S C H W E I Z E R A N G L I S T I S C H E A R B E I T E N S W I S S S T U D I E S I N E N G L I S H Simone Heller-Andrist The Friction of the Frame Derrida’s Parergon in Literature Schweizer Anglistische Arbeiten Swiss Studies in English Begründet von Bernhard Fehr Herausgegeben von Martin Heusser (Zürich), Daniel Schreier (Zürich), Jürg R. Schwyter (Lausanne) Band 138 Simone Heller-Andrist The Friction of the Frame Derrida’s Parergon in Literature Bibliographical information of the Deutsche Nationalibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographical information is available at http: / / dnb.d-nb.de This thesis was accepted as a doctoral dissertation by the Faculty of Arts of the University of Zurich in the spring semester 2010 on the recommendation of Prof. Dr. Martin Heusser and Prof. Dr. Fritz Gutbrodt. Published with the support of the Swiss National Science Foundation. © 2011 Narr Francke Attempto Verlag GmbH + Co. KG Dischingerweg 5 · D-72070 Tübingen All rights, including the rights of publication, distribution and sales, as well as the right to translate, are reserved. No part of this work covered by the copyrights hereon may be reproduced or copied in any form or by any means - graphic, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording, taping, or information and retrieval systems - without written permission of the publisher. Internet: http: / / www.francke.de E-Mail: info@francke.de Printed and Bound by Hubert & Co., Göttingen Printed in Germany ISSN 0080-7214 ISBN 978-3-7720-8426-3 Cover design: Martin Heusser, Zürich For Daniel, Luis, and Emma Acknowledgements My initial interest in Jacques Derrida ’ s parergon was sparked when I attended a course entitled “ From Utopia to The Matrix: Alternate Realities in Literature and Film ” taught by my supervisor, Prof. Dr. Martin Heusser, in summer 2002, as a result of which I read Derrida ’ s The Truth in Painting. I subsequently immersed myself in Derrida ’ s world of thought and play, which I found both cryptic and appealing, and which ultimately inspired me to embark upon this project. The strength to persevere came through the support I received from everyone close to me, for which I would like to express my deepest gratitude. First of all, I would like to thank Prof. Dr. Martin Heusser for his constant encouragement, and Prof. Dr. Fritz Gutbrodt for subsequently agreeing to become my co-supervisor. Prof. Gutbrodt taught a course on appropriation in literature in autumn 2007, which provided me with a great deal of material to incubate until I could use it for my thesis. I would also like to thank Andrew Torr for proofreading my final version. In the course of our collaboration, he has become a good friend. I am deeply grateful to my friend and departmental colleague Nicole Frey Büchel, who steadfastly accompanied me through the vicissitudes of assistantship and research, as well as to Martin Mühlheim and Rahel Rivera, with whom I shared an office and who were thus obliged to share so many of my thoughts. Without their invaluable comments and ideas, this study would not be what it is now. My gratitude is also due to Karl Walter, who first taught me English, to Misha Kavka, who first taught me how to write, and to the staff of the English Department, who ensured that I also learnt how to read. Further, I am deeply indebted to Susanne Wille Fischlin, who, as a dear friend and fellow-student, was a guiding light throughout my studies. Not least, I wish to thank my own students for their willing response to my passion for literature. I would also like to express my appreciation to the Francke Verlag for publishing this book and to the Swiss National Science Foundation for their generous financial support. On a more personal level, I am most grateful to my parents, my brother, and my friends for their constant support, as well as to my husband Daniel for his unfailing encouragement and for enabling me to pursue this project. Finally, I would like to thank my son Luis and my daughter Emma for bearing with my personal alternate reality. Every limit is a beginning as well as an ending. George Eliot Middlemarch Contents 1. Introduction: Frameworks, or the Frame at Work . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 2. Frameworks and Paratexts: From Typology to Function . . . . . . 19 Frames, Paratexts, and Typology . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 Derrida ’ s Parergon and Kant . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26 The Parergon Today . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41 Mechanisms, Functions, and the Effect of the Parergonal Framework . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses . . . . . . . . . . . . 71 I Protection of Author or Work . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71 A Matter of Reception: Walpole ’ s The Castle of Otranto . . . . . . . 73 Transgressing Gender Boundaries: Eliot ’ s Middlemarch . . . . . . . 85 Bridging the Gap: Hawthorne ’ s The Scarlet Letter . . . . . . . . . . . . 99 A Final Twist: Forster ’ s A Room with a View . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 114 The Hybrid: Fielding ’ s Tom Jones . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 124 II Diminution or Amplification of the Work ’ s Political Impact . . 141 Breaking the Fourth Wall: Shakespeare ’ s A Midsummer Night ’ s Dream . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 142 A Usurped Autobiography: Defoe ’ s Moll Flanders . . . . . . . . . . . . 162 III Textual Dialogues: The Reader as a Mediator . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 172 The Average and the Individual: Everyman Meets Roth ’ s Everyman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 183 Competing Protagonists: Brontë ’ s Jane Eyre and Rhys ’ Wide Sargasso Sea . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 208 4. Conclusion: Parergon versus Ergon: Interplay or Powerplay? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 245 Works Cited . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 253 Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 269 1. Introduction: Frameworks, or the Frame at Work Frames not only protect; they also expose. The significance of frames in frame narratives traditionally equals that of the wooden frame that surrounds a painting. It needs to be traversed in order to reach the centre of attention, either the literary core text or the visual artwork. The process of traversing — the scanning and skimming of frames or pages — resembles a journey at the end of which there is an encounter with the work of art. As a result of this wellestablished process, the spectator or reader heeds the frame less than the work and hence automatically places it in a subordinate position to it. According to Newman, however, framing is a complex process that contains a “ double logic, ” namely “ the tendency of the frame simultaneously to establish boundaries and to announce, even to invite, their violation ” (154). In this study, attention is focused on the literary frame and its workings and on disclosing the frame ’ s significance by tracing its double logic and the mechanisms it triggers. The literary frame is the entity that often — as we traverse it in our reading — almost unnoticeably endows this reading with a particular direction. Such frames create an undercurrent that can only be tackled when we understand how it is generated. This understanding makes the reader aware of any sort of friction, which is often effected by incompatibilities between work and frame, or, as Theodor W. Adorno puts it: “ What crackles in artworks is the sound of friction of the antagonistic elements that the artwork seems to unify ” (177). 1 The reader ’ s awareness, in turn, helps him or her to navigate the treacherous waters of textual manipulation. Derrida ’ s The Truth in Painting describes the concept of the parergon, which, when transposed from the visual arts to literature, provides a tool with which to investigate, understand, and interpret the workings of literary frames that hold the power to influence our reading. This transposition re-enacts Derrida ’ s appropriation of the concept in Kant: the parergon “ must, if it is to have the status of a philosophical quasiconcept, designate a formal and general predicative structure, which one can transport intact or deformed and reformed according to certain rules, 2 into other 1 The German wording adds to our understanding of this kind of friction: “ Was an den Kunstwerken knistert, ist der Laut der Reibung der antagonistischen Momente, die das Kunstwerk zusammenzubringen trachtet ” (264). It might be worth noting that the German verb “ trachtet ” carries the element of intention (as opposed to the verb “ seems ” in the English translation). 2 Unless otherwise specified, italicization in quoted passages is as used in the original. fields, to submit new contents to it ” (55). 3 In this sense, my study also transports the parergon into another field in order to submit new contents to it. Friction becomes a symptom: it is the main indicator of parergonality in literature. 4 Even though Derrida ’ s concept has previously been used in literary criticism (cf. section “ The Parergon Today ” below), no systematic study of the parergon in literature has so far been conducted. Since the origin of painting, the frame and the artwork have been an inseparable unit: the frame is the boundary between the painting and its surroundings, for instance the work ’ s historical context or an event such as a vernissage. The frame as a boundary needs to be transcended by the beholder in order for the work to be taken out of its isolation and placed within a context. Throughout the ages, frame and artwork have always made their appearance together. In his work La vérité en peinture, which was first published in 1978 and then translated and first published in English under the title The Truth in Painting in 1987, Jacques Derrida investigates concepts that belong to the visual arts. Derrida weaves a complex pattern of puns and allusions; formally, his text often remains a collection of lemmata or notes. He inquires into concepts such as the passe-partout, the ergon (the work), the hors d ’ oeuvre (its surroundings, often translated as surrounds), and the parergon (the frame). According to the OED, the word parergon means “ by-work, subordinate or secondary business ” and derives from Greek “πάρεργοϛ beside or in addition to the main work, f. παρά beside + ἒργον work ” (11: 225). In On Deconstruction, which lucidly summarizes Derrida ’ s notion of the parergon, Jonathan Culler also translates parergon as “ hors d ’ oeuvre, ” “ accessory, ” or “ supplement ” (193). While the parergon forms the intermediary between ergon and surrounds, the passe-partout, according to Derrida, constitutes the site of communication between work and frame. Derrida investigates the relationship between the work of art, its frame, and its surroundings in the visual arts. He uses the characteristics of the wood of the frame in order to better understand the frame ’ s function: “ The frame labors [travaille] indeed. [. . .] Like wood. It creaks and cracks, breaks down and dislocates even as it cooperates in the production of the product, overflows it and is deduc(t)ed from it. It never lets itself be simply exposed ” (75, square brackets enclosing French wording in the original). The wooden frame is the 3 If no other indication is made, the page number after quotations from Derrida refers to The Truth in Painting. 