glover7
08-12-2010, 12:52 PM
This clearly isn't a formal essay. I'm just testing myself to see what ideas I can get on paper in ten minutes. Comments or criticisms welcome, as always.
Georges Poulet, in a famous essay on reading, describes for us a text that lives its own life beyond the thoughts of the reader. In his Phenomenology, the test is a conduit of immortality through words and shared consciousness. For Poulet, the text exerts. This exertion is the point of critical importance. After all, many works have dealt, though perhaps to only a mere trifling, with the idea of textual immortality. Any drama film doyenne can relate the immutable control that a legacy has over the masculine mind. It is here, then, at the point of exertion that we must rest our eyes. In this, the resting of the eyes and also of the mind, Poulet’s accuracy is striking.
I have mentioned the resting of the eyes simply as an indication that the writer now may take the initiative of control. The reader may relax, set loose its consciousness and continue to skim the lines. This grants the control. In any writing that intends to engage, there must be that tension. The figurative cord is on one end the reader’s granting of consciousness and on the other is the writer’s exerting control. This cord is a crucial element for a piece of writing. Without such a tension, the cord is left slack, neither end achieving its purpose for the interaction. Yet one must yield to the implicit conclusion: I assume a purpose for writing.
Though unlikely, it is possible that writing assumes no purpose. More specifically, a piece of writing may assume no intention of being read, that it may not intend to pervade the consciousness of the reader. A diary entry, for instance, may hold no intent except as a record or a cathartic exercise. Can one then define the physiognomy of literature by this description? A work is literary if it intends to invade. Ignoring the metaphorically penetrative implications of such a definition, one may say that the spirit of literature is tantamount to the doctrine of manifest destiny. One must conquer all boundaries of the intellect so fully that no resistance can ever emerge.
Of course, I do not posit this as the, or indeed as any, definition of literature. I cannot do what millions of others have failed in doing without resorting to the discursive offerings of success. What I can do is offer an inversion of the invasive relationship. The video game offers an avatar and an amorphous identity; instead of consciousness, it offers embodiment. How does one define even the most popular avatar of all video games? Mario is a plumber with a mustache. Any description beyond that is impossible to establish concretely. Here, then, is our vessel. The act of consciousness no longer belongs to the book and the unattached mind.
Georges Poulet, in a famous essay on reading, describes for us a text that lives its own life beyond the thoughts of the reader. In his Phenomenology, the test is a conduit of immortality through words and shared consciousness. For Poulet, the text exerts. This exertion is the point of critical importance. After all, many works have dealt, though perhaps to only a mere trifling, with the idea of textual immortality. Any drama film doyenne can relate the immutable control that a legacy has over the masculine mind. It is here, then, at the point of exertion that we must rest our eyes. In this, the resting of the eyes and also of the mind, Poulet’s accuracy is striking.
I have mentioned the resting of the eyes simply as an indication that the writer now may take the initiative of control. The reader may relax, set loose its consciousness and continue to skim the lines. This grants the control. In any writing that intends to engage, there must be that tension. The figurative cord is on one end the reader’s granting of consciousness and on the other is the writer’s exerting control. This cord is a crucial element for a piece of writing. Without such a tension, the cord is left slack, neither end achieving its purpose for the interaction. Yet one must yield to the implicit conclusion: I assume a purpose for writing.
Though unlikely, it is possible that writing assumes no purpose. More specifically, a piece of writing may assume no intention of being read, that it may not intend to pervade the consciousness of the reader. A diary entry, for instance, may hold no intent except as a record or a cathartic exercise. Can one then define the physiognomy of literature by this description? A work is literary if it intends to invade. Ignoring the metaphorically penetrative implications of such a definition, one may say that the spirit of literature is tantamount to the doctrine of manifest destiny. One must conquer all boundaries of the intellect so fully that no resistance can ever emerge.
Of course, I do not posit this as the, or indeed as any, definition of literature. I cannot do what millions of others have failed in doing without resorting to the discursive offerings of success. What I can do is offer an inversion of the invasive relationship. The video game offers an avatar and an amorphous identity; instead of consciousness, it offers embodiment. How does one define even the most popular avatar of all video games? Mario is a plumber with a mustache. Any description beyond that is impossible to establish concretely. Here, then, is our vessel. The act of consciousness no longer belongs to the book and the unattached mind.