Recently I have been quite busy with the move, new job, and strangely uncharacteristic attempts to become slightly more organized. Because of this, I have tried to lay off much of my self-applied pressure to continue regular posting. However, each night as I lay down to sleep, certain thoughts persist in preventing me from doing so, no matter how tired I may be. As these thoughts, though they are in no way formalized, pertain to the general strain of thought displayed in my postings (sans the Olympics babble), I will do my best to hash them out in a semi-understandable format.
Point one of my basic ponderings is the idea of instability in human nature. Perhaps it is an effect of my naiveté, but I have rarely thought of human nature as being transient at best. Yet Gregory of Nyssa writes, “Existence itself originates in change” and, “The created nature cannot exist without change.” This, of course, is because “nothing comes from nothing” and things came to be as a result of change (a point upon which all people agree, whether ex nihilo or from preexisting matter, all things begin as change, hence “begin”, not just “be”). And, according to Newtonian Laws (Chase correct me if I’m wrong), things in motion tend to stay in motion (though these laws do not necessarily apply to metaphysics, accept the allegory). Thus, to approach a study of human nature, or the nature of anything created or deriving from a created thing, one must approach it with the concept of constant motion. Though I already had thought that language was constantly changing (though not evolving), my thoughts have been much involved with how much different things (language in particular) change in reaction to things or in action towards them, or a combination, or whatever (very Hegelian I know).
As you can tell, my thoughts are very scattered and incomplete, but my next point is along the same lines: all of my “Signs and Metaculture” series was supposed to pertain to the representation of things (examining words like Metaphor, Mimesis, Ekphrasis, maybe Reification, etc.) yet I have also recently discovered Theodor Adorno’s “Aesthetic Theory” and can’t help but look for everything to have an inherent contradiction, vis-à-vis, “Art can only be understood by its laws of movement, not according to any invariants. It is defined by its relation to what it is not.” Of course, I know next to nothing about aesthetic theory (having read little of Kant, less of Hegel, and maybe 30 pages of Nietzsche, without tapping much into the 20th century at all), but Adorno’s desire to describe the relation of Art to society, determining in the process that Art is neither the sublimation of society alone nor the mere representation of it, convinces me that Language and signs, in their act of representation, may perhaps participate in the same particular fluidity to which human nature is subject. Though none of this plays out empirically, I am trying to process the relation between the necessarily human act of “making” that I promised to discuss, and the reflection of the transient nature of the “maker”.
Lastly, I put forth a call to anyone who can suggest further reading on “Ekphrasis”, as I can find very little on it and don’t have access to university thinkers right now.
Until I can figure out a regular schedule, I remain yours, my 2 ½ faithful readers!
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
My First Time
I recently read part of my first issue of Touchstone Magazine (as a result of a confession--non-sacramental--to Father Patrick Henry Reardon that I had never read the publication) and read for the first time a writing sample of Peter J. Leithart. Many people have respect for this man as an intellectual contemporary theologian, though I only read a very brief comment in the beginning of the magazine. The comment that he made is somewhat pertinent to my stalled-out series on the depth of language and literary theory, so I will quote it in full:
Consensual Silence
Meaning in language depends upon consensus. The sound "cat" denotes a feline to English speakers because English speakers agree that it does. French speakers can make no sense of the sound, but say "chat" (without the "t") and everything becomes clear.
Augustine gives a near twist to this common notion. Not only do we know what words mean because a group agrees, but learning what words mean involves coming to agreement with those who use the word. Learning that "katze" means "cat" unites me, in a small way, with all the German-speakers.
This is the heart of Augustine's analysis of the dangers of superstition. If an astrologer says, "If Venus is in the fifth house, you'll fall in love," and I agree, even if I agree simply by failing to disagree, I have formed a pact with falsehood. Worse, by agreeing with the astrologer, I've entered into a league with the demons who inspired his false signs in the first place.
Confronted with a false word, there is no way to remain neutral, to let it slide. I must either enter into fellowship with falsehood or break the consensus by disagreeing and telling the truth. "No," I must say to the astrologer, "Venus doesn't mean that."
Such disagreement is a liberation. But Augustine's analysis also raises disturbing questions about our culture's mania for politeness. What kind of villainy do we tolerate when we smile and smile and refuse to disagree?
Focus on Leithart's phrase, "his false signs." Note the importance, as I stressed in the first major installment of the S&M series, of the use of the correct signs. Naturally, I would expect all readers to agree, yet be at a loss as to where they define false from true signs. If by our mere disagreement we can falsify the signs of another, fine. But if the truth or falsehood of the statement and the sign created by the string of words in the statement (note that each word is a sign in itself and put together they form a new sign...) is intrinsic to the sign and cannot be changed, then we are at a quandary--we must first know whether the sign is true or false before agreeing or disagreeing! Please wait with extreme anticipation for my follow-up on how we create meaning through the "making" of signs which should be forthcoming as soon as I get settled in my new home (though who knows how long that will be.)
Consensual Silence
Meaning in language depends upon consensus. The sound "cat" denotes a feline to English speakers because English speakers agree that it does. French speakers can make no sense of the sound, but say "chat" (without the "t") and everything becomes clear.
Augustine gives a near twist to this common notion. Not only do we know what words mean because a group agrees, but learning what words mean involves coming to agreement with those who use the word. Learning that "katze" means "cat" unites me, in a small way, with all the German-speakers.
This is the heart of Augustine's analysis of the dangers of superstition. If an astrologer says, "If Venus is in the fifth house, you'll fall in love," and I agree, even if I agree simply by failing to disagree, I have formed a pact with falsehood. Worse, by agreeing with the astrologer, I've entered into a league with the demons who inspired his false signs in the first place.
Confronted with a false word, there is no way to remain neutral, to let it slide. I must either enter into fellowship with falsehood or break the consensus by disagreeing and telling the truth. "No," I must say to the astrologer, "Venus doesn't mean that."
Such disagreement is a liberation. But Augustine's analysis also raises disturbing questions about our culture's mania for politeness. What kind of villainy do we tolerate when we smile and smile and refuse to disagree?
