The Ideology of Wonder Woman

Diana’s ideological apprenticeship begins in her childhood, when she inherits a Manichaean account of her history, both personal, and familial. According to the schema provided by Queen Hippolyta, all humans used to live in a golden age of conflict-free egalitarianism which was destroyed by Aries, the film’s intermittently real antagonist, who sewed discord in the hearts of men, and made them turn against one another. The Amazons were a superhuman race created by Zeus in order to mediate relations between men, and for a time this was apparently successful, until the Amazons rose up in a violent insurrection against this narrowly circumscribed role (which is compared with slavery), to establish a militaristic community on the island of Themyscira. The film gives no indication that it’s a collectivist society, but there’s no direct evidence of private property, and everyone seems to know each other. It also suits my argument to assume that it’s a communist utopia.

Diana’s objective on leaving the island with American spy-pilot Chris Pine is to kill Ares, the divine agent of conflict that she believes to be the only possible explanation for World War I. Once Ares dies, she believes, the war will come to an immediate end, as the corruption within men’s hearts will be done away with . Chris Pine indulges Diana in this regard for most of the film, but believes it to be unlikely that Ares truly exists in the way that Diana envisions.

When Erich Ludendorff is dispatched, the avatar, as Diana believes, of Ares, she is dismayed to find that the military-industrial infrastructure, and the great war more generally, seems to be proceeding anyway. Chris Pine then explains to Diana that the conflict is the inevitable outcome of mankind’s inherent flaws (tendencies towards violence, militarism), than the influence of Ares, though in his account, the number of squabbling aristocrats in Eastern Europe and nationalism don’t gets a mention, nor the Aristotelean account of the ways in which unequal societies are more unstable, a view Diana would be familiar with, given the extent of her erudition. I consider this within the context of Chris Pine’s general demeanour and/or blatant impatience when Diana challenges his analyses in any given context and I don’t think it’s a coincidence that Chris Pine’s explanations for Anglo-American societal customs are unsatisfactory or simplistic; it’s indicative of a general condescension his character exhibits towards Diana.

It turns out that David Thewlis’ character, the seemingly benign member of Imperial War Cabinet, is in fact Ares, and I think what is at stake in this is the text’s perspective on revolutionary violence.

As Diana’s childhood understanding holds it, the struggle for a better society is a question of fights between the already empowered, the god Ares and herself. Ordinarily I would say this they are analogous to the landholder class, but Noam Chomsky’s impressionistically applied, and vaguely conspiratorial ‘masters of mankind’ category might be more adequate in this case. As such, the political struggle is a war of personalities, one which is, in Diana’s words, not about what one ‘deserves’, i.e. the fulfilment of the social compact, but what one ‘believes’, the sincerity of one’s desire to improve the world. That one’s intentions are sufficient justification for any given course of action in contrast to an appeal to inherent human dignity overlooks the fact that the Amazons initially emancipated themselves from slavery by violent means and further re-endorses the reactionary aspects of her binaristic childhood education of good v. evil, without leaving space for possible change in the future. Ares, as the linchpin of all evil, avarice and imperialism exists, a transcendental representation of evil, but no such space is provided for an aspiration to true good, only a belief, or faith, that one’s ‘good’ actions amount to an improvement, which is due to woman and man’s essential nature, as flawed.

In many ways this film traces the trajectory of a young woman moving away from home, finding her reality was not as straightforward as she imagined, but accepting a sequence of base level facts as a foundation for any further analyses or beliefs, facts provided by Chris Pine, that skulduggery and incrementalism are the only legitimate path to political change. Which is very open to argument.

This political reality Diana is re-construed within requires a Lacanian account. Wonder Woman relates Diana’s entry into a relation with the name of the father; a repressive and constrained reality beyond the complete pleasure and authentic relation with her mother/the broader community of Amazons on Themyscira, which runs parallel to the rather simplistic bildung maturity narrative. The scene where Diana quizzes Chris Pine about his penis size, then talks about his watch is the most revealing in this context, given that the watch was a gift from his father, it’s freighted with patriarchal baggage, which is bolstered by the fact of him giving it to her in the moment that he consolidates their relationship with his male speech act. Chris Pine’s watch, represents both mechanistic industrial and patriarchal time, and his phallus, and exists in contrast to the nostalgic eternal past of Themyscira, reflects Diana’s internalisation of a patriarchal capitalistic modality of existence. At a crucial moment in the film’s final battle, the film’s utterly spurious love-sex plot with Chris Pine, allows her to break out of a steel enclosure Ares forms around her, rather than for example, having her aunt/her mother/the fate of collectivism in Themyscira prove sufficient motivation. Further, when in London, the smoky, industrialised, poverty-striken landscape, her ‘feminine’ attributes come to the fore to a greater extent, she is drawn to a baby she sees in the street, for example.

Utopias in Wonder Woman are usually framed and evoked by the opposite of the London landscape; foliage and greenery, as in Themyscira, the moment that Ares reveals his own prospective vision of a conflict-free utopia to Diana, and in one of the final shots in the film, which features Diana and the soldiers, formerly on opposite sides in the war, embracing in a bombed-out airfield, framed by trees and the setting sun. This reflects a fusion of the industrialised, capitalist and patriarchal order and the soft, pre-industrial, earth mother that Diana and the Amazons embody.

The final point to grasp is that the film provides the audience with a personification of transcendental evil in the figure of Ares, but no means of grasping a transcendental good, because the evil is also present within people. People are capable of carrying out good acts, but only in the form of futile sacrifices of themselves as representatives of the lumpen or in moments of collective celebration as in London at the end of the war, but these cannot be translated into broader political action, or a societal paradigm.

