"Abode where lost bodies roam each searching for its lost one."I think the thing that nagged me most throughout this story was that the story never really addressed the fundamental questions generated in the first sentence. What is the "lost one" for which each body searches? What is its significance? Late in the text, there is the suggestion that the lost one for which each body searches is another of the bodies, but this isn't entirely clear. Perhaps they just believe that their lost one is one of the others. Whatever, it is clear the bodies are missing something.The majority of the text -- the longest Beckett piece we've read outside of the longer plays -- is spent describing the "abode" mentioned in the first sentence and the "lost bodies" that live there. Beckett is not exactly precise (several times saying he's talking in round figures) but is nevertheless quite detailed about the space. It is a cylinder, 50 meters around (about 16 meters across) and 16 meters high. Exactly how this qualifies as "vast enough for search to be in vain," I'm not sure. That's like saying you put 200 people (the text describes about 200 bodies) in a 50x50 room and you won't be able to find a particular other person. Or perhaps it suggests that the "life" of this space is short. Beckett also spends a chunk of text describing the temperature (which varies by about 20 degrees -- presumably Celsius -- on a cycle of eight seconds -- four up, four down) and the light ("dim yellow shaken by a vertiginous tremolo" cycling 5 times per second). Yes, it is a truly bizarre space.A few things I noticed in the text. Beckett mentions "harmony" several times. For example, the harmony of the cylinder's dimensions, the lack of harmony in the ladders' positions, the harmony of the niches locations -- and that's just the first three pages. So why is he concerned about harmony here? I'm not sure. Or maybe that's the theme of the piece since it seems to focus on the harmony of the space and the rules that ensure harmonious existence among the residents.It's also worth noting that Beckett refers to the residents of the space as "bodies", not people. Was he perhaps looking for a connection to things dead? The original is French and it's probably worth noting that "body" is "corps" and "corpse" is "cadavre", so the French probably lacks the ambiguity of the English in this respect. But I suspect Beckett knew exactly what he was doing when he translated it and chose "bodies."The text seems to move in circles. By that, I mean that it revisits itself several times. Beckett gives us a first overview of something, then moves onto something else, then loops back and provides more detail about a prior point, then goes on to something else, loops back to the first or second point, and so forth. For example, the opening describes the general space of the cylinder ending with "So much for a first apercu of the abode." Next we get a broad description of the bodies. "So much roughly speaking for these bodies…" Then we find more about the space, starting with a recap of the dimensions and the environment but with more detail on the light and temperature variations. This circularity pervades the text. So do the words "so much," for that matter.Conformity, perhaps a variation on harmony, also seems to be important to this work. For example, when Beckett describes the rules that govern the space and its inhabitants, he makes it clear that there are certain points in any given flow of action where the inhabitants have a choice to continue or abandon, but those choices are relatively few. Failing to abandon a particular flow of action, the body is forced to continue it until the next decision point. For example, moving from the central space into one of the rings of bodies that move around the edges can only happen under certain conditions and following certain rules. Moving between rings can only happen according to certain rules. Once one is in line for a ladder, he must stay in line until he reaches the ladder. Once he sets foot on the first rung, he must climb the ladder to the top. The bodies must conform to the rules. Violations are severely punished. For example, "Woe to the rash searcher who carried away by his passion dare lay a finger on the least of [those in a queue for a ladder]. Like a single body the whole queue falls on the offender. Of all the scenes of violence the cylinder has to offer none approaches this." (p. 222 in "Collected Short Prose")Ultimately, the space dies. One by one, the bodies give up the search, becoming "sedentaries" until the last finally stops and the space falls into darkness and deep cold. Entropy wins.In searching for information on the French original, I ran across a paper by an FSU English student (http://www.english.fsu.edu/jobs/num07/Num7Murphy.htm). I was focusing on the French, so haven't read this yet, but I did note that the author suggests that the French title, "Le Depeupleur" means "the depopulator". In other words, the space is a killing machine, but one that grinds its victims down slowly at least, in their perception, as they seem to be able to for lines, climb ladders, walk around, etc. It is death by a thousand cuts rather than the guillotine.
