ÒOn Philosophical
Narrative and InterpretationÓ
BA Thesis
by Jared Davis. Submitted to The University of Chicago, Department of
Philosophy on May 5, 2008.
Introduction
This
paper is framed by a curiosity over Gilles DeleuzeÕs claim in the beginning of Difference
and Repetition that philosophy can be
characterized as a combination of detective fiction and science fiction.[1]
The characterization of philosophy as part detective story and part science
fiction is, it seems, just that: a characterization and not a general theory
about the form or function of philosophy.[2]
The detective and the sci-fi writer are, in the years immediately before and
after DR, DeleuzeÕs prototypes
for the philosopher. The philosopher plays at being both detective and sci-fi
author; he employs a manner of thinking and writing similar to that of Sir
Arthur Conan Doyle, James Gunn, or Jorge Luis Borges.[3]
Hence, under this characterization, the study of philosophy requires an
interpretation theory similar to the gathering of clues and divining of signs,
and the writing of philosophy requires the construction of narratives which
exploit the possible meanings of collected signs.
In
this paper, I will define interpretation as an activity consisting of two
tasks: (1) to understand how an author designates meaning in narrative and (2)
to create additional meaning within the conceptual space of the narrative and
with respect to the authorÕs original design. These dual tasks of
interpretation are applicable to both truth discourses and fiction discourses;
that is to say, both fiction and non-fiction share a common set of atomic
units, widely labeled as signs, which
are always available for interpretation. As Deleuze suggests to us, and as we
may infer from other sources, philosophy is structured as a narrative;
therefore philosophical texts are by their very design open to interpretation.
One can conclude from this that philosophy is not a rigid description or
elucidation of the world, but a much looser yet still complexly structured
story of how the world can be understood.[4]
For Deleuze, such an aesthetic view of philosophy calls into question the
determinacy of the sign; but
before assessing the consequences of DeleuzeÕs of philosophy as narrative, we
must first look at how narratives are constructed.
Section
1 will demonstrate that these signs are
included in a Ònarrative arcÓ—two senses of which are suggested by Henry
LongfellowÕs poem, ÒThe Arrow and the Song.Ó Following the Longfellow poem, we
can apply in Section 2 a theoretical account of signs or clues to our arc. Carlo GinzburgÕs books Clues,
Myths, and the Historical Method and History,
Rhetoric and Proof will show how the act of
tracing signs through a narrative
can suffice for method and proof. In Section 3, we will look at what Deleuze
tries to put in place of the divinatory paradigm; after treating DeleuzeÕs
complicated metaphysics to a brief analysis, I will show that what Deleuze
attempts with the eternal return actually fits under the description of a
narrative arc. Finally, Section 4 and the Conclusion will deal briefly with two
more examples of interpretation, BorgesÕ ÒPierre Menard: Autor de QuixoteÓ and
Rene MagritteÕ ÒMysteries of the Horizon,Ó in order to further support the
interpretation theory I have developed, incorporating aspects of both Deleuze
and GinzburgÕs argument and avoiding uncontrolled interpretive acts.
1: LongfellowÕs ÒThe Arrow and
the SongÓ
In opening a text to interpretation, be it fiction, a non-fiction story, or philosophy, the scholar must do so according to the signs present in the text. Interpretation cannot take place without an attention to these signs; they are as small as single words or as large as plot (allegory), argumentative devices (analogy, metaphor), or rhythmic phrases (trope). These broadly defined signs are the clues leading to an interpretation; they trace where the authorÕs meaning and feeling can be encountered. These signs can also affect the interpreterÕs own understanding; they can be taken on and used for newer expressions, employed in a redesigned narrative. A narrative arc is composed of signs like bricks in a bridge, whose configuration allow their author to provide a way to get from one point—his own meaning or feeling—to another—the meaning or feeling of a friend. In a second sense, the narrative arc propels signs like arrows. Narrative potentially becomes a kind of weapon, whose acts can be used to have a particular effect on its targets.
Let us take a look at what may be significant in LongfellowÕs short poem, and then see how it illustrates this narrative arc:
I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.
I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?
Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.
The
first word or image that stands out is the arrow. The narrator shoots an arrow
seemingly at random, tries to watch its flight, and loses sight of it. Later
on, the narrator finds the arrow perfectly intact. What does the arrow signify?
It could signify, very simply, the kind of actual physical object we call an arrow:
a wooden shaft with a sharpened tip, sometimes with a stone or metal ÒheadÓ and
sometimes with feathers on the Òtail.Ó In this literal sense, the arrow is a
specific kind of weapon that was widely used both for hunting and for combat
prior to the invention and improvements in gunpowder. But if we refuse to allow
so literal a reading, if we understand ÒarrowÓ to be a metaphor and thus not
restricted in reference to an actual physical object, then the sign ÒarrowÓ can be understood as something that acts like a certain kind of actual physical object. As a
metaphor, the arrow is open to interpretation. The different senses in which it
could act like something are
neither obvious nor imperceptible; the significance of the arrow is its
wavering between clarity and obscurity.
Another
possible sign is song. After shooting
the arrow, the narrator sings a song seemingly effortlessly; he ÒbreathesÓ it
Òinto the air.Ó The loss of the song is more puzzling. Taken literally, a song
is an expression that assumes a particular form and mode of delivery. A song is
not a physical object, although it is a real thing. Song is expression; it
conveys meaning and feeling without having to act like a physical object,
without needing to represent something concrete. We might understand the song
as a foil to the arrow; where the arrow threatens to leave concrete
representation and become metaphor, the song is moving into the concrete. Thus
the significance of the song is that it began as an immaterial thought or
emotion and passed Òinto the airÓ as if it could be experienced concretely.