Far from the usual case wherein, as a revolutionary communist, one identifies with ‘the bad guy’ in films such as these because of the extent to which these films endorse ownership of private property, these models of agrarian utopia do not provide a stable means of proceeding. If that utopia is in any way analogous to the one that prompted the Amazons to revolt, it’s fairly obvious that it will depend on female exploitation. The notion that the Amazons provide a curative for man’s hardness (industrialisation, time, violence) with their softness, is a binary construction, which is why Isabel Maru is the villain of the film; she is deformed, ugly, Other, she fails to live up to the soft feminine ideal and crosses over into monstrosity, due to her interest in science, industrial processes. Both women, of course, go weak at the knees over Chris Pine.

Wonder Woman proves that Maoism is the only true revolutionary struggle as it mobilises the lumpen, but after or during the revolution, you have to kill all the men.

Modelling Humanities Data Blog Post #2: Different Methods of Modelling data

This blog post will focus on the 1641 depositions project, based at Trinity College Dublin. The aim of the project was to digitise approximately 8,000 depositions dealing with the 1641 uprising in Ireland and provide them online, which amounts to 19,010 pages of text bound in 31 volumes. Each page was photographed in high-resolution, transcribed and marked up in TEI.

The transcription which was carried out preserved variant and incorrect spellings, as well as subsequent emendations, such as struck out words or marginalia. These are formatted in a way which emphasises their separateness from the ‘main’ text. These accounts were initially taken spontaneously, as a means of gathering information about the uprising from those who were affected by, or witnessed, the disturbances. This first wave of depositions are more discursive in character and were taken within two years of the initial events. Subsequent witness statements, taken in the 1650’s, were more focused on damage to property and loss of life with a view to charging those guilty of such acts in court. Though these statements were marked up in TEI, the code itself is inaccessible, due to concerns about people making use of the transcribed manuscripts without permission. This hinders the markup’s functionality, as it makes it impossible for scholars to search, process or analyse the text in ways that markup would otherwise allow.

The data schema that was used within the context of the  project website is also idiosyncratic in many respects. The tagging system which facilitates searches of the depositions uses twenty-four separate terms, among them, ‘apostasy’, ‘arson’, ‘captivity’, ‘witchcraft’ and ‘death’. There is a significant amount of overlap within this systems, the question arises as to what precise differences there are between ‘death’, ‘killing’, ‘multiple killing’ and ‘massacre’ as subjects. Further, tags such as ‘witchcraft’ disproportionately emphasise the sensational nature of some of the depositions; despite the fact that references to supernatural phenomena, feature in a relatively small number of depositions.

This is somewhat ironic considering the uses the depositions were put to at the time they were first written, as a means of fuelling anti-Catholic prejudice in England to further entrench the plantation project and justify the representation of Catholicism as ‘a proven tyrannical force’. This may have been done with a view to the potential impact of the project; Elizabeth Price’s deposition was dramatised on RTÉ presumably because it offers a vivid account of a massacre, though no attention was given in the broadcast to their unreliability as a resource. As the depositions were devised by a governing infrastructure attempting to prosecute insurrectionists and quell rebellions from non-compliant parts of the country, they could hardly be considered disinterested investigations.

There is an argument to be made that a panel of historical experts on Tudor and Stuart Ireland would be capable of devising a sequence of topics in order to provide a guiding mechanism for any prospective reader, particularly within the context of a digital scholarly edition such as this, in which there is such a huge amount of material. However, it is clear that in this case, this has not been achieved.

Bibliography

Canny, Nicholas, Making Ireland British 1580-1650 (Oxford University Press: 2003)

Foster, R.F., Modern Ireland 1600-1972 (Penguin: 1989)

Heffernan, David, The Emergence of the Public Sphere in Elizabethan Ireland (The Tudor and Stuart Ireland Conference 2012: 2012) https://soundcloud.com/history-hub/david-heffernan-the-emergence-of-the-public-sphere-in-elizabethan-ireland

Hughes, Anthony, The Stuart Post Office: Not Just for Delivering Letters (The Tudor and Stuart Ireland Conference 2012: 2012) https://soundcloud.com/history-hub/anthony-hughes-stuart-post-office-ireland Accessed: 4 May 2017.

Ohlmeyer, Jane, Bartlett, Thomas, Ó Siochrú, Micheál, Morrill, John, 1641 Depositions, Available at: http://ride.i-d-e.de/issues/issue-5/1641-depositions/ Accessed: 4 May 2017

Literary Cluster Analysis

I: Introduction

My PhD research will involve arguing that there has been a resurgence of modernist aesthetics in the novels of a number of contemporary authors. These authors are Anne Enright, Will Self, Eimear McBride and Sara Baume. All these writers have at various public events and in the course of many interviews, given very different accounts of their specific relation to modernism, and even if the definition of modernism wasn’t totally overdetermined, we could spend the rest of our lives defining the ways in which their writing engages, or does not engage, with the modernist canon. Indeed, if I have my way, this is what I will spend a substantial portion of my life doing.

It is not in the spirit of reaching a methodology of greater objectivity that I propose we analyse these texts through digital methods; having begun my education in statistical and quantitative methodologies in September of last year, I can tell you that these really afford us no *better* a view of any text then just reading them would, but fortunately I intend to do that too.

This cluster dendrogram was generated in R, and owes its existence to Matthew Jockers’ book Text Analysis with R for Students of Literature, from which I developed a substantial portion of the code that creates the output above.