4 Even though Derrida uses various expressions, such as to “ abut onto, ” to “ brush against, ” to “ rub ” or “ press against, ” or to “ intervene in the inside ” (56), to refer to the less-than-smooth interaction between work and frame, the term friction does not appear in the translation of his work. For a more detailed discussion of the above expressions in their original context, cf. section “ Mechanisms, Functions, and the Effect of the Parergonal Framework ” below (69 - 70). 12 1. Introduction: Frameworks, or the Frame at Work archetype of all frames: its materiality, the characteristics of wood, its creaking and cracking, make it an organic unit which surrounds the work. Wood usually creaks, cracks, and finally snaps when it is put under great strain. It is able to adapt to a certain extent; it creaks when it is subjected to a certain level of distortion, and it cracks when this distortion becomes too great. The distortion originates in what surrounds the wood, be it the water surrounding a boat, 5 or a sunbeam that illuminates it. The texture of the archetypal wooden frame makes it accessible to a symbolical reading of its working: it surrounds the work and creates a boundary between the work and its surroundings. This boundary, however, is flexible to a certain extent; the frame causes and allows for movement within a restricted space. The notion of the frame also appears in literature, first of all with the physical aspects of a book. Usually, a book consists of written pages embedded between two cover-sheets, which are generally made of a different material than the pages, such as leather, linen, or cardboard. The pages customarily consist of paper. Then, the frame also opens up in terms of the chronology of reading; the book consists of a front cover bearing a title, followed by a few pages containing information about the publishers and printers. Sometimes a dedication, an acknowledgement, an epigraph, or a table of contents precedes the introductory text. The main work follows, literally framed by footnotes. It is rounded off with a conclusion; sometimes there is an index, an appendix, or other pages of information added to the work before it is closed again by the back cover. Just as the wood of the archetypal frame around a work of art can be used symbolically to describe the working of a frame, the materiality and the different parts of a book can be read in the same symbolical manner. The sequence in which the various parts of a book were written does not necessarily reflect the chronology in which it is read. In analogy to architecture, cleverly combining the writing and reading process, Derrida points out that “ [t]he introduction follows, the foundation comes after having come first ” (50): the foundation is the first part of a building in terms of the sequence in which it was built. Just as we do “ not necessarily gain access to a piece of architecture by following the order of its production, starting at the foundations and arriving at the roof-ridge ” (50), we do not necessarily read a literary work in the order in which it was written. In terms of writing, the introduction often only comes into being once the work itself is there; this is clearly the case with editorial 5 Derrida also links the wood of the frame to that of a boat or other vessel: “ The bord is made of wood, and apparently indifferent like the frame of a painting ” (54). The use of the word bord originates in Derrida ’ s playing with the French word bord: the frame designates a (flexible) border around the work; it is therefore “ [l]ike an accessory that one is obliged to welcome on the border, on board [au bord, à bord]. It is first of all the on (the) bo(a)rd(er) [Il est d ’ abord l ’ à-bord] ” (54, square brackets around French wording in the original). 1. Introduction: Frameworks, or the Frame at Work 13 introductions, for example. The work needs to be there first, before its introduction, since the latter sums up the former. Kant, according to Derrida, thus wrote the introduction to his third critique, the Critique of Judgment, after having finished the book in a “ most powerful effort to gather together the whole system of his philosophy ” (50). The introduction follows the work in the writing process, even though, on a formal level, it always precedes it: it follows, after having come first. On a level of content, the introduction usually contains information that the reader will only fully understand when reading the work itself. Since the introduction presents the putative essence of what is to follow, this essence can only be grasped after one has read the work: the foundation comes after having come first in the form of an introduction. This describes exactly the way in which the frame moves, adapts, creaks, and cracks: it introduces the reader to the work, it offers an approach to the work, and then keeps interacting with it: it keeps coming after having come first. Considering the fact that the work has generally been created first, the introduction to it assigns a certain direction to the way in which the work is to be read. This is the framework at work: the frame mediates between the work and the reader, and between the work and its surroundings. In order to do so, the frame, the parergon, becomes an organic unit that interacts with the ergon, the work. Thus, Derrida ’ s concepts of ergon, passe-partout, parergon and hors d ’ oeuvre (the surroundings) can be transferred (back) 6 and applied to literature. Furthermore, a function can be assigned to the interaction between work, frame and surroundings. Framing, according to Altman, is the central device that separates “‘ some ’ narrative, ” such as soap operas or descriptions of daily life experience, from “‘ a ’ narrative ” in the closer sense, namely written pieces of narrative fiction (17 - 18). In Theory of Narrative, which was published in 2008, Altman tries to fathom the nature of narratives and comments on their common characteristic of framing as follows: How do the texts touted as narrative by theoreticians differ from soaps? That is, how does “ a ” narrative differ from “ some ” narrative? The main difference at work here is the process of framing. In deciding whether a text is narrative, we are usually concerned only to know whether it contains characters, action, and following. But when theorists concentrate on a common narrative pattern, they are analyzing questions of framing, not content. (18) 6 Since Derrida bases his terminology on an observation made in Kant ’ s Religion within the Limits of Reason Alone, his parergonal constellation originated in (philosophical) writing, was then transferred to the visual arts and — in this study — is transferred back to literature, even though there is a great difference between the two types of writing (philosophy versus literature). For a discussion of Derrida ’ s formal procedure, cf. “ Derrida ’ s Parergon and Kant ” below (28 - 34). 14 1. Introduction: Frameworks, or the Frame at Work This means that it is not sufficient to focus on typical elements of narratives, such as characterization, time, or the causal or temporal connection of events; one also needs to take a step back and look at the overall structure of the writing in question. Narrative is a matter of textual arrangement: “ By itself, daily life cannot be said to constitute narratives, however much narrative material it may provide. But when a naturalist novelist cuts daily life into slices, thus delimiting and framing it, the narratives implicit in daily life may be revealed ” (18). Thus, the limits and borders of narratives are of central interest in their qualification as such. It is the central aim of this study to find a way of describing the workings in these liminal sites. According to Altman, it is easy to recognize some narrative by detecting elements that are typical of narratives. It is, however, not so easy to put one ’ s finger on “‘ a ’ narrative. ” The latter “ is recognizable only when it has been fully framed. In one sense, then, it is the very process of framing that gives a text its beginning and end ” (18). 7 In addition, the process of framing also heavily influences the dynamics of reading. Interestingly, Altman speaks of frames as being active, as being processes that take place in the border region of the written text, even though he does not specify these processes further. Unlike the seemingly static wooden frame, frames in literature are at work in the process of framing. It is the aim of this study to explain this very process and to provide a method of analyzing and interpreting it. The idea that the analysis of processes in a liminal space (for instance the one between work and frame or the one between various strands of scientific research) is central to the understanding of their cooperation also lies at the basis of Derrida ’ s entire work. Mark Currie states that “ [i]n Derrida ’ s work literature ’ s boundary with philosophy, linguistics and criticism is transgressed in a way that imputes to literary language a new epistemological import ” (Metafiction 8). Derrida ’ s The Truth in Painting applies a philosophical concept to the visual arts and plays heavily on the capacity and associative force of language itself. Derrida ’ s practice of transgressing borders in his own writing is thus broached as a topic in his analysis of frames and mirrored in his close analysis of border processes. In contrast to Altman, who is very particular about the difference between various kinds of narratives, the narrator in Tom Jones openly asks: “ for why should writing differ so much from all other arts? ” (647; bk. 14, ch. 1). In 7 This idea of framing might remind the reader of Jurij Lotman ’ s notion of the narrative frame in The Structure of the Artistic Text in a sort of inversion. In the first part of chapter 8, Lotman speaks of the beginning and ending of an artefact as a ‘ frame. ’ For a more detailed discussion of Lotman and this notion of boundary, cf. the section entitled “ Frames, Paratexts, and Typology ” below (22). This first impulse is apparently qualified by Altman ’ s reference to narrative patterns as frames. Furthermore, the framing “ gives a text its beginning and end. ” It is not the beginning and end that constitutes the frame. 