Authorship and Authenticity in F for Fake

The focus of my response to Orson Welles’ F for Fake (1974) will explore how Welles destabilizes notions of authorship and authenticity in the transitionary period bridging, or perhaps fusing together characteristics of Modernism and Postmodernism; an era which is commonly denoted as Late Modernism. Within my response, I will discuss the illusive construct of appearance and reality, the role of Orson Welles, alongside Roland Barthes’ denouncement of the author and the incarnation of “the modern scriptor”[i], and finally: how the film questions the cultural authenticity of the Modernist era.

Both the content and aesthetic presented by F for Fake displays an incongruence between what is seen and heard, which disrupts the viewer’s judgment of authenticity. Welles introduces himself to the viewer as a self-proclaimed charlatan paradoxically promising to deliver truth. This immediately presents a dilemma in juxtaposing truth and illusion; compromising our natural sensibilities toward authenticity and staging the duplicity of appearances. Another example of how Welles constructs dramatic tension between what is seen and heard is the relationship between Elmyr and Irving. We are informed of their affiliation (Irving is Elmyr’s biographer), but there is no visual evidence to corroborate this knowledge; they are never pictured in the same shot. This predicament of authenticity is escalated upon the detailing of Irving and Elmyr’s capability to create elaborate hoaxes and their inherently deceitful nature. For example, Irving’s fabricated interaction and agreement with Howard Hughes, he also implicates Elmyr as living in a “world of make believe” with “60 names, 60 personalities”. These examples of fakers implicating other fakers or confessing to their own acts of fraud culminate to question: to what extent can the viewer accept the information relayed (and the film itself) as genuinely authentic?. Another illusive construct Welles utilizes in baffling the viewer’s sense of authenticity is the films aesthetic. The mode in which historical documents are positioned against the ‘constuctedness’ and artificiality of elements such as the soundtrack, the highly evolved editing and the constant flux in representing ‘the ultimate manipulator’ (from Elmyr, to Irving, to Welles) makes it difficult to determine the central subject matter, let alone filter out the real from the fake.

In further examining how the film is constructed, Welles issues the impression that the film is being assembled and viewed concurrently; we continually witness him in the editorial chamber sifting through various materials, sourced from footage, newspaper articles, photos etc. In exposing this tangibility of the artistic process, it becomes apparent that Welles’ role resides not in the authoring, but the ‘stitching together’ of these archival fragments. An insight which resonates particularly strongly with this methodology is Roland Barthes’ notion of : “...the modern scriptor (as) born simultaneously with the text, (and) in no way equipped with being, preceding or exceeding the writing... there is no other time than that of the enunciation, and every text is eternally written here and now.”[ii] Thereby, if we are to conceive Welles as the “modern scriptor” speaking as the film is produced, Welles has no claim to authenticity or authorship. As a character within his own film, he develops (“is born”) with the text. This overturns both the omniscience and narrative control sought by the typified early modernist author. Furthermore, the notion of there being “no other time than that of the enunciation” is exemplified by the timeless, placeless quality which characterizes Welles’ compilation of the material. Potentially recorded decades apart, the chaotic ordering of the information renders Welles as the viewer’s only historical reference point. In plotting this simultaneous evolution of the “modern scriptor” and the text in terms of Late Modernism, Ihab Hassan’s dichotomy between the Modernist “Art Object/ Finished Work” and the Postmodern notion of “Process/Performance/Happening”[iii] may reflect how F for Fake can placed in the transitionary phase of Late Modernism.

In accordance with the afore mentioned enigma of appearance and reality, it is valid to assume that unlike earlier Modernist texts F for Fake is not concerned with capturing authenticity. Alternatively, the film is inclined toward revealing the transparency of authenticity, as Whitworth expounds: “Sifting appearances rather than plumbing depths”[iv]. Instead of denouncing frauds, the film seems to explore the tyrannical and incompetent regime of the Art dealers and Museum curators who are unable to detect fakery. This raises the idea of the innate fallibility of the institution in deriving an official standard of what is authentic, a perspective verbalized by Elmyr: “(it) should not exist, one single person who makes a decision about what’s good or what’s bad”. In successfully exhibiting his imitations of modernist masterpieces, Elmyr overturns the validity of expertise, ultimately questioning the value of the artworks he mimics and exposing the commodification of modernism, (which ironically provides his livelihood). This notion of the commercialization of the intellectual Modern genius and its susceptibility to corruption destabilizes the aura surrounding Modernism as an era of cultural flourish and authenticity. In determining its value, Welles sums up the ultimate mortality of art, stating: “everything must wear away into the ultimate and universal ash, the triumphs and the frauds, the treasures and the fakes” concluding that “maybe a man’s name doesn’t matter”, which diminishes the elitism of the artist’s signature and concedes that the value of everything is destined to erode: the masterpieces amid the fakes.