The
sign of the arrow and the sign of the song are both distinguished not by their
inclusion in a broad semiotics, which would tell us how each unit of language
functions grammatically to construct discursive meaning. The significance of
the arrow and song, as displayed through interpretation, is based on their
ÒhorizontalÓ meaning, a meaning that shifts from the literal to the
metaphorical and from the ideal to the palpable. Each might even be said to
express a potential interpretations inherent in the sign. We can only begin to think of the arrow as a
metaphor once it is placed within some sort of expression or narrative, but the
potential for metaphorical expression has always been a function of the sign, or else it would be impossible to succeed as
Longfellow does—in the absence of potential meaning, when only literal
statements are possible, the poet is restricted to straightforward, un-poetic utterances such as, ÒI had an idea and then
forgot it; later, something reminded me of it.Ó And even under that
restriction, we are still mystified as to how one can ÒrememberÓ something
without supposing that it, in some way, exists at least as a potential thought
or feeling.[5]
We
need a way, therefore, to configure the display of meaning using signs. For this, we turn to the narrative arc. The author,
who looms over LongfellowÕs poem from the very first word, designates meaning
not only as the origin of expression, but also as the agent of an expressive
re-telling. He tells us that he had these experiences, and he tells us how
these experiences unfolded. He uses narrative to retain the original experience
as suggested by certain signs and
he provides a way in which we, his audience and his interpreters, can uncover
the same thoughts and emotions for ourselves. The narrative arc is thus like
architecture of communication; it bridges a void, a dearth in meaning or
understanding. In addition, the narrator propels signs. He points out basic facts and actualizes concepts[6]
that provoke previously undisclosed[7]
thoughts and feelings. In this second sense, the word ÒarcÓ is equated with
Òbow.Ó Consequently, the narrative arc both projects signs as a bow shoots arrows and structures signs into a conduit of meaning.
Section 2:
The Detective Story
Signs, we find, have a potential meaning that is unlocked
by the narrative arc: in one sense it serves as a bridge for meaning and an in
another a launching point for meaningfulness. We need a way to describe how signs are unlocked; in order to stay close to the literary
themes already expressed thus far, and to arrive back at our starting point
with Deleuze. As a historian interested in the intersection between scientific
and non-scientific proof, Carlo Ginzburg believes that a Òdivinatory paradigmÓ
can be used to describe the underpinning of human understanding as a conceptual
strategy. Despite being Òunscientific,Ó the divinatory paradigm can prove
something about the world; through it, compelling narratives prove the
indiscernible. In essence, the divinatory paradigm is a natural tendency
towards construction of narrative arcs; those adept at divination actively
bridge between the unknown and the known. This paradigm will connect back to
Deleuze, detective stories, and ÒfrontiersÓ or ÒhorizonsÓ of human knowledge.
Ginzburg
begins the essay ÒClues: Roots of an Evidential ParadigmÓ by proposing a link
between seemingly divergent disciplines through the analysis of Òan attitude
oriented towards the analysis of specific cases which could be reconstructed
only through traces, symptoms, and clues.Ó[8]
Ginzburg says, Òwe can speak of a presumptive or divinatory paradigm,Ó an
attitude, that can also be found in diverse humanistic enterprises since
antiquity.[9]
The suggestion is that the attitude he describes can be applied to things that
are not only Òtraces, symptoms and cluesÓ as material evidence, but also other
types of evidence, such as textual peculiarities, that signify a pattern of
consistency or irregularity suggestive of truth or falsity.[10]
I would like to extend the analytic ability of GinzburgÕs evidential paradigm
to texts that signify emotion or metaphorical thought, and thereby link
fictional and factual interpretation under one description of human
understanding.
We
can see this fusion between non-fiction and fiction in an early example of the
divinatory paradigm: Three brothers are asked if they have seen a lost ox. The
brothers ask a series of questions, and are able to describe the ox and its
cargo exactly.[11]
Immediately, they are arrested and accused of stealing the ox; and in court
they explain how they possess a skill, Òcharacterized by the ability to
construct from apparently insignificant experimental data a complex reality
that could not be experienced directly.Ó[12]
Ginzburg compares the brothersÕ skill to the detectiveÕs intuition, allowing
potential truths to be unlocked from specific signs. Interestingly, GinzburgÕs description of this
unlocking also includes Òa rigorous exclusion of metaphorÓ[13]
thus dispelling certain possibilities of interpretation. The object in question
is divined from a constellation of clues, filled in by the ability to construct
a unifying narrative,[14]
while at the same time limited to a number of plausible interpretations. This is why the brothersÕ explanation
is suspect; it could be, after all, an elaborate fiction told to cover up their
theft—possible, but, given the circumstances, implausible.
Ginzburg
wants to dissuade that tension between truth-delivering explanations on the one
hand and truth-mimicking stories on the other. Both are narratives and we can
use the basic language of the narrative arc to detail them. Truth-delivering
explanations operate in the manner the three brothers describe at the end of
their tale. They find appropriate clues, signs with a certain explanatory potential, and put them together in a way
that shows something that cannot be seen directly. Once they have addressed
each clue and placed them into relation with one another, then they reach the
end of their narrative. Success,
or proof, in the interpretation of signs seems to depend on whether or not one is satisfied by an explanation,
whether one is persuaded.[15]
Since we are told the brothers are ÒskilledÓ in this kind of analysis, we
presume their explanation is satisfying; they have successfully bridged the
void between the visible signs
and the potential, unseen meaning.
On
the other hand, if the brothers are not as skilled as we are told, or if the
king is a radical skeptic, then their narrative appears as fiction, illusion,
or perhaps Òwitchcraft.Ó In this case the brothers are suspected of telling a
story that is plausible yet false. Their story mimics the truth, or better yet,
it masks the truth by miming what could be
the truth according to the potential interpretations of signs. The brothers could mask the truth by exploiting the
available evidence, narrating from potentialities a description of events that
did not happen, and suggesting through their narration that what they say
actually did happen in a real, verifiable sense. But, the skeptic continues,
any verification of the brothersÕ story depends on the clues they have already
designated. One must un-designate, i.e. deconstruct, the carefully woven story
and thereby expose alternate interpretations to weigh against and mystify the
original narrative. Yet ultimately, the skeptic must realize that this
deconstruction, too, is performing the same narrative procedure that the
brothersÕ employed. The skeptic has not made any advance on proof; rather he
has only offered an alternate interpretation of evidence that, by the force of
its narration, is supposed to counter the brothersÕ story. In other words, the
skeptic holds no extra claim on truth; he does more to obscure the truth than
ÒunmaskÓ it.