1. Introduction: Frameworks, or the Frame at Work 15 structure, framing is indeed applicable to various arts. If writing does not differ so much, and if writing also displays formal structures which are similar to those in the other arts, Derrida ’ s work can, in part, be transferred to literary writing. The border between visual arts and literature can be transgressed, and the creaking and cracking of a frame in literature can be detected and interpreted. In order to understand such a frame, it is necessary to closely follow its interaction with the work and thus to trace its interaction with the core text. This interaction works dialogically in both directions, from frame to work and back, or vice-versa. Thus, it takes the form of an oscillation. Derrida offers the image of play for the ongoing oscillation between work and frame. It is a pleasurable enterprise to track these oscillating movements and to indulge in the play of language as such. J. Hillis Miller, also an exponent of poststructuralist thought, takes a more pessimistic stance on the very same mechanism, however. For him, interpretation is as unstable as the text itself and therefore leaves the critic at a loss, in aporia, whilst the text assumes a subversive and threatening pose through its “ self-undermining form of language ” ( “ The Search for Grounds ” 576). Furthermore, critics are forced to use the same system of language used in the object of their criticism in order to approach texts. Thus, the critic enters the abyss of an infinite mise-en-abyme, which places “ within the larger sign system a miniature image of that larger one, a smaller one potentially within that, and so on, in a filling in and covering over of the abyss, gulf or Kluft which is at the same time an opening of the abyss ” (576). In short, and hence in somewhat dramatic terms, the critic cannot reach the ground of the abyss and thus is unable to fathom a text. M. H. Abrams mitigates this bleak outlook for criticism by redrawing the image of the abyss in a slightly modified form: There are, I want to emphasize, rich rewards in reading Miller, as in reading Derrida, which include a delight in his resourceful play of mind and language and the many and striking insights yielded by his wide reading and by his sharp eye for unsuspected congruities and differences in our heritage of literary and philosophical writings. But these rewards are yielded by the way, and that way is always to the ultimate experience of vertigo, the uncanny frisson at teetering with him on the brink of the abyss; and even the shock of this discovery is soon dulled by its expected and invariable recurrence. ( “ The Deconstructive Angel ” 560 - 561) On the one hand, Abrams points out that, through our multiple confrontations with this kind of aporia, our fear of it is taken away and we get used to the threat of the abyss. On the other hand, the by-the-way manner in which Miller ’ s language unfolds itself upon the reader provides his writings with “ a charm that is hard to resist ” (561) and allows us to dispose of the threat his theory holds. Even though, as Culler points out, “ [d]econstruction has often been associated with the principle of the indeterminacy of meaning, ” this general idea(l) is undermined by practice: “ if one reads Derrida ’ s interpretations of texts it is 16 1. Introduction: Frameworks, or the Frame at Work actually quite difficult to see how people could claim this is his teaching ” (Framing the Sign 147). The application of one of Derrida ’ s concepts is therefore allowed to make sense. Juvan describes the post-structuralists ’ conception of language as “ pure negativity structured on distinctive features ” (81). The expression pure negativity is ambiguous: not only does it denote the evasive nature of meaning in its slippage towards what it is not, which Juvan originally meant to describe; it also aptly describes the effect of deconstruction in texts, namely the impossibility of fixing textual meaning. It leaves the critic at a loss, entangled in the pure negativity of language. My study thus contends that deconstruction yields meaning when texts are interpreted on the basis of their mechanism of oscillation. The possible interpretations — of which there are always many — constitute a necessary critical pluralism, which presents the alternative to the unfathomable nature of text in general. Critical pluralism as such allows for a harmonious co-existence of contradicting interpretations of the same work of fiction. This harmonious coexistence, in turn, endorses personal convictions and the ensuing authoritative position towards the text. In the context of this study, however, it is vital that one continually reflects upon one ’ s own position towards a text: if we approach the same text or textual constellation from various angles, we might encounter various stages of the same oscillating mechanism. Thus, we should try to ensure that we are still aware of mechanisms of manipulation and are not unknowingly caught in them. We often understand our position as literary critics as one that is ‘ superior ’ to the text under scrutiny. Our experience and routine make us believe that we are in control of the text. However, a text ’ s reputation precedes it, and as soon as it reaches us, we are already entangled in its parergonal force. Thus, it is imperative to constantly reassess our position and reflect upon it, as we are exposed to the manipulative force of the text usually even before we begin our reading. This awareness of one ’ s position is the best one can achieve, given that it is probably not possible to evade manipulation as such. Just as the position of a literary critic towards texts in general raises the question of power and control, so does the oscillation between various parts of a text: is the parergon subordinate to the work it surrounds? Even though its name shifts its position to the periphery of the ergon, it has already been pointed out that introductions often hold the essence of the works they precede. Furthermore, they are aimed at channelling the reading in a certain direction. All of these aspects place such an introductory text, or parergon, in a rather central position. Without the work, however, parerga would not exist. It is therefore necessary to scrutinize the potency of each member in such a parergonal constellation. This means that an analysis will not merely follow a formally paratextual pattern, but rather be based on any parergonal structure where interactive force is at work. 1. Introduction: Frameworks, or the Frame at Work 17 The aim of this study is to demonstrate the transposition of Derrida ’ s concept of the parergon 8 (back) to literature, to assign specific functions to the framework, to illustrate them with carefully chosen examples and, finally, to discuss the power relations at work in such a parergonal constellation. Before engaging with and categorizing a particular kind of frame, however, it is important to realize that some formal typologies of frames have already been established. The following chapter will shed light on the most renowned of these typologies and will discuss the purpose of typologies and their role with regard to Derrida ’ s concept. 8 From now on, the terms parergon and ergon will no longer be italicized, given that they are the core concepts of this study. 18 1. Introduction: Frameworks, or the Frame at Work 2. Frameworks and Paratexts: From Typology to Function This study focuses on one specific concept used to describe work-frame interactions. For this reason, the term frame and its uses first need to be clarified. Such a clarification not only attempts to provide an overview of various frame theories in literature, but it also illustrates why a specific concept such as Derrida ’ s parergon is necessary and useful for a critical analysis of literary works. The OED lists 16 numbered entries for the noun frame, arranged in a tripartite structure ranging from its obsolete meaning of “ [a]dvantage, benefit, profit ” to the “ [a]ction or manner of framing ” and finally to a particular “ framed work, structure ” (6: 139 - 141). The American expression “ frame-up ” listed in the second of the three parts (140; def. 2.c.) shows that the action of framing tends to be evaluated. The question of what frames do to the things they frame is generally central to frame theories, and particularly to this study. One reason for this is the question of ranking. A logocentric view of framed objects would clearly deem the core item to be more important and more powerful than any sort of frame surrounding it. Certain theories, among them Derrida ’ s theory of the parergon, prove otherwise, however. In Derrida ’ s theory, a specific kind of frame holds the power to initiate “ a scheme or plot ” and potentially makes the item it frames “ the victim of a ‘ frame-up ’” (OED 6: 142, def. 10.). Symptomatically, the term frame in literary and cultural theory has come to mean many different things as well. In his introduction to Framing Borders, Werner Wolf comments that “ it has become a received notion that there is no human signifying act, no meaningful perception, cognition and communication without ‘ frames ’ and [. . .] frames are practically everywhere ” ( “ Frames, Framings and Framing Borders ” 1). Since the publication of Erving Goffman ’ s Frame Analysis in the mid-1970 s, Wolf states, the concept of the cognitive frame has been established and accepted in various scientific disciplines, among them “ cognition theory, psychology and psychotherapy, artificial intelligence research, sociolinguistics and [. . .] discourse analysis ” (1). Wolf, in turn, attempts to establish a theory of frame and framing in literature and other media. The different frame theories are responsible for “ a plethora of divergent and occasionally conflicting meanings ” of the same term (Wolf, “ Frames, Framings and Framing Borders ” 2): frame in frame narrative, for instance, refers to a different kind of frame than the one used in frame of reference. In addition, there are physical frames, mostly around works of art, as well as paratextual frames around texts. To complicate the situation even more, frames in literature do not necessarily manifest themselves materially at all: textual frames need not necessarily be paratextual. What frames have in common, however, is that they occur around something, framing another entity, embedding other material or data in a whole and usually doing something to the thing they surround. However, they differ in terms of the level on which and the overtness with which they do so: some frames, such as contexts, are seemingly exterior to the written pages of a work, some are interior to the work, some are characterized by their mixed quality, and some frames have no homogeneous material manifestation at all. In addition, the temporal reception of frame and work also plays an important part in the analysis of such a constellation. In the first section of this chapter, I would like to introduce a selection of literary frame theories that seem relevant to Derrida ’ s concept