n o t h e r w a y o f p u t t i n g this p o i n t is to note that 'substitution' is an essential part o f the similarity i n metaphor: that is to say, the p o i n t o f a metaphor is that w e can substitute things that i n nature exist o n one level for things that exist o n another. 2

N o w i t is b y w o r k i n g o n the basis o f this 'natural' w a y o f t h i n k i n g about metaphor that m o d e r n anthropologists studying the stories current i n traditional societies have been able to explain social pheno­ mena that baffled earlier generations. F o r example, Levi-Strauss's w o r k o n Australian totemism, founded o n the earlier researches o f Evans-Pritchard and Radcliffe-Brown, shows h o w men use the 'natural' organisation o f things to explain their o w n social structure. T h e importance o f such studies for the present discussion o f the place o f metaphor i n narrative is that they show h o w inextricable is the connec­ t i o n between the perception o f similarities i n nature and the telling o f stories to b r i n g these similarities to life. Levi-Strauss's theory s t r i k i n g l y illustrates the fact that the w h o l e structure o f a totemic society is governed b y a set o f gigantic meta­ phors. I n a society organised o n this principle, the divisions and tensions w i t h i n the human c o m m u n i t y are expressed i n terms o f divisions w i t h i n the animal k i n g d o m . I f Levi-Strauss is r i g h t , the purpose o f d o i n g this is to make intelligible and tolerable the tensions that exist between different groups w i t h i n the human c o m m u n i t y ; tensions that arise largely'from the nature o f the social structure, its kinship pattern etc. B y l o o k i n g at the tensions between human beings under the guise o f conflicts between animal species, i t is possible for the society to confront those tensions more objectively than w o u l d be possible b y head-on Waugh's most systematic use of animal imagery is to be found in A Handful of Dust. See also above, p. 2 1 . 2

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assault. T o take one example, any society is liable to generate tensions between females and males, parents and children, fathers-in-law and sons-in-law etc. B y identifying such opposed pairs w i t h pairs o f supposedly 'similar' animal species, the society can understand its o w n problems more clearly. T h e basis for such a natural procedure is that man, after all, has his roots i n the animal w o r l d , and animals need to divide up their w o r l d i n t o certain pairs o f opposites i n order to survive. T h e y need to distinguish the friendly f r o m the hostile, the edible f r o m the inedible, the male f r o m the female etc., so i t is not really surprising that men should do the same b y using the animal species for their o w n more complex purposes. B y interpreting the resemblances and differences between species w i t h i n the animal w o r l d i n terms o f friend­ ship and conflict, solidarity and opposition, 'the w o r l d o f animal life is represented i n terms o f social relations similar to those o f human society'. B u t conversely, b y seeing the social relations o f human society i n animal terms, the human problems o f friendship and solidarity w i t h i n a c o m m u n i t y that has tensions built i n t o i t , may be clarified and solved. 3

4

H o w e v e r , problems o f social conflict cannot be solved merely b y identifying the human participants w i t h equivalent animal species. W e need more than a simple ratio, or p r o p o r t i o n between the human g r o u p and the animal species. W e need an equation between t w o sets o f such ratios or proportions. T h e mere identification of, say the males o f a tribe w i t h the bat and the females w i t h the n i g h t o w l o r the father-inlaw w i t h the eaglehawk and the son-sin-law w i t h the c r o w , tells us n o t h i n g about the relations between these various pairs. W h a t is re­ quired is some l i n k , or c o m m o n characteristic that joins the members o f each pair together. I t is n o t enough to say, men are to bats as women are to nightowls: what we need to k n o w is h o w bats are to nightowls. O n l y then can we solve the equation. Similarly, i t is not enough to say that fathers-in-law are to sons-in-law as the eaglehawk is to the crow. W e need to k n o w something o f the relation that holds between eaglehawks and crows. N o w , since the w h o l e p o i n t o f this system is to cope w i t h tension and conflict w i t h i n a c o m m u n i t y , the relation that is necessary for the system to have any explanatory force must be a double one. T h a t is to say, there must be something in common 5

3

4

6

Leach, Levi-Strauss, pp. 39-40. Levi-Strauss, Totemism, p. 160. Ibid., pp. 158-161.

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between the bat and the n i g h t o w l , or between the eaglehawk and the crow, i n v i r t u e o f w h i c h they can be compared, o r recognised as members o f a c o m m u n i t y : b u t there must also be some tension or difference between them despite this c o m m o n b o n d . T h e anthro­ pologist must therefore look, firstly at any elements that m i g h t be taken as bonds o f c o m m u n i t y between these species: and secondly, he must find the basis for a difference between them that persists despite these bonds. F o l l o w i n g Radcliffe-Brown, Levi-Strauss holds that, i n the case o f the bat and the n i g h t o w l w h a t is c o m m o n to the t w o species is that they b o t h live i n trees, and i n the case o f the eaglehawk and the c r o w , the c o m m o n b o n d is that they are b o t h carnivores. B u t t h o u g h the bat and the n i g h t o w l b o t h live i n trees and eaglehawks and crows are b o t h carnivorous birds, there is plenty o f material for conflict between them. F o r example, eaglehawks are 'hunters', crows merely 'thieves': hence a natural source o f competitive tension. B u t there is o n l y one w a y o f presenting this conflict and that is b y means o f a m y t h : for example, a story about a legendary, p r i m o r d i a l fight between the t w o species, the denouement o f w h i c h is seen as applicable to the 'equivalent' relation­ ship between the human groups that are identified w i t h the t w o species i n question. T h u s the m y t h o f the conflict between the carnivorous species eaglehawk and c r o w ends w i t h the submission o f the c r o w , w h o is for ever after condemned to be a mere stealer o f game, n o t a true hunter. T h i s m y t h n o t o n l y 'explains' w h y crows are carrion-eaters and eaglehawks are birds o f prey. I t also 'explains'' to the D a r l i n g R i v e r tribes where this m y t h operates, w h y fathers-in-law, w h o are identified w i t h the eaglehawk, are entitled to exact presents o f food f r o m potential sons-in-law, w h o are identified w i t h the crow. N o w i t w i l l be clear, f r o m what I have said already, that the birds o f the 'above' are related b y a k i n d o f 'contiguity' to the human situation 'here below'. But this vertical relation w o u l d be inert w i t h o u t the horizontal axis o f the m y t h w h i c h activates the conflict between the t w o species o f b i r d . T h a t is to say, the vertical paradigmatic relation is useless w i t h o u t a corresponding horizontal, syntagmatic one. B o t h axes are required for men to be able to ' t h i n k w i t h ' and thus gain understanding o f themselves from the identification w i t h natural species. A n d according to Levi-Strauss what holds for totemism i n this simple w a y holds for all communications systems, since these always embody pairs o f opposites that express distinction w i t h i n u n i t y ,

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opposition w i t h i n solidarity. W h a t we have seen i n totemism is a manifestation o f a general characteristic o f human t h o u g h t . N o w , i n the totemic case i t is clear that the paradigmatic relation is conceived i n the vertical dimension. T h i s seems natural because the explanation consists i n conceiving the relation between man and the other species as one o f different levels. I n some cases o f totemism, indeed, the paradigmatic relation is vertical for quite literal reasons. T h i s is so, for example, i n the case o f the Nuer, whose explanation o f the status o f twins (always mysterious i n such a society) as quasidivine beings involves a complex comparison between different species o f birds. T h e birds o f the 'above', that is the birds w h i c h can fly, are contrasted w i t h the birds o f the ' b e l o w ' , w h o can't (e.g. the guineaf o w l , francolin etc). Y e t relative to man even the birds o f the ' b e l o w ' are creatures o f the 'above' s i m p l y b y being birds. Hence the quasidivine human beings, twins, are assimilated to the relatively superior species, namely the non-flying birds, the guinea f o w l , francolin etc. But few explanations are as 'natural' as this, even t h o u g h there is a certain inevitability i n the idea that man occupies a m i d w a y place i n a hierarchy, or chain o f being, between the w o r l d o f spirits w h o are 'above' h i m and the w o r l d o f animals, plants and n o n - l i v i n g matter 'below' h i m . B u t this does n o t mean there is any necessary connection between the vertical dimension and the paradigmatic relation, as we have already seen. Exactly corresponding connections can still be made w h e n the directions o f the t w o 'axes' are reversed. This is just what happens when we employ analogy to complement a mythical, or narrative explanation. T h u s , i f the m y t h s o f totemism emphasise the differences o f levels between men and animals, i n order to assert a metaphoric similarity between them that gives insight i n t o the human situation, i t is equally possible to emphasise what is c o m m o n between men and animals, i.e. to insist that men and animals are all o f the 'here below' b y comparison w i t h the higher w o r l d o f superior spiritual beings, i n order to show that the relation o f the w h o l e o f the 'here below' to the superior w o r l d is a syntagmatic one. T h e verbal links that w o u l d be necessary to j o i n these levels together w o u l d then have to be analogies, n o t metaphors. ' N a t u r a l theology' w o u l d have arrived to complete a sociology. 6

7

8

H o w e v e r , such an analogical l i n k i n g o f the w o r l d here below to the 6

8

Ibid., p. 163 and Chap. 5. See above, p. 35.

7

Ibid., pp. 151-3.

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w o r l d above w o u l d still be inert w i t h o u t a corresponding paradigmatic dimension. Hence the need for a story to be told o f the upper w o r l d and its inhabitants, and their relation to the here below, i n order to activate the otherwise inert analogical relations set up b y the syntagmatic axis. I n other words, a horizontal, or narrative dimension is necessary i n order to give flesh and bones to the analogical structure, and to give the whole totality any explanatory power. T h e difference between such a structure and the totemic structure, i n terms o f their explanatory roles, w o u l d then be this. Whereas the totemic story is designed p r i m a r i l y to explain the true nature o f human social relations, that is, relations on the horizontal level o f history, the 'theological' story is designed p r i m a r i l y to explain a metaphysical relation: the relation that holds between nature (including man) and the gods, or G o d , w h o are above nature. T h i s is w h y Pascal was r i g h t to see that the G o d o f love and consolation, the G o d w h o features as a character i n the stories o f A b r a h a m , Isaac and Jacob, had to be prepared to humble himself sufficiently to be­ come a real character i n a story t o l d b y men.

ii One reason for i n t r o d u c i n g mythologies i n t o the discussion at this point has been to make a further connection between the syntagmatic dimension o f narrative and the concept o f causality already mentioned i n an earlier chapter. N o w i n m u c h mythological t h i n k i n g , the typical f o r m o f causality at w o r k is magic. A n d the analysis o f the idea o f magic is valuable for any consideration o f causality as i t appears i n narrative. E d m u n d Leach has pointed out that there is an almost exact parallel between the metaphor/metonymic distinction, based o n the similarity/ contiguity d i c h o t o m y , and the t w o sorts o f magic described b y Frazer at the beginning o f The Golden Bough. 'Homeopathic' magic was based on the idea o f b r i n g i n g about an effect i n A b y d o i n g the same thing to a similar object B i n a similar situation. T h e similarity o f B to A w o u l d then somehow ensure the magical influence was carried from B to A . 'Contagious' magic, on the other hand, depended u p o n actual contact between B and A ; i n this case, the magical power present i n A reaches r i g h t out to touch, and thereby affect B . Whereas i n the first case the w o r k i n g o f the magic seems to i n v o l v e a causal process, i n 9

9

Leach, Levi-Strauss,

p. 49.

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the latter case i t operates s i m p l y b y b r i n g i n g the t w o entities concerned into the same 'context'. I n fact the magic is this context. T h i s comes out i n the fact that whereas the first sort o f magic w o u l d have to be formulated as a proposition i n the f o r m of: ' A b r o u g h t about F i n B ' , the second can o n l y be formulated b y a proposition o f the f o r m : ' B because A ' , or 'because A , B ' . N o w , i n this second case A and B stand n o t for objects b u t for clauses. A n d this helps us to see w h y i n such a case the 'magic' itself can o n l y be inserted, as i t were, i n t o the relation at the p o i n t indicated b y the 'because'. F o r the events w h i c h are de­ scribed i n each o f the clauses (say, 'Cinderella's pumpkin turned into a golden coach because the fairy godmother waved her wand'~) are i n them­ selves quite intelligible. W e can 'visualise' them w i t h o u t raising any questions as to their explanation. W h a t is n o t intelligible is precisely their connection, that is to say the relation denoted b y 'because'. 'Magic' goes p r o x y , as i t were, for an intelligible connection here. I t simply indicates that we do not k n o w the rationale o f 'because' i n such a case as this. B u t i n a proposition o f the other sort (say 'the fairy g o d ­ mother b r o u g h t about the f o r m o f a golden coach i n the p u m p k i n ' ) the whole o f what is being described is strictly speaking unintelligible. T h a t is to say the actual process whereby the effect is (magically) transferred remains w h o l l y indescribable. T h i s is precisely because i t is magic: and that means, n o t that i t is a v e r y difficult process to observe or analyse, b u t simply that i t is not a discernible process at all. I t is a sheer ' c o n t i g u i t y ' . ( I t is w o r t h n o t i n g , i n passing, that just the same objection can be levelled at associationist theories o f causality i n general: the associative process itself always turns out to be too elusive for detection because, i n fact, i t is reducible i n the end to a contiguity). 1 0

Propositions describing homeopathic magic, then, are always reducible at their critical points to propositions about contagious magic: and such propositions are themselves s i m p l y propositions that combine t w o clauses i n a single context, the special feature o f w h i c h is that the contextual relation signified b y 'because' is i n principle w h o l l y beyond explanation. But 'magic' is not the o n l y case o f this k i n d : the creatio ex nihilo whereby, theologians say, G o d b r o u g h t the w o r l d into existence (and indeed whereby he keeps i t i n existence too) is another instance o f the same principle o f sheer ' c o n t i g u i t y ' . T h i s is o f course w h y the See above p. 20 and below pp. ;o ff.

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Genesis story describes God's creative act i n terms appropriate to those o f a middle-eastern magician. Creation is a k i n d o f magic: or perhaps i t w o u l d be better to say, magic is a metaphor for creation. N o w i t is important to notice that i t seems possible to speak o f a magical act or transformation o n l y w i t h i n the context o f a story. T h a t is to say a magic event can never be observed, i t can o n l y be t o l d . A n d this is also w h y stories, and especially stories w h i c h tell o f magical events, have a unique and necessary role i n the description and, i n a sense, the explanation o f otherwise indescribable, inexplicable events. Fairy tales, for example, like myths, often suggest explanations o f w h y things happen, or w h y things are as they are, w h i c h no other f o r m o f utterance could provide. L i k e the natural species, we may say the characters i n fairy tales are 'good to t h i n k w i t h ' . Because they deal i n final causes they explain things w h i c h no amount o f science based on 'association' can explain. T h e job o f the fairytale is to show that W h y ? questions cannot be answered except i n one way: b y telling stories. T h e story does not contain the answer, i t is the answer. T h e answer cannot be translated into factual, that is non-narrative f o r m , for the answer is the narrative f o r m . G . K . Chesterton grasped this, t h o u g h his example is open to dispute, w h e n he said that i f we w a n t to k n o w w h y , for example, an egg can t u r n into a chicken—for no egg suggests a chicken—then ' i t is essential that we should regard (this question) i n the philosophic manner o f fairy tales, not i n the unphilosophic manner o f science'. I n other words, science cannot deal w i t h the question since the question assumes an inner synthesis w h i c h we do not possess. T h i s is w h y 'the ordinary scientific man is strictly a s e n t i m e n t a l i s t . . . i n this essential sense, that he is soaked and swept away b y mere associations. He has so often seen birds fly and lay eggs that he feels as i f there must be some dreamy, tender connection between the t w o ideas, whereas there is none.' T h i s being so there is no scientific reason w h y , for instance, apple trees should not g r o w crimson tulips rather than apples. T h e ' c o o l rationalist from fairy land' understands this fact, and is therefore appropriately astonished when he finds that apple trees go o n year after year for some mysterious reason, producing apples rather than tulips, and eggs continually t u r n into chickens rather than bananas. Whereas Chesterton's sentimental 'materialist professor' although he is strictly a mystic i n the sense that he talks about a law even though he has no means o f penetrating its nature, finds n o t h i n g

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astonishing i n what is, after all, a perpetual m y s t e r y . * (Is this what Wittgenstein really meant w h e n he said that i t is not how things are i n the w o r l d , b u t that they are as they are, that is the 'mystical' t h i n g about t h e m ? ) 11

12

N o w what k i n d o f answer do we find i n fairy tales to this question W h y Chesterton's thesis seems to me exactly r i g h t , even t h o u g h its special applicability to biological cases is an instance o f Chestertonian special pleading: ' W h e n we are asked w h y eggs t u r n to birds, o r fruits fall i n autumn, we must answer exactly as the fairy godmother w o u l d answer i f Cinderella asked her w h y mice turned to horses or her clothes fell f r o m her at twelve o'clock. W e must answer that i t is magic'. W h a t Chesterton means b y magic here is just that u n ­ analysable c o n t i g u i t y w h i c h we ascribe to the relation between cause and effect even t h o u g h we cannot strictly observe i t or finally verify i t because i t lies behind, and is presupposed b y , every process o f scientific experimentation. But the p o i n t I want to make here, and w h i c h Chester­ t o n does not make, is that the only w a y i n w h i c h this k i n d o f connection between cause and effect, this axiomatic 'magic', can be displayed is b y w a y o f stories. T h a t is to say, the o n l y w a y such an axiom can be incorporated i n t o an account o f an event, is for the teller to construct an account w h i c h has this axiom, this principle o f 'magic', explicitly b u i l t i n t o i t f r o m the v e r y start. ?

13

But fairytales tend to concentrate o n the metaphysical rather than the social problems men have to face. T h a t is to say, what the totemic m y t h does for the 'mystery' o f apparently unalterable social c o n d i ­ tions, the fairytale is able to do for apparently unalterable metaphysical conditions. I t helps us to understand the fundamental laws o f existence even w h e n we cannot penetrate them. T h e fairytale is ' g o o d to t h i n k w i t h ' for that reason. I f we w a n t to see h o w a story such as the tale o f Cinderella helps to explain a metaphysical p o i n t , we must begin b y considering the story o f Cinderella as a metaphor for the relation between human beings and the upper w o r l d . T h a t is to say the one is a metaphor for the other, related to i t b y a similarity o f structure. B u t whereas the one is o n l y a fairy tale, the other is ' f o r real'. N o w the relation o f Cinderella, here below, to her fairy-godmother f r o m the upper w o r l d , is a magical one, for i t is magic that brings the fairy-godmother to Cinderella, and i t is 1 1 1 3

Orthodoxy, pp. 90-3. Orthodoxy, p. 91.

1 2

Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, 6.44.

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magic w h i c h brings Cinderella herself out o f her misery i n t o the lime­ light. Magic then, is the essential syntagmatic (causal) l i n k i n the structure o f the story: i t is what makes i t a fairystory. Similarly, on the other side o f the equation, there is a corresponding syntagmatic structural relation i n 'reality', namely the causal l i n k between human beings and the divine powers. B u t although, as a relation o f creative causal dependence this relation is strictly unimaginable, the 'image' o f it w h i c h is found i n the story reveals, b y its sheer c o n t i g u i t y , the equally 'contiguous' nature o f the relation between creator and creature. N o w the horizontal relation o f the t w o sides o f the equation to each other is a metaphorical one. T h e story is a metaphor for the reality. Here then we have just the opposite case f r o m that o f totemism. Here the metaphorical dimension is the horizontal one, asserting a similarity o f structure between the fairy story as a w h o l e and the creation-story as a w h o l e w h i c h i t explains precisely being a metaphor for i t . Mean­ w h i l e the vertical dimension is the syntagmatic, or causal dimension, suggesting the w a y the levels o n each side are related to each other. However, the fairy story is n o t i n competition w i t h the totemic m y t h , b u t complements i t . F o r i n presenting the contrast thus sharply, I have oversimplified the matter. I t w o u l d be possible, b o t h i n the totemic m y t h and i n the fairy story to reverse the paradigmatic/ syntagmatic axes: and thus to produce a correspondingly different, but complementary result i n each case. I t w o u l d be possible to extract a metaphysical meaning f r o m the m y t h (an affirmation o f man's solidarity w i t h the rest o f creation perhaps). A n d i t w o u l d be possible to affirm a sociological meaning i n the Cinderella fairystory: emphasising per­ haps the contrasting fortunes o f rich and poor, u g l y and beautiful, i n the society i n w h i c h the characters live. I n fact i t is always possible to interpret the two-dimensional structure o f a story i n t w o ways according to the direction o f the axes. B u t equally, i n all cases, there can be no question o f conflict between the t w o interpretations thus arrived at. There is a metaphysical and a sociological interpretation for every tale. As I have said, the magical connection between the fairy godmother and Cinderella is itself a metaphor for the mystery o f causality. T w o things need to be said about this connection. Firstly, magic, as Chester­ t o n says, is far from haphazard or unintelligible. O n the contrary, there are very clear, even r i g i d rules g o v e r n i n g the operation o f magic in

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fairytales. ' T h e note o f the fairy utterance is, " y o u may live i n a place o f g o l d and sapphire, i f y o u do n o t say the w o r d ' c o w ' " , or " y o u may live h a p p i l y w i t h the K i n g ' s daughter, i f y o u do n o t show her an onion" \ I t is a h i g h l y rational system i n the sense that, given the 1 4

initial premiss, everything follows logically, even inexorably. Secondly, the fairy godmother's power e.g. to make Cinderella's clothes fall from her at exactly twelve o'clock, is totally and unambiguously manifested in the v e r y falling-off o f these clothes. I f we want to k n o w i n what the magic consists, w e can do no more than p o i n t to its effects. T h e clothes are actually touched b y i t . T h e magic reaches r i g h t o u t to them. There is no process that could possibly be open to analysis or investigation here; o n l y simple contact, sheer ' c o n t i g u i t y ' . T h i s sheer c o n t i g u i t y may be regarded as a fairytale metaphor for God's causal activity i n the w o r l d : that too is sheer contiguity; whatever is touched b y i t just happens. T h i s is the meaning o f creation. I t is the syntagmatic relation­ ship i n its most complete and unambiguous f o r m .

iii I t is w o r t h n o t i n g finally, i n this discussion o f the explanatory powers o f stories that narrative is n o t o n l y a unique instrument for describing certain kinds o f truths about the external w o r l d , i t is also, for similar reasons, u n i q u e l y i m p o r t a n t i n explaining what happens inside oneself. T h u s the autobiographer is one w h o is t r y i n g to make sense o f himself i n relation to the w o r l d b y recollecting his past i n a narrative. F o r he k n o w s that i t is o n l y i n the retelling o f his o w n story that he can p u t his life i n t o order and shore up the fragments o f his past against his r u i n . A s E v e l y n W a u g h ' s Charles Ryder remarks, his theme is m e m o r y . F o r his memories are his life as he k n o w s i t n o w , and as Rousseau pointed out i n his o w n autobiography, 'to k n o w me i n m y latter years i t is necessary to have k n o w n me w e l l i n m y y o u t h . 1 5

N o w the autobiographer's deliberate recollection o f his memories is more than a search for a subjective inner reality, the self: i t is also a search for the w o r l d that the self inhabits. A n d the commerce o f the self and the w o r l d is a story that the autobiographer has to tell. T h i s is w h y there is no getting away f r o m the need to tell stories i n order to Ibid., p. 97. Confessions, Book 4, p. 169. See also Waugh, Brideshead Revisited, i n , Chap. 1. 1 4

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explain ourselves as w e l l as to describe the w o r l d . A s Barbara H a r d y has put i t , narrative is not just an aesthetic i n v e n t i o n used b y artists to c o n t r o l , manipulate and order experience, b u t [ i t is] a p r i m a r y act o f m i n d transferred to art f r o m life i t s e l f . . . F o r we dream i n narrative, daydream i n narrative, remember, anticipate, hope, despair, believe, doubt, plan, revise, criticise, construct, gossip, learn, hate and love b y narrative. I n order really to live, we make up stories about ourselves and others, about the personal as w e l l as the social past and f u t u r e . . . 1 6

I n saying this, Barbara H a r d y is surely echoing the reflections upon m e m o r y and anticipation pondered b y St Augustine i n Books X and X I o f the Confessions: reflections w h i c h led h i m to formulate his theory that time past and time future are n o t so m u c h objective modalities o f things themselves as modalities o f o u r experience o f things. T h u s m e m o r y is more than just a field o r 'spacious palace' containing, higgledy-piggledy, 'the treasures o f innumerable images, b r o u g h t i n t o it from things o f all sorts perceived b y the senses', for, as Augustine himself recognised, we can measure the temporal lengths o f different memories against each o t h e r , and this proves that there is a certain temporal order even among the miscellaneous images that the m e m o r y stores up. So to recall something f r o m the m e m o r y , i n however simple a fashion, is already to recall i t as part o f a temporal sequence. M e m o r y itself furnishes us w i t h the beginnings o f a narrative order—and o f course, the same goes for o u r anticipations o f the future t o o . I n this sense, then, there is a p r i m i t i v e , potential narrative lodged i n the v e r y faculty that enables us to experience the w o r l d as temporal at all. B u t mere remembering is a rarity: we are seldom so innocent as merely to recall the order o f things w h i c h m e m o r y provides. W h e n I t r y to re­ trace the sequence o f movements I made five minutes ago i n order to find the pencil that I n o w want to use, and w h i c h I absent-mindedly misplaced, I am t r y i n g , o f course, s i m p l y to recall. B u t the task is made difficult b y m y o w n temptation to reshuffle those memories according to some order w h i c h I w o u l d like to impose on the past. I refuse to 17

'Towards a Poetics of Fiction: A n Approach through Narrative', Novel, 2 (Fall 1968), p. 5. Cf. George Orwell, ' W h y I Write', Collected Essays, i, p. 2. I n this paragraph I am indebted to Stephen Crites, 'The Narrative Quality of Experience' in Journalof the American Academy of Religion, 39 (1971), pp. 291— 311. 1 6

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believe I was so stupid as merely to have dropped the pencil behind a pile o f papers: so I t r y to remember the facts differently—perhaps i n order to be able to blame someone else for the loss. I n other words, I am caught between telling the story as i t actually happened and re­ telling i t as I w o u l d like i t to have happened. O r perhaps—to take a more serious case—I may retell i t according to some artistic instinct for embellishment, or because o f some new perspective that I have acquired from intervening experiences, and w h i c h n o w sheds a different light u p o n the facts. I n other w o r d s , i n any possible autiobiography I m i g h t w r i t e , I shall n o t be merely recalling, I shall be re-collecting the past: that is to say, I shall be refashioning i t into a new k i n d o f order— an order dependent o f course, u p o n the actual order o f past events for its materials, but independent o f i t insofar as autobiography inevitably becomes a narrative w i t h an end i n view. Frank Kermode has drawn attention to the dangers inherent i n the a m b i g u i t y o f this w o r d 'end'. F o r a story is always liable to be shaped u n d u l y b y the 'end' that is projected b y i t : an end w h i c h is b o t h a purpose and a terminus: Men i n the middest make considerable imaginative investments i n coherent patterns w h i c h , b y the provision o f an end, make possible a satisfying consonance w i t h the origins and the middle. T h a t is w h y the image o f the end can never be permanently falsified. B u t they also, w h e n awake and sane, feel the need to show a marked respect for things as they are; so that there is a recurring need for adjustments i n the interest o f reality as w e l l as o f c o n t r o l . 18

T h e danger comes w h e n stories that are essentially fictions—that is, narratives w i t h ends w h i c h we recognise to be consciously and ex­ plicitly chosen for specific and limited purposes—regress to the status o f narratives whose ends are taken to be really, n o t just fictionally operative: i.e. myths. F o r Kermode i t is one o f the most insidious o f contemporary temptations to t u r n what should be regarded as fiction into m y t h : and the pressure u n d e r l y i n g this temptation is w h a t he calls o u r sense o f an ending, our special urge to read the end i n t o the beginning, to divine a purpose i n everything—perhaps because today the w o r l d that awaits us outside our narrative windowframe is so manifestly lacking i n purpose. A n o t h e r w a y o f describing this pressure 18

The Sense of an Ending, p. 17.

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towards ' m y t h ' w o u l d be to say that we have an over-developed sense o f the horizontal dimension o f narrative. O v e r against this we need to cultivate a special understanding o f the vertical aspects: and i n particular the awareness that the story is only a story, a 'fiction', something devised and controlled f r o m 'above' b y a narrative voice, w h i c h is itself open to criticism, to inspection, to judgement b y us: and a k i n d o f art i n w h i c h metaphoric 'overtones' and poetic resonances hover above o r l u r k below the level o f mere plot to give the story a depth and richness o f texture sufficient to counteract o u r dangerous temptation to read or listen simply i n order to find out at all costs what happened ' i n the end'.

3 Metaphor and 'Nature'

I n this chapter I first o f all consider the implications o f the concept o f 'natural tendencies' w h i c h lies at the r o o t o f the causal relation. A n analysis o f this relation leads to the conclusion that n o t o n l y are terms like 'natural tendencies' unavoidable i n commonsense, b u t that they are implicit i n scientific language too. B u t such terms are irreducibly metaphorical, since they entail the systematic use o f similarities between animate and inanimate things: and hence they also i m p l y a 'whole metaphysical system'. I n the second section I go o n to draw out the implications o f this conclusion for the contemporary debate about the forces currently threatening Nature and suggest that i n order to cope w i t h them we may have to revitalise the ancient n o t i o n o f the angels as 'powers o f Nature'. Certain trends i n contemporary fiction suggest that this m i g h t be a v e r y relevant development to pursue. i A s I have already noted, the use o f analogy begins w i t h very mundane things. T h e paradigm case o f the analogical stretching o f w o r d s is that whereby we say, for example, that not o n l y the man but his complexion o r his diet are 'healthy'. I t is crucial to the use o f 'healthy' i n such cases that the healthiness o f the diet should be a cause o f the health o f the man, and the health o f the man be the cause o f the health o f his c o m ­ plexion. B u t the theory o f analogy does more than presuppose a causal relationship: i t presupposes a 'transitive' v i e w o f causality itself. T h a t is to say, the term cause denotes, n o t an association or regularity between things but (as we have seen) an agent, a ' t h i n g exerting itself, having its influence or imposing its character o n the w o r l d ' . O r , to put i t another way, i t is a t h i n g that is exerting itself according to its natural tendencies. 1

1

See above p. 20, note 12.

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N o w i t is this n o t i o n o f active causal agencies w h i c h exert them­ selves according to their o w n 'natures' w h i c h distinguished the transi­ tive concept o f causality, prevalent i n the pre-Enlightenment w o r l d , f r o m the intransitive Enlightenment n o t i o n most clearly expressed b y H u m e . A c c o r d i n g to H u m e , to l o o k for a cause is to look, n o t for a t h i n g that is 'exerting i t s e l f according to its o w n nature, b u t for a 'necessary connection' between t w o or more things (Treatise of Human Nature, I , i i i , 2 ) . A n d w h a t leads us ( o n Hume's v i e w ) to affirm the existence o f such a necessary relationship, say between a lighted cigarette-end and a cinema fire, is some regularly observed association between lighted cigarette-ends and cinema fires, such that a fire always occurs when a lighted cigarette-end is dropped i n a cinema, and never occurs w i t h o u t the d r o p p i n g o f a lighted cigarette-end. F r o m the observation o f such a regular sequence we are led to conclude that there must be a 'necessary connection' between the t w o things. T h i s 'necessary connection' itself is w h a t we mean b y causality. O f course, i t w i l l immediately be objected that this is a preposterous n o t i o n : w e k n o w perfectly w e l l that cinema fires can occur w i t h o u t being caused b y cigarette-ends, and also that quite often people drop lighted cigarette-ends and no fire results. As a comprehensive definition o f causality the intrasitive theory seems plainly absurd. B u t the fact that we can t h i n k o f so many exceptions to i t is, surely, just the virtue o f the intransitive theory. I t leads us to question the obvious answer; to enquire whether c o n t r i b u t o r y factors other than the cigarette-end itself may have been i n v o l v e d , whether the fire started before or after the cigarette-end was dropped etc. etc. Nevertheless i t fails to account for w h a t we actually do w h e n we investigate the fire. F o r the fact is that we are n o t l o o k i n g for the cause o f the fire: we are t r y i n g to isolate the factors that b r o u g h t i t about. A n d what b r o u g h t i t about w i l l be an enormous number o f connected factors o f various kinds. T h e cigaretteend w i l l have played one role i n the event: but other roles w i l l have been played b y such factors as staff negligence, the inflammability o f the carpets, the poor l i g h t i n g , the draft under the door, the absence o f adequate w a r n i n g signs, the h i g h temperature o f the r o o m , etc. etc. So to investigate w h a t b r o u g h t about the fire is not to l o o k for some­ t h i n g called the cause: i t is to isolate the factors that, b y their natural tendencies, played a part i n the b r i n g i n g about o f the fire. Y e t i t is obvious that, out o f the host o f factors i n v o l v e d , o n l y some can be said to have natural tendencies to b r i n g about fires. These w o u l d obviously

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include the lighted cigarette-end, b u t not (for example) the absence o f w a r n i n g signs. A n absence obviously cannot be an agent w h i c h has natural tendencies o f any k i n d . Nevertheless i t remains true that i f we had k n o w n all the natural tendencies o f the things i n v o l v e d we w o u l d have been able to predict w i t h certainty that the fire w o u l d have happened exactly as i t d i d . I t is the object o f empirical investigation to get as near as possible to this state o f knowledge. N o w i t is t e m p t i n g to t h i n k that, because the intransitive v i e w o f causality historically has had the virtue o f stimulating empirical i n ­ vestigation, its virtues can somehow be combined w i t h those o f the transitive theory. B u t the t w o theories are m u t u a l l y exclusive, and were designed to be so. Nevertheless, attempts have been made to combine elements o f b o t h , and one o f them—that o f M i l l — i s i n ­ structive for a particular reason: namely that i t shows that y o u cannot help using metaphorical language i n the statement o f the transitive theory. M i l l ' s Humean starting point is clear: Between the p h e n o m e n a . . . w h i c h exist at any instant, and the phenomena w h i c h exist at the succeeding instant there is an i n ­ variable order o f succession . . . this collective order is made up o f particular sequences, obtaining invariably among the separate p a r t s . . . T h e invariable antecedent is termed the cause, the i n ­ variable consequent, the effect. However, M i l l realises that such invariable sequence seldom subsists between a single antecedent and a single consequent. There is rather a 'sum o f antecedents' to w h i c h the effect is consequent: and i t is the sum o f the antecedents w h i c h is the 'real cause' {System of Logic, i n , 5 §2). Further M i l l sees that from no particular sum o f antecedents can we be sure that a particular consequent w i l l necessarily follow. F o r v e r y often w h a t w o u l d f o l l o w , i f this sum o f the antecedents were allowed to exert itself unimpeded, does not happen because its exertions are impeded. W e may say, for example, that the sum o f antecedents enumerated above w o u l d cause a fire i n the cinema i f unimpeded: but o f course v e r y often something else interferes—a person steps o n the cigarette-end, the cigarette-end drops o n the stonework instead o f the carpet, etc. etc. So the fire that w o u l d otherwise have happened 2

2

See above p. 51.

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doesn't happen. O f course, whatever does happen o n l y happens because o f a sum o f antecedents: b u t then this sum includes the unexpected interfering agencies as w e l l as the agencies i n the original sum. T h u s M i l l ' s analysis o f causality can o n l y tell us what tends to happen, not what must happen: T o accommodate the expression o f the law to the real phenomena we must say, not that [an] object moves (i.e. i n the direction the sum o f antecedents w o u l d , i f unimpeded, have pushed i t ) but that i t tends to move i n the direction and w i t h the velocity specified. {System of Logic, x , io§5). I n g o i n g so far, M i l l has already gone beyond anything that an intransitive v i e w o f causality could logically accommodate. H e has already modified the n o t i o n o f an invariable sequence between a particular sum o f antecedents and the necessary consequent since he has admitted that we can never be sure that w e have included i n this sum o f antecedents everything that m i g h t be involved. I n fact, the 'necessary connection' w h i c h is o f the essence o f causality o n the intransitive theory can n o w exist o n l y (a) between the w h o l e universe o f causes at one instant and the w h o l e order o f the universe at the next ( o n l y i n this w a y could we be sure that we had included all the relevant antecedents): or ( b ) between a particular sum o f antecedents and w h a t it w i l l tend to produce. H o w e v e r , M i l l goes further. H e insists that n o t o n l y does e.g. the b o d y that is subject to a certain force move i n the predicted manner unless counteracted: he also says that i t tends to do so even i f i t is counteracted. T h a t is to say, i t still exerts, i n the original direction, the same energy o f m o v e ­ ment as i f its first impulse had been undisturbed, and produces, b y that energy, an exactly equivalent quantity o f effect. For example, even i f a force o f one t o n fails to raise a three-ton object, so that n o t h i n g actually happens at all, according to M i l l the one t o n force is still exerting itself. W e can be sure o f this because i f we add a further force o f t w o tons from another source, then the object w i l l rise and this shows that the original force was exerting itself all the time {System of Logic, loc. cit.).* I n other words, the absence o f anything happening may be the sum o f the effects o f two forces w o r k i n g against each other.

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N o w i t is easy to see that there must be something w r o n g w i t h this picture. H o w can t w o forces, b o t h actually at w o r k (i.e. the three-ton w e i g h t o f the object that tends to stay o n the g r o u n d and the one-ton force that is tending to raise i t ) produce a 'sum' that is precisely nothing? M i l l is here surely m u d d l i n g up t w o incompatible pictures; one is the n o t i o n that the sum o f a negative and a positive number may be zero, the other is the fact that the result o f t w o opposing forces i n action against each other may produce a state o f rest. I n the case o f the first picture M i l l ' s trouble is that the t w o forces i n question are n o t respec­ tively positive and negative: the idea does n o t make sense. A negative force can no more be an agent than an absence o f w a r n i n g signs. O n the other hand, i n the case o f the second picture, the n o t i o n o f an object tending to produce an effect even i n the absence o f any actual result can o n l y be equivalent to trying. B u t what sense does i t make to say that the three-ton object is t r y i n g to stay o n the g r o u n d , and the one-ton force is t r y i n g to raise it? One answer is that i t makes no sense at all. T h i s seems to be Geach's v i e w , w h e n he dismisses M i l l ' s idea o f the sum o f effects as a mere m u d d l e . B u t even i f i t is a muddle, i t is n o t a mere muddle. There is a reason w h y M i l l was led to his conclusion, and even i f i t was w r o n g it was significant as the u n w i t t i n g expression o f a c o n t i n u i n g trend i n human t h i n k i n g . F o r the fact, as even Jacques M o n o d admits, is that the history o f human civilisation shows h o w , i n the course o f the encounter between man and the inanimate w o r l d , man has started w i t h the idea that things are somehow alive, and are therefore ' t r y i n g ' to do w h a t they naturally tend to do.* O n l y later do men come to understand the difference between l i v i n g things, about w h i c h i t is legitimate to say that they ' t r y ' to do such and such, and inanimate things w h i c h , having no capacity for f o r m i n g purposes o r intentions, cannot be properly spoken o f as ' t r y i n g ' to do anything. N o w i t may w e l l be that ' p r i m i t i v e ' man was s i m p l y w r o n g i n ascribing intentionality to inanimate things. B u t even i f he was, the fact remains that there is still a residually metaphorical character to our ascription o f tendencies to any inanimate object, arising f r o m the fact that such ascription o f tendencies proceeds f r o m cases o f intentional behaviour to those o f non-intentional behaviour. A n d this residually metaphorical character is never altogether eliminated. ( N o r m a n 3

3

Three Philosophers, p. 103.

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Mailer's talk about the 'thrust' o f the Saturn rocket's engines is a characteristic example o f this fact.) M i l l ' s problem was that i n order to make sense o f his causality theory, he had to use the metaphorical language o f ' t r y i n g ' even at the v e r y moment w h e n he wanted t o employ the purely mathematical language o f a sum o f positive and negative numbers. I t m i g h t be objected that the use o f metaphorical language i n the case o f inanimate, and therefore non-intentional behaviour, is s i m p l y a confusion o f categories, and i f a theory requires such a confusion i t must itself be confused. Certainly there is a genuine danger o f c o n ­ fusing categories w h e n we speak o f the natural tendences o f inanimate objects. Pascal was r i g h t t o p o i n t out that N e a r l y all philosophers confuse their ideas o f things, and speak spiritually o f corporeal things, and corporeally o f spiritual ones, for they b o l d l y assert that bodies tend to fall, that they aspire towards their centres, that they flee f r o m destruction, that they fear a v o i d , that they have inclinations, sympathies, antipathies, all things pertaining o n l y to spirit. (Pensees, 199) B u t he was surely w r o n g to l u m p together all ascriptions o f ten­ dencies and call them simple confusion o f thought. I t is a fact that bodies tend to fall, for example, even i f i t is an illicit metaphor to say that they flee f r o m destruction. So the p r o b l e m is h o w to distinguish the legitimate language f r o m the illegitimate—a problem that Pascal's Cartesian contemporaries d i d n o t w h o l l y solve. F o r example, the Car­ tesian conception o f inertia—a crucial concept i n Cartesian physics— is that o f a tendency o f bodies to stay i n the same state: an ascription o f a teleological property to corporeal objects that clearly offends against Pascal's all-too-inclusive strictures about conceptual confusion. Descartes's theory breaks d o w n at this p o i n t precisely because he cannot do w i t h o u t the v e r y n o t i o n that he is t r y i n g to eliminate: namely the n o t i o n that even inanimate objects have natural tendencies. A s M i l l ' s example shows, the language of'tendencies' cannot be w h o l l y freed f r o m the teleological language o f ' t r y i n g ' and therefore o f pur­ poses and final causes.* I n short, for all its metaphorical overtones and metaphorical implications, the idea o f natural tendencies i n things is n o t a piece o f o u t w o r n superstition, b u t a necessary part o f scientific 4

4

Kenny, Descartes, pp. 213-14.

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reasoning as to the causes o f phenomena, as w e l l as being simple c o m m o n sense. B u t there is more to be said i n support o f the transitive theory than that. I t is n o t o n l y v e r y o l d (as one w o u l d expect f r o m a piece o f commonsense): at least as o l d as the theory o f Thales o f Miletus that a magnet had a 'soul' w h i c h attracted i r o n , or, to p u t i t more generally, that 'all things are full o f gods'. I t is also v e r y modern. Cybernetics for example involves the n o t i o n that change consists i n the t u r n i n g o f a thing-in-potency to a thing-in-act b y the 'influence'—that is to say, natural tendency, or p o w e r — o f a mover, or 'cause'. W . Ross A s h b y , i n his Introduction to Cybernetics* refers to such a change as the b r o w n i n g o f the skin t h r o u g h sunshine as the 'influence' o f an 'operator' (i.e. the sunshine) u p o n an 'operand' (i.e. the t h i n g - i n potency) b y t u r n i n g i t i n t o a 'transform' (i.e. thing-in-act). I d o u b t i f the cybernetician is fully aware o f the implications o f his 'metaphor' ( i f such i t be) concerning the influence o f the sun, b u t i t certainly resounds w i t h Aquinas's Aristotelean d i c t u m : causa importat influxum quemdam ad esse causati. O r , as Gilson puts i t , 'something o f the being o f the cause passes i n t o the being o f that w h i c h undergoes the effect'. T h a t is to say, there is something o f the sunshine i n the b r o w n skin that is n o t present i n the u n b r o w n e d skin, just as for Thales, w h e n water is heated something o f the fire (namely, 'the h o t ' ) passes i n t o the water to make i t h o t . * O f course, this p o w e r is n o t a ' g o d ' w h o has taken up residence i n the t h i n g , t h o u g h that may be the ' p r i m i t i v e ' w a y o f understanding the m a t t e r . B u t neither is i t a mere w o r d , a peri­ phrastic study i n a w o r n - o u t philosophical fashion. O n the contrary, it is real i n so far as its exercise tells us something about the nature o f the t h i n g that has i t . A s R u s k i n p u t i t , i n his polemic against the empiricism o f his nineteenth-century opponents: 6

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O n the unavoidable use of metaphors in science see Max Black, Models and Metaphors and D . Berggren, 'The Use and Abuse of Metaphor' in The Review of Metaphysics, 16 (December 1962 and March 1963), pp. 237-58 and 450-72. Aristotle, de Anima, 405 a 19. 1 owe this point to Hugo Meynell, pp. 13-15. p. 10. In Metaphysics, Lib. V , Lect. 1. Spirit of Mediaeval Philosophy, p. 86. A . H . Armstrong, Introduction to Ancient Philosophy, p. 4. 'Primitive' here should not be thought to imply any evaluative judgement, or any assertion (a la Levy-Bruhl, Monod et al.) of the necessary logical or scientific superiority of allegedly 'modern' concepts. 5

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the w o r d 'blue' does not mean the sensation caused b y a gentian o n the human eye; b u t i t means the power o f p r o d u c i n g that sensation; and this power is always there, i n the t h i n g , whether w e are there to experience i t or not, and w o u l d remain there t h o u g h there were not left a man o n the face o f the earth. Precisely i n the same w a y g u n ­ powder has a p o w e r o f exploding. I t w i l l n o t explode i f y o u p u t n o match to i t . B u t i t always has the p o w e r o f so exploding, and is therefore called an explosive c o m p o u n d , w h i c h i t v e r y positively and assuredly is, whatever philosophy may say to the contrary. {Modern Painters, i v , I 2 § 2 ) I f it were n o t for the inferences that are made, b y scientists and c o m m o n men alike, f r o m the supposition that such things as gunpowder have natural tendencies to behave i n certain ways, a g o o d many facts, such as the existence o f hitherto u n k n o w n planets, substances and properties, w o u l d never have become k n o w n . T h i s is itself a refutation o f Descartes's thesis that the o n l y things w e can predicate o f corporeal objects are those w h i c h 'can be derived f r o m indubitable true axioms w i t h the sort o f self-evidence w h i c h belongs to mathematical p r o o f ' . B u t i t is also a refutation o f the desperate remedy taken b y some o f Descartes's followers (notably Geulincx and Malebranche *) that, since w e cannot ascribe natural tendencies to corporeal things, corporeal things cannot exercise causality at all. F o r them o n l y G o d is a true cause: everything else is simply organised coincidence on a gigantic scale. 13

1

T o sum u p : Pace thinkers like M o n o d , the belief i n natural tendencies does n o t i m p l y any sort o f Bergsonian vitalism, let alone that 'all things are full o f gods' i n the sense that Thales intended, b u t simply that the metaphorical language that is needed to formulate causal connections must inevitably contain metaphysical overtones. W h e n the cybernetician talks about the influence o f the sun u p o n skin, for instance, he is simply unpacking an altogether unavoidable expression, w h i c h is more fully articulated i n the T h o m i s t d i c t u m already quoted. I f i t is a metaphor, i t is certainly n o t a dead one. Similarly, Descartes's failure to r i d the term inertia o f i t s — t o h i m unwelcome—associations w i t h natural tendencies, is not due to any failure on his part to translate his language fully i n t o mathematical terms. O n the contrary, the t e r m 'inertia' just is a term for a natural tendency, despite its being basic to 1 3

1 4

Principles of Philosophy, quoted in Kenny, Descartes, p. 203. See Copleston, History of Philosophy, iv, pp. 177-9 d 188-90. a n

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his physics. T h e same goes for a huge mass o f metaphorical language w h i c h lies b u r i e d beneath the apparently innocent, o r neutral talk o f scientists even today. Appearances n o t withstanding, 'tendency' terms such as energy, inertia, attraction, repulsion, thrust and many others w h i c h are the c o m m o n coin o f physics or engineering remain, often buried and lacking their original 'textural overtones' b u t still active, i n the formulation o f the models and hypotheses o f contemporary science; and all o f these go back to the commonsense supposition that things have natural tendencies: a supposition that is expressible o n l y i n language w h i c h is radically metaphorical. A s Max Black tersely puts i t : 'Perhaps every science must start w i t h metaphor and end w i t h algebra; and perhaps w i t h o u t the metaphor there w o u l d never have been any algebra.' 15

ii T h e argument o f this chapter so far has been that 'natural tendencies' language is indispensable b o t h for science and commonsense and that metaphor is a necessary element i n such language. A consequence has emerged, namely that there is no avoiding metaphysical involvements once this premiss is granted, since a metaphysic is implied b y the v e r y fact o f metaphor itself. F o r metaphor asserts a relation between man and a w o r l d w h i c h is p r o p e r l y called 'Nature'; that is to say, a w o r l d ordered and intelligible and subject to discernible 'natural tendencies' inherent i n things themselves. B u t i f the epistemological conclusion is philosophically compelling, as I t h i n k i t is, the social and political implications are nevertheless dangerous. Precedents set b y many o f the novelists and poets o f this century w h o have acknowledged such a 'metaphysical' role for metaphor are hardly reassuring. A s Denis D o n o g h u e has said, the imperial role given since Coleridge to the poet's metaphorically-orientated imagina­ t i o n provides the basis for an o r d e r i n g o f human experience, o n behalf o f the supposedly unimaginative majority, b y a self-selected elite: the men o f i m a g i n a t i o n . A n d this elitist claim is n o t just a charter for m i n o r i t y rule i n the arts: i t has unmistakable political implications. Conrad's dealings w i t h the mysterious powers o f darkness inside the human psyche were inseparable f r o m his dealings w i t h darkness i n the political sphere, and always tempted h i m to confuse a sense o f mystery 16

16

Models and Metaphors, p. 242.

1 6

Yeats, p. 121.

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w i t h the business o f mystification, to confound p r o f u n d i t y w i t h portentousness. Lawrence's 'unseen presences' easily turned i n t o dark and perverse gods. Yeats's heterodox and nationalistic religiosity proved fertile soil f o r fascist ideas. Against such precedents, to w h i c h we were alerted, i f i n a somewhat w o o d e n w a y , b y C. P. Snow more than a decade ago, the anti-metaphysical case presented b y RobbeGrillet and others seems eminently appropriate. I f y o u want to remove the potentially fascist implications o f a romantic, imperial theory o f the imagination then y o u must r o o t out its cause (the metaphysical i t c h , the grandiose aspiration o f man to find an ultimate meaning i n life) and y o u must eliminate the modes o f its expression—that is, the poetic metaphors, the heart-searching romantic tragic fictions, the collabora­ t i o n w i t h b i g plots being hatched b y something called 'nature', to w h i c h all writers are tempted even n o w . A s a political corrective, then, the anti-metaphysical impulse o f m u c h 'new-novel' w r i t i n g has m u c h to commend i t . I t perhaps represents the one democratic aesthetic w e have, abolishing the need for an elite o f poets or madmen, adepts o f secret disciplines o r practitioners o f psychological speleology. Y e t , as we have seen, b y reducing language and the imaginative creativity i t embodies, to a merely instrumental role, this anti-metaphysical stance itself risks creating, like all revolutions, a new imperialism o f its o w n . I t implies a ' n a r r o w i n g o f the range o f human consciousness', to use O r w e l l ' s phrase, w h i c h is as drastic i n its implications for the m a n i ­ pulation o f human beings as is the indiscriminate expansion o f consciousness i n v o l v e d i n Yeats's cabbalistic mysticism. Can we find a role for the concept o f 'Nature' w h i c h does not arise f r o m an alienat­ i n g ideology masquerading as an objective force beyond human c o n t r o l , b u t w h i c h respects man's freedom as w e l l as his itch to find, at all costs, an ultimate meaning i n his life? 17

M o d e r n fiction is n o t particularly reassuring i n the answers i t gives. T h e disappearance o f Nature is one o f its central themes. A m o n g those novelists w h o tend to see the banishment o f Nature as an accomplished fact, t w o responses seem to prevail. T h e first is typified b y RobbeGrillet's verdict that modern man feels no deprivation at the loss o f 'Lear, Tolstoy and the Fool' in Collected Essays etc. iv, p. 294. Orwell's point is that the 'narrowing' in Tolstoy's case resulted from his unconscious authori­ tarianism. It was this which made it impossible for Tolstoy—himself a great landowner who had given away his inheritance—to appreciate the truths enshrined in King Lear. 1 7

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Nature, for Nature was never more than bourgeois illusion, c o m f o r t i n g perhaps i n a meaningless w o r l d b u t no less illusory for all that. T o be r i d o f Nature is to be at last free. T h e second response is typified b y Beckett's verdict: there is no more Nature, and the loss is tragic and the deprivation catastrophic. T o be r i d o f Nature is to be i n the realm o f 'the lost ones', i n a w o r l d o f sheer 'lessness'. A t h i r d response h o w ­ ever has to be considered. T h i s is latent i n Mailer's identification o f the source o f our troubles about Nature w i t h the t r i u m p h o f w h a t he calls corporation-land: that combination o f technology, materialism and exploitative b r u t a l i t y towards the environment w h i c h is most evident i n the cities o f America. H o w e v e r , i n Mailer's case there is also a certain fascination for, as w e l l as hatred of, this massive agglomeration o f brutalities: there is pride, energy, v i t a l i t y i n i t , as w e l l as regimenta­ t i o n , p o l l u t i o n and despair. Mailer's ambivalence is characteristic o f a general uncertainty about 'the b i g p l o t being hatched o u t b y n a t u r e ' . T h i s uncertainty is evident enough elsewhere, i n the utterance o f people speaking f r o m many different viewpoints. T h u s H a r v e y C o x i n his plea for a matter-of-fact acceptance o f the positive Christian values o f the 'secular c i t y ' admitted i n the early nineteen sixties that m o d e r n man's attitude to what he called (after Max W e b e r ) 'disenchanted nature' was essentially childish: ' L i k e a child suddenly released f r o m parental constraints, he takes savage pride i n smashing nature and brutalising i t ' . B u t e v e r y t h i n g w o u l d come out r i g h t i n the end: the b r u t a l i t y was o n l y a passing phase. ' T h e mature secular man neither reverences n o r ravages nature . . . Nature is neither his brother n o r his god'. T h e trouble w i t h this v i e w was that i t was far f r o m clear h o w m o d e r n man could a v o i d the dilemma o f either reverencing o r ravaging the w o r l d . C o x pleaded f o r an attitude that w o u l d treat Nature matter-offactly, since man is n o t an expression o f Nature b u t a subject facing i t , even a monarch surveying i t . B u t the v e r y facts seemed to be against this so-called matter-of-factness, as Rachel Carson saw: 18

1 9

T h e balance o f nature is n o t the same as i n Pleistocene times, b u t it is still there: a complex, precise, and h i g h l y integrated system o f relationships between l i v i n g things w h i c h cannot be safely ignored any more than the law o f g r a v i t y can be defied w i t h i m p u n i t y b y a man perched o n the edge o f a cliff. T h e balance is n o t a status quo: 1 8

Tanner, City of Words, p. 148.