So
it seems that, outside reproducible demonstration, i.e. outside a scientific
method, one cannot tell the difference between truth-delivering and
truth-mimicking narratives. Moreover, the skeptic appears helpless in his
effort to tell the difference when he lacks rigorous logic. Deleuze (whom I
will address shortly) capitalizes on this apparent problem, not by building
systems of logic to help better deliver truth, as do Anglo-American
philosophers, but by focusing on the tension of the problem—which is best
illustrated in the detective story. The three brothers are an ancient detective
story, and like the stories about Sherlock Holmes they demonstrate a way of
finding the truth. Hence, Ginzburg is able to connect the three brothers to the
divinatory paradigm, Òa method of interpretation based on discarded
information, on marginal data, considered in some way significant,Ó[16]
and exemplified by Greek philosophers, Mesopotamian astronomers, Italian art
historians, early psychoanalysts (including Freud), and the detective of Baker
Street himself.
The
purpose of this description of the divinatory paradigm is to show a fundamental
human skill. Yet is it so easy to collapse these diverse disciplines under one
common ÒparadigmÓ? Ginzburg attempts the description by means of genealogy; he shows
the concrete connections between each discipline. The most convenient for him
is Morelli to Freud and to Holmes; when it comes to arguing for the connection
between hunters, astronomers and early Greek philosophers, Ginzburg relies in a
large part on his own paradigm. So it seems that GinzburgÕs history of human
thought, when it is not dealing with specific texts, narrates a theory. If that
is the case, then it may be subject to the kind of radical skepticism that
threatens the three brothers. We can very well say that human understanding
cannot be adequately described by the divinatory paradigm, that the narrative
is not satisfying, and we must turn to something else—such as a Kantian
critique of reason or a modern, biology-inspired description of the human mind.
Section 3:
DeleuzeÕs Interpretation Theory
In
the third chapter of DR, Deleuze argues
against this same modern philosophical Òimage of thoughtÓ that he believes is
initiated by Descartes identification of a central rational agent as the kernel
of human consciousness. The complexity of DeleuzeÕs objection goes beyond the
scope of this essay, but it suffices to say that he contends with the modern
autonomous individual a Òdiscordant harmonyÓ between separate psychological
drives: ÒÉIdeas, far from having as their milieu a good sense or a common
sense, refer to a para-sense which determines only the communication between
disjointed faculties.Ó[17]
We can read this critique of Descartes and of modern philosophy in general as a
critique of the narrator as the designator of meaning. Deleuze wants to reject
the views on narrative developed thus far, that human understanding is enabled
by an ordering of signs by a narrator. On the one hand, Deleuze argues against
the reduction of reason to a Òcommon senseÓ by instead referring to a
disjuncture of human faculties;[18]
on the other hand, Deleuze disperses with a category of judgment that would
entertain a central notion of truth.[19]
Both sides of this rejection contrast with our narrative arc and with
GinzburgÕs divinatory paradigm, so it is imperative to situate these objections
if we are to understand the import of DeleuzeÕs characterization of philosophy
as a viable interpretive theory.
ÒGood
senseÓ and Òcommon senseÓ are, contemporaneously, understood to be the basis
for a natural human understanding. When we say someone exhibits good sense, we
mean they are able to think and act appropriately and accordingly in response
to the demands of an immediate and an extended social, political, or religious
sphere. Good sense may thus designate beliefs and statements that, both
descriptively and proscriptively, engage us in a satisfying relation with the
world. Common sense consists of those judgments that often satisfy our need to think about and act in the
world. Common sense unifies our understanding and works as a ground on which to
pursue knowledge that is universally satisfying, i.e. Òtruth.Ó This crude
sketch is in some manner at the core of modern philosophy, beginning at the
very latest with Descartes. Good and common sense properly equips us to Òmake
senseÓ of the world; we take the phenomena of our surroundings and orient them
towards our capacities of rational thought.
Deleuze
rejects this kernel of reason. He suspects instead a broad collection of
senses, all of which interact with one another. These many senses or faculties
are the disparate elements of human psyche;[20]
they exert a psychological ÒforceÓ on one another[21]
and thereby build up an ÒintensityÓ of forces,[22]
which in sum manifest conscious experience. The sum of this experience is
Òempirical,Ó that is, based in the material interaction with the world: Òlived
experiencesÉmust be treated as flows which carry us always farther out, ever
further toward the exterior: this is precisely intensity, or intensities.Ó[23]
Deleuze, by offering this pluralism of psychological drives, avoids the
metaphysical need to address the possibility of inner essences or noumena; only
phenomena are required to register sensations on disjointed faculties, the
human organism embodies them.
All
these sensations compete to form a field of consciousness, but the question is
in what can disjointed faculties compete? In our description of the narrative
arc, we imply that a broad field of experience is the source of knowledge. Work
must be done to uncover meaning within that field, but it was always the case
that some kind of unified intellect either put forth the narrative design or
engaged signs, thus interpreting them.
If there is no unified consciousness, and instead there is an interaction that
merely looks like a unified consciousness, then Deleuze must completely remove
judgment from the mediation of signs.
For, under the narrative arc and the divinatory paradigm, judgment was required
to designate, to choose amongst available signs and potential meanings, to configure signs into a narrative, and to decide if the narrative
ultimately satisfies our curiosity or need to know. The rejection of judgment
supposedly gives us further freedom in interpretation. If cognition, generally,[24]
is an act of judging the interpretive value of phenomena, and which
interpretations are most preferable, then non-judgmental interpretation seems
to leave the significance of phenomena up to the nature of the phenomena
themselves. That is to say, a phenomena becomes significant based on the impact
and influence on the faculties. Anything is significant so long as it impacts the collective facultiesÕ Òlived
experience.Ó Another way to put it
is that everything signifies.