of the parergonal frame. Some of these theories use taxonomies, while others simply refer to a range of phenomena termed frames. None of the following theories describe in much detail, however, exactly what happens in the course of the interaction between frame and work. It is the mechanism of such interaction that makes Derrida ’ s parergon a valid methodological tool which allows for a close analysis of the mechanisms involved in the reading process. In this sense, Derrida ’ s parergon complements the following frame theories in that it focuses particularly on the dynamics of frame-work interaction as well as on their effect on the reading process. In my overview of frame theories, I would like to proceed from the more general towards a more specific notion of frame. The sequence of theories follows the principle of contiguity, not of chronology. Frames, Paratexts, and Typology Frames are so much a part of our everyday life that we hardly notice their presence consciously. If we walk through a gallery, we usually focus on the paintings or pictures themselves, not on the frames that surround them. If we read a book, we may skip the introduction or preface, since we want to start with the core text right away. If a character in a book ‘ goes to the bathroom to drink a glass of tap water, ’ we automatically imagine her pressing the door handle, pushing the door open, briefly glancing at her reflection in the mirror as she stands in front of the basin, turning on the water tap, filling the glass and drinking from it. Interestingly, the sequence of pictures we draw in our minds depends heavily on our own frame of reference, our “ set of standards, beliefs or assumptions governing perceptual or logical evaluation or social behaviour ” (OED 6: 140, def. 4.d. (ii)). Conversely, our personal set of images can provide a considerable amount of information about our cultural background as well. For instance, not all cultures are familiar with the idea of tap water. In addition, tap water is not always drinkable. The kind of information we produce after the input of textual data is provided by a very general sort of frame, namely the 20 2. Frameworks and Paratexts: From Typology to Function reader ’ s frame of reference (e. g. Mieke Bal 82). This is the kind of frame we resort to in order to process data in general: not only data about the interior design of a character ’ s home (influenced by indicators of the social class she belongs to), but also data about the character ’ s motivation to drink water, the way she dresses, and so on. Since texts are never fully explicit about their fictional reality, Reader- Response Theory claims that readers need frames, simplified models of everyday reality, in order to construct a textual reality (Rimmon-Kenan 124). These frames provide information that “ relates to the non-textual situation, ” usually a “ section of reality ” (Bal 82). Neumann and Nünning put it as follows: “ According to the so-called frame and script theories, people actively impose ‘ frames ’ and ‘ scripts ’ in their interpretations of texts. Frames and scripts are the cognitive models that are used in the process of reading narratives ” (157). Frames of reference thus qualify as very general kinds of frames, shaped individually in their application. In a similar vein, John Frow, who focuses on political aspects of textual transmission in Marxism and Literary History, argues that “ [r]ather than reproducing the text ’ s official value, the reader must undertake a negative revalorization by ‘ unframing ’ it, appropriating it in such a way as to make it subversive of its own legitimacy ” (228). Textual reception is thus an act of unframing the text ’ s initial context and potential intention, and it ideally contests “ the authority of the textual frame ” instead of simply confirming it (228). At the same time, as stipulated by Reader-Response Critics as well, reading, according to Frow, is “ an act of production (or of reproduction) on the basis of previous acts of readerly production and reproduction ” (228). This is also an interesting aspect of written appropriations and the ensuing intertextual relationships. Apparently, original texts form one sort of contextual framework around their rewritings. In addition, textual signals prompt expectations in the reader that are founded in his or her frame of reference. Generic frames thus also qualify as specific frames of reference in the reading of texts. This textual manipulation is crucial for Derrida ’ s parergon as well. The notion of context in itself is a tricky one. It does not refer only to the perception of a reader ’ s reality as in the sense of frame of reference. In Framing the Sign, Jonathan Culler disposes with the idea that contexts are given. He clarifies this misconception by explaining that they are always produced. Davis and Schleifer comment that “ Culler poses, above all, the institutional nature of frames as opposed to the seemingly natural occurrence of contexts which, as products of institutions, necessarily call for their own analysis rather than suggesting a natural explanation ” (ix). Culler argues that “ context is not given but produced; what belongs to a context is determined by interpretive strategies ” (xiv). Using the term frame guarantees a conscious decision for and constitution of an analytical framework. Goffman ’ s Frame Analysis presents Frames, Paratexts, and Typology 21 “ another analysis of social reality ” (2). Generally, he is interested in the organization of experience (13), in the cognitive parameters, or frames, necessary for us to experience something as real, for instance (2). More specifically, he investigates what he calls the frames that influence our experience of, for instance, an artwork: I assume that definitions of a situation are built up in accordance with principles of organization which govern events — at least social ones — and our subjective involvement in them; frame is the word I use to refer to such of these basic elements as I am able to identify. That is my definition of frame. My phrase “ frame analysis ” is a slogan to refer to the examination in these terms of the organization of experience. (10 - 11) Goffman investigates various frames that make up our everyday experience, one of which is the theatrical frame (123 - 155). This theatrical frame is constituted by a set of conventions which tell both audience and actors how to react when, and how to perceive what. If the conventions in the theatrical frame are broken, friction occurs between the work on stage and the reality surrounding it: in this sense, the theatrical frame is of interest in my analysis of Shakespeare ’ s Midsummer Night ’ s Dream. These more general theories of framing have their counterpart in those theories that engage with closely specified occurrences of framing. For Mieke Bal, the spatial context serves as a frame to situate literary characters: “ With the aid of these three senses [i. e. sight, hearing, and touch][. . .] relations may be suggested between characters and space. The space in which the character is situated, or is precisely not situated, is regarded as the frame ” (94). These frames often function symbolically, in that enclosed spaces stand for safety or confinement, for instance. In The Structure of the Artistic Text, Jurij Lotman defines the frame as being constituted by “ two elements: the beginning and the end ” of a text (215). This frame, according to Wolf, “ marks the border between the infinite world and the finite artefact as a model of the world ” ( “ Frames, Framings and Framing Borders ” 26). Mary Ann Caws ’ definition of frame in modernist fiction denotes specific textual passages that stand out from the rest of the text. Even though her definition of frame stands on its own, she focuses — in line with many other critics — on its effect on the reading process. In addition, she notes that “ [t]o frame in is also to frame out ” (5) and hence engages with “ notions of grid and selection, of inclusion and exclusion [that] are constantly in play ” (5) in a similar way to Derrida. Brian McHale ’ s framebreaking in postmodernist fiction, such as metafictional narrative intrusions, also presents a rather specific use of the term frame. 1 In the latter case, the field 1 An example of such frame-breaking can be found in the metafictional narrative intrusions in Fielding ’ s Tom Jones (cf. section “ The Hybrid: Fielding ’ s Tom Jones ” below, 137 - 138). 22 2. Frameworks and Paratexts: From Typology to Function of postmodernist fiction, which experiments with “ recursively nested ” narrative structures (114), trompe-l ’œ il occurrences of inversed diegetic hierarchies (115), or tangled hierarchies of strange internal loops (119), to name only a few, requires such specific terminology. Apparently, this kind of terminology is only needed in specific context, but then it is indispensable. In a more structural approach to the notion of the frame, critics have been concerned with narrative levels and their interrelation. In her essay “ Identity/ Alterity, ” Monika Fludernik points out how the concept of alterity also manifests itself in the formal structure of narratives. According to her, the “ alterity of much third-person literary narrative consists, precisely, in the fabulous access that it affords to another person ’ s (the protagonist ’ s) mind ” (265). But not only that: Alterity plays a role even formally in narratives. This is the case most strikingly in paratextual formats and framing techniques. Paratexts such as title pages and chapter headings, marginalia and annotations or footnotes provide a frame that gives access to, or mediates between, the world of the reader and the interior of the (fictional) world. Frames, editorial introductions, and critical comments in appendices likewise ease the reader into or out of the text. In particular, the deployment of framing techniques often serves to prevaricate on the truth conditions of the tale, thereby thematizing the alterity of the narrative. (266) Not only do paratexts form the threshold between the reader ’ s and the fiction ’ s reality, but they also constitute the textual portal through which we access a piece of fiction. Thus, they can not only ease our access, but also manipulate and channel our reading. If paratexts hold the power of prevaricating on the core text ’ s truth conditions, they also potentially mislead the reader and influence his or her perception of the entire work. This idea is crucial to Derrida ’ s parergon in literature. In “ The Critic as Host, ” J. Hillis Miller engages with the prefix para: “‘ Para ’ as a prefix in English (sometimes ‘ par ’ ) indicates alongside, near or beside, beyond, incorrectly, resembling or similar to, subsidiary to ” (441). The paratext is thus the text that appears alongside the work and is usually considered subsidiary to it. “ In borrowed Greek compounds [such as the parergon], ‘ para ’ indicates beside, to the