Focus on Leithart's phrase, "his false signs." Note the importance, as I stressed in the first major installment of the S&M series, of the use of the correct signs. Naturally, I would expect all readers to agree, yet be at a loss as to where they define false from true signs. If by our mere disagreement we can falsify the signs of another, fine. But if the truth or falsehood of the statement and the sign created by the string of words in the statement (note that each word is a sign in itself and put together they form a new sign...) is intrinsic to the sign and cannot be changed, then we are at a quandary--we must first know whether the sign is true or false before agreeing or disagreeing! Please wait with extreme anticipation for my follow-up on how we create meaning through the "making" of signs which should be forthcoming as soon as I get settled in my new home (though who knows how long that will be.)
Thursday, July 17, 2008
What is Environment?
This is a subject upon which Chase, Brandon, and Josh have much more well-formed opinions than I, but since Pen and Palette author Susan Cushman asked for responses to her article "The So-Called Environmental Crisis", and it is a fairly popular subject, I'll throw in my ambiguous two-cents.
Recently, on a trip between Tennessee and Florida on I-55, I passed what I call Nissan City, a mile-long Nissan car factory and I said to the people in the car with me, "That's beautiful," and I meant it, though I don't entirely know why. One of the reasons that I had for saying that probably has to do with my having lived in cities for almost my entire life, yet my appreciation of nature has not diminished.
To get right to the point, I believe in life. Living in the vicinity of Tokyo for a period of time, I did not look up at the sky and say, "My, what dreary smog" or at the massive amounts of skyscrapers and say, "Oh dear, how dare they impose upon the beauty of nature in such a way." That is not to say I did not appreciate nature, but my experiences in forests, semi-tropical jungles, beaches, fields, and whatever other "natural" places my life has taken me seem to have been very secondary to the experiences that I have had in densely populated areas. The experiences that I remember the most and appreciate the most are always when in communion with others.
Even while climbing mountain Mount Fuji, it was so much more enjoyable for me to have someone standing next to me as I watched the sun rise through the mist (though I must admit, that person was holding me up to keep me from vomiting due to altitude sickness).
As an English Major and Graduate student, I have learned to appreciate life in all senses, whether it be watching the grass grow around Tintern Abbey on a page or feeling the tingling sensation of a jellyfish wrapping itself around my arm, I have come to realize that these minute experiences are immensely more important than worrying about the overshadowing of the abbey by a new skyscraper bank or worrying that the jellyfish's natural habitat is being decimated by oil spills in the Pacific Northwest.
That is not to say that we need not be concerned about these things, for how can we appreciate them when they are no longer there? Yet I believe that the proper mindset that needs to be instilled in all people is not that we need to be on the constant search for ways to preserve the environment, but that we need to develop a gradual appreciation for every experience we have. This appreciation will necessarily birth a desire to preserve the origin of that experience and thereby lead to what many specifically environmentally minded people are pushing for. An acknowledgement of our place as partakers rather than mere recievers will also assist in this mindset.
I don't want to get to intellectual with this post, but I would like to add that many sacramentally minded people attempt to push the idea of "making" as an act by which we participate in the grand scheme of life. All that we touch, see, do, or experience is in some way affecting other; we are "making" a new world every time we blink our eyes, every time we think a thought, every time we mow the grass. The correct mindset for someone concerned about the environment begins with a knowledge of interconnectedness in experience (beware Westerners).
(PLEASE do not think of that last statement as in any way Chardinian (Pierre Teilhard de Chardin)! I do not here propose that all life is interconnected in every sense, as though we could affect the actions of God, or as though each thing was God and that by destroying it we were destroying part of God. Just that, if we are to consider our very life as equally important both physically and spiritually (viz. "sacramental"), then our mental, spiritual, and physical actions are all equally as influential.)
Recently, on a trip between Tennessee and Florida on I-55, I passed what I call Nissan City, a mile-long Nissan car factory and I said to the people in the car with me, "That's beautiful," and I meant it, though I don't entirely know why. One of the reasons that I had for saying that probably has to do with my having lived in cities for almost my entire life, yet my appreciation of nature has not diminished.
To get right to the point, I believe in life. Living in the vicinity of Tokyo for a period of time, I did not look up at the sky and say, "My, what dreary smog" or at the massive amounts of skyscrapers and say, "Oh dear, how dare they impose upon the beauty of nature in such a way." That is not to say I did not appreciate nature, but my experiences in forests, semi-tropical jungles, beaches, fields, and whatever other "natural" places my life has taken me seem to have been very secondary to the experiences that I have had in densely populated areas. The experiences that I remember the most and appreciate the most are always when in communion with others.
Even while climbing mountain Mount Fuji, it was so much more enjoyable for me to have someone standing next to me as I watched the sun rise through the mist (though I must admit, that person was holding me up to keep me from vomiting due to altitude sickness).
As an English Major and Graduate student, I have learned to appreciate life in all senses, whether it be watching the grass grow around Tintern Abbey on a page or feeling the tingling sensation of a jellyfish wrapping itself around my arm, I have come to realize that these minute experiences are immensely more important than worrying about the overshadowing of the abbey by a new skyscraper bank or worrying that the jellyfish's natural habitat is being decimated by oil spills in the Pacific Northwest.
That is not to say that we need not be concerned about these things, for how can we appreciate them when they are no longer there? Yet I believe that the proper mindset that needs to be instilled in all people is not that we need to be on the constant search for ways to preserve the environment, but that we need to develop a gradual appreciation for every experience we have. This appreciation will necessarily birth a desire to preserve the origin of that experience and thereby lead to what many specifically environmentally minded people are pushing for. An acknowledgement of our place as partakers rather than mere recievers will also assist in this mindset.
I don't want to get to intellectual with this post, but I would like to add that many sacramentally minded people attempt to push the idea of "making" as an act by which we participate in the grand scheme of life. All that we touch, see, do, or experience is in some way affecting other; we are "making" a new world every time we blink our eyes, every time we think a thought, every time we mow the grass. The correct mindset for someone concerned about the environment begins with a knowledge of interconnectedness in experience (beware Westerners).
(PLEASE do not think of that last statement as in any way Chardinian (Pierre Teilhard de Chardin)! I do not here propose that all life is interconnected in every sense, as though we could affect the actions of God, or as though each thing was God and that by destroying it we were destroying part of God. Just that, if we are to consider our very life as equally important both physically and spiritually (viz. "sacramental"), then our mental, spiritual, and physical actions are all equally as influential.)