I
want to relate this conclusion back to why Deleuze thinks this Ònew image of
thoughtÓ can be characterized as a detective story; in particular, Deleuze
thinks disjunctive, non-judgmental thought, as a ÒnewÓ philosophy, is
characterized by a ÒnewÓ form of detective stories. Specifically, Deleuze refers
to la seire noir, a popular
serialization of American pulp crime novels in France:
What the new
literary use and exploitation of cops and criminals taught us is that police
activity has nothing to do with a metaphysical or scientific search for the truth.
Police work no more resembles scientific inquiry than a telephone call from an
informant, inter-police relations, or mechanisms of torture resemble
metaphysics.[25]
Just as we see
at DR 141 that common sense and the
truth it discovers lies at the ÒhingesÓ between different faculties, the Òtruth
and justiceÓ of police work lies at the similar connections between
individually motivated characters. Looking for clues, in la seire
noir, is not as important as affecting an
outcome within a Òzone of presence,Ó as in the curious passage which claims
that
A book of philosophy
should be in part a very particular species of detective novel, in part a kind
of science fiction. By detective novel we mean that concepts, with their zones
of presence, should intervene to resolve local situations.[26]
In this way,
both detective and philosopher Òcompensate for errorÓ by developing a relation
between faculties that does not search for truth, but instead forces a balance
of power amongst themselves.
If
we compare DeleuzeÕs hard-hitting detective to the three brothers, we notice
that DeleuzeÕs detective tries to accomplish something that, for the brothers
and perhaps many other instances of the divinatory paradigm, belongs to an
authority figure, like the king. The accomplishment is the declaration of
authenticity or genuineness as opposed to falsity or mere resemblance. In
Morelli there is a critic, Freud has an analyst, Doyle has a detective, and the
three brothers have a judge—all of whom listen to a narrative that orders
signs and presents them for interpretation. In all these cases, the interpreter
in a way ÒtestsÓ the firmness of the narrative and is able to reinforce it as a
repository of signs, building new meaning if necessary. DeleuzeÕs detective is,
I believe, no different except for the fact that he aggressively tries to force
interpretation. DeleuzeÕs detective relies on force and intrigue to arrive at a
balance of powers. The placement of signs
within a narrative does not matter in terms of furnishing a satisfactory interpretation
of events. Or, put more charitably, the many perspectives offered by differing
narratives create a situation in which each perspective—and also each
faculty—must ÒcombatÓ[27]
to furnish something like understanding.
Either
way, it is difficult to avoid the conclusion that only unbounded interpretation
can compensate for the disparateness of faculties and the signification of
everything. As Ginzburg generally observes in ÒpostmodernÓ thinkers, ÒTruth
[is] liquidated in favor of an active interpretation, namely one without
constrictions and limitsÓ[28]
and as a result Òmisses the distinction between judgment of fact and value
judgment.Ó[29] In other
words, upon noticing on the one hand an inner tension within the psychology of
human understanding and on the other ability for individual humans to come to a
common understanding, the notion that ÒjudgmentÓ is dispensable aligns one with
the radically skeptical king who cannot believe the three brothersÕ story
simply because he does not trust them.[30]
Hence, we can answer DeleuzeÕs radical interpretation by stating, even if individual psychology is a complex interaction of
many sensitive functions and even if
it is difficult to accept a truth-delivering explanation as a direct function
of narrative, it is still possible to have a unified understanding produced via
acts of interpretation which incorporate a specific type of judgment.
Section 3:
Interpreting Nietzsche
The
paradigms Ginzburg describes rely on a principle of judgment; Deleuze rejects
judgment and, in the course of this dismissal, attempts to replace
methodologies with free-form associations. Part of DeleuzeÕs strategy is to
show that difference, and not identity,
lies beneath the possibilities of human understanding. Rather than focus on the
metaphysical principles involved in DeleuzeÕs argument, I will show that
DeleuzeÕs interpretation of Nietzsche improperly uses the doctrine of the
eternal return as an ontological principle.
I
think we will see DeleuzeÕs forced interpretations most clearly in his work on
Nietzsche. Nietzsche lends himself to exciting and suspenseful interpretive
exercise, and famed tropes like the death of God can read like a crime novel,
similar in some sense to Crime and Punishment. DeleuzeÕs reading of Nietzsche becomes, I think, overly exhilarated
by the opportunities for interpretation. Deleuze says at one point that
philosophers have a license to misinterpret Nietzsche;[31]
and since, Deleuze thinks, there can be no definitive answer to what Nietzsche
really said, the philosopher instead strives for Òvalid
misinterpretationsÓ—compensations for inevitable error. Under this
license to misinterpret, Deleuze uses the doctrine of the eternal return to
assemble an ontological ÒengineÓ for interpretive analysis, which he calls difference. Here, I will detail DeleuzeÕs interpretation of
Nietzsche, show how it enables thinking of difference, and how Deleuze still fails to break away from an
interpretive theory distinct from the narrative arc.
Thematically,
at least, we can see the close resemblance between Nietzsche and Deleuze. The
odds rest, for Nietzsche, on a gamble of radical doubt: whether to join the
skeptics in rampant denial of truth or to affirm a sustainable system of
personal and social values. Nietzsche wants to deliver a message about a
philosophy of the future; and against all precedent, Deleuze wants to create
that philosophy of the future. Both Nietzsche and Deleuze seem to believe that
the concepts available to them are not adequate for a truly life-oriented
philosophy; very broadly speaking, they believe thinking has become stale or
stagnant, that philosophy has exhausted the resources of its previous
advancements and is now trapped in an overly ÒhistoricalÓ perspective.[32]
They try to re-orient their thinking by using inherited concepts only so far as
they are advantageous. Their experiments in philosophy are essentially a matter
of how well the concepts of past thinkers can be re-imagined for future
philosophers and how an outcome is created against a norm. They try to break free
of former narratives, and design new systems of value—and the interesting
question is how?