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[i] Barthes, Roland, “The Death of the Author” in Image, Music, Text, translated by Stephen Heath, published by Hill & Wang. (1977)

[ii] Ibid

[iii](pg.274) Whitworth, Michael H., “Late Modernism” in Modernism, published by Blackwell Publishing Ltd. (2007)

[iv] (pg.279) Ibid

Late Modernists at Cross Purposes in F is for Fake

Chartres Monologue from F is for Fake

In the wake of the modernist period, artists find this question particularly troubling. Modern artworks sprung from a rejection of all that had come before, but by the time the late modernists were writing (and painting, etc), the revolution was over and there was no institution left to fight against. Late modernists found themselves in the awkward position of trying to emulate the tradition of modernism where the whole philosophy was based on rebelling against tradition. If this fighting against the status quo is the philosophical centre of the work, how do you continue with integrity when the status quo is something you wholly agree with and admire?

Were late modernists betraying their artistic philosophy by creating beautiful works of art that nevertheless did not break from convention and reach new aesthetic heights? Could the modernist spirit survive when it was no longer avant-garde - was there anything else to modernism upon which artists could place their trust? Welles, in the true post-modern spirit, is asking the artistic community to accept their position as emulators of a once-avant-garde style, as frauds. That it does not matter if you are the first or the last to think like a modernist - if your work is genuine to the human condition, if it speaks in the same way as those art works you admire, then your art has value. Picasso’s paintings are artistically genius whether they are painted by Picasso himself, by de Hory, or simply captured via photograph. People can still see the beauty of his collage, the disruption of his line, and be affected by it. The preoccupation with the creator of the artwork is simply a capitalist construction, a way of affirming financial value (and often, social value).

This monologue, set against scenes of the medieval cathedral of Chartres, spinning out to us through Orson Welles’ ponderously precise rumble, sets the medieval period up in relation to the hay-day of high modernism. Both are renaissance periods of tremendous artistic growth and production. The artists from both periods had purpose and dynamism, and the left their mark on the world. From this stance we view the period after modernism in a grim light: “All that’s left most artists seem to feel these days is man. Naked. Poor. Forked, reddish. There aren’t any celebrations. Ours, the scientists keep telling us, is a universe which is disposable.” But by the end of the monologue, he concludes, as I have said, by musing, “maybe a man’s name doesn’t matter all that much.” The human spirit will remember and revive that art which is best by simply virtue of desire, and long after the ownership of a painting has been long forgotten, the painting will still be there fresh and new. The art will live on without the artist, and that should be the aim of the artist, not personal fame or wealth.

And yet, Welles’ presence in the film belies his anxiety. As an aging artist himself, as a parody in many ways of his former self (certainly in the eyes of the critics if not himself), Welles has inserted himself directly into his movie, making himself the narrator, a character and the creator all at once. It is almost as if he cannot bear to go through his artistic life and find at the end of it that he was not there at all, that his presence will never matter a whit after he himself is too dead to collect royalties. As he waxes poetical on the “anonymous glory” of Chartres, he can’t help but blazon himself across his film, physically winding his face and his voice and his speech in among the long strips of his film. But I think it’s precisely this double-talk, these cross purposes, that characterise late modernism and is a large part of what makes it so charming, so complex. Welles knows that he should rise above his petty desire to be remembered as a success and as a classic. He knows that to remain true to what he believes in he should be able to shrug off the pressure of notoriety and longevity to create what he believes must be created. But he just can’t help himself! And in the process, he adds yet another narrative of treasures and fakes to this film, yet another subtextual plotline scuttling between the edges of the cuts and edits. He turns himself into just another character at the butt end of a joke as he wrestles with his doubts publically, in the face of the neutral eye of the camera, left open and waiting for us to judge for ourselves.

Language in Waiting for Godot

The use of language in Beckett’s Waiting for Godot is essential to understanding the play’s relation to Late Modernism. Attridge’s lecture considered how High Modernists recognised that language had ‘worn thin’ (Conrad) and thus endeavoured to reinvigorate literature by ‘dislocating language into its meaning’ (Elliot). Attridge proposed that Late Modernist Beckett however, having emerged after the literary movement’s peak, was afforded the retrospect to distinguish that such High Modernist innovation was obsolete. Attridge illustrated how Beckett exposed the limitations of language yet also represented language as offering consolation.