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Wall-E
(This whole posting may be taken as a spoiler, but read on anyway)
When I first saw the preview for this movie, I became very excited and thought it was going to be a great Disney/Pixar film, on par with Monsters, Inc. and Finding Nemo. After watching the movie, I came out depressed, feeling let down, and more than a little disappointed. I thought about why this might be the case, and I here put my thoughts on paper:
I plan to look at three different components of the film: (1) Character, (2) Mission, and (3) Aesthetics.
(1) Wall-E himself I believe to be the single greatest character achievement of any Disney film. Never before has an entertainment company been able to produce a character so pure, so innocent, so perfectly genuine, and so unconditional in love. No matter what is done to him by anyone, he shows no sign of vengeance, of anger, or even of processing their negative reactions at all. When Eve, his love and nemesis, rejects him for something he has not done, he is so utterly naive as to not even notice her indifference to him. The interactions that he has with the humans aboard the BNL liner are perfectly selfless. Without any concern or personal reservation, he greets them, "Wall-E," extending his hand and entirely expecting them to return his affections. Usually, if a character is portrayed as naive, the other characters end up taking advantage of him, but this is not the case with Wall-E. He cannot be described as forgiving in any sense, he does not even notice the wrongs done to him. He is the perfect example of utter humility and ought to be emulated in every sense. He is not beyond giving orders, however--he orders his pet cockroach to sit down when he may be in danger and he orders Eve to continue her "directive" when she seems to be faltering.
Eve (or "EEEVA", as Wall-E calls her), on the other hand, is a typical character in a Disney movie, she starts out interested, turns vengeful, but learns to love when she is confronted with the sacrifices that Wall-E has made for her (though he would never consider them sacrifices). She adds much to the film and is somewhat of an integral part of the story, i.e., she assists in continuing the plot with Wall-E's necessarily stagnant character. I will come back to her character when addressing Mission.
Humans are another story altogether. All comedies, by nature of genre, must have "something appealing, something appalling." Well, the humans are the appalling part. They are grotesque, revolting, and entirely incapable. One "heroic" scene in the movie depicts the normally lethargic and boneless (almost literally) captain struggling to walk across a room. I know that the intentions of the creators were to make humans appear dumb, helpless, and as a bane to the universe, but they were worse than that. Their inability to cognisize and mobilize was connected to their inability to dispose of waste. The depiction of humanity was utterly ridiculous. I am not saying that the humans ought to have been depicted differently, but that they should have been removed from the film entirely. The interactions between Eve, the other robots, and Wall-E were sufficient to produce a "G-rated" movie that would be perfectly acceptable to a "G-rated" audience. Unfortunately, people often take the opportunity in children's movies to speak to the parents.
(2) Okay, I'll stop ranting about the humans for now and turn to the idea of "Mission." I am not going to talk about the mission of the movie, as that was blatantly obvious and, in my opinion, rather preachy and overwrought, but I would like to address the them of "directive" in the movie. Wall-E has a directive--to clean up the waste on earth. He follows it implicitly and with great enjoyment, but he is not mindlessly dedicated to the job. Rather, he takes pleasure in finding every opportunity to discover unique things about his mission every day. He lives his directive, but it does not live him.
Eve suddenly appears on the scene and vocalizes what Wall-E has been living this whole time, "directive." She knows nothing but her mission, that is, to find life somewhere on earth. She is, in the beginning, quite literally a machine, but also figuratively a programmed worker who knows nothing but her mission. She shows some interest in the things Wall-E shows her, but is instantly snapped back to "directive" when he shows her a plant he found. Most of the movie, she follows her mission to the letter, leaving Wall-E behind, sending him away, and entirely neglecting him in her desire to place the plant in its proper location. As mentioned above, however, she falters when she realizes the futility of her situation and (huge spoiler!!!!) Wall-E's impending death, but he sets her aright in the always present Disney over-theme of sacrificial love, repeating "directive" to her and bleeping inanely. Of course, once her directive is accomplished, she turns to bringing Wall-E back to life and starts loving him as a partner. But, again, it is only after she accomplishes her mission that she can truly love, so is this really love? I don't know, you be the judge.
Okay, humanity.... It's very simple, really, they have a directive from BNL to have fun, relax, and "EAT NOW". They follow it to the letter (except for the fun part maybe). The captain has a mission to fly around, give morning announcements, and return to earth when signs of life are found. He does this pretty well, and nothing else really, until he learns about earth, dancing, water, and pizza trees from his computer. Then all he really does is follow his directive some more. While there may be a bit of confusion as to whether his or the co-pilot's directive is more important, he asserts his captain-ness and does what he is supposed to do.
The robots from the rejects ward play a key role in resolving the final dilemma, and it is very important to note that they centralize the theme of "mission". Because they are incapable of completing their assigned tasks (due to random malfunctions like painting yellow lines and opening umbrellas incessantly), they are the perfect assistants to the anti-mission endeavor. Basically, the moral here is that nothing ever really gets accomplished when you just follow your "directive."
(3) Finally we come to Aesthetics. I am not qualified to, nor do I desire to discuss the CGI effects or the cool-looking things that they do in the movie, though I do want to say that I didn't like the Mary Poppins-esque appearance of a live-action figure in the film (the demi-god-long-dead president of BNL). Not for any particular reason, just didn't like it. Anyway, I do want to discuss the theme of aesthetic pleasure in the movie. Again, Wall-E is perfect in my eyes, so his sublimation of a lighter, light-bulb, or Rubik's Cube is beautiful to me. His child-like love of everything, regardless of its practicality or purpose (directive), is amazingly unpragmatic.
Eve, of course, has to be the opposite of everything Wall-E is, so she likes things for their purpose--she solves the Rubik's Cube, lights the light-bulb, flicks the lighter on, and tries to figure out what usefulness the video tape has.
Here I think the humans do a good job--they present the idea that aesthetic pleasure is not stagnant, but active. They think that poking a button to hit a golf ball or sitting by a pool is pleasure, but don't truly understand aesthetics until they learn to interact with each other and with the objects. This, I believe is the best and usually most neglected aspect of pleasure that the movie addresses--that things can be pleasurable without having a use and that pleasure is active not morbidly immobile.