For
his part, Nietzsche formulates the eternal return as a thought experiment given
to the thinker, in order to test the fortitude of h/er convictions. The most direct
mention of the eternal return is delivered as a demonic hypothesis, ÒThis life
as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once more and
innumerable times more,Ó and Nietzsche reflects that, ÒIf this thought [that
the eternal return is divine] gained possession of you, it would change you as
you are or perhaps crush you.Ó [33]
We know the eternal return is not presented as an actual condition of existence
(otherwise, why would a ÒdemonÓ tell us about it Òin a dreamÓ?) it is an
un-testable hypothesis. The eternal return is a thought-experiment designed to
test the value judgments of the thinker, to see if they are a condition of
Òself-doubt.Ó[34] The Òdeath
of GodÓ further complicates this test, saying that the stories which one tells
oneself in order to believe certain values may be invalidated either when its
fundamental claims are closely scrutinized or when challenged by a significant
and unheard of circumstance; in other words, a well-conducted critique of
metaphysics inevitably and perhaps permanently damages the foundations of many
widely held beliefs.
The
eternal return is only one way in which Nietzsche raises these issues of
valuing. A similar problem nauseates Zarathustra, who is told, ÒEternally
returns the man of whom you are weary, the small man.Ó[35]
He who awaits a higher human being is continuously disappointed. The reality of
human psychological and social life blocks the achievement of higher, ideal
forms of life. This blockage makes apparent thoughts and actions, that are much
more difficult than the simple avowal of
freedom, and as a result ÒOne has to test oneself to see that one is destined
for independence and command.Ó[36]
One must refuse Òto remain stuckÓ to persons, nations, and conceptual schemes
that compose oneÕs systems of value; the Òhardest testÓ becomes Òhow to
conserve oneselfÓ[37]
in the absence of a universally verifiable perspective. This can be taken in
two different, both legitimate, ways: as an exercise to aid the maintenance of
internally valid beliefs or as an effort to create an unmediated
existence—Òself-forgetfullness.Ó NietzscheÕs entire corpus can be taken
as a way to escape the thought that oneÕs condition is teleological necessary
and ultimately inalterable (as in GM II). These experiments release the thinker from constraining models of
thought, which force the thinker to knowingly act against instincts and values
that would otherwise better satisfy oneÕs need to understand and to act.
Overestimating
the details of the thought experiment, Deleuze interprets the eternal return as
an ontological principle, not as any type of values-test. This reading emerges
most distinctly in DeleuzeÕs Nietzsche and Philosophy. Deleuze plays with the linguistic capabilities of
the French word for ÒreturnÓ: ÒRevenir, lÕetre de ce qui devient.Ó[38]
Deleuze interrelates three verbs, Òreturn,Ó Òbe,Ó and Òbecome,Ó to reveal that
the infinitive form of existence (that which will always be, i.e. Òreturn
eternallyÓ) is the expression of an ontologically pure act (i.e. ÒbeingÓ),
which unfolds within the passage of time (i.e. ÒbecomingÓ). This passage of
time occurs in material existence, and as a result the instinct to look for
finite identities is upset by the suggestion of fundamental, ontological flux.
Deleuze writes, ÒReturning is thus the only identity, but identity as a
secondary power; the identity of differenceÓ[39]
and, in support of this ontology, Deleuze interprets the eternal return to
demonstrate the ÒungroundednessÓ of being. For example, when the three brothers
are divining the ox from leftover clues, they take it for granted that these signs
are fixed in their possible
interpretations;[40] from this
fixity, the brothers reconfigure the extant signs to demonstrate their fullest explanatory potential.
Deleuze tries to reject this reconfiguration by using the eternal return to
show that signs cycle their
possible interpretations according to some randomized principle, i.e. difference.
From
Nietzsche and Philosophy onwards,
Deleuze infuses NietzscheÕs eternal return with his own thoughts on
ÒmultiplicityÓ and difference.
Although Deleuze does not put it in these words, difference lies at the bottom of the sign and gives it space to create new possibilities.
Without difference, ideas of
multiplicity and emergence have to grapple with hierarchical limitations of
being—as if they lose a guarantee of originality and are thus dependent
on a single prototype as with the simulacra and Form in Platonic philosphy. For
Deleuze, ÒNietzsche identifies chance with multiplicity, with fragments, with
parts, with chaos: the chaos of the dice that are shaken and then thrown.Ó[41]
Deleuze thereby transforms NietzscheÕs desire for open inquiry and
experimentation into an ontological commitment to difference. In order to think through difference, one must first affirm chance by way of this
Nietzschean openness.
This
would be a compelling argument if it were not for two things. First, Nietzsche
is not interested in this kind of ontological analysis of existence as such,
especially not in the passages concerning the eternal return. The motivation
for NietzscheÕs philosophy, whether it is understood as an experiential account
of human psychology or immoralist polemics, does not seem to be an ontological
account of existence; this much is evident from NietzscheÕs own mockery of
attempts to peer beneath appearances in order to see their essences and
conditions for existence.[42]
Secondly, Deleuze continues to use the eternal return as a sign; he never truly departs from narrative—and how
could he? It would seem the only way one can explain anything is by use of the
communicative structures humans already possess, i.e. some manifestation of
narrative. So it would seem that we can find reason to doubt DeleuzeÕs story of
philosophy.