side of, alongside, beyond, wrongfully, harmfully, unfavorably, and among ” (441). In general, according to Miller, para as a prefix signifies “ something simultaneously this side of the boundary line, threshold, or margin, and at the same time beyond it, equivalent in status and at the same time secondary or subsidiary, submissive, as of guest to host, slave to master ” (441). Miller intimates that the practice of ranking can be highly deceptive when dealing with, for instance, paratexts. They are simultaneously equivalent in status yet subsidiary to the main text. In addition, a paratext, for instance, is Frames, Paratexts, and Typology 23 not only simultaneously on both sides of the boundary line between inside and outside. It is also the boundary itself, the screen which is at once a permeable membrane connecting inside and outside, confusing them with one another, allowing the outside in, making the inside out, dividing them but also forming an ambiguous transition between one and the other. (441) Miller thus articulates a crucial characteristic of paratexts in general and the parergon in particular: they are not fixed entities, but dynamic structures able to master and deploy the liminal space they hold. Probably the most famous theoretical work that exclusively deals with paratexts is Gérard Genette ’ s Paratexts: Thresholds of Interpretation. Even though one might nowadays consider works consisting of vast typologies to be slightly outdated and superficial in terms of interpretative force, much is owed to Genette ’ s typology of paratexts. As he says himself in the preface to Paratexts, his work “ consists of bringing into focus categories that, until now, have been disregarded or misperceived ” (14). Up to that point, paratexts had been regarded by many as subordinate to the texts they surrounded. Genette ’ s two major works (Paratexts and Palimpsests 2 ), which investigate the illocutionary force of the paratext and the types of intertextual relations respectively, brought the issue of ranking to many critics ’ attention and thus managed to bring the periphery into focus. In 2007, Sherman comments that even though “‘ paratext ’ does not yet appear in the standard lexicons of the English language, [. . .] it has so successfully entered the scholarly vocabulary that it is now applied — without quotation marks or pause for thought — to texts of every period and genre ” (68). This statement illustrates the impact of Genette ’ s work. Hence, a study of the interrelation between text and paratext and a discussion of the powerplay at work would be difficult without the structuralist basis Genette provided. In his introduction to Framing Borders, Wolf presents a typology of frames which follows various criteria of differentiation. These criteria are potential agencies (senders, recipients, message or work, and its context), the extent of the framing (total framing of the entire work or partial framing), the number of media deployed in the framing (restricted to contextual framings), the question of an original unity of framed and framing (are they authorized by the same entity? ), saliency (covert or implicit framings versus overt and explicit ones), paratextual or intratextual framings (paratexts belong to the work, but not to the text proper; intratexts are embedded within the text proper, as in the case of 2 For a more detailed account of the contents of these two works, cf. section “ Mechanisms, Functions, and the Effect of the Parergonal Framework ” below for Genette ’ s Paratexts (66 - 69), and the section entitled “ Textual Dialogues: The Reader as a Mediator, ” the introduction to the third part of my analysis, for Genette ’ s Palimpsests (181 - 182 below). 24 2. Frameworks and Paratexts: From Typology to Function metafictional comments, for instance), and the temporal location of the framings in the reception process of the first reception (since it is in the first reception that the particular temporal location of the frame plays an important part) ( “ Frames, Framings and Framing Borders ” 15 - 21). Wolf differentiates between initial, internal, and terminal framings. Especially explicitly intertextual relationships call for reflection on the order of reception: which of two texts in a work-rewriting relationship, such as the one between Jane Eyre and Wide Sargasso Sea (if such a relationship qualifies for the concept of framing at all), for instance, figures as frame and which as text proper? This question will be of interest in the third part of my analysis. Wolf ’ s typology seems very useful in situating a particular kind of framing within the huge field of possible framing practices. It is indeed essential to understand that frames do not necessarily form a textual unit, but that they can also be discursive and thus contextual, or constituted by a higher narrative level (such as the metafictional intrusions in Tom Jones). Hence, these criteria, independent of a larger scheme of interrelations as outlined in Wolf (25), also come to bear on my analysis. Wolf defines the common function of all framing borders as being that “ they help the recipient to select frames of interpretation or reference relevant for the work under consideration ” (26), and he also provides a typology of functions (26 - 32). Apparently, this runs along the same lines as Culler ’ s proposition that the term context should be replaced by frame so as to guarantee a conscious frame of reference in, for instance, literary interpretation. The application of the concept of the parergon also demands that the frame under scrutiny is first delimited and defined before its mechanism is analyzed. In this sense, Wolf ’ s typology might be a useful tool in preparing material that qualifies for an analysis of parergonality. One of the most common notions of the narrative frame is certainly the one found in frame stories. Baldick defines a frame narrative as “ a story in which another story is enclosed or embedded as a ‘ tale within the tale ’ , or which contains several such tales ” (101). According to Rimmon-Kenan, “ narratives within narratives create a stratification of levels whereby each inner narrative is subordinate to the narrative within which it is embedded ” (92). Embedded narratives may have functions in relation to the narratives that enclose them. They may, for instance, mirror the events in the frame narrative and comment on them literally on a different level (93). The narrator of each narrative level is always above “ or superior to the story he narrates ” (95). He or she is termed extradiegetic if the first narrative is the diegesis, or (intra)diegetic, if his or her narrative is the hypodiegesis. In “ Framing Borders in Frame Stories, ” Wolf points out that the constellation of an extradiegetic narrator telling his tale, which occurs very often, does not qualify as a classic frame narrative. Framings in frame stories constitute “ intradiegetic parts of the main text. This excludes Frames, Paratexts, and Typology 25 [. . .] narratorial comments [. . .] since they are located on the extradiegetic rather than on an intradiegetic level ” (181; original bold print omitted). Such comments do not constitute a narrative of their own: the frame of the frame story needs to be the first narrative. Even though it is called an “ Introductory, ” “ The Custom-House ” in Hawthorne ’ s Scarlet Letter is part of the main text and thus qualifies as the frame in a frame narrative. This labelling triggers a possible reading for analogies or contrasts between frame and second narrative, which is also crucial to my analysis of Hawthorne ’ s novel. Formal typologies of texts undoubtedly provide a structural tool for textual analysis. They often circle around analytical exhaustiveness, however, before reaching the level of interpretation. In addition, the term frame in literature is by no means reserved for paratextual entities as Wolf aptly demonstrates in his typology of literary frames; he takes into consideration the fact that interspersed passages such as comments made by an intrusive narrator create an intratextual framework within a literary work as well, even though they would not fall into a typology of paratexts. All kinds of contexts — from frames of reference, through the entirety of critical output, to the hall of a library or a museum — qualify as frames and need to be taken into consideration in literary analysis if they influence our perception of a work. This notion probably even exceeds the limits set by Wolf; typologies, however, lose their point if they lack an initial defining feature. There is no need for an additional label if everything qualifies for a certain typology. Typologies separate certain types from others and make them accessible for further analysis. Derrida ’ s concept applies to many kinds of frames, but it only yields exceptional results when applied to selected textual constellations: when it is applied to certain constellations and the ensuing mechanisms and functions, no additional typology is needed. A typology might, however, still be useful in preparing the data for such an analysis. The detection of literary parergonality in itself offers the ground for fruitful interpretation. Before Derrida ’ s parergon can be applied to literary writing, however, the concept and the terms related to it have to be introduced and thoroughly discussed. Derrida ’ s Parergon and Kant Derrida ’ s work The Truth in Painting 3 is concerned with specific characteristics of the visual work of art: in it, Derrida writes “ around painting ” (9). Through 3 This title is borrowed from a promise Cézanne made to Emile Bernard on October 23, 1905: “ I OWE YOU THE TRUTH IN PAINTING AND I WILL TELL IT TO YOU ” (The Truth in Painting 2). In the course of analyzing Cézanne ’ s words, Derrida interprets the “ idiom ‘ of the truth in painting ’” (4) in various ways: among the meanings he lists are “ the truth 26 2. Frameworks and Paratexts: From Typology to Function association, he plays with technical terms usually applied to the visual arts and, at the same time, opens them up to a more general discourse around the work of art. Through philosophical mediation, the passe-partout and the frame around a specific work become more general concepts that can also be applied to other works than those of the visual arts. In the present section, two concepts, the passe-partout and the frame, the parergon, will be introduced, traced back to their origins, and related to one another. Furthermore, a first attempt to transfer the concept of the parergon from the visual arts to literature will be made. The aim is to inquire into the interplay between the frame, the work and its surroundings. For this reason, the passe-partout, the line of demarcation between the work and its frame, and the parergon, the frame which outlines the work against its surroundings, are the central concepts of this section. The emphasis, however, is on the parergon, to which this study