Raymond J. Wilson

James Joyce’s “Ivy Day in the Committee Room” and The Five Codes of Fiction

James Joyce’s short story “Ivy Day in the Committee Room” from his book Dubliners has often been criticized for being chaotic or at least random. Traditional methods of analysis, such as plot analysis, do not yield an idea of coherent structure. They thus appear to support the criticisms. However, when the story is subjected to an analysis based on Roland Barthes’ five codes from his book S/Z, the story is revealed to have both an overall structure and an intricate, detailed sub-structure of twelve scenes. The overall structure is largely provided by the operation of what Barthes called the Enigma Code. The detailed structure is provided by what Barthes called the Action Code. Barthes suggests using the Action Code to create a table, and one appears in this article. Barthes says that the elements in the table will “articulate” with each other; and an examination of the table created to Barthes’ specifications shows that the elements do indeed articulate both horizontally and vertically. Thus, an interesting irony arises in that both Joyce’s story and Barthes’ book have been accused of anarchistic construction, yet when Barthes’ system is applied to Joyce’s story the rigorous structure of the story emerges and the orderliness of the five code system is confirmed.

Metaphoric and Metonymic Allegory: Ricoeur, Jakobson, and the Poetry of W. B. Yeats

Elsewhere, I have pointed out that Paul Ricoeur denies symbolic effect to language situations where the original sense of an expression is destroyed in the process of interpretation, calling such discourse “allegory”, the mere “rhetorical” and “didactic” procedure in which the literal meaning is “eliminated once it has done its job”. The point emerged that Ricoeur needs two categories — one in which the initial sense is destroyed (Ricoeur’s “allegory”), and the other in which the original meaning is retained and added to the second meaning (Ricoeur’s “symbol”). If we are to have a dual paradigm, I argued that it is more helpful to subject symbolism to Roman Jakobson’s paradigm, establishing two forms of symbolism, each signaled by contextual cues: the metaphoric symbol, in which the literal expression is discarded, and the metonymie symbol in which no such discarding occurs (Wilson 151). I concluded that under Jakobson’s paradigm, Ricoeur’s “allegory” is metaphorical symbolism and Ricoeur’s “symbolism” is metonymie symbolism.

A Phenomenological Theory of Literary Creativity: Ricoeur and Joyce

In this article I wish to present a theory of literary creativity that begins with an idea put forward by Paul Ricoeur in T ime and Narrative, Vol. I. ‘‘The productive imagination,’’ according to Ricoeur, ‘‘is not only rulegoverned, it constitutes the generative matrix of rules’’ (68). Ricoeur shows how an author, in writing a text that is ‘‘sedimented’’ by previously uttered material, perhaps necessarily so, can, none-the-less be engaged in ‘‘innovation’’: innovation by transformation. ‘‘Rule-governed deformation,’’ Ricoeur claims, constitutes an ‘‘axis’’ around which changes in previous material transform these content elements so much that the result consists of an original text (70). I am presenting Ricoeur’s concept of ‘‘rule-governed deformation’’ as a defense against a cascade of theoretical outcomes that place ‘‘creativity’’ into question. Late twentieth-century post-structuralist literary theory challenges the very existence of creativity.1 Theorists’ insights that literary texts consist of a woven fabric of previous literary texts suggest to some of them that ‘‘creativity’’ is a null category. Michel Foucault, to present a single example, thinks that ‘‘to raise or lower’’ a literary work’s ‘‘stock of originality’’ is a ‘‘harmless enough amusement for historians who refuse to grow up’’ (144). For Foucault the evidence for re-use of older texts in every new text is so overwhelming that only an irrational child-like desire to believe in literary creativity can keep a person from accepting that it is an outmoded concept. What could be more useless, Foucault asks, than to ‘‘reveal in a work its fidelity to tradition or its irreducible uniqueness?’’ The ‘‘great accumulation of the already said,’’ in literary texts means, for Foucault, that ‘‘the originality/banality opposition’’ is ‘‘not relevant’’ (144). Foucault merely states the logical implication of the many statements of post-structuralist theorists to the effect that, in literature, ‘‘only language speaks,’’ that the work does not originate from an author who might be deemed more (or less) original. Among theorists holding this view in addition to Foucault are Roland Barthes (Pleasure 34–50;

The Secret Place of Literary Creativity in John Fowles’s Daniel Martin: A Phenomenological Perspective