We
can do this on the same grounds we called into question the possibility of
unlimited interpretation; we must focus on a general concept of judgment and
from there distinguish between judgment of fact and value judgments. As I have
already stated, Deleuze erroneously rejects judgment, a move that will then
allow him to confuse the ontological concepts he is interested in with the
value-theory Nietzsche develops. The machine of DeleuzeÕs interpretive theory
is his ontologically developed doctrine of eternal return. Under this doctrine,
ideas, concepts and perceptions are passed through the eternal return, almost
as if it were a metaphysical centrifuge designed to separate the differential
elements of existence:
Each difference passes through all the others; it must will itself or find itself through all the others. That is why eternal return does not appear second or come after, but is already present in every metamorphosis, contemporaneous with that which it causes to return. Eternal return relates to a world of differences implicated by one in the other, to a complicated, properly chaotic world without identity.[43]
ÒDifferenceÓ
replaces signs once identity is denied,
and then every sign takes on
meaning according to its ability to impress upon the senses.
This
action on the senses replaces judgment as a way to comprehend existence. Given
the Òphysical doctrineÓ[44]
of DeleuzeÕs eternal return, the proper way to relate to the world is to
ÒaffirmÓ the eternal return and allow the ontological principle to ÒselectÓ
from possibilities the actual state of existence. Thus, the thinker ÒaffirmsÓ
the eternal return as the condition of all existence and thereby allows
thoughts that match the possibilities expressed by the ontology of difference, sorting out what does not arrange itself within the
flux of being. Only by this affirmation does thought become active, as opposed
to reactive, which push against being and try to form it according to human
need.
Deleuze
writes that the Ònecessary destructionsÓ enacted by the thinker of the eternal
return engenders a creative process of affirmations.[45]
The artists Òspeaks the name of a creative power, capable of overturning all
orders and representationsÓ[46]
as a means of bringing about a creation. DeleuzeÕs own explanation of this
oscillates between a Ònecessary destructionÓ of particulars (like the Platonic
Form) and the destruction of a general cosmological or political order (which
the Forms would require), but for our purposes we can understand that the
Ònecessary destructionÓ in creative production envisions the eternal return to
be a metaphorical centrifuge, where elements of one weight stay in the mixture
and elements of another are expelled. This is meant to serve the artist a
concoction of materials from recycled concepts that are useful in his own
creation. But Deleuze does not have to imagine this unless he is totally
committed to removing any idea of judgment from the creative or interpretive
process.
The
trouble with the whole of DeleuzeÕs account is that given the more standard
interpretation of Nietzsche as a thinker of the problem of valuation and
judgment, the extension of NietzscheÕs thought into problems of existence seems
unnecessary. The ontological forces that Deleuze describes and the
active/reactionary psychology that goes along with it plausible, but completely
unnecessary as an explanation of why we value what we value and why there
exists something other than nothing. In terms of actuality, which is supposed
to be DeleuzeÕs eventual endpoint, it is quite enough to accept a simpler
account of being and believing based on visible evidence. Nothing Deleuze says
about difference or the univocity of
Being is based on anything visible; the entire account is based on a tension,
namely, the theoretical tension involved in accepting or denying an account of
the way things are. Deleuze, in rejecting the Òimage of thoughtÓ he accuses
Descartes of perpetuating, actually reintroduces radical skepticism in a new
guise, the guise of multiplicity.
Deleuze here needs at least a general
principle of judgment—of the kind he rejects in the ÒPhilosophy of Crime
NovelsÓ—in order to allow an interpretive act to take place. Otherwise,
Deleuze seems to be arguing that the potential meanings contained within signs automatically develop into a narrative structure, be
it the ÒarcÓ I continue to develop or some other description of narrative
forms. It cannot be true that narratives arise naturally from the
interrelations of signs on their
own; a narrator is needed. There must be an agent who applies judgment or
design or rationality to the collected signs in order to form the narrative and allow for
meaning. The language Deleuze uses about difference Òwilling itselfÓ[47]
is nonsense reparable only by a reintroduction of agency in narrative.
Perhaps
as an answer to this problem, Deleuze explains his bizarre reconfiguration as
the result of NietzscheÕs own attempts at ÒfalsificationÓ or the disguising of
true meaning by elliptical writing. This, along with the commitment to chaotic
differentiation built into DeleuzeÕs own philosophical method, leads him to
read texts without fixed or final interpretations, but only a series of
Òinterpretations hidden in one another.Ó[48]
Still avoiding a concept of agency or judgment, he Òinvents a new conception
and new methods of interpretationÉa new ÔdepthÕ in relation to which the old
depth flattens out and no longer is anythingÉ[and] a complex of senses, such
that every interpretation is already the interpretation of an interpretation ad
infinitum.Ó[49]
In other words, Deleuze abandons the need for an authorial agent by laying out
all potential signs on the
surface. Nothing is hidden nor uncovered, opened or closed, by an active
narrator; for Deleuze, the chaotic affirmation of all potentialities is laid
out in a maze of surface relations with only the illusion of depth.[50]
Despite all this, agency remains implicit in DeleuzeÕs account—perhaps because one needs a way to explain the focal point of interpretation. The very fact that DeleuzeÕs eternal return has an exclusionary interpretive function suggests that, while he may be making great efforts to make the intelligible ordering of signs possible without an agentÕs judgment, Deleuze invokes a strange creative force that cannot possibly be anything less than the cogito he rejects.
Section 4:
Interpreting Borges
Hitherto
I have focused on the Òdetective story,Ó partly because it offers the most
interesting illustration of interpretation theory. Partly out of a
self-identified ÒweaknessÓ in his own interpretation theory, Deleuze couples
the detective story with science fiction; and this coupling revolves around his
reading of the eternal return. Deleuze writes, Òthe eternal return is a force
of affirmationÓ that affirms multiplicities, differences, and chances Òexcept
the One, the Same, the Necessary.Ó[51]
To affirm the eternal return, Deleuze thinks we need to deny these concepts,
and thereby free ÒBeingÓ from contrived narratives and allow it to unfold on
its own and according to the ontology he describes. Deleuze continues,
ÒRepetition in the eternal return excludes both the becoming-equal or the
becoming-similar in the conceptÉIt concerns instead excessive systems which
link the different with the differentÉin a complex of affirmationsÉÓ[52]
When the eternal return manages to return something (say, like a phrase, a term, an image, etc), Deleuze
does not think it recalls its precursor so much as reinvents. That reinvention
is the science fiction story.