is dedicated. After all, it is this concept which is responsible for the interaction between frame and work. In the section entitled “ Passe-Partout ” at the beginning of The Truth in Painting, Derrida alludes to the interface between the work and what surrounds it as a “ partition of the edge ” that “ occurs everywhere [se passe partout] ” (7, square brackets in the original). This word-play leads the reader into a world of concepts which apply to the visual arts, but which are not restricted to them. The passe-partout which the reader is provided with when reading Derrida ’ s text “ must not pass for a master key ” ; it is not “ a password to open all doors ” (12), but is what occurs between the frame around the work, in many instances called a parergon, and the work itself. “ Passe-Partout ” as the name of the first part of The Truth in Painting thus becomes self-explanatory: it denotes what happens at the edge of the work, it is the “ emblem ” (12) of “ the place for a preface [. . .] between, on the one hand, the cover that bears the names [. . .] and the titles [. . .] and, on the other hand, the first word of the book ” (12 - 13). What is important about this location is not its capacity of providing the reader with a device, a master key, but the movements that take place at this very site. The transition that happens within it, the act of passing through it, always has a direction. The movement, be it from the inside or the outside, starting from the outer skin of the work towards its surroundings or from the inner skin of the frame towards the work, comprises mechanisms that are crucial for the understanding of parergonal interaction. The movements that occur at this location lead in opposite directions. The polar opposition of outside and inside, which is displayed in this space, and the nature of the interaction between the outside and the inside is one of the central issues of this study. faithfully represented, trait for trait, in its portrait ” (5) or “ the truth, as shown, presented or represented in the [. . .] pictural mode ” (6). Derrida ’ s Parergon and Kant 27 The location of the passe-partout can be seen as a line between two entities. Such a line occurs everywhere around a work; it literally se passe partout. According to Derrida, one specific line, namely the stroke (of the artist ’ s brush or pen), opens up the “ gulf, ” the “ abyss, ” but also holds together its edges. If we transfer the statement about Cézanne ’ s “ stroke [trait] ” that “ opens up the abyss ” (5, “‘ stroke ’ [Riss] ” (6) borrowed from Heidegger ’ s The Origin of the Work of Art: all square brackets in the original) from the three-dimensional notion of two edges and an abyss to a merely geometrical notion of a line on a twodimensional plane, it becomes obvious why the notion of the partition achieved by the edge occurs everywhere: the edge is the line that divides and unites at the same time. It cuts a whole in two, and holds two wholes together. The question of origin lies at the basis of an investigation into the chronology of these two states. It is impossible to make out which of the two came first: whether the whole was first divided, or whether the parts, the fragments, or wholes, were first united. Such an inquiry oscillates between two opposite movements: to cut and to join. When one traces these movements back, one gains insight into a mechanism, but they do not yield an origin. What is certain and readily comprehensible is the simplistic situation one is confronted with: there is an inside, a line, and an outside, which together, through their interplay, culminate in the creation of two opposite movements. The passe-partout stands for the moment of transition at the location of the line. The parergon is the entity that communicates with the work, the ergon, at the site of the passe-partout. Before engaging with the theory of the parergon itself, Derrida inquires into the various theories of the nature and the origin of art (motivated in the way described above), only to find that there are various opinions which deconstruct the notion of art to a certain degree. Hence, it would seem appropriate to analogically investigate the nature and origin of a specific art form, namely literature, before engaging with the theory of the parergon in literature. However, in the same way as this remains a digression that Derrida has to discontinue at some point, any such line of investigation would remain a similar digression in this study and will not, therefore, be discussed any further. The question of origin need only be taken into consideration with respect to specific textual interrelations. In a textual communication system, it might be of interest which of the communicating parties was there originally and which was added later (cf. the question of originality in reference to cut and join above). In this sense, the question of origin becomes a question of the origin of a communication process and might be helpful when working out a communicational direction. In this specific form, the question of origin will be included in my analyses when appropriate. Derrida borrows the expression as well as the structure of the parergon and the mechanism of its interaction with the ergon from Kant: 28 2. Frameworks and Paratexts: From Typology to Function It [the word parergon] is to be found in a very long note added to the second edition of Religion within the Limits of Reason Alone. This place, the form of this place, is of great import. To what is the “ Note ” appended? To a “ General Remark ” which closes the second part. Now what is the parergon? It is the concept of the remark, of this “ General Remark ” [. . .] Each part of the book comprises a “ General Remark ” (Allgemeine Anmerkung), a parergon concerning a parergon. As there are four parts to Religion, then the book is in a manner of speaking framed [. . .], but also squared up [. . .] by these four remarks on parerga, hors-d ’ oeuvres, “ additives ” which are neither inside nor outside. (55) This means that Derrida borrows his terminology from Kant ’ s Religion within the Limits of Reason Alone. Not only does he borrow the terms parergon and lack, but he also uses the formal structure of Kant ’ s work as a basis for his theory of the parergon. A closer look at Kant ’ s text (also quoted in a different version in the translation of Derrida) offers interesting parallels on the levels of both structure and content: This General Observation is the first of four which are appended, one to each Book of this work, and which might bear the titles, (l) Works of Grace, (2) Miracles, (3) Mysteries, and (4) Means of Grace. These matters are, as it were, parerga to religion within the limits of pure reason; they do not belong within it but border upon it. Reason, conscious of her inability to satisfy her moral need, extends herself to highflown ideas capable of supplying this lack, without, however, appropriating these ideas as an extension of her domain. Reason does not dispute the possibility or the reality of the objects of these ideas; she simply cannot adopt them into her maxims of thought and action. She even holds that, if in the inscrutable realm of the supernatural there is something more than she can explain to herself, which may yet be necessary as a complement to her moral insufficiency, this will be, even though unknown, available to her good will. Reason believes this with a faith which (with respect to the possibility of this supernatural complement) might be called reflective; for dogmatic faith, which proclaims itself as a form of knowledge, appears to her dishonest or presumptuous. To remove the difficulties, then, in the way of that which (for moral practice) stands firm in and for itself, is merely a by-work (parergon), when these difficulties have reference to transcendent questions. (47 - 48, trans. Greene and Hudson, original italics, my emphasis in bold print) The “ General Remark ” or “ General Observation ” in the translation is formally a note attached to a note, which is itself appended to the main corpus of the work. On the content level, interestingly, the notion of the ergon correlates with reason in Kant, whilst the parerga are concerned with “ the inscrutable realm of the supernatural, ” located at the border of reason. In that way, ergon and parergon complement each other, as do reason and un-reason. In Kant ’ s Religion, the parerga literally replenish a lack in that they fill those realms that pure reason does not cover. It is this mechanism that gives weight to the liminal, the textual entity located at the border of the main text. Kant ’ s text only covers Derrida ’ s Parergon and Kant 29 the field he discusses fully, when taking into consideration the field at the limit of what he is writing about. In addition, it is important to note that Derrida ’ s use of the expressions frame and square does not usually work in visual terms. The fact that there are four “ General Remarks ” in Kant is a fortunate coincidence. Derrida comments on this important notion of form as follows: “ [I]t will be said that not all frames are, or have been, or will be square, rectangular, or quadrangular figures, nor even simply angular ” (77). Since the notion of translation is central to Derrida ’ s work and also to my use of terminology in this study, I would like to take a closer look at the situation of textual transmission at this point. In their “ Translators ’ Preface, ” Bennington and McLeod, the two translators of Derrida ’ s text, remark that “ the translator ’ s attitude to the reader is profoundly ambivalent, and this ambivalence can only be increased when s/ he has learned from the author to be translated that the task is strictly speaking an impossible one ” (xiii). Their task is not only to translate Derrida ’ s French original into English, but also to heed Derrida ’ s use of other texts, for instance Kant ’ s, which Derrida probably read in a French translation in addition to his use of German originals. This sum of languages and their multiple transformation in the course of translation make it difficult for Derrida ’ s translators and, as a consequence, for me as the reader of Derrida ’ s English translation to establish a consistent terminology. The following excerpt presents an alternative translation of the above passage from Kant ’ s Religion. Even though Bennington and McLeod point out in a footnote right at the beginning of “ Parergon ” that longer passages from Kant are quoted from a specific English translation of Kant ’ s work, they only refer to passages in his Critique of Aesthetic Judgment (17 n). 4 I thus assume that they translated all the passages from Kant ’ s Religion themselves. 5 There is, however, no need to further investigate the textual origins. It is on the basis of 4 Bennington and McLeod use James Creed Meredith ’ s translation of Kant ’ s Critique of Aesthetic Judgment (Oxford: Clarendon, 1911). 