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She's not
what he says she is. The banished body is not female, necessarily,
but it is feminine. That is, it's amorphous, indirect, impure,
diffuse, multiple, evasive. So is what we learned to call bad
writing. Good writing is direct, effective, clean as a bleached
bone. Bad writing is all flesh, and dirty flesh at that: clogged
with a build-up of clutter and crud, knick-knacks and fripperies
encrusted on every surface, a kind of gluey scum gathering in
the chinks. Hypertext is everything that for centuries has been
damned by its association with the feminine (which has also,
by the way, been damned by its association with it, in a bizarre
mutual proof without any fixed term). It's dispersed, languorous,
flaunting its charms all over the courtyard. Like flaccid beauties
in a harem, you might say, if you wanted to inspire a rigorous
distaste for it. Hypertext then, is what literature has edited
out: the feminine. (That is not to say that only women can produce
it. Women have no more natural gift for the feminine than men
do.)
CONSTELLATION
I'm not
what you think I am. I am a loose aggregate, a sort of old fashioned
cabinet of curiosities, interesting in pieces but much better
as a composite. It's the lines of traffic between the pieces
that are worth attention, but this has been, until now, a shapeless
sort of beauty, a beauty without a body, and therefore with
few lovers. But hypertext provides a body, a vaporous sort of
insufficiently tactile body but a body, for our experience of
the beauty of relationships. It is like an astronomy of constellations
rather than stars. It is old-fashioned, in that sense. It is
a sort of return, to a leisurely old form, the sprawling, quizzical
portmanteau book like the Anatomy of Melancholy ( "a rhapsody
of rags gathered together from several dung-hills, excrements
of authors, toys and fopperies confusedly tumbled out,"
as Burton himself described it) to the sort of broad cross-fertilization
of disciplines that once was commonplace, only hypertext does
not provide so much courtly guidance across the intellectual
terrain, but catapults you from spot to spot. (The wind whistles
in your ears. It aerates the brain. You begin to feel like a
circus performer, describing impeccable parabolas in the air,
vacating every gesture before it can be fixed, wherever anyone
thinks you are is where you've just been, sloughing off afterimages.
You feel pared down, athletic, perfectly efficient.) The athletic
leap across divides has its own aesthetic, and so does the pattern
those leaps form in the air, or, to be more exact, in the mind.
People spend their lives forging such patterns for themselves,
but only the cranks and the encyclopedic generalists with vague
job descriptions, the Bill Moyerses, have the nerve to invite
others to try out their own hobby-horseride through the World
of Ideas. More often these are private pathways, possible to
make out sometimes in a novelist's ouevre (rare butterflies
turn up in Nabokov's fiction enough to make you guess that he
was a lepidopterist, if you didn't know already) as a system
of back alleys heading off from the work at hand, but not for
public transit. Until recently, that is, since the internet
seems to be making possible a gorgeous excess of personal syntactical
or neural maps, like travel brochures for the brain. What results
isn't necessarily worth the trip, but some of it will be: art
forms take shape around our ability to perceive beauty, but
our ability to perceive beauty also takes shape around what
forms become possible. Hypertext is making possible a new kind
of beauty, and creating the senses to perceive it with.
COLLAGE
We don't
say what we mean to say. The sentence is not one, but a cluster
of contrary tendencies. It is a thread of DNA--a staff of staphylococcus--a
germ of contagion and possibility. It may be looped into a snare
or a garotte. It is also, and as readily, a chastening rod,
a crutch, an IDJbracelet. It is available for use. But nobody
can domesticate the sentence completely. Some questionable material
always clings to its members. Diligent readers can glean filth
from a squeaky-clean one. Sentences always say more than they
mean, so writers always write more than they know, even the
laziest of them. Utility pretends to peg words firmly to things,
but it is easy to work them loose. "Sometimes the words
are unfaithful to the things," says Bachelard. Indeed they
are, and as writers, we are the agents of misrule, infidelity,
broken marriages. It was not difficult, for example, to pry
quotes from their sources, and mate them with other quotes in
the "quilt" section of Patchwork Girl, where they
take on a meaning that is not native to the originals. We set
up rendezvous between words never before seen in company, we
provide deliciously private places for them to couple. Like
the body, language is a desiring machine. The possibility of
pollution is its only life. Having invented an infinitely recombinant
language, we can't prevent it from forming improper alliances,
any more than we can seal all our orifices without dying.