1 9

Cox, The Secular City, p. 23.

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it is fluid, ever shifting, i n a constant state o f adjustment. M a n , t o o , is part o f this balance. Because man is part o f Nature, a crucial element i n its 'balance', he must take u p an attitude towards i t w h i c h can o n l y be called a k i n d o f reverence. H e must develop a reverential sensibility because this is necessary to his v e r y understanding o f the facts: W e see w i t h understanding eye o n l y i f we have walked i n the garden at n i g h t and here and there w i t h a flashlight have glimpsed the mantis stealthily creeping u p o n her prey. T h e n w e sense something o f the drama o f the hunter and the hunted. T h e n w e begin to feel something o f the relentless pressing force b y w h i c h nature controls her o w n . 2 0

Rachel Carson's plea for reverence clashes n o t o n l y w i t h H a r v e y Cox's secular theology, b u t also w i t h the o p t i m i s m o f some o f her opponents i n the debate about the environment. T h u s , for John Maddox, her plea for a reverential sensibility is little more than a 'literary t r i c k ' . Y e t i t seems to be generally agreed—though the limits o f the agreement are far f r o m clear—that Rachel Carson's main p o i n t is valid: man is part o f the balance. A s the generally middle-of-the-road report b y Barbara W a r d and Rene D u b o s for the U n i t e d Nations conference o n the environment, called Only One Earth puts i t , i n a chapter entitled ' A Delicate Balance', 2 1

the lessons learnt i n piecing together the infinite history o f o u r universe and o f Planet E a r t h . . . teach us surely one t h i n g above all—a need f o r extreme caution, a sense o f the appalling vastness and complexity o f the forces than can be unleashed and o f the egg-shell delicacy o f the arrangements that can be upset. 22

But the delicate balance that has to be respected is n o t just an ecological problem: i t is also a human p r o b l e m . I f the 'balance o f Nature' compels us to adopt the ethical attitude w h i c h A l b e r t Schweitzer called 'rev­ erence for life', for the sake o f our o w n biological survival, the balance o f justice i n the w o r l d seems to compel us to be ready, i f necessary, to ravage nature for the sake o f our survival as civilised human beings. Only One Earth presents the dilemma v e r y clearly: 20

Silent Spring, pp. 2i5ff.

2 2

p. 85.

2 1

The Doomsday Syndrome, p. 15.

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T h e astonishing t h i n g about our deepened understanding o f reality over the last four or five decades is the degree to w h i c h i t confirms and reinforces so m a n y o f the older m o r a l insights o f man. T h e philosophers t o l d us we were one, part o f a greater u n i t y w h i c h transcends o u r local drives and needs. T h e y t o l d us that all l i v i n g things are held together i n a most intricate web o f interdependence. T h e y t o l d us that aggression and violence, b l i n d l y breaking d o w n the delicate relationships o f existence, could lead to destruction and death. These were, i f y o u like, intuitions d r a w n i n the main f r o m the study o f human societies and behaviour. W h a t we n o w learn is that they are factual descriptions o f the w a y the universe actually w o r k s . 2 3

Y e t despite this new understanding o f the 'delicate balance', most developed peoples are still affected w i t h one type o f 'tunnel v i s i o n ' . A l t h o u g h they make up no more than a t h i r d o f the human race, they find i t exceptionally difficult to focus their minds o n the t w o - t h i r d s o f h u m a n i t y w i t h w h o m they share the biosphere. L i k e the elephants r o u n d the water hole, they do n o t notice the other thirsty animals. I t hardly crosses their minds that they may be t r a m p l i n g the place to r u i n s . . . 2 4

I n short, w i t h o u t a balance o f human justice between the haves and the have-nots i n the w o r l d , there may come a catastrophic imbalance i n Nature itself. Nature may then be forced to unleash its o w n vast and complex forces, to 'fight back' against human aggression for its o w n survival, b y terrifying 'ecological invasions' o f its o w n . * W e may come full circle to that p o i n t i n ancient tragic t h i n k i n g at w h i c h the Furies, present as the forces i n Nature itself, t u r n u p o n m a n k i n d and pursue h i m relentlessly u n t i l he has atoned for his vile offences and the balance o f things has been restored. T h e reference t o ancient tragic t h i n k i n g here is far f r o m incidental. F o r i f i t is true that modern discoveries have b r o u g h t back into focus the older m o r a l insights o f man, they have also resurrected the older conceptions o f the tragic consequences that f o l l o w f r o m d i s t u r b i n g the 'delicate balance'. I f the modern p r o b l e m is that o f maintaining, at one and the same time and b y one and the same means, the balance o f forces i n Nature and the balance o f human justice among nations, then the p r o b l e m is n o t really modern at all. I t is simply a restatement o f the 2 3

Ibid., p. 85.

2 4

Ibid., p. 205.

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ancient w i s d o m w h i c h refused to drive a wedge between M a n and Nature. T o take just one expression o f this w i s d o n , the ancient Greek n o t i o n o f Dike implied b o t h the business o f maintaining a balance i n Nature and the business o f restoring justice between men. Dike operated, w i t h o u t essential distinction b o t h i n 'Nature' and i n human affairs. I t signified w h a t was simply natural i n the sense that, for example, rivers flowed d o w n h i l l because o f i t , b u t i t also signified a logic i n human behaviour: thus i f y o u killed someone, Dike w o u l d ensure that someone else killed y o u . T h a t was h o w the w o r l d w e n t . I t followed o f course that a man's task was first o f all to find his place (his moira, o r p o r t i o n ) i n this universal and self-adjusting system and to keep to i t . I f he d i d n o t , then the Furies, that is the process o f Dike, w o u l d come to see that he was b r o u g h t to b o o k . B u t exactly the same w e n t for the natural order. I t was because o f Dike that the sun had to keep its place i n the heavens, just as a man had to keep his place i n the society: and i f i t d i d not, the Furies w o u l d come and p u t i t r i g h t , too. T h e Furies n o t o n l y policed m a n k i n d : they policed Nature as well. 2 5

H o w e v e r , there is one element i n the modern situation that was n o t available to the ancient Greek tragedians: this is the feeling, v e r y apparent as we have seen i n m u c h modern fiction, that i n any case the fight for a maintanance o f the balance is hopeless. T h e i r o n laws o f entropy w i l l ensure that. Nature is n o t i n balance b u t i n decline. W e live i n a w o r l d that is o n the wane. A t best, human civilisation is a temporary regrouping o f the forces that are t r y i n g , against impossible odds, t o f o r m a rearguard against the onset o f chaos. A t w o r s t , i t is actually hastening the catastrophe.* Is there a n y t h i n g i n the 'older moral insights' o f man to cope w i t h this new f o r m o f tragic thinking? Perhaps the Christian equivalent o f the idea o f Dike can help us here. There is a parallel i n Christian t h o u g h t to the Greek conception o f powers w h i c h operate simultaneously i n the natural and i n the m o r a l spheres: i t is to be found i n the unfashionable but h i g h l y pertinent doctrine o f the angels. A b r i e f consideration o f the meaning o f this doctrine may be o f some use i n m a k i n g sense o f the contemporary possibility o f a radical imbalance i n Nature b r o u g h t about b y some k i n d o f conscious choice. O r i g i n a l l y , the angels were scarcely distinguishable, i n the Biblical 2 5

Aylen, Greek Tragedy, p. 354. See also Armstrong, p. 4.

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w r i t i n g s , f r o m G o d himself. T h e y are part o f God's ' c o u r t ' , and g o betweens mediating God's thoughts to m e n . Indeed i n the Y a h w i s t tradition they were simply ways o f talking about the holiness or p o w e r o f Y a h w e h . B u t w h e n i t became necessary f o r the Israelites to find some means o f accommodating their experience o f alien nature religions to their o w n monotheism, they d i d so b y interpreting the nature gods o f these religions as subordinate powers serving under Y a h w e h . * T h u s Yahweh's supremacy was preserved w h i l e the 'gods' o f s u r r o u n d ­ i n g cultures became the powers o f nature t h r o u g h w h i c h he ruled the w o r l d . H o w e v e r , i f the angels were responsible for p o l i c i n g nature, they were also responsible for meting o u t human justice. Just as they emerged s l o w l y f r o m God's bosom i n t o separate identities as the powers o f Nature, so too they emerged s l o w l y as separate powers m e t i n g o u t God's justice to men. (God's accusatory w r a t h — h i s 'satan'—became 'Satan', his personal prosecuting c o u n s e l ) . T h u s the inextricable connection between the balance o f Nature and the balance o f justice remained perfectly clear. 2 6

2 7

28

29

Nevertheless, the 'balance' as envisaged i n Jewish religion was radically different f r o m that o f Greek t h o u g h t for one o v e r w h e l m i n g reason: man was a 'fallen' creature i n a 'fallen' w o r l d . A n d just as the fallenness o f man was the result o f an aboriginal calamity that had distorted the v e r y meaning o f human justice, so the fallenness o f the w o r l d was the result o f an aboriginal calamity that had disorientated the w h o l e o f Nature.* T h e fall o f the angels and the fall o f man were t w i n aspects o f a single gigantic tragedy. Y e t i f the tragedy was vaster and more catastrophic than a n y t h i n g that a Greek tragic thinker could envisage, i t was also less final: for i t was o f the essence o f the matter that somehow the tragedy was the product o f free and conscious choice—a choice that could be reversed. I t is the contention o f the N e w Testament writers that this aboriginal disorientation o f b o t h Nature and justice has been reversed. Christ's defeat o f the 'principalities and powers' means that one and the same redeeming act o f love has restored the balance o f b o t h Nature and 2 6

Job 1:6; Psalm 89:6-7; 1 Kings 22:19. See also Jacob's dream at Bethel,

Gen. 28: 10—12. Timothy MacDermott, 'The Devil and his Angels' in New Blackfriars, xlviii (October 1966), pp. 16-25. Caird, Principalities and Powers, pp. 1-4. Ibid. pp. 3 i f f . See also MacDermott, p. 19. 2 7

2 8

2 9

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justice. F o r i t was lack o f love w h i c h led to the 'fall o f the angels': that is, to the collapse o f b o t h justice and Nature i n t o chaos. T h e tragedy o f Satan's fall lies i n the fact that, as God's prosecuting counsel, he became such a stickler for the divine law that he w o u l d go to any lengths to secure a verdict, forgetting altogether the claims o f love: 'His tragedy consists i n precisely this, that law is n o t the ultimate t r u t h about G o d , so that, i n defending the h o n o u r o f God's law, Satan become the enemy o f God's true p u r p o s e . '

30

N o w the divine law w h i c h

Satan takes to be ultimate and irresistible is precisely the law o f Dike. I n m o r a l terms this is the law o f an 'eye for an eye and a t o o t h for a t o o t h ' . I n religious terms, i t is the legalism o f a system w h i c h thinks o f man's dealings w i t h G o d as a k i n d o f cash-register religion o f rewards and punishments. B u t the law for w h i c h Satan is such a stickler is n o t confined to these human planes. Nature's 'laws' too are misconstrued and distorted b y the Satanic p o w e r s . psychologically i l l b y t h e m prey.

3 3

3 2

31

People are made physically and

even the w i l d animals become their

Finally, t h r o u g h such superstitions as astrology the v e r y stars

themselves are recruited i n t o the Satanic service for the exercise o f evil.

3 4

Now

the ultimate t r u t h about G o d w h i c h Satan f o r g o t is the law o f

love: and i t is the w o r k o f Christ, as the N e w Testament sees i t , to show that i t is love, n o t Dike w h i c h makes the w o r l d go r o u n d . T o the apparently invincible law o f b l i n d and tragic vengeance, Christ replies w i t h the love o f enemies w h i c h breaks the vicious circle o f unending tragedy (Matt. 5 : 4 4 , L u k e 6 : 2 7 - 3 5 ) . T o the religious legalism o f the Pharisaic spirit he replies w i t h the H o l y Spirit w h i c h blows wherever i t w i l l , and leads men i n t o the t r u t h w i t h o u t p r i o r conditions (John 1 4 : 1 7 ) . Against the apparently invincible political powers o f the w o r l d Christ sets the assertion that all p o w e r comes f r o m G o d , and that w i t h ­ out i t the political powers are helpless (John 1 9 : 1 1 ) . A n d to the Satanic g r i p o n Nature itself, Christ replies w i t h the exercise o f a power to cast o u t demons, and to c o n t r o l the elements themselves—the w i n d , Caird, p. 37 and MacDermott, pp. 21-2. The powers are deceptive, making men think that laws and processes which are actually the results of God's will are somehow unalterable decrees of fate, that is simply part of the 'human condition'. See Schlier, Principalities and Powers in the New Testament, p. 29. Schlier, pp. 21-2. Caird, pp. 56-60. Schlier, p. 23. 3 0

3 1

3 2

3 4

3 3

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the water, the tempest. Even the w i l d animals are tamed: he rides the u n b r o k e n colt ( M a r k 1 1 : 1 - 7 ) . N o w all o f these victories over the fallen powers are represented as victories for love. B u t w h a t can such talk mean? T h a t the power o f love should conquer fear, legalism, political injustice is perhaps under­ standable: b u t that i t should p u t r i g h t the v e r y balance o f Nature itself is hardly intelligible at all. N o doubt this is w h y the 'mature secular man' finds i t necessary to de-mythologise the Christian gospel's teaching about the redemption o f Nature, and to say that all the talk i n the N e w Testament about Christ's v i c t o r y over the fallen powers o f Nature t h r o u g h love is j u s t — t o use Eliot's words i n East Coker—a 'periphrastic study i n a w o r n - o u t poetical fashion' or, i n D o n a l d Mackinnon's terms, mere 'remote metaphysical chatter'. 3 5

36

But i t is just at this p o i n t that the findings o f the biologists and the environmentalists seem to demand a return to the 'older insights'. W e must become 'friends o f the earth', they say, and n o t h u r t i t . We must pledge l o y a l t y to the vulnerable and fragile planet: 3 7

A l o n e i n space, alone i n its life-supporting systems, powered b y inconceivable energies, mediating them to us t h r o u g h the most delicate adjustments, w a y w a r d , u n l i k e l y , unpredictable, but nourishing, enlivening and enriching i n the largest degree—is this n o t a precious home for all o f us earthlings? Is i t n o t w o r t h o u r love? 38

O r , to p u t the same p o i n t i n another way, W e travel together, passengers o n a little space-ship, dependent o n its vulnerable supplies o f air and soil; all c o m m i t t e d for our safety to its security and peace, preserved f r o m annihilation o n l y b y the care, the w o r k , and I w i l l say the love, we give o u r fragile craft. 39

But, i t w i l l be objected, this is not the Christian p o i n t at all. I t is one t h i n g to say that unless we ' l o v e ' our planet i t w i l l refuse to g o o n s u p p o r t i n g us: i t is quite another to say that i t is love w h i c h keeps i t Caird, pp. 7off. Borderlands of Theology, p. 92. Rattray Taylor, Doomsday Book, Chap. 11. W a r d and Dubos, pp. 2 9 8 - 9 . Adlai Stevenson speaking to U . N . Economic and Social Council in 1965 (quoted in Maddox, p. 20). 3 5

3 7

3 8

3 9

3 6

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g o i n g . H o w can w e talk o f i t being love that makes the w o r l d go r o u n d , w h e n w e k n o w that the w o r l d is dominated b y the D N A molecule and the second law o f thermodynamics? I t is at this p o i n t that the earlier discussion about the concept o f causality—a concept radically con­ nected w i t h the transitive n o t i o n o f the natural tendencies o f t h i n g s — becomes crucially relevant. F o r at the level o f transitive causality, neither Clausius's law n o r Jacques M o n o d ' s chance and necessity have a n y t h i n g relevant to say. Such men Chesterton called 'sentimental professors' w h o have been swept away b y mere associations, mistaking the empirical generalisations and experimental discoveries o f science f o r 'mere mechanical processes, c o n t i n u i n g their course b y t h e m ­ selves . . . b y fixed laws, self-caused and self-sustained'. F o r love is n o t the answer to the question how the w o r l d goes r o u n d , b u t why i t exists at all. A s w e have already seen, the one answer to that question is—'magic'.* B u t 'magic' is o n l y another name for the creative causal c o n t i g u i t y continually at w o r k i n Nature f o r w h i c h another t e r m is the angelic p o w e r s — w h o are, as N e w m a n said, the powers o f Nature, b u t are also the agents o f God's love.* 40

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B u t o f course the Christian gospel is n o t p r i m a r i l y concerned to assert the p o w e r o f the angels: i t is concerned to reveal the creative p o w e r o f Christ's love, w h a t D . H . Lawrence called 'the greater m o r a l i t y ' o f life i t s e l f . F o r the gospel writers see this greater m o r a l i t y incarnated i n Christ because he constitutes i n his o w n person the centre o f tragic ( t h o u g h far f r o m wasted) resistance to the chaos and disintegration o f the w o r l d : a chaos that they, like novelists today, see i n terms o f hidden plots, occult influences, arbitrary events, bureaucratic unintelligibilities and the like, and w h i c h they sum up as the w o r k o f the fallen angels, the 'principalities and powers' o f this w o r l d . I n other w o r d s , the Christ o f the gospels like the heroes or anti-heroes o f many m o d e r n novels, is the arch-enemy o f the cosmic collapse: the centre o f a life-asserting organisation and energy directed towards the defeat o f an otherwise inexorable process o f disintegration. But, as Camus saw, such defiance o f what presents itself as an irresistible decree o f fate is the v e r y essence o f the tragic: ' R e v o l t is n o t enough to make a tragedy. Neither is the affirmation o f a divine order. B o t h r e v o l t and an order 42

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Newman, Parochial and Plain Sermons, ii, p. 363. See above, p. 45. Newman makes the same point, op. cit., pp. 361-2.

Study of Thomas Hardy in D. H. Lawrence, Selected Literary Criticism, pp. 176-8. 4 2

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are necessary, the first pushing against the second, and each rein­ forcing the other w i t h its o w n s t r e n g t h ' . I n this sense, w e have to see the death o f Christ i n tragic t e r m s . H e is destroyed because he defied the limits set b y the system o f political, social and metaphysical powers w h i c h St John calls 'the w o r l d ' . Indeed, i n his death, the prince o f this w o r l d seems to have conquered for g o o d and all. L o v e seems to have been finally defeated, so that the process o f entropic disorder and c o r r u p t i o n can go o n unchecked. A n d having been apparently destroyed, Christ seems powerless t o help those w h o t r y to carry o n the struggle. H e can do n o t h i n g to stop the inevitable process o f Dike b y w h i c h the w o r l d takes its due revenge: 43

44

Because y o u do n o t belong to the w o r l d , because m y choice w i t h ­ draws y o u f r o m the w o r l d , therefore the w o r l d hates y o u . . . indeed the h o u r is c o m i n g w h e n anyone w h o kills y o u w i l l t h i n k he is, d o i n g a h o l y d u t y for G o d (John 1 5 : 1 9 - 1 6 : 2 ) . But i f the N e w Testament reveals Christ i n death as defeated b y the' powers o f this w o r l d , i t also reveals i n his resurrection that, ultimately, it is they w h o w i l l be finally defeated. T h a t is to say, n o t o n l y w i l l the human w o r l d be b r o u g h t to a final justice, b u t the v e r y cosmos w i l l be b r o u g h t i n t o the p o w e r o f o v e r r i d i n g love—a love w h i c h w i l l show that the second law o f thermodynamics is n o t an inexorable and i n ­ vincible decree o f fate, promulgated from the v e r y b e g i n n i n g o f the w o r l d , b u t that even the physical universe is subject to God's mercy and love ( C o l . i : i 8 - 2 o ) . 4 5

Y e t the fate o f Nature is still b o u n d up w i t h the fate o f men. I t is n o t d i v i n e love i n some abstract sense, b u t as manifested i n the love o f Selected Essays, p. 198. See articles by Mackinnon noted in Borderlands of Theology, p. 97 (cf. below, p. 209, note). As the J.B. puts it: As he is the beginning he was first to be born from the dead so that he should be first in every way; because G o d wanted all perfection to be found in him and all things to be reconciled through him and for him everything in heaven and everything in earth, when he made peace by his death on the cross. 4 3

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human beings for one another, that w i l l somehow determine the fate o f at least that p o r t i o n o f the cosmos w i t h w h i c h human beings have a n y t h i n g to do. W h a t they achieve, i n their hungering and t h i r s t i n g after justice, w i l l radically affect the k i n d o f environment i n w h i c h they finally find themselves. I f this is w h a t the environmentalists are saying i n their pleadings for a new k i n d o f love and l o y a l t y to the planet earth, i t is also w h a t we learn f r o m the Christian text w h i c h best sums u p the true dimensions o f the contemporary debate about the mainten­ ance o f the balance o f Nature and the balance o f justice: I mean St Matthew's stupendous vision o f the solemn c o u r t - r o o m scene i n w h i c h the choice that faces m a n k i n d is at last made absolutely plain, and o u r 'sense o f an ending' to the human story completely vindicated, the narrative structure o f our consciousness and the 'story-shape' o f o u r w o r l d manifested. I f men are capable o f l o v i n g one another enough to satisfy the hunger, and to slake the thirst for justice that they all feel, St Matthew seems to say, then the w o r l d w h i c h they ultimately inhabit w i l l be a w o r l d w o r t h y o f the reverence they w i l l have shown towards i t : but i f they are n o t , then they w i l l be sentenced, b y an inexorable Dike o f their o w n m a k i n g , to eternal life i n an environment appropriately ravaged: W h e n the Son o f M a n comes i n his g l o r y , escorted b y all the angels, then he w i l l take his seat o n his throne o f g l o r y . A l l the nations w i l l be assembled before h i m and he w i l l separate men one f r o m another as the shepherd separates sheep f r o m goats. H e w i l l place the sheep on his r i g h t hand and the goats o n his left. T h e n the K i n g w i l l say to those o n his r i g h t hand, 'Come, y o u w h o m m y father has blessed, take for y o u r heritage the k i n g d o m prepared for y o u since the foundation o f the w o r l d . F o r I was h u n g r y and y o u gave me food; I was t h i r s t y and y o u gave me drink; I was a stranger and y o u made me welcome; naked and y o u clothed me, sick and y o u visited me, i n prison and y o u came to see me.' T h e n the virtuous w i l l say to h i m i n reply, ' L o r d , w h e n d i d we see y o u h u n g r y and feed y o u ; or thirsty and give y o u drink? W h e n d i d we see y o u a stranger and make y o u welcome; naked and clothe y o u ; sick or i n prison and go to see you?' A n d the K i n g w i l l answer, ' I tell y o u solemnly, i n so far as y o u d i d this to one o f the least o f these brothers o f mine, y o u d i d i t to me'. Next he w i l l say to those on his left hand, ' G o away from me, w i t h y o u r curse u p o n y o u , to the eternal fire prepared for the devil and

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his angels. F o r I was h u n g r y and y o u never gave me food; I was thirsty and y o u never gave me anything to d r i n k ; I was a stranger and y o u never made me welcome, naked and y o u never clothed me, sick and i n prison and y o u never visited me.' T h e n , i t w i l l be their t u r n to ask, ' L o r d , w h e n d i d we see y o u h u n g r y or thirsty, a stranger o r naked, sick or i n prison, and d i d not come to y o u r help?' T h e n he w i l l answer, ' I tell y o u solemnly, i n so far as y o u neglected to do this to one o f the least o f these, y o u neglected to do i t to me'. A n d they w i l l go away to eternal punishment, and the v i r t u o u s to eternal life ( M a t t . 25:31-46).

4 Metaphor and ' G o d '

I n this chapter I t r y to show h o w some o f the conclusions arrived at i n the previous chapters o f this b o o k apply specifically to theology. I n the first part I discuss v e r y briefly some o f the difficulties that arise w h e n philosophers attempt to formulate rules for speaking about G o d i n the absence o f the crucial distinction I have already established between the metaphorical and the analogical ways o f 'stretching' words to cover things n o t available i n o r d i n a r y experience. I n the second part I go on to show h o w the theory o f metaphor, and the theory o f narrative derived f r o m i t , w h i c h I have already sketched i n Chapters i and 2, can help to supply the deficiency. F i n a l l y I h i n t at one w a y i n w h i c h the reading o f fiction may play an i m p o r t a n t role i n any m o d e r n understanding o f theological, and especially o f Christian claims.

i F o r many thinkers today, the 'doctrine o f analogy' i n all o f its various forms, has lost any value i t may once have had. I t h i n k there are several reasons for this disillusionment: i . One o f the consequences o f Bibilical criticism, positivistic o r existential philosophy and post-Feuerbachian reductionism has been to encourage the idea that we can speak about ultimate reality, i f at all, o n l y i n metaphors. T h u s Paul V a n Buren rejects the analogical theory o f G o d - t a l k because 'the cognitive approach requires speaking o f that w h i c h i t admits is ineffable. I t involves speaking o f G o d b y analogy, yet i t is granted b y its proponents that they cannot say to what extent its analogies are apt and proper'. V a n Buren concludes that the choice o f a non-cognitive, or ' b l i k ' conception o f G o d is the o n l y rational alternative l e f t . A slightly different reason for rejecting the analogical 1

The Secular Meaning of the Gospel, pp. 9 7 - 8 . Van Buren has modified his views in his more recent book, The Edges of Language, but although he now 1

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theory is g i v e n b y Leslie D e w a r t . F o r h i m , the fundamental mistake o f the analogical theory is to assume that 'a true proposition is one w h i c h b y v i r t u e o f its representative p o w e r bridges intentionally the o n t o logical gap between object and subject'. Analogical predication is no longer useful, he says, because the ontological gap is itself an obsolete n o t i o n . ' G o d is n o t an object o f t h o u g h t . . . b u t he is experienced b y us as a reality given in empirical i n t u i t i o n . . . T h i s is w h y experience o f G o d takes o n the peculiar character o f f a i t h . ' I n other w o r d s w e do not need analogy to bridge the g u l f between human subject and d i v i n e object since G o d is present to us directly i n experience. 2

3

2. T h e writers w h o reject analogy f o r reasons such as those just described tend to regard metaphorical language, i f valid at all, as o n l y a second-best. T h e theory o f analogical predication, they admit, d i d after all claim, even i f unsuccessfully, to provide a clear, certain and substantial basis for t a l k i n g about ultimate reality as transcendent, as personal, as infinitely greater than, and beyond, man's capacity. Metaphorical language, o n the other hand, suggests to such thinkers, o n l y a vague, poetic and uncertain w a y o f t a l k i n g , more useful for expressing human feelings and aspirations than for articulating eternal truths or f o r m u l a t i n g coherent rational arguments. B u t there are other writers w h o take exactly the opposite line. T h e y see metaphorical language n o t o n l y as cognitive, i n some i m p o r t a n t sense, b u t as en­ r i c h i n g and deepening the prosaic speech o f academic philosophers. F o r such writers, w h o see themselves p r i m a r i l y as poets or visionaries, metaphorical speech about G o d , especially that w h i c h is couched i n m y t h i c or poetic forms, is the most i m p o r t a n t or even the o n l y possible k i n d . There are various ways i n w h i c h this coming-to-terms w i t h metaphor may be achieved. Philip W h e e l w r i g h t has suggested one i n a valuable essay called 'Poetry, M y t h and R e a l i t y ' . H e argues that mythical consciousness may be 'a dimension o f experience c u t t i n g across the empirical dimension as an independent variable', and that metaphor may therefore be an essential ingredient i n any comprehesive 4

speaks about 'stretching' language in various ways (pp. 830°) he does not concede a truly cognitive role to analogical language, nor does he distinguish clearly between analogical and metaphorical predication. The Future of Belief, pp. 178—9 and note. See also the same author's The Foundation of Belief. The Future of Belief, pp. 168-9 ^ note. I n Allen Tate's symposium The Language of Poetry, pp. 3-32. 2

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account o f language. Similarly, Elizabeth Sewell, f o l l o w i n g the p h i l o ­ sophical path mapped out b y Michael Polanyi, has argued that we cannot profitably separate the poetic f r o m the empirical, the imagina­ tive f r o m the intellectual, the m y t h i c f r o m the scientific, since 'the human organism w h i c h has the gift o f thought, does not have the choice o f t w o kinds o f t h i n k i n g . I t has o n l y one, i n w h i c h the organism as a w h o l e is engaged all along the l i n e . ' Hence metaphorical speech is n o t an alternative to analogical speech, but b o t h are parts o f a single complex mode o f expression. 3. W h e e l w r i g h t and Sewell are concerned to restore w h a t they con­ ceive to be a lost balance b y re-emphasising, i n a predominantly empiricist and scientific age, the value and the necessity o f poetic, m y t h i c consciousness together w i t h the k i n d o f language w h i c h is needed to express i t , o f w h i c h metaphor is a conspicuous ingredient. However, a t h i r d category o f writers have occasionally gone even further, b y practically equating metaphor w i t h analogy. T h e y do this i n the mistaken b u t understandable belief that i t is possible to reconcile the t w o sides o f the argument b y a k i n d o f intellectual short-cut. D o r o t h y Sayers, for example, i n her b o o k The Mind of the Maker, uses the t w o terms interchangeably. T h a t G o d created the w o r l d , she says, 5

is a metaphor like other statements about G o d . . . all language about G o d must, as St Thomas Aquinas pointed out, necessarily be analogical. W e need n o t be surprised at this, still less suppose that because i t is analogical i t is therefore valueless or w i t h o u t relation to the t r u t h . T h e fact is, that all language is analogical, we t h i n k i n a series o f metaphors. 6

F r o m having been philosophically invalid and practically useless, analogy has n o w become all-important and unavoidable. B u t this is because analogy has been assimilated to metaphor, i n such a way that it has become, not the philosopher's b u t the poet's w a y o f talking. Miss Sayers was after all a story-teller and literary critic, and i t is not surprising that she should set more store b y metaphorical than b y analogical language. I n this respect perhaps she was o n l y f o l l o w i n g up a characteristic suggestion o f Chesterton's: A l l descriptions o f the creating or sustaining principle i n things must be metaphorical, because they must be verbal. T h u s 5

The Orphic Voice, p. 19.

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pantheist has to speak o f G o d in all things as i f he were i n a box. T h u s the evolutionist has, i n his v e r y name, the idea o f being u n ­ rolled like a carpet. A l l terms, religious and irreligious, are open to this charge. T h e o n l y question is whether all terms are useless, o r whether one can, w i t h such a phrase, cover a distinct idea about the origin o f things. 7

Here Chesterton takes to an extreme just the opposite v i e w f r o m that o f V a n Buren. Metaphor is n o w endemic i n all speech. I . A . Richards's theory is here revealed for the exaggeration i t is. A l l language is metaphorical: the literal level has practically disappeared. Conversely all metaphors are equally alive, even those whose original significance has vanished f r o m v i e w . T h i s is surely as gross a distortion as the other, and just as unprofitable. W h a t is required is n o t an intellectual short-cut to the reconciliation between poetry and p h i l o ­ sophy, b u t a careful study o f the complex relationship between meta­ phorical and analogical ways o f t a l k i n g . 4. H o w e v e r , there is yet another k i n d o f short-cut, and this is taken b y those v e r y sophisticated and v e r y modern people w h o deny that metaphor has any v a l i d i t y at all. A consistent exponent o f this position is A l a i n R o b b e - G r i l l e t , whose pursuit o f metaphors i n order to e l i m i ­ nate them entirely f r o m his o w n , and perhaps f r o m other people's language, is one o f the most remarkable literary endeavours o f o u r time. Robbe-Grillet's basic objection to metaphor is exactly the same as Chesterton's reason for rejoicing i n i t : namely that the use o f meta­ p h o r involves us i n a w h o l e metaphysical system. Since for RobbeG r i l l e t metaphysics represent man's w o r s t snare, a delusion b o r n o f a bourgeois ideology, distracting h i m f r o m the true business o f freeing himself f r o m his dependence o n mere things, the most i m p o r t a n t task o f a w r i t e r is to get r i d o f all those unwelcome b u t falsely reassuring metaphors b y w h i c h he ties himself to objects. F o r metaphors are ways b y w h i c h w e t r y to bridge some supposed gap between ourselves and the w o r l d : and i t is just this 'gap' between man and the w o r l d w h i c h is the insidious beginning o f metaphysical speculation. T o believe i n such a gap is to be assured o f the tragic nature o f our predicament; to be for ever cut off, b u t forever yearning to be united w i t h , the w o r l d . Whereas the fact is that there is no such gap, no tragic abyss between ourselves, as conscious beings, and the things w h i c h surround us. W h a t 8

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Orthodoxy, p. 140.

Snapshots, p. 78.

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divides us from the w o r l d is n o t a y a w n i n g abyss (a typical metaphor leading to metaphysical delusions o f grandeur) b u t quite s i m p l y a measurable distance, a prosaic difference o f k i n d . T o recognise this is to be stripped o f a reassuring bourgeois illusion and to face reality: a reality w h i c h is constantly masked b y the metaphorical habit o f m i n d and b y the romantic poet's quest for some bridge whereby to cross the chasm that opens up between himself and his environment. N o w I t h i n k that Robbe-Grillet's case against metaphor is n o t o n l y per­ spicacious, b u t powerful, since i t rests o n a p r o f o u n d insight into the metaphysical implications o f the k i n d o f language w e choose to employ and o f its origins i n an ideology. F o r h i m , as for Chesterton, language is n o t just the adoption o f a f o r m o f expression; i t is the choice o f a whole w o r l d - v i e w . T h e o n l y difference between the t w o is that what the one believes to be the greatest t r u t h , the other believes to be the most insidious delusion. Between these t w o views i t is hardly possible to decide here. I t is perhaps w o r t h m e n t i o n i n g , however, the connection that seems to exist between Robbe-Grillet's rejection o f metaphysics and the rejection b y his fellow-countryman, Jacques M o n o d , o f what he calls man's 'convenant w i t h nature'. M o n o d certainly has a solution o f a sort to the problem o f the language to be used about G o d : namely that no such language is needed at a l l , and to pretend otherwise is just 'intellectual spinelessness'. Indeed, G o d is n o t just an unnecessary hypothesis, b u t an impossible one. F o r w e k n o w n o w , f r o m the findings o f molecular b i o l o g y , that the unchangeable c o n d i ­ tions under w h i c h life itself has come i n t o the w o r l d and has evolved w i t h i n i t are the t w i n laws o f i r o n necessity and totally unpredictable chance. T h e o l d idea o f a meaningful, teleological direction, o r process, i n the universe as a w h o l e is s i m p l y dead: for w e n o w k n o w that life arose b y chance and once begun continues to develop b y the inexorable laws o f genetic invariance and the random accidents o f mutation. N o t o n l y are no other concepts required to explain the 'teleonomy' o f l i v i n g beings, i.e. the transmission i n a species o f the essential u n v a r y i n g characteristics o f that species from generation to generation; b u t the principle o f scientific objectivity, b y w h i c h alone genuine knowledge can be obtained about a n y t h i n g i n Nature, rules out any consideration o f 'purposes' other than those w h i c h the teleonomy o f a species requires. A l l ascriptions o f subjective purposiveness to Nature itself, whereby 9

Chance and Necessity, p. 39.

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the mere teleonomies o f species become expressions o f some overriding cosmic process, are the products o f anti-scientific 'vitalisms' or 'animisms'. N o t o n l y is Bergson's 'creative e v o l u t i o n ' a false vitalism, b u t so is Polanyi's personalist philosophy. N o t o n l y is Teilhard de Chardin an anti-scientific animist, anxious to restore a lost 'covenant w i t h nature', b u t so are Herbert Spencer, w i t h his positivism, and even Engels w i t h his dialectical materialism. N o w , M o n o d traces the attempt to restore the o l d 'covenant w i t h nature' to the persistence, despite the rise o f scientific objectivity, o f the 'anthropocentric illusion': that is to say, the illusion that we can legitimately read human meanings into the things o f the external w o r l d . I n saying this he is expressing just the same objections to a c o m f o r t i n g humanism as Robbe-Grillet. RobbeGrillet too denounces all 'metaphysical pacts' w i t h nature. But the trouble, as we have seen already, is that science is no more able to do away w i t h them than is the art o f poetry. F o r example, w h e n M o n o d claims that one o f the nails i n the coffin o f all pre-scientific anthropocentricisms is the Cartesian principle o f inertia he overlooks the fact that this v e r y concept contradicts Descartes's o w n theory o f language, precisely because o f its residually metaphorical character. A n d he himself continually uses metaphorical terms i n his exposition while pretending to have g o t r i d o f their unwelcome anthropocentric over­ tones b y the simple, b u t less-than-candid device o f p u t t i n g them i n inverted commas, as t h o u g h a punctuation mark could dissolve a philosophical problem.* I have sketched here, v e r y briefly, four different ways i n w h i c h writers have tried to grapple w i t h the relation between metaphorical language and the analogical language o f philosophy i n speaking about ultimates. I n m y o w n v i e w , they have all made the same t w o basic mistakes: firstly o f failing to see the radical difference between analogy and metaphor, and secondly o f failing to understand that despite this difference, b o t h forms o f linguistic stretching are necessary—as necessary to each other as the warp and weft o f a fabric, as the melody and harmony o f a musical score, as the vertical and horizontal axes o f a graph. M y thesis is that analogy and metaphor are best regarded— to adapt Jakobson's terminology—as the names o f the ' t w o poles' o f any adequate discourse whether about ordinary things or about G o d . Further I w a n t to suggest that historically the result o f failing to 10

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appreciate the true nature o f the relationship between analogy and metaphor is the r o o t cause o f that p r o f o u n d divorce between the G o d o f the Philosophers and the G o d o f A b r a h a m , Isaac and Jacob w h i c h Pascal—in this, at any rate, the 'first modern man'—diagnosed as the fundamental disease o f Christianity i n his o w n day. I n recent years many philosophers o f religion have tried to cope w i t h the problem o f talking about G o d b y positing a duality in God where, i n the older system, there was rather a duality in the language used to talk about h i m . Perhaps the most obvious examples o f this 'solution' are to be found i n the w r i t i n g s o f the 'process' theologians w h o have taken their inspirations f r o m the philosophy o f Whitehead.* Whitehead's Process and Reality is an attempt to synthesise, at a metaphysical level, the findings o f twentieth-century mathematical physics and evolutionary b i o l o g y . T h e philosophical inspiration for this endeavour comes f r o m Whitehead's devotion to certain p h i l o ­ sophical heroes: Descartes, N e w t o n , L o c k e , H u m e and K a n t . N o w , one o f the results o f i n c u r r i n g debts to these particular thinkers is that the distinction between the Creator and his creation, w h i c h is to say between the first cause and finite created effect, u p o n w h i c h the tradi­ tional edifice o f Christian o r t h o d o x y (as expressed for example b y Aquinas) rested, has to be abandoned. T h e fundamental reason for this development is the Enlightenment's abandonment o f the traditional concept o f causality. A c c o r d i n g to Aquinas, we can o n l y speak intel­ l i g i b l y about G o d i n analogical language; and i t is an essential feature o f any 'analogy o f attribution' that the secondary term o f the analogy should stand i n a causal relation to the first term. ( W h e n we predicate 'healthy' o f Fido's bark as w e l l as o f F i d o himself, we do so o n l y because we believe that the healthiness o f Fido's bark is an effect o f Fido's general healthiness.) F o r an aristotelean like Aquinas, causality involves the n o t i o n that all the things i n the w o r l d have natural ten­ dencies to behave i n certain determinate and intelligible ways. B u t this n o t i o n was largely lost i n the Cartesian and subsequent philosophies. T h i s was i n part because o f the rise o f mathematical models as the norms for philosophical investigation. B u t i t was also the result o f the duality o f Cartesianism (preceded b y that o f medieval nominalism), w h i c h created a g u l f between consciousness and the material w o r l d . A s early as Nicholas o f A u t r e c o u r t , causality became an extrinsic b o n d , 1 1

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or perceived regularity w h i c h kept things together, instead o f being the exercise o f one thing's power to affect another. W h a t w o u l d be the result o f applying such a conception o f causality to a universe n o w seen, n o t i n seventeenth-century terms, b u t i n terms o f organisms whose g r o w t h and decay were ruled b y the internal evolutionary laws o f b i o l o g y and psychology? Whitehead's philosophy provides one answer to that question. I n Whitehead's system w h a t emerges is a w o r l d made up o f i n ­ numerable 'actual entities' w h i c h are held together not b y mathematical laws or empirical generalisations b u t b y w h a t he calls the eternal 'prehensions' or 'lure o f feeling' w h i c h each entity has for w h a t lies beyond itself. Each actual entity needs to satisfy this 'lure' b y transcend­ i n g itself and becoming something else. W h i l e i t is a mistake to t h i n k o f this universal lure o f feeling as any k i n d o f consciousness (for Whitehead insists i t need n o t be so), all the same i t is true that there is a c o n t i n u i t y w i t h o u t break between the lowest and highest levels o f actual entities. A c t u a l entities. . . are the final real things o f w h i c h the w o r l d is made up. There is no g o i n g beyond actual entities to find anything more real. T h e y differ among themselves: G o d is an actual entity and so is the most t r i v i a l puff o f existence i n far-off empty space. T h o u g h there are gradations o f importance, and diversities o f functions, yet i n the principles w h i c h actuality exemplifies all are o n the same level. T h e final facts are all alike, actual entities; and these actual entities are drops o f experience, complex and interdepen­ dent. 12

T h u s G o d , as one o f these innumerable actual entities, is dependent o n the w o r l d , and i t o n h i m . But this interdependence operates i n t w o ways. G o d is b o t h prim­ ordial and consequent. I n the p r i m o r d i a l aspect, he is 'deficiently actual', because 'his feelings are o n l y conceptual and so lack the fullness o f actuality'. I n this sense he is n o t conscious, and is 'untrammelled b y any reference to any particular course o f things . . . [he] is deflected neither b y love n o r b y hatred, for what i n fact comes to pass'. But G o d is end as w e l l as beginning, and as such ' b y reason o f the relativity o f all things, there is reaction o f the w o r l d o n G o d . . . [his] conceptual 12

Process and Reality, pp. 24-5.

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nature is unchanged, b y reason o f its final completeness. B u t his derivative nature is consequent u p o n the creative advance o f the w o r l d . ' T h e p r i m o r d i a l side o f God's nature is 'free, complete, p r i m o r d i a l , eternal, actual, deficient and unconscious'. T h e other side originates w i t h physical experience derived f r o m the temporal w o r l d , and then acquires integration w i t h the p r i m o r d i a l side. I t is determined, i n ­ complete, consequent, 'everlasting', f u l l y actual and conscious. F r a n k l y , I am n o t sure exactly what Whitehead means i n all this, let alone whether ultimately i t means a n y t h i n g at all. B u t i t is clear i n one respect. Whitehead is t r y i n g to reconcile the G o d w h o is the subject o f philosophical reflection w i t h the positive n o t i o n — a n incipiently 'religious' one—that G o d is capable o f personal concern for the w o r l d ; capable o f changing himself, adapting himself one m i g h t say, for the sake o f the w o r l d . T h e religious possibilities o f this conception o f G o d come out clearly enough w h e n Whitehead discusses the problem o f evil. I f w e adopt his idea o f G o d , he claims, 13

the revolts o f destructive e v i l , purely self-regarding, are dismissed i n t o their t r i v i a l i t y o f merely individual facts; and yet the g o o d they d i d achieve i n individual j o y , i n individual sorrow, i n the i n t r o d u c ­ t i o n o f needed contrast, is yet saved b y its relation to the completed whole. T h e image—and i t is b u t an image—under w h i c h this opera­ tive g r o w t h o f God's nature is best conceived is that o f a tender care that n o t h i n g be lost. . . W e conceive o f the patience o f G o d , tenderly saving the t u r m o i l o f the intermediate w o r l d b y the completion o f his o w n n a t u r e . 14

Whitehead's disciple Charles Hartshorne has tried to continue this line o f t h o u g h t further i n the same direction. F o r h i m G o d is 'supreme yet indebted to all, absolute yet related to a l l ' and this comes o u t i n the fact that God's love, like ours, involves rejoicing w i t h the joys and s o r r o w i n g w i t h the sorrows o f others. T o love is to be open to change from those w h o are l o v e d , and this t w o - w a y relationship applies, u n i v o c a l l y i t appears, to G o d just as surely as to human beings. 1 5

16

T o put i t b l u n t l y , Whitehead and his followers have tried to reconcile the tension between the G o d o f p h i l o s o p h y and the G o d o f religion b y 1 3

1 5

16

Ibid., pp. 486-9. The Divine Relativity,

Ibid., p. 490. Chaps. 1 and 2 passim. 1 4

A Natural Theology for Our Time, p. 15.

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incorporating the tension i n t o G o d himself. There are t w o sides to G o d , they say, equal b u t opposite. I t is i n the reconciliation o f the t w o that 'process t h e o l o g y ' is interested. T h e idea is plausible i n one respect. M a k i n g G o d partially dependent o n the w o r l d seems to solve the p r o b l e m o f conceiving G o d as being simply ' o u t there', unrelated to the w o r l d . G o d is n o t ' o u t there'; he is ' w i t h ' the w o r l d , n o t 'before' i t , to use Whitehead's phrase and the course o f the w o r l d has a direct effect o n h i m . H u m a n wickedness can ' h u r t ' G o d and h o l d up the proper progress o f reality to its ultimate conclusion. T h i s belief m i g h t easily seem to p r o v i d e a m o r a l l y elevated basis for ethics—one that m o d e r n man can accept and understand. B u t unfortunately i t also leads inevitably to the v i e w that, i n the last analysis, the conscious, change­ able, influenceable aspect o f G o d , the G o d o f religion, is the senior partner i n the f i r m . T h e G o d o f religion is personal, the philosophical absolute is i m ­ personal; the t w o are n o t idential. There is no such t h i n g as the absolute, the infinite, u n m o v e d aspect o f the personal G o d o f religion, whose exaltation above all other individuals is expressed b y the principle o f 'dual transcendence', being dependent and independent, finite and infinite, changeable and unchangeable, individual and universal, each i n a u n i q u e l y excellent w a y . Since the relative side is concrete and the abstract is real o n l y i n the concrete, the transcendent relativity o f G o d is his overall p r o p e r t y . 17

T h u s there is n o w a y o f finally u p h o l d i n g the idea o f equal and opposite elements i n G o d w i t h o u t subordinating the one to the other. I n effect, Hartshorne's argument reduces Whitehead's p r i m o r d i a l side o f G o d to 'mere abstraction'. (Perhaps Whitehead could n o t escape this conclusion himself, b u t he d i d n o t emphasise i t . ) T h e concrete, personal and changeable G o d is the o n l y actual G o d . T h e G o d o f philosophy is then deficient i n actuality, t h i n l y 'abstract' and incapable o f w o r t h w h i l e relationship: he is 'less than G o d ' . 1 8

T h i s argument is surely m u d d l e d . T o predicate o n l y abstract terms o f a subject does n o t entail that the subject is itself o n l y an abstraction. Sherlock Holmes m i g h t deduce, f r o m the evidence, that the murderer must be someone w i t h such and such abstract characteristics, b u t this Hartshorne, ' T h e G o d of Religion and the G o d of Philosophy' in Talk o God (Royal Institute of Philosophy Lectures for 1967-8), pp. 166-7. 1 7

18

The Divine Relativity, p. 83.

Metaphor and ' G o d ' does n o t mean that the murderer himself is an abstraction.

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Similarly,

there is no reason to suppose that the philosopher w h o is prepared, o n the strength o f his o w n rational arguments, to say no more about G o d than that he is (say) ' l i v i n g ' o r 'omniscient' or 'eternal', can have i n m i n d o n l y an abstract G o d . I t is merely that he is n o t prepared, as a philosopher, to say more than this about the concrete personal G o d he believes i n . ( I t may be a valid objection to the ' F i v e W a y s ' that they do n o t all necessarily p o i n t to the same G o d , b u t i t is no objection at all that they o n l y p r o v e the existence o f an abstract G o d . O n the contrary: i f the o n l y G o d that exists is, say, a triune personal G o d ; and i f the F i v e W a y s prove the existence o f G o d ; then i t is the triune personal G o d whose existence they prove, even t h o u g h they cannot prove his t r i u n i t y or his personality.) O f course there is still a p r o b l e m about h o w , b y faith, w e can get to a more concrete idea o f G o d than the p h i l o ­ sopher can arrive at b y philosophy alone. B u t this is a p r o b l e m about h o w to speak o f G o d , n o t a p r o b l e m about the abstractness or other­ wise o f the G o d w e speak about. T e i l h a r d de Chardin offers a slightly different solution to the p r o b l e m o f G o d , b u t one that is still w i t h i n the general framework o f a process theology. L i k e Whitehead's, Teilhard's t h o u g h t could also be described as a 'philosophy o f organism'. B u t he was n o t a Jesuit trained i n the era o f n e o - T h o m i s m for n o t h i n g : and he refused to carry his process-theology so far as to find himself predicating a duality o f any k i n d i n the Godhead (except that required, o f course, b y the revealed doctrine o f the t r i n i t y , w h i c h cannot arise f r o m a p u r e l y philosophical consideration o f d i v i n i t y ) . F o r T e i l h a r d , the w o r l d process is n o t the completion o r actualisation o f what is somehow potential i n G o d . I t is the completion o f w h a t is still unfinished i n the redemptive process initiated (and i n a sense already completed) i n and b y the w o r k o f Christ. I t is the b o d y o f Christ, the ' p h y l u m o f l o v e ' w h i c h is the immediate product o f that capacity for change, develop­ ment and intensification w h i c h Whitehead's process theology ascribes to the Godhead. Y e t there is a sense i n w h i c h T e i l h a r d suggests a certain incompleteness i n G o d w h i c h o n l y the e v o l u t i o n o f the w o r l d he has created can remedy. I n saying this, T e i l h a r d is t r y i n g to elucidate St Paul, especially Colossians,

1:15-17. T h e w o r k o f Christ d i d n o t

begin w i t h the annunciation: i t began w i t h the creation o f the w o r l d . I owe this example to Geach, God and the Soul, p. 113.

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'Before a n y t h i n g was created he existed, and he holds all things i n his u n i t y . ' Hence the process o f Christogenesis b y w h i c h the universe is becoming ever more united to Christ, ever more in Christ, is itself a progressive unification o f the w o r l d w i t h G o d . I n the incarnation, G o d has v o l u n t a r i l y submitted to the necessity o f his o w n creatures so that the Pleroma w i l l be a fusion i n t o a totality ' w h i c h , w i t h o u t adding a n y t h i n g essential to G o d , w i l l nevertheless be a sort o f t r i u m p h and generalisation o f b e i n g ' . Geach has characterised ideas such as this, as G o d needing 'to create a universe full o f creatures i n order that they, however inferior to h i m , m i g h t be there to love and be loved b y — m u c h as a lonely o l d w o m a n crowds her house w i t h c a t s . ' But whether Teilhard's idea is g o o d theology or not, i t has rather more to it than this. T h e p r o b l e m is that Christ's human nature, w h i c h is clearly a created nature, seems (according to St Paul) to be also i n at the beginning o f things. H e is n o t just the first-born o f all creation: Christ is he i n w h o m all things i n heaven and earth were created. H o w then are w e to conceive o f God's creative act ex nihilo w i t h regard to Christ? H o w can Christ be b o t h the first-born o f all creation and the one i n w h o m all creation occurs? Perhaps w e can't k n o w the answer to this question: no doubt i t is p a r t l y an exegetical crux, and partly a theo­ logical mystery. T h e p o i n t , however, is that T e i l h a r d does at least recognise an apparent paradox here w h i c h his theory tries to resolve. Unfortunately the resolution seems to i n v o l v e an equal or worse difficulty than the paradox itself. F o r Teilhard's answer seems to require that the ' n o t h i n g ' o u t o f w h i c h creation comes should be regarded as a k i n d o f 'something'. 20

21

A t the pole o f being there is self-subsistent U n i t y , and all around the periphery, as a necessary consequence, there is m u l t i p l i c i t y : pure m u l t i p l i c i t y , be i t understood, a 'creatable v o i d ' w h i c h is s i m p l y n o t h i n g — y e t w h i c h , because o f its passive potency for arrangement (i.e. for u n i o n ) constitutes a possibility, an appeal for b e i n g . 22

W i t h whatever ingenuity one interprets this, there is here surely an illegitimate p l a y i n g w i t h the w o r d ' n o t h i n g ' . Y e t the p o i n t o f saying i t 2 0

2 1

Teilhard de Chardin, Le Milieu Divin, p. 122.

God and the Soul, p. 114.