A disorienting, blinding, deafening closed system that taunts some with hopes of escape but only delivers despair. A killing machine that slowly destroys those inside it. An endless quest for some "lost one" that is never found, whose significance is never explained, who the seeker wouldn't recognize even if they met. Bodies, dead already, but not having the good grace to lie down and be still. Perhaps Beckett's view of life on earth?
Wow. Posting my thoughts on Dr. M's questions two weeks in a row. Something must be wrong.The AuthorQ: B&R propose that the "author is a sort of phantom." Explain what they mean and its implications.A: The author is concealed from the reader by the characters and world that the author creates (the text). Even if the author writes in first person, the "I" of the story is arguably a character, not the author. Even if the author injects parts of his life and experience into the story, the story is still a conflation or reality and imagination. The reader has no access to the author other than through the text, and the text hides the author. So, while the reader may get a sense of the author through the text (for instance, it was fairly obvious to me that Orson Scott Card was a Mormon after reading a couple of his book), that "knowledge" is really the reader's idea of the author. The reader does not meet the author in the text -- or the author met is the particular face of the author presented in the text, a fragment of a larger whole.Q: What is "the intentional fallacy."A: Wimsatt and Beardsley proposed that the author's intent is "neither available nor desirable" for understanding or critically analyzing the text. Since everything is mediated by language, even if we asked the author, their answer would simply be another text open to interpretation. Given some of the other discussion in class regarding the psychoanalytical concept of the unconscious and its unknowable role in human actions, it is doubtful that even the author can give a complete explanation of everything they intended. Therefore, readers should not focus on the author's intention but their interpretation of the author's work.Q: Identify one way in which "authorial intention" is problematized or "falters", according to BR.A: See the sentence regarding the unknowable unconscious in the answer to the previous question. Also, modern linguistics theory suggests that language itself introduces limits and constraints on the author, predisposing him to certain paths and modes of speech (writing) and discourse and further limiting the freedom of his intent. Monuments Q: What is Frank Kermode’s definition of a classic, and what are its implications for notion of authorial intention?A: Kermode defines a classic as a work whose "instrinsic qualities" endure but that is open to multiple interpretations and reinterpretations. The classic survives because it can mean different things at different times. This undermines the idea of authorial intention because later interpretations may have nothing to do with the author's conscious (or even unconscious) intentions at the time of writing. Kermode says that the text is subject to the reader's interpretation and is "not a message from one mind to another."Q: The value of the monument and the process of monumentalization are driven by a double impulse: to remember and to forget. Explain what this double impulse means.A: On the one hand, the monument seeks to remind those who remain of the thing it honors. On the other hand, it buries or conceals the thing it seeks to honor, putting it out of sight and causing us to forget. For example, in Milton's poem on Shakespeare, he points readers away from Shakespeare's physical body and toward his literary body. Don't bother looking at his grave. That body doesn't matter. Look at what he wrote. That's the important (and immortal) body. This directs us away from the man, making him accessible only through the texts he left us.