In collage,
writing is stripped of the pretense of originality, and appears
as a practise of mediation, of selection and contextualization,
a practise, almost, of reading. In which one can be surprised
by what one has to say, in the forced intercourse between texts
or the recombinant potential in one text, by the other words
that mutter anagrammatically inside the proper names. Writers
court the sideways glances of sentences mostly bent on other
things. They solicit bad behavior, collusion, conspiracies.
Hypertext just makes explicit what everyone does already. After
all, we are all collage artists. You might make up a new word
in your lifetime--I nominate "outdulge": to lavish
fond attention on the world, to generously broadcast care--but
your real work will be in the way you arrange all the stuff
you borrow, the buttons and coins, springs and screws of language,
the frames and machinery of culture. We might think of Lawrence
Sterne, who, when accused of plagiarism, answered the charge
with an argument that was itself a plagiarism.
WE LIKE
TO MAKE STATUES
We are not
who we wish we were.
We like
to make statues of ourselves. The Greeks marched ever more perfect
bodies out of antiquity, slim vertical columns, like a line
of capital I's, a stutter of self-assertion. But works of words
are self-portraits too, substitute bodies we put together, then
look to for encouragement. Boundaries of texts are like boundaries
of bodies, and both stand in for the confusing and invisible
boundary of the self. The wholeness of an artwork helps firm
us up; in its presence we believe a little more in the unity
we uneasily suspect we lack. As a result we have an almost visceral
reaction to disorderly texts. Good writing is clear and orderly;
bad writing inspires the same kind of distaste that bad grooming
does, while experimental novels are not just hard to read, they're
anti-social. Proper novels are duplicate bodies to the idealized
ones we have in our heads, the infamous "thin person struggling
to get out." They're good citizens, polite dinner guests.
Books, of
course, like other bodies, fall apart. Literally, and also in
the invisible body of the text, because language is libidinous,
and the most strait-laced sentence hides a little hanky-panky
under the dust ruffle. But monkey brain doesn't want to think
about that, project can't hear, and so the novel, over the course
of time, has become, despite the most flagrant tendecies toward
polymorphous perversity and transgender play, a very stalwart
announcement of nothing much. A sturdy who cares. One writes,
one produces literature, and as Bataille says, "one day
one dies an idiot." A project without any particular purpose
that I can see, besides the announcement that project exists,
that there is purpose and order, a sort of recitation of what
we already know. The novel has become the golem, the monster
that acts like everyone else, only better, because the narrative
line is wrapped like a leash around its thick neck. I would
like to introduce a different kind of novel, the patchwork girl,
a creature who's entirely content to be the turn of a kaleidoscope,
an exquisite corpse, a field on which copulas copulate, the
chance encounter of an umbrella and a sewing machine on an operating
table. The hypertext.
Hypertext
is the banished body. Its compositional principle is desire.
It gives a loudspeaker to the knee, a hearing trumpet to the
elbow. It has the stopped stories to tell, it mentions unmentionables,
speaks unspeakables; it unspeaks. I don't mean to say it has
different, better opinions than novels can muster up, that it's
plugged with better content. Hypertext won't make a bland sentence
wild or make a dead duck run quacking for the finish line. Fill
a disjunctive structure with pablum and you will only cement
the world's parts more solidly together, clog the works with
glue. It's not opinions I'm interested in, but relationships,
juxtapositions, apparitions and interpolations. Hypertext is
the body languorously extending itself to its own limits, hemmed
in only by its own lack of extent. And like the body, it no
longer has just one story to tell.
CONSTRAINTS
& THE BOOK
It's not
all you think it is.
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