Comment Je Voie, quoted in Mooney, Teilhard de Chardin and the Mystery of Christ, p. 172. I am much indebted to Mooney's work for the discussion of Teilhard de Chardin. 2 2

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is plain. T h e creaturely nature o f Christ is the first movement o f this 'arrangement', the first step i n the incipient u n i o n o f m u l t i p l i c i t y w i t h u n i t y w h i c h is to end w i t h the Pleroma, or final consummation o f all things i n G o d . I n this sense, creation is n o t a mere 'superfluous accessory': everything occurs 'as i f G o d had n o t been able to resist this appeal'. Is T e i l h a r d here falling v i c t i m to the o l d m y t h o f Chaos opposing G o d u n t i l i t is vanquished b y the divine act o f creation? I t seems u n l i k e l y . B u t what does seem clear is that he is struggling between t w o different modes o f speaking about G o d and creation. T h e first is that followed b y 'philosophy' i n the shape o f the thomist insistence o n creation ex nihilo as a rational inference from God's freedom and transcendence (a treatment i n w h i c h ' n o t h i n g ' must be resolutely interpreted as simply negative ' n o t a n y t h i n g ' ) . T h e other is the religious w a y o f speaking, i n terms o f images, myths and meta­ phors, o f w h i c h the first chapter o f Genesis is a notable example. T e i l h a r d tries to reconcile the t w o . I f he fails, perhaps this is because, like Whitehead and Hartshorne, he has confused a question about the k i n d o f language we have to use to speak about G o d , w i t h the k i n d o f G o d w e w a n t to speak about. 23

24

25

B o t h Whitehead and T e i l h a r d assume that the tension they feel exists between the G o d o f religion and the G o d o f philosophy has to be resolved b y a theory about G o d . Whitehead finds himself postulating a dualistic G o d , w i t h a p r i m o r d i a l nature and a consequent nature. Hartshorne takes this dualism further, arguing that the p r i m o r d i a l aspect is b u t an 'abstraction', distinct f r o m , b u t subordinate t o , the concrete personal G o d w h o is the subject o f religious w o r s h i p . T e i l h a r d adds a theological perspective to the argument b y suggesting that G o d is i n need o f completion b y the e v o l u t i o n o f the universe i n t o u n i o n w i t h himself. I have tried to show that each o f these solutions leads to insoluble philosophical problems. T h e conclusion seems to be clear. T h e answer must lie, n o t i n any theory about G o d b u t i n a theory about the w a y we speak o f h i m . A short cut that has tempted many people consists i n saying that w h e n we speak o f G o d i n philosophical terms w e are using the w o r d G o d as a c o m m o n n o u n , whereas when as religious persons addressing Ibid., p. 175. As Tresmontant has suggested. See Mooney, p. 253. 'Fit ex nihilo, idest non fit ex aliquo' as Aquinas puts it, Summa Theologiae, I , Q . 45, Art. 1 ad 3. 2 3

2 4

2 5

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their L o r d and Master we speak o f h i m , we use the t e r m as a proper name. A c c o r d i n g to this v i e w , w h i c h has recently been re-stated b y Professor G o r d o n K a u f m a n the d u a l i t y is n o t i n G o d , n o r is i t i n the w a y we apeak o f h i m , b u t i n the difference between the 'available' G o d 26

and G o d 'as he is i n h i m s e l f . T h e argument goes like this. T h e term ' G o d ' is a proper name, like the t e r m 'George W a s h i n g t o n ' . N o w i n the case o f an historical person, such as George W a s h i n g t o n , whose real identity cannot be w h o l l y recovered at this distance o f time, w e have to distinguish between the 'imaginative construct' o f George W a s h i n g ­ t o n — t h a t is, the picture o f h i m that we can assemble from the available remaining evidence—and the real personage. E v e r y t h i n g we say n o w about George W a s h i n g t o n must necessarily refer, i n the first place, to the imaginative construct rather than to the real man. T r u e , the name George W a s h i n g t o n refers to the real man: but behind that name, apart f r o m the imaginative construct, there is o n l y an unknowable some­ t h i n g , a mere ' X ' . T h e same goes for G o d . W h e n we talk about G o d , we talk about o u r 'imaginative construct' o f h i m , w h i c h is o n l y a s y m b o l o f the real G o d . G o d s i m p l y as he is i n himself is not just ineffable, b u t totally indescribable i n any terms whatever. He is a mere ' X ' . O n such a theory, the question o f believing i n G o d becomes a purely practical one. Is i t g o o d p o l i c y to behave as i f the imaginative construct were the real thing? Is ' G o d ' merely a term for a sense o f meaning and purpose i n life? a meaning w h i c h can o n l y be verified eschatologically? U s i n g the t e r m ' G o d ' as a proper name is one o f the commonest, but i n m y o p i n i o n one o f the most religiously c o r r u p t i n g , o f all theological fallacies. F o r since a proper name is s i m p l y a label arbitrarily tied to a person, there is n o t h i n g to stop someone f r o m t y i n g i t to any­ b o d y o r a n y t h i n g he likes. I t may sound edifying to use the name G o d for a sense o f responsibility and reverence towards others, b u t there is no logical reason, i f G o d is s i m p l y a proper name, w h y the name should n o t be given, say, to the pursuit o f money. There can be no shorter w a y out o f the dilemma posed b y Christ—-'you cannot serve G o d and M a m m o n ' — t h a n to say that ' G o d ' and ' M a m m o n ' are s i m p l y t w o different proper names for the same ' X ' . W h o is to gainsay such a proposition unless he can p o i n t to something i n the nature o f the divine w h i c h precludes us f r o m i d e n t i f y i n g G o d w i t h money? B u t to 2 6

God the Problem, Chap. 5.

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speak o f the nature o f the divine is to use the term ' G o d ' n o t as a proper name b u t as a t e r m for that w h i c h possesses the divine attri­ butes. O f course, i t also follows f r o m the n o t i o n that ' G o d ' is a proper name that there is n o t h i n g to show that polytheism is n o t as true a philosophy as monotheism. W e can have as many beings called ' G o d ' as we can have people called George Washington.* Hence, o n such a logic, the disputes o f the centuries concerning whether this or that tribe followed the 'true' G o d w o u l d become not just historically p o i n t ­ less but totally unintelligible. T h e dilemma o f D . H . Lawrence's w o m a n , w h o rode away f r o m her 'Christian' family i n order to find the G o d o f the C h i l c h u i tribe, w o u l d cease to be a story o f someone searching for the true G o d and w o u l d become instead the trivial story o f a person labouring under the burden o f an elementary mistake i n logic. N o , the fact is that language must reach r i g h t out to G o d as he is, albeit b y means o f concepts o r 'imaginative constructs', i f G o d is to be w o r t h having. I t w o u l d be better n o t to w o r s h i p anything than to worship our o w n imaginations. Perhaps i t is n o t suprising, i n v i e w o f this fact, to find Professor Kaufman concluding that we ought to talk n o t about w o r s h i p p i n g G o d , b u t o n l y about the kinds o f moral behaviour that w o u l d be appropriate i f we could w o r s h i p h i m . 2 7

Kaufman's conclusion has a g o o d deal i n c o m m o n w i t h a number o f other theories about the r i g h t w a y to speak o f G o d that have been canvassed a great deal i n recent years. Recognising that the w o r d ' G o d ' is not a proper name, and does n o t refer to an object i n the w a y that 'house' seems to refer to objects, a number o f philosophers have tried to make sense o f religious language i n a w a y that avoids m a k i n g claims that can easily be falsified b y empirical tests. Some o f these have em­ ployed the n o t i o n that the w o r d ' G o d ' as i t appears i n stories is significantly different from its use i n other contexts, i n that the k i n d o f ' t r u t h ' a story has is different f r o m the k i n d o f t r u t h we find i n state­ ments o f ordinary fact. Exactly what the difference is may be hard to spell out; yet everyone k n o w s that, i n some sense or other, stories can be 'true' even t h o u g h they are fictions. F o r example they may offer a w a y o f l o o k i n g at life w h i c h , w h e n understood, we recognise at once as true, i n the sense that i t involves us i n certain moral commitments w h i c h we find ourselves obliged to undertake. R. B . Braithwaite's much-discussed lecture An Empiricist's View of the Nature of Religious A full discussion of the logical objections to using 'God' as a proper name is to be found in Durrant, The Logical Status of God'. 2 7

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Belief is a classic statement o f this argument. T h e story o f Christ, according to this theory, is n o t telling us about any transcendent being, b u t p r o v i d i n g a set o f c o n t r o l l i n g images o n w h i c h to base certain m o r a l commitments. But, as V a n Buren has s a i d , the trouble w i t h 28

this theory is that i t fails to take i n t o account the fact that Christians do w a n t to make certain claims o f a more than moral k i n d . T h e y w a n t to h o l d that what obliges them to behave i n the ways indicated i n the story is God's a u t h o r i t y , as a creating and l o v i n g father: and to say this must be to say that G o d exists independently o f the story itself. Perhaps then i t is better to say that the story does more than proffer a w a y o f l i v i n g , i n terms o f some such c o n t r o l l i n g image as that o f Christ's life and death; i t sheds a different k i n d o f l i g h t o n the w h o l e w o r l d w h i c h w e encounter. T h i s is, i n brief, the thesis o f John W i s d o m and others, w h o say that a story draws our attention to ways o f interpreting the w o r l d w h i c h we could n o t arrive at b y any other means. T h e story gives a coherent shape to what w o u l d otherwise be a jumble o f miscellaneous, unintelligible items: ' C h r i s t i a n i t y i n its sacred stories gives nature a shape, or insists that nature does have a shape: i t is cosmos, n o t chaos.' There is, indeed, a great deal i n this idea, w h i c h I shall explore later i n some detail: b u t even on this account o f religious language, something is being left out. A s V a n Buren puts i t , ' i f religion proposes a w a y o f seeing, i t cannot also be telling us that there is yet another t h i n g to see, another object for example.' I n other w o r d s , G o d may be a c o n t r o l l i n g image, a fictional figure i n a certain w a y o f t a l k i n g about the w o r l d , b u t he can h a r d l y at the same time be the 'discrete i n d i v i d u a l ' Christianity has taken h i m to b e . Van Buren's solution to the p r o b l e m is to suggest that i n talking about G o d w e are stretching language to the limits o f what i t is capable o f d o i n g , and therefore that many o f the entailments that w e w o u l d n o r m a l l y demand o f a piece o f language that is playing on its 'home g r o u n d ' , so to speak, are here necessarily cut. T h i s is reasonable enough and links w i t h the theory that what distinguishes poetry from dialectical reason­ i n g is precisely that i n the former case certain entailments are cut w h i c h , i n the latter w o u l d necessarily have to be present i f the words 2 9

30

3 1

32

28

The Edges of Language, pp. 37—9.

Philosophy and Psycho-Analysis, pp. I54ff. V a n Buren, p. 4 1 . Ibid., p. 42. F o r this metaphor, see Ian Crombie, in Flew and Maclntyre, New Essays, p. i n . 2 9

3 0

3 2

3 1

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were to have any m e a n i n g . B u t there is more to the 'story' theory o f language about G o d than this. T h e writers w h o have taken the line that stories help us to make sense o f the w o r l d i n a certain w a y b y p r o v i d i n g 'controlling images', and that the Christian stories do this i n a particular w a y , tend to t h i n k o f the content b u t to forget the structure o f such stories. V a n Buren seems to do the same, insofar as he criticises such theories o n the g r o u n d that, b y p r o v i d i n g us w i t h a way o f l o o k i n g at the w o r l d as a whole, they necessarily fail to pick out any features that m i g h t be regarded as 'facts' o f a new k i n d . I f a story sheds a special k i n d o f light on everything, i t can't focus o n any one t h i n g i n order to pick i t out i n a special w a y . Y e t w i t h o u t being able to 'pick out' G o d i n some w a y o r other, such a theory amounts o n l y to a k i n d o f pantheism. B u t this argument leaves out the structure o f the story, and concentrates o n l y on its content. A n d i n d o i n g so, i t leaves out just that element i n stories w h i c h has explanatory force. P h i l o ­ sophical theology i n the empiricist tradition needs to be married to a structural understanding o f narrative i f i t is to take full account o f the place that stories have i n the religious understanding o f experience. 33

T o sum up: the divorce between the G o d o f religion and the G o d o f philosophy cannot be mended b y positing a tension or duality i n G o d . N o r can i t be mended b y d e p l o y i n g the t e r m ' G o d ' as a proper name instead o f as the t e r m for that w h i c h possesses the divine attributes. I t seems to f o l l o w that we can o n l y solve the p r o b l e m b y positing a duality i n the language we have to use to speak about G o d . T h i s is n o t , i n itself, a v e r y surprising conclusion. After all, behind Pascal's argu­ ment against Cartesianism lay the hidden suggestion that there was a distinction between the w a y philosophers talk about G o d and the w a y the poets talk about h i m . ( I t was the poets, the story-tellers and m y t h makers, w h o t o l d Pascal e v e r y t h i n g he k n e w about the G o d o f A b r a h a m , Isaac and Jacob.) I n other w o r d s , we have to accommodate i n our theology b o t h philosophical speech about G o d and poetic speech about h i m , and to b r i n g them into a single unified theory. T h i s may seem obvious but, o d d l y enough, the task has v e r y seldom been seriously attempted. O n the w h o l e , the philosophers have tended to regard the poets as people w h o use inexact, i f exciting language i n order to arouse emotional responses rather than to give us knowledge o f reality, w h i l e the poets and literary critics have tended to dismiss the O n this theory of poetry, see J . M . Cameron, The Night Battle, pp. 119-49.

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philosophers' prosaic mumblings as n o t h i n g b u t , at best, necessary prolegomena to the real business o f discovering the t r u t h , at worst, positive hindrances to a true understanding o f the 'love and consola­ t i o n ' w h i c h an imaginative and emotionally committed m i n d requires for its spiritual nourishment. T h e task, then is to t r y to see beyond the limitations o f b o t h sides, i n order to discover whether there is any w a y o f enabling the insights o f the one to illuminate the dark places i n the thoughts o f the other.

ii I have suggested that the answer to the problem is to return to the traditional distinction between t w o ways o f speaking about G o d : namely the analogical and the metaphorical w a y . B u t I also w a n t to insist that w h a t is needed i n particular is a p r o p e r l y developed theory o f the metaphorical w a y , and o f its natural cognate, namely narrative. T h e rest o f this chapter is an attempt to sketch the outlines o f a theory w h i c h may help to remedy the deficiency. I have already suggested that metaphor, especially when i t has deep cultural roots, is capable o f a k i n d o f organic development. B u t theo­ logical metaphor goes further: i t is capable o f 'doctrinal development' i n something like the sense attached to that t e r m b y N e w m a n . Metaphor, o r at any rate, theologically fruitful metaphor, is always rooted i n a cultural tradition. T h i s means, among other things, that i t is n o t open to the theological w r i t e r to invent any metaphor for G o d that he likes. H e can o n l y choose f r o m among the metaphors that are part o f a tradition, and have a certain preordained v a l i d i t y for h i m . B u t i f this is a limitation, i t is also an o p p o r t u n i t y . F o r i t means that the w r i t e r can personally develop the meaning o f a metaphor i n a fruitful w a y . Theological metaphors are not chosen; they choose us. T h e y come from the web o f the language itself (la langue i n Saussure's sense) and its stock o f available ideas. W e can pick and choose from among them, but we can't invent w h o l l y new ones. O r i f we do they are likely to t u r n into mere similes, w h i c h have a certain illustrative value but no capacity for organic g r o w t h . 3 4

A s an example to illustrate the relation o f metaphor to tradition, let us consider the f o l l o w i n g story: 3 4

See above, p. 26 and below, p. 107, note to p. 25.

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T h r o u g h o u t the earth men spoke the same language, w i t h the same vocabulary. N o w as they m o v e d eastwards, they found a plain i n the land o f Shinar where they settled. T h e y said to one another, 'Come, let us make bricks and bake them i n the fire'. F o r stone they used bricks and for mortar they used bitumen. 'Come,' they said, 'let us b u i l d a t o w n and a t o w e r w i t h its top reaching heaven. L e t us make a name for ourselves so that we may n o t be scattered about the w h o l e earth.' N o w Y a h w e h came d o w n to see the t o w n and the tower that the sons o f men had built. 'So they are all a single people w i t h a single language!' said Yahweh. ' T h i s is but the start o f their undertakings! There w i l l be n o t h i n g too hard for them to do. Come, let us go d o w n and confuse their language o n the spot so that they can n o longer understand one another.' Y a h w e h scattered them thence over the whole face o f the earth and they stopped b u i l d i n g the t o w n . I t was named Babel therefore, because there Y a h w e h confused the language o f the w h o l e earth. I t was from there that Y a h w e h scattered them over the w h o l e earth. (Gen. 1 1 : 1 - 9 ) T a k e n simply b y itself this story could be interpreted i n t w o ways. I n one w a y , i t could be understood as the story o f Yahweh's spiteful interference w i t h , and cruel destruction o f a w o r k w i t h w h i c h the Babylonian people are legitimately occupied i n their ordinary lives. O n this view, Y a h w e h is jealous o f man's competition. ' I f they get u p to tricks like that', he says to himself, i m p l i c i t l y i f n o t i n so many words, 'then there is no k n o w i n g where i t w i l l end. T h e y may even threaten me, i n m y heaven. I had better go d o w n and destroy their w o r k before i t gets too far, and make sure that they w o n ' t ever be i n a position to compete w i t h me i n future.' A c c o r d i n g l y , Y a h w e h goes d o w n and w a n t o n l y destroys the tower and scatters the people. O n the other view, however, the meaning is just the opposite. T h e people are stupidly t r y i n g to compete w i t h Y a h w e h w h o after all made them i n the first place. T h e y can do n o t h i n g at all w i t h o u t h i m . T h e y deserve to be taught a lesson. Far f r o m being cruel and spiteful, Y a h w e h is simply showing to the people what happens w h e n they attempt to defy his a l m i g h t y power. H e is really k i n d , and even c o m ­ passionate. I n other words, w h a t seems to them a cruel outrage is just the far-seeing w i s d o m o f a l o v i n g parent. T h e apparent difficulty o f deciding between these t w o possible interpretations o f the text cannot, o f course, be solved merely b y the

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application o f modern notions o f h o w the r i c h possibilities o f conscious ambiguity i n narrative lead to a variety o f equally legitimate inter­ pretations o f the w r i t t e n text as i t stands. W e are dealing, after all, w i t h a piece o f traditional lore, part o f the Yahwist's primeval history w h i c h has its origins i n the earliest period o f Israel's nationhood and the sources o f w h i c h lie i n the oral epics o f that period.* Indeed, i f Scholes and K e l l o g g , i n their b o o k The Nature of Narrative are r i g h t then neither the teller o f such epics nor their listeners could possibly be i n a position to present any k i n d o f subjective 'interpretation' along w i t h the narrative itself. T h e possibility o f such interpretation depends, after all, u p o n a certain distinction being permitted between the v i e w o f the narrative held b y the author, and the narrative itself. B u t such a distinction is foreign to p r i m i t i v e orally transmitted epic literature. T h e teller is simply 'the instrument t h r o u g h w h i c h the tradition takes on a tangible shape': his voice is authoritative because there can be no o t h e r . There are no subtle ironies, no hidden points o f v i e w , no crevices o f subjectivity i n t o w h i c h the concept o f an authorial 'inter­ pretation' o f the given material could insert itself. Hence we can say that the absence o f 'interpretation' i n the text does suggest a complete freedom to choose between the t w o opposing v i e w s . 35

36

But the Yahwistic primeval history allows us to go further than this. F o r the Babel story is the last episode o f that primeval history: and is followed (after a b r i e f Priestly genealogical l i n k passage) b y the beginning o f the sacred history, the call o f A b r a m . T h u s the Yahwist's primeval history deliberately ends w i t h an open question, w h i c h o n l y the subsequent sacred history can answer. V o n Rad puts the p o i n t succinctly: 'Is God's relationship to the nations n o w finally broken; is God's gracious forbearance n o w exhausted; has G o d rejected the nations i n w r a t h for ever?' T h e primeval history seems to break off w i t h this question u n ­ answered, leaving the reader's ears r i n g i n g w i t h a 'shrill dissonance'. I n every previous case (Adam's fall, Cain's crime, the sins o f mankind 37

Scholes and Kellogg, p. 53. Admittedly there is some element of 'viewpoint' in the text as we have it, i.e. in the 'literature' which the Yahwist, according to von Rad, has made out of the original material (see below, p. 112, note to p. 90). F o r example, Yahweh has to come near before he can see the tower, not because he is short-sighted but because to him it seems so puny. Here we have a remarkably satirical comment on man's feeble efforts. But none of this affects my main point. Genesis, p. 149. 3 5

3 6

37

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that were punished b y the flood—each sin, and each punishment, worse than the last) the breach w i t h G o d has been partly healed b y a divine compassion. Y a h w e h does n o t u t t e r l y desert those he has punished. His w i l l to save m a n k i n d remains clear. B u t w i t h the T o w e r o f Babel story, he leaves m a n k i n d scattered, and seemingly helpless. There is no h i n t here o f an ultimate and overarching parental love. T h e question o f Yahweh's future attitude to m a n k i n d is left completely open. W h a t w i l l his next move be? T h a t is the burdensome question w h i c h no t h o u g h t f u l reader o f C h . I I can avoid; indeed, one can say that our narrator intended b y means o f the w h o l e plan o f his primeval h i s t o r y to raise precisely this question and to pose i t i n all its severity. O n l y then is the reader p r o p e r l y prepared to take u p the strangely new t h i n g that n o w follows the comfortless story about the b u i l d i n g o f the tower: the election and blessing o f A b r a h a m .

3 8

T h u s , we have to see this story, w i t h its ambiguous m o r a l vision o f Y a h w e h , i n the context o f the subsequent sacred history i f w e are to understand i t aright. B u t even so there is plenty o f material later i n Genesis w h i c h w o u l d lend support to the idea o f Y a h w e h as capable o f hostility, and even spite and cruelty. O n e m i g h t cite, for example, Yahweh's v i s i t i n g o f plagues o n Pharaoh because Pharaoh had u n ­ w i t t i n g l y seduced Abraham's wife, t h i n k i n g she was free to j o i n his harem. W h a t is i t then w h i c h eventually forces us to see Y a h w e h i n a favourable light? W e can o n l y r e p l y , the attitude o f the author, or authors, w h o have so arranged the material o f Genesis (and the other Biblical material that belongs w i t h i t ) that w e are prevented, i f we read i t as a whole, sensitively and intelligently, f r o m t a k i n g up the 'spiteful' interpretation. F o r instance, one t h i n g w h i c h counts against the 'spiteful' interpretation o f Yahweh's action i n this case is the fact that there is also i n Genesis the story o f Sodom (Gen. 18:16—33). O

n

Abraham's protesting to Y a h w e h that i t is w r o n g to k i l l the innocent inhabitants along w i t h the g u i l t y ones i n Sodom, Y a h w e h replies ' i f at Sodom I find fifty just men i n the t o w n I w i l l spare the w h o l e place because o f them'. A b r a h a m then proceeds to argue, v e r y correctly, that i t is n o t a matter o f fifty, b u t o f any just men. T h o u g h he does n o t beat Y a h w e h d o w n beyond ten, the drift o f the argument is plain, as 3 8

Ibid.

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Jeremiah ( 5 : 1 ) and Ezekiel ( 2 2 : 3 0 f . ) realised. Here Y a h w e h is seen as considerate o f the claims o f the innocent, and like a reasonable bargainer i n an oriental market place recognises a sensible deal w h e n he sees one. N o w the p o i n t o f examples like this is that they show h o w the v e r y human and changeable characteristics o f Y a h w e h function as metaphors for the activity o f the ' M o s t H i g h ' , the creator o f heaven and earth. F o r it is Yahweh's significance that he is a character i n a story, and is thus m i d w a y between the p u r e l y human and the w h o l l y divine w o r l d s . A s such he acts as a metaphor b y w h i c h the creator can manifest himself i n an intelligible f o r m . But, as w e have seen, n o t any k i n d o f behaviour on the part o f Y a h w e h the character w i l l count for this purpose: i t has to be behaviour that is i n keeping w i t h the idea o f the creator that the tradition itself enshrines.* A n d sometimes w e have to l o o k beyond a single incident to see what this means. W i t h i n the tradition, however, the metaphorical role o f Y a h w e h can certainly g r o w and develop. T o take one example. There are three versions i n Genesis o f the story o f a patriarch w h o makes his wife say she is his sister i n order to prevent his being k i l l e d b y a tyrannical k i n g who wants the w o m a n for himself. T h e argument is that as she is his sister the k i n g w i l l t h i n k she is free to j o i n his harem and w i l l n o t feel it necessary to 'remove' her husband first. B u t w h e n the k i n g , h a v i n g seduced the w o m a n (or, i n one version, having nearly done so), finds that she is already married, he gives her back to her husband. N o w i n the first version ( G e n . 1 2 : 1 0 - 2 0 ) Y a h w e h inflicts severe punishment o n Pharaoh for h a v i n g seduced Sarah, the wife o f A b r a h a m , despite the fact that Pharaoh had no reason to suspect that she was n o t free to j o i n his harem. I n the second version however ( G e n . 2 0 : 1 - 1 8 ) , this unjust punishment o f the subjectively innocent k i n g is avoided. Y a h w e h tells the k i n g the true facts o f the matter i n a dream, before he has had time to seduce Sarah, so that the innocent k i n g is n o t made to suffer for an act he had no reason to t h i n k was i n any w a y illicit. I n the t h i r d version ( w h i c h is t o l d o f Isaac and Rebecca), the trouble is again avoided, this time b y m a k i n g the k i n g discover the t r u t h for himself instead o f f r o m a dream ( G e n . 2 6 : 7 - 1 1 ) . N o w the commentators agree that these are not three separate stories, b u t three different versions o f the same s t o r y .

39

T h e p o i n t o f the story is that Y a h w e h preserves the patriarch, the faithful follower, f r o m being killed b y an unscrupulous oriental despot. See von Rad, pp. 162, 221 and 266, and Vawter, pp. i25ff., i6off. Also R . de Vaux, pp. 13f. 3 9

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But, they say, the second and t h i r d versions show a more developed moral sense. F o r whereas i n the first case Pharaoh and indeed his whole household suffer severe punishment for h a v i n g b r o k e n a divine law i n ignorance, i n the second and t h i r d versions a dream, or other device, is introduced i n order to prevent such an injustice happening. I n the progressive development o f the ' m o r a l sense' w h i c h the three versions o f the same story reveal, w e can see h o w Y a h w e h , as the metaphor for the ' M o s t H i g h ' , grows and changes under the pressure o f an o n g o i n g cultural tradition. Y a h w e h is recognisably the same character i n each version, b u t he has been refined and matured d u r i n g the process o f the development o f the story. T h e tradition thus not o n l y sets limits to w h a t can consistently be predicated o f Y a h w e h , but, w i t h i n those limits, provides the o p p o r t u n i t y for a g r o w t h o f religious and m o r a l awareness t h r o u g h the capacity o f the metaphor w h i c h enshrines i t to g r o w according to its o w n internal logic. A somewhat similar process o f development may be noted in the corresponding 'character' o f Satan d u r i n g the O l d Testament period. I have referred to this development a l r e a d y but here i t may be noted that the g r o w t h o f the moral sense i n the character o f Y a h w e h i n ­ volves a progressive blackening o f Satan, w h o is made to take on many o f the 'bad' qualities that w o u l d otherwise have to be given to Y a h w e h himself. U n t i l the exile Satan had been merely the t e r m for the accusa­ t o r y and condemnatory aspect o f the divine power. A s such he was not necessarily an evil being; on the contrary he was part o f the divine righteousness. O n the other hand, i n the later period Satan begins to act o n his o w n account, to take a proper name ('Satan' instead o f 'the satan') and even to draw into himself the forces o f evil i n the universe. F o r example, whereas i n 2 Samuel 24:1 Y a h w e h i n his 'anger' incites D a v i d to conduct a census and then punishes h i m for the act (a census was felt to be impious because i t suggested man was t h i n k i n g o f taking over the divine prerogative o f supervising the increase o f the family or the n a t i o n ) , i n the later version o f the same story, i n 1 Chronicles 2 1 : 1 , i t is Satan, n o w a character w i t h his o w n proper name, w h o is credited w i t h the evil suggestion o f the census and w i t h p r o v o k i n g D a v i d to undertake i t . W h a t i n the earlier version was referred to as 'the anger o f Y a h w e h ' is n o w an independent being, w i t h an autonomous w i l l and freedom o f action. Yahweh's punishment o f D a v i d is thus 40

41

4 0

4 1

See above, p. 65. See J.B. editorial note on this verse.

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seen as just rather than unjust, for D a v i d should have resisted Satan's evil provocation, whereas n o t h i n g could be worse than to resist the command o f Y a h w e h h i m s e l f . Y a h w e h then, is a quasi-human character i n a story, and this w a y o f 42

treating h i m is the basic metaphor. T h e poet, or narrator, has taken u p o n himself to attribute to Y a h w e h a k i n d o f life w h i c h is n o t that o f G o d , the Most H i g h , creator o f heaven and earth, but o f ours. H e has done so for the purpose o f telling us something about God's ' m i g h t y acts' that c o u l d n o t be t o l d i n a non-figurative w a y . Y e t quite clearly this strategy for t a l k i n g about Y a h w e h raises acute philosophical problems concerning the divine i m m u t a b i l i t y , omniscience etc. Aquinas discovered this w h e n faced w i t h the story o f N o a h , i n w h i c h we are t o l d h o w Y a h w e h 'regretted' h a v i n g made man, his most cherished masterpiece. F o r prima facie this statement entails that Y a h w e h has changed his m i n d about man, his creature. Aquinas as a philosopher therefore sees i t as an apparent objection to the p h i l o ­ sophical doctrine o f God's i m m u t a b i l i t y . H i s solution is characteristic. G o d k n e w all along that the creatures he had made w o u l d have to be destroyed for their wickedness, b u t since he k n e w f r o m the beginning everything he intended to do, this does not argue for any change o f m i n d i n G o d . T h e 'regret' Y a h w e h experienced, Aquinas says, is ' o n l y a m e t a p h o r ' . I d o n ' t t h i n k we need to reflect on this answer for l o n g to see that, even i f i t satisfies the philosophical requirement o f divine i m m u t a b i l i t y , i t makes nonsense o f the story b y t u r n i n g Y a h w e h i n t o a callous, calculating monster. W h a t k i n d o f creator is this, w h o o n Aquinas's premisses l o v i n g l y makes his masterpiece, man, a free moral agent able to choose his o w n course, k n o w i n g all the w h i l e that i n a short time he w i l l destroy h i m again for h a v i n g exercised the v e r y freedom he has been given? I t is far more fitting to t h i n k o f Y a h w e h as really regretting his original creative action under the provocation o f genuine disappointment w i t h man's performance, than to t r y to preserve a philosophical p o i n t b y d i s t o r t i n g what is clearly a meta43

44

See R o y Yates, 'Satan and the Failure of Nerve', in New Blackfriars lii (May 1971), pp. 223-8. Summa Theologiae, I , Q . 19, Art. 7 ad 1. Summa Theologiae, loc. cit. It is worth noting that the verses which express Yahweh's 'regret'—i.e. his change of mind—are part of the Yahwist element in the Noah story. T h e Yahwist tradition of course is much more concrete and down-to-earth in its outlook than the Priestly tradition which is also present in the text as we have it. 4 2

4 3 44

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phorical description o f the divine w i l l i n t o a piece o f analogical reasoning.* T h i s being so, there seems no reason w h y w e should feel a need to excuse the w r i t e r o f the N o a h story for saying, metaphorically that Y a h w e h 'regretted' h a v i n g made man. O f course, everyone k n o w s f r o m other passages i n Genesis and elsewhere, that Y a h w e h is n o t really subject to changes o f m i n d .

4 5

But for purposes o f t e l l i n g this

story, w h i c h is basically a story o f Yahweh's mercy and fidelity to N o a h , i t is necessary to say, metaphorically that he is. I n other w o r d s , Y a h w e h is a character w i t h quasi-human traits and his function i n the Biblical t r a d i t i o n is precisely to exhibit these. H o w e v e r , Y a h w e h is also the 'Most H i g h , the creator o f heaven and earth' ( G e n . 1 4 : 2 2 ) . T h e problem, therefore, is to reconcile w h a t appear to be t w o irreconcilable aspects o f the one divine being. T h e best w a y to understand the p r o b l e m may be to illustrate i t w i t h a diagram:

See Mai. 3:6 for a summary of this tradition. See also e.g. Psalm 18:2 where Yahweh is likened to a rock and a fortress, and is therefore totally reliable; and Psalm 34:1 where Yahweh's plans 'hold for ever' and 'the intentions of his heart from age to age'. 4 5

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T h e diagram i n this case has to be three-dimensional. T h i s is because w e w a n t to say that the figure Y a h w e h is n o t o n l y a character i n the story b u t also, at the same time, a person w h o really exists. T h e complex relation thus i n v o l v e d implies that the structure o f the story i n w h i c h this character appears is projected o n t o the real w o r l d to give it a structure w h i c h otherwise i t w o u l d n o t have. I n other w o r d s the diagram illustrates the thesis that the sacred story gives 'chaos' a shape, or 'nisus'. F o r w i t h o u t the story, as the diagram indicates, there w o u l d be no shape to reality: i t w o u l d o n l y be a blank w a l l . I t is n o t u n t i l the structure o f the story is projected o n to this blank w a l l that we can recognise that the w a l l t o o exhibits the same structure. Now

the structure o f the story is similar to the structure o f the

Cinderella story. I t has a vertical dimension i n w h i c h the top and b o t t o m (God

and man) are linked b y a causal nexus o f dependence. G o d is at

the t o p o f the structure, g i v i n g i t its existence b y his creative narrative voice, and man is at the b o t t o m , at floor level so to speak, where the historical events take place. B u t i n this case w e have a t h i r d element w i t h i n this vertical structure: the character o f Y a h w e h w h o is m i d w a y between man, at floor level, and G o d . ( F o r Y a h w e h is b o t h G o d , according to the story, and also characterised b y specifically human limitations.) Y a h w e h is, one m i g h t say, a metaphor b o t h for G o d and for man. I n this sense, the vertical dimension o f the story is a paradig­ matic one, and the floor level is a syntagmatic dimension. Now,

i f w e see Y a h w e h as thus related metaphorically to G o d and

to man, then the affirmation o f A b r a m ' s faith that ' Y a h w e h is G o d ' (Gen.

1 4 : 2 2 ) w i l l be a piece o f metaphorical language. B u t this w i l l n o t

mean that i t is ' o n l y a figure o f speech', and n o t a cognitive statement. For,

as usual, corresponding to this metaphorical statement o f faith

w i l l be a s u p p o r t i n g narrative syntagm, a story w h i c h w i l l inevitably have to be a story about this one true G o d . T h a t is to say, f r o m this act o f faith, once uttered, i t follows that the narratives about Y a h w e h must be stories o f the one true G o d . I f Y a h w e h is G o d , then i t is n o t a contingent b u t a necessary fact that the stories about h i m w i l l be stories about G o d : and the information they reveal about G o d w i l l be reliable f o r that reason. B u t , as usual, there is also another possible interpretation, to w h i c h just the opposite w i l l apply. N o w the act o f faith w i l l be i n the horizontal dimension, w h i c h is the dimension o f the narratives. I n other words, the act o f faith w i l l be the assertion that out o f all the stories o f gods, o n l y these stories are t r u l y stories o f G o d . I t

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is on this p o i n t that faith is focussed: namely that o n l y certain con­ tingent events, out o f all the m y r i a d events o f history, are genuinely acts o f G o d . I t follows, however, from this act o f faith that the vertical axis is n o w an axis o f necessity; the axis o f the syntagmatic, not o f the paradigmatic. ( T h e paradigmatic, i t w i l l be recalled, is the axis o f choice, i n the sense that i t is o n this axis that we choose these w o r d s , out o f a w h o l e range o f eligible words, to make this sentence. Similarly, i n the present case, faith, being a k i n d o f v o l u n t a r y commitment, is always a paradigmatic matter. I t is the choice, either o f this g o d out o f all the eligible gods, or o f this story o u t o f all the eligible stories). O n the second interpretation, i f the chosen story is a story about the true god, then the g o d o f w h o m i t tells must be G o d . B o t h ways o f l o o k i n g at the matter are equally valid. Nevertheless, each represents a slightly different n o t i o n o f what faith is. T h e one starts f r o m a certain conception o f the divine and argues to what such a d i v i n i t y w i l l or w i l l n o t do. T h e other starts from a certain sense o f what kinds o f acts seem to be specially marked w i t h the 'divine' mark, and argues from the stories about these to the existence o f the one god who is talked o f i n those stories. I t is I t h i n k arguable that one o f the ways i n w h i c h the religion o f Israel differed from that o f Christianity is that, w i t h the c o m i n g o f Christianity, the emphasis shifted from the first to the second conception o f faith. But what is the nature o f the metaphorical relation between Yahweh, a divine character i n a story w h o is subject to human emotions and the Most H i g h God? Y a h w e h and G o d are, quite clearly, n o t different beings. O n the contrary, Y a h w e h is G o d , as A b r a m saw w h e n he was confronted b y the K i n g o f Sodom: ' I raise m y hand i n the presence o f Y a h w e h , G o d most H i g h , creator o f heaven and earth' (Gen. 1 4 : 2 2 ) . I n this reply A b r a m is explicitly affirming the identity o f Israel's divine protector and guardian, Yahweh, and the most h i g h G o d , E l - E l y o n . Yet there is certainly a distinction between them, as the difference between the Y a h w i s t and the Elohist traditions makes clear. Y a h w e h is the name for a humanly approachable figure, whereas i n the Elohist tradition G o d is presented i n more remote terms, emphasising the distance between man and himself. * T h u s ' Y a h w e h is G o d ' is b y no means a tautology. O n the contrary, for A b r a m and all those c o m i n g after h i m , it is a daring act o f faith, indeed the fundamental act o f faith. 46

4 6

J.B.,

Introduction to the Pentateuch, p. 8.

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Yahweh, the special protector o f the Jewish nation, a god w h o is far nearer to his people than are the gods w h o belong to the surrounding nations, ( D e u t . 4 : 7 ) is the most h i g h , the creator o f heaven and earth, the one w h o m n o man can see and still live ( E x o d . 3 3 : 2 0 ) . ' Y a h w e h ' and ' E l o h i m ' are therefore different ways o f referring to the one true G o d . T h e y are n o t the names o f t w o different gods. N o w the problem is this. I f i t is n o t a tautology to say that Y a h w e h is G o d , b u t a daring affirmation o f a not-immediately-obvious identity, where in the stories in which Yahweh figures as a character, is the n o t i o n o f G o d , i n the sense o f the M o s t H i g h , the creator o f heaven and earth to be found? T h i s question needs careful formulation. O f course i t is true that constantly i n the O l d Testament, Y a h w e h is spoken o f as the Creator and the Most H i g h . B u t this is because the O l d Testament is w r i t t e n f r o m w i t h i n that faith. So the important question is rather this: given that Y a h w e h is, i n the first place, Israel's national protector (one m i g h t almost say tribal deity) h o w is i t that anyone, s i m p l y reading and hearing the stories i n w h i c h he figures as a character, w o u l d see i n those stories the possibility o f his being t r u l y G o d , the Most High? Even here, a qualification must be made. W e are n o t asking this as an historical question, as to h o w i t came about that the Hebrews rose to the idea. W e are asking i t as a philosophical question, w h i c h may be put more formally thus: Y a h w e h , as the name o f a character i n a story, is a piece o f metaphorical language. Metaphor i n theology w o r k s b y taking for granted that i t is possible to affirm certain human character­ istics o f G o d . I n this w a y , i t brings G o d i n t o direct contact w i t h the w o r l d . I t is a k i n d o f incarnation. B u t i t does so o n l y because i t pre­ supposes that we already k n o w that these characteristics are n o t literally true o f G o d . Somehow therefore we have to k n o w already that G o d is n o t literally w h a t the metaphor affirms h i m to be. I n a sense Aquinas must be r i g h t after all about God's regretting that he made man. F o r i f someone were to suppose that i n the F l o o d story the attribution o f regret to Y a h w e h was literally applicable to G o d then, according to Aquinas he w o u l d not o n l y not obtain a deeper under­ standing o f God's ways w i t h men, he w o u l d actually get a far more erroneous, indeed a logically incoherent o n e . I n this sense then, w h e n we read or hear o f Y a h w e h as a character i n the story, we must already have at the back o f our minds the conception o f G o d as Creator and 47

47

Summa Theologiae, I, Q . 19, Art. 7.

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as the M o s t H i g h . O r , to p u t i t more provocatively, an analogical conception o f G o d must accompany, and even precede any meta­ phorical speech, and indeed any religious understanding o f h i m . W h e r e is such a conception o f G o d to be f o u n d i n the stories o f 4 8

Yahweh? One answer m i g h t o f course be that the O l d Testament is full o f hymns and canticles to h i m , full o f prophecies inspired b y h i m , full o f references to his attributes—his creativity, omniscience, i m m u t a b i l i t y and so o n . Is i t n o t i n the l i g h t o f these references that w e are able to recognise the Most H i g h w h o has to be presupposed i n the stories o f Yahweh? B u t this answer w i l l n o t do. F o r the stories o f Y a h w e h have the theological p r i o r i t y . T h e y are the foundation o f the tribal faith that Y a h w e h is G o d . So i t is somehow f r o m these stories themselves that the n o t i o n o f Y a h w e h as G o d has to be extracted. Consider a crucial example, namely the story o f the crossing o f the 'Red Sea' w h i c h is the central episode o f the exodus w h i c h made Israel i n t o a dedicated nation. I n this story Y a h w e h is pictured as a k i n d o f super­ human w a r r i o r hero, w h o is seeking his o w n g l o r y at E g y p t ' s expense, as a true epic hero should ( E x o d . 14:18). H e is the commanding officer o f the whole Israelite army, organising their strategy. But he is also a w o n d e r - w o r k e r . H e makes the elements obey h i m so that his army can get t h r o u g h unscathed. H e ensures the death o f the E g y p t i a n pursuers. A s the v i c t o r y song puts i t , ' H e has covered himself i n g l o r y , horse and rider he has t h r o w n i n t o the sea' ( E x o d . 15:21). N o w the question that faces us is this: h o w can this story o f the m i g h t y deeds o f Y a h w e h , the super-warrior hero be, for the reader o r listener, a revela­ t i o n o f the Most H i g h G o d , Creator o f heaven and earth? T h e question for us is not, h o w d i d the Israelites themselves, i n v o l v e d i n the events, interpret them? i.e. h o w did the events become for them the revelation o f God? F o r that is a question they w o u l d have to answer for them­ selves. O u r question is a different one, stemming from the fact that revelation is something public, and open to others. I t implies a tradition that can be appropriated and a c o m m u n i t y that can be joined, even b y those, like ourselves, whose religious and historical suppositions are 4 9

See A . Flew, on H . H . Price's Belief, in Mind, 79 (1970), p. 459, for the argument that a coherent religion cannot do without philosophical belief in G o d . I am referring here, of course, to the original orally-transmitted 'sacred stories', not necessarily the written versions we now have. O n this distinction see article by S. Crites quoted above, p. 47 note 17. 4 8

4 9

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necessarily different. So the telling o f the story, i n whatever p r i m i t i v e f o r m , must itself be the beginning o f the process whereby the events become available for subsequent assimilation, and so constitute a tradition. A n d this telling must somehow contain the idea o f G o d , i n the light o f w h i c h the metaphorical talk about Y a h w e h as a w a r r i o r hero can be understood b y us as talk about G o d . Y e t there seems to be n o t h i n g i n the story that gives us a basis for any such idea. O f course i t is true that the Y a h w e h i n the story is not merely a human warrior; his powers are superhuman. There is no doubt that he is a god. B u t he is described i n the story purely and simply i n epic hero terms and, taken at face value, the subsequent v i c t o r y song is just a h y m n o f praise to this super-warrior. T r u e , i t does contain the affirmation ' T h i s is m y G o d , I praise h i m ; the G o d o f m y father I extol h i m ' (Exod. 15:21). B u t b y itself this solves n o t h i n g , for the question is, h o w can we recognise the heroic w a r r i o r Y a h w e h as G o d even i n the song? T h e singer o f the song himself presupposes an answer to the question we still have to face. T h e o n l y answer I can suggest is this. T h e implicit narrator w h o is present i n the v e r y fact that the story is being t o l d at all, is apparently able to tell a story w i t h Y a h w e h as a character. N o w , i t is i n this claim to be able to narrate such a story at all that we can find the n o t i o n o f G o d somehow contained i n the story. O f course, G o d , the Most H i g h is not contained, or indeed spoken of, i n the events. B u t there is more to a story than a series o f events. There is the fact that they are being told. I n a story events are transformed into 'these w o r d s i n this order' b y a process o f more or less deliberate selection, including o f course a narrative ' p o i n t o f v i e w ' . T h i s p o i n t o f v i e w is as m u c h part o f the story as the events i t tells. O r rather, i t is not part o f it, i t is the w h o l e o f i t , but seen from the angle o f narrative technique, or 'rhetoric'. T h e teller makes implicit claims to k n o w what happened and h o w i t happened, and what the characters involved were like, and so o n . T h i s is as true o f a folk tale or an epic poem as i t is o f an historical narrative. E v e r y tale implies a teller: i.e. that voice w h i c h makes itself heard whenever the story is told, and w h i c h is altered i n tone b y every change i n w o r d or emphasis i n the telling. N o w i n the case o f the Y a h w e h stories, the teller is m a k i n g the implicit claim to be able to tell us what Y a h w e h , the divine character said and thought. But is this claim not a piece o f gross presumption? O f course, i f a g o d is regarded i n a crudely anthropomorphic w a y , so that accounts o f his feelings are regarded as

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literally true, there is no problem. I n so far as the teller thinks his gods are simply men w r i t large, his claim to be able to tell us what they t h i n k o r say does n o t i n v o l v e a n y t h i n g grossly presumptuous. B u t i f the claim is that the g o d w h o is a character i n the story is also G o d , the Most H i g h , and Creator o f heaven and earth, and yet the story can report his thoughts and feelings as i f they were directly k n o w n to the teller, then the claim to be able to tell such a story amounts to the claim to be i n the position o f G o d . I m i g h t p u t the p o i n t crudely b y saying that the o n l y person w h o is i n a position to tell us what Y a h w e h thought, or said or felt, is G o d . So G o d is after all in the stories o f Yahweh, b u t n o t as a character, or as part o f what is t o l d , b u t as the implied teller. T h e o n l y person w h o can tell us h o w Y a h w e h 'regretted' making man is the G o d w h o is beyond all regretting. T h e o n l y person w h o can tell us about Yahweh's fighting o n Israel's side is the G o d w h o is above all fighting. iii E v e r y tale implies a teller. B u t n o t every tale implies an author. I n a traditional story o f the oral epic k i n d there can be no distinction between author and teller, because the author is n o t o n l y anonymous, he is i n a sense non-existent. I n other words, i n such traditional narratives the teller is n o t an author, b u t simply 'the instrument t h r o u g h w h i c h the tradition takes o n a tangible shape as a performance'. T h e author, as a person distinct from the teller; that is to say, distinct f r o m the possessor o f that narrative voice w h i c h addresses us f r o m the story, can o n l y emerge w i t h the arrival o f w r i t t e n , as distinct f r o m oral narrative. I t is i n w r i t t e n narrative that those subtle discriminations between author and teller can be made t h r o u g h w h i c h i r o n y and selfconscious art are introduced into story-telling i n order to add variety and richness to the possibilities o f narrative technique. W h e r e the author exists as a separate person, responsible for, but standing back from the story, i t is possible for the teller to become a distinct 'character': one w h o is separate b o t h from the persons involved i n the events and f r o m the real personage w h o has decided to invent o r transmit a record o f the events to his contemporaries. I n m a k i n g this distinction, o f course, I am not suggesting that every narrative w h i c h , as a matter 50

Scholes and Kellogg, p. 53. I am indebted to this work for much of the argument in this paragraph. 6 0

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o f contingent fact, has come to be w r i t t e n d o w n involves the distinc­ t i o n o f author and teller, or that every story w h i c h is t o l d b y w o r d o f m o u t h renders the distinction inconceivable. There are m a n y 'tradi­ tional' narratives w h i c h i n the course o f time have taken o n w r i t t e n f o r m , just as there are many examples o f narratives o f the w r i t t e n type being t o l d or read aloud to a group o f listeners. T h e distinction I have i n m i n d concerns the genre o f the narrative, n o t the contingent circumstance o f its presentation to us. Bearing this i n m i n d , I t h i n k we can say that the traditional O l d Testament stories i n w h i c h Y a h w e h figures as a quasi-human character are narratives o f the epic, o r traditional k i n d , whereas the stories o f the N e w Testament, and i n particular o f the gospels, are characterised b y their specifically w r i t t e n f o r m . T h e N e w Testament w r i t i n g s are notable for their association w i t h particular named persons: 'Matthew', ' M a r k ' , ' L u k e ' , 'John', 'Paul' etc. T h e p o i n t is so obvious that i t is easy to forget i t , especially when the Biblical critics begin to t h r o w doubt u p o n the traditional ascriptions o f authorship, and to reveal the many layers o f narrative tradition that underlie the N e w Testament stories as we have them i n the canonical texts. But the p o i n t remains valid despite the critics. W e read the story o f Jesus Christ i n a different w a y f r o m the m i g h t y acts o f Y a h w e h precisely because i t reads like the record o f experiences authenticated b y the v e r y persons w h o underwent them, or at least b y persons i n direct contact w i t h the original witnesses. T h i s is particularly true o f the earliest strands o f the narrative material, such as these parts o f St Paul's letters w h i c h contain the most p r i m i t i v e tradition (e.g. i Cor. 1 5 : 3 - 8 ) . N o w the idea o f a story t o l d about an individual's experiences b y that individual himself is a comparatively late develop­ ment i n the history o f human story-telling. I t is something that emerges v e r y s l o w l y and rather late out o f the primordial idea o f the story that is designed to perpetuate a b o d y o f tradition i n w h i c h fact and fiction are more or less indistinguishable. I n the case o f the N e w Testament 'story' this evolutionary process is reversed. T h e earliest strands i n that story are those w h i c h take the f o r m o f personal experiences recorded for the benefit o f others (such as 1 Cor. 31T): and the material w h i c h overlays these earliest personal accounts is that w h i c h fills out the personal witness b y adding legendary, reflective or didactic elements o f a not-directly-personal k i n d . T o put i t another w a y , there is a clear distinction i n the N e w Testament, especially i n the gospels as we n o w have them, however complex their textual history, between author and

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teller. B y author, here, I mean the person supposedly responsible for the b o o k : ' M a t t h e w ' , ' M a r k ' etc. Such a person may, i n fact, have had little o r n o t h i n g to do w i t h the text as we n o w have i t . Nevertheless, the point remains, and we cannot and should n o t escape i t , that the gospels are presented to us as the w o r k o f particular 'authors' and this is a significant, inescapable fact about the k i n d o f books the gospels are, however complex the process b y w h i c h they came to be formed. T h e identification o f the story o f Jesus w i t h a certain k i n d o f story-telling, that is the k i n d w h i c h allows for, and indeed entails, a distinction between teller and author, is itself a v e r y significant fact about the k i n d o f story that the story o f Jesus is supposed to be. I n Christianity the various possibilities that this genre o f story telling opens up are exploited. There is n o w a crucial difference f r o m the story-telling o f the O l d Testament, where we may say that the teller o f the stories is simply the 'instrument t h r o u g h w h i c h the tradition takes on a tangible shape', and there is no distance between the teller and the author, no possibility o f ironic o r self-conscious narration. I n fact i t is just because o f the a n o n y m i t y o f the O l d Testament teller that he can assume the omniscience and the authoritativeness required to be able to tell stories i n w h i c h Y a h w e h can figure as a character. O n l y a tradition w h i c h transcends the teller and imposes a k i n d o f impersonality u p o n h i m , t h r o u g h its characteristic narrative f o r m , can authorise the presump­ t i o n w h i c h is implied i n 'placing' Y a h w e h i n the limited circumstances o f place and time, and i n v o l v i n g h i m even i n embarassingly human situations. F o r a particular person like ourselves, say ' L u k e ' or ' M a r k ' to place G o d i n such a manner w o u l d be blasphemously presumptuous. T h i s is w h y i n the N e w Testament, G o d does not figure as a character i n the stories. H e is implicit, hidden, present i n the wings b u t never o n stage. H e is not named. H e is simply 'the Father' etc. H e is present o n l y as related to human characters, n o t as a character i n his o w n right. H e intervenes o n l y indirectly, t h r o u g h Jesus or t h r o u g h those ordinary men to w h o m he entrusts special powers, as recorded i n the Acts o f the Apostles. H i s spirit is at w o r k , b u t he is not present i n person. He is available o n l y indirectly i n Jesus the man whose personality reveals, i n a glass darkly, something o f his 'character'. I n the l i g h t o f modern scholarship on the N e w Testament what I have just said may sound absurdly naive. Y e t I t h i n k i t is basic to the difference between the O l d and N e w Testaments. I t is perfectly obvious when we reflect u p o n the experience o f reading the gospels. T h i s

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experience is n o t radically altered b y the discovery that, say, the organising principle o f the gospels is that o f the early church's liturgical requirements, n o t that o f straightforward historical sequence. W h a t ­ ever we may discover about the w a y i n w h i c h , say, the resurrection 51

narratives were p u t together, or about the degrees o f historical reliability we should ascribe to their various parts, or the amount o f literary or religious symbolism that has been b u i l t i n t o them, the fact remains that they are w h a t they are, narratives personally vouched for. A s such, they are o f a more modern genre than the tales o f Yahweh's m i g h t y acts narrated i n the Pentateuch. Precisely because G o d has become man, he has ceased to be a character h a v i n g dealings w i t h other, human characters. H e has i n one sense been made more familiar and humble, present within a particular human person, Jesus; b u t in another sense he has become more remote and ineffable, a H o l y Spirit to be discerned o n l y f r o m experience, to be i n v o k e d i n prayer o r mobilised i n miracle b u t never to be 'placed' b y a human narrator. 52

O f course the distance between author and teller w h i c h is i m p l i c i t in the gospels, and w h i c h is crucial to the Christian conception o f G o d . has been overlaid b y the l o n g centuries d u r i n g w h i c h the gospels were regarded as literally true accounts o f the biography o f Jesus. Such a literal reading o f the gospels, w i t h their multifariously legendary or m y t h i c elements, led many people inevitably to docetism. A man w h o could literally be the subject o f such wonders could hardly be a real man. B u t presumably the gospels, and the source material f r o m w h i c h the gospels as w e k n o w them n o w were w r i t t e n , were originally recognised b y those w h o read or heard them for w h a t they were. There was little temptation to interpret them t h r o u g h o u t i n a u n i ­ f o r m l y literal mode, as h i s t o r y or biography. But under the pressures o f a culture i n w h i c h narratives were separated o u t into either the empirical or the f i c t i o n a l i t may have been inevitable that they should be misread. O n the one hand, they had to be established as literally true, as history, for w i t h o u t this basis o f fact, i t was felt, the faith could collapse. O n the other hand they could be read didactically, whether 53

54

See M . D . Goulder, Midrash and Lection. R . H . Fuller's is the most recent study of this subject. According to Scholes and Kellogg these are the two main streams into which narrative divides when written narrative supervenes upon oral transmission. Aquinas's interpretation seems to imply this. Summa Theologiae, I , Q . i , Art. ioc. 5 1

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as sources o f moral, or mystical teaching. Hence the elaboration o f the medieval theory o f the four levels o f meaning i n scripture. * But this separation o f the narratives i n t o watertight historical or didactic levels o f meaning was fatal to the true understanding o f them as w r i t t e n 65

narratives. T h e connection here between an inadequate theory o f metaphorical language and an inadequate theory o f narrative structure seems, i n retrospect, plain enough. A n essential element i n their comprehension was the recognition o f the difference that separated teller f r o m author. Perhaps i t is o n l y n o w , as a result o f our l o n g ex­ perience o f reading novels, that is, narratives that once again combine the empirical and the fictional i n a mode o f narration more complex than either o f these can be b y i t s e l f , are w e able to recover the true nature o f narratives that were w r i t t e n before that split occurred. T h e distance between author and teller i n the gospels is discernible as soon as w e begin to realise, as those w h o first heard or read them must have realised, the k i n d and degree o f art, that is o f deliberate organisation o f material for eliciting a complex k i n d o f assent, w h i c h has been i n v o l v e d i n them f r o m the outset. W h e n we understand, for example, that St Matthew's gospel is w r i t t e n to illustrate and fill o u t the liturgical readings o f the religious year and to reinterpret them i n the l i g h t o f the life, death and resurrection o f Jesus w e have to recognise at once the presence o f an author, and an authorial ' p o i n t o f v i e w ' w h i c h is quite distinct f r o m that o f the implicit teller whose voice simply narrates the story as w e have i t . ( I am n o t o f course suggesting that there is no such art i n the O l d Testament books. B u t I am saying that we are n o t aware o f i t i n the same w a y , and i t makes no difference to the essential objec­ t i v i t y o f the story, because the O l d Testament stories are not, and do not claim to be t o l d b y individuals v o u c h i n g for them personally, whether as actual witnesses o f the events or as persons directly connec­ ted to those w h o were witnesses.) 'Matthew' is a self-conscious narra­ tive artist as are ' M a r k ' , ' L u k e ' and 'John'. T h e i r presence i n their books is o f a different order f r o m that o f the merely implicit teller whose voice exists i n any piece o f narrative (as distinct from dramatic or l y r i c ) discourse. A n d the self-conscious art o f each is the source o f the 66

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Summa Theologiae, loc. cit. Scholes and Kellogg argue that the novel is the product of an attempt to reunite the separated streams of 'empirical' and 'fictional' in narrative. I have borrowed the phrase, though not in quite the original sense, from Newman's Grammar of Assent, Part 2 , Chap. vi. 5 5

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theological insights w h i c h make each gospel a Christian document, and w h i c h make the G o d they i m p l y i n t o the Christian G o d . T h i s art is one w h i c h interprets the story o f Jesus as one about the activity o f G o d i n Jesus. I n this sense the Christian vision is radically dependent n o t o n l y u p o n narrative as such, b u t also u p o n the distance w h i c h w r i t t e n narrative sets up between the author and teller o f the tale.* I n other words, there is a close connection t o be observed between what may be called the 'rhetoric' o f Christian belief and the 'rhetoric' o f fiction. I n Part T w o o f this b o o k I have tried t o show w h a t some o f these connections are b y a study o f a number o f modern fiction-writers and their w o r k .