Footfalls is another bit of avant garde, but seems more approachable than Eh, Joe. Either that or I'm becoming more accustomed to avant garde strangeness. I'm still struggling to pull together a coherent understanding of the play, but I'll make some notes about things I noticed.The play has two characters. One is May, who spends the play pacing up and down a short strip on the stage and talking. The other is a "woman's voice" -- whose isn't specified. The lighting directions seem to indicate that the visual is focused on May's feet and her face is basically indistinct and in shadow. This seems appropriate given the title. May has grey hair and is dressed in grey. Greyness seems to be a recurring theme in Beckett's work.The lighting directions start the play in darkness and bring up the lights after a chime sounds. At three points in the play, the lights go dark for a brief span before coming back up dimmer each time. The speech in the play starts with a dialog between May and the voice. Next comes a monologue by the voice. Finally there is a monologue by May. Each section of speech overlaps the others and establishes parallels that create questions about who each character is and suggesting some curious resonances between sections.Thoughts...May's pacing is described as a "clearly audible rhythmic tread." This calls to mind the image of a metronome or a clock ticking away seconds. When May is pacing, time is passing. When she stands still, everything transpires in a single tick.Perhaps the greyness is to reflect Beckett's view that everything is shades of grey. There is no real black or white -- or maybe that should be, there is no white since we frequently have blackness too, though one could argue that even the blackest black is still not truly black, just a very dark grey.The lighting seems to be doing two things. First, it seems to be acting as a curtain of sorts, breaking the play into three "acts," though that may be a stretch of the theatrical term. Second, the fact that it is dimmer each time suggests that May is fading. Indeed, the final lights-up direction says there is "no trace of May" on the stage. In the first act (I'm going to pretend it is legitimate to call the parts acts), the voice is May's mother who hears May calling "in [her] deep sleep." What is this sleep? Is it just plain old sleep? Or is it something else? Death is often paralleled to sleep. A coma might be likewise. Maybe it is a sleep of consciousness in the sense that we could say that someone who is present but isn't attentive is "asleep". If so, what is the thing to which the voice isn't attentive as it is clearly attentive to May's voice.There is an inconsistency in the voice's second set of lines. The voice is (as best I can tell) supposed to be counting in sync with May's steps, but only counts to seven between turns. This is inconsistent because Beckett's directions say May's path is always nine steps. May asks the voice/mother several questions -- would you like me to inject you again (with what?) change your position (is mother immobile?) etc. To each of these, the voice/mother responds affirmative (she would like them to be done) "but it is too soon." I don't know if this is significant or not, but this made me think of time oriented vs. event oriented societies. In time oriented societies, people say, "We'll do that at 1:00PM," and mean it. Whatever else is going on, we'll drop it and do this at 1:00PM. In event oriented societies people say, "We'll do that after we finish this," meaning maybe today, maybe tomorrow, maybe even next week. Of course, some people combine the two -- "I'll meet you after my class that ends at 5:45 PM" establishes both event and time constraints. Class may end early or late, but this is primarily time oriented because it establishes a narrow band of time in which something will happen. The point of all this is just to say that the voice/mother is very conscious of time and doing things at the proper time as opposed to doing them when she feels like doing them. She wants to be injected, but it isn't time. She wants to be cared for, but it isn't time. She is time-oriented. And let's not forget that May's pacing marks time in the play.The lines in the middle of page 240 introduce the first clear parallel between May and the voice/mother. They establish the voice/mother to be about 90 which prompts the question, "So much?" from the voice. May, on the other hand is said to be "in [her] forties" and asks, "So little?" These parallels will continue to grow throughout the play. It's also worth noting that this first act of the play begins with May calling, "Mother. [Pause. No louder.] Mother. [Pause.]" to which the voice responds, "Yes, May." Followed by "Were you asleep?" The act concludes with "May. [Pause. No louder.] May." To which may responds, "Yes, Mother." "Will you never have done?"Earlier in the first act, as the voice was counting May's steps, it ended each set of seven (which I thought should have been nine) with "wheel" to call the turn. At the end of the first act, the voice is asking May if she'll ever quit "revolving it all," emphasizing the theme of looping, circling, repeating that is first established by May's pacing and is carried through the parallels in speech identified above and later in the play.In act two, the voice (still the voice of mother? some other voice?) begins, "I walk here now." We never see the speaker for the voice. There is no evidence that the speaker is walking -- or even there other than the sound of the voice. (This point will become important later in the act.) The voice begins a monologue, presumably about May since it refers to her standing and May is directed to be standing still at one end of her pacing path at the beginning of the act. Remember that this suggests the first part of the voice's monologue is happening in a single tick of time.The voice says May is pacing "in the old home … where she began." This made me think of some