Derrida, Writing, and [n+1 Critiques of Thalia Field's Theater]
Why begin a creative writing course with Derrida and Thalia Field? We began a discussion about why this might be so, talking around the possibility of possibility within (our use of) language. Specifically, language structures (large and small) that are familiar and those that are less so – realizing that this binary of what counts as familiar (or belongs in the household) and what is alien or monstrous (or is “not of the household”) is itself unstable. Comments on the blog (cf) have furthered this discussion, a couple pointing out a) that the monstrous might not only be welcomed, or fetishized, in contemporary western cultures, but is eventually subsumed, tamed, by the very schema of these cultures. I want to hold off on that discussion until we take a peek at Adorno and Wittgenstein later in the quarter. For now, the main thread here is this: Derrida and Field’s recognition of possibility inherent in language (the signified, as it were, is a limitless set), but also that many, sometimes the majority, of interpretations, readings, possibilities, are repressed. Where the sources of this repression are multiple, laden with power, and work, as we can probably guess by looking out the window or at our electricity bill, along heirarchical gridlines.
Where I find commonality in the two texts we’ve read goes beyond acknowledgment or recognition of possibility and repression and shows itself textually, i.e., in form. Derridian criticism (leaving the many problems of deconstruction aside) manifests, indeed embraces (as in Of Grammatology) contradiction and erasure, or, as Derrida would have it the theses that ground his notion of arche-writing. If, as Derrida suggests, the possibility of monstrosity is parasitic on a temporally-determined marginally acceptable set of [repressed] interpretations, then what follows are the implicit axioms of a) language-as-public, b) meaning-as-unstable, and c) writing-as-collaborative. A, B, and C show themselves in Field’s work. Formally, the process by which writing-as-collaboration (i.e., reading=writing in some way yet to be discussed here), is overtly simplistic. Anyone who has played with Mad Libs automatically knows the game. Yet, it is the overt pointing to the idea of behind the Mad Lib (what makes the Mad Lib possible), performing a text in different ways potentially infinitely, that Field is in part interested in. The pointing shows the importance of a worn exercise, its prevalence in what we do when we read almost anything, and most importantly, processes that hide behind or within texts and our ideas about their meanings. I take it to be somewhat obvious that the set of possibilities one bring’s to Field’s Theater is very much like post-Brechtian alienation–a naked text daring you to stare at your own habituation as you fill in the brackets.
I’m interested in what you think about the relation between these texts, admitting, of course, that one is a part of an interview (and Derrida’s work insists on drawing distinctions between speech and writing). I’m more interested in you using Derrida’s talk as a way to warm your brain to performing Field’s Theater. Feel free to post your comments or send me, via email, your Field pieces (or any other longer writing), and I’ll post it on the main blog page.
Optional Further Readings:
For a decent intro to Derrida, go here: http://www.iep.utm.edu/d/derrida.htm#SH3b
Thalia Field, Point and Line
January 17th, 2009 at 10:53 am
I decided to buy a copy of Of Grammatology by Derrida because the idea of his monster is so interesting to me. I think I’ve been thinking about it in completely different terms than where you’re taking it though.
Maybe I’m reading into what he’s saying to much, but it seems like the only conclusion I could come to after that interview was that there can only be one true monster, and that’s nothingness. It’s the only thing truly unfathomable by humanity and completely lacks the ability to be domesticated. I find it so interesting how he broke down the fact that all other monsters can be domesticated once humanity learns to tame them, and eventually, probably subsidize them and capitalize off of them.
But nothingness?
It adds further flavor to me that he says he no longer views his writing as monstrous. So it seems like a monstrous element in writing is something I’d want to avoid. It also made House Of Leaves completely make sense to me as well. I’m hoping it’s good, but I’d love to talk to you about this further. Maybe I’m way off base when it comes to what he meant, but it’s an idea that’s put my brain in a choke hold ever since I read that interview.