Notes to Part One

p. 16. See James F . Ross, Analogy as a Rule of Meaning for Religious Language, in Aquinas: A Collection of Critical Essays, ed. Kenny, p. 114: 'Aquinas's rule for analogy of attribution contains a provision that the secondary uses of the term will signify a causal relation of their subject to the normal subject of the property'; and Burrell, p. 132: 'The justification for analogous usage and the line of argu­ ment distinguishing it from the "merely symbolic" theories (of a Maimonides or a Tillich) itself depends on an analogous use of "cause" '. This argument is clearly circular; but not viciously so. F o r Burrell argues that in the end we have simply to recognise that we do invoke notions which resist analysis—such as the notion of cause which underlies Aquinas's theory of analogical language—and there is no getting away from that fact. I do not want to deny this: but to supplement it with an argument to show that this is not just a fact about the way our minds are constituted (and so vulnerable to the criticism that reality is not necessarily tailored to fit our minds): it is also a fact about the very structure of language as a medium for saying anything—including, of course, saying that perhaps the way our minds work does not fit the way things are! Thus the hostile critic of 'analogy' is hoist by his own petard as soon as he opens his mouth. p. 23. E v e n in Gardner's paraphrase the metaphor remains irreducibly itself. It cannot be put into purely non-figurative terms. O n the metaphors in Hopkins see Robert Boyle, Metaphor in Hopkins. Boyle's discussion of the poem, which I did not come across until I had written this section, differs in certain respects from my own but my general drift is, I think, confirmed by Boyle's approach. p. 24. Indeed it may be that this kind of growth of metaphor is what theological development consists of. According to Newman, the first note of a genuine doctrinal development is 'preservation of type' on the analogy of physical growth, while other notes are a capacity for anticipating the future and conserving the past. See The Development of Christian Doctrine, I I , 5. p. 25. The distinction between metaphor and simile, though less significant for my argument than the distinction between metaphor and analogy, is nevertheless important. Aristotle could see little or no difference between the two (Rhetoric i n , 1406b), nor apparently could Cicero (De Oratore, i n , 39). Among the ancients, only Hermogenes of Tarsus (c. A . D . 170) saw that metaphor had a creative role to play in the joining of two meanings and was not merely a matter of 'diction' (see W . B. Stanford, Greek Metaphor, p. 14). Christine Brooke-Rose, criticising Aristotle, insists on the difference, but even goes so far as to say that we can tell the difference by a merely syntactic test: simile 'merely states that A is like B, never

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that A is B' (A Grammar of Metaphor, p. 14). This is making the distinction between simile and metaphor too rigid, though Miss Brooke-Rose is certainly right that when Aristotle says there is no difference between 'he rushed on like a lion' and 'a lion, he rushed on' he is failing to distinguish simile from metaphor. But then the important point, as she says, is that in the first case it is the man's action that is compared to a lion, whereas in the second it is the man himself, 'possessing himself of all the lion's attributes'. Philip Wheelwright is nearer to the heart of the matter when he insists that metaphor has an inbuilt tension which is lacking in a simile. Simile is merely the joining of two expressions, each conveying one idea (e.g. 'he ran like a scared rabbit'). O n the other hand there is another kind of joining in which a single expression carries two or more meanings at once, (e.g. Marvell's 'fine and private place', referring to the grave; in which 'fine' suggests both approval and narrowness and finality). Metaphor is the merging of these two opposed kinds of linking and embodies a tension within itself for that reason. W e need a kind of'stereoscopic' vision to keep both aspects of the tension in mind. (See Wheelwright, The Burning Fountain, Chap. 6 and, Stanford, p. 105). But this sort of account of metaphor can be taken further. Sometimes it may be preferable to say that a metaphor 'creates' the similarity rather than to say that it formulates some similarity antecedently existing. (See Max Black, Models and Metaphors, p. 28). O n the other hand, to say this might lead us back to simile, in which the deliberate linking of things together is the essential point. Perhaps we need to formulate the idea in terms of 'technique as discovery', to adopt Mark Schorer's phrase. Thus, to take an example from Donne's comparison of a pair of lovers to a pair of compasses (in A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning) we may say that by the poetic technique of metaphor Donne has 'discovered the potential transference' between lovers and compasses, not devised it (see Hawkes, p. 21). S. L . Goldberg gives a couple of examples from Joyce's Ulysses which usefully sum up the difference between simile and metaphor. A t the end of The Cyclops, Bloom is compared to Elijah and this is a 'live' metaphor, whose effect, 'like that of all metaphor, is to cast its component elements into a new, unexpected but signifi­ cant relationship. Its critical, or ironical effect is as inevitable as its universalising effect, just because it cannot be simply reduced either to "Bloom is Elijah" or to "Bloom is not Elijah" '. O n the other hand the extended comparison of Bloom to Sinbad the Sailor at the end of Ithaca is not so effective, Goldberg says, because it 'no more arises naturally from the action than does, say, a parallel with Alice back from the Looking-Glass. T h e Sinbad conceit is funny in its way, and Joyce elaborates it as far as it will go: nevertheless it remains fanciful, extrinsic in origin and effect. A t best it illustrates, not illuminates' (The Classical Temper, pp. 147-8). The use of the word 'fanciful' here reminds us that simile is to Coleridge's 'fancy' as metaphor is to his 'imagination'. Finally, it is worth noting that the distinction between simile and metaphor may be extended when we see whole stories as either expanded similes (i.e. allegories) or as extended metaphors (i.e. myths). Thus, D . H . Lawrence maintained that the Apocalypse of St John had originally been a myth, but that Christian authors reduced it to a mere allegory. Allegory, for Lawrence, is an artificial and delimited form, for 'an allegorical image has a meaning' and allegory is 'narrative description using . . . images to express certain definite qualities'. But 'you can't give a symbol a "meaning" . . .

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symbols are organic units of consciousness with a life of their own, and you can never explain them away.' A n d since, according to Lawrence, symbols are the 'images' of myth, you can't explain a myth as you can explain an allegory. See D . H . Lawrence, Introduction to Frederick Carter's The Dragon of'the Apocalypse. p. 31. I n the first preface to Lyrical Ballads, Wordsworth describes the purpose of his poetic ventures in terms that echo Hartley: 'to make the incidents of common life interesting by tracing in them . . . the primary laws of our nature: chiefly as regards the manner in which we associate ideas in a state of excitement'. H o w far Wordsworth in 1800 was still intellectually under the influence of the Hartleian psychology seems uncertain: but what does seem clear is that even if he did not fully accept the implications of the Hartleian doctrine, he was not troubled by the us of Hartleian terminology. p. 44. Even so anti-metaphysical a thinker as Jacques Monod seems to admit that no egg suggests a chicken and that science has no way of forming the connec­ tion. Thus he admitted in a radio discussion with Peter Medawar on 20 August 1972 that the scientific way of describing a chicken is 'one egg's way of making another egg'. That is, science cannot describe the chicken at all! Similarly the whole biological world is simply 'DNA'S way of making more D N A ! ' O n the inadequacy of our understanding of the logic of causal propositions see Geach, God and the Soul, Chap. 6. p. 53. Norman Mailer gives a neat illustration of what Mill means, in his description of the lift-off of a Saturn rocket: 'For the moment the spaceship does not move. Four giant hold-down arms large as flying buttresses hold to a ring at the base of Saturn V while the thrust of the motors builds up in the nine seconds, reaches a power in thrust equal to the weight of the rocket. Does the rocket weigh six million, four hundred and eighty-four thousand, two hundred and eighty pounds? N o w the thrust goes up, the flames pour out, now the thrust is four million, five million, six million pounds, an extra million pounds of thrust each instant as those thousands of gallons of fuel rush every second to the motors, now it balances at six million, four hundred and eighty four thousand, two hundred and eighty pounds. T h e bulk of Apollo-Saturn is in balance on the pad. Come, you could levitate it with a finger . . .' (A Fire on the Moon, pp. 169—70). p. 54. This seems to be Monod's view of the origin of what he calls the 'animist projection' though of course he regards it as incompatible with the true objec­ tivity of science. See Chance and Necessity. p. 55. Monod seems to fall into the Cartesian confusion when he says: 'The cornerstone of the scientific method is the postulate that Nature is objective. In other words, the systematic denial that "true" knowledge can be reached by interpreting phenomena in terms of final causes—that is to say, of "purpose". A n exact date may be given for the discovery of this canon. T h e formulation by Galileo and Descartes of the principle of inertia laid the groundwork not only for mechanics but for the epistemology of modern science, by abolishing Aristotelean physics and cosmology'. Chance and Necessity, p. 30. p. 56. O f course, for Thales, this 'something' was a kind of 'stuff' since change only occurred by the redisposition of the four elements (the hot, the wet, the cold, the dry) out of which reality was constituted. This meant that only a portion of 'the hot' could make something else hot. Such views have often also been ascribed

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to later, Aristotelean thinkers. T h u s Anthony Kenny thinks it a fatal objection to Aquinas's first proof of God's existence, from motion, that the premiss 'a thing cannot be brought from potentiality to actuality except by something which is itself in actuality' (or, in Kenny's somewhat inaccurate paraphrase, 'only what is actually F will make something else become F ' ) is often falsified; for example by the conduction of heat, whereby something can be made hot by the friction of two sticks against each other that are not themselves hot. But, as Geach has pointed out (Philosophical Quarterly, 20 (July 1970), pp. 311-12), Aquinas cannot have meant such a thing, since although he knew e.g. that the sun made things hot, he thought it was an equivocation to say that the sun itself was hot (Summa Theologiae 1, Q . 13, Art. 5). T h e sun, being an incorruptible heavenly body, was not itself hot or fiery, for it was not made of earthy elements at all. Hence it could not bring about heat in a terrestrial body by the transfer of its own heat. Whatever 'actuality' meant when ascribed to the sun's capacity for making things hot, it did not mean that the sun was actually hot itself. It rather meant having the power or tendency to make things hot. This is not tautologous for Aquinas, since it implies that the sun does indeed have a certain natural tendency to behave in a determinate way. It would be tautologous to say 'only something which has the power to make something else hot can make something else hot' if 'having the power' were merely a long-winded way of saying 'can'. But for Aquinas, having the power to bring about F in B implies more than this: namely an actual tendency to do so which will bring it about unless thwarted by the exercise of some other intervening tendency on the part of some other agency. p. 62. O n this, see Blueprint for Survival, The Ecologist, 2 (January 1972), reprinted by Penguin Books, 1972: 'The greater the number of different plant and animal species that make up an eco-system, the more likely it is to be stable. T h i s is because . . . in such a system every ecological niche is filled. That is to say, every possible differentiated function for which there is a demand within the system is in fact fulfilled by a species that is specialised in fulfilling it. I n this way it is very difficult for an ecological invasion to occur, i.e. for a species foreign to the system entering and establishing itself, or worse still, proliferating and destroying the system's basic structure'. But, as the authors go on to point out, 'as industrial man destroys the last wildernesses, as herds of domesticated animals replace inter­ related animal species, the vast expanses of crop monoculture supplant complex plant eco-systems, so complexity and hence stability are correspondingly reduced'. Hence the very activities of man in trying to increase production, and thus to provide for the needs of developing peoples, are adding to the possibilities of ecological disaster. p. 63. The second law of thermodynamics states that in any closed system all differences of temperature must tend to even out spontaneously. That is to say, a dissipation of energy tends to proceed throughout the system, thus increasing the randomness, or lack of order, within the system. N o w the irony at the heart of this idea, which has caught the imagination of creative artists, is that whereas the presence of life within a system is always the presence of a certain order, or organisation of matter and energy, which is counter-entropic, i.e. is a centre of 'negentropy'; the communication of information always hastens the dissipation of that organisation, since the transmission of any message dissipates the information

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it contains. Hence human civilisation, which depends on communication between people, is itself bound to undermine the resistance of mere biological life to the increasing randomness in the system. (This may be seen as the basis for Lawrence's emphasis on the 'greater morality of life itself over the merely 'social' morality of civilised man). See Norbert Wiener, The Human Use of Human Beings, Chap. 2; Jacques Monod, Chance and Necessity, Appendix 4; Tanner, City of Words, Chap. 6; Levi-Strauss, A World on the Wane, conclusion. p. 64. Caird notes that Philo of Alexandria (b. around 25 B . C . , d. A . D . 40) mingles Greek (Platonic) and Jewish (scriptural) thought on the angels in a remarkable way.'Philo uses the word "powers" . . . to denote one of three things: sometimes they are attributes of God, sometimes they are created beings identical with the Platonic ideas, and sometimes, again, as in Stoicism, they are immanent causes in the material world, though Philo censures the Stoics for imagining that such powers could be corporeal and independent of any higher cause. I n their third capacity, the powers are occasionally to be identified with angels'. See also Newman, sermon on 'The Powers of Nature', in Parochial and Plain Sermons, ii. p. 64. T h e traditional notion of the fall of Satan, in Jewish apocalyptic, represented it as having occurred at the beginning of the world: the G o d of suffering and service could no longer be identified with the great accuser, who had therefore to be cast out. But in the New Testament this tradition is modified: the fall of Satan is there represented as happening at the moment of Christ's triumph (Rev. 12:10; Luke, 10: 17—20). But I do not think the traditions are really con­ tradictory: we are dealing with a description of a state of chaos (disorganisation, entropy) in the world, brought about by a 'fall', not with a temporal event. It is also worth noting that, according to Caird, the consorting of unclean animals with demons testifies 'to the existence of a strong popular feeling that not only in human life but in the world of nature there is a residue which cannot be brought into congruity with the holiness of God,—and which is under the control of the demonic powers (Caird, p. 59). Caird refers to Deuteronomy, 32:17; Psalm 106: 38; Leviticus, 16: 7ft; Isaiah, 34: 13-15. p. 67. O f course, according to Newman (and Christian tradition generally), the angels are not just the powers of Nature. That is to say, the term 'angel' is not just equivalent to the term 'natural tendency' tout court. But I am not concerned here with the theological question whether, or how, angels are said to be more than the powers of Nature. That they are this is enough for my argument. p. 76. See, for example, Monod, pp. 64—5: 'We should keep in mind the essential idea developed in this chapter: it is by virtue of their capacity to form, with other molecules, stereo-specific and non-covalent complexes that proteins exercise their "demoniacal" functions . . . by virtue of its extreme specificity an "ordinary" enzyme. . . constitutes a completely independent functional unit. T h e "cognitive" functions of the"demons" is restricted to the recognition of their specific substrate to the exclusion . . . of all other compounds'. It is the 'cognitive' here which is particularly problematic when put in quotes. p. 77. O f course, process theory goes back much further than this: in a recognisably modern form at least as far back as Hegel. A full discussion of this topic is not possible here. O n Hegel's place in the process-theology tradition, see Patrick Masterson, Atheism and Alienation, Chap. 3 ('Hegel and the Immanent

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Absolute')- F o r a critique of Whitehead and his disciples see E . L . Mascall, The Openness of Being, Chap. 10. p. 8 5 . Kaufman, pp. 105—6, would seem, in passing, to concede this, for in arguing for the view that believing in God simply means 'to order all of life and experience in personalistic, purposive moral terms and to construe the world and man accordingly', he notes in a mere parenthesis that 'a doctrine of G o d (or of the gods in a polytheistic system) means that meaningful or purposive forms of order are not confined to human history and society'—as though it makes no intrinsic difference whether the 'referent' is singular or plural. p. 90. A s V o n Rad points out, the oldest version of the story pictures the construction of the tower as a threat to the gods. T h e 'come let us' of Yahweh 'presupposes the idea at one time of a pantheon, a council of the gods', which in Israel became the heavenly King's council. But the Yahwist has removed the explicit motive of anger, or jealousy on Yahweh's part, so that Yahweh's response is seen as both punishment and prevention. He is angry, but also in the long-run caring in that he will not have to punish men later by more severe measures as they degenerate further. O n the sources, V o n Rad shows how the Yahwist 'marks that decisive line of demarkation in the history of culture which we can observe for so many peoples: he was the collector of the countless old traditions which until then had circulated freely among the people. With him began the writing down of those poetic or cultic narratives which previously had circulated orally and with­ out context among the people. . . What a profound change occurred when materi­ als from the most dissimilar cult-centres became unified and even substantially altered by a superimposed plan, when, in a word, they became available as litera­ ture . . . in this process those traditions were gradually liberated from their imprisonment in the hereditary sphere of the sacred cult. . . becoming literature meant in a sense an end for this material, which until then had a long history behind it.' G . V o n Rad, pp. 145 and 16-18. p. 92. A n illustration of the illicit use of metaphorical language for divinity is given in Wisdom, 13. Those who think of G o d in terms of the natural elements are wrong, but relatively blameless, for at least they are looking in the right direction, namely among the things G o d has himself made. But those who think of God in terms of human artifacts are 'wretched' for they suppose mere images to have divine power. This distinction is only intelligible as part of a tradition which sanctions one sort of metaphor but outlaws another. p. 95. T h e ultimate source of Aquinas's inadequacy on metaphor is no doubt Aristotle, and the classical tradition of Rhetoric, although the principal influence on medieval rhetorical theory did little to change the basic classical view of metaphor as merely compressed simile, an ornament of discourse rather than a cognitive use of language. ( O n this see Hawkes, pp. i 6 f f and Stanford, pp. 2 8 30.) Certainly Aquinas under-estimates the value of metaphor in theology, and gives poetry the lowest place of all the kinds of 'doctrine' or modes of instruction (Summa Theologiae I , Q. 1, Art. 9). Metaphor is systematically treated only in the first question of the Summa Theologiae: thereafter it is mentioned only in passing. Aquinas even goes so far as to suggest that the things in Scripture which are treated metaphorically in one place are always dealt with more plainly elsewhere (Summa Theologiae I , Q. 1, Art. 9 ad 2), thus giving evidence of his view that

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metaphor is no more than a device which can be translated without cognitive loss into other, non-figurative terms. Indeed, the whole issue of metaphor is raised in the context of the loaded question whether poetry is a sufficiently elevated form of discourse to be appropriate in speaking of God: and although Aquinas's answer is in the affirmative, he seems to be somewhat grudging even here. O n the other hand, when he is not dealing with metaphor specifically, he elaborates a theory of the meaningfulness of things which is eminently capable of generating a rich and cognitive view of metaphor. p. 97. Aquinas's remarks on the Tetragrammaton are worth noting in this connection. He admits that the Tetragrammaton (i.e. the name Yahweh written in Hebrew, which has four consonants) is perhaps used as the name of an individual, as distinct from the word G o d (Deus) which is not the name of an individual {pace Kaufman—see above, pp. 84rF) but a term for the divine nature. But unfortunately he does not pursue the significance for theology of the fact that the name Yahweh is used in this way. (Summa Theologiae, 1, Q . 13, Art. 9 ) . p. 105. Dante, in his Letter to Con Grande della Scala, prefacing the Paradiso, elaborates the four levels of meaning that are to be read into the whole Commedia. See P . Toynbee (ed.), the Letters of Dante, pp. 1 6 2 - 2 1 1 , and also the Introduction to V o l . 3 of The Divine Comedy by Dorothy L . Sayers and Barbara Reynolds, p. 39 and pp. 4 4 - 4 5 . 1 am not suggesting that the literal level of fact is irrelevant to a Christian understanding of Scripture. p. 106. O f course, it is still a question whether it is the authorial mode which constitutes the novelty of Jesus or whether it is Jesus who constitutes the novelty of the authorial mode, as has been pointed out to me by F r . Cornelius Ernst O P . In other words, if Christianity rules out tragedy, as many people have thought, may we also say that it created the novel? As F r . Ernst puts it to me in a letter: 'Wouldn't the efforts to say just what Jesus means for man and G o d inevitably make "eye-witnesses" important? Is this not the implication of Acts 1: 2 1 - 2 ? '

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Introductory

I n this second part I t r y to show the relevance o f what has already been said i n a theoretical way, to the w o r k o f certain writers o f modern fiction. M y choice o f authors has been governed b y a number o f factors: their intrinsic importance, their influence u p o n fiction generally, the variety o f approaches w h i c h they represent. B u t i n each case I have also chosen to concentrate attention upon some particular aspect o f their w o r k w h i c h exemplifies m y general theme i n a distinctive w a y . T h u s I have chosen to contrast Lawrence's and Joyce's responses to what may be called the domestication o f the metaphysical dimension; that is o f the vertical dimension i n fiction w h i c h relates man to some superior reality. I n Lawrence's case this dimension had already been domestica­ ted, n o t o n l y b y the forms o f secularised and 'privatised' Protestantism b y w h i c h he felt himself to be surrounded, but also i n the fiction w i t h w h i c h he was most familiar. Hence his w o r k may be understood as a persistent and life-long attempt to reclaim b y means o f a systematic use o f metaphorical language a lost metaphysical dimension, to make contact once more thereby w i t h 'unseen presences' and even to re­ create i n imagination—and indeed i n historical fact—the social forms necessary f o r such a reclamation. Joyce's experience was somewhat different. H i s problem was that o f l i v i n g i n a milieu i n w h i c h the ' u n ­ seen presences' had become all too familiar, the vertical dimension domesticated i n quite another sense; not abolished or forgotten, b u t made part o f a routine that had ceased to be creative or relevant. Joyce therefore tried to transpose the given forms o f religious awareness into a new key: the key o f art. T h e sacramental system w h i c h was the embodiment i n Catholicism o f the metaphysical dimension had ceased to nourish: so Joyce said, let us then replace i t , using such parts o f its framework as seem appropriate or useful, b y a new k i n d o f sacramentalism: that o f an artistic vocation w h i c h w o u l d satisfy the deepest aspirations o f the individual and o f an art w h i c h w o u l d itself be a

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celebration o f the spiritual meanings to be found i n material things, the 'solid bodies' o f this w o r l d . B u t b o t h Lawrence and Joyce are hampered i n their efforts b y their o w n inescapable immersion i n the v e r y culture they t r y to transcend. Lawrence cannot finally r i d his religious visions o f the posivistic presuppositions inherited f r o m his social past and f r o m the voices o f his 'accursed human education' : Joyce's w o r k suffers from an equivalent dissociation between celebrat­ i n g the w o r l d o f 'solid bodies' for its o w n sake and celebrating i t f o r its capacity to embody immaterial and timeless values. 1

I n the case o f W a u g h and Beckett, I have chosen to concentrate o n a different area, o r perhaps i t m i g h t be better to say, a different ex­ pression o f the same theme. A s I have said, one o f the most i m p o r t a n t ways i n w h i c h the 'vertical' dimension expresses itself i n fiction is b y means o f the structural relation that holds between the teller and his tale. T h e changing nature o f this relation is a clue to the changing nature o f a society's w a y o f v i e w i n g itself i n relation to whatever 'gods' o r unseen presences i t acknowledges. I n the cases o f W a u g h and Beckett we have t w o particularly clear and eloquent instances o f a relationship between teller and tale that is o n the p o i n t o f total dis­ integration. T h e perilous and uncertain relationship that we see between W a u g h , as narrator, and the w o r l d he contemplates is one o f the most s t r i k i n g testimonies we have to a c o m m o n feeling o f social and spiritual chaos w i t h i n a w o r l d o f extreme modernity. Here the narrator is an omniscient G o d w h o has deliberately and irresponsibly abandoned his creation to its o w n fatal devices. T h e disintegration o f the narrator, and the subsequent collapse o f fiction into monologue, w h i c h is a persistent trend i n the w o r k o f Beckett, is an equally expressive testimony to a somewhat similar, b u t even more desperate sense o f loss. Finally, I have used the contrasting w o r k o f R o b b e - G r i l l e t and N o r m a n Mailer to illustrate t w o radically different, b u t equally intelligible and relevant, sorts o f solution to the problems posed b y the fiction o f the recent past. T h a t o f Robbe-Grillet consists, essentially, i n rejecting the i m p l i c i t diagnosis u n d e r l y i n g that fiction. T h e problem is n o t h o w to resurrect a lost dimension, but h o w to b u r y i t . T h e j o b o f the novelist is not to reclaim a forgotten t r u t h , b u t to do w i t h o u t an illusion; n o t to bolster up a false ideology but to abolish i t . One w a y o f accomplishing this w o r k o f d e m o l i t i o n is to abandon the 1

D . H . Lawrence, 'Snake' originally published in Birds, Beasts and Flowers.

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metaphorical means b y w h i c h i t is perpetuated. Mailer's solution seems to be just the opposite: even i f the ideology is false and the metaphysic obsolete, the kinds o f attitude expressed b y i t and the metaphorical language needed to express i t are still necessary to o u r o w n psycho­ logical health. Perhaps, therefore, i f we persist—and indeed rejoice—• i n adopting those attitudes and e m p l o y i n g all the resources o f that language, we shall, b y a k i n d o f l u c k y accident, h i t u p o n w h a t we need to p u t i n the place o f the w o r n - o u t mental and spiritual furniture that, for the moment, we are stuck w i t h .

5 Lawrence and the Unseen Presences

A great deal o f narrative art i n the modern period is concerned w i t h redefining the relation between the horizontal and the vertical d i m e n ­ sions o f narrative. T h e greatest masters o f realistic fiction i n the nineteenth century had, f o r a precious moment, transcended the older division o f literature i n t o tragedy ( i n w h i c h the p r i m a r y emphasis was u p o n the 'vertical' relationship o f men to the gods) and comedy ( i n w h i c h the p r i m a r y emphasis was u p o n the 'horizontal' relation o f men to each other). B u t modern experience has shattered the founda­ tions o f that temporary synthesis. T h e technological urbanised 'corporation-land' o f today is intrinsically hostile to the all-inclusive novel w h i c h bridges the gap between t o w n and c o u n t r y , between culture and nature, n o v e l t y and t r a d i t i o n . O n the other hand i t is also hostile to the conceptions u p o n w h i c h tragedy and comedy i n their classical meanings depended. I suppose i t is n o t surprising, therefore, to find that many o f the greatest writers o f the modern period have looked for a w a y back beyond b o t h tragedy and comedy. T h u s w h e n Lawrence diagnosed the m o d e r n age as tragic precisely because i t refused to take itself tragically, he was able to do so o n l y because he had tried consistently, f r o m the time o f his exile f r o m Europe, to go back to a social w o r l d where men could live i n an integrated relationship to the material environment and the 'unseen presences' that were to be found there. F r o m that position the tragedy o f the modern w o r l d seemed plain to see—as d i d its refusal to take itself tragically. T h e fundamental reason for this refusal lay i n the progressive reduction o f metaphysical conceptions o f man's relationship to the material w o r l d to merely illustrative ones. Similarly, Joyce's backward glance t h r o u g h o u t 1

Lady Chatterley's Lover, opening sentence. Except where otherwise noted, page numbers in Lawrence's works refer to the Penguin editions. See Biblio­ graphy for further details. 1

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Ulysses to the H o m e r i c antecedents, t h o u g h n o t especially helpful i n understanding the n o v e l , is h i g h l y significant i n registering a search for an 'epic' u n i t y w h i c h w o u l d include every m o d u l a t i o n o f exper­ ience i n a 'sane and j o y f u l spirit'* w h i c h , as w i t h H o m e r , refused to be compartmentalised. F o r Lawrence, the fundamental reason w h y the modern w o r l d failed to take the measure o f its o w n tragic predicament was that i t had replaced the metaphysical conception o f man's place i n Nature, characteristic o f the religious societies o f the past, b y merely illustra­ tive images o f Nature. Nature was no longer an order o f real causes and effects: i t had become, f o r the scientist, n o t h i n g b u t a series o f inexplicable associations o f phenomena and, for the poet, n o t h i n g b u t a series o f free-wheeling metaphors. I n order to restore the v a l i d i t y o f these metaphors i t was necessary, therefore, to take seriously once more ( t o use Mailer's phrase) the necessary 'measures'. 2

I n Lawrence's o w n w o r k , the question o f man's place i n Nature and o f the 'unseen presences' to be found there, became explicit i n his Study of Thomas Hardy. One o f the things that r i g h t l y o r w r o n g l y troubles Lawrence about H a r d y ' s tragedies is that they contain ' n o t h i n g more metaphysical than the division o f man against h i m ­ self'. T h i s lack o f metaphysical perspective enables H a r d y to separate the foreground theme o f man divided against himself f r o m the merely background theme o f the 'deep black source' o f tragedy—namely some offence against 'the greater m o r a l i t y o f life i t s e l f . Whereas i n the great tragedies o f the past, for example o f Sophocles or Shakespeare, the tragedy arises because the hero transgresses against, and is actively punished b y , this greater m o r a l i t y o f life itself, i n modern tragedies i t is o n l y the social code w h i c h is transgressed and the offence against 'life i t s e l f is kept to the background, i n the 'scenery' ( p . 177). A l t h o u g h the typical H a r d y hero is a p r o f o u n d l y social being, the c o m m u n i t y is a prison to h i m . T h e imperative he feels towards self-fulfilment forces h i m to break o u t o f the social bonds that nurtured h i m . B u t always such a course leads to self-destruction and tragedy. Meanwhile, because life itself, or Nature, is n o t directly i n v o l v e d i n the tragedy, b u t at the 3

O n Joyce's theory about the relation of 'lyrical', 'epical' and 'dramatic' forms of art (perhaps one should say, Stephen Daedalus's theory) see A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (henceforth, A Portrait), Chap. 5. Study of Thomas Hardy, in A . Beal (ed.), D. H. Lawrence: Selected Literary 2

3

Criticism, p. 168.

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same time supplies the 'deep black source' from w h i c h the tragic lives are d r a w n , i t is possible for H a r d y to regard his characters as merely accidental victims o f an o n g o i n g reality far greater than themselves. ' W h a t matters i f some are dead o r d r o w n e d , and others preaching or married? . . . T h e Heath persists. Its b o d y is strong and fecund, i t w i l l bear m a n y more crops beside this.' (p. 172) T h e attitude to tragic waste here attributed to H a r d y is developed further i n Birkin's moment o f cosmic o p t i m i s m as he is confronted b y Gerald's death i n Women in Love. I n the presence o f that death, B i r k i n reflects o n h o w the eternal creative mystery could dispose o f man, and replace h i m w i t h a finer created being. Just as the horse has taken the place o f the mastodon. I t was v e r y consoling to B i r k i n to t h i n k this. I f humanity ran i n t o a c u l de sac, and expended itself, the timeless creative mystery w o u l d b r i n g f o r t h some other, finer, more wonderful, some new, more lovely race, to carry on the embodiment o f creation. (P- 538) But we must note that this o p t i m i s m about the 'creative mystery' and its limitless possibilities, does n o t console B i r k i n for v e r y l o n g . H e is soon overborne b y an opposite feeling, o f the tragic finality and irreparability o f Gerald's death. B u t n o w he was dead, like clay, like bluish, corruptible ice. B i r k i n looked at the pale fingers, the inert mass. H e remembered a dead stallion he had seen: a dead mass o f maleness, repugnant. H e remembered also the beautiful face o f one w h o m he had loved, and w h o had died still h a v i n g the faith to yield to the mystery. T h a t dead face was beautiful, no one could call i t cold, mute, material. N o one could remember i t w i t h o u t gaining faith i n the mystery, w i t h o u t the soul's w a r m i n g w i t h new deep life trust. A n d Gerald! T h e denier! H e left the heart cold, frozen, hardly able to beat. Gerald's father had l o o k e d wistful, to break the heart: b u t not this last terrible l o o k o f cold, mute Matter. A few moments later Ursula comes to console B i r k i n . ' B u t need y o u despair over Gerald?' she said. 'Yes' he answered, (pp. 5 4 0 - 1 ) N o w at the end o f Women in Love, even i f nature does not supply a

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fatal avalanche to order, as i n Ibsen, the logic o f Lawrence's tragedy is nevertheless clear. I f , like Gerald, y o u offend against y o u r o w n 'real, potent life', the deep black source o f y o u r o w n being, than that source w i l l i n the end b r i n g y o u to destruction, i f n o t b y active punishment then b y the immanent logic o f the offence itself. T h e snow and ice o f the A l p s is m u c h more than mere 'background': nature is n o t reducible to scenery there. W h a t begins i n the n o v e l as a mere figure o f speech— Gerald's tendency

to 'snow-abstract

annihilation' ( p p .

286-7)*—

turns at the end i n t o literal, physical reality. T h e imagery o f snow and ice is unmistakably metaphysical i n its implications for the tragedy. As Gerald approaches the summit o f the snow ridge he comes across a half buried alpine crucifix: He sheered away. Somebody was g o i n g to murder h i m . H e had a great dread o f being murdered. B u t i t was a dread that stood o u t ­ side h i m like his o w n ghost. Yet, w h y be afraid? I t was b o u n d to happen. T o be murdered! He looked r o u n d i n terror at the snow, the r o c k i n g , pale, shadowy slopes o f the upper w o r l d . H e was b o u n d to be murdered, he c o u l d see i t . T h i s was the m o m e n t w h e n the death was uplifted, and there was no escape. L o r d Jesus, was i t then b o u n d to b e — L o r d Jesus! H e could feel the b l o w descending, he k n e w he was murdered . . . ( p . 533) Immediately afterwards, Gerald falls f o r w a r d i n death, unmistakably murdered b y the 'greater m o r a l i t y ' o f w h i c h the pattern is the crucifix and o f w h i c h the executioner is the snow and ice. H e is murdered as a punishment for that w h o l e movement towards 'snow-abstract

an­

n i h i l a t i o n ' w h i c h has been his life, and w h i c h has come to its consum­ mation i n the attempt to k i l l G u d r u n , the one w h o m he loved. Nature then, i n Women in Love is v e r y far f r o m being just 'a w o o d you

retreat t o , as a solace f r o m human experience'.

5

Lawrence is

t r y i n g to restore a concept o f Nature as 'the vast incomprehensible pattern o f some p r i m a l m o r a l i t y greater than ever the human m i n d Birkin is here recalling the African statuette seen earlier in the novel: 'The white races, having the Arctic north behind them, the vast abstraction of ice and snow, would fulfil a mystery of ice-destructive knowledge, snow-abstract annihila­ tion . . . Birkin thought of Gerald. He was one of those strange white wonderful demons from the north, fulfilled in the destructive frost-mystery.' Raymond Williams, Modern Tragedy, p. 136. 4

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can grasp', and o u t o f the defiance o f w h i c h the greatest tragic deaths inevitably come. O f course he does n o t succeed. I t was n o t a task that could be expected o f one man, w r i t i n g for the most part against the grain o f his o w n age and generation. T h e l o n g slow process o f n a r r o w ­ 6

i n g and secularising Nature, and o f eliminating the metaphorical language needed to describe i t , had m u c h further to go yet: t h r o u g h Kafka and H e m i n g w a y , t h r o u g h Camus and Sartre, to Beckett and Robbe-Grillet and John Cage and computer poetry and the ruptured monosyllables o f the astronauts—to where? W e do n o t k n o w . H o w e v e r , even i f w e do n o t k n o w h o w far the process has to go w e can at least consider h o w far Lawrence himself t o o k the theme i n his later w o r k s . O f these, perhaps the most explicit is St Mawr. I n this nouvelle Lawrence makes his most conscious and systematic attempt yet to reclaim the metaphysical dimension o f tragedy, and the meta­ phors he needs to express i t . B u t the w o r k also shows clearly the diffi­ culties i n his w a y and the reasons for his ultimate failure: w h y , i n the end, he had no other advice to give b u t 'retreat to the desert, and fight' (P- 79)-* I n the first half o f the story, the theme o f a l i v i n g and meaningful Nature is embodied i n the image o f St M a w r himself, a l i v i n g stallion to balance B i r k i n ' s dead one. St M a w r , t h o u g h certainly a 'mass o f l i v i n g maleness', is far f r o m repugnant to L o u W i t t , even t h o u g h i t is true that at the b e g i n n i n g o f the story the horse seems to be—to use Graham H o u g h ' s t e r m s — o n l y a somewhat 'obvious and unmodulated s y m b o l o f p r i m i t i v e energy'. T h i s is certainly h o w St M a w r strikes L o u : 'She was startled to find the v i v i d heat o f his life come t h r o u g h to her, t h r o u g h the lacquer o f red-gold gloss. So slippery w i t h v i v i d , h o t life.' ( p . 21) B u t soon St M a w r begins to w o r k his p o w e r over her, compelling her to see herself as threatened: 7

A l m o s t like a god l o o k i n g at her terribly o u t o f the everlasting dark, she had felt the eyes o f that horse; great, g l o w i n g , fearsome eyes, arched w i t h a question, and containing a w h i t e blade o f heat like a threat. W h a t was his non-human question, and his uncanny threat? She d i d n ' t k n o w . H e was some splendid demon, and she must w o r s h i p h i m . ( p . 22) 6

Study, p. 176.

Hough, The Dark Sun, p. 213. T h e horse symbol had been in evidence in The Rainbow, in Women in Love, and in such stories as The Horse Dealer s Daughter. But in St Mawr the horse itself takes the centre of the stage. 7

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Finally, the answer to L o u ' s question comes out: St M a w r is a s y m b o l o f the 'greater m o r a l i t y o f life i t s e l f , that 'deep black source' f r o m w h i c h tragedy springs. I n this story, the 'heath' o f H a r d y and King Lear is n o w transposed i n t o a Mexican desert. St M a w r , the life-breathing horse is b u t the means b y w h i c h L o u first understands the need to retreat to this desert to fight: he seems to her like some l i v i n g background, i n t o w h i c h she wanted t o retreat. W h e n he reared his head and neighed f r o m his deep chest, like deep wind-bells resounding, she seemed to hear the echoes o f another darker, more spacious, more dangerous, more splendid w o r l d than ours, that was beyond her. A n d there she wanted to go. ( p . 34) T h e Mexican landscape i n w h i c h L o u finds herself at the end is her 'heath', then, 'the real stuff o f tragedy . . . the p r i m i t i v e , p r i m a l earth where the instinctive life heaves u p ' . Naturally, there is n o w no more need for the horse. H i s symbolic role has been played out: he has b r o u g h t her to this place, this ' l i v i n g background' o f w h i c h he was b u t the foreshadowing. H e is therefore p u t out to grass and forgotten. F o r what was at first merely symbolic has now—as i n Women in Love— become reality. Y e t the place, like the horse, is ambiguous i n its mean­ i n g for L o u . Just as the horse was part domestic animal and part dragon* so the landscape is part h o l y retreat and part terrifying waste land. I n its presence L o u feels 'like one o f the V i r g i n s o f the h o l y fire in the o l d temples', for, like the priestess i n The Man Who Died, she is weary o f incompetent men, and turns ' t o the unseen gods, the unseen spirits, the hidden f i r e . . . receiving thence her pacification and her f u l f i l m e n t ' ( p . 146). She finds the hidden fire 'alive and b u r n i n g i n the sky, over the desert i n the mountains' and she feels a k i n d o f holiness in its presence: ' F o r me this place is sacred' (p. 147). But as she con­ fronts this sacred w o r l d , she finds herself struggling against an active, eternal and invincible enemy, even at times a k i n d o f plague: 8

9

A t one time no water. A t another a poison-weed. T h e n a sickness. A l w a y s , some mysterious malevolence fighting, fighting against the w i l l o f man. A strange invisible influence c o m i n g o u t o f the l i v i d 8

Study, p. 172.

There are other premonitions of The Man Who Died in St Mawr. F o r example, in Lou's letter to her mother in which she writes 'I feel all bruises, like one who has been assassinated. I do so understand why Jesus said: Noli me 9

tangere' (St Mawr, p. 124).

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rock-fastness i n the bowels o f those uncreated R o c k y Mountains, p r e y i n g u p o n the w i l l o f man, and s l o w l y wearing d o w n his resist­ ance, his onward-pushing spirit, ( p . 151) T h e beauty o f the place is awe-inspiring, b u t i t is an inhuman land­ scape. Y e t man has to live i n i t . Whenever he tries to make the 'near­ ness' ( i n w h i c h he has to live) as perfect as the distance i n w h i c h the beauty o f the landscape manifests itself, the 'grey rat-like spirit o f the inner mountains' attacks, or 'rivers o f fluid fire' suddenly fall f r o m the sky. A t such times the conclusion seems plain: there is no merciful G o d i n the heavens ( p . 156). B u t L o u is n o t allowed to draw that conclusion: and i t is at this p o i n t that we see Lawrence refusing to take his story to the tragic limits. There is always, for Lawrence, a w a y o u t o f tragedy i n t o the w o r l d o f what Frank Kermode has called the 'archetypes'. T h a t is to say, the inexorable drive o f time and h i s t o r y towards the tragedy o f the irreparable moment, the moment o f B i r k i n ' s necessary despair, is replaced b y the ' m y t h o f the eternal r e t u r n ' , a seeing o f things i n a pattern w i t h i n w h i c h the i n d i v i d u a l tragedy is o n l y incidental, just 'one year's accidental c r o p ' to be f o l l o w e d always b y the next year's flowering. T h i s was B i r k i n ' s immediate answer to the tragedy o f Gerald: and i t is Lawrence's answer to the tragedy o f L o u . Instead o f m a k i n g L o u discover i n her retreat b o t h life and death, the pacifying unseen spirits and the absence o f any merciful G o d , he gives that conclusion to her predecessor i n the ranch; the N e w England w o m e n w h o had fought the enemy to the utmost and had then been d r i v e n to accept defeat. T h e significance o f the story o f the N e w England woman's efforts to b r i n g life o u t o f the desert is that i t shows the struggle to be unending, forcing her to retreat f r o m the terrible tragic despair she finds w i t h i n herself. W h e n ­ ever there is a storm she sees the 'fretful elements' as signs o f the malignancy o f the universe. B u t after any s t o r m the voice w i t h i n her w o u l d say ' W h a t nonsense about Jesus and a G o d o f L o v e , i n a place like this! T h i s is more awful and more splendid. I like i t better' ( p . 156). So w h a t was at first an authentic expression o f the nihilism w h i c h is always embedded i n tragedy—the nihilism that prompts men to defy the universe or be destroyed b y i t — i s immediately taken back, 10

T h e phrase is Mircea Eliade's, from his book of that title. Kermode refers to this work in connection with Lawrence in Shakespeare, Spenser and Donne, pp. 20-3. 1 0

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and replaced b y a k i n d o f religious aestheticism, a t h r i l l o f enjoyment i n the presence o f the H o l y . T h e reaction is understandable, as a response to ' w h a t the chapel folks believe i n ' ( p . 112), i.e. to Jesus and a G o d o f L o v e humanised and made 'humble and domesticated like dogs' ( p . 57). B u t i t is a sign o f defeat all the same, a refusal to take the full implications o f the tragic facts. A n d the logic o f the story surely must be that L o u w i l l go the same w a y as her predecessor, t h o u g h Lawrence conveniently ends the tale before h a v i n g to make up his m i n d about this. There is a g o o d deal i n St Mawr w h i c h comes o u t o f the 'shabbiest aspect o f Lawrence's m i n d ' : the side w h i c h tended to refuse tragedy b y escaping i n t o the cyclic mysteries and the u n d e r w o r l d o f occultism and exotic scholarship. B u t there is also a great deal w h i c h represents 'his true vein [ i n w h i c h ] he celebrates life and quickness'. The description o f the Mexican landscape may at times recall The Waste Land (itself n o t far f r o m a similar k i n d o f shabbiness), b u t i t is also full o f precisely etched observations that give i t concreteness and a location i n place and time. T h e question whether, i n St Mawr, the shabby side or the true vein prevails seems to me to be v e r y open: Lawrence does n o t choose to reveal the answer. H i s answer, i f he had chosen to give one, w o u l d surely lie i n the fate o f L o u : w o u l d she give up, as the N e w E n g l a n d w o m a n d i d , and go back to the life o f the confortable, hospitable valley (where, no doubt, Lawrence's 'pillars o f society' w o u l d still be l i v i n g , just as Ibsen's were at the end o f When We Dead Wake)} O r w o u l d she carry o n to the bitter end, c a r r y i n g the logic o f the landscape's metaphysical meanings, its housing o f unseen presences, to the o n l y possible conclusion? Perhaps w e can gain some idea o f the answer b y l o o k i n g at t w o other short stories o f Lawrence's later career: The Woman Who Rode Away and The Man Who Died. 11

12

I n tragedy o f the Shakespearean or the Sophoclean k i n d there is always a solution, at least to this extent: people are destroyed, b u t life still goes o n . O f course this sense o f an o n g o i n g life stretching b e y o n d the immediate confines o f the b o o k is one o f Lawrence's greatest strengths: i t makes h i m , i n Barbara H a r d y ' s sense o f the term, one o f fiction's great realists. I t is a sense o f life itself, as a c o n t i n u i n g force Kermode, Shakespeare, Spenser and Donne, p. 25. T h e similarity between St Mawr and The Waste Land, in terms of theme, was remarked by F . R . Leavis, in his D. H. Lawrence: Novelist, Chap. 6. 1 1

1 2

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greater than a n y t h i n g that a single b o o k can contain, w h i c h is trans­ ferred i n Lawrence's art f r o m the real w o r l d to the w o r l d o f the novel: and i t is transferred w i t h o u t being totally 'transubstantiated'. T h e substance o f ordinary experience remains, even after the artistic transference, as an unmistakable and tangible residue i n the fiction. One element i n this sense o f life must, o f course, be a recognition o f the tragedy o f unnecessary death: o f Birkin's 'necessary' despair. B u t as I have said, tragedy—as Lawrence himself insists—takes various forms. Y e t one o f its characteristic features is the fact that even w h e n individuals are destroyed, life still goes o n . Sometimes there may be hints o f a redemptive renewal c o m i n g mysteriously from these deaths; sometimes i t may simply be that the power o f life to reassert itself, o f wounds to heal and be forgotten, is recalled at the end; b u t i n either case w e are shown the effects o f the destructive elements u p o n those w h o survive and thus are somehow, as survivors, b r o u g h t into the action and made to learn f r o m i t . B u t w i t h o u t the destruction there can be no such 'solution'—unless i t be, as i n The Tempest or The Winter's Tale, that the deaths themselves are n o t absolute. N o w St Mawr perhaps suffers f r o m the absence o f just such a resolution, because i t lacks the deaths. B u t i n The Woman Who Rode Away Lawrence seems to be feeling towards such a resolution t h r o u g h the death o f another k i n d o f L o u . Here we have the story o f another essentially v i r g i n a l figure, at thirty-three 'still the g i r l f r o m Berkeley' whose marriage has made no difference to her conscious development (p. 46). T h e w o r l d around her, transformed b y her husband's m i n i n g enterprises into a totally humanised landscape, is altogether dead to her and she to i t . She has to get out o f i t or die. So she rides away to the mountains i n search o f the Chilchui Indians, w h o live i n another Las Chivas, a retreat i n the mountains where i t is possible to be free, amid the u n ­ seen presences and the hidden fires. B u t whereas the Mexican landscape i n St Mawr remains empty and ambiguous, its presences unseen and its fires unpredictable, the valley o f the C h i l c h u i is peopled b y a society that has come to terms w i t h those presences and actually lives b y the l i g h t o f the fires. T h e i r society is the model o f a human life lived i n relation to the ' l i v i n g background', the 'greater morality o f life i t s e l f : they are the opposites o f the society o f L o u and Rico, 'pillars o f society' i n Europe or America. T h e logic o f confronting such a w o r l d and such a society is here pursued to its bitter conclusion: the Western w o m a n w h o is b r o u g h t into contact w i t h i t is inevitably destroyed b y its

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terrible, unlivable power. T h e gay pleasantry o f the N e w England woman's ' I like i t here' (echoed near the end o f St Mawr, surely, b y L o u herself: ' D o n ' t y o u t h i n k it's lovely?' (p. 161) is revealed, i n this later story, to be the superficiality that i t really is. I t is n o t the place for aesthetic poses: life is lived here i n earnest, to the bitter end. Yet even i n this story, Lawrence refuses to explore the situation i n fully tragic terms. B y simply cutting the action short at the very moment when the knife is to fall and the woman's heart is t o r n f r o m her b o d y i n ritual sacrifice, all 'solution' is prevented. T h i s is not because o f any shrinking from the thought that 'there is no merciful G o d i n the heavens': on the contrary the story takes that despair at its starting point. T h e w o m a n was a nihilist f r o m the beginning, i n the lifeless isolation o f the house w h i c h cowered under the shadow o f the refuse-plant. A n d l o n g before she arrives at the C h i l c h u i settlement she has heard something i n the n i g h t w h i c h she interprets as a 'great crash at the centre o f herself, w h i c h was either the crash o f her o w n death, or else i t was 'the crash at the centre o f the earth' (p. 52). N o , what prevents this r e - w o r k i n g o f L o u W i t t ' s predicament f r o m fully taking up the implications left unaccepted i n St Mawr is the fact that the final destruction w h i c h 'the very forces o f life i t s e l f wreak upon the w o m a n is not lived t h r o u g h . There is no sign o f life continuing, s u r v i v i n g and healing itself; we are shown n o t h i n g o f h o w the death works t h r o u g h the b o d y o f the l i v i n g . T h i s is not sacrifice, it is sheer extinction. Y e t the story is clearly supposed to be about sacrificial action: a return on the part o f the white civilisation to the sacred sources w h i c h L o u sought for, and could not find, i n the horse, and d i d find but could not quite come to grips w i t h , i n the ranch. I n The Woman Who Rode Away a more single-minded and disillusioned L o u understands, quite clearly, that the end o f her retreat to the desert is to be her o w n sacrificial death; the end o f her exile from life is to be the knife i n her breast. T h e dance o f the villagers makes this plain to her, even before the y o u n g Indian guard tells her the m y t h w h i c h explains i t all; a sexual m y t h w h i c h implies the renewal o f life t h r o u g h a sacrificial death: 'when the man gets the w o m a n , the sun goes into the cave o f the m o o n , and that is h o w every t h i n g i n the w o r l d starts' (p. 72). B u t i t is also a cosmic creation m y t h . W h i t e civilisation, having stolen the secret o f creativity from the Indians, has debased and distorted i t . T h e cosmic order and the human order alike can be restored o n l y b y the sacrifice o f white civilisation itself on the altar o f the Indian. O n l y b y