What the code is attentive to, is the words that these authors use the most. When analysing literature qualitatively, we tend to have a magpie sensibility, zoning in on words which produce more effects or stand out in contrast to the literary matter which surrounds it. As such, the ways in which a writer would use the words ‘the’, ‘an’, ‘a’, or ‘this’, tends to pass us by, but they may be far more indicative of a writer’s style, or at least in the way that a computer would be attentive to; sentences that are ‘pretty’ are generally statistically insignificant.

II: Methodology

Every corpus that you can see in the above image was scanned into R, and then run through a code which counted the number of times every word was used in the text. The resulting figure is called the word’s frequency, and was then reduced down to its relative frequency, by dividing the figure by total number of words, and multiplying the result by 100. Every word with a relative frequency above a certain threshold was put into a matrix, and a function was used to cluster each matrix together based on the similarity of the figures they contained, according to a Euclidean metric I don’t fully understand.

The final matrix was 21 X 57, and compared these 21 corpora on the basis of their relative usage of the words ‘a’, ‘all’, ‘an’, ‘and’, ‘are’, ‘as’, ‘at’, ‘be’, ‘but’, ‘by’, ‘for’, ‘from’, ‘had’, ‘have’, ‘he’, ‘her’, ‘him’, ‘his’, ‘I’, ‘if’, ‘in’, ‘is’, ‘it’, ‘like’, ‘me’, ‘my’, ‘no’, ‘not’, ‘now’, ‘of’, ‘on’, ‘one’, ‘or’, ‘out’, ‘said’, ‘she’, ‘so’, ‘that’, ‘the’, ‘them’, ‘then’, ‘there’, ‘they’, ‘this’, ‘to’, ‘up’, ‘was’, ‘we’, ‘were’, ‘what’, ‘when’, ‘which’, ‘with’, ‘would’, and ‘you’.

Anyway, now we can read the dendrogram.

III: Interpretation

Speaking about the dendrogram in broad terms can be difficult for precisely the reason that I indicative above; quantitative/qualitative methodologies for text analysis are totally opposed to one another, but what is obvious is that Eimear McBride and Gertrude Stein are extreme outliers, and comparable only to each other. This is one way unsurprising, because of the brutish, repetitive styles and is in other ways very surprising, because McBride is on record as dismissing her work, for being ‘too navel-gaze-y.’

Jorge Luis Borges and Marcel Proust have branched off in their own direction, as has Sara Baume, which I’m not quite sure what to make of. Franz Kafka, Ernest Hemingway and William Faulkner have formed their own nexus. More comprehensible is the Anne Enright, Katherine Mansfield, D.H. Lawrence, Elizabeth Bowen, F. Scott FitzGerald and Virginia Woolf cluster; one could make, admittedly sweeping judgements about how this could be said to be modernism’s extreme centre, in which the radical experimentalism of its more revanchiste wing was fused rather harmoniously with nineteenth-century social realism, which produced a kind of indirect discourse, at which I think each of these authors excel.

These revanchistes are well represented in the dendrogram’s right wing, with Flann O’Brien, James Joyce, Samuel Beckett and Djuna Barnes having clustered together, though I am not quite sure what to make of Ford Madox Ford/Joseph Conrad’s showing at all, being unfamiliar with the work.

IV: Conclusion

The basic rule in interpreting dendrograms is that the closer the ‘leaves’ reach the bottom, the more similar they can be said to be. Therefore, Anne Enright and Will Self are the contemporary modernists most closely aligned to the forebears, if indeed forebears they can be said to be. It would be harder, from a quantitative perspective, to align Sara Baume with this trend in a straightforward manner, and McBride only seems to correlate with Stein because of how inalienably strange their respective prose styles are.

The primary point to take away here, if there is one, is that more investigations are required. The analysis is hardly unproblematic. For one, the corpus sizes vary enormously. Borges’ corpus is around 46 thousand words, whereas Proust reaches somewhere around 1.2 million. In one way, the results are encouraging, Borges and Barnes, two authors with only one texts in their corpus, aren’t prevented from being compared to novelists with serious word counts, but in another way, it is pretty well impossible to derive literary measurements from texts without taking their length into account. The next stage of the analysis will probably involve breaking the corpora up into units of 50 thousand words, so that the results for individual novels can be compared.

Re-reading Eimear McBride’s ‘A Girl is a Half-Formed Thing’

A book that I’m looking forward to reading, that doesn’t exist yet, is an academic account of how Irish contemporary fiction went, in such a short space of time, from social realism, to the precociously sentenced art writing with dissociative narrators that now composes the Irish literary milieu. It’s the sort of thing that was probably brewing for a long time, these trends tend to be, but I first became aware of it when Eimear McBride’s A Girl is a Half-Formed Thing was published in 2013. It caused a bit of stir in the literary press at the time, for its supposed uncompromising experimentalism, and its fraught, J.K. Rowling-esque publication history. Critics compared it to Marcel Proust or Samuel Beckett, but I don’t think there was a single review that didn’t mention James Joyce.

In the works of Sara Baume, Joanna Walsh or Claire-Louise Bennett, there are certainly comparisons to be made along these lines, but I think McBride is the novelist of the current generation who is suffering most egregiously under these comparisons. This leads to a kind of distortion that McBride has spoken about recently, saying that it’s ‘a way of not being seen’. Claire Lowdon, writing on McBride’s prose style in Areté, has used the Joyce comparisons as a way of demeaning the novel’s experimental qualities, saying that they are ‘redundant’ and ‘artificial’:

Having invoked Joyce, Joyce has to be McBride’s standard. She has taken all the difficulty and none of the brilliance.