of the protagonists in the first four Beckett stories we read. For example, in both "First Love" and "The Expelled" the protagonists lived in their family homes until they were thrown out. In fact, both had stayed in their room, rarely venturing out, until they were thrown out. May seems to echo this theme, only now it seems that the room is more in her head than some physical place. (Maybe this suggests that the rooms in the first stories were the protagonists' heads.)The voice says that May has been here pacing for a very long time, even "when other girls her age were out at… lacrosse…". Why lacrosse? I'm wondering if May is autistic or mentally handicapped or perhaps severely obsessive/compulsive. Beckett doesn't really talk in those terms and see discussion of voice/mother's consciousness above, but it's an interesting thought. Is May somehow mentally different than much of the rest of the world, turned so inward that she cannot function in the world at large? This could be supported by the idea that May doesn't really sleep -- or does so rarely and on her feet.In the last half of the voice's monologue, we get a story about a dialog between a child named May (presumably the May of the play) and her mother (presumably the voice, though the voice doesn't identify itself as the mother in this act). The interesting thing is when May says that "motion alone is not enough, I must hear the feet, however faint they fall." This leads to someone removing the carpet from the floor so May can hear her footfalls as she paces. But let's go back to the need to hear the feet. This seems to echo Berkeley's philosophy that being is in being seen, only with the sense of hearing instead of sight. In this play, being isn't being seen, it is being heard. Which harks back to the earlier comment I made about the voice. We never see the speaker, but because we hear the voice, we know the speaker exists. Also, it is reinforced by the lighting directions which make May barely visible to begin with and increasing less visible with each light cycle. Being is being heard. Along this line of thought, note that while May needs to hear her steps, she only speaks "when she fancies none can hear." May is defining her own existence and does not want others to do so for her. Also, when she speaks she "tries to tell how it was," defining her past as well as confirming her present existence by the sound of her voice. Also note that she "tries," doesn't necessarily succeed.The third act is May's monologue. May begins with "Sequel." This is a little curious, but as we progress, we can see that May's monologue might be related to the story in the voice's monologue. In this section, though, the distinction between May and the voice becomes a little less certain. May talks about someone, presumably herself. Presumably we're hearing her "try[ing] to tell how it was." There was a turn of phrase in the first part of May's monologue that I found interesting. "Some nights, she would halt, as one frozen by some shudder of the mind, and stand stark still till she could move again." I can't exactly say why, but the shudder of the mind is an interesting image for me. Also, when she stopped, the stop was involuntary. She had to wait until she could (was able) to move again.Also in this monologue, there are references to her walking along "his poor arm" -- twice. I'm curious whose arm it is. She's in the church when she's walking. Perhaps this is a reference to Christ on the cross since many Catholic churches are laid out in cross-patterns Also, she somehow got into the church even though the door was "always locked at that hour," which makes me wonder how she got in. Did she walk through the wall? Is May a ghost?At about the middle of the first half of her monologue may describes the pacer as "Grey rather than white, a pale shade of grey." This echoes the grey theme mentioned earlier. The use of "shade" also takes on a possible second meaning as we struggle to understand how May got through a locked door. Is it saying she is a ghost -- a grey ghost, not a white ghost?Near the middle of the monologue, she talks about seasons and Vespers. May then begins to talk about Mrs. Winter (whose name is a season) talking to her daughter Amy (whose name is an anagram of May) about what she observed at Evensong (the Anglican name for Vespers). It seems there is a definite tie here to May going to the locked church and pacing along "his poor arm" "at certain seasons of the year, during Vespers." I'm just not sure what. Also, Is May Amy? Is this name change like Lulu/Anna in "First Love"? Is there an intentional relationship between Mrs. Winter (on a late autumn evening) and her daughter May (late spring)? It seems that there is a definite relationship, but it isn't clear. For one thing, the brief description we have of Amy implies that she is functioning in the world, talking to her mother, sitting down to dinner, arguably going to Evensong, not pacing a rut in the floor. May's story tells of Mrs. Winter asking Amy if she observed anything strange at Evensong, to which Amy replies "I was not there." Mrs. Winter asserts that she must have been because "I heard you respond. I heard you say Amen." This is looping back to the being is being heard idea. Mrs. Winter is convinced she heard Amy, which certifies Amy's presence, but Amy insists she was not there. Amy never responds to her mother's assertion.The final lines of May's monologue are Mrs. Winter speaking to Amy, echoing the voice/mother's words to May at the end of the first act. "Amy. [Pause. No louder.] Amy. [Pause.] Yes, Mother. [Pause.] Will you never have done? [etc.]" The play has looped around itself again.I'm still not certain exactly what to make of this play. The themes seem to be about repetition and circularity, being is being heard (in contrast to being seen), and uncertainty of identity and existence, but I haven't managed to tie them all together yet into a clear picture in my head.