The motto of John Fowles’s Daniel Martin is “Whole sight, or the rest is desolation.” The gaining of “whole sight” in this novel depends greatly upon attaining a sense of “place” in a way that the phenomenological perspective helps to explain. When Daniel Martin, the title character of John Fowles’s novel, wishes to regenerate himself, he decides to write an honest autobiographical novel. Accepting this task, Daniel concludes, gives him a greater chance at honesty than does the writing of film-scripts which he has been doing. Partly, Daniel feels that the film cannot be the medium of honesty in “a culture all of whose surface appearances mislead, and which has made such a psychological art of escaping present, or camera, reality” (DM 273). We “go elsewhere” for our private reality, and “above all to words” (DM 273). “With film-making,” Daniel continues, “our real `block’ is our secret knowledge that any true picture,” of our selves, “must express what the camera cannot capture” (DM 274). Daniel says that he might “reverse the proposition”: no novel “that can be successfully filmed” presents a true picture (DM 274).

Ricoeur’s “Allegory” and Jakobson’s Metaphoric/Metonymic Principles

Paul Ricoeur denies symbolic effect to expressions where the original sense of an expression is destroyed in the process of interpretation, calling such discourse “allegory”, the mere “rhetorical” and “didactic” procedure in which the literal meaning is “eliminated once it has done its job”. Such language is a vehicle, or a ladder: “Having ascended the ladder”, says Ricoeur, “we can then descend it” (Ricoeur 1976: 55).1 Ricoeur thus employs two categories, and if we are to have two categories — one in which the initial sense is destroyed (Ricoeur’s “allegory”), and the other in which the original meaning is retained and added to the second meaning (Ricoeur’s “symbol”) — I believe it is more helpful to subject symbolism to Roman Jakobson’s paradigm, establishing two forms of symbolism, each signaled by contextual cues: the metaphoric symbol, in which the literal expression is discarded, and the metonymic symbol in which no such discarding occurs.2

The Disenchantment of the Sky in Tom Stoppard’s Jumpers

In some deep spot in the psyche, humans need enchantment. The unknown provides opportunity for humans to invest an element with enchantment, for example, blank spots on the map and the sky. In Tom Stoppard’s play Jumpers, the main female character Dotty, a singer and actress has had a nervous breakdown because of a landing on the moon. Disenchantment is a process of rationalization; enchantment is the opposite of rationalization. As areas of human experience become increasingly explored by reason, they become unavailable for enchantment. According to Max Weber, “The increasing intellectualization and rationalization do not, therefore, indicate an increased and general knowledge of the condition under which one lives” (139). Weber clarifies his point, “It means something else, … that principally there are no mysterious incalculable forces that come into play, but rather that one can, in principle, master all things by calculation. This means that the world is disenchanted” (139). Behind this may be Phenomenological concepts explained by Schutz and Luckmann. We again recall William James’s dictum that “any object which remains uncontradicted is ipso facto believed and posited as an absolute reality.” [James, Principles of Psychology, II, 289.] Husserl also comes to the same conclusion. [Erfahrung und Urtiel, 74a, pp. 359ff] (Schutz and Luckmann 30) “Of the imaginer (the dreamer), who lives in a world of imagination, we cannot say that he posits fictions as fictions; rather, he has modified actualities, actualities as-if. … Only he who lives in experience and from there ‘dips into’ imagination, whereby what is imagined contrasts with what is experienced, can have the concept of fiction and actuality” [Husserl’s italics] [Erfahrung und Urtiel, p. 360) (Schutz and Luckmann 30–31). Disenchantment is shown in the play to be spreading to more vital areas such as religious belief. Dotty’s husband, the main male character, believes in reason, but he knows that irrationality is essential as well; humanity needs balance. He says in Jumpers, “The National Gallery is a monument to irrationality! Every concert hall is a monument to irrationality! … The irrational, the emotional, the whimsical … these are the stamp of humanity which makes reason a civilizing force” (40). The negative effect of disenchantment and how humanity overcomes this problem provides a key entering point for an analysis of Tom Stoppard’s Jumpers.