I would like to propose an alternative approach, drawn from Richard Begam’s article “How to Do Nothing with Words, or Waiting for Godot as Performativity” (Modern Drama v.50, no. 2, Summer (2007)). Begam’s analysis fostered my understanding of Beckett’s play as a testimony to language’s power, starkly contrasting Attridge. However, like Attridge, Begam’s article supports Beckett as a ‘Late’ artist who no longer sought to ‘save’ traditional forms of literature. Rather, he refreshed language through theatre, which allowed Beckett to portray language as essentially performative.

In celebrating language’s powerfulness through performativity, Beckett responds to JL Austin’s language philosophy. Austin distinguishes between constatives, descriptive statements that are either true or false and performatives, where the uttering of the sentence is the doing of the action (Begam). Beckett asserts the power of language by portraying how constatives ultimately support performatives. This is illustrated by the staging of Estragon removing his boot and the accompanying dialogue “nothing to be done”. Estragon’s statement could be considered as a constative expressing his frustration at being unable to remove his boot. However, the play’s broader context of existential angst encourages us to interpret this statement as a metaphor for the plight of the human condition. Thus it no longer functions descriptively, but rather represents an assertion about humanity, the force of which makes it a performative.

Beckett reinforces the power of language by disputing an element of Austin theory. Austin believed that performatives in plays lost their force due to the artificiality of actors merely following stage directions rather than orders (Begam). Beckett subverts this notion, showing that performative language surpasses this boundary, conveyed through alternative interpretations of the scene discussed above. “Nothing to be done” can be understood as reflecting Austin’s theory that performatives are redundant on stage. Estragon is an actor who recognises that whilst he can speak, his words do not make anything happen due to their contrived origins. However, by acting self-consciously, Estragon is distanced from his character and stage presence, thus paradoxically re-empowering the words. The statement is a constative describing his linguistic shortcomings as an actor on stage, however through its utterance, he represents an offstage actor or critic evaluating theatre. Thus his words actually do do something: they effect his temporary release from being an actor and are therefore performative.

Furthermore, “nothing to be done” functions as a self-reflexive performative. Rather than reflecting an inability to enact action, Estragon recognises his duty to enact inaction (Begam). Nothingness becomes something tangible, something to be performed. Thus through considering language as innately performative, Beckett shows language’s power in that utterances are always doing something with words, even if that something is nothing.

Beckett makes us aware that we are watching a series of performatives. Begam relates this to Late Modernism by exploring Beckett’s approach to the separation between art and life and measuring this against the High Modernists. However, I want to explore how language as performative relates to the post-war context of Late Modernism.

Whilst it is difficult to define Late Modernism within a specific period, Michael Whitworth (chapter 8 “Late Modernism”, ed., Modernism (2007)) notes WW2 and its aftermath as significant influences. Having been first performed in English in 1955, Waiting for Godot fits within this period. Post-war culture in Europe was pervaded by loss socially, culturally and materially. Beckett’s performative language evokes the alienation, disillusionment and sense of the discontinuity of human experience that resulted. By highlighting the fact that we are watching a performance, we are conscious that the protagonists are merely characters providing entertainment. We therefore feel cheated of the real thing, whereby performing seems a poor substitute of being alive in a more thorough way. Furthermore, Beckett reflects post-war obsession with the search for meaning, as the conspicuous performativity of his play paradoxically suggests that there may be a real kind of living somewhere just beyond our reach. As Estragon and Vladimir wait for Godot who never turns up, we wait and endure a rehearsal for something greater that never eventuates.

Finally, I would like to consider this Late Modernist text’s impact in contemporary society. Attridge examined Beckett as exposing language’s limits whilst Begam allowed me to appreciate Beckett as celebrating language’s power through performativity. However, these contrasting responses ultimately produce the same effect for today’s audience, in that they make us hyperaware of language and communication. Thus perhaps the real purpose of the Late Modernists - who sat on the cusp of modernism’s dedication to saving language and postmodernism’s ambiguity – was to encourage us to be vigilant in making language useful, a caution which seems highly appropriate in today’s culture of ‘meaningless noise’ (Baudrillard).

Rosie Meyerowitz

Language in Waiting for Godot

The use of language in Beckett’s Waiting for Godot is essential to understanding the play’s relation to Late Modernism. Attridge’s lecture considered how High Modernists recognised that language had ‘worn thin’ (Conrad) and thus endeavoured to reinvigorate literature by ‘dislocating language into its meaning’ (Elliot). Attridge proposed that Late Modernist Beckett however, having emerged after the literary movement’s peak, was afforded the retrospect to distinguish that such High Modernist innovation was obsolete. Attridge illustrated how Beckett exposed the limitations of language yet also represented language as offering consolation.