I rather enjoyed Rick Cluchey's performance of Krapp's Last Tape. On the whole it was roughly as I'd expected, but there's a difference between seeing the performance and visualizing it in my head. (Especially since I'm more a novels and stories person than a plays and screenplays person.)
I did note a couple of things watching the performance that I hadn't seen reading the play.First, I noticed how much of the "comic relief" of the play was compressed into the pre-speech actions. This isn't to say that there is no comedy later in the play, but the majority of it is crammed into the first few actions as Krapp eats his bananas.
Second… In class discussion, there was some question about whether the "last tape" referred to the tape to which Krapp listens or the tape Krapp begins later in the play before abandoning it to return to his memories of Bianca. Watching Cluchey perform, and later checking against the text, we find that the tape Krapp listens to is box three, spool 5. While searching for it, Krapp references boxes after three, making it pretty clear that he has continued to make tapes since the tape he listens to. So the "last tape" must be the tape Krapp makes.Cluchey said in his talk-back section that, according to Beckett, not only was the tape Krapp's last, but so was the "night in the future" when he made the tape.
Interesting. Nonetheless, Beckett's title focused on the tape, not the night. This suggests that the content of the last tape was important, and leads me back toward my original reading of the play in my earlier workbook entry. Krapp is looking back on choices and regretting them, choosing to go back to them as best he can, even though it is far too late to return and take the alternate path.
Which basically ties into my notes on Herb Blau's lecture and the conclusion that, far enough down the road to regret the choice is probably too late to reverse it. Make your choices. Move forward. Live with them.
Maybe that's Beckettian in a way.
And I still think the play might also be Beckett looking forward to looking back and regretting a choice he was facing, as said in the previous entry. In fact, watching the play and realizing that Cluchey is acting much as Beckett directed him, it seems all the more certain to me.
I took a lot of notes at the Herb Blau lecture, but two things stuck in my mind.First was Blau's assertion that Beckett wasn't a nihilist because he was too hopeful. I found this interesting because I don't really see a lot of hope inherent in Beckett's work. Generally, Beckett seems to be struggling with the extreme imperfection of life as we know it.I guess the only hopeful element I see in Beckett's work is that he doesn't give up utterly. He's miserable and discusses that misery quite extensively. He sees no real hope -- all hope is artificial hope that we create ourselves to motivate us to persist either in meaningless inaction (Waiting for Godot, for example) or unsuccessful action (Film, for example). Life is all about waiting for the end (Endgame, for example) and struggling with our inner demons ("The Calmative", for example). I guess that is more hopeful than someone who says there's no point in the struggle, no point in bothering to wait -- a view that ultimately leads to the conclusion that suicide is just as viable an option as any other, and is probably more honest.The second thing that stuck in my mind was Blau's response to Thomas' question about memory and how that seemed to stimulate a burst of intense introspection and possibly a struggle for words. We know he's writing his autobiography and is revisiting his life -- the things he's proud of and things he looks at and probably asks, "How could I be so stupid?"This sticks because it resonates with some things I've said to other people over the past few semesters. As the 40-something student in the midst of mostly 20-somethings, I find myself realizing (perhaps slightly jealous of) the freedom the 20-somethings have as they are unattached, not tied down. It reminds me of something someone told me when I was a 20-something in college. "You have more free time to do what you want right now than you will later in life." True.They could have also added, "In many cases, no matter what choice you make, you'll probably end up wishing you'd at least tried the other choice." And to that I should add, if I'd made the other choice, I probably would have wished I'd tried the choice I made. It isn't so much a "no win" situation as an aspect of human nature. We want what we don't have, and what we don't have is often a result of the choice we make, hence we end up wishing we'd made different choices so we'd have what we don't have.That said, I look back at some of the choices I made of which I casually think,"I wish I'd chosen differently," and speculate about where the different road would have led and realize that, if I'd gone down that road, I'd still have regrets. Two roads diverged… and I chose the path I chose. Trying to go back and try the other way will get me nowhere. And if I run back and then down that other path and decide I was happier where I was before, will I have enough time to get back to where I was before it's too late? Is "too late" inherent in the first undoing?So, Blau's reflection reinforced this line of my own thinking. I've made choices. Some I think I wish I'd made differently. That's normal. Keep moving forward. As Beckett said, "I'll go on."Which is another example of Beckett not quite qualifying as a nihilist.