Lowdon’s reading is important and thorough, but I have problems with it. The most significant one being that I think it’s nonsensical to say that just because a work is in some way formally indebted to Joyce has to be 1) as good, 2) as innovative and 3) as good and as innovative in exactly the same ways. I think it’s a very strange point to make that we should benchmark a writer relative to their influences , particularly when this is a comparison furthered more by the laziness of critics than something that McBride has taken upon herself. It’s also inadequate to assume McBride and Joyce’s modernisms are coterminous; I happen to think that they’re rather distinct in a number of significant ways.

Firstly, it’s clear that A Girl is more formally aligned with the Wake than with Ulysses, but taken relative to the former, A Girl manifests far less attention to the materiality of language. In A Girl, there’s less puns, there’s less references, there’s less leitmotifs. It’s also possible to make sense of A Girl without reference to other works. But it’s a mistake to regard this as McBride’s failure to live up to her twentieth century modernist aesthetics. An example from the novel’s opening that Lowdon cites reads as follows:

For you. You’ll soon. You’ll give her name. In the stitches of her skin she’ll wear your say. Mammy me? Yes you. Bounce the bed I’d say. I’d say that’s what you did. Then lay you down. They cut you round. Wait and hour and day.

‘Wait and hour and day’, carries with it the vague association with the phrase ‘a year and a day’ but it doesn’t strictly make sense in that context, there’s no clear reason for the semantic distortion. But there’s also no requirement that there is, nor that it add up to some enormous mythic framework in the same way that the Wake does. I think that once we approach the novel from this position, one which takes account of McBride’s actual concerns, we’ll be able to come to a more sophisticated understanding that doesn’t amount to downgrading her because of her perceived inadequacy in relation to Joyce.

By her own admission McBride retains an interest in nineteenth century novels with less self-consciousness about their language or processes of meaning-making. She has cited the work of the Russian novelist Fyodor Dostoevsky as significant, particularly as an example of proto-modernism, or modernism in a nascent stage of its development, wherein human intersubjectivity was beginning to make itself known within the novel while the tenets of realistic fiction was still trying to accommodate it. Being aware of the fact that The Lesser Bohemians is not the novel under discussion, it’s important to note the way in which it demonstrates this interplay. Within the context of what has been referred to by the author as a ‘modernist monologue’ there is a very sensationalistic narrative in which a character lays out their life story in a very direct and straightforward manner in the same way that you might find extended and directly rendered narratives nested within nineteenth century novels. McBride has said that this is a very deliberate formal mechanic which is pertinent to the text’s thematic concerns, as it is a novel about relating to another person in spite of one’s traumatic past:

In the end you tell a person and you have to use the words that they’ll understand.

What makes McBride’s modernism distinct then, is the centrality it gives to the conveying of narrative information, deploying it as a means of bringing the reader closer to

physical experience, to write about the female experience…the reader can partake in the experience.

McBride has said that the language of A Girl, was written in a way that would create a physical experience for the reader, an immediacy on the page that is reminiscent of theatre. She’s expressed frustration at the content of many of her reviews which have emphasised the quality of the language at the expense of the novel’s content, which she regards as very significant. This stands in contrast to the tradition of the Wake or other modernist works famed for their unintelligibility, such as Gertrude Stein’s The Making of Americans: Being a History of a Family’s Progress is a novel that she has spoken about dismissively for being ‘too navel-gaze-y.’

This stated interest in what the book is ‘about’ and a reader-centric ethic, is I think at least a partial reversal of expectations within the modernist tradition. McBride’s modernism is therefore conceptualised, not as a constructed textual estrangement from reality, but an attempt to bring it closer, to a dwelling-place of authentic being. Not that it’s likely to close off such comparisons in the future.

Re-Reading Anne Enright’s ‘The Gathering’

When it comes to reading Anne Enright’s novels, I am guilty of teleological thinking. This is because I believe her most recent novel, The Green Road, to be one of the best novels I’ve ever read and until I’d read that, I believed The Gathering to be one of the best novels I’ve ever read. So, there is an extent to which I have come to view her oeuvre as an inexorable movement towards the twin apotheoses of these two works.

What is interesting then, about the history of The Gathering’s composition, is that is seems to have begun almost as a run-up to The Green Road. It was initially Enright’s intention to make The Gathering a Faulknerian 500-some page novel that would follow three generations of the Hegarty family through a century of Irish history, from the early 1900’s to the early 2000’s. The section in the novel in which the whole family is gathered for their brother Liam’s funeral, certainly seems to emulate the set-piece of The Green Road’s Christmas dinner, albeit with substantially less information given about each family member. The Gathering apparently ‘fell apart’ in the drafting process, and became the far more fragmented work we now have, one which is at war with its own historical consciousness, an allegory of modern Irish history which acts as the novel’s framework.

Take Veronica’s account of her very Irish family, which is at once a detailed account of her own, as well as Irish families in a more general sense:

There is always a drunk. There is always someone who has been interfered with, as a child. There is always a colossal success, with several houses in various countries to which no one is ever invited. There is a mysterious sister. There are just trends, of course, and, like trends, they shift.

Take, also, Veronica’s name. The biblical Veronica wiped Jesus’ face witha piece of cloth, and took its imprint. A heavily freighted name, and one which carries with it the burden of creating truly mimetic art, an aspiration towards the re-creation of causality on the page which Veronica mostly fails to live up to. Veronica is conscious of all this, making fun of her mother in the following aside: ‘Such epic names she gave us — none of your Jimmy, Joe or Mick.’