Deleuze
reads BorgesÕ stories as essential supports for his system of difference. In ÒThe Babylonian Lottery,Ó the people of Babylon
decide that a single lottery drawing is not enough, for happiness cannot rest
on one chance or on money alone. A company commissioned to make an ultimate
lottery begins to attribute everything to the chance drawings: oneÕs social
status, oneÕs health, even oneÕs death. To Deleuze, this makes perfect sense; a
society concerned with an ultimate affirmation of existence must manifest every
chance, and make every opportunity to affirm a multiplicity of outcomes. Borges
says the lottery achieves this end by making Òthe number of drawings infinite,Ó
thus giving the progression of outcomes an unlimited opportunity to divert and
change.
In
this infinitude of drawings, Deleuze finds a perfect example of an endless
extension of difference into all aspects
of existence.[53] We can
easily make sense of this interpretation of BorgesÕ story; an all-powerful
lottery will give a truly random outcome and thus randomize everything in the
world. Every moment leading to the outcome of the lottery is a matter of pure
chance. Winning, or at least Òplaying wellÓ, would then require an affirmation
of all chances, thus making the
game of chance itself—Òthe identity of differenceÓ—the main concern
of all players.[54]
What
is it that makes this science fiction, and what makes philosophy similar to the
fantastic? DeleuzeÕs replacement of agency, difference is acting as a modus operandi. Without the introduction of difference, Deleuze has no account of how we can go from signs to interpretation. The science fiction narrative
cannot exist without some kind of enabling trope; some element of or symbol in
the storytelling must push the narrative to its conclusion. The Nautilus, for instance, serves this purpose in Jules VerneÕs 20000
Leagues Under the Sea; with the literary
invention of Òmasterpiece of modern industry,Ó the narrative itself is made
possible. Verne knows that no ship in his lifetime could perform the feats he
describes, so he must imagine it. Furthermore, the reason one imagines the
impossible and uses it to tell a story is that adds new meaning to human
understanding. Hence, we can roughly say that, where detective stories collect
and catalogue signs, science
fiction stories invent signs to
add to human descriptions. This is why science fiction is often commensurate
with new technologies, which in turn must be interpreted to be understood.
Let
us turn to a story where the narrator interprets with the intent of creation.
In ÒPierre Menard, Author of Don QuixoteÓ,
the narrator relates the artistic career of a quiet intellectual. The
unidentified narrator tells us that Menard tried to write Don Quixote verbatim, without copying it. At first Menard tried
to ÒbeÓ Cervantes; he studied the history and manners of the time of the Òold
soldierÓ with the goal of emulating his consciousness. Menard decided this
would be impossible and, at any rate, would make him only a second-rate
Cervantes. Menard then tried rewriting Don Quixote, without copying it outright, by using his own life
and knowledge as the primary inspiration. The narrator Òoften imagines that
[Menard] finished and [he, the narrator] reads Quixote—all of Quixote—as if it were thought up by Menard.Ó According
to the narrator of the story, had Menard succeeded, identical passages from
each Don Quixote would have
different meanings depending on the author. Menard, the narrator reasons, is a
contemporary of Russell and modern knowledge,[55]
and therefore the very words he uses to rewrite Don Quixote have a different significance.
The
possibility that concepts can be recycled in this way is very powerful; it
negates the idea that what is being reproduced is unoriginal, or that new ideas
are, in fact, pirated from more original
sources. We, as a matter of philosophical curiosity, must ask how something can
be more or less original than something else. Perhaps we can address BorgesÕ
story through a Nietzschean lens, where one undergoes a value test, and
utilizes various tropes to arrive at a personally relevant viewpoint.
Accordingly, Menard might be taken as dissatisfied with a literal, historically
oriented reading of Don Quixote.
Such a reading would only have CervantesÕ beliefs and experiences to offer,
tempered by the values of CervantesÕ time; and such a reading would have no
values to offer Menard—or us—directly, being 400 years removed from
the origins of the book. These 400 years, Nietzsche would say, contain so many
historical and cultural changes that it is vain to preserve the exact sense
with which Cervantes wrote unless we only want a catalogue of past knowledge and values.[56]
BorgesÕ Menard responds to this revelation by doing the exact opposite of
reading; he writes Don Quixote to
accommodate his own sense of the world. Menard makes the narrative his and
imbues it with his own design, which just happens to have the same form as CervantesÕ.
The exact wording does not matter so long as the author has done his part to
develop a complete narrative.
That
is admittedly a bold claim. But I do not think we have any real problems in
believing it. The standard objection is that if the exact wording of a
narrative does not matter, then ostensibly any expression could have any
meaning. Sometimes Nietzsche seems to greet this possibility[57]—however,
it is not plausible that meaning is completely diffuse since it is evident that
the creator chooses specific signs to
construct his narrative. All authors create specific meaning with well-chosen signs. Moreover, it is hard to imagine expressions that
mean something other than their potential interpretation. A false
interpretation works against potentialities and assumes that, because an author
has freedom in design, the reader has freedom in interpretation.
Note also that this also denies that interpretation can continue indefinitely. The possibility of interpretation is always present, but interpretation is effective only where there is room for opening or closing the potentialities of present signs. At times we find this difficult to accept because of the burden it places on our judgmental capacity; the difficulty increases once we must communicate with persons who hold differing interpretations. The common ÒpostmodernÓ solution is to have done with judgment; I hope I have shown that the removal of judgment is no solution at all. It only serves to negate the individual involvement in evaluation, thereby seeking a benign ÒsocialÓ approach that, because there can be no individuals involved, relies on the contingencies of history or seemingly random occurrences as explanatory factors.
Conclusion: A Recovered
Hermeneutic
I
started out by revealing in LongfellowÕs poem ÒThe Arrow and the SongÓ a basic
idea of what interpretation is: a Ònarrative arcÓ in two senses, one that
supports meaning amongst signs and one
that projects meaning with signs.