I would like to propose an alternative approach, drawn from Richard Begam’s article “How to Do Nothing with Words, or Waiting for Godot as Performativity” (Modern Drama v.50, no. 2, Summer (2007)). Begam’s analysis fostered my understanding of Beckett’s play as a testimony to language’s power, starkly contrasting Attridge. However, like Attridge, Begam’s article supports Beckett as a ‘Late’ artist who no longer sought to ‘save’ traditional forms of literature. Rather, he refreshed language through theatre, which allowed Beckett to portray language as essentially performative.

In celebrating language’s powerfulness through performativity, Beckett responds to JL Austin’s language philosophy. Austin distinguishes between constatives, descriptive statements that are either true or false and performatives, where the uttering of the sentence is the doing of the action (Begam). Beckett asserts the power of language by portraying how constatives ultimately support performatives. This is illustrated by the staging of Estragon removing his boot and the accompanying dialogue “nothing to be done”. Estragon’s statement could be considered as a constative expressing his frustration at being unable to remove his boot. However, the play’s broader context of existential angst encourages us to interpret this statement as a metaphor for the plight of the human condition. Thus it no longer functions descriptively, but rather represents an assertion about humanity, the force of which makes it a performative.

Beckett reinforces the power of language by disputing an element of Austin theory. Austin believed that performatives in plays lost their force due to the artificiality of actors merely following stage directions rather than orders (Begam). Beckett subverts this notion, showing that performative language surpasses this boundary, conveyed through alternative interpretations of the scene discussed above. “Nothing to be done” can be understood as reflecting Austin’s theory that performatives are redundant on stage. Estragon is an actor who recognises that whilst he can speak, his words do not make anything happen due to their contrived origins. However, by acting self-consciously, Estragon is distanced from his character and stage presence, thus paradoxically re-empowering the words. The statement is a constative describing his linguistic shortcomings as an actor on stage, however through its utterance, he represents an offstage actor or critic evaluating theatre. Thus his words actually do do something: they effect his temporary release from being an actor and are therefore performative.

Furthermore, “nothing to be done” functions as a self-reflexive performative. Rather than reflecting an inability to enact action, Estragon recognises his duty to enact inaction (Begam). Nothingness becomes something tangible, something to be performed. Thus through considering language as innately performative, Beckett shows language’s power in that utterances are always doing something with words, even if that something is nothing.

Beckett makes us aware that we are watching a series of performatives. Begam relates this to Late Modernism by exploring Beckett’s approach to the separation between art and life and measuring this against the High Modernists. However, I want to explore how language as performative relates to the post-war context of Late Modernism.

Whilst it is difficult to define Late Modernism within a specific period, Michael Whitworth (chapter 8 “Late Modernism”, ed., Modernism (2007)) notes WW2 and its aftermath as significant influences. Having been first performed in English in 1955, Waiting for Godot fits within this period. Post-war culture in Europe was pervaded by loss socially, culturally and materially. Beckett’s performative language evokes the alienation, disillusionment and sense of the discontinuity of human experience that resulted. By highlighting the fact that we are watching a performance, we are conscious that the protagonists are merely characters providing entertainment. We therefore feel cheated of the real thing, whereby performing seems a poor substitute of being alive in a more thorough way. Furthermore, Beckett reflects post-war obsession with the search for meaning, as the conspicuous performativity of his play paradoxically suggests that there may be a real kind of living somewhere just beyond our reach. As Estragon and Vladimir wait for Godot who never turns up, we wait and endure a rehearsal for something greater that never eventuates.

Finally, I would like to consider this Late Modernist text’s impact in contemporary society. Attridge examined Beckett as exposing language’s limits whilst Begam allowed me to appreciate Beckett as celebrating language’s power through performativity. However, these contrasting responses ultimately produce the same effect for today’s audience, in that they make us hyperaware of language and communication. Thus perhaps the real purpose of the Late Modernists - who sat on the cusp of modernism’s dedication to saving language and postmodernism’s ambiguity – was to encourage us to be vigilant in making language useful, a caution which seems highly appropriate in today’s culture of ‘meaningless noise’ (Baudrillard).

Rosie Meyerowitz

Godot and the Hero's Journey

Those who dislike Beckett's play Waiting for Godot, often cite its confrontational lack of action. Indeed the play throughly flouts the narrative technique, "Checkov's gun" which states allegorically, "if a gun appears in the first act, it must go off by the third." Beckett not only fails to fire his "gun," but fails to provide a third act in which to do so. In Waiting for Godot the gun, of course, is Godot and it's firing is his arrival. However, in this inaction, we can read a potent and exact inversion of Joseph Campbell's construction of the universal myth, which he terms "momomyth."