Overall, the movie had some phenomenal points--notably, Wall-E and the addressing of aesthetic pleasure--but was exceedingly preachy, obnoxious, and grotesque. I cannot repeat enough how amazed I am at how Disney/Pixar could turn such great potential (it could have been the best child's movie of all time) into an abysmal flop. Imagine it this way, The executives at Disney sat there thinking, "We have this astounding character that kids will love, a great interaction with another character, and phenomenal appeal to people of all ages. Now how can we use that to further our plan to corrupt humanity?"
When Wall-E sat peering into the vaste waste-land of earth, desiring someone to take pleasure in all of it with him (scene 1), I wanted to climb through the screen and slap a bra on my eyes as well. After Eve appeared, I held out hope that the little guy could show everyone how to be human (scene 2). But when they arrived aboard the liner (scenes 3 and following), I wanted to pull Wall-E off the screen and take him out of the theater before they could corrupt him. Fortunately, this was not The Idiot, it was a kids movie, so he remained impermeable to the atrocities of Disney, but my mind did not. I was highly disappointed.
When I first saw the preview for this movie, I became very excited and thought it was going to be a great Disney/Pixar film, on par with Monsters, Inc. and Finding Nemo. After watching the movie, I came out depressed, feeling let down, and more than a little disappointed. I thought about why this might be the case, and I here put my thoughts on paper:
I plan to look at three different components of the film: (1) Character, (2) Mission, and (3) Aesthetics.
(1) Wall-E himself I believe to be the single greatest character achievement of any Disney film. Never before has an entertainment company been able to produce a character so pure, so innocent, so perfectly genuine, and so unconditional in love. No matter what is done to him by anyone, he shows no sign of vengeance, of anger, or even of processing their negative reactions at all. When Eve, his love and nemesis, rejects him for something he has not done, he is so utterly naive as to not even notice her indifference to him. The interactions that he has with the humans aboard the BNL liner are perfectly selfless. Without any concern or personal reservation, he greets them, "Wall-E," extending his hand and entirely expecting them to return his affections. Usually, if a character is portrayed as naive, the other characters end up taking advantage of him, but this is not the case with Wall-E. He cannot be described as forgiving in any sense, he does not even notice the wrongs done to him. He is the perfect example of utter humility and ought to be emulated in every sense. He is not beyond giving orders, however--he orders his pet cockroach to sit down when he may be in danger and he orders Eve to continue her "directive" when she seems to be faltering.
Eve (or "EEEVA", as Wall-E calls her), on the other hand, is a typical character in a Disney movie, she starts out interested, turns vengeful, but learns to love when she is confronted with the sacrifices that Wall-E has made for her (though he would never consider them sacrifices). She adds much to the film and is somewhat of an integral part of the story, i.e., she assists in continuing the plot with Wall-E's necessarily stagnant character. I will come back to her character when addressing Mission.
Humans are another story altogether. All comedies, by nature of genre, must have "something appealing, something appalling." Well, the humans are the appalling part. They are grotesque, revolting, and entirely incapable. One "heroic" scene in the movie depicts the normally lethargic and boneless (almost literally) captain struggling to walk across a room. I know that the intentions of the creators were to make humans appear dumb, helpless, and as a bane to the universe, but they were worse than that. Their inability to cognisize and mobilize was connected to their inability to dispose of waste. The depiction of humanity was utterly ridiculous. I am not saying that the humans ought to have been depicted differently, but that they should have been removed from the film entirely. The interactions between Eve, the other robots, and Wall-E were sufficient to produce a "G-rated" movie that would be perfectly acceptable to a "G-rated" audience. Unfortunately, people often take the opportunity in children's movies to speak to the parents.
(2) Okay, I'll stop ranting about the humans for now and turn to the idea of "Mission." I am not going to talk about the mission of the movie, as that was blatantly obvious and, in my opinion, rather preachy and overwrought, but I would like to address the them of "directive" in the movie. Wall-E has a directive--to clean up the waste on earth. He follows it implicitly and with great enjoyment, but he is not mindlessly dedicated to the job. Rather, he takes pleasure in finding every opportunity to discover unique things about his mission every day. He lives his directive, but it does not live him.
Eve suddenly appears on the scene and vocalizes what Wall-E has been living this whole time, "directive." She knows nothing but her mission, that is, to find life somewhere on earth. She is, in the beginning, quite literally a machine, but also figuratively a programmed worker who knows nothing but her mission. She shows some interest in the things Wall-E shows her, but is instantly snapped back to "directive" when he shows her a plant he found. Most of the movie, she follows her mission to the letter, leaving Wall-E behind, sending him away, and entirely neglecting him in her desire to place the plant in its proper location. As mentioned above, however, she falters when she realizes the futility of her situation and (huge spoiler!!!!) Wall-E's impending death, but he sets her aright in the always present Disney over-theme of sacrificial love, repeating "directive" to her and bleeping inanely. Of course, once her directive is accomplished, she turns to bringing Wall-E back to life and starts loving him as a partner. But, again, it is only after she accomplishes her mission that she can truly love, so is this really love? I don't know, you be the judge.
Okay, humanity.... It's very simple, really, they have a directive from BNL to have fun, relax, and "EAT NOW". They follow it to the letter (except for the fun part maybe). The captain has a mission to fly around, give morning announcements, and return to earth when signs of life are found. He does this pretty well, and nothing else really, until he learns about earth, dancing, water, and pizza trees from his computer. Then all he really does is follow his directive some more. While there may be a bit of confusion as to whether his or the co-pilot's directive is more important, he asserts his captain-ness and does what he is supposed to do.
The robots from the rejects ward play a key role in resolving the final dilemma, and it is very important to note that they centralize the theme of "mission". Because they are incapable of completing their assigned tasks (due to random malfunctions like painting yellow lines and opening umbrellas incessantly), they are the perfect assistants to the anti-mission endeavor. Basically, the moral here is that nothing ever really gets accomplished when you just follow your "directive."
(3) Finally we come to Aesthetics. I am not qualified to, nor do I desire to discuss the CGI effects or the cool-looking things that they do in the movie, though I do want to say that I didn't like the Mary Poppins-esque appearance of a live-action figure in the film (the demi-god-long-dead president of BNL). Not for any particular reason, just didn't like it. Anyway, I do want to discuss the theme of aesthetic pleasure in the movie. Again, Wall-E is perfect in my eyes, so his sublimation of a lighter, light-bulb, or Rubik's Cube is beautiful to me. His child-like love of everything, regardless of its practicality or purpose (directive), is amazingly unpragmatic.