I find it difficult to break out of that dual metaphor of an Òarc,Ó since it
does successfully describe what happens when we craft and interpret
expressions. The basic assumption is that an expression is essentially a
phenomenon produced by an author; the author can be as casual as LongfellowÕs
narrator, as involved as GinzburgÕs three brothers, or as aggressive as
DeleuzeÕs ÒcompensatoryÓ detective. In all cases, there is some origin for the
expression from which the narrative emanates. And, once the expression becomes
an object for interpretation, like in BorgesÕ Menard, a new origin is found in
the interpreter, who acts as a second narrator by re-ordering the uncovered signs into an explanation—a re-telling of a story
for perhaps new purposes.
The
philosophical consequence of this theory of interpretation is that I have used
the concept of sign throughout in a way
that is both concrete and abstract. It is quite easy to say, as Ginzburg does,
that signs are essentially
intelligible things found in real locations like an open field, a painting, or
a text. Signs are like intelligible
things; yet, a sign is not what
it says it is, but a representation of a physical object, an emotion, or even
another sign. Deleuze sees this
problem throughout philosophical texts, which is why he so readily treats
philosophy as instances of fictional narrative. But if that is the case then it
seems all human knowledge, seeing how it is made up of and conveyed by
narrative discourses, is open to interpretation. The question is which kind of
interpretation: the ungrounded Deleuzian or the narrative arc that I believe is
secretly at the heart even of DeleuzeÕs own theory?
There
may be a way to compromise by stating that the narrative arc is quite so
specific that it falls under what Deleuze calls Òdogmatic thought.Ó As an
example, Rene MagritteÕs ÒMysteries of the HorizonÓ demonstrates the
possibilities of signification within the same initial reality.[58]
In this painting, the same man with the same moon over his head is seen in a
single frame from three different perspectives. Two acts of signification are
occurring in this paining. The crescent moon is the first notable sign; it acts as a label above each figure, identifying
each as the same. From that sign,
we can say that Magritte has not painted three men; he has only painted one man
three times. The man himself is the second sign; he is what Magritte wishes to express. Rather than
paint the man once from one angle, he is painted one time each from three
angles (180¡, 135¡, and 270¡ counter-clockwise rotation from
the front). Since, ostensibly, the left side of his face should look greatly
similar to the right side, the three perspectives capture the full shape of his
figure. We can say that Magritte has given us a ÒfullÓ view of a single person.
I want to think of this painting as an illustration of the
central potentiality of signs. We tend to think of signs as things that either
point to something or contain some sort of constructed meaning. But I think if
you press the concept, you'll find that a sign considered as an abstraction
contains a great number of possible instantiations, i.e. "cat" can
signify a certain kind of animal or a specific animal. What we mean when we say
"cat" ultimately relies on the context of our saying it, but in
general--that is, with all contexts held in common--"cat" can mean
any of these things. The full potentiality of the sign is manifest along the horizon of its use; it crosses from
the unknown to the known at the invocation of the narrator.
Upon deciding to paint a man in a bowler-hat beneath a
crescent moon, Magritte may have chosen to minimize the context of this man
while at the same time maximizing his specificity as such, i.e. as a man in a
bowler-hat beneath a crescent moon. The man is "on the horizon," so
to speak, between a grounded context and an open abstraction (just as the
horizon is the meeting of the walk-able, map-able ground and the open and
endless sky). He rests on the horizon of meaning, a mystery, and represents
only the possibilities of seeing and interpretation.
With this painting, we can see that the most compelling
narratives are completed not when the sign is found and exhaustively configured but when it is appropriately left
open to additional signification, where ÒappropriateÓ designates the procedure
of understanding. The meaning embedded in a sign allows for interpretation according to established avenues
of understanding; unlike DeleuzeÕs slipperiness of signs, there are finite possibilities of signification. All
these possibilities are accounted for in the authorÕs construction of a work,
the authorÕs configuration of narrative to express meanings and feelings. But
it is ultimately up to the interpreter to unlock these meanings and feelings
from the sign. To that effect, we can
agree generally with DeleuzeÕs characterization of philosophy as a cross
between detective stories and science fiction, if only because there is a
process by which meaning is found and re-presented to achieve a useful effect.
MC Escher, ÒRelativityÓ
Escher depicts a world whose
depths are actually surface illusions.
Rene Magritte, ÒMysteries of
the HorizonÓ
Magritte ÒopensÓ the sign to multiple perspectives.
Texts Cited:
Borges, Jorge Luis
Narraciones
Deleuze, Gilles—
ÒConclusions on the Will to Power and the Eternal Return,Ó pp117—127 in Desert Islands and Other Texts. Trans. Michael Taormina. Semiotext(e), 2004.
ÒNomadic Thought,Ó pp252—261 in Desert Islands.
ÒPhilosophy of Crime Novels,Ó pp81-85 in Desert Islands.
Difference and Repetition. Trans. Paul Patton. Columbia University Press, 1994.
ÒTo Have Done With Judgment,Ó pp126—135 in Essays Critical and Clinical. Trans. Daniel W. Smith and Michael A. Greco. University of Minnesota Press. 1997.
Nietzsche and Philosophy. Trans. Hugh Tomlinson. Continuum, 2002.
Ginzburg, Carlo—
Clues, Myths, and the Historical Method. Trans. John and Anne Tedeschi. Johns Hopkins University Press, 1989.
History, Rhetoric and Proof. Brandeis University Press, 1999.
Nietzsche, Friedrich—
The Gay Science. Trans. Walter
Kaufmann. Vintage Books, 1974.
On the Genealogy of Morals. Trans.
Vintage Books, 1989.
Beyond Good and Evil. Trans.
Walter Kaufmann. Vintage Books, 1989.
Thus Spake Zarathustra. Trans.
Walter Kaufman. Penguin, 1978.
Untimely Meditations. Trans. RJ
Hollingdale. Cambridge, 1997.