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such means can the I n d i a n , w h o represents the future as m u c h as the past, 'accomplish the sacrifice and achieve the power' ( p . 83). T h e m y t h is thus explicitly causal, a t t r i b u t i n g creativity to the heavenly bodies i n language that goes back to the pre-enlightenment mode. Y e t the total effect o f the story, w i t h its b r u t a l l y truncated ending, is to deny the meaning o f this k i n d o f language, to shed d o u b t u p o n its implications for the renewal o f life. I n the end Lawrence hesitates to t u r n mythical hypothesis i n t o metaphysical assertion, to m o v e f r o m the subjunctive to the indicative m o o d . * I t is clear enough w h y : he cannot p u t himself beyond the consciousness o f the w o m a n herself. H e cannot, as narrator, p u t himself above the w h i t e civilisation he himself belongs t o . T h e w o m a n must remain, for h i m , the 'central intelligence' f r o m whose v i e w p o i n t everything is t o l d . Once that intelligence is extinguished, everything goes black: there is no more to be said. T h e infinite possibilities o f human renewal that the m y t h suggests are cut short: the story freezes into an eternal gesture. I f w e want to find w h a t Lawrence makes o f a death that is n o t final, and o u t o f w h i c h some k i n d o f human renewal comes, w e must l o o k to The Man Who Died. I n this r e w o r k i n g o f the Christian resurrection story, the retreat to the desert to fight, and indeed the sacrificial death w h i c h should end i t , are b o t h over. N o w the harvest is to be reaped f r o m the s o w i n g . T h e cosmic m y t h o f the renovation o f man b y the sun, restated i n terms o f Isis and Osiris, is n o w made actual i n the return to life o f the man b y the sun's radiance; literally i n Part 1, as he lies i n the peasant's backyard i n the sunshine, b u t more p r o f o u n d l y still i n the sexual encounter o f Part 2 . Y e t despite the imaginative effectiveness o f the actual awakening i n the t o m b and the man's slow reluctance to face the w o r l d again after h a v i n g left i t , the result is curiously uncertain. N o t o n l y are there times w h e n the pressure o f fiction-writing leads Lawrence i n t o stylistic absurdities (e.g. some o f the pseudo-hieratic dialogue) and, worse still, catastrophic vulgarities (such as the man's w o r r y , w h e n he makes his assignation w i t h the priestess, about possible mother-in-law troubles): the v e r y basis o f the 1 3

Short Novels of D. H. Lawrence, ii, pp. 42—3: 'Slowly, slowly in the perfect darkness of his inner man, he felt the stir of something coming. A dawn, a new sun. A new sun was coming up in him, in the perfect inner darkness of himself.' T h e new dawn is both a carnal and a spiritual resurrection: 'He crouched to her, and he felt the blaze of his manhood and his power rise up in his loins, magnificent. " I am risen" '. 1 3

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story is an evasion. Despite the constant authorial insistence that the man actually died, Lawrence is too aware o f the biblical critics and rationalist sceptics w h o are l o o k i n g over his shoulder n o t to hedge his bets. H e is too m u c h o f a secular man himself not to p u t i n t o Jesus's o w n m o u t h the suggestion that they t o o k h i m d o w n too soon and that this explains his return to life (pp. 7, 1 2 ) . O f course, this is quite consistent w i t h Lawrence's t h o r o u g h - g o i n g humanisation o f the w h o l e story. Y e t , i t is u n n e r v i n g , and I t h i n k stultifying, to find h i m surrendering the 'creative mystery' to rationalistic pressures so c o m ­ pletely, w i t h o u t acknowledging the fact. F o r what is the deliberately religious ambience and atmosphere o f the story for, i f i t is to be so casually and yet so completely frustrated b y worries about finding a naturalistic explanation? I t h i n k that i t was because he himself recognised this difficulty that Lawrence added a second part to his original story o f The Escaped Cock. Presumably he felt that a r e w o r k i n g o f the gospel accounts w i t h ­ i n a humanistic framework, such as we find i n Part 1 o f The Man Who Died, was inadequate. So he added the second part, w h i c h suggests that the real awakening o f the man comes n o t f r o m the conquest o f death b u t f r o m the discovery o f sex. B u t the t w o parts are n o t really compatible. T h e renewal to be found i n Part 1 consists i n the man's discovery that his preaching o f a moral code o f self-giving and renunciation was a mistake, an illegitimate interference i n other people's affairs. B u t the renewal i n Part 2 is purely sexual, and secret. ( T r u e , the w o m a n is the priestess o f a public cult: b u t this seems to make v e r y little difference to the story.) T h u s , although there is a connection between the t w o awakenings, the emphasis changes, and the upshot is a feeling that the first resurrection was n o t enough. T h i s can o n l y mean that the resurrection itself was n o t a conquest o f death t h r o u g h a sacrificial renewal but merely a temporal process o f selfrealisation. I n fact, the death hardly matters i n this perspective. T h i s is w h y the ambiguity about whether the man really died at all can be pushed i n t o the background. Y e t i n that case the story ceases to have the k i n d o f significance that its Christian ambience suggests and w h i c h underpins Lawrence's attempt to go beyond the limits set i n previous works. O f course the g i v i n g o f the self i n sex and the g i v i n g o f the self i n a sacrificial death are closely linked i n the Christian tradition. Y e t this is something that Lawrence does not want to emphasise, for he regrets

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the g i v i n g o f self as a k i n d o f greed, a mode o f exercising power over others, f r o m w h i c h the man w h o has died is n o w free. H e is 'risen' i n t o ' p r o u d singleness', a state symbolised b y the cock itself. B u t the cock is p r o u d l y single because i t has a life that goes beyond the little personal life o f the individual, trapped i n his o w n little b o d y . T h e contrast between the cock, tethered t h o u g h i t is, and its owner make this plain: T h e man w h o had died was sad, because the peasant stood there i n the little, personal body, and his eyes were cunning and sparkling w i t h the hope o f greater rewards i n money later on. T r u e , the peasant had taken h i m i n free, and had risked getting no reward. But the hope was cunning i n h i m . . . O n the other hand the cock, i n w h i c h 'the flame o f life burned up to a sharp p o i n t . . . so that i t eyed askance and haughtily the man w h o had died' suggests at once the 'greater life o f the b o d y , beyond the little, n a r r o w personal life' (p. 17). A little earlier, i t had been the sight o f the cock w h i c h led the man to recognise a vast resoluteness everywhere flinging itself up i n stormy or subtle wave-crests, foam-tips emerging out o f the blue invisible, a black and orange cock or the green flame-tongues out o f the extremes o f the fig tree. T h e y came forth, these things and creatures o f spring, g l o w i n g w i t h desire and w i t h assertion . . . ( p . 10) T h e connection here w i t h St Mawr seems clear enough. T h e cock, like the horse/dragon, symbolises the 'greater morality o f life i t s e l f w h i c h the t r u l y tragic heroes offend directly, and die at the touch of. I n taking over the Christian resurrection story, i t m i g h t have been ex­ pected that Lawrence w o u l d discover at last h o w to present, i n his o w n w a y , just such a hero and just such a tragic, redemptive death.* A n d this is indeed the implication o f his v i e w o f what the resurrection is about; the man's sin has been to offer a merely human code where he should have been preaching the 'greater morality o f life i t s e l f . H i s renewal after death comes from the recognition o f his mistake. Y e t precisely b y refusing to admit consistently that the consequence o f this mistake was t r u l y a death, Lawrence i n effect refuses to see his o w n story i n those terms. B y surrendering to the critics and evading the problem o f his hero's death, Lawrence has turned d o w n the chance o f w r i t i n g a tragedy based u p o n a conflict to the death between man and

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the powers o f Nature, and has reduced his story to the level o f a merely human tragedy, o f a human code defied. I n this he defines himself, to use his o w n term, as characteristically 'modern': perhaps even, b y the ultimate failure to supply the lost metaphysical o r vertical dimension i n fiction, as a 'one-dimensional' man.

6 Joyce and the Sense o f an Ending

I n the w o r k o f D . H . Lawrence w e have seen the attempt to reclaim, for the twentieth century, the meaningfulness o f a l o n g lost sense o f 'unseen presences' w i t h i n the w o r l d ' s 'fretful elements'. Lawrence, w e feel, takes the loss o f this sense, w h i c h is also the loss o f the vertical ' w a r p ' o f fiction's fabric, the tragic dimension i n life, as a major, indeed calamitous enfeebling o f the w h o l e culture and ultimately o f the society w h i c h produced i t . O n e could p u t the same p o i n t another w a y b y saying that Lawrence was a man i n w h o m the horizontal (metaphorical) dimension, always p o w e r f u l l y present, was forever i n search o f its vertical ( m e t o n y m i c ) counterpart. T h a t the language o f metaphor, w h i c h bridged the 'heart-breaking schism' between men and things, was b o t h necessary and v a l i d , Lawrence never doubted. B u t i n the modern w o r l d o f life-denying commercialism, secularism and tragic despair where was to be found the 'tender care that n o t h i n g be lost' that underlies—if Whitehead is r i g h t — t h e creative mystery o f sustaining causality i n Nature? T h e end o f Women in Love is surely Lawrence's most eloquent testimony to the problematic nature o f that question. Faced w i t h Gerald's death i n the snow, as w e have seen, B i r k i n ' s first response is to celebrate the optimistic faith that i t is best to leave things to 'the vast, creative, non-human mystery' w h i c h has ' b r o u g h t f o r t h b o t h man and the universe'. T h i s mystery has its o w n great ends o f w h i c h man's petty circumscribed life is n o t the measure. ' G o d can do w i t h o u t man,' B i r k i n affirms i n hope: the death o f Gerald is n o t the end o f the mystery even t h o u g h i t is the end o f Gerald: 'the eternal mystery could dispose o f man' b u t i t could still replace h i m w i t h 'a finer created being'. Y e t the tragic finality o f Gerald's death, b r o u g h t home to B i r k i n b y the frozen, brittle corpse, forces f r o m h i m a different, more absolute and tragic cry, at the v e r y end o f the novel: 1

1

Robbe-Grillet, Snapshots, p. 92.

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' B u t need y o u despair over Gerald?' she said. 'Yes,' he a n s w e r e d . . . ' A r e n ' t I enough for you?' she asked. ' N o , ' he said. H o w e v e r the argument between B i r k i n and Ursula w h i c h concludes the novel is clearly unfinished. She insists, as i f to clinch e v e r y t h i n g , that he cannot have t w o kinds o f love: love for her and love for Gerald. B u t B i r k i n w i l l n o t accept this. ' I d o n ' t believe that', he answers, and f r o m that p o i n t , the w h o l e argument clearly starts again. A n d n o t o n l y the argument between B i r k i n and Ursula, b u t also the argument o f the n o v e l itself; the argument about whether the death o f Gerald is simply a tragic waste o r whether, b e y o n d i t , lies a new and finer k i n d o f being still to come; the argument about whether or n o t there is an eternal creative causal mystery u n d e r p i n n i n g the Lawrentian metaphors. * 2

T h e absence o f a strong sense o f ending is b o t h a strength and a weakness i n Women in Love. I t is a strength i n that i t shows Lawrence's realism ( i n Barbara H a r d y ' s sense o f the term) i n refusing to pretend that life can be packaged and polished i n t o a t i d y aesthetic whole. Lawrence's best fiction springs unmistakably o u t o f 'a p r i m a r y act o f m i n d transferred to art f r o m l i f e ' , and the rambling loose-endedness o f reality itself remains as a substantial residue even w h e n the trans­ ference has been made. T h e temptation to p r o v i d e Women in Love w i t h an aesthetically harmonious ending, a perfect final cadence, must have been strong. T h e Ibsen-like scenario invites such an ending: i t seems so ' f i n a l ' — t o use a favourite L a w r e n t i a n w o r d . Y e t the temptation was resisted, and w e recognise the moral force o f Lawrence's resistance. T h e 'greater m o r a l i t y o f life i t s e l f has the last w o r d . Y e t there is also a k i n d o f weakness about this open-endedness. A strong ending, however unlike life, does at least help to remind us that what w e have been t h r o u g h is o n l y a story. T h e fictiveness o f the story's middle is retrospectively enforced b y the obvious fictiveness o f the end: and, as Frank K e r m o d e has reminded us, i t is the consciousness o f a story's fictiveness that is the best protection against its degenera­ t i o n into m y t h . O f course there is a paradox here: i t is precisely the strong sense o f an end that is already present i n the beginning that most o b v i o u s l y characterises m y t h , and turns a 'marked respect for 3

4

2

4

Women in Love, pp. 539—41. The Sense of an Ending, p. 39.

Novel, 2 (Fall 1968), p. 5.

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things as they are' i n t o a t i d y pattern o f coherence that is dangerously delusive. So i n the e n d — i f I may p u t i t so—what matters is the kind o f strength o r weakness o f the ending; whether i t comes 'naturally' or is forced u p o n us. T h e r e is a place for the open ends o f Lawrence's 5

novels, w h i c h take us back f r o m the fiction i n t o the stream o f life: b u t there is also a place for the strong, harmonious ending w h i c h empha­ sises the fact that w e have been engaging o n l y i n make believe; that— as an harmonious ending w o u l d o b v i o u s l y suggest—we have been i n v o l v e d w i t h the k i n d o f art that aspires to the c o n d i t i o n o f music; or w h i c h , like the Grecian u r n , sculptures every movement o f t h o u g h t and feeling, every ray o f i l l u m i n a t i o n and every slightest contact w i t h things, i n t o an eternal gesture, creating a perfectly finished w o r k o f art; perhaps an object itself bereft o f feeling, b u t redolent w i t h the distant m e m o r y o f i t . T o speak i n this w a y o f the virtues o f the closed, harmonious ending takes us immediately i n t o a different w o r l d from that w h i c h Lawrence inhabited o r wished to inhabit: indeed i n t o the w o r l d o f his greatest contemporary James Joyce. W e m i g h t p u t the difference between them i n the f o l l o w i n g w a y . Whereas Lawrence tried to restore a concept o f sacral, i f unseen presences w i t h i n nature, a vertical dimension to a w o r l d that had become, i n his v i e w , denatured and one-dimensional, Joyce tried to secularise an over-religious, indeed neurotically religious culture, i n order to allow the ordinary things o f 'the n o w , the here' to come i n t o their o w n , to be given their rights. T h e man w i t h the grocer's assistant's m i n d , as Joyce once described himself, wanted to show that the w o r l d was a supermarket o f things, feelings, impressions and actions all o f w h i c h had their place i n a general scheme. But the scheme was n o t that o f a sacral 'nature'. Joyce, w i t h g o o d reason, was suspicious o f too m u c h talk o f 'nature'. T h e o l d analogical ties w i t h w h i c h a textbook scholasticism neatly parcelled the w o r l d into a 'great chain o f being' were n o t o n l y obsolete: they were rotten w i t h the 'true scholastic stink' w h i c h o n l y D u b l i n life could give off. T h u s , to give coherence and order to his patterns, Joyce substituted for Nature, artifice: the artifice o f an H o m e r i c or Renaissance synthesis, d r a w n from a bookish m y t h o l o g y . W i t h i n the splendid supermarket o f things that he parades 6

Ibid., p. 17. T h e phrase is Lynch's, A Portrait, Chap. 5. A l l page numbers in A Portrait and in The Dead refer to the Penguin edition of The Essential James Joyce. 5

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before us, Joyce is able to be indiscriminately bountiful towards the things o f the here and n o w , w i t h o u t imposing u p o n them the cold touch o f an authorial personality. Joyce is the greatest o f novelistic levellers for this reason; the most democratic o f major novelists—far more so than T o l s t o y , for all the latter's peasant aspirations. But a price had to be paid for the achievement. T h a t price is a certain pedantry and coldness, even perhaps a touch o f w h a t Lawrence diagnosed i n discussing Thomas M a n n as the Flaubertian disease: the tendency to stand aloof f r o m life—a tendency w h i c h lies at the r o o t o f any craving for perfect f o r m i n art.* I n order to make the contrast w i t h Lawrence more explicit, i t may be illuminating to consider the ending o f Joyce's first great master­ piece, The Dead. L i k e Women in Love this last story o f the Duhliners sequence ends i n a k i n d o f snow-abstract annihilation, but o f a v e r y different sort. Gabriel and Gretta C o n r o y are attending his aunt's Christmas party, w i t h a large number o f other friends and relatives. Gabriel, as a college man and as favourite nephew, is asked to make the speech o f welcome and propose the toasts. Before he can do so, a Miss I v o r s proposes to h i m a summer t r i p , w i t h his wife, to Connacht. W h e n he refuses, she runs away f r o m the party. After the speeches, and just as the party is breaking up, he overhears one o f the guests singing a song—a song w h i c h his wife seems strangely taken w i t h . W h e n the pair o f them arrive back at their hotel, but before the excited Gabriel has any chance to make love to Gretta, she tells h i m w h y she loved that song: i t reminded her o f her former lover i n the West o f Ireland, the sickly Michael Furey w h o died for love o f her. He used to sing the same song. Gabriel is at first appalled to discover that he does n o t after all occupy the first place i n his wife's heart; that she is still haunted b y the aching m e m o r y o f the b o y w h o , visiting her i n the rain, died soon afterwards for love o f her. I n the hotel bedroom, Gretta falls asleep; but Gabriel lies awake, thinking: 7

Generous tears filled Gabriel's eyes. H e had never felt that himself towards any w o m a n , but he knew that such a feeling must be love. T h e tears gathered more t h i c k l y i n his eyes and i n the partial darkness he imagined he saw the form o f a y o u n g w o m a n standing under a d r i p p i n g tree. Other forms were near. H i s soul had ap­ proached that region where dwell the vast hosts o f the dead. He was 7

Ellmann, James Joyce, pp. 2ff., for a comparison between Tolstoy and Joyce.

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conscious of, but could not apprehend, their w a y w a r d and flickering existence. H i s o w n i d e n t i t y was fading out i n t o a grey impalp­ able w o r l d : the solid w o r l d itself, w h i c h these dead had one time reared and lived i n , was dissolving and d w i n d l i n g . But this cosmic 'dissolution' is n o t merely subjective; i t has an ' o b objective correlative' i n the snowstorm that is b l o t t i n g out Ireland, i n a k i n d o f 'snow-abstract annihilation': A few light taps u p o n the pane made h i m t u r n to the w i n d o w . I t had begun to snow again. H e watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. T h e time had come for h i m to set out o n his journey westwards. Yes, the newspapers were r i g h t : snow was general all over Ireland. I t was falling o n every part o f the dark central plain, o n the treeless hills, falling softly u p o n the B o g o f A l l e n and, further westwards, falling softly into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. I t was falling, t o o , o n every part o f the lonely churchyard on the h i l l where Michael Furey lay buried. I t lay t h i c k l y drifted o n the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears o f the little gate, o n the barren thorns. H i s soul swooned s l o w l y as he heard the snow falling faintly t h r o u g h the universe and faintly falling, like the descent o f their last end, u p o n all the l i v i n g and the dead. (p. 514) N o w the problem about this ending, i t seems to me, is that i t fails fully to reconcile the contradictory impulses that w e n t i n t o the m a k i n g o f The Dead: the impulse towards w h a t Joyce called 'epiphany' and the impulse towards the telling o f a story, the revealing o f a secret. Epiphany one m i g h t say implies the evocation o f a specific w o r l d , and as such i t emphasises the vertical dimension o f narrative. But the u n f o l d i n g o f a secret is, equally clearly a matter primarily o f horizontal ' p l o t ' . So Joyce's uncertainty i n The Dead is an uncertainty about the r i g h t relation o f the t w o dimensions. T h e first part o f the story is clearly on the side o f epiphany. Joyce is here concerned to render w i t h scrupulous and revealing precision an aspect o f D u b l i n life that he felt he had hitherto neglected: namely Irish hospitality. Most o f the other stories i n Dubliners were epiphanies o f the dreariness o f D u b l i n , its spiritual paralysis. The Dead w o u l d make amends. So the first impression we get from the opening pages 8

8

Ellmann, p. 254.

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is one o f the extraordinary authenticity o f Joyce's memories. T h e description o f the dinner table, for example, is Dickensian i n its relish, but i n its objectivity, its lack o f humanising metaphor, i t verges o n the chosisme o f Robbe-Grillet: A fat b r o w n goose lay at one end o f the table and at the other end, on a bed o f creased paper strewn w i t h sprigs o f parsley, lay a great ham, stripped o f its outer skin and peppered over w i t h crust crumbs, a neat paper f r i l l r o u n d its shin, and beside this was a r o u n d o f spiced beef. Between these r i v a l ends ran parallel lines o f sidedishes: t w o little minsters o f jelly, red and yellow; a shallow dish full o f blocks o f blancmange and red jam, a large green leaf-shaped dish w i t h a stalk-shaped handle, o n w h i c h lay bunches o f purple raisins and peeled almonds, a companion dish o n w h i c h lay a solid rectangle o f Smyrna figs, a dish o f custard topped w i t h grated n u t ­ meg, a small b o w l full o f chocolates and sweets wrapped i n g o l d and silver papers and a glass vase i n w h i c h stood some tall celery stalks, ( p . 493) There is a l o v i n g delight too i n the eccentricities and idiosyncrasies o f character, the sheer variety and spice o f D u b l i n life. T h e sense o f place, the evocation o f the o l d days w h e n Italian opera-companies came to D u b l i n and the tenor Parkinson was at his peak, the memories o f the old-fashioned pictures o n the Morkans' d r a w i n g - r o o m w a l l s — all o f these impress u p o n us that the principal object o f the story is to make us see, i n Conrad's sense; to make us feel that w e are at the table w i t h the guests. 9

B u t n o w Joyce introduces what m i g h t be called i n musical terms a 'second subject' w h i c h gives further solidity to his evocation o f D u b l i n hospitality b y casting a certain shadow across i t . Gabriel's o w n i n ­ security and aloofness acts as a counterpoint to the gaiety o f the party. T h i s insecurity comes out first i n his patronising banter w i t h L i l y , the servant-girl, over her ' y o u n g man'. ' I suppose w e ' l l be g o i n g to y o u r w e d d i n g one o f these fine days w i t h y o u r y o u n g man, eh?' T h e g i r l glanced back at h i m over her shoulder and said w i t h great bitterness: 9

Nigger of the Narcissus, Preface.

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' T h e men that is n o w is o n l y all palaver and what they can get out of you'. Gabriel coloured, as i f he felt he had made a mistake and, w i t h o u t l o o k i n g at her, kicked off his goloshes and flicked actively w i t h his muffler at his patent-leather shoes, (p. 479) F r o m that moment onwards we are continually reminded o f Gabriel's insecurity; for example b y Gretta's sarcasm over the wearing o f goloshes, b y Gabriel's unease i n company compared to the j o l l i t y o f the 'screwed' b u t well-liked Freddy Malins, b y the 'superior' taste i n music w h i c h inhibits h i m f r o m enjoying M a r y Jane's piano piece, b y the curtness o f his reply to the Gaelic Leaguer, b y Miss I v o r s ' i r r i t a t i n g questions about his disloyalty to Ireland. Gabriel's insecurity persists despite the fact that he is the favourite nephew o f the hostesses and their principal guest. Joyce shows us Gabriel continually t r y i n g to retreat into a private, protective fantasy-world where he can remain i n control o f things: a w o r l d i n w h i c h a quotation f r o m B r o w n i n g w o u l d not go over the heads o f his hearers, where a sentence o f his o w n from one o f his articles i n the Daily Express w o u l d be d u l y appreciated, where A u n t Julia w o u l d be able to understand his reference to her as one o f the 'Three Graces o f the D u b l i n musical w o r l d ' , and above all where he w o u l d be able to keep his o w n wife to himself i n a k i n d o f private portrait-gallery o f his o w n creating, and contemplate her as a w o r k o f his o w n art: He asked himself what is a w o m a n standing o n the stairs i n the shadow, listening to distant music, a symbol of. I f he were a painter he w o u l d paint her i n that attitude. H e r blue felt hat w o u l d show off the bronze o f her hair against the darkness and the dark panels o f her skirt w o u l d show off the light ones. Distant Music he w o u l d call the picture i f he were a painter, (pp. 503-4) T h u s far, The Dead could easily be fitted into the general framework o f the rest o f Dubliners, as another naturalistic evocation o f an aspect o f D u b l i n life, an 'epiphany' o f its hospitality and its 'ingenuous i n s u l a r i t y ' . B u t Joyce has another end i n view, a personal theme to explore: the theme o f the dead lover from the past w h o still haunts the present. N o w , whatever may have been Joyce's private motives for treating this theme, its function i n the story is to explain, b y way o f 10

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Ellmann, p. 254.

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a sudden revelation, the secret cause o f Gabriel's insecurity, especially his awkwardness w i t h Gretta herself. T h e i r relationship has been shown, from the v e r y beginning, as uncomfortable. Gabriel's very first w o r d s about Gretta are cutting: a w o u l d - b e stroke o f joviality that misfires. As they arrive he makes a remark at Gretta's expense to the little servant g i r l . Confided to his o w n relations, perhaps, the sarcasm m i g h t be tolerable: to a servant, i t is merely bad taste: ' O , M r C o n r o y , ' said L i l y to Gabriel w h e n she opened the door for h i m , 'Miss Kate and Miss Julia thought y o u were never c o m i n g . . . ' I ' l l engage they d i d ' , said Gabriel, 'but they forget that m y wife here takes three mortal hours to dress herself.' (p. 478) As the story proceeds, more hints are dropped that all is not w e l l between Gabriel and his wife: Gabriel fussily insists o n Gretta wearing goloshes and she resents this; they differ over the invitation from Miss I v o r s to go to Connacht; and finally a mysterious rift opens up between them as a result o f the singing o f the song. B u t none o f this w o u l d b y itself entail the final episode o f the story, i n w h i c h the secret source o f their unhappiness is revealed. Y e t as the narrative moves away from the genial w a r m t h o f the house to the streets where the guests depart, and finally to the hotel bedroom where Gretta confesses her past to Gabriel, we begin to feel that a different k i n d o f story is emerging; a a story i n w h i c h explanation takes over from naturalistic description as the d r i v i n g force o f the narrative. W e are n o w seeing things exclu­ sively t h r o u g h Gabriel's eyes. H i s personal problem has come to the surface, obliterating the residual omniscience o f the former narrative mode. T h e scene i n the hotel bedroom, i n w h i c h Gretta comes out w i t h her love for Michael Furey, is o f course a masterpiece o f tact and delicacy o f feeling i n its o w n w a y . Indeed i t reveals a humanity and compassion w h i c h Joyce seldom rose to i n any o f his later w o r k s . T h e pathos o f Gretta's memories and the artless simplicity o f her speaking are immediately striking: so too is the pathos felt for Gabriel's side o f the case. He has to suffer the humiliation o f k n o w i n g not o n l y that he has always taken second place i n Gretta's heart to a dead rival, but also—and this is a masterly touch—that the rival was simply a consump­ tive lad from the local gasworks. But fortunately, Gabriel is capable (as, I think, Stephen Daedalus w o u l d not have been) o f rising to the challenge o f this humiliation. A l t h o u g h he sees himself as 'a ludicrous figure, acting as a pennybody for his aunts, a nervous, well-meaning

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sentimentalist, orating to vulgarians and idealising his o w n clownish lusts', and even as the v i c t i m o f 'some impalpable and vindictive being [ w h o ] was c o m i n g against h i m , gathering forces against h i m i n its vague w o r l d ' (pp. 511-12) Gabriel succeeds i n fighting o f f this intruder b y an 'effort o f reason'. He continues to comfort Gretta despite his o w n inner shame, and i n this he reveals his o w n m a t u r i t y (p. 512). F o r this he is d u l y rewarded i n the end b y a final peace o f m i n d , a consoling loss o f all feeling: Gabriel, leaning o n his elbow, looked for a few moments u n resentfully o n her tangled hair and half-open m o u t h , listening to her deep-drawn breath. So she had had that romance i n her life: a man had died for her sake. I t hardly pained h i m n o w to t h i n k h o w poor a part he, her husband, had played i n her life. (p. 513) Nevertheless there is a difficulty about the ending o f The Dead. F o r whereas the story as we m i g h t have predicted i t from the early scenes w o u l d have remained open to the D u b l i n life beyond itself, s i m p l y b y being a disinterested epiphany o f D u b l i n hospitality and insularity, the theme o f an explanatory secret seems to draw i t i n t o a different, less expansive narrative dimension. A story w h i c h is simply an epi­ phany has the k i n d o f openness w h i c h comes from seeing the rest o f life as surrounding i t o n all sides. T h e 'greater m o r a l i t y o f life i t s e l f is i m p l i c i t l y present i n the chosen instance, precisely because the latter is o n l y an instance. B u t a story w h i c h seeks to explain a situation b y a device o f plot can be open o n l y i n a different way; b y showing the o n ­ g o i n g consequences, i n the greater life outside the confines o f the p l o t itself, o f the revelation given w i t h i n i t . A s we have seen i t is the virtue o f Women in Love, and indeed o f most o f Lawrence's best fiction, that we are allowed to see past the fictional events that determine the ending o f the narrative itself—for example, the death o f Gerald Crich—and to glimpse their flowing back into the stream o f life. Lawrence's openness to 'the greater morality o f life i t s e l f is largely a result o f his a l l o w i n g us to do just this. But i n The Dead Joyce does not permit the reader to see a n y t h i n g o f the life that continues after the discovery o f Gretta's long-treasured secret. W e do not behold their o n g o i n g life together, are not even given a h i n t o f it. O n the contrary, the story ends w i t h a 'coda' w h i c h dreamily describes Gabriel's vision o f a welcome death, and his hopeless yearning for a passion w h i c h he k n o w s he can n o w never attain. T h e symbolic snowstorm that finally envelops everything

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and everybody i n a shroud o f elegiac sadness certainly provides a perfect cadence, i n a m i n o r key, to r o u n d the story off. B u t i n so d o i n g i t blocks off any further reference to o n g o i n g life: and i t does so n o t because this blocking-off is part o f the logic o f the plot, but because Joyce prefers to substitute for that logic an aesthetic literary device. T h e snow is a symbol o n l y : i t has no roots i n the process o f causality. I n saying this, I should not like to be thought o f as t r y i n g to detract f r o m the true value o f the ending o f The Dead. T h a t value remains, a monument to Joyce's mastery not o n l y o f symbolism and the music o f a poetic prose, b u t o f the 'epiphany' as a f o r m o f narrative art. B u t what I am suggesting is that the ending marks a return to the mode o f the beginning—the mode o f e p i p h a n y — w h i c h has been interrupted, for a g o o d many pages, b y another k i n d o f narrative: the narrative centering u p o n the unravelling o f a secret, o n the dimension o f plot. A n d despite the t r i u m p h o f art w h i c h the ending undoubtedly repre­ sents, i t cannot quite hide the seam between the t w o , for there is a cer­ tain incompatibility between them. I n order fully to be part o f the 'plot' the snow w o u l d have to have some causative influence u p o n , as w e l l as symbolic function i n , the events. I n Women in Love (as too i n Ibsen's avalanches) i t does have this function, as we have seen: for however important the snow i n that novel may be as a s y m b o l o f Gerald's coldness and abstractness, i t is also the cause o f his physical death. Similarly the logic o f the plot i n The Dead seems to require that the snow should have some effect o n what actually happens i n the story. But to give i t such a function w o u l d i n v o l v e m a k i n g i t the agent o f some purposeful 'unseen presence' as Lawrence d i d when he talked o f Gerald's death as a 'murder' b y the snow. T h e recognition o f such unseen presences, however, is just w h a t Joyce wants to avoid: perhaps, as I have suggested, because he has had a surfeit o f religious persuasions concerning them. So he tries to t u r n his 'plot' back towards the mode o f 'epiphany' and uses the snow to do just t h a t — w i t h masterly eloquence. I n A Portrait of the Artist we find a somewhat different answer to the same basic p r o b l e m . Joyce saw very clearly the need for a corrective to the tendency o f his catholic milieu to see everything i n supernatural terms. Stephen's struggle to free himself f r o m that milieu is partly a search for the significance o f things as things rather than as manifesta­ tions o f 'unseen presences'. Y e t i n order to justify that struggle he had to interpret i t i n the terms he knew. T h e artist seeking to prove the

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v a l i d i t y o f the classical temper, w i t h its emphasis on the value o f 'solid bodies' nevertheless found i t impossible n o t to express his ideal i n terms o f a priestly vocation to art, 'transmuting the daily bread o f ex­ perience into the radiant b o d y o f everliving life' (p. 2 2 6 ) . Such an ideal comes perilously close to w h a t Stephen t h o u g h t o f as the v e r y opposite o f his o w n view: namely the 'romantic temper' w h i c h can find no earthly place for its ideals and 'chooses therefore to behold them under insensible f i g u r e s ' . I n the v e r y act o f t r y i n g to concentrate the artistic vocation on the here and n o w o f the horizontal dimension, Stephen finds himself forced to suggest just the opposite: that this vocation is one i n w h i c h the vertical dimension, the sacramental dimension i n w h i c h o u t w a r d forms hide invisible religious meanings, is v e r y prominent. T h u s Joyce substitutes art for religion, b u t o f course the substitution w i l l n o t do. T h e tension between the t w o dimensions o f narrative, between secular art and religious sacrament, remains i n A Portrait of the Artist because i t was b u i l t into i t from the beginning, i n the v e r y terms i n w h i c h Stephen's struggle against his milieu was first formulated. N o t u n t i l a later stage o f development, i n w h i c h Stephen's o w n formulation could be subjected to a more radical criticism, b y being 'placed' critically w i t h i n a larger and more a l l embracing perspective, could the tension be resolved. 11

T h e unresolved tension i n A Portrait of the Artist comes out i n the fact that even at the moments w h e n Stephen is condemning 'kinetic' art i n favour of'stasis', A Portrait of the Artist remains itself obstinately k i n e t i c . A c c o r d i n g to Stephen, the kinetic feelings—desire, w h i c h 'urges us to possess, or to go to something', and loathing, w h i c h 'urges us to abandon, to go f r o m something'—are improper feelings to arouse i n art. ' T h e arts w h i c h excite them, pornographical o r didactic, are therefore improper arts. T h e aesthetic emotion is therefore static. T h e m i n d is arrested and raised above desire and loathing' {Portrait, p. 213). T h i s is all very w e l l : but i n Stephen's case, at the stage o f personal development w h i c h he has reached i n A Portrait of the Artist, this aesthetic is combined w i t h an abstract and loftily r i g i d distinction between the physical and the intellectual, between facts and values, between morality and aesthetics, w h i c h i t is the business o f Joyce, the narrative voice mediating Stephen to us, to show as crippling. Stephen's actual practice, b o t h as artist and as an ordinary human being, betrays 12

1 1

1 2

Stephen Hero, Chap. X I X , p. 7 8 . Goldberg, The Classical Temper, pp. 6 4 - 5 .

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the inadequacy o f his w a y o f t h i n k i n g , and shows i t as arising f r o m evasions o f responsibility. I t is part o f Stephen's problem that he has yet to sort out the difference between seeing his artistic vocation as something impelling h i m f r o m w i t h i n , like a natural instinct, part o f the life-force that is w i t h i n h i m , and seeing i t as a conscious moral choice between alternative possibilities that are open to h i m . A l ­ t h o u g h he grows, i n moral understanding, d u r i n g the course o f A Portrait of the Artist, he does not mature enough to recognise that his choice o f vocation must be a free, and therefore moral responsibility: and this i m m a t u r i t y is reflected i n the i m m a t u r i t y o f the poetry he writes. I t is true o f course that Joyce does convey to the reader t h r o u g h narrative style, tone and nuance that he is fully aware o f Stephen's i m m a t u r i t y : and to this extent, A Portrait of the Artist is a 'dramatic' rather than a 'lyrical', a classically rather than a romatically-tempered b o o k . B u t i t is noticeable, all the same, that b y comparison b o t h w i t h the earlier Stephen Hero and the later Ulysses, A Portrait of the Artist embodies a residual Shelleyan platonism, a romanticism—to quote Stephen Hero himself—that 'sees no fit abode here for its ideals and chooses therefore to behold them under insensible figures'—or, to use A . E.'s (Russell's) term from Ulysses (p. 236) 'formless spiritual essences'. 1 3

14

I n Ulysses we find the f u l l y - w o r k e d - o u t corrective to the overreligious milieu, w h i c h Stephen sought but could not find b y himself i n A Portrait of the Artist. Here Joyce succeeds i n keeping to the g r o u n d level o f the horizontal dimension i n narrative. There is no uncriticised wandering into romanticism, no indulgent embracing o f ideals seen under insensible figures. Stephen himself has n o w put behind h i m Russell's platonism, replacing i t b y his o w n maxim, 'hold to the n o w , the here, t h r o u g h w h i c h all future plunges to the past' (p. 238). But h o l d i n g to the here and n o w also entails h o l d i n g to the fact that the romantic and the kinetic cannot be finally expunged from a w o r k o f art i n favour o f the purely classical temper w i t h o u t eliminating all its human meaning, and reducing its m o r a l values to mere aestheticism. Goldberg gives an illustration o f this w h i c h sums up the matter n e a t l y . T h e trashy art o f The Sweets of Sin is unable to arouse i n B l o o m any feelings other than kinetic ones: 15

1 3

1 4

1 5

Goldberg, p. 55. See also Stephen Hero, p. 78.

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W a r m t h showered gently over h i m , c o w i n g his flesh. Flesh yielded amid crumpled clothes. W h i t e s o f eyes s w o o n i n g up. H i s nostrils arched themselves for prey. M e l t i n g breast ointments (for him\ For Raoull). A r m p i t s ' o n i o n y sweat. Fishgluey slime (her heaving embon­ point^ Feel! Press! Crushed! Sulphur d u n g o f lions! (p. 303) But later o n , the fine rendering b y Simon Daedalus o f a splendid song f r o m Martha gives B l o o m an experience w h i c h can o n l y be the authentically Joycean 'luminous silent stasis o f aesthetic pleasure': I t soared, a b i r d , i t held its flight, a swift pure cry, soar silver orb i t leaped serene, speeding, sustained, to come, d o n ' t spin i t out too l o n g l o n g breath he breath l o n g life, soaring h i g h , h i g h resplendent, aflame, crowned, h i g h i n the effulgence symbolistic, h i g h , o f the ethereal bosom, h i g h , o f the h i g h vast irradiation everywhere all soaring all around about the all, the endlessnessnessness... (p. 355)* But the deepest stasis lies i n the fact that Joyce, as narrative voice, has here reconciled Bloom's p r o p e r l y aesthetic response (a response v e r y different from Gabriel C o n r o y ' s under similar circumstances) and the multifarious surrounding elements o f 'the n o w , the here' w h i c h alone make such a response possible and w h i c h contribute—whether B l o o m recognises i t or n o t — t o the total effect o f the song u p o n h i m . Bloom's response is an advance o n the response ( i f n o t o n the theory) o f Stephen i n A Portrait of the Artist. B u t Joyce's narrative 'placing' o f Bloom's response i n a larger context still, shows a further stage i n his o w n m a t u r i n g . I n this comprehensive, dramatic poise o f the narrative voice i n Ulysses—a voice that is so far 'refined out o f existence' as to give the impression o f a sheer, unmediated transparency to the given facts —the tragedy o f Gabriel's and Stephen's inability to go beyond themselves is transcended and becomes the subject o f a comprehensive comic vision. A comprehensive poise o f this k i n d is possible o n l y t h r o u g h a classical detachment, a refusal to take sides. T h e artist i n this mode can take no special responsibility for transactions that may take place between his art and life outside. T h e Stephen o f Ulysses recognises, as the Stephen o f A Portrait of the Artist d i d not, that w i t h i n the w o r k , life's kinetic, moral, political and other responses have their place, 16

A Portrait, p. 221. The 'impression' is produced, of course, by the most elaborate use of rhetorical artifice. 16

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beside the evocation o f aesthetic 'stasis', helping to make up for what the other lacks. B u t even i f art o f this comprehensive, reconciling k i n d , w h i c h is inevitably comic rather than tragic, is necessarily self-enclosed and autotelic, i t ought to come, we feel, from a visible struggle to achieve objectivity i n life. Stephen i n A Portrait of the Artist demanded a detached critical objectivity i n art, but he d i d not demand the same critical objectivity about himself. T h i s was his weakness: and the greatness o f A Portrait of the Artist lies i n the w a y Joyce makes us see it as a weakness, t h r o u g h the exercise o f his narrative voice and its nuances, w i t h o u t alienating us f r o m Stephen or his predicament. F o r i t is the predicament o f all representatively 'modern' heroes; the search for an identity i n a w o r l d w h i c h does n o t seem to provide the conditions for achieving one. A n d i n Ulysses Joyce goes further, seeing even the strength o f A Portrait of the Artist as o n l y relative; the strength o f a still immature w o r k . Ulysses places and judges A Portrait of the Artist. Yet the m a t u r i t y o f Ulysses, and o f the Joycean voice that hovers about i t , is still o n l y a poise: something perilous and uncertain, like the slippery footholds o f the l o o k o u t i n Moby Dick w h o sees beneath his feet the 'Descartian vortices' that threaten to swallow up anyone w h o loses his balance (Moby Dick, Chap. 35). T h e vortices that threaten Joyce, however, are either older or more modern than Descartes's. T h e y make themselves felt for example i n the p r i m i t i v e superstitions that Joyce entertained about thunderstorms. A s a man b r o u g h t up i n Catholic Ireland he could n o t skake off the feeling, even i f he had shaken off the thought, that the 'fretful elements' manifested some 'unseen presence' o f a terrifying and possibly lethal k i n d . But they also made themselves felt i n more modern insecurities, for example i n the Circe episode, w h i c h is an expression o f the nightmarish Freudian horrors to be found i n the unconscious, once the tenuous h o l d o f reason on human affairs is allowed to loosen. B u t the perilousness o f Joyce's comic poise comes out even more clearly when we consider the k i n d o f freedom and m a t u r i t y that Ulysses itself embodies: a freedom and maturity w h i c h , despite the splendour o f the achievement, are surely still too limited and too easily w o n . I n Stephen Hero there is an awkward contradiction between the claims o f the 'classical temper', w i t h its emphasis on art as rooted i n the n o w and the here, the earthy 1 7

1 7

Ellmann, p. 25 and n o t e .

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and the m o r a l l y problematic, and Stephen's romantic, Shelley-like claims for art as a w a y o f mediating 'between the w o r l d o f [the artist's] experience and the w o r l d o f his dreams'. I n A Portrait of the Artist this problem is n o t so much solved as systematically evaded, b y Stephen's insistence (on theoretical, allegedly T h o m i s t grounds) that the k i n e t i c — w h i c h the w o r l d o f the here and n o w , the earthy and the morally problematic inevitably is—has no place i n art at all. B y forcing this distinction o n art, the contradiction is temporarily avoided. B u t i n the anti-platonic Ulysses i t had to be faced and ( i f possible) resolved. A n d i t is solved: b y rejecting b o t h the T h o m i s t metaphysic o f A Portrait of the Artist and the Shelleyan platonising o f Stephen Hero. But a price has to be paid i n this solution. As Goldberg puts i t , Stephen in Ulysses does n o t see 18

h o w much more acute [his] difficulties are made b y his adopting casual ideas from St Thomas w i t h o u t adopting the metaphysics w h i c h gave them their coherence. . . T h e problem o f the poetic meaning and t r u t h o f art is capable o f some k i n d o f solution i f we h o l d a philosophy that gives 'intelligibility' a metaphysical range: i f we believe, that is, that the intelligibility o f art ought to reveal and reflect the intelligibility inherent i n all things i n the w o r l d . . . T h e fact is, however, that neither Joyce nor Stephen accepts any such metaphysical p h i l o s o p h y . 19

A s for the Shelleyan platonism o f Stephen Hero, w h i c h w o u l d see the role o f art as mediating between this w o r l d and some other transcen­ dent w o r l d , this is given very short shrift b y the Stephen o f Ulysses, i n his silent retorts to Russell's platonic and symbolistic musings (pp. 236-8). I n its place, the opposing classically-tempered n o t i o n o f art as rooted i n the n o w and the here is given full expression i n Stephen's new theory about Shakespeare's earthy private life and the relation o f this to Hamlet. But is this emphasis on the need for a comprehensive objectivity about oneself, coupled w i t h a steadfast rejection o f any systematic metaphysic to back it up, a sufficient basis for the k i n d o f freedom to w h i c h Joyce i n Ulysses seems to aspire? U l t i m a t e l y what emerges as the g r o u n d o f this n e w l y - w o n freedom and m a t u r i t y is o n l y an unblinkered individualistic liberalism o f a v e r y familiar k i n d . N o doubt this liberalism is unusually 'democratic' for a modernist 1 8

1 9

Stephen Hero, p. 7 7 . See also Goldberg, pp. 6 8 - 9 . Goldberg, pp. 6 1 - 2 .

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w r i t e r and helps to exonerate Joyce f r o m the charges b r o u g h t b y Snow against most o f his contemporaries i n the literary w o r l d . A n d i n any case, Joyce d i d n o t claim to have any original ideas. H e re­ mained a lower-middle-class Irishman w i t h , as he accurately p u t i t , a 2 0

'grocer's assistant's m i n d ' . B u t an unblinkered liberalism, however admirable i n itself, was hardly an adequate response to the 'flood' w h i c h , as Lawrence ac­ curately saw i n the twenties was about to e n g u l f the w o r l d . B u t o f course, Joyce's response was m u c h more than a mere liberalism. I n a situation where n o t o n l y European civilisation, b u t even the c o n t i n u ­ ance o f civilisation itself was i n question, the artist could, i t seems, take one o f t w o paths. H e could fight against the trend o f the times b y attempting to recreate i n his fiction a w o r l d that he no longer found about h i m i n reality, h o p i n g thereby to preserve at least the image o f civilisation. O r he could register his protest b y creating w h o l l y autonomous w o r l d s o f w o r d s w h i c h w o u l d stand up for themselves like beacons l i g h t i n g the dark, revealing the i m p e n d i n g tide o f evil for what i t was b y their o w n scandalous self-sufficiency. I f the former was the 'kinetic' w a y , the latter was the w a y o f 'stasis'. A n d given the historical fact, or apparent fact, that v e r y few artists have ever been able to change the course o f history even a little b y their art, w h o is to say that the w a y o f stasis that Joyce t o o k was n o t as responsible and as effective as the other? Joyce's art, then, was his most potent weapon. B u t the a u t o n o m y o f the w o r k o f art, w h i c h was his c o n t r i b u t i o n to the battle against the flood, was possible o n l y as l o n g as the artist's o w n personal ends were kept o u t o f i t . T h e achievement o f a self-sufficient style and the extinc­ t i o n o f the egocentric narrative personality had to go together. B u t inevitably this meant an absence o f what had hitherto been expected from a novelist: the implicit i m p o s i t i o n o f some kinds o f moral 'standards', i f not i n the behaviour o f the characters then at least i n the moral vision implied b y them. T h i s Joyce refused, i n any direct w a y , to provide. I n his o w n case, such absence itself becomes a k i n d o f standard, o f honesty, artistic i n t e g r i t y , sheer perseverance. But i n another k i n d o f artist, w i t h another k i n d o f vision, this absence t r u l y becomes a scandal. W i t h benefit o f hindsight i t is not difficult to see where Joyce's v i e w o f the story-teller's art has led. T h e montage o f 2 0

See Gross, Joyce, p. 53 and Ellmann, pp. 1-5.

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bits o f reality that we find, for instance, i n the w o r k o f W i l l i a m B u r ­ roughs, is o n l y one extreme case o f a more widespread breakdown. I n the process o f this breakdown, the distinctive personality o f the teller tends, inevitably, to disappear altogether. I f he is supervising a n y t h i n g , i t is n o t a connected sequence o f events, but a chaos i n w h i c h causality and sequence have ceased to operate, and i n w h i c h he has no place. Just as any theory o f b l i n d cosmic evolution makes the n o t i o n o f 'nature' i m p o s s i b l e , so the novel o f sheer chance, or total subjectivity makes the creative teller's voice inaudible. O f course, i n eliminating the teller such fiction renders impossible any protest against the 'flood' t h r o u g h comic stasis and the achievement o f a self-sufficient style. B u t i t also rules out another k i n d o f comic response as w e l l : the sort o f comedy i n w h i c h a m o r a l protest against the flood is registered b y a calculatedly scandalous refusal o f moral discriminations among its effects. Such comedy depends for its life o n a sharp distinction between the irresponsibility o f the w o r l d that is created i n the fiction and the latent b u t easily discernible sense o f responsibility manifested, but n o t stated, b y the teller. I f the poised static comedy o f Joyce is a protest against the flood, so too, i n a different way, b u t i n the same general tradition, is the dandyish amoral comedy o f E v e l y n W a u g h . 21

2 1

O n this see Monod, pp. I59ff.

7 Waugh and the Narrator as Dandy

I n Chapter i I drew attention to t w o different ways i n w h i c h we can speak o f a 'vertical' dimension i n the fabric o f fiction. T h e first was the sense o f depths and heights, o f unseen presences above and below g r o u n d level w i t h i n the fictional w o r l d itself: a sense w h i c h the onedimensional novels o f one-dimensional men i n the contemporary era seem to have lost, partly t h r o u g h that process o f levelling w h i c h Lawrence thought o f as the reduction o f 'nature' to mere scenery. M u c h o f the space I have so far given to Lawrence and Joyce has been concerned w i t h examining the problems attaching to the recovery o f this lost vertical dimension. H o w e v e r , w h e n we come to the next generation o f novelists, and i n particular the t w o I have singled out for special m e n t i o n — E v e l y n W a u g h and Samuel Beckett—it is the other k i n d o f thread w h i c h seems to have been disturbed or broken: I mean the vertical relation between the w o r l d o f the fiction and the supervisory narrative direction given to i t b y the author himself, t h r o u g h the narrative voice i m p l i c i t i n the story. H o w this relation changes and develops o r even disintegrates i n response to the pressures o f the age we live i n , is the main focus o f interest o f these t w o sections, and what I have to say about the role o f metaphorical language i n these authors flows f r o m that p r i m a r y concern. I n the further cases o f RobbeGrillet and Mailer, m y emphasis is more or less the opposite. There I have concentrated u p o n the horizontal dimension, as i t comes to be embodied i n questions about the possibility o f a valid metaphorical language i n today's w o r l d , and the metaphysical commitments that such a language must inevitably entail. I f the w o r k o f W a u g h and Beckett seems to show, each i n its o w n way, that the o l d coherent relation between teller and tale, and more fundamentally the analogies u p o n w h i c h i t rested, no longer h o l d , i n the case o f Robbe-Grillet and Mailer the reverse side o f this collapse comes i n t o v i e w i n the con­ tradictions each seems to be presented w i t h as he either affirms or

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denies the v a l i d i t y o f metaphors w h i c h , i n any case, i f m y argument is v a l i d , cannot be sustained once the corresponding vertical axis has itself collapsed. E v e l y n W a u g h has often been t h o u g h t o f as a reactionary, a man w i t h a message. T r u e , his private religious commitments suggest a man whose sense o f m o r a l purpose is strong, even o v e r - p o w e r i n g . B u t W a u g h ' s novels, especially those o f the thirties are anti-moralistic: or so i t seems u n t i l w e d i g v e r y deep indeed i n t o them. W h a t is most s t r i k i n g about them is the scandalous absence o f moral discriminations. V i r t u e and vice, instead o f being inverted as i n m u c h satire, s i m p l y cancel each other out, i n a w o r l d where chaos seems to have come again. Metaphors are no longer able to bridge the metaphysical chasms. N o amount o f tender care can prevent everything f r o m being lost. T h i s being so, I t h i n k i t is best to t h i n k o f W a u g h as a comedian in the tradition o f w h i c h the purest representative is Sterne. I n this k i n d o f comedy—a comedy b o r n o f insecurity, n o t o f security—we find an imaginative habit o f m i n d w h i c h is rooted i n an o l d h a r m o n y that has been disrupted b u t n o t f o r g o t t e n . I n other w o r d s , like tragedy, such comedy comes from a disintegration w h i c h has n o t yet become a total loss. W a u g h ' s pugnacious, b a c k w a r d - l o o k i n g vision, o f w h i c h his Catholicism is o n l y one expression, is the k e y to his art because i t enables h i m to maintain contact w i t h a k i n d o f 'harmony' w h i c h , to more modern and liberal minds, seems l o n g since dead. W h e n , as i n W a u g h ' s novels, contact is lost w i t h those pedestrian realities w h i c h are the stuff o f ordinary experience, order itself becomes chaos b y the logic o f its o w n self-infatuation, the ' u n b r i d l i n g o f reason' to use Whitehead's phrase. But the loss o f contact w i t h the ordinary universe that we experience i n the novels rests u p o n the feeling that contact is being maintained b y the author himself: his o w n stance o f self-assurance about ultimate realities gives us a security behind w h i c h to enjoy the comic horrors. F o r the chaos i n W a u g h ' s w o r l d is n o t a romantic loss o f c o n t r o l , b u t a controlled and calculated loss. H i s comedy is o f limitations, i m p l y i n g the need for a sense o f due p r o p o r t i o n , a balance 1

2

See Jefferson, 'Tristram Shandy and its Tradition' in B . Ford (ed.), From Dryden to Johnson and his longer article, 'Tristram Shandy and the Tradition of Learned Wit' in Essays in Criticism, i (1951), pp. 225—48. Quoted in From Dryden to Johnson, pp. 3 3 4 - 5 . 1

2

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between the claims o f the m i n d and o f the emotions, over against the unbridled rationality o f a scientific age. B u t the balance i t pleads for is o n l y i m p l i e d — b y the scandal o f its absence i n the fictional w o r l d . W h a t we have i n the comedy itself is a delight i n destructiveness w h i c h comes t h r o u g h as a self-sufficiency, a concern for style, i n w h i c h morality, piety, even compassion seem to be mere irrelevancies. T h e rules o f decent behaviour, feeling and thought, w h i c h apply i n the real w o r l d , are here suspended, producing an art w h i c h is self-enclosed w i t h i n its o w n comic frame o f reference. T h e autotelic character o f this sort o f comedy, w h i c h gives i t a non-kinetic stasis o f the k i n d Stephen Hero pleaded for, is foreign to (say) comedy o f situation ( F i e l d i n g ) or comedy o f manners (Jane Austen). I t takes no responsibility for the outside w o r l d . I t is m o r a l l y neutral, even irresponsible to the p o i n t o f outrage, telling w i t h poker-face and dead pan accents o f moral and emotional enormities w h i c h , i n another context w o u l d be tasteless and grotesque. T h e m a i m i n g o f T r i s t r a m Shandy b y a falling w i n d o w is o n l y one notorious example o f this k i n d . I n the same t r a d i t i o n W . S. Gilbert can revel i n the punishments meted out b y the M i k a d o to pathetically vain ladies: 3

T h e lady w h o dies a chemical y e l l o w O r stains her grey hair puce O r pinches her figger Is blacked like a nigger W i t h permanent w a l n u t juice etc!