Eve, of course, has to be the opposite of everything Wall-E is, so she likes things for their purpose--she solves the Rubik's Cube, lights the light-bulb, flicks the lighter on, and tries to figure out what usefulness the video tape has.
Here I think the humans do a good job--they present the idea that aesthetic pleasure is not stagnant, but active. They think that poking a button to hit a golf ball or sitting by a pool is pleasure, but don't truly understand aesthetics until they learn to interact with each other and with the objects. This, I believe is the best and usually most neglected aspect of pleasure that the movie addresses--that things can be pleasurable without having a use and that pleasure is active not morbidly immobile.
Overall, the movie had some phenomenal points--notably, Wall-E and the addressing of aesthetic pleasure--but was exceedingly preachy, obnoxious, and grotesque. I cannot repeat enough how amazed I am at how Disney/Pixar could turn such great potential (it could have been the best child's movie of all time) into an abysmal flop. Imagine it this way, The executives at Disney sat there thinking, "We have this astounding character that kids will love, a great interaction with another character, and phenomenal appeal to people of all ages. Now how can we use that to further our plan to corrupt humanity?"
When Wall-E sat peering into the vaste waste-land of earth, desiring someone to take pleasure in all of it with him (scene 1), I wanted to climb through the screen and slap a bra on my eyes as well. After Eve appeared, I held out hope that the little guy could show everyone how to be human (scene 2). But when they arrived aboard the liner (scenes 3 and following), I wanted to pull Wall-E off the screen and take him out of the theater before they could corrupt him. Fortunately, this was not The Idiot, it was a kids movie, so he remained impermeable to the atrocities of Disney, but my mind did not. I was highly disappointed.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Signs and Metaculture: "Sign" and the "Transcendental Signified" 1.2
I’ve been thinking more about the previous post, and I’d like here to add a small musing to “Signs and Metaculture: ‘Sign’ and the ‘Transcendental Signifier’”.
When we speak to each other, we are participating in the use of signs. But to what extent do we create the meaning of the sign and to what extent does the meaning derive from the references it make to the other signs with which it interacts?
I believe I was a little unclear on what the exact nature of our participation in creating meaning was. See, if we hold that the word has meaning entirely external to what we say, then we do not participate in any sort of “making” process whatsoever, but merely use what has been passed down to us. Yet, as we can see in the ever-changing nature of language, there must be an alteration at some point in the communication process. At the same time, however, we cannot assert that the words we speak are entirely made to mean whatever we want them to mean. So the question becomes, what role do we play in the equation?
Well, there are three main claims about this argument, all of which were just mentioned, but I’ll make them clearer:
1. Words have meaning; we don’t change the meaning of the words, and if we think we do, we are confused and are twisting the way language ought to work.
2. Words gradually change meaning due to changes in culture and philosophical understandings of the world. That’s the nature of the beast and we just float along with it, affecting it, but not intentionally.
3. Words have no fixed meaning, nor is the meaning tied to culture; the only way we can understand a word is by being in agreement with the person we are speaking with. You know what I mean when I say a word, so we give the word its meaning together.
Most people who agree with (1) tend to be moralistic and priggish about ought-ness and ethics. It would be great if language were like that, but the fact is, meanings do change, whether we like it or not. Sure, most people with a traditional moral background would love for there to be stability in our understanding of things, but most things, like language, ethics, and morality, are somewhat mobile in practical existence. These people would have an exceedingly difficult time putting together a dictionary since they would be constantly searching for the True meaning of a word (which, by the way, doesn’t exist, shh… it’s our secret).
Those who side with (2) are generally staunchly democratic—they believe that the society determines existence. Of course, then you get caught up in discussions over whether the changing contexts of language affect the specific meaning of a word, then you end up needing a new dictionary for every cultural situation. Here we play some role in changing things, but not as individuals, as class and cultural groups.
Our friends in (3) would never be able to put together a dictionary at all, for obvious reasons--they don't need one! Each person determines his or her own perception of meaning and reality. If I think masochism is a good thing, you can't convince me any differently, because that's what brings me pleasure. If I think "burger" means a portabella mushroom and tomato on a hamburger bun with Swiss cheese, that's my prerogative.
So, most of you reading this will probably fit into one of these categories (with a little mixing a matching, of course). I'll leave it at that for now, and see if any of you have any comments. I'll tell you what I think when I have a bit more time.
(Here's a spoiler - it has something to do with my previous post, a little to do with the act of "making", and a lot to do with not really agreeing entirely with (1), (2), or (3). I'll be a bit presumptuous and say, enjoy the wait!)
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Signs and Metaculture: "Sign" and the "Transcendental Signified"
First, “Sign”, perhaps the most common and complex term tossed about by modern literati. So commonly debated and utilized has the term been that even upon hearing “si-”, many professors merely roll their eyes, as if to say, “Oh no, not again!” Yet, while they may be sick and tired of opening that particular box of fury (and I am not learned enough to give a full-on discussion of its history), it is important to briefly address the nature of the sign and its implications for everyday communication and human interaction.
Very concisely, here is a simple description of the sign, as defined by Ferdinand de Saussure[1]:
1. The sign is the holistic representation of two parts—the signifier and the signified.
2. The signifier could be said to be the form of the sign, and the signified the concept.
3. To give an analogy, a sign is a painting; the signifiers are black, white, grey, and red watercolors; and the signified is a woman riding a horse.
There are many instances in which we interact with signs in daily life—traffic signs, advertisements, giving someone the thumbs-up. Each sign has its own meaning: a traffic sign is a directive, ordering you to stop, go, turn, etc; an advertisement (let’s take a KFC billboard as representative) is another form of directive—“eat my chicken”; the thumbs-up is a form of acknowledgement of past obligation: “you did a good job.”
More often than not, however, the experience we have with signs is in the form of verbal communication. In speech, the spoken word is the sign, the form of the word is the signifier, and the meaning of the word is the signified. Saussure gives the example of the sign: “arbor”, where the letters “a-r-b-o-r” comprise the signifier and the idea of ‘tree’ is the concept, or thing signified. Thus, in the phrase, “an arboreal recluse”, we understand it means “a hidden place with trees” only because we know that the sign “arbor” implies the meaning of ‘tree’.