In conceiving his monomyth, Campbell sought to refine the foundational mythologies of different societies and cultures to their most potent and basic extracts. He believed this structure would approach a universality capable of transcending language, heritage, location, time, and creed. Today the momomyth is commonly referred to as "the hero's journey," and is frequently held up as a sort of prescriptive for a successful and satisfying plot. The hero's journey follows a protagonist who is drawn from his or her home by some problem or change, encounters various friends and foes on his or her journey to confront the source of this instability, and finally returns home after battling and overcoming this inciting force.

In Beckett's play, however, the protagonists are driven to stay, not to act. Fate too seems complicit in Estragon and Vladimir's inaction; their failing memories and lack of requisite equipment hamper their attempts at dramatic action. Perhaps the best example of this fateful stillness is their inability to hang themselves because they repeatedly forget to bring rope when they wait by the tree. It seems problematic calling Estragon and Vladimir protagonists, as the word protagonist comes from the "Greek prōtagōnistēs, from prōt- prot- + agōnistēs competitor at games, actor, from agōnizesthai to compete, from agōn contest, competition at games" (Merriam-Webster). While Estragon and Vladiplay do play a sort of verbal game, it would be difficult to argue that they are "competitors" as this game has no goal, no prize, and no winner; rather it seems they are simply engaging in folly to pass the time.

If Vladimir and Estragon, clearly the main characters, are not protagonists, who is? Perhaps this question can be answered by exploring what Vladimir and Estragon are instead. As Vladimir and Estragon's defining characteristics are stagnancy and suspension, it seems clear where the pair should fit in Campbell's monomyth. They belong in the hero's abandoned homeland; waiting for his or her triumphant return. Notably the only active power of these abandoned characters is to elect the savior before his or her departure. Holding this assumption, it is clear that Godot is in fact more than an unfulfilled macguffin; he is the protagonist of the unseen narrative of the play. Godot has been "elected" by the inhabitants of his ordinary world, as Vladimir and Estragon have chosen to wait for him. Beckett, however, stays in this home world, ignoring the hero and his journey.

This inversion of the monomyth cements Beckett's position in the oeuvre of late modernism. We can compare his struggle for meaning in tired narrative structure with Stevens' struggle for meaning in tired metaphor. The monomyth has indeed been heavily exerted; Campbell traces its influence very nearly to the beginnings of human language. Beckett's innovation is not spontaneous novelty, it is rather very exactly relative to his predecessors. His vacancy is initially jarring, but it is also stubbornly familiar, a negative impression of the comfortable monomyth. Beckett — again similarly to Stevens — looks forward to a rebirth of tired style. When Estragon asks Vladimir what they are waiting for Gidot to deliver, he answers his own question, "ESTRAGON: A kind of prayer. VLADIMIR: Precisely. ESTRAGON: A vague supplication" (Beckett 10). The hero is to return with new words, a new story to tell.

Lateness is a latent part if this process. On the surface it appears Godot is late, but on a less superficial level, it is implied that Vladimir and Estragon are the tardy ones, unprepared for the return of their hero. Beckett claims he derived the name Godot from the slang French word for boots, "godillot." As Estragon's ill-fitting boots have been replaced with larger ones between the first and second acts, there seems to be some implication that Godot has come unnoticed while the curtain was lowered. The old world is waiting for innovation, but is not ready for it.

Waiting for Godot

What was Samuel Beckett thinking!?

Godot. Who is Godot? What mysterious personality is hidden behind this unordinary name? Surely this is not a common name and surely, it provokes questions about its symbolism and thoughts about religion and the Saviour. One explanation about the name might be its close resemblance to the French word "godillot", after all the play is originally in French and was first showed in Paris in 1953. Such an explanation is possible, since the play starts with one of the two characters trying to take off exactly his boot: "Estragon, sitting on a low mound, is trying to take off his boot". The two characters' phatic conversations for a while revolve around the boot and its emptiness. Act 2, also starts with Estragon's boots: "Estragon's boots front centre, heels together, toes splayed". Nothing more, however, happens to or with the boots, so what is their significance in the play? How do they come to be of use to the author or to the two characters for that matter?

The second theory might be able to decipher a little more of Beckett's conveyed message. One of the first images that comes to the reader's mind, after hearing the name "Godot", is that of God. Furthermore, there are many religious references throughout the whole play, relating to the Bible or the Saviour. Vladimir asks Estragon, "Did you ever read the Bible?", and continues to tell him part of the story of the crucifixion: "Two thieves, crucified at the same time as our Saviour". He even shows knowledge of the four Evangelists, "how is it that of the four Evangelists only one speaks of a thief being saved", and minutes later adds his doubt to the story: "Why believe him rather than the others?"