The allegory also manifests itself in the novel’s portrait of the hundred years of Irish history from below. There is a suggestion that Veronica’s grandmother was a sex worker, part of the generation of ‘reformed’ prostitutes put into halfway houses by the church to dry out until they were deemed fit to re-join society. Veronica theorises that her grandmother was one of these, in an attempt to explain her brother’s suicide, and her family’s general fucked-up-edness, but casts doubt on her account even she advances it, dismissing it as ‘A dusty, middle-class fantasy, of crinkled stockings and TB, and hunkering to wash over a basin on the floor’.

Her narrative fails to account for Liam’s suicide. No shape that she puts on the narrative remains secure because Liam, her grandmother and her uncle, (institutionalised due to his being abused), are not victims in isolation, they are part of a far broader generation of victims over the state’s history, whether they be ‘fallen’ women put into Magdalene laundries, rape victims institutionalised on the suggestion of their rapists (who were often family members) or children molested and beaten in industrial schools. It is only after these testimonies begin to surface in public life that Veronica remembers witnessing Liam’s abuse, and places it within a national chronology:

This is what shame does. This is the anatomy and mechanism of a family — a whole fucking country — drowning in shame.

Over the next twenty years the world around us changed and I remembered Mr Nugent. But I never would have made that shift on my own if I hadn’t been listening to the radio and reading the paper and hearing about what went on in schools and churches and in people’s homes.

Of course, The Gathering is just one attempted explanation, for just one victim, and it can’t be expected to take the burden of just how many there were. This is highlighted at a stage in the novel in which Veronica visits as mass grave at a mental institution that has been recently closed:

Just one cross — quite new — at the end of a little central path. A double row of saplings promise rowan trees to come. There are no markers, no separate graves. I wonder how many people were slung into the dirt of this field, and realise, too late, that the place is boiling with corpses, the ground is knit out of their tangled bones.

Throughout the text, bones are associated with the act of narration, Veronica comforts her hand with the neat ‘arc’ of a cuttlefish bone, and feels for her children’s bones when she embraces them, enjoying their symmetry and their apparent lack of complication. The image of ‘tangled’ bones provides little hope of ever reaching closure for the innumerable victims of the Irish state’s negligence and cruelty.

To what extent The Gathering is about the history of systematic female oppression might all be Veronica’s contrivance, or Enright’s; she is not a heavy-handed novelist, and it is not just Veronica’s uncertainty that would prevent us from taking this reading up wholly, but Enright’s subtlety. (The one scene we might quibble with is one set in an asylum named St. Ita’s, a brief history of the saint’s role in embodying a feminine ideal is given also).

Perhaps any account is doomed to failure, knowing how pockmarked the historical record is by aporia and silence, enforced or otherwise, the extent of the suffering will be passed over, particularly as long as the state’s policy is to remain stingy with the provision of compensation or the bodies responsible continue to ‘deny till they die’.

I add it in to my life, as an event, and I think, well yes, that might explain some things. I add it into my brother’s life and it is crucial, it is the place where all cause meets all effect, the crux of an x. In a way, it explains too much.

Modelling Humanities Data: Deleuze, Descartes and Data

While dealing with the distinctions between data, knowledge and information in class, a pyramidal hierarchy was proposed, which can be seen on the left. This diagram discloses the process of making data (which have been defined as ‘facts’ which exist in the world), into information, and thereafter knowledge. These shifts from one state to another are not as neat as the diagram might suggest; it is just one interpretation giving shape to a highly dynamic and unsettled process; any movement from one of these levels to another is fraught. It is ‘a bargaining system,’ as every dataset has its limitations and aporias, not to speak of the process of interpretation or subsequent dissemination. This temporal dimension to data, its translation from a brute state is too often neglected within certain fields of study, fields in which data is more often understood as unambiguous, naturally hierarchicalised, and not open to contextualisation or debate.

This blog post aims to consider these issues within the context of a dataset obtained from The Central Statistics Office. The dataset contains information relating to the relative risk of falling into poverty based on one’s level of education between the years 2004 and 2015 inclusive. The data was analysed through use of the statistical analysis interface SPSS.

The purpose of the CSO is to compile and disseminate information relating to economic and social conditions within the state in order to give direction to the government in the formulation of policy. Therefore it was decided that the most pertinent information to be derived from the dataset would be the correlations between level of education and the likelihood of falling into poverty. The results appear below.

Correlation Between Risk of Poverty and Level of Education Achieved

Correlation Between Consistent Poverty (%) and Level of Education Received

Correlation Between Deprivation Rate (%) and Level of Education Received

Poverty Risk Based on Education Level

Deprivation Rate Based on Education Level

Consistent Poverty Rate based on Education Level

It can be seen that there is a very strong negative correlation between one’s level of education and one’s risk of exposure to poverty; the higher one ascends through the education system, the less likely it is one will fall into economic liminality. This is borne out both in the bar charts and the correlation tables, the latter of which yield p-values of .000, underlining the certainty of the finding. It should be noted that both graphing the data, and detecting correlations through use of the Spearman’s rho are elementary statistical procedures, but as the trend revealed here is consistent with more elaborate modelling of the relationship,[1] the parsimonious analysis carried out here is all that is required.

It should not be assumed that just because these graphs are informative that it is impossible to garner information from data in any other way. Even in its primary state, as it appears on the website, one could obtain information from a dataset through qualitative means. It is unlikely that this information will be as coherent as that which that can be gleaned from even the most basic graph, but it is important to emphasise the fact that the border that separates data from information is fluid.

It is unlikely to be a novel finding that those who have a third level education have higher incomes than those who do not; there is a robust body of research detailing the many benefits of attending university. [2] Therefore, can it be said that the visualisation of the dataset above has contributed to knowledge? One would answer this question relative to one’s initial research question, and how the information complicates or advances it. If the causal relationship between exposure to poverty and level of education has been confirmed, and a government agency makes the recommendation that further investment in educational support programmes are necessary, it is somewhere in this process that the boundary separating information from knowledge has been crossed.