4

and P. G . Wodehouse can note, i n his n o n - c o m m i t t a l way, h o w one o f his characters 'groaned slightly and winced, like Prometheus w a t c h i n g his v u l t u r e d r o p p i n g i n for l u n c h ' ; w h i l e W a u g h himself can flatly i n f o r m us, o f the missionaries and ambassadors w h o came to Ishmaelia, 5

N o n e returned. T h e y were eaten, every one o f them; some raw, others stewed and seasoned—according to local usage and

the

calendar (for the better sort o f Ishmaelites have been Christian for many centuries, and w i l l not publicly eat human flesh, uncooked, i n Lent, w i t h o u t special and costly dispensation from their b i s h o p ) .

6

Tristram Shandy, vol. v, chap. 17. T h e Mikado's Song in Act I I . Quoted by Usborne, Wodehouse at Work, p. 194. Scoop, Bk. 2 , Chap. 1. A l l page numbers in Waugh's works refer to the Penguin editions. 3

4

5

6

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I t has been objected to passages i n W a u g h such as this that their satire fails because they do n o t offer any alternative m o r a l position to w h i c h appeal m i g h t be made. B u t surely Waugh's o w n p o i n t is correct: such w r i t i n g is n o t satire at all. H i s reason for saying this is that 'Satire is a matter o f period. I t flourishes i n a stable society, and presupposes homogeneous moral standards . . . I t has no place i n the century o f the C o m m o n M a n where vice no longer pays lip-service to v i r t u e ' . W h e t h e r W a u g h is historically r i g h t about satire is unimportant. W h a t matters is that his reasoning is a clue to his o w n art. W a u g h yearns for homogeneous moral standards, b u t is completely frank i n admitting that they no longer exist. Perhaps i t is because he faces the prospect o f disintegration w i t h such honesty that his fiction does n o t embody a disgusted reaction against m o d e r n life. ( I n this respect W a u g h is quite different f r o m H u x l e y . H u x l e y ' s w o r k is all either i n the satiric mode (Crome Yellow, Antic Hay) or i n the didactic {Eyeless in Ga^a, Time Must Have a Stop). H u x l e y lacks the dandyish ability to be irrespons­ ible, for all the indiscriminate learning w h i c h , given another tempera­ ment, m i g h t have made h i m a great learned-wit comedian.) I t is n o t disgust w i t h human civilisation that motivates W a u g h ' s comedy, b u t a sense o f its precariousness. W h e n w e l o o k closely at his books, especially the early ones, w e begin to understand h o w t h i n is the ice over w h i c h W a u g h , the comic narrator, skates so deftly, and w i t h such apparent ease and perfect t i m i n g . H i s artistic poise, or pose, is selfassured, b u t i t is a self-assurance b o r n , as w i t h Oscar W i l d e ' s dandies, o f a sense o f desperation. T h e self-assurance is largely self-assurance. F o r the dandy, like the revolutionary, is alienated f r o m his society. Bourgeois moral sanctions seem to h i m irrelevant. T h e proper response to civilisation's disintegration therefore is n o t action for the sake o f a better future, b u t the achievement o f a personal style b y w h i c h to repudiate the values w h i c h have led to the b r i n k o f disaster. F o r the dandy, style is everything: but the style is that o f the tight-rope walker, b o t h superior and precarious. A n y h i n t o f personal involvement i n the goings on that the dandy observes beneath h i m , i n the w o r l d o f 7

8

9

Graham Martin, 'Novelists of Three Decades' in B. Ford (ed.), The Modern Age, p. 396. Quoted by Stopp, Evelyn Waugh, pp. 194-5. O n Waugh as dandy, see Bradbury, Evelyn Waugh, p. 2. O n the dandy in Wilde see I . Gregor, 'Comedy and Oscar Wilde' in Sewanee Review, 74 (1966), 7

8

9

pp. 501-21.

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'Descartian vortices' beneath his feet, w o u l d be fatal to his poise. N o t h i n g must trammel his free intelligence; no conventional sense o f 'decency', no respect for h u r t feelings, no interest i n the solid w o r l d o f the ordinary man i n the street. T h e precariousness o f the dandy's style is expressed i n the risky, precarious nature o f his speech—that is to say, his command o f preposterous paradoxes. B u t he also has a sense o f the precariousness o f the w o r l d he inhabits. T h e dandy can o n l y be safe i n a w o r l d o f dandies; that is, a w o r l d o f pure play, an arbitrary w o r l d . O n l y a preposterous p l o t can match his sense o f the preposterousness o f life itself. Y e t the dandy provides at the same time a standard o f t r u t h , insight, intelligence, even o f other worldliness, b y w h i c h others are judged and found w a n t i n g . T h e dandy is more, n o t less aware than those around h i m , o f the vortices that l u r k beneath the feet o f those ordinary mortals w h o f o n d l y imagine they have solid earth to w a l k u p o n . H i s ability to move t h r o u g h 'the incertitude o f the v o i d ' comes, n o t f r o m an earthy commonsense like L e o p o l d Bloom's, b u t f r o m a brilliant and audacious defiance o f c o m m o n sense. T h e dandy is the embodiment o f reason unbridled i n a w o r l d o f seeming d u l l reasonableness. 1 0

Because o f his devotion to style, the bourgeois w o r l d judges the dandy to be m o r a l l y , politically and emotionally irresponsible. B u t the bourgeois w o r l d is w r o n g . T h e dandy exists to prove i t is w r o n g . H i s assertion o f the value o f a personal style is, i n fact, a k i n d o f moral responsibility. B y the outrageousness o f the figure he cuts, he makes himself into a m i r r o r b y w h i c h an irresponsible age can see itself t r u l y . I n a roundabout w a y , the dandy is moralist after all. H i s inability to live i n the real w o r l d shows up the real w o r l d for what i t is: an i n ­ tolerable place for real people to have to live i n . O n l y those w h o are l u c k y enough to be free o f the w o r l d ' s trammels can survive i n i t u n ­ scathed. Waugh's c o n t r i b u t i o n to the literature o f dandyism consists i n his development, n o t o f the dandyish character, but o f the dandyish narrator. I t comes out i n the special tone o f the early novels, and particularly i n the narrator's studied neutrality towards actions and attitudes w h i c h , b y ordinary decent standards, c r y out to be judged. T h i s refusal to judge, c o m i n g as i t does f r o m a recognition that the o n l y standards available f r o m the bourgeois w o r l d , b y w h i c h to make 10

Ulysses, p. 818.

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a judgement, are themselves irrredeemably corrupt, gives the early novels their scandalous and outrageous, b u t also their valuably i n ­ v i g o r a t i n g character. Waugh's first novel, Decline and Fall, shows the dandyish narrator in his scandalous garb from the v e r y outset. T h e v e r y first incident it records is the stoning to death o f a fox w i t h champagne-bottles b y a gang o f drunken aristocratic O x f o r d thugs: and the first moral response the narrator asks us to make is to go along w i t h his o w n gleeful enjoyment o f the fun; ' W h a t an evening that had been!' (p. 9) he exclaims, w i t h characteristic relish. T h e novel proceeds from there, taking its prevailing tone from that first salvo o f dandyish irrespon­ sibility. T h e novel depicts t w o kinds o f apparently irresistible barbarism, between w h i c h the flitting shadow o f civilisation, i n the shape o f Paul Pennyfeather, is tossed and tormented mercilessly. There is the p r i m i t i v e barbarism o f Grimes (a g r i m comment on Lawrence's 'greater morality o f life i t s e l f ) w h o is the life-force incarnate, and is 'singularly in harmony w i t h the p r i m i t i v e promptings o f h u m a n i t y ' (p. 35), and there is the over-sophisticated, mechanised barbarism o f O t t o Silenus, whose philosophy is Swiftian i n its loathing o f humanity.* F r o m the narrator's point o f view, there is n o t h i n g to choose between these t w o forms o f barbarism; their atrociousness is equally repugnant. But the t h i n g that strikes us most as we read the novel is Waugh's exuberance i n describing the antics o f b o t h sides. H e personally feels, strongly, the attractions o f moral anarchy, the life o f 'fun'. W h e n Silenus describes life as a huge mechanical wheel, w h i c h y o u can leap on to i f y o u w i s h , i n order to enjoy the thrills i t offers, or w h i c h y o u can simply watch amusedly as a detached observer (pp. 208-9), ^ ^ that he is expressing a philosophy that fascinates W a u g h himself. T h e narrator's scandalous neutrality between the crimes and atrocities o f the compet­ i n g barbarisms, even i n their most outrageous manifestations, seems to be simultaneously a gleeful contemplation o f gratuitous brutality and a defence against its implications for himself. Beneath the glee there is the horror. T h i s combination o f glee and h o r r o r is typical o f Waugh's early w o r k , and i t expresses his feeling that the w o r l d is m o v i n g i n 11

w

e

ee

'Grimes . . . was of the immortals. He was a life-force. Sentenced to death in Flanders, he popped up in Wales; drowned in Wales, he emerged in South America; engulfed in the dark mystery of Egdon Mire, he would rise again some­ where at some time, shaking from his limbs the musty integuments of the tomb . . .' (p. 199). 1 1

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exorably away f r o m order and civilisation—the civilisation o f K i n g s Thursday, where visitors m i g h t reflect ' h o w they seemed to have been privileged to step for an hour and a half out o f their o w n century, i n t o the leisurely prosaic life o f the English Renaissance' (p. 116), towards the mechanised barbarism o f Silenus's new creation, where the perfect buildings w i l l be factories, because they are built to house machines, not men. A s the title suggests, Waugh's is a ' w o r l d o n the wane', a w o r l d gripped b y the irresistible tide o f increasing entropy.* I n the face o f an imminent descent into barbarism, the o n l y sane attitude to adopt is that o f the dandy: a man w h o is n o t interested i n t r y i n g to communicate a message o f salvation or hope ( i t is already too late for any such messages) b u t i n using language to strike an attitude o f defiance, and to find a style that w i l l satisfy himself; a style w e l l made and lasting, as 'hard, b r i g h t and antiquated as a cuirass' {Ordeal of Gilbert Pinfold, p . 15). B y rejecting all attempts to communicate lastminute calls for action, i n favour o f creating something that is aes­ thetically self-sufficient and self-justifying, the dandy defies the process o f disintegration itself. F o r this disintegration is proceeding b y a remorseless levelling, the obliteration not o n l y o f that hierarchy o f values w h i c h is civilisation, but also o f any variety at all, the v e r y spice o f life. Under such conditions, communication itself o n l y contributes to the accelerating o f entropic decay. A r t for art's sake then takes o n an historical, even metaphysical, significance as the last line o f defence against irresistible collapse. T h e structure o f Waugh's fiction m i r r o r s the content. A s I have already said, the value o f narrative as a mode o f explanation depends u p o n its two-dimensional structure, its embodiment b o t h o f a syn­ tagmatic order, or plot, and o f a paradigmatic, vertical order w h i c h relates the fictional w o r l d to the real w o r l d , and the teller to the tale. W e have seen the consequences, i n Lawrence's fiction, o f t r y i n g to restore to an essentially tragic age a valid vertical dimension t h r o u g h the re-creation o f the concept o f unseen presences w i t h i n Nature. A n d we have seen the opposite, but complementary process i n Joyce's attempt to secularise and c o n t r o l an obsolete, but hypertrophied con­ cept o f sacral Nature, an over-developed vertical dimension, b y enclosing Nature w i t h i n the confines o f art. B u t W a u g h , i n a later generation, and perhaps confronted b y a more immediate threat o f disintegration, is unable to offer achievement on that scale. Y e t the structure o f his fiction is an eloquent testimony to his understanding o f

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the crisis he confronted. O n the vertical plane, the relation o f teller to tale i n Waugh's early fiction, as we have seen, is largely negative. T h e teller is conspicuous b y his scandalous policy o f non-intervention. I t is n o t that he is impersonal, merely 'paring his fingernails'. O n the contrary, he is very m u c h alive as a personal presence. But whatever view o f the w o r l d he, as author, holds is almost entirely unrelated to the real w o r l d that, as narrator, he finds himself forced to contemplate. A t the end o f Decline and Fall, when Paul Pennyfeather is back at O x f o r d studying theology, he attends a lecture i n w h i c h he hears about the heresies o f second-century Christianity. There was a bishop i n Bythinia, Paul learned, w h o had denied D i v i n i t y o f Christ, the i m m o r t a l i t y o f the soul, the existence g o o d , the legality o f marriage, and the v a l i d i t y o f the Sacrament Extreme U n c t i o n . H o w r i g h t they had been to condemn h i m !

the of of (p.

212)

T h e elegance o f this altogether characteristic touch o f Waugh's art lies i n its t i m i n g , at the end o f the hero's 'education' i n a school o f suffering and i n the studied ambiguity o f that 'learned'; i n its combina­ t i o n o f pugnacious logical consistency and the appearance o f calculated irrelevance. Has Paul learned nothing? we are inclined to ask ourselves. W e are lured i n t o w o n d e r i n g whether the remote academic subtleties o f second-century theological debate are not more important to Paul, even n o w , than the crimes o f the twentieth century i n w h i c h he has been personally i n v o l v e d . H i s academic fiddling while civilisation burns seems to be o n a par w i t h the rest o f his 'shadowy' nature—his ability to order a dinner i n creditable French, and see to luggage at foreign railway stations (p. 122): b o t h are expressions o f the shadowiness o f his 'civilisation', his incapacity to cope w i t h the reality o f modern barbarism. A n d yet, W a u g h makes us feel, a w o r l d i n w h i c h such things as the theology o f Extreme U n c t i o n are matters o f overwhelming importance, is somehow much more civilised, more t r u l y human, than the w o r l d we have been witnessing i n the novel itself. I n this sense Paul is r i g h t to see that more is to be gained from studying the past than f r o m i n v o l v i n g oneself i n the idiocies o f the modern w o r l d . T h e irrelevance o f the author's implicit private attitudes to the w o r l d he has revealed publicly to us is here so artfully placed that i t becomes more o f a judgement on that w o r l d than on the author himself. Waugh's art has made us feel that the author's stance o f pugnacious and anachron-

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istic concern w i t h the past is somehow more important than anything the modern w o r l d has to offer. Its outrageous irrelevance to the novel's w o r l d is its relevance, its responsibility to the real w o r l d . T h e studied irrelevance o f the author's opinions to the w o r l d he is describing is part o f that dandyish sense o f superiority that the t i g h t ­ rope-walking narrator i n Waugh's fiction constantly maintains i n the early novels. Poised above the chaotic w o r l d , he sees below h i m , perilously spread out, like the Waste Land typist's combinations, to catch the last rays o f civilisation's sun, the lengthening shadows o f European history. T h i s sense o f superiority, together w i t h the scanda­ lous absence o f authorial intervention i n the action, helps to emphasise the arbitrary and pointless character o f the actions that are g o i n g o n d o w n below. I n place o f an u n f o l d i n g o f cause and effect i n an intel­ ligible sequence, we find i n Waugh's fiction o n l y aimless disconnec­ tions, arbitrary turns o f event, the staccato inconsequential chatter o f idle layabouts. Paul's condemnation o f the Bishop i n Bythinia for his views o n marriage becomes relevant, precisely b y its startling i r ­ relevance to modern reality, when we overhear a conversation such as the f o l l o w i n g from Vile Bodies: ' D a r l i n g , I ' v e been so happy about y o u r telegram. Is i t really true?' ' N o , I ' m afraid n o t . ' ' T h e Major is bogus?' 'Yes.' ' Y o u haven't got any money?' 'No.' ' W e aren't g o i n g to be married today?' 'No.' ' I see.' 'Well?' ' I said, I see.' 'Is that all?" 'Yes, that's all, A d a m . ' ' I ' m sorry.' ' I ' m sorry too. Goodbye.' 'Goodbye.' (p. 183) H o w e v e r i t is not o n l y i n the idle conversations that the arbitrary pointlessness o f the w o r l d is manifested. W e find the same purposeless disconnected inconquentialities i n the w o r l d o f things, especially o f

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man-made things. ( N a t u r a l objects are i n rather a different case as we shall see.) Just as he refuses to allow his attitudes o r opinions to impinge i n any direct w a y u p o n the action, objects too, i n Waugh's w o r l d are left to their o w n devices. B u t , as Gulliver found i n his voyage to Laputa, things w i t h o u t words attached to them are meaningless. So too i n the w o r l d o f W a u g h objects left to their o w n devices are meaningless. I n the past, o f course, or i n m e m o r y a person's treasured things have meant something: Morgan le Fay had been his r o o m since he left the n i g h t nursery. . . He had taken n o t h i n g f r o m the r o o m since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that i t n o w formed a gallery rep­ resentative o f every phase o f his adolescence—the framed picture o f a dreadnought (a coloured supplement f r o m Chums'), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group o f his private school; a cabinet called 'the Museum' filled w i t h the fruits o f a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins . . . (A Handful of Dust, pp. 1 5 - 1 6 ) But to the person w h o is completely modern, and therefore free o f all ties o f 'language, history, habit or b e l i e f (Scoop, p . 7 5 ) things are quite simply broken images, w i t h — t o use Robbe-Grillet's phrase,— 'no cultural fringes': There was o n l y the colour o f the paint to choose and some few articles o f furniture. M r s Beaver had them ready for her inspection, a bed, a carpet, a dressing table and chair—there was not r o o m for more. M r s Beaver tried to sell her a set o f needlework pictures for the walls, b u t these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature w e i g h i n g machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set o f l o o k i n g glass and synthetic i v o r y , a set o f prettily b o u n d French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted i n a case o f Regency lacquer, all o f w h i c h had been grouped i n the shop for her as a 'suggestion'. (A Handful of Dust, p. 56) O r i f they have cultural fringes, these have been so detached from their origins that they are no longer intelligible: . . . mats made for prayer were strewn o n the divan; the carpet on the floor had been made i n Bokhara as a wall-covering; w h i l e over

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the dressing table was draped a shawl made i n Y o k o h a m a for sale to cruise passengers; an octagonal table from P o r t Said held a Tibetan Buddha o f pale soapstone; six i v o r y elephants from Bombay stood along the top o f the radiator . . . ( I b i d . , p . 114). A s one m i g h t expect f r o m a narrator o f such scrupulous detachment, there are very few metaphors i n Waugh's descriptions o f the modern w o r l d ' s artifacts; no verbal bridges are t h r o w n over metaphysical abysses. Y e t the abysses themselves are there: traps for the helpless victims to fall i n t o . T h e absence o f metaphors gives us the sense o f disjointedness, the absence o f any sense o f ordered Nature, that is the hall-mark o f Waugh's vision o f modernity. A n d i t is because modern man has interfered w i t h everything that the w o r l d is unintelligible, lacking i n depth and resonance; essentially superficial, like the hotel r o o m W i l l i a m B o o t finds himself i n when he goes to L o n d o n : T h e r o o m was large and faultless. A psychologist, hired from Cambridge, had planned the decorations—magenta and gamboge; colours w h i c h — i t had been demonstrated b y experiments o n p o u l t r y and mice—conduce to a m o o d o f dignified gaiety. E v e r y day carpets, curtains, and upholstery were inspected for signs o f dis­ repair. A gentle w h i n i n g note filled the apartment emanating f r o m a plant w h i c h was t h o u g h t to 'condition' the atmosphere. (Scoop, PP- 3 - 7 ) 6

But i f human interference has made everything unintelligible, this is because man has upset the balance o f Nature. T h a t is to say, w h i l e the things that modern man has made are essentially unintelligible, i n ­ capable o f being metaphorically humanised, the creatures o f the natural w o r l d , i f left to themselves, have all too obvious a meaning. T h e animal w o r l d , for example, is irremediably metaphorical because, whether man likes i t or not, animals mean something to h i m . I f he misuses them, then they fight back at him—as i n the case o f little John Last, i n A Handful of Dust, w h o is kicked to death b y a horse. Men and animals are connected, whether they like i t or not, b y natural bonds o f a radical k i n d . T h e y cannot get away from each other. I f man cannot establish a superiority to the animals, then he w i l l find himself reduced below them. F o r example, the o n l y characters i n A Handful of Dust w h o retain any k i n d o f d i g n i t y are those w h o remain superior to the animals, like Mrs Rattery ( w h o redirects the savagery o f the murderous

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horse into a game o f animal snap) and the impoverished but conven­ tionally decent relations w h o take over T o n y Last's estate at the end o f the n o v e l and tame the animals b y p u t t i n g them i n cages (pp. 111-13 and 221). Everyone else is reduced to l i v i n g i n a jungle: either the literal jungle o f M r T o d d ' s Brazilian hideout, or the metaphorical jungle o f L o n d o n 'society'. T h u s , the ordinary r u n o f modern people, according to Waugh's vision o f things, are patently inferior to animals, and they have to suffer, i f not death, then at least i n d i g n i t y at the hands o f the animals they cannnot c o n t r o l . I f the animals cannot be human­ ised, men w i l l be animalised: and the metaphorical language o f this transformation reveals itself at once w h e n this occurs. I n striking contrast to the studied absence o f metaphor i n the descriptions o f modern artifacts, we find a plethora o f metaphors i n the descriptions o f the animals modern men have reduced themselves to: T h e milch-goat looked up from her supper o f waste-paper; her perennial o p t i m i s m quickened w i t h i n her, and swelled to a great and mature confidence; all day she had shared the exhilaration o f the season, her pelt had g l o w e d under the n e w b o r n sun; deep i n her heart she too had made holiday, had cast off the doubts o f w i n t e r and exulted among the crimson flowers; all day she had dreamed gloriously; n o w i n the l i m p i d evening she gathered her strength, stood for a moment r i g i d , quivering from h o r n to tail; then charged, splendidly, irresistibly, triumphantly; the rope snapped and the welter-weight champion o f the A d v e n t i s t U n i v e r s i t y o f Alabama sprawled on his face amid the kitchen garbage. {Scoop, p . 153) I n Waugh's early novels, the metaphors, particularly those con­ cerned w i t h the w o r l d o f l i v i n g nature, are predominantly ironic, as i n the case just quoted. B y deliberately humanising Nature, W a u g h is equally deliberately showing the modern dehumanisation o f man. T h e things man has made, w h e n simply catalogued and left to speak for themselves, automatically come to symbolise the disconnectedness and meaninglessness o f the modern w o r l d they belong to: Waugh's unerr­ i n g eye for the modern sees to that. Nature, on the other hand, is m u c h more than a meaningless heap o f broken images (to use Eliot's Waste Land phrase). Indeed, i n A Handful of Dust the animal w o r l d is so important as a commentary on the human w o r l d that the novel almost becomes a totemic m y t h : we understand the meaning o f what is

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happening to the human beings b y watching the behaviour o f the animals. B y adopting so deliberately archaic a narrative technique, W a u g h seems to be i m p l y i n g something about the regressiveness o f the modern w o r l d itself, its natural tendency to revert f r o m oversophistication to sheer p r i m i t i v i s m , f r o m fiction to m y t h . However, d u r i n g the second w o r l d war, things changed for E v e l y n W a u g h . L i k e G u y Crouchback, he n o w had a cause to fight for. T h e change is registered most emphatically i n Brideshead Revisited, w r i t t e n as a reaction to the period o f 'soya beans and basic English' ( p . 7 ) . I n this novel Waugh's critical, i n v i g o r a t i n g poise o f neutrality above the abyss is lost: and the loss o f detachment is evident first o f all i n his language. I n particular, this novel shows W a u g h using metaphorical language i n a w h o l l y new, uncritical and unironic way. T h e deliber­ ately inflated absurdity o f the humanised animal i n Scoop, n o w becomes an ersatz poetry, a rhetoric cut o f f f r o m critical dandyish intelligence, i n Brideshead Revisited, where the w o r l d o f Nature, instead o f being either subject to o r superior to man, s i m p l y becomes the receptacle o f 'pathetically fallacious' feelings about the past: M y theme is memory, that w i n g e d host that soared about me one grey m o r n i n g o f war-time. These memories, w h i c h are m y life—for we possess n o t h i n g certainly except the past—were always w i t h me. L i k e the pigeons o f St Mark's, they were everywhere, under m y feet, singly, i n pairs, i n little honey-voiced congregations, n o d d i n g , strutting, w i n k i n g , r o l l i n g the tender feathers o f their necks, perching sometimes, i f I stood still, o n m y shoulder; u n t i l , suddenly, the n o o n gun boomed and i n a moment w i t h a flutter and sweep o f wings, the pavement was bare and the whole sky above dark w i t h a t u m u l t o f f o w l . T h u s i t was that m o r n i n g , (p. 215) I n passages such as this, Waugh's disturbingly metaphorical language tends to suggest a humanisation o f Nature that is also a capitulation to it. T h e hard, bright, antiquated refusal to be browbeaten b y the modern w o r l d has given w a y to a sense o f its tragedy: and what Robbe-Grillet says o f tragedy seems peculiarly apt for Brideshead Revisited, and its hero: 'Since the harmony between man and things has finally been denounced the humanist saves his empire b y immediately setting up a new f o r m o f solidarity, the divorce i n itself becoming a major road to

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redemption.' T h u s Ryder's tragedy 'becomes an ordeal where v i c t o r y consists i n being vanquished'. Even more disturbing to the balance o f the dandyish narrator's poise than Brideshead Revisited was the revealing inner agony described i n The Ordeal of Gilbert Pinfold, w r i t t e n almost as i f the tensions i n v o l v e d i n t r y i n g to be neutral i n a w o r l d that cried out for commitment on everyside had g r o w n too burdensome, and the moral pressures had burst the fictional vessel. F r o m that moment o n , i t seems that the ethical vacuum w h i c h i t was Waugh's greatest t r i u m p h to have anatomised b y an art o f scandalous non-intervention (an art w h i c h unerringly lighted u p o n the most telling images o f a decadent m o d e r n ­ i t y w i t h all the enthusiasm o f a dedicated symbolist) had sprung a small, b u t irreparable leak o f personal commitment. T h e closed universe o f the ' b r i g h t y o u n g things' had been fatally exposed to the w i n d s o f c o m m o n decency. T h e brilliant evocation o f the twentieth century's idiocies t h r o u g h the sharp, selective observation o f relevant details: 12

. . . T h e first to come were the H o n . Miles Malpractice and D a v i d Lennox, the photographer. T h e y emerged w i t h little shrieks f r o m an Edwardian electric brougham and made straight for the nearest l o o k i n g glass. (Decline and Fall, p. 128) T h e younger generation for the most part allowed their cases to be settled out o f court and later gave a very delightful party on the proceeds i n a captive dirigible . . . (Vile Bodies, p. 109) Later that afternoon, as she lay luxuriously o n the osteopath's table, and her vertebrae, under his strong fingers, snapped like patent fasteners, Brenda wondered whether Beaver w o u l d be at home that evening . . . (A Handful of Dust, pp. 4 1 - 2 ) subsided into a predictable list o f M r Pinfold's g r u m p y opinions: His strongest tastes were negative. He abhorred plastics, Picasso, sunbathing, and jazz—everything i n fact that had happened i n his o w n lifetime, ( p . 14) O f course, springing a m i n o r leak d i d not spell the end o f Waugh's fictional voyage: i t simply marked a change o f course. Nevertheless, even i n such a major w o r k o f fiction as the Trilogy the unlooked-for 12

Snapshots, p. 83.

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influx o f reality into the comic w o r l d t o o k its inevitable t o l l . Superb t h o u g h i t is as an evocation o f the farcicality o f modern war, the Trilogy is n o t farcical i n the o l d , scandalously neutral and therefore morally i n v i g o r a t i n g way. T h e trouble begins at the very outset i n Men at Arms, w i t h G u y Crouchback's disillusionment, n o t o n l y w i t h the modern w o r l d , but w i t h himself. T h e war provides h i m w i t h some­ thing to live for, a cause, a w a y o f ending eight years o f shame and loneliness b y offering up the loyalties w h i c h should have sustained h i m , loyalties above all to G o d , to c o u n t r y and to family: 'Whatever the outcome there was a place for h i m i n that battle.' (p. 13) T h i s opening suggests a commitment to seriousness o f a k i n d very familiar to the readers o f Brideshead Revisited. Guy's social position and antecedents—upper-class Catholic recusant—are v e r y similar to those o f the main characters i n that b o o k . Nevertheless the Trilogy is far less self-indulgent than the earlier war-novel and one o f the things that redeems i t is the fact that, ironically, G u y finds that at the end o f it all his place i n the battle has been quite unheroic. A s a moral challenge the war was a failure to h i m . A s a source o f sustaining loyalties, i t was worse. Guy's closest comrades are mostly incompetent fools and proven cowards. T h e actions i n w h i c h he takes part all exemplify the incompetence and b u n g l i n g w h i c h W a u g h sees as the bread and butter o f modern war. So Guy's commitment to seriousness is revealed as misplaced. H i s pretensions to be a successor o f the crusading Christian knights, to whose prayers he entrusts 'our endangered k i n g d o m ' as he sets out on his m i l i t a r y career, are cut d o w n cruelly to size b y the ignominious events w h i c h make u p 'his' war. T o this extent, then, the Trilogy is a far more poised and self-critical b o o k than Brideshead Revisited. O n the other hand, i t has little o f the audacity and verve o f Waugh's earlier dandyism. Instead the Trilogy presents us w i t h something new i n Waugh's fiction: an eloquent and l o v i n g portrait o f a w h o l l y g o o d man and a w h o l l y sympathetic character: namely Guy's father. I n the earlier books, including Brideshead Revisited and The Ordeal of Gilbert Pinfold, the Christian gentleman had been sub­ jected to a good deal o f fairly savage mockery. Waugh's emotional commitment to the m y t h o f a h i g h aristocratic civilisation embodied i n the ancient Catholic families o f England was usually held i n check b y his delight i n the m y t h ' s absurdity, its inconsistency, its sheer i r ­ relevance, as revealed b y the actual characters w h o had to carry the burden o f e m b o d y i n g i t . I n the Trilogy, however, the m y t h has been

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shorn o f its ancient g l o r y : W a u g h no longer seems to believe i n i t . Instead we are confronted b y a character w h o embodies w h a t is left o f it w i t h neither the o l d glamour nor the o l d absurdity. Guy's father is an unpretentious, t h o r o u g h l y likeable human being w i t h more than a touch o f genuine sanctity about h i m . W a u g h has succeeded i n m a k i n g a saint w h o is b o t h credible and sympathetic: b u t o n l y because the o l d p r o u d m y t h has been superseded b y a new, and genuine h u m i l i t y . N o t surprisingly, the new humanism o f the Trilogy has its effects u p o n the language. T h e style is no longer 'hard, b r i g h t and antiquated' like the language o f the earlier novels, and the eye for the telling detail is n o t so keen. I f some o f Waugh's outrageous nostalgia for the past has gone, so has our sense o f its i n v i g o r a t i n g n o n - c o n f o r m i t y . I t is interesting to compare the c o u n t r y houses o f H e t t o n and K i n g s T h u r s d a y i n the earlier novels, w i t h that o f the Campbells o f M u g g , i n Officers and Gentlemen. T o n y Last's love o f H e t t o n , w i t h its absurdly inefficient and fake medievalism, infinitely preferable t h o u g h i t be to the m o d e r n i t y o f the Beavers' L o n d o n apartments, is revealed for the semi-idiocy that i t is b y the narrator's self-conscious hyperbole: 'there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to T o n y ' s heart' {Handful of Dust, p. 14). B u t there is no such conscious­ ness, and hence no such covert i r o n y , about the description o f the great hall o f M u g g . I n the later novel, the description is b o t h fairer and more undistinguished, less inhumane and less interesting, more like a g o o d average novelist's w o r k , less like Waugh's: A candelabrum, consisting o f concentric and d i m i n i s h i n g circles o f tarnished brass, h u n g f r o m the rafters. A dozen or so o f the number­ less cluster o f electric bulbs were alight, disclosing the d i m presence o f a large circular dinner table. R o u n d the chimney piece, whose armorial decorations were obscured b y smoke, the baronial severity o f the rest o f the furniture was mitigated b y a group o f chairs clothed i n stained and faded chintz. Everywhere else were granite, pitch-pine, tartan and objects o f furniture constructed o f antlers . . . (p. 60) T h r o u g h o u t the Trilogy there is a tendency for this humanisation o f the environment—that is, for the reinstatement o f N a t u r e — t o make the w h o l e fictional w o r l d more reassuring, more compliant to the v a n i t y o f human wishes, more open to redemption than i n the earlier w o r k . I n the Trilogy, things are no longer symbols o f an irredeemable

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meaninglessness: they become vehicles o f meaning. (Even the war is more meaningful, more purposeful, despite its farcical aspects, than the pointless antics o f the ' b r i g h t y o u n g things' o f the early novels.) T h u s , w h e n i n Unconditional Surrender o l d M r Crouchback's personal effects are being collected together to be sold after his death, they appear to G u y n o t as a heap o f broken images, n o r as fallacious and pathetic vehicles o f nostalgic sentiment, b u t simply as the l i v i n g record o f a g o o d man's life: T h e brass bedstead, the triangular wash-hand stand, the prie-dieu, the leather sofa, the object k n o w n to the trade as a 'club fender' o f heavy brass upholstered o n the top w i t h t u r k e y carpet, the mahogany desk, the b o o k case full o f o l d favourites, a few chairs, the tobacco jar bearing the arms o f N e w College, bought b y M r Crouchback w h e n he was a freshman, the fine i v o r y crucifix, the framed p h o t o ­ graphs . . . these were what M r Crouchback had chosen from his dressing-room and f r o m the s m o k i n g r o o m at Broome to furnish the n a r r o w quarters o f his retreat, (p. 7 1 ) W e have here a new tone i n Waugh's attitude to things. I n the early novels, objects existed either to m i r r o r human idiocy i n the present or to recall an irredeemably lost past. B u t here we see h o w things can be humanised even i n the m o d e m w o r l d , even i n war-time. O l d M r Crouchback's d i g n i t y has dignified his things, b y the touch o f his o w n humanity. T h e w o r l d o f objects is not, then, irredeemable after all. Even human artifacts can be given meaning. A s I have said before, i n the early novels we have a narrator whose voice betrays, i n r o u g h l y equal proportions, as he surveys the doomed w o r l d below h i m , b o t h glee and h o r r o r . B u t i n the Trilogy, the glee and the h o r r o r have b o t h vanished: for they depended u p o n the narrator's dandyish, lofty poise above the abysses o f modernity, his refusal to take part i n the w o r l d ' s madness, or to judge its actions i n its o w n corrupt terms. B u t n o w , the narrator is involved; he has a cause; he has intervened. T h e war is neither a spectacle for gleeful exuberance and outrageous neutrality, n o r for horrified and appalled detachment. I t demands participation. I t is certainly a farce and certainly a tragedy; but above i t is the epitome o f human nature at its best and at its worst. Flesh and b l o o d are o f its key essence, civilisation—'our endangered k i n g d o m ' — i s at stake i n i t . I t has toppled the dandy from his superior position above the fray: there is no alternative left but to j o i n i n .

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But the dandy has n o t just been toppled; he has been made superflous. O l d M r Crouchback makes redundant the dandy's precarious poise over metaphysical abysses. F o r h i m the 'Descartian vortices' are no threat: he has, i n a real sense, 'overcome the w o r l d ' o f W a u g h . But i n d o i n g so he has also undermined what was most valuable i n i t ; namely the sense o f a universal insecurity that attended the business o f being alive, and o f the impossibility o f attaining any d i g n i t y i n the M o d e r n A g e . These features o f Waugh's earlier vision could o n l y be presented i n a fiction that stood w h o l l y apart from commonplace reality, i n an autonomous w o r l d o f fantasy and farce, dominated b y a dandyish contempt for conventional morality, order and reason. I n creating o l d M r Crouchback ( n o t to m e n t i o n other elements i n the Trilogy w h i c h I have no space to discuss here) W a u g h sacrifices the autonomy o f the dandy for a moral universe that has direct relevance to the real w o r l d . T h e comic decline and fall o f the Christian gentleman, i n the shape o f Paul Pennyfeather, has here been 'tragified' b y the appearance o f a character w h o bridges the g u l f between life and art and thus turns fantasy into something like fact, w i t h all the heartbreak that such a transformation entails. T h e Trilogy is a comedy that is p r o f o u n d l y shot t h r o u g h w i t h tragic meanings. F r o m the stasis o f the earlier, brittle and brilliant w o r k s o f perfect poise and almost inhuman precision, W a u g h has m o v e d i n the Trilogy towards a kinetic art o f moral compassion and understanding, a 'comedie humaine'. I n d o i n g so, he has i n a sense re­ established one o f the 'vertical' threads o f narrative: that w h i c h links an intelligible fictional w o r l d w i t h the m o r a l personality o f the narrator. Y e t i t was just the absence o f such a l i n k , indeed the scandalous fracture o f all such links, w h i c h made the early novels such evocative expressions o f contemporary moral chaos. I f i t is one implication o f m y general argument that we need to reestablish the vertical dimension i n narrative, i t is another that we need to recognise that the enterprise must begin b y acknowledging the depth o f the contemporary u n ­ yielding despair w h i c h is the starting p o i n t o f any modern and free man's search for something to worship.

8 Beckett and the Death o f the God-Narrator W e have seen h o w , i n Joyce and i n E v e l y n W a u g h , the poise o f the comic narrator, perilously perched as he is over the terrors o f the v o i d , the 'Descartian vortices', has served the twentieth century as a k i n d o f last-ditch defence against metaphysical monsters. I n the w o r k o f Samuel Beckett we are privileged to watch what happens when this poise is lost. A s we move from the w o r l d o f Belacqua and M u r p h y to the w o r l d o f Malone and T h e Unnamable, and beyond h i m to the w o r l d o f The Lost Ones, we see rational man falling over the abyss and into the incertitude o f the unfathomable v o i d , shouting stories to 'calm' himself d u r i n g his eternal f a l l . 1

A study o f Beckett's w o r k seems to me to lead to the f o l l o w i n g conclusion: that the progressive disappearance o f the reassuringly sane and rational narrative voice inevitably involves an equally progressive deterioration o f the w o r l d i n t o chaos. W h e n the warp o f the fabric is loosened from the frame o f the l o o m , the texture o f the material universe, the patterns w h i c h we had hitherto been able to discern i n i t , are lost to view. T h e separate colours merge i n t o a u n i f o r m greyness, outlines dissolve. I t is true that i n the plays o f his 'middle p e r i o d ' — i f we can thus speak o f a w r i t e r still actively at w o r k — t h e r e is a certain recovery o f intelligible order and pattern, resulting from the very nature o f the theatrical experience. But i n the latest short pieces, the disintegration seems to have progressed even beyond that w h i c h was envisaged at the end o f The Unnamable. I n Beckett's first major w o r k , Murphy, a 'rational' comedy o f very learned w i t , the rationalism that is mocked is that o f Cartesianism 2

See The Calmative, in No's Knife, pp. 25—42. A calmative is of course a sedative, or pain-killer. All page numbers refer to the appropriate English editions of Beckett's works. See above, p. 152, note 1. 1

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taken to its 'logical' conclusion i n the arbitrary occasionalism o f Geulincx. Geulincx is obviously the k i n d o f thinker whose rationalism leads to absurdity. H e is a natural b u t t for learned w i t . But for Beckett there is more to the Cartesian heritage than Geulincx. There is also Pascal. A n d for Pascal, the Cartesian philosophy is n o t o n l y the apotheosis o f reason, i t is also the apotheosis o f a tragic humanism. Pascal exposes, as no one else can, the depth and the terror o f the vortices that l u r k beneath the feet o f any p r o f o u n d Cartesian thinker. Reason, for Pascal, leads to insoluble problems because, i n its Cartesian f o r m , i t establishes radical discontinuities and metaphysical gulfs that cannot be bridged: between m i n d and b o d y , man and the external w o r l d , cause and effect. I n each case, rational analysis leads to intolerable deadlock. F o r Pascal the impasse is tragic because (he insists) we k n o w i n our hearts that the deadlock must be overcome. I f the G o d o f the Philosophers leads us to the b r i n k o f the abyss, the G o d o f Religion offers us the faith to leap over i t to the other side. I f Beckett owes the comic element i n his early w o r k to a learned w i t w h i c h is applied to the Geulincxian absurdi­ ties, he owes the tragic element i n i t to Pascal's uncompromising i n ­ sights. I n Murphy the paradoxes generated b y the unbridled rationalism o f the Cartesian tradition—such as M u r p h y ' s inability to overcome his body's desire for Celia despite the supposedly ' b o d y t i g h t ' nature o f his m i n d , or his resort to astrology as the 'logical' extension o f Geulincx's philosophy o f cosmic co-incidences—are presented against the p u l l o f a countervailing commonsense. T h e b o o k does not contain sentiment, i n Sterne's sense, o r Joyce's feeling f o r the ordinary: but w e do find the implicit critical authority o f a narrator w h o is n o t identified w i t h M u r p h y himself and w h o remains above and apart f r o m the action. T h i s narrator is constantly interposing himself between the reader and the characters, b y g i v i n g us information to w h i c h the characters do not have access. F o r example i n Chapter Six, he tells us, objectively and authoritatively, facts about the nature and content o f M u r p h y ' s m i n d w h i c h could n o t be given i n any other w a y . H e also provides us w i t h details o f M u r p h y ' s earliest moments to w h i c h M u r p h y himself has no access (p. 52). I n this w a y the i m p l i c i t omniscient narrator sets up a standard b y w h i c h we can judge the 'unbridled rationalism' o f the characters for what i t is. H e represents a reassuring standard o f sanity against w h i c h we can evaluate the absurd thoughts and behaviour o f the characters. T h e fact that their irrational rational-

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ism can be controlled, and p u t to aesthetically effective ends, is itself an insurance against apparent anarchy. T h e narrator's v e r y stance o f reticent intervention, standing back and letting the lunacy o f the action proceed for the most part unimpeded according to its o w n remorseless logic, is itself a sign o f his (and hence o f o u r ) confidence that things w i l l n o t be allowed to get completely out o f hand. A l t h o u g h Watt too is organised for us b y an i m p l i c i t omniscient narrator w h o has authoritative information for the reader, what he tells us is a g o o d deal less reliable and reassuring than i n Murphy. I f M u r p h y is still recognisably a citizen o f the w o r l d , W a t t is certainly an o u t ­ cast. T h u s the things that M u r p h y loathed about life were limited and, in a sense, manageable: such as his o w n b o d y , or the need to w o r k . W a t t ' s predicament is much bleaker and more total: ' I f there were t w o things that W a t t loathed, one was the earth, the other was the sky' (p. 34). M u r p h y has dealings w i t h a large number o f real, i f crazy people; but W a t t ' s dealings are w i t h unrealities, w i t h mere negations like M r K n o t t and his shadowy servants. M u r p h y keeps his balance o n the tight-rope o f life—just. W a t t , i t m i g h t be said, is a man i n the act o f falling f r o m the comic poise i n t o the metaphysical abyss. I f his chronicle is a comedy, i t is comedy o f a desperate k i n d . T h e rationalism i t mocks is purer, b u t less substantial than that o f Murphy. T h e mathematics o f irrational numbers has replaced the m i n d - b o d y p r o b l e m as the submerged r o c k u p o n w h i c h the hero's quest for his o w n i d e n t i t y founders. A l t h o u g h the omniscient narrator begins his b o o k w i t h an engaging show o f knowledge about the w o r l d we are to be led i n t o and the characters we are i n v i t e d to meet, the w h o l e i n t r o d u c t i o n leads us o n l y i n t o a cul-de-sac: 3

M r Hackett turned the corner and saw, i n the failing light, at some little distance, his seat. I t seemed to be occupied. T h i s seat, the property v e r y l i k e l y o f the municipality, or o f the public, was o f course not his, b u t he thought o f i t as his. T h i s was M r Hackett's attitude towards things that pleased h i m . . . (p. 5) — a n d this promising start to a story about M r Hackett peters out. M r Hackett and his acquaintances disappear after a few pages, never to return. Meanwhile the b o o k proceeds, w i t h o u t regrets, i n quite a different direction. T h e narrator attempts no explanation for this 3

See Fletcher, Novels of Samuel Beckett, p. 35.

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arbitrary change o f course; not even the 'absurd' k i n d o f explanation that a comedian i n the learned w i t tradition m i g h t have been expected to give. T h u s he establishes himself as a m u c h less reassuring personality than the narrator o f Murphy. I n Watt the narrator cannot stop Arsene's 'short statement' f r o m t u r n i n g i n t o a tedious and erratic monologue o f twenty-five uninterrupted pages (pp. 37-62). H e cannot supply the information that is necessary to complete some o f his o w n anecdotes (p. 99). H e occasionally says K n o t t when he means W a t t and has to correct himself (p. 113); and he contradicts himself i n his o w n footnotes on matters o f simple fact (pp. 100-1). Despite being W a t t ' s 'mouthpiece' (p. 66) he is obviously not i n c o n t r o l o f his o w n narrative, and cannot supply that implicit standard o f commonsense w h i c h , i n Murphy, reassured the reader that the comic poise w o u l d , i f o n l y precariously, be maintained. I t is n o t surprising to find that after Watt Beckett's fiction manages w i t h o u t the, b y n o w dubious, benefit o f an authoritative narrative voice altogether. F r o m the three nouvelles, The Expelled, The Calmative and The End,*' t h r o u g h the ' T r i l o g y ' (Molloy, Malone Dies, The Unnamable) to the Texts for Nothing there is a steady development o f the monologue f o r m . T h e origins o f the f o r m are, perhaps, to be found i n Arsene's 'short statement' i n Watt, b u t i n the three nouvelles the Beckettian hero as T takes over completely. I t is not u n t i l the appear­ ance o f Waiting for Godot that any k i n d o f 'dialogue', whether between characters or between character and narrator, reappears i n Beckett's w o r k . T h e significance o f the monologue is that i n i t we are confronted b y a one-dimensional narrative f o r m . T h e elimination o f the narrative voice means the apparent elimination o f artistic organisation. T h e speaking voice w h o addresses the reader from wherever he finds h i m ­ self—perhaps from some place he has just been t h r o w n out of, as i n The Expelled, or from the prison o f his bedroom as i n Malone Dies— is simply recollecting his o w n past. I n d o i n g this, o f course, he is p u t t i n g i t into narrative form: m a k i n g up that p r i m i t i v e story w h i c h is the retracing o f the past i n m e m o r y . But, to use E . M . Forster's distinction, his story can hardly be called a plot; i t is no more than 'the chopped-off length o f the tape-worm o f t i m e ' . A n d plot, after all, is the novelist's business. T h e difference between story and plot is the 5

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English versions in No's Knife. English versions in No's See Crites, pp. 301 ff. (This work is cited above in Chap. 2, n. 17.) 5

Aspects of the Novel, p. 93.