And why do they believe Godot and wait for him every day if he never shows up. The pseudocouple waits for some sort of a solution to their needs and problems, although they have no clue what it is, or what they want. Vladimir is determined, "Let's wait till we know exactly how we stand. [...] I'm curious to hear what he has to offer. Then we'll take it or leave it." Estragon immediately destroys the firmness of "Didi", by countering him, "What exactly did we ask him for?" The whole development of the plot and the absurdity of the situation reminds me of a traditional Bulgarian tale that children in Bulgaria still read. It tells the story of two brothers sent by their father to conduct some business on his behalf. Before they leave with his horses and carriage, the father gives them a piece of wisdom. He tells them that if they come across any problem on their way, they should call Woe and she will help them. The two brothers then set out, and of course, as in any other children's story, they quickly hit problems. Midway, somewhere in the woods, their carriage breaks down and they do not know how to fix it in order to continue. With their dad's advice in mind, they start yelling "Woe!" as loud as they can, hoping that she will come and help them with the carriage. Couple of hours later and after much fruitless shouting, the two brothers decide that Woe is perhaps too busy and won't show up to aid them. The sun starts to set and they decide that it is time to fix the carriage before it gets completely dark. And thus, even without the required knowledge, they manage to fix the carriage out of necessity. The moral teaches us that when we are faced with a problem, we are far better capable of learning how to fix it rather than when just theoretically learning about it. However, what is the moral that Samuel Beckett is implying in "Waiting for Godot"? What do the two characters learn while waiting for their Saviour to come and help them, and what do we, the viewers, learn from them and their interaction with one another?

Could it be possible that Beckett did all this in purpose? Coming up with such a peculiar name so that people can connect it to the boots in the play, and God, and even Honore de Balzac's Godeau, who also does not show up in his play "Mercadet", inserting all the comments about religion, comparing critics to an insult... all this to confuse the viewer. He achieved the desired effect of people analysing every single word of his play, and mocked them and their insights on the "probable" symbols and themes and motifs in the play, without actually including any such inside. Perhaps Beckett's opinion about his readers is stated clearly through the words of Estragon: "People are bloody ignorant apes". The only thing critics and readers can actually find when looking into the image of the boot, is the same thing Estragon found in the boot: "Nothing [...]There's nothing to show." Perhaps the moral of the play is that we shouldn't overanalyse "Waiting for Godot". Perhaps, we should "air it for a bit."

I apologize for the lack of page numbers after the quotations, but I have been using an online copy of the text, where it is all on one page.

http://www.samuel-beckett.net/Waiting_for_Godot_Part1.html

Wallace Stevens and the definition of a late-modernist.

Depending on one’s definition, the artistic and literary period known as modernism ended with the Second World War. Such a definition, however, does not account for the striking style of American poet Wallace Stevens, hence the usefulness of the moniker “late modernism”. A precise time frame for late modernism is hard to pin down. By its nature, the modernist movement was rule defying, thus allowing for a fuzzy understanding of start and end dates. It is clear that the poetry of Wallace Stevens falls clearly into the modernist collective, though is more precisely defined as late modernism for a few key reasons. First, the bulk of Stevens’ work was published decades after the early modernists began production, with key volumes such as The Rock (1954) and Late Poems (1955) being published not long before Stevens’ death in 1955 (at age 75). [By comparison, consider Freud published ‘The Interpretation of Dreams’ in 1899, Eliot’s The Waste Land first published 1922, Ballet mécanique first screened in 1924.] Second, Stevens was still attempting to resolve modernist issues such as defiance of the social conventions, and a rejection of mimesis, however he was doing so as much in response to earlier modernists as he was forging new ground himself. Third, Stevens was largely writing toward the end of his life and career, and as such his work mostly tended to embody evidence of a “late style” (a term coined by Theodor Adorno in his study of Beethoven), such as a deeper contemplation of the natural world, and the purpose of existence.

Stevens’ style is well described as abstract and elliptical. This style is exemplified in his poem ‘Note on Moonlight’, published in the collection of The Rock. The poems in this volume are mostly of a contemplative style, typically revelling in Stevens’ love of the natural world. In this particular poem, Stevens uses a contemplation of the moon and its light to trigger an examination of the nature of his existence and the possibility of alternate worlds and realities. At once this poem is different from earlier poets writing on nature as a metaphor for the human condition, such as William Wordsworth in ‘Lines Written in Early Spring’ or Percy Bysshe Shelly in ‘Ode to the West Wind’, and as such, Stevens identifies himself as a modernist poet. In each of these earlier poems (both typical of the Romantic period), observations of nature and a description of the scene being considered takes precedence over conclusions one might draw from the scene as to the purpose of existence and the state of the world. They are markedly different from Stevens stylistically as well, as both have easily identifiable rhyming and metrical patterns. Stevens, however, writes without attention to rhyme or metre, instead focusing on extensive tropological language, namely extended metaphor and simile. One sees this from the first stanza, where he begins speaking of “the one moonlight” illuminating the ordinariness and impersonal nature of the world, or, “the mere objectiveness of things.” In the middle of this statement he also includes a simile comparing the moonlight with a poet disenchanted with the “sameness of his various universe”.