The above diagram actualises the temporal nature of data to a greater extent than the pyramid, but in doing so it perpetuates a linearisation of the process, a line along which René Descartes’ notion of thought could be said to align. Descartes understood thought as a positive function which tends towards the good and toward truth. This ‘good sense’, allows us to ‘judge correctly and to distinguish the true from the false’.[3] Gilles Deleuze believes Descartes instantiates a model of thought which is oppressive, and which perceives thinking relative to external needs and values rather than in its actuality: ‘It cannot be regarded as fact that thinking is the natural exercise of a faculty, and that this faculty is possessed of a good nature and a good will.’[4]

In Deleuze’s conception, thought takes on a sensual disposition, reversing the Cartesian notion of mental inquiry beginning from a state of disinterestedness in order to arrive at a moment at which one recognises ‘rightness’. Deleuze argues that there is no such breakthrough moment or established methodology to thought, and argues for regarding it as more invasive, or unwelcome, a point of encounter when ‘something in the world forces us to think.’[5]

Rather than taking the neat, schematic movement from capturing data to modelling to interpreting for granted, Deleuze is engaged by these moments of crisis, points just before or just after the field of our understanding is qualitatively transformed into something different:

How else can one write but of those things which one doesn’t know, or know badly?…We write only at the frontiers of our knowledge, at the border which separates our knowledge from our ignorance and transforms one into the other.[6]

Deleuze’s comments have direct bearing upon our understanding of data, and how they should be understood within the context of the wider questions we ask of them. Deleuze argues that, ‘problems must be considered not as ‘givens’ (data) but as ideal ‘objecticities’ possessing their own sufficiency and implying acts of constitution and investment in their respective symbolic fields.’[7] While it is possible that Deleuze would risk overstating the case, were we to apply his theories to this dataset, it is nonetheless crucial to recall that data, and the methodologies we use to unpack and present them participate in wider economies of significance, ones with indeterminate horizons.

Notes

[1] Department for Business, Education and Skills, ‘BIS Research Paper №146: The Benefits of Higher Education and Participation for Individuals and Society: Key Findings and Reports’, (Department for Business, Education and Skills: 2013) https://www.gov.uk/government/uploads/system/uploads/attachment_data/file/254101/bis-13-1268-benefits-of-higher-education-participation-the-quadrants.pdf

[2] OECD, Education Indicators in Focus, (OECD: 2012) https://www.oecd.org/education/skills-beyond-school/Education%20Indicators%20in%20Focus%207.pdf

[3] Descartes, René, Discourse on the Method of Rightly Conducting the Reason, and Seeking Truth in the Sciences (Gutenberg: 2008), http://www.gutenberg.org/files/59/59-h/59-h.htm

[4] Deleuze, Gilles, Difference and Repetition (Bloomsbury Academic: 2016), p.175

[5] Ibid.

[6] Ibid, p. xviii

[7] Ibid, p.207

Bibliography

Deleuze, Gilles, Difference and Repetition (Bloomsbury Academic: 2016), p.175

Department for Business, Education and Skills, ‘BIS Research Paper №146: The Benefits of Higher Education and Participation for Individuals and Society: Key Findings and Reports’, (Department for Business, Education and Skills: 2013) https://www.gov.uk/government/uploads/system/uploads/attachment_data/file/254101/bis-13-1268-benefits-of-higher-education-participation-the-quadrants.pdf

Descartes, René, Discourse on the Method of Rightly Conducting the Reason, and Seeking Truth in the Sciences (Gutenberg: 2008), http://www.gutenberg.org/files/59/59-h/59-h.htm

OECD, Education Indicators in Focus, (OECD: 2012) https://www.oecd.org/education/skills-beyond-school/Education%20Indicators%20in%20Focus%207.pdf

A Derridean Account of Literary Style

The boldness of the title here needs to be put in check immediately, I’ve only read the Grammatology recently, and though this was the first reading where I think I made the sense of it, I still haven’t read Lévi-Strauss or Rousseau, so in actuality, my reading can g.t.f.o.

Helpfully, Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak provides one of the better introductions of all time, which allows us to get underway in terms of considering style.

It could be said that Derrida’s philosophy launched a thousand styles, much to David Foster Wallace’s chagrin; his MFA students had an uncanny capacity to encourage many of them down the route of irony-poisoned multi-vocality, typographical playfulness, all in the name of his casting adrift an economy of relativised meaning, at the expense of bourgeois, post-Enlightenment certainty. This led him eventually to begin each semester by writing the names of the doyennes of deconstruction on the chalkboard, to announce ‘I’m read all these guys. You don’t need to remind me of them’.

However, we must not mistake the historicised post-structuralist movement for Derrida’s stated views on style, which, as far as I can see are unfortunately absent from the Grammatology. But, if we say that Derrida viewed the pursuit of stable meaning sceptically, it’s probable that seeking to discover a single, unified style in any textual artefact, would be likewise wrong-headed, as Spivak points out in her introduction

The desire for unity and order compels the author and the reader to balance the equation that is the text’s symptom.

A single authorial style is a romantic contrivance, and violates Derrida’s sense of textuality, which is autonomous from such concerns, and does not answer to ‘proper names.’

We know that the metaphor that would describe the genealogy of the text correctly is still forbidden. In its syntax and its lexicon, its spacing, by its punctuation, its lacunae, its margins, the historical appurtenance of a text, is never a straight line. It is neither causality by contagion nor the simple accumulation of layers. Not even the pure juxtaposition of borrowed pieces.