5 Not only do the translators remain rather vague with respect to translated excerpts originally written by Kant, but there are no indications as to the use of brackets in Derrida ’ s text, either. From my comparative reading of the French La vérité en peinture and some indicators within brackets in Bennington and McLeod ’ s translation (e. g. “ [tableau: also ‘ picture ’ — TRANS.] ” (13)), I came to the conclusion that both round and square brackets in the English translation are Derrida ’ s, unless marked by the translators or reproducing Derrida ’ s original French (e. g. “ What is called [s ’ appelle: lit. ‘ calls itself ’ ] mind is that which [. . .] ” (26, only square brackets enclosing French wording in the original)). Derrida often renders the original German in round brackets or makes additions to his own writing in round brackets, while his additions or explanations regarding the original German are enclosed in square brackets (such as, for instance, the note on how Gibelin translated Kant in the French translation, cf. the excerpt below). Jean Gibelin ’ s translation of Kant ’ s Religion bears the title La religion dans les limites de la simple raison and was published as early as 1943 (Paris, Vrin). 30 2. Frameworks and Paratexts: From Typology to Function the two differing translations that I will establish my own use of terminology with reference to Kant and Derrida. I have marked those passages that are of interest to me in bold print. Bennington and McLeod ’ s translation of Kant in Derrida reads as follows: This general Remark is the first of four which have been added [angehängt: appended, like appendixes] to each piece of this text (jedem Stück dieser Schrift) and which might have as titles: (1) Of the effects of grace; (2) Of miracles; (3) Of mysteries; (4) Of the means of grace. They are in some measure parerga of religion within the limits of pure reason; they are not integral parts of it (sie gehören nicht innerhalb dieselben) but they verge on it [aber stossen doch an sie an: they touch it, push it, press it, press against it, seek contact, exert a pressure at the frontier]. Reason, conscious of its impotence (Unvermögens) to satisfy its moral need [the only need which should ground or should have grounded religion within the limits of reason alone], reaches as far as these transcendent ideas which are potentially able to make good the lack (die einen Mangel ergänzen), without however appropriating them (sich zuzueignen) as extension of its domain (Besitz, possession). It contests neither the possibility nor the reality of the objects of these ideas but it cannot admit them into its maxims for thought and action. It even holds that if, in the unfathomable field of the supernatural, there is something more (noch etwas mehr) than what it can render intelligible to itself and which would however be necessary to supply [Gibelin ’ s translation of Ergänzung] its moral insufficiency, this thing, even though unknown, will come to the aid (zu statten kommen) of its good will, thanks to a faith which one could call (as regards its possibility) reflective (reflectirenden) because the dogmatic faith which declares that it knows seems to it presumptuous and not very sincere; for to remove difficulties with regard to what is in itself (in practical terms) well established is only a secondary task (parergon) when those difficulties concern transcendent questions ” (55 - 56, original italics, my emphasis in bold print). In the German original, Kant first uses the verb ergänzen in reference to the lack (68n, translated as “ to make good ” by Bennington and McLeod and as “ supplying ” by Greene and Hudson) and then the noun Ergänzung (68n, translated as “ to supply ” by Bennington and McLeod and as “ complement ” by Greene and Hudson). German Ergänzung can, indeed, mean either supplement or complement. The same applies to the verb ergänzen: it can be translated as either to supply (or to supplement) or to complement. In Derrida ’ s French text, Kant ’ s “ jenen Mangel ergänzen ” reads “ combler ce manque ” (65), while “ Ergänzung ” is translated by means of the verb “ suppléer ” (65). Thus, whereas in the passage above, Bennington and McLeod only use the terms to make good and supply to describe the parergon ’ s connection to the lack, Greene and Hudson use the terms supply and complement interchangeably. Presumably, Greene and Hudson try to do justice to Kant ’ s German by interchangeably using the verb “ to supply ” or the noun “ complement, ” whereas Bennington and McLeod stay closer to Derrida ’ s French text by translating “ suppléer ” as “ to supply. ” In the section “ Parergon, ” their translation uses the terms to supply or supplement (the latter as both noun and verb) to describe the parergon (e. g. 54, Derrida ’ s Parergon and Kant 31 55, 57, 58, 64), which is in accordance with Derrida ’ s use of the French “ supplément ” (63, 64, 66, 74) or “ suppléer ” (67). The fact that the various translations use either the verb to supply or the noun complement shows that the function of Kant ’ s parergon has not clearly been defined. These differences make a comment on their own. Since the two terms supplement and complement do not mean exactly the same, 6 I use the terms complement and supplement according to the moment of parergonal oscillation: when the parergon executes its full force upon the work, it writes itself fully into the work and complements it, only to fall back into the state of a passive supplement afterwards. The parergon is thus able to unite a range of different conditions within itself in order to enable this sort of communication. These conditions range from inert supplement to most active complement. When one traces the process of oscillating interaction between work and frame, the parergon, according to Derrida, “ effaces itself [. . .] at the moment it deploys its greatest energy ” (Derrida 61, also cf. the section on Defoe ’ s Moll Flanders, page 165 below). On a structural level, the parergon falls back into the status of a supplement immediately after having given rise to the work and complemented it (Derrida 54, 55). This means that only frames with the ability to complement qualify as parerga. When the frame in the condition of a supplement regains power and starts to exert it once again, it reassumes the status of a complement. Thus, the parergon is at its most powerful shortly before its energy is deployed in the work. As soon as it has given rise to the work, it falls back into passivity. Earlier in Derrida ’ s collection of remarks under the heading “ The Parergon, ” he uses Kant ’ s third critique, the Critique of Judgment, in order to illustrate a further quality of the parergon. In the same way as we only fully understand an introduction after having read the main body of text, even though the introduction always comes first, this part of Derrida ’ s writing only becomes clear after we have engaged with the mechanism of the parergonal frame. (Aesthetic) judgment in Kant is the “ intermediary member ” (Mittelglied) which connects the two faculties of reason and understanding, which correspond to the two other Critiques, the Critique of Pure Reason and the Critique of Practical Reason (38). Since it is the faculty that forms the articulation of the theoretical and the practical (in the Kantian sense), we are plunging into a place that is neither theoretical nor practical, or else both theoretical and practical. Art (in general), or rather the beautiful, if it takes place, is inscribed here. But 6 According to the OED, to supplement means “ [t]o furnish a supplement to, supply the deficiency in; also, to supply (a deficiency) ” (17: 251), while to complement means “ [t]o make complete or perfect, to supply what is wanting; to form the complement to ” (3: 610, def. 1.). Especially the sense of making something complete, in this case a literary work, is crucial in my understanding of the two terms. 32 2. Frameworks and Paratexts: From Typology to Function this here, this place is announced as a place deprived of place. It runs the risk, in taking place, of not having its own proper domain. [. . .] The Mittelglied, intermediary member, must in effect be treated as a separable part, a particular part (als ein besonderer Theil). But also as a nonparticular, nondetachable part, since it forms the articulation between two others; one can even say, anticipating Hegel, an originary part (Ur-teil). It is indeed a question of judgment. (38) Judgment, according to Kant, is to be treated as a detached part in-between two other parts. The first of these two parts is the theoretical part, namely cognition, or pure reason, the subject of the first Critique. Pure reason is based on a priori principles and is thus independent of experience. The other part is the practical part, namely ethics, understanding, or practical reason. Practical reason is the subject of the second Critique and is based on a posteriori principles, i. e. on experience. Even though judgment, in this case in the form of a document, a Critique, is detached from the two other parts, it is attached to each of the two on a content level: to judge something, we need experience. At the same time, our judgment should not be flawed by experience. In addition, aesthetic judgment should ideally be a result of affect rather than reason. The formal structure of the third critique shows this dilemma: “ Within a critique of pure reason, of our faculty of judging according to a priori principles, the part must be detached and examined separately. But in a pure philosophy, [. . .] everything must be sewn back together ” (39). In On Deconstruction, Jonathan Culler assigns this dilemma pointed out by Derrida to Kant ’ s use of one categorical frame for two critiques, the Critique of Pure Reason and the Critique of Judgment: In the “ Analytic of the Beautiful ” the judgment of taste is examined from four sides: according to quality, quantity, relation to ends, and modality. This categorical frame, Derrida notes, comes from the analysis of concepts in the Critique of Pure Reason, but since Kant insists that aesthetic judgment is not cognitive judgment, to use this as a frame of reference is something of a frame-up. (195) It is the irreconcilability of object and framework through which the object is analyzed that lies at the core of the problem. Aesthetic judgment, according to Culler, lacks concepts that allow for a cognitive description of it. “ This lack [is] produced by the frame, in that it appears only when aesthetic judgment is considered from a conceptual perspective ” (Culler 195). This lack is the reason for friction between object, or work, and frame. At the same time, it is the connection between work and frame and makes the two inseparable. 