All My Sons : Arthur Miller’s Sky Play in Light of Søren Kierkegaard’s Either/Or

Although Arthur Miller’s All My Sons raises the issue of reasons to believe that God exists, the issue of taking responsibility for one’s own actions emerges as the primary idea in the play. Kate tells her son Chris: “God does not let a son be killed by his father” (68). She believes that if God exists “Your brother’s alive, darling,” she says, “because if he’s dead, your father killed him.” However, as we will see, Miller’s play ultimately promotes taking responsibility for our own actions because we must love all humanity, not just one’s own immediate family. An analysis of the play via Soren Kierkegaard’s Either/Or helps understand the other-orientation theme—both in Kierkegaard’s agreement with Miller and in his disagreements. And sky references provide a virtual umbrella which shelters the play’s theme: the theme of painfully taking responsibility while loving one’s fellow human.

The Source, Form, and Goal of Art in Anton Chekhov’s The Sea Gull

Excessive attention to the personal dimension may distract the reader or audience member in responding to Anton Chekhov’s The Sea Gull from noticing the most important meaning of the play: the dialectic over the source, form, and goal of art. As for the source of art, Chekhov’s character Nina says that the source of her acting art is her faith in herself; Konstantin sees the source of art as a gush that spontaneously surges from the soul of the artist, as he or she tries to stop thinking; and the play shows Boris taking notes from life for ideas he has for stories and novels. As far as form goes, Konstantin writes literature full of abstract ideas in what might be called an idealist form. Boris’s form is clearly realism. Pertaining to the goal of art, Boris clearly says that he wants to serve his country, the nation he loves, by describing the suffering of her people. The only objective stated by Konstantin is the self-referential one of creating new forms. Dr. Dorn says that no clear goal can be discerned in Konstantin’s art. Although the play presents several personal motives for Konstantin’s suicide, it also shows him realizing the superiority of Boris’s approach to art. Thus, in having Konstantin commit suicide, Chekov may be showing which side he takes in the debate.

The Pain of the Seer in the Civilization of the Blind: Faulkner and Salinger

In Seymour, An Introduction, J. D. Salinger’s character Buddy Glass juxtaposes words of a literary artist (Kafka) and a philosopher (Kierkegaard) in Buddy’s agonized attempt to understand the suicide of his brother Seymour, a suicide that echoes in many ways that of William Faulkner’s character Quentin Compson. Both of Salinger’s quotations depict an author’s inability to fully realize his or her vision of characters, depiciting this failure as the defiance of the characters against the author. Buddy says that the ideas reflect danger to the eyes, a reference that calls to mind Jacques Derrida’s interpretation of Rousseau—that civilization advances at the price of blindness to its inhabitants. Interestingly, Faulkner’s Quentin also fears for his eyes at one point. Both the Quentin section of William Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury and J.D. Salinger’s “A Perfect Day for Bananafish” lead up to a suicide which shocks the reader, and then each author wrote other works to reveal the back-story as if to help explain the suicide. Both story and novel-section have parallels in action (the main character spends time before the suicide with a little girl), image (fish), and character (both are aspiring authors and “seers”). Both Quentin and Seymour regret the idea that girls must grow into women, and both see flaws in their respective societies too well to live comfortably in them. Quentin sees the heritage of slavery and racial hatred that has formed the South of his day, and Seymour sees the aspects of society that are hostile to the imagination. While not fully explaining Seymour’s suicide, the similarities of “Bananafish” to the Quentin section of The Sound and the Fury provide a suggestive background that makes Seymour’s suicide more comprehensible, and especially why Seymour chose to shoot himself in the head over the sleeping form of his wife Muriel, rather than to slip quietly into deep water as Faulkner’s Quentin did.

The Philosopher’s Pupil, Iris Murdoch’s Post-Modern Allegory of the Creative Process

In Iris Murdoch’s novel The Philosopher’s Pupil, the author writes a postmodern allegory of the creative process. In this work, Iris Murdoch teaches her reader how to read allegorically in an age dominated by realism. She teases us—as critic Robert Scholes wrote of an earlier Murdoch novel—into re-learning a “lost way of reading by almost imperceptibly moving from conventional mysteries of motivation and responsibility to the ideational mysteries of philosophy” (Scholes, p. 60). Murdoch carries out the allegory by way of “The Institute,” a hot-spring spa in the town. The behind-the-scenes “machinery” of The Institute relates allegorically to the operation of the publishing apparatus controlling narrative for the public as the product of innate creativity surges through it. The allegory is clearly tied to a view of sexuality as a powerful natural force which some feel must be suppressed or at least channelled. The allegory is carried out as follows: A philosopher attempts to arrange the marriage of his granddaughter to a young writer who descends into the works of The Institute and then realizes he should marry the granddaughter. This allegorically represents the merger of narrative art and philosophy.