All right, here are some problems associated with theories of signs:
1. If the spoken word, “arbor” brings to mind ‘tree’, the next question we have to ask is, what kind of tree? When you say arbor, am I thinking of a dead oak while you are thinking of a cluster of beautiful palm trees? The next step is that we must be more and more specific with our words—defining each and every word. Of course, the only way to define what we say is with other words, so we are caught in an everlasting circle of definition in order to understand each other.
2. Jacques Derrida discusses the problem of representation. The way that we have described the sign above involves representation: the signified is represented by the signifier. Representation, he says, has two ways of being understood: representation as describing/defining a thing or re-presentation as one thing standing in the place of/reproducing another. He shows the nature of signs to be representational, and as such to be contingent upon there being something to re-present. This he follows to the source of an object which represents itself and which “is present before the act of repetition” (“Speech and Phenomena” 13), that is, it exists before signs and is that which all other things are representations of. If all signs represent something else, then there must be something at the origin that cannot represent anything other than itself. As the primary thing which all others represent, it is the “transcendental signified”, that which takes no part in the other signifiers because of its transcendence. However, by asserting itself in the act of being, or in its presence (by being “re-presented”), it negates its own existence, since it, by nature, can never be represented (in the sense of definition) in the first place. Because it is transcendent and nothing can represent it but itself, then when the “transcendental signified” represents itself it is brought into the realm of things represented, which means that it is made present (which it cannot be by nature).
While there are more discussions, let us only address these two, as they are complicated enough. Problem (1) is based on the theory of signs being a social construct, centered on interaction between human beings. Essentially then, the difficulties become psychological incongruencies (psychological because the problem is associated with the concept of the signified in a person’s mind, whether the person who vocalizes the sign or one who hears it). Thus, if the sign is a social construct, then the most important part of the sign is the signifier and how the signifier is used. If the problem lies in the signifier, and not the signified, then it is with the signifier that human communication finds its meaning. For, we cannot (unlike some Sci-Fi characters) comprehend the unspoken psychological existences. And if the meaning of the sign lies in the proper communication of it within society (because a concept has no meaning if you can’t structure it in a particular form, even in your own mind, and it is meaningless without communication between beings) then primacy of the signifier rather than the signified in the human psyche becomes apparent.[2]
The main issue that I want to point out with Problem (1) is that, if the sign is a social construct, then it becomes entirely relative to the communicative abilities of those in the society. Take, for example, a child who says, “Ba!”, and the parents understand that to mean, “I want my bottle.” Naturally, if the child continues to grow, his social surroundings will inevitably change, and he cannot be allowed to continue the use of “ba” to mean “bottle.” Now let us look at another way of viewing signs and see if it helps any with combating the sign as an entirely social construct.
Briefly, Tolkien the philologist (following Barfield) taught that modern languages evolved from a common root language, a teaching that is very common in anthropological studies but at the time, the two were not considered different spheres in philology[3]. In tracing the common root language, Tolkien believed that one might find the origin of human communication. And, if “in the beginning was the Word”, and the Word is the apex of communication without verbal effort, then the beginning language must be a social manifestation (though tainted) of the transcendental Word beyond. It was Tolkien’s philological desire to romanticize the languages of human races and find the traces of their common origin in their ancient communication. We might call this theory of language, centered upon the Logos, “Logos-centric”. Each word and phrase, since it is directly derived from its predecessor (and the primary antecedent is the Logos), is contingent upon the immediate presence of the Logos.
In hearing our dilemma of the child presented above, Tolkien might say that the word “bottle” has meaning outside of the child’s concept of what the word means. The child cannot just invent a word (“ba”) and say that it is substitutable for “bottle”. He merely does not know what word to use, so uses another in its stead. Just as we use the word “arbor” to represent ‘tree’, we use it in place of knowing the expression that might have been used in the original, or divine language. So, in this concept, the sign is not a social construct, but a way of participating in the divine eternality of the Word. Indeed, the more fully we understand languages and the construct of signs, the more we come to participate in the Word. For example, if the only image and concept that comes to mind when we hear the word “arbor” is a palm tree or dead oak, then we do not fully understand the sign. The sign ought to re-present in our minds not only a dead oak, but also “gopher wood”, “olive branch”, and “Cross”, not to mention all the other implied socially constructed, but poetically and divinely useful, representations of the sign. When we hear “arbor”, the more we know, the more we experience. Hence, the study of language, for Tolkien and others, was important to an experience of that from which all things originated.
Here is where we come to Problem (2), the seemingly more complicated of the two. Derrida claimed that the statement, “I am”, was inherently a representation, an act of making the “I” reflexive and present. And if the “I” was supposed to be the “transcendental signified”, it would follow that it was that which could not have a signifier. And the “I am” statement is an attempt by the “I” to signify itself, since it has no adjective defining what state of being the “I” is in. Basically, Derrida wanted to “de-construct” the structures that had been built—structures which all had a single locus as their fixed object. Whether this locus was God in theology, the sun in the solar system, reason in Western philosophy, or the “transcendental sign” in language, his assertion was that these things themselves are not stable, they are constantly in motion. Thus, the binding laws of connection (that which binds all things in a structure to a center) could not apply, but must be themselves in motion. And if they are in motion, then the signs cannot have their meaning based upon the centralized concept, or “logos.” So upon what does the meaning of language signs rest? Upon the differences in the signs themselves—how they relate to one another, how they are used, and to what end their usages permit. A sort of inter-connectedness of meanings arises, rather than a centralized presence or “logos.” In other words, “arbor” would not represent ‘tree’ because it centered around a certain fixed state, but rather because the words surrounding it allowed it to take on the meaning of ‘tree’.
Of course, this assertion is in direct conflict with the beliefs of “Logos-centrism” described in the teachings of Tolkien. The sign is not entirely socially constructed, however. Indeed, the sign, for Derrida, constructs society. Society participates in the grand “play” of signs in that it constantly references signs, and by proxy their interplay of meaning, but the signs themselves still dwell outside of physical existence. It is in the constant reference of the signs to one another that we find the connection between the three philosophies here present. As we pointed out above, in the “Logos-centric” understanding of language, the more references we understand in the meaning of the sign, the closer we get to an experience of what lies beneath, thus we participate in the eternal self- and inter-referential nature of the signs.