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difference between 'the k i n g died and then the queen died', and 'the k i n g died and then the queen died o f g r i e f ' . A n d this difference can be b r o u g h t about o n l y because the narrator has 'access to self-communings and f r o m that level he can descend even deeper and peer i n t o the sub­ 8

conscious'. Beckett's monologues eliminate the possibility o f this descent i n t o the private life o f a character—that life o f w h i c h he is himself unaware, but to w h i c h the narrator has the privileged access o f a creator. (Forster says that a novel i n w h i c h story replaces p l o t 'ought to have been a p l a y ' : and i t is no accident that Beckett's monologues, even i n the prose narratives o f the Texts for Nothing and the ' T r i l o g y ' , read very m u c h like the monologues to be found i n the plays. T h e y are best heard, rather than r e a d . ) T h e elimination o f the vertical d i ­ mension o f narrative—the dimension o f depth w h i c h makes possible the descent i n t o the character's subconsious—means also, as Forster sees, the elimination o f that causal connectedness w h i c h is the essence o f p l o t , the horizontal dimension o f narrative art. T h e Beckett speaker cannot keep his m i n d o n one t h i n g for l o n g . T h e logic o f his 'story' is n o t that o f causality, b u t o f mere association. Sometimes even the speaker's o w n name changes, inexplicably, f r o m episode to episode. B u t to say 'inexplicably' is itself to misunderstand Beckett, for there is n o t h i n g to explain. E v e r y t h i n g is on the surface, open to inspection i n the w o r d s on the page: there is no sub-conscious because there is no dimension o f depth. Beckett, like R o b b e - G r i l l e t , refuses to be a vulgar fictional speleologist, g i v i n g his readers the cheap t h r i l l o f exploring his characters i n order to b r i n g to l i g h t some dark disturbing secrets. One i m p o r t a n t consequence o f displacing the narrator's voice is that the novels cease to be comedies i n any recognisable sense o f the term, t h o u g h local patches o f bitter and sardonic w i t still remain. I t is an important fact about the k i n d o f comedy that the earlier Beckett novels represented, that there should be some i m p l i c i t standard o f rational 9

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Ibid. Ibid., p. 92. Ibid., p. 93. T h e recordings by the late Frank McGowran make this very clear. In Malone Dies, Malone is first called Saposcat (Trilogy, p. 187) even before he is called Malone (p. 223). By p. 230 he has become McCann. Page numbers in Malone Dies, Molloy and The Unnamable refer to the single volume edition; henceforth 'Trilogy'. 8

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control against w h i c h to assess the absurdity o f the comic action. Beckett's early comedy involves a detached narrator w h o coolly manipulates things i n favour o f himself and his jokes, whose authority is assumed at the expense o f any sympathy we m i g h t otherwise feel for his characters, and whose total c o n t r o l o f the material is i n complete contrast w i t h the lack o f c o n t r o l o f their destinies evident among the characters themselves. T h e apparently unbridled rationalism that we see w i t h i n the action is, i n fact, checked b y the narrator's rein and w h i p . So naturally, when the narrator falls, the rationalist horse bolts. I n the nouvelles and the ' T r i l o g y ' , the Cartesian/Pascalian deadlock takes over completely, so that these w o r k s cease to be self-contained comedies o f learned w i t and t u r n into philosophical explorations o f man's tragic predicament. A l l the metaphysical abysses that rationalism opened up y a w n w i d e to swallow the 'hero', and there is no comic poise to save h i m from being engulfed. T h e relation o f b o d y to m i n d , o f conscious­ ness to its objects, o f cause to effect, o f time to eternity are still pressingly problematic, still central to the hero's quest for identity, security, peace, heaven. But they are n o w n o t o n l y insoluble: they are not even funny, except b y accident. Instead o f receiving a narrator's invitation to v i e w the spectacle o f a c l o w n like M u r p h y 'seeking the best o f h i m s e l f (p. 52) the reader is n o w d r a w n into the hero's o w n situation, identified w i t h an archetypal T whose predicament is essentially that o f Pascal's everyman, lodged i n 'this little dungeon . . . I mean the universe': 14

W e are floating i n a m e d i u m o f vast extent, always drifting u n ­ certainly, b l o w n to and fro; whenever we t h i n k we have a fixed p o i n t to w h i c h we can cling and make fast, i t shifts and leaves us behind; i f we f o l l o w i t , i t eludes our grasp, slips away and flees eternally before us. N o t h i n g stands still for us. T h i s is our natural state and yet the state most contrary to out inclinations. W e b u r n w i t h a desire to find a firm footing, an ultimate lasting base o n w h i c h to b u i l d a tower rising up to infinity, but our w h o l e foundation cracks and the earth opens up into the depth o f the abyss. (Pensees, p . 92) See for example, the description of Murphy after the upset of his rocking chair: 'Murphy was as last heard of, with this difference however, that the rocking chair was now on top. Thus inverted his only direct contact with the floor was that made by his face, which was ground against it. . . Only the most local move­ ments were possible, a licking of the lips, a turning of the other cheek to the dust, and so on. Blood gushed from his nose.' (p. 23) 1 4

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Pascal's vision is also that o f Beckett. T h e Pascalian predicament is also the predicament o f M o l l o y and M o r a n , Malone and the Unnamable, the T o f the nouvelles and the Texts for Nothing. T h e o n l y difference between Pascal's man and Beckett's is that, for the one, there is just one source o f h o p e — G o d : the G o d o f A b r a h a m , Isaac and Jacob— whereas for the other there is none. V e r y likely Beckett w o u l d agree w i t h M o t h e r Angelique de Sainte-Madeleine i n d r a w i n g comfort f r o m St Augustine's saying: ' H e w h o is not satisfied w i t h G o d alone as a witness o f his actions is too a m b i t i o u s ' . Certainly his heroes are n o t too ambitious. M o l l o y ' s 'ambition' is to suck all o f his sixteen stones equally often i n due order ( ' T r i l o g y ' , pp. 69ft), MacCann's to be a good road-sweeper ( i b i d . , p. 245), Mahood's regularly to receive the 'spiritual nourishment' o f clear and simple things, like the invariable gravy supplied b y the restaurant outside w h i c h he sits i n his jar ( i b i d . , p. 331). B u t even these petty ambitions are denied. G o d cannot deliver even these p u n y helps. 16

A s I have said the progressive disappearance o f the narrator i n Beckett's fiction involves the progressive disappearance o f the plot. I n the end the Beckett hero is not a character i n a story b u t a person, or rather a voice, whose existence is guaranteed o n l y t h r o u g h the stories he tells h i m s e l f . I n Molloy, admittedly, there are still the bare elements o f a recognisable landscape w i t h figures. M o l l o y and M o r a n exist i n a certain k i n d o f fictional time; they have different names, they are distinct 'characters'. B u t i n Malone Dies the various names (Saposcat, Macmann etc.) are patently the speaker's o w n inventions, mere persona for himself. Even 'Malone' is o n l y 'what I am called n o w ' ( ' T r i l o g y ' , p. 221) and has no absolute authority as a name g i v i n g permanent identity. A l t h o u g h 'Malone' lives i n a certain place—he is i n bed, i n a r o o m , w i t h his little heap o f possessions—neither time n o r place are clearly or consistently established. T h e temporal dimension o f the b o o k exists less i n the events w h i c h occur to Malone as i n the stories he i n ­ vents i n order to create a temporal dimension for himself. T h e stories exist to break u p an endless time, w i t h o u t beginning or terminus, i n w h i c h Malone seems to be caught. T h e collapse o f plot into mere story inevitably means the collapse o f the fictional ' w o r l d ' into a mere heap o f b r o k e n images. W i t h The Unnamable these t w i n losses are more 16

Quoted in Goldmann, Epigraph to Part 1. T h e reduction of the character to the voice, or mere speaking mouth, is brilliantly dramatised in the recent play, Not I. 1 5

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apparent than ever before i n Beckett's w o r k . * Even Malone's story­ telling resource, w i t h its function o f creating a k i n d o f time-sequence in w h i c h Malone can t r y to live, has n o w collapsed. N o t o n l y is the narrative voice n o w totally anonymous, indeed is n o t h i n g b u t a function o f the w o r d s i t utters, b u t these w o r d s make no pretence at being stories. Malone at least began w i t h a plan: W h i l e w a i t i n g , I shall tell myself stories, i f I can . . . I t h i n k I shall be able to tell myself four stories, each one o n a different theme. O n e about a man, another about a w o m a n , a t h i r d about a t h i n g and finally one about an animal, a b i r d probably. ( I b i d . , 1 8 0 - 1 ) But the Unnamable has lost all sense o f a time i n w h i c h such a plan m i g h t be conceived, all sense o f a self about w h i c h to speak: T h e fact w o u l d seem to be, i f i n m y situation one may speak o f facts, n o t o n l y that I shall have to speak o f things o f w h i c h I cannot speak, b u t also, w h i c h is even more interesting, b u t also that I , w h i c h is i f possible even more interesting, that I shall have t o , I forget, no matter. A n d at the same time I am obliged to speak. I shall never be silent. Never. ( I b i d . , p. 2 9 4 ) For the Unnamable, to speak is to exist. W o r d s , any w o r d s , are defence against annihilation, and annihilation, even t h o u g h i t w o u l d be welcome, is alas impossible. F o r the Unnamable is already dead, and death has made no difference. Therefore he is compelled to speak, h o w ­ ever nonsensically, for ever: y o u must say w o r d s , as l o n g as there are any, u n t i l they find me, u n t i l they say me, strange pain, strange sin, y o u must go on, perhaps it's done already, perhaps they have said me already, perhaps they have carried me to the threshold o f m y story, before the door that opens on m y story, that w o u l d surprise me, i f i t opens, i t w i l l be I , it w i l l be the silence, where I am, I d o n ' t k n o w , I ' l l never k n o w , i n the silence y o u d o n ' t k n o w , y o u must go o n , I can't go o n , I ' l l go on. ( I b i d . , p . 4 1 8 ) I n more familiar kinds o f novel, the story constitutes its o w n time, its o w n w o r l d , w h i c h w e recognise as a metaphor for the real w o r l d and real time. T h e i m p l i c i t authorial voice creates a fictional time and space and places characters w i t h i n i t . B u t i n Beckett's t r i l o g y there is no such fictional

structure, no w o r l d b r o u g h t i n t o being b y the narrative

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creator. O n the contrary, there is only a voice speaking to us from 'this little dungeon . . . I mean the universe'. A n d since this infinite vastness has to be filled somehow, given some k i n d o f intelligible structure i n order to accommodate the hero's unquenchable thirst for meaning, there is o n l y one t h i n g to be done i n i t : to tell stories, to turn reality itself into a fiction. Instead o f the fictional w o r l d being an illuminating metaphor for a potentially intelligible reality, a m i r r o r held up to nature, reality is n o w literally n o t h i n g u n t i l i t has been made into some­ t h i n g , given a content and a structure, b y the fictions that those w h o live i n i t tell because, like The Calmative, they are too frightened to listen to themselves r o t t i n g , 'waiting for the great red lapses o f the heart, the tearing at the caecal walls, and for the slow killings to finish i n [the] skull, the assaults o n unshakeable pillars, the fornications w i t h corpses' (No's Knife, p . 25). F o r Beckett reality i n itself is n o t h i n g because it is, quite literally, a contradiction i n terms. Just as a net may be described as a set o f holes tied together w i t h string, so the Beckett universe is a set o f contradictions tied together b y the concepts o f postCartesian reason, a 'matrix o f surds' (Murphy, p . 79). I n such a w o r l d , there can be no comedy, let alone o f learned w i t ; for there is no meaning except that w h i c h man can invent. Y e t meaning is o f its nature maior ends quam ens, more genitive than nominative: i t depends o n there be­ i n g that o f w h i c h i t is the meaning. I t entails a dialogue between m i n d and object, between man and the w o r l d he confronts. I f there is no such w o r l d and no such dialogue, then even the invention o f meaning t h r o u g h the telling o f stories becomes impossible, itself a contradiction i n terms. A s Beckett put i t i n 1956, ' I n the last b o o k , L'Innomable, there's complete disintegration. N o T , no 'have', n o 'being'. N o nominative, no accusative, no verb. There's no w a y to go o n . ' However, b y the time The Unnamable was w r i t t e n , Waiting for Godot was also finished; and w i t h i t a w a y to go on was found. W h a t the drama provided, unlike a story-teller's monologue, was a recog­ nisable scenario, and above all an audience. T h e T r i l o g y ' s m o n o ­ logues hardly implied even a reader: they certainly make excessive demands upon any reader's attention. B u t the drama implies a dialogue o f author and audience. T h e audience i n effect constitutes just that element o f commonsense w h i c h is necessary to the comedy o f u n ­ bridled rationalism. I f there is no longer a presiding narrator whose 1 7

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Quoted by Fletcher, Novels of Samuel Beckett, p. 194.

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presence ensures a standard o f rational control, there is n o w , i n Beckett's plays, an equivalent standard set b y the expectations o f theatre-goers. Against them, the absurdities o f comedy can once more be set up. Further more, the stage becomes a w o r l d apart, a place where 'charac­ ters' live and move and have their being, i n a special temporal and spatial dimension. T h e hero is not imprisoned i n 'this little dungeon . . . I mean the universe': he is imprisoned, first o f all, i n a particular place, a particular time, a particular self. O f course, ' A c o u n t r y road. A tree. E v e n i n g ' is n o t exactly explicit as stage directions go ( A c t i ) . B u t a country road is n o t the universe, and ' N e x t day. Same time. Same place', especially when we see four o r five leaves o n the tree, is not the same, b u t recognisably different ( A c t 2 ) . Estragon is n o t V l a d i m i r , Pozzo is n o t L u c k y . T h e endless m o n o t o n y o f Waiting for Godot, or Happy Days, is achieved b y playing u p o n the assumptions o f the audience (solid, middle-class assumptions) that the stage is not the place where they, the audience, live ( i t is not the universe) but is a special, fictional w o r l d inhabited b y fictional characters. T h a t i t can be so little differen­ tiated, so little specified, apparently so universal is because, as a stage, i t is already constituted as a place apart, the locus o f a fictional time and space. A n d furthermore, the cycle o f repeated performances counterpoints, and thus emphasises the linear time o f the play itself; its inexorable thrusting towards an unattainable e x t i n c t i o n . Because the drama depends u p o n the v e r y strong sense o f beginning and end w h i c h is engendered b y the audience's c o m i n g for an evening's entertainment (a sense o f beginning and end m u c h stronger than that engendered b y the intermittent p i c k i n g up and leaving aside w h i c h is the n o r m a l experience o f reading a substantial novel), i t is all the more effective as a m e d i u m for expressing the m o n o t o n y o f an endless temporal extension. Because the theatrical conventions tell so strongly i n favour o f a limited time and a limited place, the slightest gesture o f affront to them w i l l make a significant impact. Hence the four or five leaves o n the tree i n Waiting for Godot, the difference between burial up to the armpits and burial up to the neck i n Happy Days. T h u s b y taking the bourgeois theatre audience into his confidence, Beckett once more made contact w i t h a reality w h i c h was solid, n o t self-contra­ d i c t o r y o r tragic b u t simply there. I n so d o i n g he was able to create fictional times and spaces, a sense o f 'the n o w , the here' to use Joyce's 18

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Coe, Beckett, p. 92.

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words, and thus to erect a two-dimensional structure i n w h i c h to place characters and create a p r i m i t i v e k i n d o f w o r l d . H i s w o r k s for the theatre i n the nineteen-fifties became once more illuminating metaphors. A n d this partial recovery o f the two-dimensional structure o f narrative then spilled back again i n t o the novel, into How It Is i n w h i c h there is at least a material environment for the characters (albeit o n l y a sea o f m u d ) and even the beginnings o f dialogue between torturer and v i c t i m . There is certainly a temporal progression f r o m beginning, t h r o u g h middle to end (Before Pirn, W i t h P i m , After Pirn) and even a r u d i ­ mentary plot. W i t h these goes a desire o n the reader's part to find out what happens i n the end. ( T h a t the end is also the beginning is, however, no surprise, n o t even a disappointment.) H o w e v e r m i n i m a l l y , all the ingredients o f a novel are there, and each paragraph 'has the density o f . . . a chapter o f The Brothers Karama^ov quintessentially reduced to the dimensions o f t e l e g r a m ' . However, i f the solipsist monologue has been replaced b y a k i n d o f dialogue i n How It Is, this does n o t i m p l y any retreat b y Beckett towards traditional narrative forms. O n the contrary i t s i m p l y heralds a new stage i n his develop­ ment: one w h i c h is carried further i n the spate o f short prose pieces w h i c h have followed How It Is. I n The Lost Ones there is still a residual narrative voice that hovers over the events and w h i c h is distinguish­ able b y its o w n doubts about the ' n o t i o n ' o f the w o r l d i t is describing (p. 63). B u t the events themselves, and setting i n w h i c h they take place ('Inside a flattened cylinder fifteen metres r o u n d and eighteen h i g h ' , the 'abode where lost bodies roam each searching for its lost one') clearly place this w o r k i n the same group as Imagination Dead Imagine, Ping and Lessness. I n all these recent w r i t i n g s we encounter a consistently monotone w o r l d , hermetically sealed f r o m any outside interference, and doomed eternally either to a r o u n d o f predictable r h y t h m i c changes that amount to changelessness (Imagination Dead Imagine) or to the total absence o f change (Lessness). These sealed worlds are clearly related to earlier elements i n Beckett's w o r k : for example, to the set for Endgame, w h i c h suggests the inside o f a s k u l l and—to go back almost to the beginning—to the interior o f M u r p h y ' s m i n d , w h i c h turns out to be a description o f a 'large h o l l o w sphere, hermetically sealed to the universe w i t h o u t ' (p. 76). ( I n Lessness, i t is 19

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Ibid., p. 82. Ping and Imagination Dead Imagine are both in No's Knife. See Barnard, Samuel Beckett, p. 102.

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true, we seem to have just the opposite o f a sealed w o r l d , b u t the result is just the same. A completely open space, Pascal's ' m e d i u m o f vast extent' w h i c h contains all there can possibly be, is necessarily selfenclosed. T h i s universe is perhaps a development o f the earth and s k y w h i c h were the t w o things that W a t t hated more than a n y t h i n g else, as w e l l as o f the desert scenario o f Happy Days). I n these w r i t i n g s , the impossibility o f overcoming the nothingness o f the universe b y telling stories seems to be finally accepted. M o l l o y / M a l o n e / T h e Unnamable's w h o l e strategy o f telling stories to defeat the encroaching inertia o f a w o r l d o n the wane, a w o r l d that is passing t h r o u g h its endgame to an inevitable stalemate (or, what amounts to the same t h i n g , a perpetual check that can never be consummated into checkmate) is here shown to be useless. N o t h i n g , i t seems, can h o l d up the movement o f matter towards final u n i f o r m i t y and changelessness. Clausius's law o f entropy, w h i c h predicts an ultimate undifferentiated sameness t h r o u g h o u t space, w i t h o u t structural organisation o f any k i n d , is here g i v e n imaginative embodiment. W e are left, i n these latest w o r k s , and i n Lessness above all, w i t h a k i n d o f frozen verbal sculpture, patterns o f sound and imagery i n w h i c h words have become simply objects i n a vacuum, the mere nuts and bolts o f communication. T h e two-dimensional structure o f language itself is all but obliterated i n a kaleidoscope o f w o r d fragments endlessly juggled together. There can be no beginning, no middle or end i n such a pattern; no progress o f meaning f r o m one statement to the next, no story, no narrator, no fictional w o r l d . I n short, to quote C l o v , i n Endgame, 'there's no more nature' (p. 1 6 ) . F o r many writers i n the contemporary w o r l d , the announcement that there is n o more Nature comes neither as a shock n o r as a misfortune. I t is rather an i n v i g o r a t i n g return to the objective truths o f science: a science that has at l o n g last freed itself f r o m metaphysical overtones. But for Beckett the conclusion that there is no more Nature is far f r o m 22

2 3

'Expanse of scorched grass rising centre to low mound . . . Maximum of simplicity and symmetry. Blazing light. Very pompier trompe l'oeil backcloth to represent unbroken plain and sky receding to meet in far distance' (stage direction to Act i ) . It is worth noting that one of the few phrases in Ping which is not repeated, and which therefore stands out as somehow peculiarly significant, is the phrase 'perhaps a nature'. T h e tantalising glimpse of a lost past which seems to be granted to us in this phrase is significant for its contrast with the repetitive present that is -encapsulated in the recurring fragments of language which make up the body of the text. 2 2

2 3

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reassuring. O n the contrary i t is terrifying. W e are n o t surprised to find H a m m t r y i n g to extricate himself from Clov's bitter logic b y any means available. H a m m wants to reassure himself b y claiming that Nature has merely forgotten t h e m — f o r g e t t i n g after all is an act possible o n l y to something w h i c h is alive. H a m m adduces i n evidence for his o p i n i o n , the fact that he and C l o v are still i n the process o f losing their hair, their b l o o m , their ideals. A s l o n g as such changes go o n , especially changes o f so patently directional a k i n d , Nature must be still at w o r k . B u t i n that case, C l o v returns w i t h perfect logic, Nature has n o t for­ gotten them. So Hamm's attempted self-reassurance fails. Either Nature no longer exists, or i t exists and continues to torture them. O n l y crooked t h i n k i n g can suppose otherwise. T h i s pathetic little argument about Nature has p r o f o u n d resonances i f we remember the meanings o f Nature elaborated i n , for example, John Bayley's distinction between the literature o f Nature and the literature o f the H u m a n C o n d i t i o n . Bayley's thesis is that modern literature, w i t h its tendency to 'fabulation' (i.e. to reject life i n its u n ­ t i d y diversity as the p r i m a r y subject o f literature i n favour o f the t i d y self-enclosed a u t o n o m y o f the w o r k o f art), destroys the traditional idea o f man as intimately related to the e n v i r o n i n g w o r l d w h i c h sustains h i m . I n its place the modern age produces a literature o f 'the human c o n d i t i o n ' , i n w h i c h the i n d i v i d u a l is alienated and alone, cut off f r o m Nature. I n short, for the m o d e r n w r i t e r , 'there is no more nature', o n l y a universe o f 'things that are there and . . . are n o t h i n g but things, each one restricted to its o w n s e l f ' . Bayley sees this change as dehumanising, and incipiently totalitarian because o f its onedimensionality, its superficiality i n the literal sense, i.e. its refusal to attend to a n y t h i n g b u t the surfaces o f t h i n g s . 1 t h i n k Beckett's latest w r i t i n g s are the most eloquent statement so far made o f what w o u l d thus become o f a w o r l d i n w h i c h there was no more Nature, o n l y the human c o n d i t i o n . There are three principal features i n Beckett's picture o f this c o n d i t i o n . First o f all, everything that is o f value lies i n the past, as the endless reminiscing o f M o l l o y , Malone, the Unnamable, and Krapp too, testify. I n the present, old age, decay, i m m o b i l i t y and disintegration prevail. B u t the 'natural' i m m o b i l i t y o f o l d age is compounded i n Beckett's view, b y an i m m o b i l i t y o f apathy and help­ lessness. W e can distinguish the i m m o b i l i t y o f M u r p h y i n his r o c k i n g 24

2 5

2 4

Robbe-Grillet, Snapshots, p. 99.

2 5

Ibid., p. 57-

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chair from that o f W i n n i e , H a m m or the figures i n the hermeticallysealed w o r l d s o f the later short prose w o r k s , b y the fact that whereas M u r p h y sat still i n his b o d y v o l u n t a r i l y i n order to come alive i n his m i n d (p. 6), the i m m o b i l i t y o f the later characters is involuntary. T h e y are all crippled, imprisoned or even unconscious. Secondly, correspond­ i n g to the i m m o b i l i t y o f persons is the slowing d o w n , almost to the p o i n t o f stopping altogether, o f time itself. T h e image o f Zeno's little heap o f millet dominates Happy Days, and the n o t i o n o f a steady deterioration that w i l l never come to an end because its processes can always get slower w i t h o u t actually stopping, n o t o n l y dominates Waiting for Godot b u t The Lost Ones too. But finally The Lost Ones also exemplifies to an appalling degree the torture that ensues u p o n the loss o f those human feelings w h i c h , under the conditions o f Nature flourish i n order to lubricate the perpetual motions o f social life. T r u e , Murphy registers the beginnings o f this loss o f feeling. ( I t may be a T r i s t r a m Shandyish b o o k i n many ways, b u t i t lacks the comforting lubrication o f Sterne's sentiment.) A d m i t t e d l y Celia, the prostitute w i t h a heart o f g o l d , has a certain feminine attractiveness, and she looks after her uncle w i t h some devotion. B u t her w a r m t h , such as i t is, is ineffectual and certainly cannot prevent the steady drift towards M u r p h y ' s ignominious demise, cremation and scattering (p. 187). A n d no Celia-like figure returns to grace Beckett's pages again, except as one o f Krapp's fond lost memories. F o r the rest o f Beckett's w o r k , there is v i r t u a l l y no w a r m t h o f human feeling anywhere to be found. I t has all vanished w i t h the b l o o m and the ideals w h i c h , as H a m m saw, once u p o n a time signified a l o v i n g Nature that cared for and solaced man i n his little dungeon, the universe. I n the place o f such a 'Nature', we find the raw agony o f b o d i l y contact, the sheer 'human c o n d i t i o n ' o f The Lost Ones. T h e climate o f the closed cylinder w h i c h is their w o r l d has an inestimably terrible effect u p o n the soul, leading as i t does to anarchy, fury and violence (p. 52). B u t the soul certainly suffers less than the skin 'whose defensive system f r o m sweat to goosebumps is under constant stress'. T h i s stress 'robs n u d i t y o f m u c h o f its charm as p i n k turns grey and transforms i n t o a rustling o f nettles the natural succulence o f flesh against flesh' (p. 53). Here sheer 'things', sheer 'surfaces' g r i n d against each other w i t h o u t — t o use RobbeGrillet's words, t h o u g h hardly i n his sense—'false glamour, w i t h o u t transparency' —and w i t h w h a t a vengence! T h e denatured w o r l d o f 26

26

Snapshots, p. 53.

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things here pictured dissipates itself i n Lessness, u n t i l i t becomes n o t h i n g but—'Lessness'; that state o f ultimate negation w h i c h Beckett evokes i n memorable verbal variations on a simple theme: all sides endlessness earth sky as one no sound no stir . . . ash grey all sides earth sky as one all sides endlessness. . . grey air timeless earth sky as one same grey as the ruins flatness endless . . . all sides endlessness earth sky as one no sound no stir . . . Pace Snow, n o b o d y can say o f this humanist that he doesn't understand the second law o f thermodynamics. 27

Snow, The Two Cultures, p. 14. Unfortunately Not I appeared too late for discussion in the foregoing pages. However, I do not think it compels me to change any of the views expressed there. 2 7

9 Robbe-Grillet and the One-Dimensional Novel I said that i n Beckett's The Lost Ones the principal torture that hell inflicts u p o n its inhabitants is the constant stress laid u p o n the surfaces o f the human skin b y endless b o d i l y contact. T h i s emphasis on surfaces as sources o f pain could w e l l be regarded as an ironic comment u p o n the praise o f surfaces, and superficial textures, w h i c h we find i n Beckett's best k n o w n contemporary i n French fiction, A l a i n Robbe-Grillet. Robbe-Grillet rejects what he calls the o l d humanistic and romantic conceptions o f man and nature, preferring to talk about the human condition as one o f individual isolation i n a w o r l d o f discrete things (Snapshots, p . 57). Connected w i t h this v i e w o f the human c o n d i t i o n is the further n o t i o n that, w i t h the removal o f the o l d metaphysics o f Nature—a metaphysic o f 'depth', p r o f u n d i t y ' , 'unseen presences'— the surfaces o f things can come i n t o their o w n again, and be seen t r u l y for w h a t they are, ' w i t h o u t false glamour'. W h e n we recognise the existence o f the surfaces o f things as existing i n their o w n r i g h t we shall experience 'the shock o f this obstinate reality whose resistance we had been claiming to have broken d o w n ' ( i b i d . , p . 53). T o the person w h o has undergone this shock-treatment the first impact o f objects and gestures should be that o f their presence . . . the objects w i l l gradually lose their instability and their secrets, they w i l l forego their false mystery, and that suspect inner life that an essayist has called 'the romantic heart o f things'. ( I b i d . , PP- 54-5) Robbe-Grillet's case seems at first sight v e r y like Ruskin's: a necessary plea to l o o k again, disinterestedly, at things as they really are, w i t h o u t the false glamour they acquire t h r o u g h being constantly viewed t h r o u g h the tinted spectacles o f a distorting ideology. O v e r the centuries, Robbe-Grillet argues, bourgeois romantics have tried

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to tame the things around them b y renaming them 'Nature': that is b y g i v i n g them a reassuring human meaning t h r o u g h the use o f 'animistic o r domesticating adjectives' ( i b i d . , p . 53).* T h u s 'Nature' itself is an ideologically loaded 'bourgeois' term. B u t today, Robbe-Grillet suggests we are beginning to recognise this ideological loading for what i t is, w i t h the result that the o l d literary imperialism i n w h i c h things became merely 'the vague reflection o f the vague soul o f the hero' is under radical challenge ( i b i d . , p . 55). A t last we are beginning to k n o w h o w to respect things for w h a t they really are, simply there, 'alien to man': and the 'new novel' is one o f the weapons for pursuing this struggle for liberation f r o m bourgeois ideology. B u t RobbeGrillet himself seems to be unclear as to the explanation for this new­ found sense o f liberation. H e refuses to admit any vulgar Marxist account i n terms o f substituting the 'true' socialist ideology for a false bourgeois one: for he seems to w a n t to get behind all ideology, to redis­ cover an unambiguous reality i n its 'concrete, solid, material presence' w i t h o u t what he calls 'cultural fringes'. Y e t he also k n o w s that o b ­ jectivity, i n the sense o f a completely impersonal w a y o f l o o k i n g at things, is impossible ( i b i d . , pp. 7 0 - 1 , 52). W h a t he means b y objectivity, then, amounts i n the end to something negative: the absence o f any 'magic, religious or philosophical appeal to any sort o f spiritual re­ source " b e y o n d " our visible w o r l d ' ( i b i d . , p . 68). A s a personal o p t i o n , this is legitimate enough: b u t as a philosophical position it is naive, i n the sense that Robbe-Grillet has n o t established h o w the distinction between the k i n d o f objectivity he espouses and the k i n d o f objectivity he rejects is to be drawn. A s usual, diagnosis turns out to be simpler than cure. I t is easier to reject bourgeois ideology that i t is to define exactly, or even coherently, what is to be put i n its place. T h u s , i f Robbe-Grillet's words seem to echo Ruskin's, the source o f his artistic energy is more like Joyce's: rejection o f a whole bourgeois milieu w i t h its religious connotations. B u t even i f his denunciation o f the ideology o f romanticism is a necessary corrective, just as Joyce's was, its results are not simple. O r perhaps one should say they are all too simple. F o r one result o f Robbe-Grillet's new reduction o f Nature to mere scenery is that narrative, i n c l u d i n g his o w n , becomes onedimensional. N o t o n l y does Robbe-Grillet refuse to allow the novel to become an occasion for what he calls emotional 'speleology', p l u m b i n g the depths o f the human heart. H e also refuses the narrator any control o f the w o r l d created b y the v e r y act o f narrating. So the resulting

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novels not o n l y give all their attention to the superficial, they defy what we ordinarily t h i n k o f as the logic o f reality. T h e y are not logical pictures o f the w o r l d , for despite a 'realistic' technique o f description they are not pictures of anything: they are as opaque to 'interpretation' as the patterns o f a Jackson Pollock canvas. T h e first novel, The Erasers, bears all the external marks o f a Simenon detective story: b u t i n the course o f the b o o k i t appears that the detective w h o is b r o u g h t i n to solve the puzzle o f the murder committed at the beginning, actually commits that v e r y murder at the end. W h a t are we to make o f this? Is the story a nightmare? or a hoax? O r is the w h o l e t h i n g a matter o f mistaken identities? Such logical explanations are all carefully ruled out b y the b o o k itself. Its structure defies every explanation that seeks to make i t conform to the logic o f reality. There is no rational answer, and its v e r y realism o f surface treatment o n l y underlines the falsity o f such conventional realism. A c c o r d i n g to Robbe-Grillet 'realism' i n the sense o f conforming to the k n o w n rules o f temporal and causal order is simply a subjective con­ vention: something we arbitrarily read into things, largely for our o w n reassurance. Reality itself knows no such logic, no such rules. T h i s is Barbara Hardy's n o t i o n o f realism taken to a conclusion she can hardly have expected. Robbe-Grillet's next t w o novels move steadily further i n the same direction. The Voyeur, ostensibly a squalid little story o f a crime passionel, focusses o n the w a y a pathological sadist, d u r i n g a day-long visit to the island o f his y o u t h , carefully avoids saying anything directly about the murder he seems to have committed d u r i n g his visit. D i d he murder the g i r l or not? T h i s is a question the b o o k forces us to ask, b u t i t is designed to prevent us f r o m ever being able to answer i t . Since in a w o r l d o f mere objects, each existing for itself, there can be no causal nexus l i n k i n g one t h i n g w i t h another, i t is impossible, and pointless, to ask questions o f the sort we usually associate w i t h a crime-story. I n Jealousy, the next novel, the obsessed character, instead o f being i n the centre o f the picture, is removed to the edge o f i t . H e becomes simply the all-seeking eye t h r o u g h w h i c h events are seen. T h e novel consists o f impressions (we presume the husband's t h o u g h we are never t o l d ) o f an affair g o i n g o n between a wife and another man. T h e 'husband's' jealousy is so total that i t throws a jealousy-coloured tint

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over everything: and i t is o n the detection o f this c o l o u r i n g that the reader's interest is focussed. F r o m the spectacle o f a jealousy-coloured w o r l d , the reader has to infer, first o f all that i t is jealousy-coloured, and then whose jealousy i t is that colours i t . I f i t were a n o r m a l magazine-type story, we should naturally begin to ask the question, is the husband i m a g i n i n g i t all? Is his wife really having an affair o r not? Y e t once again, the b o o k is designed to make such a question unanswerable. Indeed, the question is totally irrelevant: for i t suggests that we m i g h t legitimately l o o k beyond the frame o f the picture to the real w o r l d , i n order to discern some likeness i n v i r t u e o f w h i c h we can ask, what really happened? Such a comparison between the picture and the w o r l d i t pictures is impossible i n the case o f a novel like Jealousy. ' T h e novelist's strength lies precisely i n the fact that he invents, that he is absolutely free to invent, w i t h o u t a model' ( i b i d . , p. 63). I f the novelist is free to invent w i t h o u t a model, then there is no reason w h y his inventions should n o t contradict the logic o f ordinary experience from the outset. I n the fourth novel, In The Labyrinth, we are thrust straight away into a self-contradictory w o r l d . T h e narrator is sealed i n t o a Proustian bedroom w i t h no v i e w outside at all. Y e t his first remarks are about the weather: and furthermore even these contradict each other. I t is b o t h w e t and d r y , sunny and s n o w y outside. As we read o n we begin to realise that everything we are t o l d about this 'outside' w o r l d is i n fact being invented b y the narrator, using bits o f furniture i n the r o o m as his source o f inspiration. T h e story he tells is a fantasy designed to keep himself occupied. I n The House of Assignation the obsessed fantasist, w h o tells us i n his first sentence that ' W o m e n ' s flesh has i n all p r o b a b i l i t y always played a large part i n m y dreams. Even when awake m y m i n d is constantly assailed b y images o f i t ' (p. 9), is apparently incapable o f distinguishing between his o w n fantasies and real life. T h e s t o r y — w e cannot call i t plot—swings perpetually between the t w o poles o f illusion and reality, i n such a w a y that i t is impossible for the reader to k n o w h o w much o f i t is supposed to be 'true' and h o w much is the narrator's dream. D r e a m and reality are described w i t h exactly the same precision. A murder seems to have been committed at least four times over, b y different people each time, but this does not bother the narrator. I n his k i n d o f w o r l d , there are no obstacles to prevent such things happening. T h e logical picture o f the w o r l d has been replaced

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b y an apparently arbitrary sequence o f words and images joined together b y a logic entirely private to the novel itself. T h e basis for Robbe-Grillet's t h i n k i n g is plainly Cartesian. H i s w o r l d v i e w emphasises clear and distinct ideas: everything must be itself and n o t another t h i n g . T h e reason for m a k i n g the novel a w h o l l y self-enclosed w o r l d o f words, w i t h no function o f p i c t u r i n g reality, is that this frees reality itself f r o m the imperialism o f the human imagina­ t i o n . Similarly, b y insisting o n the separateness o f things from each other, the human being is freed f r o m the potential tyranny o f things: a tyranny to w h i c h the bourgeois humanist prefers to submit, rather than have the uncomfortable task o f being himself, w i t h o u t the support o f a friendly 'Nature'. Since man's overwhelming desire is to live i n a meaningful w a y , he w i l l give meaning to things wherever he can, i n order to support his o w n ego. Even i f such meaning can o n l y be given to things b y a l l o w i n g them to become his master, he w i l l do i t . T h a t is to say, he w o u l d rather 'tragify' the w o r l d , see himself as the v i c t i m o f some overarching fate meted out b y the w o r l d , than stand u p r i g h t as a free individual i n a w o r l d bereft o f any reassuring meanings. T h e result o f this o u t l o o k i n fiction is plain enough: the novel becomes a purely one-dimensional structure. T h e syntagmatic, o r horizontal sequence o f words and images is prevented, b y the various devices I have already mentioned, f r o m bearing any relation to a world-generating vertical dimension. There is no world-creating i n Robbe-Grillet's novels. W h a t appears, at first sight, to be a recognisable scenario soon turns out to be simply a mass o f internal self-contradic­ tions: that is to say, a nothingness, an empty concatenation o f words that cancel each other out. Robbe-Grillet's case against the traditional 'realistic' novel of, say, Balzac is precisely that i t was two-dimensional. I n addition to telling a story, i t insisted u p o n g i v i n g a depth o f meaning to the things that made up the fictional w o r l d : T h e role o f the w r i t e r traditionally consisted i n b u r r o w i n g d o w n into Nature, i n excavating i t , i n order to reach its most intimate strata and finally b r i n g to l i g h t some minute part o f a disturbing secret. T h e w r i t e r descended i n t o the chasm o f human passions and sent up to the apparently tranquil w o r l d (that o f the surface) victorious messages describing the mysteries he had touched w i t h his fingers. A n d the sacred vertigo w h i c h then overwhelmed the reader, far f r o m causing h i m any distress o r nausea, o n the contrary

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reassured h i m about his powers o f domination over the w o r l d . There were abysses, i t was true, b u t thanks to these valiant speleo­ logists their depths could be sounded. (Snapshots, pp. 56-7) Robbe-Grillet is o f course quite r i g h t to see that i f his programme is to be carried out, he must first o f all rob language itself o f all those elements w h i c h tend to create a false sense o f mystery. I n the first place, the 'pack o f animistic and domesticating adjectives' must be eliminated. F o r i n the o l d novel the literary phenomenon par excellence consisted i n the global and unique adjective, w h i c h attempted to unite w i t h i n itself all the i n ­ ternal qualities and all the hidden soul o f things. T h e w o r d thus functioned as an ambush into w h i c h the w r i t e r lured the universe and then delivered i t i n t o the hands o f society. ( I b i d . ) But i t is n o t o n l y the adjective that is the enemy o f freedom: i t is any k i n d o f metaphorical language. F o r metaphor is never innocent. T h e choice o f such language goes beyond the mere description o f purely physical data, and this further content cannot simply be credited to the art o f literature. T h e height o f the mountain, whether one likes i t or not, takes o n a moral value; the heat o f the sun becomes the result o f someone's intention . . . I n practically all our contemporary literature these anthropomorphic analogies are too insistently, too coherently, repeated, not to reveal a w h o l e metaphysical system. ( I b i d . , p . 7 8 )

1

N o t surprisingly, adjectives are v e r y rare i n Robbe-Grillet's o w n w o r k , and frankly metaphorical language is practically non-existent. B u t the question arises, as we read his novels, whether the b l o w struck for freedom b y the elimination o f the o l d 'depths' succeeds i n its objective. I n a sense, Robbe-Grillet is one o f the most optimistic writers alive. Since he refuses to ascribe any k i n d o f meaning, or direction, to the events that occur i n the external w o r l d , his w o r k is totally free o f that sense o f d o o m , o f c o m i n g darkness and catastrophe, w h i c h pervades most o f contemporary literature. H e may agree w i t h C l o v , i n Endgame, that Robbe-Grillet goes on to make some acute criticisms both of Camus's L'Etranger and Sartre's La Nausee on the grounds that they covertly 'tragify' experience by the use of metaphorical language of which the implications are never clearly brought to the surface. O n the (characteristic) misuse of 'analogies' for metaphors, see above, p. 3. 1

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'there is no more nature', b u t this is not because the w o r l d is c o m i n g to its end, b u t because the n o t i o n o f Nature was never valid i n the first place. I n losing Nature all we have lost is one o f o u r cherished illusions. T h e w o r l d can never be o n the wane: for i t is eternally what i t is, simply there, directionless and meaningless. Y e t Robbe-Grillet's o w n novels are far f r o m cheering. T h i s is partly, o f course, because they are n o t supposed to be. T h e y are n o t supposed to have any m o r a l o r emotional effect: they merely liberate b y being w h a t they are. B u t i t is true nevertheless that this liberation has to be f r o m the w o r l d as we experience i t : and to that extent, a certain picture o f the w o r l d does present itself i n the novels. Robbe-Grillet cannot help g i v i n g us his idea o f the k i n d o f w o r l d we need to be liberated from; that is to say, his idea o f w h a t the modern w o r l d is really like. A n d when we l o o k at his novels f r o m this p o i n t o f view, his liberating o p t i m i s m soon seems to evaporate. Curiously enough, his w o r k is even less encourag­ i n g than Beckett's. I n Beckett, at least u n t i l the most recent w o r k s , the comedy and the w i t somehow redeem the despairing vision so that, i n an unexpected w a y , we feel more rather than less inclined to go o n l i v i n g after having made his acquaintance. Just as at his best Zola's exuberance overcomes his fatalism and somehow betrays i t , so Beckett's zest for m a k i n g images o f o u r degradation and absurdity betray, triumphantly, that degradation. B u t Robbe-Grillet is an artist w h o refuses such contradictory honours. H e is a novelist o f remorseless logic even at his most 'illogical'. H i s novels provide us w i t h a touch­ stone o f w h a t i t is like to live i n the modern w o r l d w i t h o u t what he calls illusions. T h e y t u r n out to be hells o f a squalid and unheroic k i n d , expressing effectively and depressingly w h a t i t is like to live alone, to be alone, to move about i n a w o r l d w h i c h leaves y o u alone, confronting y o u w i t h its o w n meaninglessness. I t is an ironic k i n d o f 'libera­ tion'. T h e source o f the i r o n y lies, I t h i n k , i n the contradictoriness o f Robbe-Grillet's most fundamental philosophical presuppositions. T h e contradiction comes to the surface i n a number o f ways, o f w h i c h perhaps the most significant is that i n liberating things f r o m the t y r a n n y o f human meanings, he makes them into mere instruments for human exploitation. T h e claim is that the time has come to liberate the w o r l d f r o m o u r o w n clutches, because 'we no longer consider the w o r l d as a possession, our private property, designed to suit our needs, and domesticable' {Snapshots, p. 57). B u t i n fact, the upshot o f this r e v o l u -

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t i o n is almost an apologia for one-dimensional industrial man's exploitation o f the environment for his o w n sordid ends: Man looks at the w o r l d , b u t the w o r l d doesn't l o o k back at h i m . . . B u t this doesn't mean that he refuses all contact w i t h the w o r l d . O n the contrary, he agrees to use i t for material ends; a utensil, as such, never has depth, a utensil is merely matter and f o r m — a n d destination. ( I b i d . , p . 82) T h u s a man uses a stone for a hammer, b u t when he has finished w i t h i t , i t ceases to have any meaning for h i m , for i t has no meaning apart f r o m its use. A n d the man o f today, o r at least the man o f t o m o r r o w , 'feels no sense o f deprivation or affliction at this absence o f meaning. H e no longer feels lost at the idea o f such a vacuum. H i s heart no longer needs to take refuge i n an abyss' ( i b i d . ) . W h e t h e r this is a true statement o f what man today feels is a large question too complex to discuss here. W h a t seems clear is that a strange k i n d o f liberation is here i n question. Paradoxically, Robbe-Grillet's description reads curiously like the relation set up between Robinson Crusoe and his island.* T h e w o r l d bereft o f meaning all too easily becomes the w o r l d as mere utensil. O n the other hand, the k i n d o f romanticism represented b y W o r d s w o r t h , w h o is obviously one o f the f o u n d i n g fathers o f the tradition Robbe-Grillet opposes, is based u p o n a reverence for things i n themselves that at its best is t r u l y liberating. T r u e , W o r d s w o r t h ' s admission that the 'influence o f natural objects' often compelled h i m to acknowledge a 'grandeur i n the beatings o f the heart' makes h i m an obvious target for Robbe-Grillet's attack o n the inevitable tendency o f romanticism to encourage all our w o r s t and most grandiose aspira­ tions {Snapshots, pp. 7 9 - 8 0 ) . B u t W o r d s w o r t h is not so easily disposed of. A w e , submission, even power-worship may be present i n W o r d s ­ w o r t h ' s boyish attitude to natural objects such as mountains: but they are transformed, i n the mature-poet, b y the recognition that nature includes people. H u m a n beings such as the leech-gatherer continually surprise us b y their mysterious ambivalent reality, and i t is this mystery w h i c h t r u l y 'chastens and subdues' us (Tintern Abbey, 9 3 ) . Persons are b o t h objects and subjects: they are 'out there' among the rocks and 2

See The Prelude (1805), I , 428-89, which incorporate Wordsworth's poem 'Influence of Natural Objects in calling forth and strengthening the Imagination in Boyhood and Early Youth'. 2

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stones, but they are also ' i n here', among us (Resolution and Indepen­ dence, sts. i x and x ) . W o r d s w o r t h begins b y contemplating the leechgatherer as a piece o f natural landscape, but i t is the discovery o f the firmness o f the mind that inhabits this decrepit b o d y that most p r o ­ foundly stirs h i m . A n d i t has the effect o f forcing the poet to laugh himself to scorn ( i b i d . , st. x ) . I f the boyish attitude included 'grandiose aspirations' before natural objects, that o f the mature poet is just the opposite; h u m i l i t y before other people. T h e trouble w i t h Robbe-Grillet's thesis is that, i n d i v i d i n g man f r o m objects, he has failed to take account o f the fact that, as W o r d s ­ w o r t h saw clearly i n the case o f the leech-gatherer, man is b o t h an object and a subject. ' M a n looks at the w o r l d , but the w o r l d does not l o o k back at h i m ' (Snapshots, p. 82) is true o n l y as l o n g as man himself is r i g i d l y excluded f r o m the w o r l d o f objects. B u t such an unreasonable exclusion can be maintained o n l y i f what is meant b y man is simply abstract human consciousness. O n l y i f the 'essence' o f man lies purely i n his awareness o f the w o r l d , and not at all i n the fact o f his being-int h e - w o r l d , can such a proposition make sense. Here the Cartesian cogito manifests itself as the r o o t o f the whole tradition u n d e r l y i n g the 'new novel' o f Robbe-Grillet. F o r the main ingredients o f 'realistic' fiction; character, coherent temporal sequence, the w h o l e machinery o f realism, depend u p o n the fact o f human bodiliness. Merleau-Ponty has shown, i n painstaking detail, h o w conceptions o f time and space, o f persons and material objects, all arise ' f r o m m y relation to things' even while, at the same time, there is 'an element o f t r u t h i n the Cartesian return o f things or ideas to the self'. Merleau-Ponty agrees w i t h R o b b e - G r i l l e t to the extent o f a d m i t t i n g that 'when I say things are transcendent, this means that I do n o t possess them, that I do n o t circumambulate them; they are transcendent to the extent that I am ignorant o f what they are, and b l i n d l y assert their existence. Y e t even to be able to assert their bare existence and the impossibility o f cir­ cumambulating them, I have to be one o f them, among them, arranging them i n spatial and temporal sequence. Robbe-Grillet often gives p o i n t to his 'chosisme' b y emphasising the purely geometrical attributes o f the things he describes, i n contrast to the 'vaguer' attributes o f colour 3

4

5

It is perhaps worth noting that what Wordsworth is here saying in poetic terms is put philosophically in P . F . Strawson, Individuals, Part I , iii. 3

4

Phenomenology of Perception, pp. 412 and 369.

5

Ibid., p. 3 6 9 .

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or texture that older authors focus on. He seems to be suggesting, b y such techniques, not o n l y that the geometry o f objects is somehow 'objective' but that we can observe and describe i t w i t h o u t reference to our o w n b o d i l y movements or sensations.* B u t Merleau-Ponty is surely r i g h t to say that 'just as the localisation o f objects i n space . . . is n o t merely a mental operation but one w h i c h utilises the body's m o t i l i t y . . . so the geometer, w h o generally speaking, studies the objective laws o f location, k n o w s the relationships w i t h w h i c h he is concerned o n l y b y describing them, at least potentially, w i t h his b o d y . ' Y e t i n Towards a New Novel Robbe-Grillet nowhere takes any account o f the fact that m y b o d y is an object. O f course, i t is an object for y o u i n a w a y that i t can never be w h o l l y an object for me; yet i t is the same b o d y i n b o t h cases, and i n some sense therefore i t is the same object. T h i s fact must surely be at the r o o t o f the whole p r o b l e m o f narrative 'point o f v i e w ' in fiction. W i t h o u t some b o d i l y being, some transaction w i t h the physical environment as we k n o w i t i n real life, the narrative voice must either turn i n t o the voice o f G o d , w h o sees all things f r o m all angles at once, or into a disembodied human consciousness as contradictory as the faceless g r i n o f Lewis Carroll's Cheshire cat. T h e narrative voices that b r i n g their obsessions to our attention i n RobbeGrillet's novels finally reveal themselves as just such contradictory abstractions. 6

I should n o t like i t to be thought from the preceding discussion that I am w h o l l y unsympathetic to Robbe-Grillet's aims. M u c h o f this diagnosis ( t h o u g h not his cure) is undoubtedly v e r y apt. There is a g o o d deal o f sense i n his objection to the Romantic picture o f the artist as a k i n d o f madman, unaware o f the true source o f his inspiration, w h o produces his masterpieces b y a k i n d o f miraculous accident: Far from being the result o f an honest study o f the question, this attitude betrays its metaphysical o r i g i n . These pages w h i c h the writer is supposed to give b i r t h to i n spite o f himself, these u n ­ organised marvels, these random words, reveal the existence o f superior force that has dictated them. I n this interpretation the nove­ list, instead o f being a creator i n the proper sense, w o u l d be no more than a mediator between the c o m m o n herd and some obscure power, something beyond humanity, an eternal spirit, a g o d . . . (Snapshots, p. 46) 6

Ibid., pp. 3 8 6 - 7 .

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Furthermore, as I have said, Robbe-Grillet's detestation o f meta­ phor is extremely discerning. H e realises that y o u cannot have metaphor w i t h o u t metaphysical commitments; that is to say w i t h o u t those ana­ logical counterparts w h i c h lead at once to the two-dimensional, potentially religious w o r l d - v i e w . T h e question, however, is whether it is i n fact possible to eliminate such elements from language w i t h o u t falling i n t o nonsense, or ceasing to be able to communicate at all. T o answer this question fully is beyond the scope o f the present chapter. I can o n l y say at this p o i n t that a careful examination o f the results o f t r y i n g to do so does, I t h i n k , show the impossibility o f the enterprise. I have argued this elsewhere, i n the case o f one o f Robbe-Grillet's o w n novels {In the Labyrinth) and can o n l y refer the reader to this w o r k for further discussion o f the p o i n t . 7

7

See Gregor and Stein, The Prose for God, Chap. 8.

IO

Mailer and the Big Plot being hatched by Nature W h e n we compare Mailer's novels w i t h those o f W a u g h , Beckett o r Robbe-Grillet, we notice an immediate difference o f style w h i c h reflects a difference o f ' w o r l d ' also. W e may say o f the three novelists previously considered that they tend to see the novel as relatively selfjustifying and autonomous, preoccupied w i t h itself. But when we come to Mailer we seem to be once more i n the company o f a w r i t e r w h o sees the novel as a vehicle for ideas, for a prophetic vision. I n order to understand Mailer properly perhaps we need to begin, therefore b y returning to the prophetic w o r k o f Lawrence, and i n particular St Mawr and the evil vision w h i c h confronts L o u W i t t as she rides o f f to get help for the stricken Rico d u r i n g the excursion i n t o the W e l s h Hills. There are t w o significant points to be made about this vision. First, i t is a vision o f a c o m i n g chaos described metaphorically i n terms o f an irresistible flood: ' L i k e an ocean to whose surface she had risen, she saw the dark-grey waves o f evil rearing i n a great tide . . . all the nations, the w h i t e , the b r o w n , the black, the yellow, all were i m ­ mersed i n the strange tide o f evil that was subtly, irresistibly rising'. Secondly, this flood is c o m i n g f r o m the core o f Asia, 'as f r o m some strange pole, and slowly was d r o w n i n g the e a r t h . . . there i t was i n socialism and bolshevism: the same evil' (pp. 7 6 - 7 ) . I t is p r i m a r i l y f r o m the o l d w o r l d and its chaotic politics that the subtle tide o f rising c o r r u p t i o n flows. I t is inevitable therefore that L o u should t u r n to the American continent for some alternative, some place o f escape, some desert i n w h i c h to retreat i n order to fight. B u t the flood o f evil is n o t merely political: i t is metaphysical, a threat to the w h o l e r h y t h m o f life itself. I n its natural state, Lawrence insists, creation o n l y destroys the past, the obsolete growths, i n order to make w a y for new more ad­ vanced forms. There may be terrible pain i n this process but we cannot call i t evil, for i t is a necessary part o f the balance o f Nature. E v i l occurs

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o n l y w h e n m a n k i n d , w i t h its 'ideals' interferes w i t h this natural process. 'Ideal m a n k i n d w o u l d abolish death, m u l t i p l y itself m i l l i o n u p o n m i l l i o n , rear up city u p o n city, save every parasite alive, u n t i l the accumulation o f mere existence is swollen to a h o r r o r ' ( p . 78). I t may be that Lawrence's prophetic vision o f evil as mysterious and irresistible came o u t o f the shabbiest side o f his m i n d : b u t its relevance today w o u l d hardly be denied. 'Ideal m a n k i n d ' has released forces w i t h i n the natural environment, from h y d r o g e n bombs to penicillin and D D T , the defoliants and the plants o f the green r e v o l u t i o n , w h i c h taken together do seem to threaten the w o r l d w i t h tragic fecundities and an uncontrollable proliferation o f destructive powers. I t is n o t surprising to find that i n the face o f such awesome facts and dilemmas, writers should t u r n to scrutinising the heavens once more for signs o f unseen presences, demons and occult powers, gods or devils, i n order to explain the course that civilisation seems to have taken. N o r is i t surprising to find them t u r n i n g to every device o f art and style and p l o t to set up centres o f resistance, whether individual heroic characters, actions or symbolic gestures, to defy the encroaching, seemingly irresistible flood o f c o m i n g chaos. Y e t i t is necessary to l o o k critically at the w a y writers handle w h a t they sometimes seem to regard as 'evidence o f a Manichean demon at w o r k i n the l a n d ' i n order to decide for ourselves h o w far this is a healthy development o f an imaginative response to a global crisis, and h o w far i t is simply an expression o f the shabbiest aspects o f a d y i n g culture. 1

T o n y Tanner, i n his study o f post-war American fiction, concen­ trates a w h o l e chapter o n the theme o f the universe ' r u n n i n g d o w n ' . H e notes the presence o f this theme as a major preoccupation o f N o r m a n Mailer, Saul Bellow, John U p d i k e , John Barth, W a l k e r Percy, Stanley E l k i n , D o n a l d Barthelme, Thomas P y n c h o n , Susan Sontag, W i l l i a m Burroughs, James P u r d y and others—not to mention Scott F i t z g e r a l d and H e n r y Adams, whose w o r k i n an earlier generation prompted m u c h o f this feeling. One paragraph o f Tanner's chapter is w o r t h q u o t i n g i n full as p r o v i d i n g a context for the f o l l o w i n g remarks: 2

3

T h e obsession w i t h plots, agents, codes, often accompanied b y a general uncertainty o f w h o is w o r k i n g for w h o m or towards what ends, w h i c h is I t h i n k a discernible characteristic o f m u c h o f the 1

3

Tanner, City of Words, p. 148. Ibid., pp. 141-25. T h e 'waste-land' imagery of The Great Gatsby, Chap. 2 is a notable example. 2

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fiction we are considering, is n o t o n l y a measure o f the paranoia induced b y A m e r i c a n life. I t is also, I t h i n k , connected to a larger uncertainty about the b i g p l o t being hatched o u t b y nature. Final i n f o r m a t i o n o n this matter is o f course unavailable to any o f us, b u t i t seems to press far more insistently on the consciousness and imagination o f the A m e r i c a n w r i t e r . D e m o n s and conspiracies are to the fore. T h e w o r k of, for example, Burroughs, Mailer and P y n c h o n suggests that entropy may be seen as evidence o f a M a n i chean demon at w o r k i n the l a n d . 4

I f demons and conspiracies are to the fore, w h a t is certainly n o t to the fore is any feeling that the attitudes o f the enlightenment and the traditional structures o f American society are o f m u c h value i n stemm­ i n g the tide. C r e d u l i t y , i t m i g h t be said, has filled the vacuum left b y the loss o f credibility. B u t to p u t i t this w a y is perhaps to underestimate the value o f the fiction that has come o u t o f this obsession w i t h the b i g plot being hatched o u t b y nature, and also to ignore the c o n t i n u i t y that may be discerned between the new American fiction and that o f an earlier generation. I n illustration o f this p o i n t , the w o r k o f N o r m a n Mailer may be taken as representative. T h a t Mailer may be seen as representative o f the contemporary American scene as a w h o l e can be inferred f r o m the fact that he was offered

$400,000 for a semi-official writer's reaction to the

first

manned landing on the m o o n . T h e resulting b o o k A Fire on the Moon is perhaps Mailer's most energetic and m i n d - b o g g l i n g attempt to comprehend the universe i n metaphor rather than i n measure. I t m i g h t even be argued that the b o o k contains a surfeit o f metaphors just as Robbe-Grillet's novels starve for the lack o f them. Mailer rejoices i n the 'metaphysical pacts' he makes w i t h Nature and the bridges he tries to t h r o w over the 'heart-breaking schisms' he sees between himself and the external w o r l d .