Of all the words in this rather dazzling paragraph, it is ‘layers’ that strikes me most forcefully, if only for the reason that ‘layers’ is the way in which I decided to envision and visualise literary data in the course of my thesis. There is a risk in giving into Derrida that one would merely come away with some nebulous kind of radical indeterminacy, rather than a constructivist paradigm, which would be more necessary in the carrying out of quantitative analytical procedures. In fact, the kind of theological everything/nothing that Derrida, ironically tends to engender, is exactly what I want to avoid.

What does stand out in this paragraph, is the text’s interconnectedness, and every part’s responsiveness to every other part. This is a key feature of Derrida’s mode of critique; in later chapters, he will locate minor, or tangential sections of Rousseau or Lévi-Strauss, minor details or afterthoughts, that reveal themselves to be the precise juncture at which their systems of thought lapse into incoherence and uncertainty. A ‘total’ view of style then, one which reveals it to be wide-ranging and prone to upset, composed on a granular level of fragmentary particles, is something that Derrida might offer us in comprehending style.

A Heideggerian account of literary style

Martin Heidegger is a philosopher who had a very specific idea of the kind of philosophy he wished to practice and as such, he doesn’t make it easy for those who wish to extract something of use from his system of thought for use elsewhere, as in, for example, literary studies. His primary interest was in the nature of Being, what we might simplistically define as ontology, less simplistically, the ontology of ontology.

His style is famous for its obtuseness and difficulty, and in my own estimation, Heidegger would be less an author who demands multiple readings, than one who requires a lifetime of serious study. Unlike Nietzsche, it can hardly be said that he endorses this praxis as a proper stylistic mode. Instead, he envisioned literature, which he refers to mostly as ‘poetry’, as an extension of his own philosophical work, in establishing the nature of Being.

The only material that we can harvest from his collection of hermeneutic writings, Poetry, Language, Thought which seem relevant to literary stylistics, comes in the second chapter, ‘The Origin of the Work of Art’. Enquiring into the nature of poetry involves, for Heidegger, an enquiry into its origin, in the artist and the artist’s activities. Getting to what the artist is is a difficult matter also; both seem to depend on one another as categories:

it is the work that first lets the artist emerge as a master of his art. The artist is the origin of the work. The work is the origin of the artist. Neither is one without the other. Nevertheless, neither is the sole support of the other. In themselves and in their interrelations artist and work are each of them by virtue of a third thing which is prior to both…art.

This is an unfashionable view; reflecting the increasingly social, collaborative nature of the humanities, we might increasingly wish to understand style as a likewise collaborative phenomenon, a social entity which allows for both the expression of a historical tradition and an individual idiom simultaneously.

Not for Heidegger. For him, style is somewhat beside the point, and elucidating it is a symptom of our decadent modernity, our tendency towards using things as means to ends, rather than ends in themselves. Elaborating on a text’s stylistic features, is to engage with rather facile aspects of its thingliness:

a thing is not merely an aggregate of traits, nor an accumulation of properties by which…an aggregate arises. A thing…is that around which the properties have assembled.

A style in which a thing, (and I should say, he’s talking about a jug or a stone here, hardly a novel or poem) appears does not define its thingliness completely, but it definitely partakes in it. Rather than having a secure sense of style, we have an aporia, direct information on the difficulty of confronting it methodologically, because of our fallen culture. Rather than grappling with style in its actuality, we only list traits, and thereby we come to an understanding of a thing-concept, rather than thing.

In resolving this, we might construct ‘a free field to display its tingly character directly,’ in such a way that that which interposes itself between the interpreter and an understanding of thingly nature, would be set aside. Of course, Heidegger is a pessimist regarding the success of this endeavour:

There is much in being that man cannot master. There is but little that comes to be known. What is known remains inexact, what is mastered insecure…When we contemplate this whole as one, then we apprehend, so it appears, al that is — though we grasp it crudely enough.

A Nietzschean account of literary style

When we think about Frederich Nietzsche and literary style, we might think of one of two things, the first being the conceptual distinction he drew in his first major work, The Birth of Tragedy, between the Apollonian and Dionysian modes. I won’t be pursuing this mode of analysis because I haven’t found a way to make it relevant to my own dissertation, yet, but I will draw our attention to what might be the second thing we think about which connects Nietzsche to style, and that is his own style.

Speaking purely about the only two works of Nietzsche I’ve read, Human, All too Human and Beyond Good and Evil, it can seem as though Nietzsche’s interest in style is less in dealing with the matter systematically, but more in embodying the notion, in his own epigrammatic, aphoristic and restless manner of writing, which seems, as time goes on, to become more and more pertinent to more contemporary forms of media. He’s been usefully described as a newspaper columnist or pundit (in that the philosophical antecedents he engages with he probably hasn’t read as systematically as he lets on, he was a philologist and a classicist rather than a philosopher), blogger (for the same reason) and I’m sure I wouldn’t be the first to say he would’ve fit in well on twitter, were I a vulgar enough character to make those sorts of analogies.

This restlessness when it comes to explicating the finer points of his work is what I mean when I say he embodies his own notion of style; by paying attention to his works’ formal strictures, or the artifice of their non-existence, we might be able to develop a more engaging model of Nietzsche’s stylistics than he can provide us with. For example, in the introduction to Human, all too Human, Ray Furness describes how Nietzsche perceives truth as feminine:

and those dogmatic souls afflicted with a terrible seriousness will be unable to woo her. A light, more elegant path is needed, a fresh and sparkling approach.