This does not negate the fixed center around which the signs and our understanding of those signs circulate, as the center itself need not be separated from the interplay of signs and may actually assist in the constant change of reference. For, if the Word of “Logos-centrism” cannot be fully re-presented in the signs we make (as we are inherently tainted), then we must constantly be representing our experience in various and incomprehensive ways. This also addresses Problem (1), as it points out that each word has its meaning inherently intertwined with the use of other words in society while at the same time being maintained by the ever-present Logos. What does this mean for practical life? For starters, it means that the words we use are by their use a reference to and re-presentation of the original Word and that the inter-referential nature of signs inherently contains divinity and is not limited to a social construct.
Bibliography
Derrida, Jacques. “Speech and Phenomena.” In A Derrida Reader: Between the Blinds. Edited by Peggy Kamuf. New York: Columbia University Press, 1991.
Flieger, Verlyn Splintered Light: Logos and Language in Tolkien's World. Kent State University Press, 2002.
Saussure, Ferdinand de. Course in General Linguistics. Chicago: Open Court, 2004.
[1] While I reference Sassure here, I do not intend to go over the entire Course in General Linguistics nor debate the failures of Sassurean philosophy (for a somewhat entertainingly harsh and un-learned reaction to post-Saussurean theory, see Not Saussure by “Dr.” Raymond Tallis). I do not wish to go into a lengthy discussion of post-structuralist thought nor alternative theories of defining signs (viz. Donald Davidson’s “triangulation” theory, etc.). This is not because they are not interesting, indeed I find them more intriguing than Saussure’s model, but for the purposes of this essay, I will mostly allow Saussure’s model to stand (for now), so as not to bore you.
[2] See Lacan for a psycho-analytical defense of the SIGNIFIER/signified split.
[3] Indeed, it is important to understand that Saussure’s teaching was almost in direct reaction to the assumption that anthropology and linguistic studies must go hand-in-hand, as he taught that, while they can contribute to one another, the two fields are entirely separate.
Very concisely, here is a simple description of the sign, as defined by Ferdinand de Saussure[1]:
1. The sign is the holistic representation of two parts—the signifier and the signified.
2. The signifier could be said to be the form of the sign, and the signified the concept.
3. To give an analogy, a sign is a painting; the signifiers are black, white, grey, and red watercolors; and the signified is a woman riding a horse.
There are many instances in which we interact with signs in daily life—traffic signs, advertisements, giving someone the thumbs-up. Each sign has its own meaning: a traffic sign is a directive, ordering you to stop, go, turn, etc; an advertisement (let’s take a KFC billboard as representative) is another form of directive—“eat my chicken”; the thumbs-up is a form of acknowledgement of past obligation: “you did a good job.”
More often than not, however, the experience we have with signs is in the form of verbal communication. In speech, the spoken word is the sign, the form of the word is the signifier, and the meaning of the word is the signified. Saussure gives the example of the sign: “arbor”, where the letters “a-r-b-o-r” comprise the signifier and the idea of ‘tree’ is the concept, or thing signified. Thus, in the phrase, “an arboreal recluse”, we understand it means “a hidden place with trees” only because we know that the sign “arbor” implies the meaning of ‘tree’.
All right, here are some problems associated with theories of signs:
1. If the spoken word, “arbor” brings to mind ‘tree’, the next question we have to ask is, what kind of tree? When you say arbor, am I thinking of a dead oak while you are thinking of a cluster of beautiful palm trees? The next step is that we must be more and more specific with our words—defining each and every word. Of course, the only way to define what we say is with other words, so we are caught in an everlasting circle of definition in order to understand each other.
2. Jacques Derrida discusses the problem of representation. The way that we have described the sign above involves representation: the signified is represented by the signifier. Representation, he says, has two ways of being understood: representation as describing/defining a thing or re-presentation as one thing standing in the place of/reproducing another. He shows the nature of signs to be representational, and as such to be contingent upon there being something to re-present. This he follows to the source of an object which represents itself and which “is present before the act of repetition” (“Speech and Phenomena” 13), that is, it exists before signs and is that which all other things are representations of. If all signs represent something else, then there must be something at the origin that cannot represent anything other than itself. As the primary thing which all others represent, it is the “transcendental signified”, that which takes no part in the other signifiers because of its transcendence. However, by asserting itself in the act of being, or in its presence (by being “re-presented”), it negates its own existence, since it, by nature, can never be represented (in the sense of definition) in the first place. Because it is transcendent and nothing can represent it but itself, then when the “transcendental signified” represents itself it is brought into the realm of things represented, which means that it is made present (which it cannot be by nature).
While there are more discussions, let us only address these two, as they are complicated enough. Problem (1) is based on the theory of signs being a social construct, centered on interaction between human beings. Essentially then, the difficulties become psychological incongruencies (psychological because the problem is associated with the concept of the signified in a person’s mind, whether the person who vocalizes the sign or one who hears it). Thus, if the sign is a social construct, then the most important part of the sign is the signifier and how the signifier is used. If the problem lies in the signifier, and not the signified, then it is with the signifier that human communication finds its meaning. For, we cannot (unlike some Sci-Fi characters) comprehend the unspoken psychological existences. And if the meaning of the sign lies in the proper communication of it within society (because a concept has no meaning if you can’t structure it in a particular form, even in your own mind, and it is meaningless without communication between beings) then primacy of the signifier rather than the signified in the human psyche becomes apparent.[2]
The main issue that I want to point out with Problem (1) is that, if the sign is a social construct, then it becomes entirely relative to the communicative abilities of those in the society. Take, for example, a child who says, “Ba!”, and the parents understand that to mean, “I want my bottle.” Naturally, if the child continues to grow, his social surroundings will inevitably change, and he cannot be allowed to continue the use of “ba” to mean “bottle.” Now let us look at another way of viewing signs and see if it helps any with combating the sign as an entirely social construct.