Putting aside style for a moment, the content of this verse is markedly different from its Romantic forebears, and notably modern in its tone and approach. Stevens’ poem recalls the writings of T. S. Eliot, these first four lines for example akin to sections of ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock’ (1917), and there are many more such comparisons to be had. Not only here is Stevens forging his own conclusions with regard to the meaning of life, he is doing so through a study of nature, whilst rejecting mimesis and the previous century’s conventions, and instead recalling earlier modernists at the same time.

Back to style, in ‘Note on Moonlight’, Stevens also manipulates diction and punctuation to great effect. Rather than the metrical and rhyming regularity of aforementioned Romantic examples, Stevens’ lines are weighed down by multi-syllabic words, frequent caesura (i.e. line breaks, for example through use of a comma) and end-stop lines, alliteration and assonance. For example, many of these are seen in the seventh line of the poem, “Of what one sees, the purpose that comes first,”. Here, alliteration is rife as like sounds are repeated in the first half of the line in “what” and “one”, and an “s” sound is repeated in the second half of the line in “purpose”, “comes” and “first”. The line is also broken up through use of a comma. The effect of all this is to dramatically slow the pace of the verse, achieving a more contemplative air, and to heighten the gravity of Stevens’ reflections on the universe and its meaning. Whilst such stylistic techniques are not new, and some were seen together in much earlier poetry, for example Milton’s epic Paradise Lost, the use of them all, together with the weight of his content, rejection of poetic convention and recollection of earlier modernists, mark Stevens as without question a modernist poet. One is then prompted to ask, though: is he best classified as a late-modernist poet, or an early post-modernist poet?

Imagination versus Reality

One of the most consistent ideas found within Stevens’ pieces is that of the imagined versus the real and similarly the conscious versus the unconscious. When looking at his pieces as a whole it becomes easy for the reader to stream these ideas throughout the majority of them, where Stevens opinions on their relationship becomes undoubtedly clear. Despite the fact the he feels that reality cannot exist without imagination and vice versa, he does not see them as co existing together; the imagination can never fully exist in reality, as reality is actually a product of the imagination. These two components are so utterly significant to poetry, as it is essential for the reader to experience both within a piece in order to fully grasp, comprehend, and feel what the poem is truly saying. Reality is always something relatable to the reader that can connect them to the plotline or the narrators voice on an accessible level, whereas the imagination allows the reader to leave this ‘certain’ area and give a deeper meaning to something as it is carried past the factual information and into the imagined. Stevens is highly successful in intertwining the two of these elements within each of his pieces, and especially with those found in one of his later collections, “The Rock”. Practically every poem in this book harps on some aspect of nature, which is one of the most accessible subject areas to write about as nature is the simplest element of the world and is experienced by everyone. However, amidst his realistic and detailed observations of the beautiful world around him, Stevens’ ability to transform this concrete observation into something so much deeper, inquisitive, and based off of the imagination is extremely expert. While this can be found in practically all of Stevens’ poems, two of the strongest examples are his poems “Final Soliloquy of the Interior Paramour” and “The Rock”. Beginning “Final Soliloquy of the Interior Paramour” with what initially appears to be a concrete and reality-based experience in which someone “light[s] the first light of evening, as in a room In which we rest” (course reader 36), Stevens swiftly transforms reality into an experience more mystical “and, for small reason, think The world imagined is the ultimate good” (course reader 36). Stevens then goes on to refer to this influence of imagination as “a single shawl Wrapped tightly round us, since we are poor, a warmth, A light, a power, the miraculous influence” (course reader 36), which takes the characters within the poem as well as the reader to an entirely new illusory level which ignites their thoughts and brings a normally tangible experience to a fantastical journey. Stevens highly successful transformation of the real to the imagined can similarly be found within “The Rock”, where immediately he opens up by stating how “It is an illusion that we were ever alive, Lived in the houses of mother, arranged ourselves By our own motions in a freedom of air” (course reader 36). By questioning the entire existence of humankind Stevens also questions how much of a construct reality actually is from our imagination, as if reality is individually and specifically created from each person’s imagination, then how is it possible to determine whether we are living in reality, in the imagined, or in both? Stevens further this argument later on in the poem, where he determines that “The words spoken Were not and are not. It is not to be believed. The meeting at noon at the edge of the field seems like An invention, an embrace between one desperate clod And another in a fantastic consciousness, In a queer assertion of humanity” (course reader 36). In this excerpt, Stevens makes it appear as though these concrete events that have occurred in reality are only a construct of our imagination, as they are “not to be believed” and only derive from human’s individual thoughts. The line that Stevens draws between reality and the imagined can be found within practically all of his pieces, where he questions which state humans actually live in, posing concrete images juxtaposed with an imagined sense of reality which skews the reader from truly grasping what is constructed and what is not. Stevens clearly had an affixation with the human mind and the ability to intermix reality and the imagination, and his success in relaying this through his poems, which in turn juxtaposed these two ideas themselves, truly blends this line of the concrete and the imagined.

