Bombastic Textuality
I‘ve been mulling over a theory today. It is about writers, writers and their near universal priggishness. This literary priggery quite often may translate into bombastic textual arrogance. Naturally this bombastacism is subtle–if it were outright it wouldn’t be priggish; and that, when it comes down to it, is the entire point.
It is hard to write well. And when people feel like they have succeeded admirably in that difficult task it is usually in part because their completed text is overflowing with strong tones and overbearing adjectives; perhaps fanciful metaphors and elaborate alliteration to boot. Writing, it seems, becomes an epic contest, where the author’s word must overpower or undermine anything in its way. Meaning, as most writers seem to try and communicate it, apparently must be cold forged. That is, it must be beaten out of the sea of philistinism that never ceases its ignorant storms upon the solid ground of authorial authority.
Perhaps that is because so much writing is bent on persuasion. There are all manner of ways of literary persuasion: haughty comedy, preening gentility, absolute confidence, and false self-deprecation, to name a few (almost all authorial self-deprecation is designed to make the reader feel awful about himself and his intellect–”dear Lord, they think this about themselves? What would they think of me?”). Really, literary theory itself may be defined as a series of self-constructed edifices that gain power by their ability to persuade. Literature has perhaps the greatest capacity for describing things as they are, but because how things actually are is impossible to fully define the successful persuasion of others to a viewpoint of how things are becomes the preeminent textual competition. Those who are right gain their rightness from you–if you believe them. And how will you believe them if they don’t believe themselves?
Good writing, it seems, is like good lawyering–it uses the available systems in any way possible to gain power. It forges its meaning with seemingly indelible ink while it also claims to have washed out the dastardly and false stains of any meaning that opposes it.
All too often good writers are sophist bastards. And this post proves it.
I think that, for some, good writing is less a pile of sophistry and more an individual’s attempt to explain the world around him (or her). good writer’s recognize their limited viewpoint of reality. Some try to overcompensate with grandiosity; others joke in a deprecating manner, regardless of their humility or lack thereof; and others still accept the limitation and put forth the best combination of words they can, hoping the reader will understand that their words are not the definition of truth but a skewed snapshot of reality at a particular moment in time. Many good writers look back on these snapshots with the aid of hindshigt and will likely disagree with themselves more fervently than you or I or anyone else could possibly hope. Good writers aren’t all sophists, and if you think that way, perhaps you should pick up some new authors.
But then, you already knew that didn’t you? Subtle irony, after all, is your forte.
Tim,
Your post inspired this post at my place, which I put there rather than clutter up comments here. Thanks for offering up some thoughts on something I’ve wondered about as well.
Hi. Popped in from John’s post. Allow me, a true sophist (I have business cards that say so), to raise a glass to you, sir.
Cheers.
You said:
“so much writing is bent on persuasion.”
All writing is persuasion; I’m more fascinated with readers and their decipherments.
I refrained from commenting earlier because I was curious to see how different readers would respond–perhaps SQ and I have that in common (her comment gives me insight into why she almost never replies to comments on her blog). I do have a question/comment for SQ though: Despite the relatively new fascination and importance of the reader in literary theory the fact remains that nothing could be read unless it was written. The supreme elevation of the reader (and the necessary “death of the author”) finds its end in utter nihilism–if the author is dead the reader’s decipherments are entirely worthless and void. How do you fit the fascination with readers into this equation?
John B: thank you for adding your voice to the mix; perhaps you’ll have more to add before I am finished.
R. Sherman: I ask the following question ironically: Are you serious?
Sasquatch: I was tempted to answer you earlier–really we have so very much in common here; I think you’d possibly do a much better job elaborating the contrary view to writers as sophists than I will. If I fail (or even if I succeed) please step forward.
I don’t disagree entirely with the thoughts I’ve put forth here; really I feel that I am on solid ground theoretically and anecdotally, as supported by John’s post. I even thought about posting arrogant snippets from the Forwards of certain authors (think T.S. Eliot, a true aristocratic prick). The thing is that I believe the most powerful and inspiring writing is anything but sophist, rather it is humbly transparent. The most excellent writers are the ones who fight off delusions of grandeur, ones who recognize their own brokenness and who stammer out what they believe as best as they can. They do it with a measure of confidence, but even there the author’s confidence is in something greater than himself/herself and the understanding is that truth may be revealed in more ways than one, though in the end there is only one Truth. Yes, the best writers of all are the ones who aren’t sophist and aren’t afraid of sophists either, for all truth is God’s truth and the cooption of signs for the tree that holds up the web of meaning isn’t a cooption at all, it is a redemption; and there is nothing sophist about that.
Erhem, “hickory dickery, literary priggery, doc” began to sound while checking your blog for a recent post . . . cute, eh?
Anyway, in response to your thoughtfulness above, I must say that we write with more than words, much more than written language; we write with our bodies, our thoughts, our love, our work, and our play. As long as there is life, we will always have plenty to “read.” The “death of the author” is absurd, but the birth of readers (and those who read them) facinates. In this light, does the reader become yet another author?
Meanwhile, I love your statement: “The most excellent writers are the ones [. . .] ones who recognize their own brokenness and who stammer out what they believe as best as they can.” What a dreamy statement . . .
I especially liked the bit about subtle bombasticism