Briefly, Tolkien the philologist (following Barfield) taught that modern languages evolved from a common root language, a teaching that is very common in anthropological studies but at the time, the two were not considered different spheres in philology[3]. In tracing the common root language, Tolkien believed that one might find the origin of human communication. And, if “in the beginning was the Word”, and the Word is the apex of communication without verbal effort, then the beginning language must be a social manifestation (though tainted) of the transcendental Word beyond. It was Tolkien’s philological desire to romanticize the languages of human races and find the traces of their common origin in their ancient communication. We might call this theory of language, centered upon the Logos, “Logos-centric”. Each word and phrase, since it is directly derived from its predecessor (and the primary antecedent is the Logos), is contingent upon the immediate presence of the Logos.
In hearing our dilemma of the child presented above, Tolkien might say that the word “bottle” has meaning outside of the child’s concept of what the word means. The child cannot just invent a word (“ba”) and say that it is substitutable for “bottle”. He merely does not know what word to use, so uses another in its stead. Just as we use the word “arbor” to represent ‘tree’, we use it in place of knowing the expression that might have been used in the original, or divine language. So, in this concept, the sign is not a social construct, but a way of participating in the divine eternality of the Word. Indeed, the more fully we understand languages and the construct of signs, the more we come to participate in the Word. For example, if the only image and concept that comes to mind when we hear the word “arbor” is a palm tree or dead oak, then we do not fully understand the sign. The sign ought to re-present in our minds not only a dead oak, but also “gopher wood”, “olive branch”, and “Cross”, not to mention all the other implied socially constructed, but poetically and divinely useful, representations of the sign. When we hear “arbor”, the more we know, the more we experience. Hence, the study of language, for Tolkien and others, was important to an experience of that from which all things originated.
Here is where we come to Problem (2), the seemingly more complicated of the two. Derrida claimed that the statement, “I am”, was inherently a representation, an act of making the “I” reflexive and present. And if the “I” was supposed to be the “transcendental signified”, it would follow that it was that which could not have a signifier. And the “I am” statement is an attempt by the “I” to signify itself, since it has no adjective defining what state of being the “I” is in. Basically, Derrida wanted to “de-construct” the structures that had been built—structures which all had a single locus as their fixed object. Whether this locus was God in theology, the sun in the solar system, reason in Western philosophy, or the “transcendental sign” in language, his assertion was that these things themselves are not stable, they are constantly in motion. Thus, the binding laws of connection (that which binds all things in a structure to a center) could not apply, but must be themselves in motion. And if they are in motion, then the signs cannot have their meaning based upon the centralized concept, or “logos.” So upon what does the meaning of language signs rest? Upon the differences in the signs themselves—how they relate to one another, how they are used, and to what end their usages permit. A sort of inter-connectedness of meanings arises, rather than a centralized presence or “logos.” In other words, “arbor” would not represent ‘tree’ because it centered around a certain fixed state, but rather because the words surrounding it allowed it to take on the meaning of ‘tree’.
Of course, this assertion is in direct conflict with the beliefs of “Logos-centrism” described in the teachings of Tolkien. The sign is not entirely socially constructed, however. Indeed, the sign, for Derrida, constructs society. Society participates in the grand “play” of signs in that it constantly references signs, and by proxy their interplay of meaning, but the signs themselves still dwell outside of physical existence. It is in the constant reference of the signs to one another that we find the connection between the three philosophies here present. As we pointed out above, in the “Logos-centric” understanding of language, the more references we understand in the meaning of the sign, the closer we get to an experience of what lies beneath, thus we participate in the eternal self- and inter-referential nature of the signs.
This does not negate the fixed center around which the signs and our understanding of those signs circulate, as the center itself need not be separated from the interplay of signs and may actually assist in the constant change of reference. For, if the Word of “Logos-centrism” cannot be fully re-presented in the signs we make (as we are inherently tainted), then we must constantly be representing our experience in various and incomprehensive ways. This also addresses Problem (1), as it points out that each word has its meaning inherently intertwined with the use of other words in society while at the same time being maintained by the ever-present Logos. What does this mean for practical life? For starters, it means that the words we use are by their use a reference to and re-presentation of the original Word and that the inter-referential nature of signs inherently contains divinity and is not limited to a social construct.
Bibliography
Derrida, Jacques. “Speech and Phenomena.” In A Derrida Reader: Between the Blinds. Edited by Peggy Kamuf. New York: Columbia University Press, 1991.
Flieger, Verlyn Splintered Light: Logos and Language in Tolkien's World. Kent State University Press, 2002.
Saussure, Ferdinand de. Course in General Linguistics. Chicago: Open Court, 2004.
[1] While I reference Sassure here, I do not intend to go over the entire Course in General Linguistics nor debate the failures of Sassurean philosophy (for a somewhat entertainingly harsh and un-learned reaction to post-Saussurean theory, see Not Saussure by “Dr.” Raymond Tallis). I do not wish to go into a lengthy discussion of post-structuralist thought nor alternative theories of defining signs (viz. Donald Davidson’s “triangulation” theory, etc.). This is not because they are not interesting, indeed I find them more intriguing than Saussure’s model, but for the purposes of this essay, I will mostly allow Saussure’s model to stand (for now), so as not to bore you.
[2] See Lacan for a psycho-analytical defense of the SIGNIFIER/signified split.
[3] Indeed, it is important to understand that Saussure’s teaching was almost in direct reaction to the assumption that anthropology and linguistic studies must go hand-in-hand, as he taught that, while they can contribute to one another, the two fields are entirely separate.
Signs and Metaculture: Introduction
In the upcoming series of essays titled "Signs and Metaculture", I intend to provide an understandable explanation of certain common terms used by literary critics and scholars. I will show how, in its respective definition, each term carries the vast importance of constructing perspectives on everyday experience. I will explain certain theories of each word or phrase in history and how each theory can drastically alter one's concept and experience of reality.
I do not purport to be an expert in any sense on historical literary criticism and will not give a detailed analysis of competing schools of literary thought. However, I will reference particular schools and a few critics during the essays, so a brief explanation will be necessary. Because I lack expertise, I welcome all feedback on the series.
Lastly, I hope to provide at least six essays in installments of two month intervals, but this is subject to change. Enjoy!
I do not purport to be an expert in any sense on historical literary criticism and will not give a detailed analysis of competing schools of literary thought. However, I will reference particular schools and a few critics during the essays, so a brief explanation will be necessary. Because I lack expertise, I welcome all feedback on the series.
Lastly, I hope to provide at least six essays in installments of two month intervals, but this is subject to change. Enjoy!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