Conan's post on Gentlemen Prefer Blondes

“And it seemed the Revolver had shot Mr Jennings.”

Not telling the whole story in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.

  Anita Loos’s 1925 book Gentlemen Prefer Blondes brings us the journal of the novels leading character and narrator, Lorelei Lee. Loos paints Lee as a somewhat naïve young woman who has what comes across as a streak of unwarranted arrogance. The novel takes the form of Lorelei’s diary, in which Lorelei writes down the events of the day, in an often stream of thought like manner. In it she discusses her day to day affairs and her relationships with various, wealthy, male suitors. However, Lorelei’s narration is not completely trustworthy.

 On the very first page of her diary Lorelei tells us that she is writing the diary at the suggestion of Mr Eisman, one of Lorelei’s gentlemen friends. It is therefore possible that the reason for Lorelei’s seemingly deliberate vagueness in her diary is to mask the whole truth, should Mr Eismen, or anyone else for that matter, read it. So instead of the blunt, tell all honesty that we might associate with the diaries of our older sisters, we get a diary with gaping holes, ambiguity and innuendo.

 Perhaps the best example of this vagueness is in chapter four of the novel. In this chapter we see Lorelei, after tossing aside another man in Gerry, board a ship to Europe with her friend Dorothy, at the request of a presumably jealous and protective Mr Eismen. Once aboard the ship Lorelei recounts a traumatic moment from her past in which she murdered a man in Little Rock, Arkansas. This, however, is not how she tells it. Instead we see Lorelei’s unreliability as a narrator come to the fore when she says:

“So when I found out that girls like that paid calls on Mr. Jennings I had quite a bad case of histerics and my mind was really a blank and when I came out of it, it seems that I had a revolver in my hand and it seems that the revolver had shot Mr. Jennings” (pg 25)

This passage highlights Lorelei’s unreliability. Whether this omission of the facts of the incident, or her guilt in the matter, is due to her want to conceal the truth or her brain concealing the truth from her is not altogether clear. It is however clear that Lorelei’s recount of the matter is not to be trusted.

 However, Lorelei’s omission of facts in her recount of the shooting is not the only reason to mistrust Ms. Lee. Her recounts of the time spent with the men of the book always seem to be lacking some sort of plausibility. On page 4 of the novel Lorelei discusses her evenings with Mr Eismen, suggesting that he often stays long into the night leaving her quite fatigued the next morning. She tells us that the even was spent talking about the topics of the day. The manner in which she recounts these long bouts of talking gives you quite a different impression than she does when she says :

“I mean Gerry likes to talk quite a lot and I always think a lot of talk is quite depressing..” (pg 16)

For me at least, there is an unescapable feeling that the talking she has done with Mr. Eismen is quite different to the talking that depresses her with Gerry. This sense of ambiguous sexual innuendo is prevalent throughout her diary with another example being in her recount of that dark time in Little Rock, when she refers to Mr. Jenning’s female friend as being a woman who is known for “…not being nice.” It is also not convincing that Lorelei’s “brains” are the object of male interest in the novel and that perhaps Mr Eismen is more interested in “educating” her “brains” then he is in educating her brain.

 It is not at all farfetched to assume that Lorelei is substituting the details of her sex life with innuendo, as we see Lorelei seeks to sensor others in her life also. On page 22, after we read a recount of something Dorothy had said, Lorelei admits that she always has to tell her friend not to use slang. We had also previously seen that it was deemed unsuitable for our young Lorelei to be listening to “riskay” jokes. So it seems that in the highly censored times of the 1920’s we are seeing Ms. Lee censoring herself.

 When one takes all this into account the picture of just how untrustworthy Lorelei is as a narrator starts to complete itself. More than just her lack of grammar, punctuation and her spelling mistakes, Lorelei seems to deliberately try to mislead her intended audience, whether that is us, another man, or herself. It is thus clear that Anita Loos’s Lorelei Lee is a very good example of the unreliable narrator.

Conan McGlone.