This ‘fresh and sparkling approach’ is Nietzsche’s ‘gay science’, which could be summed up as a curative to the Enlightenment project, which Nietzsche viewed as restrictive and overly systematic. As the translator says:

his preference for a darting perspectivism allows him to use dazzling contradictions to disorientate the reader and force them…to do the necessary work of weighting…and evaluating.

His commitment to a multiplicity of thought in his philosophy would encourage us to align Nietzsche’s commitment to multiperspectivalism, with a certain disposition towards multiplicity in literary style. This isn’t really an extravagant interpretation, Nietzsche is positively effusive about artists who display a capacity to be ‘on the move’ stylistically.

One author who he singles out for praise on this basis is Laurence Sterne. Sterne’s novel, The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, A Gentleman, is so stylistically restless, it fails to assume any kind of stable narrative shape at all, which Nietzsche endorses unequivocally:

an artistic style in which the definite form is continually broken, thrust aside and transferred to the realm of the indefinite, so that is signifies one and the other at the same time

So his tastes are fairly obvious, multi-vocality, oscillation of the writing’s attention regarding its subject, ambiguity/irony. The reasons for this are fairly obvious, everything about Nietzsche’s thought repudiates convention and the formation of habit, which makes us overly familiar with and lax in our approaches to objects under inquiry.

Interestingly, for the purposes of my own research into modernism, Nietzsche sees plurality of styles as a modern tendency, and partially attributable to the growth in urban living. Modern iterations of literary forms will be formally restless, Nietzsche argues, as this is the new paradigm: “they [the moderns] are in all things rather too thorough to be able to settle like the men of other days.”

While I don’t think I could get away with calling Richard Wagner modernist, he was one of Nietzsche’s contemporaries, and Nietzsche regards him as pertinent in delineating the modern turn, as he saw it at the time:

This kind of music expresses best what I think of the Germans: they belong to the day before yesterday and the day after tomorrow — they have as yet no today.

Like Hans Georg-Gadamer after him, Nietzsche understood style as a reactionary force in many respects, enforcing normative standards on particular works. In Nietzsche’s estimation, pre-modern works were written for performance, for the benefit of the ear. In the modern age, a key distinguishing feature of style is its appeal to the eye. In both cases, Nietzsche regards this as having their own impediments, demonstrating that he is unlikely to commit to signing off any one kind of style as sufficient in itself, it will always be a matter of overturning, experimenting, pushing the boundaries of hegemonic categories, until they break apart.

A Gadamerian Theory of Literary Style

Hans Georg-Gadamer was a philosopher working within the field of hermeneutic theory, which investigates the ways in which interpretation works, and how we come to understand things in the way that we do. He is a thinker deeply steeped in the Western philosophical tradition, but I came to him for his influence on literary theory, as Gadamer is also working within the tradition of German philology, from which Erich Auerbach, the author of Mimesis: The Representation of Reality in Western Literature also emerge. This post will deal with his theories as they are laid out in Gadamer’s magnum opus, Truth and Method.

The first thing to know about Gadamer, is that he was a student of Martin Heidegger, which is very significant for those approaching his works. Not only does this require of us a sensitivity to their political resonance, which does, at times, veer towards justifying totalitarianism, but also allows us to detect subtle tendencies towards Heidegger’s philosophical thought, such as those on the nature of Dasein.

One of Gadamer’s objections to hermeneutics is its perceived aspiration towards practicing it objectively, or with a manner of disinterestedness. Gadamer traces this positive valuation of objectivity back to the Enlightenment, which argued for a scientificist ideology within the human sciences. One might recall Heidegger’s own vision of modern society as overly mercantilist and alienating, pursuing things for their ends, rather than treating things as ends in themselves.

If restoring the temporal angle to a work of art sounds familiar it should, as it recalls one of the most significant things Heidegger identified relating to the nature of Dasein, namely, its temporal quality, and therefore, its being in a constant state of becoming. This is ontology as process, and it is something that we as interpreters should be aiding, rather than stymieing. We should never be trying to ‘resolve’ a work of art, but open it up to further questions. It is fortunate then, that Gadamer believes that this happens automatically, in the course of a very interesting process called ‘play’, a full account of which I won’t provide here, because I’m primarily interested in Gadamer’s notion of style, which he outlines in a fairly brief appendix to Truth and Method.

Gadamer objects to the notion of style, seeing it, as any good philologist would, within a genealogy. For Gadamer, its meaning has changed over time, but in some originary sense, it owes its significance to jurisprudence, and the way in which one would conduct a trial along pre-determined lines. This manner of conducting trials led to the idea that a particular style of writing can be deployed incorrectly, in a way inappropriate to the occasion.

The romantic era brought with it a notion of style that Gadamer attributes to Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, whose definition became more widely accepted:

An artist creates a style when he is no longer just engaged in imitation but is also fashioning a style for himself. Although he ties himself to the given phenomenon, this is not a fetter for him. He can still express himself in the process.

Therefore style is a social, collaborative phenomenon, which happens when one draws on a tradition which exerts influence over you, while maintaining one’s own idiom. However, for Gadamer, this instantiates a notion of inherency or essence that recalls the jurisprudence argument, the appropriateness of style, from which we derive its normative, or oppressively standardising vibe.

While accepting that Gadamer is dealing with this in a three-page appendix, I think his argument is slightly thin in this instance, he goes on to say that style refers to something ‘fixed’ and ‘objective’ within works of art. This notion is inscribed by the historically effected consciousness, or the wirkungsgeschichtliches Bewußtsein, which allows us to compartmentalise each epoch along straight lines, rather than doing justice to their complications and ambiguity. Classificatory approaches along the lines of style, Gadamer argues, do us no good.