I've been failing to write up the answers to the B&R questions -- at least formally to post on this blog. This week, however… Dr. M asked the following questions for B&R.The BeginningWhat are peritexts and in what way do they complicate the notion of beginnings? Provide an explanation in addition to an illustration.Peritexts are things that come before the "official" beginning of the story -- before the first line of the narrative in question. Some peritexts are inherent in the construction of a book, such as covers, tables of contents, etc. Many books include some kind of summary on the cover or end flaps that establish the basic premise of the story. Some include quotes from reviews and establish reader expectations (or predispose the reader to a particular interpretation) of the book. Some authors may include prefaces, dedications, quotations or prologues before the primary text. The preface to the English edition of ENDO Shusaku's "Chinmoku" ("Silence") provides historical context and predisposes the reader to a particular interpretation of the story. (It is better read as a afterword than a preface.) Peritexts complicate the notion of the beginning by introducing elements between the reader and the beginning. For example, the cover image of a book, the title of a book, story or poem, dedications and other peritexts pull the reader into parts of the story or set the stage for the story -- in effect, beginning before the beginning. So, the translator of "Chinmoku" gives historical background for the story and, in doing so, tells a major part of the story which involves a priest who sneaks into Tokugawa Japan after the Shimabara Rebellion, when Christianity has been outlawed. That background, and the more detailed overview of Tokugawa repression of Christianity in the preface, effectively tells the reader the major strokes of the story. The preface even delves into the complex crises of faith that the priest faces as he struggles with God's silence in the face of Tokugawa treatment of Christians, addressing (and telling the reader how to interpret) several key issues in the story. (For these reasons, this peritext is better left for a post-text.)Define intertextuality and explain how this concept provides a means of complicating the idea of a simple beginning.Intertextuality is when the author incorporates, consciously or not, allusions, references, quotations and other elements from other texts. Even a title can be intertextual. For example, a story titled "Beloved Son" calls to mind the Biblical quotation, "This is my beloved son in whom I am well pleased," and establishes a subtext to the story. Other examples include Beckett using Proustian language in his early stories.Intertextuality complicates the beginning by establishing these connections to predecessor texts. This calls into question whether the text at hand stands alone or whether it begins in the earlier texts. The UncannyIn B&R's discussion of Freud's notion of the double, B&R go on to identify a specific paradox associated with the double. What is the paradox and how does it illustrate the notion of the uncanny?Freud says the double promises both immortality (through reproducibility) and death (of identity because now "I" can point to one outside "me" and say, "That's me"). B&R says this paradox of the double "undermines the logic of identity" -- making a sense of self uncertain, therefore being uncanny.In what way is the word "uncanny" itself uncanny?The root "canny" basically means to be skilled in something, but it takes on connotations of unnatural skill or knowledge. Therefore, because it carries the concept of unnaturalness, it carries its opposite within itself, making it doubled and therefore "uncanny."