5

T h u s i n A Fire on the Moon the question o f

whether the m o o n is 'dead' or n o t — a question R o b b e - G r i l l e t w o u l d have ruled out f r o m the start—leads h i m i n t o the f o l l o w i n g reflections: I f dead, the death was w i t h dimension. I t was a heavenly b o d y w h i c h gave every evidence o f having perished i n some anguish o f the City of Words, p. 148. Tanner also points to the resurgence of interest in astrology, magic and occultism in America in recent years, and their presence in fiction (p. 348). T h e phrase is Robbe-Grillet's (Snapshots, p. 92). 4

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cosmos, some agony o f apocalypse—a face so cruelly pitted w i t h an acne w o u l d have showed a man whose skin had died to keep his soul alive . . . T h e m o o n spoke o f holes and torture pots and scars and weals and welds o f molten m a g n a . . . (p. 230) Y e t i n t r y i n g to comprehend the universe i n metaphor, and to pick the lock o f its mystery, Mailer suggests that he and the rest o f us, all alike d u l l and unresponsive inhabitants o f technology and 'corporation-land', may simply be w a l k i n g towards the b r i n k o f some final catastrophe: I n this h o u r they landed o n the m o o n , A m e r i c a was applauding A r m s t r o n g and A l d r i n , and the w o r l d w o u l d cheer America for a day, b u t something was lacking, some j o y , some outrageous sense o f adventure. Strong men d i d not weep i n the street n o r ladies copulate w i t h strangers. A n y armistice to any petty war had occa­ sioned w i l d e r celebrations. I t was almost as i f a sense o f woe sat i n the centre o f the heart. F o r the shot to the m o o n was a m i r r o r to o u r c o n d i t i o n — m o s t terrifying m i r r o r : one looked into i t and saw intimations o f a final disease . . . ( p . 313) N o w this disease is most clearly manifested, according to Mailer, i n the one-dimensional, unmetaphorical language used i n 'corporationland'. C o n t r a r y to what R o b b e - G r i l l e t says, Mailer believes that science and technology have penetrated the modern m i n d so completely that 'voyages into space [have] become the last w a y to investigate the metaphysical pits o f that w o r l d o f technique w h i c h choke(s) the pores o f m o d e r n consciousness', and that perhaps we w i l l have to continue to explore what Pascal called our 'little d u n g e o n — I mean the universe' u n t i l 'the breadth and mystery o f new discovery [forces] us to c o m ­ prehend the w o r l d again as poets, comprehend i t as savages w h o k n e w that i f the universe was a lock, its key was a metaphor rather than measure' (pp. 379-80). I f Mailer is r i g h t i n suggesting that we can o n l y understand the m i n d - b o g g l i n g mysteries unearthed b y modern science and technology b y e m p l o y i n g a language o f p r i m i t i v e metaphorical richness, surely i t is equally true that the laconic factuality o f the gigantically tall stories science has to tell us seems to p r o m p t exactly the opposite conclusion: namely that what we need is a prose o f unprecedented ordinariness, w i t h clear and distinct words for clear and distinct ideas, to head off the spiralling rhetoric that the very tallness o f the stories we have to

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tell seems to require and encourage. Mailer, I suspect, was commis­ sioned to describe the first manned moon-shot, not just because he was so representatively A m e r i c a n , not just because, as people kept telling h i m , he was the best journalist i n America, but because he had already confessed to being entranced b y the moon's lure as i f b y the American D r e a m itself and had already made himself the master o f the meta­ phorical revels necessary to celebrate the dream's c o m i n g true. T h i s 'rather ruffianly Jew' already comprehended the w o r l d as a savage, i f n o t quite as a poet: and i f the whole space-adventure was expressive o f corporation-land's most presumptuous madness, i t was also, for Mailer, a p r o f o u n d l y poetic madness. Y e t , i n the end he had to admit that the r i o t o f metaphor w i t h w h i c h he had tried to capture the mystery o f the m o o n was quelled b y a single, little inviolable fact: a piece o f the m o o n itself. Standing before the precious t r o p h y o f man's longest journey, Mailer was baffled i n t o silence. Poetry could not save h i m . H i s metaphors were defeated b y the moon's measures {Fire on the Moon, p . 380). 6

7

Mailer's p r o b l e m , o f finding a rhetoric adequate to the tallness o f the true stories he had to tell, is a p r o b l e m that faces all story-tellers i n o u r age. I f the present time has so many stories to tell that i t cannot tell them properly; i f i t is so poetic an age that i t dare not to take itself poetically; may this not be because i t actually prefers the helpless f u m b l i n g understatements o f scientists or reporters to the grandiose rhetoric o f poets or visionaries? Is there n o t a certain honest h u m i l i t y about the astronaut's 'measures', w h e n we compare them w i t h the metaphors o f the 'historian' w h o is also a 'novelist'? W h e n Mailer describes the m o o n as h a v i n g perished, we begin to wonder whether he is n o t t r y i n g to shift the w h o l e burden o f man's tragic predicament, his o w n guilts and corruptions, his cruelties and his crimes, on to the face o f the m o o n : to sign some metaphysical pact w i t h the universe on our behalf, whether we like i t or not. Is i t really the m o o n he is t a l k i n g about, or ourselves?—our o w n acnes, weals and eviscerations? Is he not 8

As Philip Toynbee said in The Observer, London, 29 October 1970: 'Did it occur to anyone in N . A . S . A . that the untidy, rather ruffianly Jew who had come to study them was the inescapable ghost at their glistening and hygienic feast? Mailer was the America they said they were.' See Rojack's balancing-act on the parapet, when he is almost lured by the moon to jump into her embrace, in An American Dream, Chap. 1. See The Armies of the Night, which is subtitled 'History as a Novel, the Novel as History'. 6

7

8

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simply projecting o u r problems on to the innocent m o o n , a v i c t i m that cannot defend itself? A n d when he likes to flirt w i t h the idea that perhaps the m o o n is alive after all, and may sometime take a terrible revenge u p o n us for our crimes against i t , is not this a piece o f rhetori­ cal fancy dreamt up to justify the rape itself, to make i t seem less brutal? H o w e v e r that may be, i t is certain that Mailer's metaphor-laden m o o n is n o t that o f the prosaic astronauts: 9

z o o m i n g i n n o w o n a crater called Schubert N . . . very conical i n ­ side w a l l . . . c o m i n g up on the B o m b i n g Sea . . . A l p h a i . . . a great b r i g h t crater. I t is not a large one b u t an extremely b r i g h t one. I t looks like a very recent and I w o u l d guess impact crater w i t h rays streaming out i n all directions . . . c o m i n g back towards the b o t t o m o f the screen into the left, y o u can see a series o f depressions. I t is this type o f connective craters that give us most i n t e r e s t . . . (pp. 249-50) I n many ways, the astronauts' dislocated syntax and their lack o f metaphorical involvement seem more honest than Mailer's rhetoric. T h e y are, we feel, more interested i n the m o o n than Mailer is: and certainly less interested i n themselves. T h e y are l o o k i n g at the m o o n w i t h the alert and innocent eyes o f scientific observers, t r y i n g to tell the t r u t h o f what lies before them, not reading its mysteries w i t h the eyes o f guilt-ridden 'Nijinskys o f ambivalence' ( p . 3 8 1 ) . I t is not the astronauts but Mailer himself w h o is caught i n the intolerable paradox that when our metaphors b i n d us so t i g h t l y to things that we cannot get away f r o m them, the w o r l d becomes just a rubbish d u m p for o u r o w n spiritual garbage. I t is n o t the astronauts w h o are w o r r i e d b y the absurdity o f the fact that, as liberators o f modern consciousness, w h i c h is h o w Mailer chooses to see them, these modern explorers have to be imprisoned i n a little mobile dungeon, ironically b o u n d and gagged w i t h 'life-support systems', i n order to explore that other 'little dungeon' (pp. 145-50). I t is Mailer w h o puts himself into this prison o f paradox. T h e astronauts seem to be blithely unaware o f their predicament. Mailer w o u l d like to persuade us that i t is o n l y b y w a y o f metaphor that the modern story-teller can take the measure o f contemporary 'It is one thing to shatter a taboo, it is another to escape the retribution which follows the sacrilege' (p. 3 3 7 ) . This is said a propos of the fear that the astronauts might never succeed in getting off the surface of the moon. 9

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facts. B u t I t h i n k Wallace Stevens was equally persuasive w h e n he remarked, i n his off-handedly far-sighted way, that 'reality is a cliche f r o m w h i c h we escape b y m e t a p h o r ' . R o b b e - G r i l l e t makes the same p o i n t w h e n he says that metaphor is never 'an innocent figure o f speech' because ' i n practically all o u r contemporary literature . . . an­ t h r o p o m o r p h i c analogies are too insistently, too coherently repeated, not to reveal a w h o l e metaphysical s y s t e m ' . I f Mailer believes that i t is o n l y b y metaphor that w e can liberate modern consciousness from the constricting prison o f the contingent and the arbitrary, clearly Robbe-Grillet believes just the opposite: ' M a n looks at the w o r l d , b u t the w o r l d doesn't l o o k back at h i m . M a n sees things, and he notices, now, that he can escape the metaphysical pact that other men made for h i m i n days gone b y , and that b y the same token he can escape slavery and fear . . , ' Rejoicing i n his n e w - f o u n d liberty f r o m the t y r a n n y o f metaphors and meanings, the m o d e r n story-teller w i l l see to i t that i n future novels 'gestures and objects w i l l be there, before they are some­ thing; and they w i l l still be there afterwards, hard, unalterable, everpresent . . . indifferent to their o w n m e a n i n g ' . 10

11

1 2

13

T h e same w i l l go for the hero o f the new k i n d o f story: Whereas the traditional hero is always being g o t at, cornered, destroyed, b y the author's suggested intepretations, for ever being pushed into an intangible and unstable elsewhere, w h i c h gets more and more vague and remote, the future hero w i l l o n the contrary remain there . . . W h e n the hero's presence is indisputable [authorial comment] w i l l seem useless, superfluous, and even dishonest. 14

I n Robbe-Grillet's o w n case the result o f this liberation f r o m meta­ phors and meanings is a descriptive language w h i c h is extraordinarily like that o f the astronauts. H i s notorious description o f a tomato segment l y i n g on a plate reads exactly like a space-man's report o f a hitherto unnoticed species o f rock picked up from the surface o f the moon: A quarter o f tomato that is quite faultless, cut up b y the machine into a perfectly symmetrical fruit. T h e peripheral flesh, compact, homogeneous, and a splendid chemical red, is o f an even thickness between a strip o f gleaming skin and the h o l l o w where the y e l l o w , 10

Opus Posthumous, p. 179 (Adagia).

1 2

Ibid., p. 82.

1 3

Ibid., pp. 54-5.

1 1

Snapshots, p. 78. 1 4

Ibid.

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graduated seeds appear i n a r o w , kept i n place b y a thin layer o f greenish jelly along a swelling o f the heart. T h i s heart, o f a slightly grainy, faint p i n k , begins—towards the inner h o l l o w — w i t h a cluster o f w h i t e veins, one o f w h i c h extends towards the seeds— somewhat u n c e r t a i n l y . 15

Y e t Robbe-Grillet's tomato is, quite simply, a tomato and n o t h i n g else, whereas Mailer's m o o n rock, as he stares at i t i n wonder and awe, instantly takes o n a personal identity: H e saw the lunar piece t h r o u g h n o t one glass but t w o , r o c k i n a hermetically t i g h t glass b e l l . . . she was not t w o feet away f r o m h i m , this rock to w h i c h he instinctively gave gender as she—and she was g r a y . . . as a dark c i n d e r . . . w i t h craters the size o f a p i n and craters the size o f a pencil point, and even craters large as a ladybug and rays ran out from the craters, fine w h i t e lines, fine as the wrinkles i n an o l d lady's f a c e . . . (Fire in the Moon, p . 380) I t seems clear from a personifying passage such as this that Mailer has affinities w i t h Lawrence—the Lawrence w h o w o u l d like to k n o w the stars as the Chaldeans k n e w them.* W h a t may seem a g o o d deal less obvious is his affinity w i t h a dandyish w r i t e r like E v e l y n W a u g h . Y e t when we l o o k at a b o o k like An American Dream, or better still The Armies of the Night, the connections do seem w o r t h n o t i n g . Mailer's left-conservative mixture o f radicalism and reaction, his continuous performance o f a public balancing act on a parapet over vast metaphysical abysses,* his concern to define this poise b y the creation o f an apparently outrageous and irresponsible style (perhaps most notable i n Why Are We In Vietnam}): all these serve to establish a certain sympathetic l i n k w i t h the w o r l d o f W a u g h . A n ' u n t i d y rather ruffianly Jew' can hardly be a dandy: yet Mailer at times comes close to an inner dandyism w h i c h serves a protection against the ravages o f reality: Mailer was a snob o f the worst s o r t . . . L i k e most snobs he professed to believe i n the aristocracy o f achieved quality—'Just give me a novel w i t h a few y o u n g artists, bright-eyed and b o l d ' — i n fact, a party lacked flavour for h i m unless someone very rich or social was present. A n evening w i t h o u t a wicked lady i n the r o o m was like an opera company w i t h o u t a large voice. (Armies of the Night, p. 24) 15

The Erasers, pp. 129-30.

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T h e dandyism here lies not so much i n the snobbery or the taste for wicked ladies as i n the mixture or ironic detachment and flippancy o f tone w h i c h he directs against himself. ( W i t h the dandy 'flippant tone authenticates the seriousness o f his r e m a r k s ' ) T h i s is a tone that is constantly present i n The Armies of the Night, constituting a dandyish refusal to take w i t h full seriousness the tragic implications o f the events that Mailer is b o t h publicly i n v o l v e d i n , as character i n his o w n non-fictional novel, and detached from as their 'historian'. W h a t prevents h i m f r o m having more than an oblique resemblance to W a u g h , however, is just this public involvement. W i t h Mailer, the public and the private personalities are hardly distinguishable. E v e r y t h i n g that, i n another time or place, w o u l d have remained secret, here becomes material for the public advertisement o f the self. Waugh's private personality, on the other hand, remained a closely-guarded secret to be kept i n quite a separate compartment from the public personality o f the narrator o f the novels. T h a t this strategy d i d n o t always succeed is shown, o f course, i n The Ordeal of Gilbert Pinfold, where the method o f self-projection is not so v e r y different from that o f Mailer, t h o u g h the i n v e n t i o n o f a different name is significant as a sign o f an ultimate reserve w h i c h Mailer seems to lack. B u t there is a deeper difference as w e l l , w h i c h is that the action o f Waugh's self-revelatory novel is itself a private affair: the story o f one individual's struggle w i t h ' w i t h his aeons', whereas Mailer's self-revelatory novels are parts o f a public action, a k i n d o f self-advertising campaign i n fact. F o r example i n The Armies of the Night Mailer seeks to understand the march o n the Pentagon as a k i n d o f collective American tragedy on the grand scale, w i t h himself at the centre o f it. Y e t he is also pictured as a c l o w n w i t h i n the tragic action, detached like the still centre o f the w h i r l i n g w o r l d . (Just as Shakespeare drops the fool i n King Lear when the tragedy comes to its consummation, so Mailer disappears from the stage w h e n the 'novel' becomes 'history' i n order to w o r k o u t i t s o w n final m e a n i n g . ) 16

17

18

19

Gregor, op. cit., p. 504. F o r example, Mailer introduces the breakdown of his own marriage into A Fire on the Moon. The phrase is William Golding's (Pincher Martin, pp. 50-53 etc.). 'The fool is withdrawn from the pressures and tensions and dislocations of the play just as these arrive at their fullness. Laughter remains latent within the play, but pity and terror have finally disarmed it. Tragedy, pushed to a point where it violently presses upon the absurd, without itself collapsing, thus establishes its sovereignty over humour.' Stein, Criticism as Dialogue, pp. 86—7. 1 6

1 7

1 8

1 9

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T h e tragic tone, w i t h its consequent repression o f h u m o u r , comes out most clearly at the end o f the b o o k , i n w h i c h Mailer tries to give some k i n d o f quasi-Shakespearean hope to an otherwise tragic action b y e v o k i n g the picture o f a few dedicated Quakers, naked i n jail, the remnants o f the l o n g march, still h o l d i n g out against the tide o f evil around them b y fasting and prayer. Mailer writes their prayer as he imagines i t : O L o r d , forgive our people for they do not k n o w , O L o r d , find a little forgiveness for America i n the p u n y reaches o f o u r small suffering, O L o r d , let these hours count o n the scale as some small penance for the sins o f the nation, let this great nation c r y i n g i n the flame o f its o w n gangrene be absolved for one tithe o f its great sins b y the penance o f these minutes, O L o r d , b r i n g more suffering u p o n me that the sins o f our soldiers i n V i e t n a m be n o t u t t e r l y unforg i v e n — t h e y are too y o u n g to be damned for ever. T h e n the author comments: I f the end o f the March t o o k place i n the isolation i n w h i c h these last pacifists suffered naked i n freezing cells, and gave up prayers for pen­ ance, then w h o was to say that they were not saints? A n d w h o is to say that the sins o f America were n o t b y their witness a tithe re­ mitted? (p. 319) I n addition to the felt need to reclaim the structure o f belief implied i n that hieratic Christian language (belief w i t h o u t w h i c h the w o r d s can o n l y signify a gesture o f reluctant but forced resignation to the en­ croaching 'gangrene') the most notable t h i n g about this ending is the absence o f Mailer, the representative American f r o m the scene. O f course Mailer sees himself as part o f the g u i l t y nation. B u t t h o u g h he had made his protest, he himself had not gone so far as to be kept naked, like p o o r T o m , i n the 'hole'. Y e t he was supposed t o be the centre o f the novel's attraction, the c l o w n whose antics held the entire structure together. W h y is Mailer missing at this crucial juncture o f the story? W e may explain the fact b y reference to Mailer's ' N i j i n s k y - l i k e ambivalence' so p u b l i c l y and w i t t i l y acknowledged t h r o u g h o u t the b o o k . Mailer hovers between the need to sin and the need to repent; and as he describes himself i n this predicament he valuably articulates a general feeling. B u t surely this personal ambivalence rests o n a deeper

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ambiguity, between the language o f sin and the language o f sickness, b o t h o f w h i c h seem to be necessary to Mailer i f he is to describe America's problems. W i t h i n the space o f a few lines he speaks b o t h o f the nation's 'sins' and the nation's 'gangrene'. N o w , visions o f a nation's— indeed the w h o l e world's—sickness are, o f course, part o f the sense o f the entropic decay w h i c h fascinates and yet appals so many contemporary writers. T h e nation's 'gangrene' is an organic calamity, alive and g r o w i n g as the visible manifestation o f an invisible demonic power, a 'principality' w i t h i n the w o r l d order. B u t there is a conflict between the language o f sickness and that o f sin. T h e one implies personal responsibility, while the other does not. One o f the damaging things about talk o f a cosmic entropic sickness is that i t suggests that no individuals are finally more g u i l t y than any others. I n the end n o ­ b o d y can do anything m u c h about the problem, except to adopt a dandyish personal style as a protest against i t . Y e t Mailer's style at the end o f The Armies of the Night is interesting because, instead o f taking that w a y out, he chooses to combine, quite seriously, the language o f disease and the language o f sin. T h e result seems to me to be fatal to his valuable self-consciously clownish pose. O f course, today the nation's gangrene is just as likely to come to o u r notice i n the f o r m o f a technological 'cancer' as under the meta­ p h o r o f an organic disease. I t is therefore n o t surprising to find that b o t h kinds o f imagery abound i n Mailer's w o r k . T h e m i n g l i n g o f biological and mechanical language to describe the disorder is some­ t h i n g that we have already noticed i n E v e l y n W a u g h : Silenus and Grimes are ancestors o f Mailer's demonic pantheon. I n Why Are We In Vietnam} we find a confrontation between o n the one hand guns, helicopters and deep-freezes for the storage o f dead Alaskan game (described, at times, w i t h a technical pedantry that reminds one o f Joyce) and on the other, bears, wolves and caribou described i n a language reminiscent o f Conrad o r Lawrence at their most lush. I n The Armies of the Night we find a similar m i x i n g o f the demonic meta­ phors: T h e air was violent, yet full o f amusement, out o f focus . . . There was a hint o f hurricane calm, then wind-bursts, gut-roars from the hogs. I f the novelist had never heard o f Hell's Angels or m o t o r ­ cycle gangs, he w o u l d still have predicted, no rather invented m o t o r ­ cycle orgies, because the o r g y and technology seemed to come

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together i n the sound o f 1200 cc's on t w o wheels, that exacerbation o f flesh, torsion o f lust, r h y t h m i n the pistons, stink o f gasoline, yeah, o i l as the last excrement o f putrefactions buried a m i l l i o n years i n Mother Earth, yes indeed, that f u n k y redolence o f gasoline was n o t derived from n o t h i n g , n o , doubtless i t was the stench o f the river Styx (a p u n n i n g metaphor appropriate to John U p d i k e no d o u b t ) b u t Mailer, weak i n Greek, had nonetheless some passing cloudy unresolved image n o w o f man as Charon on that river o f gasoline Styx wandering between earth and the h o l y mills o f that machine. L i k e most c l o u d y metaphors, this served to get h i m home—there is n o t h i n g like the search for a clear figure o f speech to induce g y r o ­ scopic intensity sufficient for the compass to w o r k . ( p p . 9 7 - 8 ) T h a t paragraph is n o t o n l y w h o l l y typical i n its m i x i n g o f the mech­ anical and biological i n e v o k i n g the sense o f metaphysical powers at w o r k i n the nation's system (a sense that 'politics had become m y ­ sterious again, had begun to partake o f Mystery; that gave life to a t h o u g h t that the gods were back i n human affairs' ( p . 1 0 3 ) : i t is also typical i n its subterranean deflation o f itself, and o f Mailer as its author. B u t as I have said, the trouble w i t h the m i x i n g o f these metaphors is that i t tends to discourage just that sense o f personal guilt and re­ sponsibility on w h i c h Mailer's 'tragedy' has hitherto relied. W h e n Lawrence was calling for a k i n d o f tragedy that went b e y o n d the 'merely human', w h i c h w o u l d encompass the 'stir' o f natural forces as i n H a r d y ' s E g d o n Heath, w h i c h w o u l d be w a r to the death between man and the 'fretful elements', he was seeking to redress a lost balance, to go beyond the pathetic fallacy to a new ( w h i c h w o u l d also be an o l d ) pathetic t r u t h . B u t to see the p r o b l e m i n terms o f a general sick­ ness seems n o t o n l y to absolve men o f their vile offences b u t also to render them politically impotent. ( A s Greene's w h i s k y priest k n e w , i f everyone is sick, i t seems pointless to pray for forgiveness.) 20

21

H o w e v e r , the conflict between the t w o ways o f describing the general condition does n o t necessarily have to be fatal. W i t h i n the metaphysical reach o f a tradition such as the Christian one to w h i c h the jailed Quakers belonged, a structure exists whereby the t w o are Mailer notes (Fire, p. 377) that nowadays he carries Frazer's The Golden Bough on his trips by plane. This is Lucas-Dockery, the prison governor's view, in Decline and Fall, p. 178. 2 0

2 1

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reconciled i n one historic moment: the m o m e n t w h e n the language o f healing and the language o f forgiveness come together i n a single man's words: ' T o prove to y o u that the Son o f M a n has a u t h o r i t y on earth to forgive sins', he said to the paralytic, ' I order y o u : get u p , pick up y o u r stretcher and go o f f home.' ( M a r k 2:10-11) Mailer's ending to his novel is an open one: and i t is open i n particular to the possibility that this man's historic w o r d s have a universal application, an application directly relevant to the nation's sins as w e l l as to its gangrene. B u t Mailer does n o t go so far as to embrace that c o m m i t m e n t for himself, even t h o u g h he seems to admit that o n l y t h r o u g h some such c o m m i t m e n t can America obtain b o t h the healing and the forgiveness that she needs. Forgiveness involves a structure o f beliefs: i n a heaven w h i c h can send d o w n visible spirits to tame our vile offences, and an earth w h i c h is such that i t can accept these spirits and make them fruitful. A concept, i n short, o f unseen presences w i t h i n Nature. B u t can such a concept be recovered? Is i t to be found anywhere w i t h i n o u r ravaged planet? I do n o t t h i n k that modern fiction i n its present state has any coherent answer to give to that question: and yet the modern w o r l d that is shaped b y its stories awaits one w i t h increasing impatience. T h e r e i n lies the dilemma o f a story-shaped w o r l d .

Notes to Part T w o

p. 121. See Stephen Hero, Chap. X I X : 'The romantic temper, so often and so grievously misinterpreted and not more by others than by its own, is an insecure, unsatisfied, impatient temper which sees no fit above here for its ideals and chooses therefore to build them under insensible figures. As a result of this choice it comes to disregard certain limitations. Its figures are blown to wild adventures, lacking the gravity of solid bodies, and the mind that has conceived them ends by disowning them. T h e classical temper on the other hand, ever mindful of limita­ tions, chooses rather to bend upon these present things and so to work upon them and fashion them that the quick intelligence may go beyond them to their meaning which is still unuttered. I n this method the sane and joyful spirit issues forth and achieves imperishable perfection, nature assisting with her goodwill and thanks.' p. 124 T h e thoughts are L o u Witt's, as she meditates on the coming flood of evil in the world: 'The dead will have to bury their dead, while the earth stinks of corpses. T h e individual can but depart from the mass, and try to cleanse himself. T r y to hold fast to the living thing, which destroys as it goes, but remains sweet. And in his soul fight, fight, fight to preserve that which is life in him from the ghastly kisses and poison-bites of the myriad evil ones. Retreat to the desert, and fight' (p. 79). O f course this theme is not pursued in a wholly unrelenting way in Lawrence's work. A t times, in Lady Chatterley's Lover, in some of the last stories, in the second part of The Man Who Died, even in a sense in The Ship of Death, the individual returns home to the familiar world, to personal relationships, to the search for human love. T h e New England woman who preceded L o u on the Mexican ranch, in St Mawr, is one of these. 'She was glad to go down from the ranch, when November came with snows. She was glad to come to a more human home, her house in the village' (St Mawr, p. 159). But always in these last works there is the counter movement, the search for a cleansing retreat in the desert where the individual is not touched or polluted by relationship to others. L o u takes over from the New England woman i n the end, to face the 'fretful elements' alone. The Woman Who Rode Away does not come back, but continues her 'retreat' to the point of death. The Man Who Died commands those among whom he comes not to touch him, and the boat he takes in order to get away is only another version of the little Ship of Death itself. p. 125. F o r Lawrence, the horse St Mawr is a mixture of the 'dead' domesticated horses seen in London ('over here the horse has died . . . oh, London is so awful: so dark, so damp, so yellow-grey, so mouldering piece-meal') and of the dragon symbols he had seen in Mexico everywhere, staring out on him from old ruins,

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jaws gaping to hold doorways and gleaming here and there wherever he might be. It was a god there, a god he admired . . . ' (see F . W . Carter, reminiscence in D. H. Lawrence: A Composite Biography, Maidson 1958, vol. 2, p. 314, and also letter to Willard Johnson in Collected Letters of D. H. Lawrence, ed. Harry T . Moore, London 1962, vol. 2, pp. 76yff). Lawrence was of course much taken up with the symbolism of the dragon at the time of writing St Mawr. He had received the MS of Frederick Carter's The Dragon of the Apocalypse at Chapala in 1923 before making the journey to England from which St Mawr finally emerged. T h e conversation in the story between Cartwright ( = C a r t e r ) and the others helps to give metaphysical depth to the meaning of St Mawr himself (St Mawr, pp. 6 0 - 4 ) . Cartwright's goat-like appearance starts a conversation on the subject of the great god Pan. Cartwright believes that the figure of the goaty satyr is a debased version of a pre-Greek conception in which the god was hidden, dangerous but powerful, in everything. 'In those days you saw the thing, you never saw the god in it: I mean in the tree or the fountain or the animal. I f you ever saw the god instead of the thing, you died.' This Ruskin-like theory leads L o u on to ask whether she might see Pan in a horse, and Cartwright gives her a knowing look. What Lawrence does not allow us to know is whether, in the ranch, L o u ever did see the god directly, with the naked eye, and whether the experience had the fatal out­ come that Cartwright predicts. It is as though Lawrence is not really prepared to go through with his tragic conception to the bitter end in St Mawr. See also Frank Kermode, 'Lawrence and the Apocalyptic Types' in Critical Quarterly, 10 (Spring and Summer 1968), pp. 14-38. p. 130. Consider what the effect would be if the 'should' and the 'would' of the penultimate paragraph were changed into straightforward past tense verbs. I n place of 'In absolute motionlessness he watched till the red sun should send his ray through the column of ice. T h e n the old man would strike, and strike home, accomplish the sacrifice and achieve the power', we would have the far more definite and 'final' sentence: 'In absolute motionlessness he watched till the red sun sent his ray through the column of ice. T h e n the old man struck, and struck home, accomplished the sacrifice and achieved the power'. But Lawrence does not want to be committed to all the implications of so positive an ending, so strong a 'sense of an ending'. p. 132. Donald MacKinnon has pointed out the importance, for a theology of the atonement, of seeing Christ's death as a tragic death: see 'Subjective and Objective Conceptions of the Atonement'; in Prospects for Theology, essays presented to H . H . Farmer, London (Nisbet), 1967, pp. 167-82; 'Theology and Tragedy' in Religious Studies, 2 (April 1967), pp. 163-70; and 'Atonement and Tragedy' in Borderlands of Theology, London (Lutterworth Press), 1968, pp. 97-104. p. 135. O f course this does not imply that Birkin and Ursula are not, like Gerald and Gudrun, both parts of a world that is finished. T h e y will never themselves inherit the new world Birkin dreams of. Exile from the world that is finished is all they can expect, at best; at worst they must expect to go down with it. O n this see John Goode in The Twentieth Century (ed. Bernard Bergonzi), V o l . 7 of the Sphere History of Literature in the English Language, London (Sphere Books), 1970, pp. 106-52, especially pp. 137-9.

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p. 137. Mann's own alter ego Gustav Aschenbach, in Death in Venice, exhibits just such a tendency. Mann's commentary upon Aschenbach's work is revealing. Insofar as 'tout comprendre c'est tout pardonner' is a life-affirming principle, Aschenbach's rejection of it in favour of moral austerity and aesthetic detach­ ment, his dedication to 'an almost exaggerated sense of beauty, a lofty purity, symmetry, and simplicity . . . [a] conscious and deliberate mastery' is a rejection of life. As Mann suggests, such an attitude results in a 'dangerous simplification' in Aschenbach's work. Y e t the artistic discipline required to maintain it is what Aschenbach possesses above all other artistic gifts. Hence his role as 'the poet spokesman of all those who labour at the edge of exhaustion; of the over-burdened, of those who are already worn out. . .' Thomas Mann, Stories and Episodes, London (Everyman's Library), pp. 7 9 - 8 1 , and also D . H . Lawrence, Thomas Mann, originally published in Phoenix. p. 146. Admittedly Bloom's most sublime aesthetic experiences are even here couched in banal overwritten phrases: but this is a calculated dramatic placing of Bloom's response, vulgar but full of genuine appreciation. Furthermore, the song from Martha inevitably has kinetic implications for Bloom, who has constantly in mind his flirtation with Martha Clifford and his wife's infidelity. These in fact have a good deal to do with his vulnerability to the beauties of this particular song, sung at this particular juncture. p. 156. See Decline and Fall, p. 121: 'How loathsome and beyond words boring all the thoughts and self-approval of this biological by-product! this half-formed, ill-conditioned body! this erratic, maladjusted mechanism of his soul! on the one side the harmonious instincts and balanced responses of the animal, on the other the inflexible purpose of the engine, and between them man, equally alien from the being of Nature and the doing of the machine, the vile becoming^ T h e really modern people, like Margot Beste-Chetwynde, are themselves little more than machines; Silenus decides, quite logically from his point of view, not to marry Margot simply because, as he puts it, she will be 'worn out' in ten years (pp. 126-7). p. 157. A World on the Wane is the English title of Levi-Strauss's Tristes Tropiques, a study of the declining cultures of certain South American tribes. L e v i Strauss ends his book with the speculation that it is of the very nature of civilisa­ tion itself to level out differences and thus to contribute to the increasing entropy of the world (see pp. 3 9 7 - 8 ) . Waugh's most eloquent endorsement of this idea is to be found in the fate of T o n y Last, in A Handful of Dust, viz. a monstrous living death in the South American jungle ' D u Cote de Chez Todd'. I n Levi-Strauss's words, 'Taken as a whole . . . civilisation can be described as a prodigiously complicated mechanism: tempting as it would be to regard it as a universe's best hope of survival, its true function is to produce what physicists call entropy: inertia, that is to say. E v e r y scrap of civilisation, every line set up in type, establishes a communication between two inter-locutors, levelling what had previously existed on two different planes and had had, for that reason, a greater degree of organisation. "Entropology", not anthropology, should be the word for the discipline that devotes itself to the study of this process of disintegration in its most highly evolved forms' (p. 397). p. 176. I n fact The Unnamable (in common with a good deal else of Beckett)

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presents itself as simultaneously a ratification and a caricature of the world-view which insists that the good of existence is always to be preferred to the evil of outright annihilation, however painful the form of existence in question may be. Beckett's work may be understood as a grim dramatisation of the consequences of the view, expressed for example by St Augustine, that it is a greater good to exist and be miserable than not to exist at all. Aquinas, in his commentary on the Sentences of Peter Lombard, discusses the consequences of this idea for the problem of God's justice in damning sinners to eternal punishment. T w o of his answers seem peculiarly appropriate to the Beckettian vision. The first is the reply to an objection that seems to follow from Augustine's principle, namely that since sheer existence is the greatest of all goods, from which all other goods stem, it is impossible for the damned to wish their own annihilation. Aquinas argues that, though it is impossible to wish one's own annihilation per se, it is still possible to do so per accidens in the sense that it is possible to wish for an end to misery even if this can only be had by an end of existence itself. It follows, of course, that the fact that this wish cannot, in justice, be granted by God—since to grant it would be to prefer the lesser good (an end of misery) to the greater good of existence—adds a further twist to the misery of the damned, in the form of frustration of their dearest wish. But Aquinas has yet another ingredient to add to the argument. Surely, he wonders, the sin of ingratitude deserves the loss of commensurate benefits. Hence ingratitude for the benefit of existence itself must surely in justice deserve the loss of that very benefit. Now, mortal sin against G o d , the author of existence, is always a kind of ingratitude for the gift of existence: it is a flinging of existence on the creator's terms back in the face of the creator. Hence justice itself must entail the utter annihilation of the mortally ungrateful sinner. But this would imply a denial of the eternity of Hell. Aquinas's answer is a piece of reasoning that is surely 'unbridled' in Whitehead's sense of the term. A punish­ ment is fitted to the enormity of the sin, not to the dignity of the person sinned against. (If this were not so, any sin, being a sin against the infinite G o d , would merit infinite punishment—and this would certainly mean the loss of existence itself.) N o w no sin is great enough to deserve the loss of existence: for to lose that would be to lose the very benefit on which the whole business of justly assessing a man's deserts rests. Such a punishment would make it impossible to do justice to the sinner, since he would cease to exist as a subject to whom justice can be done. Thus both justice and mercy entail that the damned man continues to exist, even if that existence can only be in an eternal Hell. Such reasoning has a truly Becket­ tian ring. (See Aquinas, In Sent., 4, Dist. 50, q. 2, art. 1; and Dist. 46 q. 1, art. 3) p. 185. John Sturrock has put the main point of Robbe-Grillet's novels well, in a review of the most recent of them (Project for a Revolution in New York) printed in The Observer, London, 28 January 1973: 'What the novel is really about, though it can never admit it openly, is the imagination's overheated and generally ludicrous efforts to get the better of an indifferent reality and insinuate its emotions into it. T h e characters—who scarcely qualify for the term—are all caught up in this ontological romp either as culprits or victims. But in the end, after umpteen transformations, of scene and identity, and much obviously cod-sado-erotic endeavour, the whole thing founders in contradiction. Reality, after all, is in­ violate.'

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p. 191. I n this sense perhaps Goldmann is right to see Robbe-Grillet as simply expressing the reification of things characteristic of modern capitalism, rather than (as Robbe-Grillet himself claims) expressing man's hopes of liberation from the dominion of things. See Goldmann, Pour Une Sociologie du Roman, Paris 1964, and the discussion by Miriam Glucksmann in New Left Review 56. p. 193. Robbe-Grillet upbraids Sartre for the use of metaphorical language because of its 'visceral' basis in bodily experience. Sartre is wrong, we are told, to make Roquentin conclude, in describing a cardboard box that contains his ink bottle, that geometry is completely useless; and that to say that the box is a parallelopiped is to say nothing about it. See Snapshots, p. 89. p. 202. See D . H . Lawrence, Introduction to Frederick Carter's The Dragon of the Apocalypse. A more recent attempt to mingle Biblical and scientific ideas about the stars is to be found in the following note by Olivier Messiaen concerning his work Et Expecto Resurrectionem Mortuorum: 'In our times of scientific precision, at the very moment of the theories on the expansion of the universe, we perceive that the Bible has always told the truth: that the stars really are "numberless"— and also that the stars "sing" . . . indeed certain stars are gaseous, behave like organ pipes, and we can observe their vibrations'. Messiaen is here referring to 1 Cor. 15: 45; Rev. 2:17; Job, 30:7 (see sleeve note on E M I recording, ASD 246). Another expression of Lawrence's feeling, roughly contemporary with his own, is, of course, Hoist's orchestral suite The Planets, written during the 1914-18 war. p. 202. T o n y Tanner has drawn attention to the importance of the parapetwalking episode in An American Dream as a symbol of the predicament facing the hero: how to walk safely on the edge between conflicting imperious demands: the demands made upon him by 'corporation-land' with its applause for the astronauts and all they stand for, and on the other side, the sinister, possibly demonic but humanly fascinating call of the moon, 'princess of the dead' asking for his allegiance to the truth that (as Lawrence put it) 'in astronomical space, one can only move, one cannot be . . . [whereas] in the ancient zodiacal heavens, the whole man is set free, once the imagination crosses the border'. O f course, the moon-image in Women in Love ('Moony') has just the opposite connotations: that is why Birkin tries to destroy it.

Conclusion

I began this b o o k b y insisting on the connections that exist, or ought to exist between the study o f literature and the philosophy o f religion. I end i t b y asking whether any progress has been made towards establishing those connections. I can o n l y answer this question b y reasserting t w o o f the assumptions o n w h i c h m y enquiry has been conducted. T h e first is that I regard as valuable and profitable the modern m o v e ­ ment i n the literary criticism o f fiction w h i c h may be said to date from the era o f H e n r y James and w h i c h is usefully described—-to use W a y n e Booth's famous designation—as the study o f its 'rhetoric'. B y 'rhetoric' here, B o o t h meant the whole technique o f communicating what the author wants to say to the reader; the marshalling o f the resources available to the story-teller as he tries, consciously or u n ­ consciously, to impose his fictional w o r l d u p o n us. B u t as M a r k Schorer has reminded us, i n another well-turned phrase, technique is also discovery. T o find a new w a y o f d o i n g something—such as telling a story—is always to find something new to do: a new k i n d o f story to tell. A n d i n so far as the k i n d o f stories that a society tells are symptomatic o f that society's c o m m o n w o r l d - v i e w , the study o f the ever changing rhetoric o f story-telling i n a particular society is ipso facto the study o f h o w that ever-changing w o r l d - v i e w is communicated. Secondly, I take as basic to m y enquiry the v i e w that wherever the content o f a religious belief-system such as that o f Christianity is under examination, a metaphysic o f some sort is also necessarily i n question. I n other words I regard as fundamentally correct the intuitions o f postHumean empiricists, Vienna Circle positivists and neo-Thomist scholastics, that to pose the question o f religious belief is to pose at the same time the question o f the possibility o f metaphysics. H o w e v e r 1

1

The Rhetoric of Fiction, Preface.

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different may be the answers given b y philosophers i n this century to that question, i n recognising that the question itself is crucial, at any rate to theistic religion, they are at one. I n saying this I am dissociating myself, o f course, f r o m that tendency i n twentieth-century Christian theology w h i c h stems from the w o r k o f Barth. H o w e v e r necessary Barth's fundamental hostility to philosophical theology may have been as a corrective, I have here taken i t as granted that i t w i l l n o t do as a full account o f Christian belief. There is no w a y o f a v o i d i n g meta­ physics once the question o f G o d has been raised: and there is no w a y o f responding to the challenge o f the N e w Testament w i t h o u t raising the question o f G o d . T h u s t w o o f m y most basic assumptions have been that i n the study o f stories, the matter o f narrative rhetoric is crucial to a disciplined criticism, and that i n the study o f religious belief the matter o f the adequacy o f metaphysical foundations is equally crucial. But a t h i r d , l i n k i n g assumption has been that, i n the nature o f the case, religious belief is founded u p o n stories. Hence, b r i n g i n g these seemingly quite distinct areas o f study into some k i n d o f mutual connection must i n v o l v e relating the matter o f narrative rhetoric and the matter o f religious metaphysics. H o w is this to be accomplished? T h e burden o f m y answer has been this: that i f we readily admit a rhetoric o f fiction and a metaphysics o f belief, i t is equally important to recognise that there is a rhetoric o f belief and a metaphysics o f narrative. But a belief-system such as Christianity is n o t o n l y founded u p o n stories; its articulation at any particular moment o f a society's history, the flesh and b l o o d o f its l i v i n g reality (or indeed, the overt lack o f i t ) largely depends u p o n that society's ability to tell itself the appropriate kinds o f story. W e have therefore to consider n o t o n l y the rhetoric o f the founding narratives, we must also consider the rhetoric o f today's fictions. I n the case o f the latter I have tried to show that the study o f fiction using the equipment o f the linguist and the anthropologist reveals metaphysical implications—what I have called an 'analogical d i ­ mension'. T h a t is to say, literary criticism w h i c h is to do justice to narrative material must include a recognition o f the complementary dimensions o f metaphor and analogy (to use the traditional meta­ physical t e r m i n o l o g y ) o r — t o use the language o f modern linguistics— o f the paradigmatic and the syntagmatic dimensions n o t o n l y o f language but o f ' s t o r y ' as a specialised use o f language. I f m y argument

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is i n any sense right, I w o u l d regard i t as one o f its most useful b y ­ products that the metaphysics o f Aquinas should be recognised as p l a y i n g a crucial role w i t h i n the w o r l d o f Saussure and Levi-Strauss. B u t i f i t is useful to draw attention to the metaphysical implications o f stories, i t is perhaps even more i m p o r t a n t to recognise the rhetorical element i n religious belief. I f linguists and critics have recently shown little interest i n metaphysics, students o f religious stories (Biblical critics for example) have often shown equally little interest i n the rhe­ toric o f the narratives they study. Y e t i f the literary critics are r i g h t then it is just as crucial to understanding e.g. w h a t a Biblical narrator wishes to say, that we should appreciate his rhetorical 'technique' as i t is to study his sources or his language, o r his 'genre'. I f one implication o f m y argument has been to say that the 'anthropological linguistic' and the 'literary critical' approaches to narrative texts are not incompatible but complementary, i t has equally been m y object to show that the historical and linguistic study o f the stories w h i c h offer the basic data o f religious belief is not enough. W e need a literary criticism i n the humane i f inexact tradition o f Jamesian criticism, a study o f religious rhetoric i n narrative, to complement the linguistic, anthropological and historical studies that w e have hitherto been confronted w i t h . I n the first part o f this b o o k I attempted to discuss the 'rhetoric' o f belief i n terms o f some v e r y elementary study o f Biblical narratives. B u t i n the second I have tried to show what the 'metaphysics o f fiction' implies for contemporary belief b y the consideration o f a few selected modern examples. B u t I am aware that to do this w i t h extended and complex w o r k s such as the novels discussed i n Part 2 is an extremely delicate business. T h i s is w h y I have tried to avoid any simple mech­ anical application o f m y theoretical conclusions to particular cases o f fictional narrative. I t is one t h i n g to expound, say, the paradigmatic/ syntagmatic structure o f a sonnet: quite another, w i t h o u t d o i n g radical injustice to the complex reality w h i c h is a major n o v e l , to attempt the same for, say, Waugh's t r i l o g y , or Beckett's. T h i s is w h y , h a v i n g indicated at the outset w h i c h aspect o f the theoretical enquiry I am mainly p u t t i n g to the test i n each particular instance, I have left the discussion o f each author's 'rhetoric' to speak for itself, i n the hope that the implications o f the theory w i l l make themselves more o r less apparent from the treatment o f each example. But, to reiterate v e r y briefly what I have attempted to do i n the critical part o f this b o o k , i t may be w o r t h n o t i n g that what I have said about W a u g h , Beckett,

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Robbe-Grillet and Mailer all stems f r o m w h a t I see as a basic d i c h o t o m y w h i c h is best exposed i n the differing endeavours o f Lawrence and Joyce. These t w o great figures o f the modern period i n fiction seem to me increasingly representative o f the t w o main tendencies o f narrative. I n a m u l t i p l i c i t y o f ways, Lawrence seems to stand for the 'vertical' dimension and its recovery i n fiction: i n his search for the 'unseen presences' that he feels above and below h i m i n the natural w o r l d , i n his sense o f the narrator's presence i n and m o r a l responsibility for interpreting his o w n vision to us, i n his radically metaphorical lan­ guage, i n his immersion i n (rather than detachment from) w h a t Stephen Daedalus called 'desire and l o a t h i n g ' . Joyce, equally increas­ i n g l y , seems to stand for the opposite qualities, the ' h o r i z o n t a l ' qualities, for an art i n w h i c h the narrator is impersonalised out o f b o t h desire and loathing. I have sought to show i n the subsequent dis­ cussion h o w some particular aspect o f this d i c h o t o m y is embodied i n each o f the authors I have chosen to discuss. I n the case o f W a u g h , I have emphasised the ambiguous and perilous relation between teller and tale i n his fiction, the substitution o f w h a t I have called narrative 'dandyism' f o r a c o m m i t m e n t either to Joycean impersonality o r to its Lawrentian opposite as a narrative ideal. I n the case o f Beckett, I have tried to trace the consequences that f o l l o w w h e n neither dandyism n o r narrative c o m m i t m e n t seems a possible o p t i o n , and instead the narrator as a distinct voice is simply obliterated o r totally absorbed into w h a t is being t o l d . B u t naturally, these different responses to the fundamental p r o b l e m o f narrative 'rhetoric' have consequences elsewhere—for example i n the sort o f language that the narrator finds i t possible t o use, and especially i n the degree to w h i c h a coherent framework o f meta­ p h o r is available i n i t or not. I n the cases o f R o b b e - G r i l l e t and Mailer I have used just this approach, beginning w i t h the question o f meta­ phorical language and its availability o r non-availability, and ending w i t h some consideration o f the effects this has i n each case u p o n the 'metaphysics' o r 'anti-metaphysics' o f the author's fiction. Inevitably, such an enterprise, even i n so tentative f o r m as is t o be f o u n d i n this b o o k , is fraught w i t h problems b o t h o f method and content. Most o f these I must leave unsolved, or allow to lie fallow for further cultivation. There is however, one further p o i n t to be made about the k i n d o f 'inter-disciplinary' study w h i c h has here been attempted. I t is obviously subject t o all the shortcomings o f ignorance, obsolescence and misunderstanding attendant u p o n t r y i n g to w o r k i n

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several fields at once: fields w h i c h are themselves each too vast to be p r o p e r l y mastered i n a lifetime. B u t i t is equally obvious to me, f r o m a consideration o f the principles involved and f r o m practical ex­ perience, that there is n o t r u l y 'interdisciplinary' w o r k except that w h i c h goes o n inside the brain o f a single individual. T o k n o c k together i n a single course o f study the heads o f persons variously engaged i n (say) literary, theological, philosophical and linguistic studies may produce, w i t h luck, a fairly exciting, even explosive mixture. B u t i t w i l l seldom produce a permanently valuable new c o m p o u n d . F o r new compounds can o n l y be produced w i t h i n a single vessel where the necessary reaction takes place: and similarly, new intellectual relation­ ships can o n l y be b r o u g h t i n t o being b y some single and no doubt v e r y fallible intelligence. T h i s is the r o o t p r o b l e m o f all systematic attempts to cross the boundaries o f established disciplines. I am sure I have n o t solved i t : m y o n l y justification is that I have tried.

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Hawkes, Terence, Metaphor, London (Methuen) 1972. Healey, F. G., (ed.), Prospects for Theology, London (Nisbet) 1967. Hick, John, (ed.), The Existence of God, New Y o r k (Macmillan) 1967.

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Maddox, John, The Doomsday Syndrome, London (Macmillan) 1972. Mailer, Norman, A Fire on the Moon, London (Weidenfeld and Nicolson), Boston (Little Brown) 1970. —, An American Dream, London (Mayflower Paperback), New Y o r k (Dial Press) 1965. •—, The Armies of the Night, Harmondsworth (Penguin Books), New York (Signet Books) 1968. —, Why Are We in Vietnam} London (Panther Books), New York (Putnam) 1967.

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Merleau-Ponty, M . , Phenomenology of Perception, trans. Colin Smith, London (Routledge and Kegan Paul) 1962. Meynell, Hugo, God and the World, London (S.P.C.K.) 1971. Mill, J. S., System of Logic, London (Longmans, Green, Reader and Dyer) 9th edn., 1875. Monod, Jacques, Chance and Necessity, trans. Austryn Wainhouse, London (Collins) 1972. Mooney, C , Teilhard de Chardin and the Mystery of Christ, London (Collins) 1966.

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Index

Adams, H . , 196 Aquinas, St T . , 6, 7, 11, 16, 22, 56, 7 3 , 77, 8 3 n , 94, 98, I 0 4 n , n o , 112, 113, 2 1 1 , 215

In Metaphysics, ; 6 n In Sententia, 211 Summa Theologiae, n n , i 6 n , 2 o n , 83n, 9 4 n , 9 8 n , i o 4 n i o 5 n , n o , 112, 113

Aristotle, 11, 56n, 107, 112 de Anima, 56n Rhetoric, n n Armstrong, A . H . , f6n, 6^n Ashby, W . Ross, 56 Augustine, St, 47, 175, 211 Austen, J . , 153 Aylen, L . , 6 3 n

195, 210, 215, 216

Calmative, \6 ! 5 7 , !95> i 9 > ° > ° 5 > 206, 208, 2 I O , 2 1 2 , 2 l 6 Birds, Beasts and Flowers, n 8 n Collected Letters, 209 Escaped Cock, 131 Horse-Dealer's Daughter, I 2 4 n Introduction to Dragon of the Apoca­ lypse, 109, 212 Lady Chatterley's Lover, I 2 0 n , 208 Man Who Died, 125, 127, 130, 131, 208 Phoenix, 210 Rainbow, 124x1 1

1

6

St Mawr, 1 2 4 - 9 , 3 , 95> > °9 Selected Literary Criticism (ed. Beal), 12m Ship of Death, 208 Short Novels, 130 Study of Thomas Hardy, 6^n, 121 Woman Who Rode Away, 1 2 7 - 9 , 208 Women in Love, 122, 123, 125, 134,

6

2

2

2

2

J

2 o 8

2

137, i 4 , I43> Leach, E . , 3 8 n , 41 Leavis, F . R . , 1 2 7 0 Levi-Strauss, C . , 2 1 , 36, 3 8 n , 39, i n , 210, 215 Levy-Bruhl, L . , 56n Locke, J . , 30, 7 7 Lodge, D . , viii, i n Lovejoy, A . O . , 2 2 2

2

1

2

McCabe, H . , viii, i 6 n , 2 o n MacDermott, T . , 6 4 n , 6 5 n McGowran, F . , i 7 3 n Maclntyre, A . , 8 6 n MacKinnon, D . , 66, 6 8 n , 209 Maddox, J . , 61 Mailer, N . , i-y, 1 2 , 3 0 , 5 5 , 6 0 , 1 0 9 , 1 1 8 , 119, 121, 151, 198-207, 216 American Dream, I 9 9 n , 2 0 2 , 212 Armies of the Night, I 9 9 n , 202, 2 0 3 , 205 Fire on the Moon, 2 n , 109, 197, 199 Why Are We in Vietnam}, 2 0 2 , 205 Maimonides, 107 Malebranche, N . , 57 Mann, T . , 137, 210 Martin, G . , I 5 4 n Marvell, A . , 108 Mascall, E . L . , 112 Masterson, P., i n Medawar, P., 109 Merleau-Ponty, M . , 192, 193 Messiaen, O . , 212 Meynell, H . , 56n Mill, J . S., 6, 5 2 - 5 , 109 System of Logic, 52, 53 Milton, J . , 2 5 , 26 Mind, 9 9 n Moby Dick, 147

Index Monod, J . , 54, 56n, 57, 67, 75, 76, 109, i n , i5on Mooney, C , 82n, 83n Moore, H . T . , 209 Mother Angelique de Scdnte-Madeleine, 175 New Blackfriars, viii, 64n, 94n New Left Review, 212 Newman, J . H . , 6, 67n, 88, i o 5 n , 107, in Development of Christian Doctrine, 107 Grammar of Assent, \o^n Parochial and Plain Sermons, 6711, in Newton, I . , 77 Nicholas, of Autrecourt, 77 Novel, i n , 47n, I 3 5 n The Observer, I99n, 211 Orwell, G . , 47n, 59

(ed. F . G .

Radcliffe-Brown, A . R . , 37, 39 Religious Studies, 209 Review of Metaphysics, j6n Reynolds, B., 113 Richards, I . A . „ 12, 74 Robbe-Grillet, A . , i-y, 11, 12, 16, 3 1 , 3 , 59. 74-6, 118, 13411, 139, 151, 2

184-94,

163, 173,

229

195,

I97n,

198, 201, 202, 211, 212, 2 1 6

Erasers, 1 8 6 , 2 0 2 n House of Assignation, 1 8 7 In the labyrinth, 1 8 7 , 1 9 4 Jealousy, 1 8 6 , 1 8 7 Project for a Revolution in New York, 211

Snapshots and Towards a New Novel, 2,

3 > 3 n

7 4 n , 1 3 4 " , i