7 In 7 For a more detailed description of the role of this lack, cf. the section on parergonal functions below (48 - 50). Derrida ’ s Parergon and Kant 33 addition, Frow comments that Kant ’ s Critique of Judgment lacks a discourse on the liminal space between inside and outside in the form of a discourse of the frame, except for “ the obscure example of the ornament, ” to be found “ displaced and decentred ” (Marxism and Literary History 218). This lack in Kant ’ s work, together with Derrida ’ s comment on it, also constitute parergonality in themselves. In his treatment of Kant, Derrida anticipates one of the basic qualities of the parergon: it is neither part of something else nor does it stand entirely on its own. This means that it is always also part of other entities. It is neither fully detached nor fully attached to something else. The degree of its de-/ attachment depends on the moment captured in its interplay with the other entities, the work and its surroundings, for instance. In order to understand this mechanism, each single element in parergonal interaction needs to be located and defined. The passe-partout has been referred to as a site of transition between work and frame. Conventionally, this site takes the form of a square that separates the inside and the outside, which forms “ the surrounds ” 8 (11), the “ hors d ’ oeuvre ” (9). The inside is generally referred to as the oeuvre, the work, or the “ ergon ” (9). The “ parergon ” is “ neither inside nor outside, neither above nor below ” (9). It is the entity that is able to transgress the ergon at the site of the passe-partout: “ it disconcerts any opposition but does not remain indeterminate and it gives rise to the work. It is no longer merely around the work. That which it puts in place — the instances of the frame, the title, the signature, the legend, etc. — does not stop disturbing the internal order ” (9). In Derrida as well as in Kant, the parergon not only surrounds the work, but it actively communicates with the work. Sometimes, this communication disturbs the work, rises against it, and causes friction at the site of transition. Derrida describes the interaction between the two as follows: “ A parergon comes against, beside, and in addition to the ergon, the work done [fait], the fact [le fait], the work, but it does not fall to one side, it touches and cooperates within the operation, from a certain outside. Neither simply outside nor simply inside ” (54, square brackets in the original). The frame, then, whilst figuratively surrounding the work, interacts with it in various ways and through various passageways. The exact location of the parergon deserves close scrutiny: “ this horsd ’ oeuvre which however does not stand simply outside the work [hors-d ’ oeuvre], [is] also acting alongside, right up against the work (ergon) ” (54, square brackets enclosing French wording in the original). This means that the location is 8 In the translation of Derrida ’ s text, the noun “ surrounds ” refers to everything that surrounds the work; it designates the work ’ s “ outskirts: frame, title, signature, museum, archive, reproduction, discourse, market ” (11). The English translations of Derrida ’ s terms, which are not always readily understandable, are adopted in this study and explained when necessary. 34 2. Frameworks and Paratexts: From Typology to Function always an approximation, since the parergon is not a static concept. It has been seen that, generally and very formally speaking, the passe-partout is located between the frame and the work, whereas the frame, the parergon, is located between the work and its surrounds. The passe-partout is (as its very name implies) the concept that keeps the parergon from being static. It is, so to speak, the frame ’ s agility, its transcendentality, its ability to be dynamic. When Derrida asks: “ Where does a parergon begin and end ” (57), the question has, in a literary context, to be left unanswered. The parergon is not something static with impenetrable boundaries; it has an organic quality and interacts wherever there is a fracture, an interstice. At the same time, the parergon has limits. There is a boundary between the frame and that which surrounds it, as well as between the frame and the work, even though these boundaries are never static: Parerga have a thickness, a surface which separates them not only (as Kant would have it) from the integral inside, from the body proper of the ergon, but also from the outside, from the wall on which the painting is hung, from the space in which a statue or column is erected, then, step by step, from the whole field of historical, economic, political inscription in which the drive to signature is produced [. . .]. (60 - 61) Basically, “ [t]he parergon stands out [se détache] both from the ergon (the work) and from the milieu, it stands out first of all like a figure on a ground ” (61, square brackets around French wording in the original). This underlines the fact that the parergon is an entity that can only be grasped by fully understanding its field of action. To draw an analogy with literary writing, the “ wall ” might be the place where a written work is introduced to the public or perhaps, in more general terms, the reception of a work by an audience. Then the parergon comes into play between work and wall, plot and reception. In writing, there opens up a “ whole field of historical, economic, political inscription: ” for instance, a post-colonial or feminist discourse which is inscribed into a work, the cultural or political background against which a work is created, or perhaps even the history of emendation that surrounds it. These discourses or specific backgrounds play a parergonal role slotted inbetween the work and, for instance, the collective of critical writing or of all sorts of possible backgrounds, forming the surrounds. The parergon is the entity that connects these surrounds with the work; it mediates between the two and is able to open up a fracture in the work, causing a flow from inside to outside or vice-versa. It is that part of the work in which discourses surrounding it are represented, for instance. The places of transition between ergon and parergon can be compared to fractures, or, as Barthes puts it in The Pleasure of the Text, interstices through Derrida ’ s Parergon and Kant 35 which, in his case, bliss enters. 9 Instead of Barthes ’ bliss entering the text, however, (or sometimes together with such an experience of bliss) an interaction between ergon and parergon takes place. Through similar fractures to these interstices, the parergon interacts with the work. Barthes comments on the mechanism of an entity intruding upon a text as follows: “ [A] generalized asyndeton seizes the entire utterance, so that this very readable discourse is underhandedly one of the craziest imaginable: all the logical small change is in the interstices ” (9). The fracture opens where the utterance is seized by an asyndeton, a logical inconsistency, for instance, or one of tone. Visually, the interstices resemble cracks on a surface. The opening of these very fractures makes the movement between outside and inside possible. What is it, however, that acts underhandedly through the fractures or the interstices in literary writing? There are many possibilities in the field of parergonality: it might be the construct of the implied author, it might be a covert narrator, or it might be any sort of discourse that enters the text indiscernibly and acts underhandedly. All of these elements can be both present and absent at the same time. The narrator that tells the tale, for instance, is sometimes underhandedly at work, interfering with the work at fracture points. The notion of discourse and narration will be touched upon on various occasions in the following discussion, and it is central to the notion of the parergon. When Derrida says that the “ [p]arergon also means the exceptional, the strange, the extraordinary ” (58), he is indicating that not all frames qualify as parerga in the same way. Based on Kant, Derrida distinguishes between two types of parerga, namely that which he later exclusively calls parergon and the parergon that is mere adornment. The difference between them lies in their effect on the beholder (or, in the context of this study, the reader). In art, real beauty, according to Derrida and Kant, provokes “ pure and disinterested pleasure ” (44) in the one encountering it. Disinterested, however, does not mean indifferent: it means free of intellectual attachments to the object under surveillance. Instead of engaging in an intellectual approach to the work, the beholder exposes himor herself to the object of beauty on the basis of sheer emotion. 10 9 In one of his remarks, Derrida seems to realize that, after all, aesthetic judgment (and its Critique) — the basic text to his theory of the parergon — is “ about pleasure. About thinking pure pleasure, the being-pleasure of pleasure. Starting out from pleasure, it was for pleasure that the third Critique was written, for pleasure that it should be read ” (43). This relates to the fact that aesthetic judgment — the judgment of beauty — causes “ disinterested pleasure ” (44). In a way, the pleasure of text-processing rewarded by bliss could be part of an investigation into the aesthetics of the written text. 10 This idea of emotional immersion free of any intellectual engagement reminds the reader of Keats ’ notion of ‘ negative capability. ’ In a letter to his brothers dating from December 21 or 27, 1817, Keats explains the term as follows: “ Negative Capability, that is when man is capable of 36 2. Frameworks and Paratexts: From Typology to Function Why call a judgment of taste aesthetic? 11 Because, in order to distinguish whether a thing can be called beautiful, I do not consult the relation of the representation to the object, with a view to knowledge (the judgment of taste does not give us any knowledge) but its relation to the subject and to its affect (pleasure or unpleasure). The judgment of taste is not a judgment of knowledge, it is not “ logical ” but subjective and therefore aesthetic: relation to the affect (aisthesis). (44) Hence, the parergon is basically that which surrounds the “ thing, ” but only with pleasure-increasing consequences, having the effect of an affect. This affect is not caused in general, but only under certain conditions: The criterion of exclusion is [. . .] a formality. What must we understand by formality? The parergon (frame, garment, 12 column 13 ) can augment the pleasure of taste (Wohlgefallen des Geschmacks), contribute to the proper and intrinsically aesthetic representation if it intervenes by its form (durch seine Form) and only by its form. If it has a “ beautiful form, ” it forms part of the judgment of taste properly speaking or in any case intervenes directly in it. This is, if you like, the normal parergon. But if on the other hand it is not beautiful, purely beautiful, i. e., of a formal beauty, it lapses into adornment (Schmuck) and harms the beauty of the work, it does it wrong and causes it detriment (Abbruch). (64) Thus, certain frames do not work parergonally and are thus excluded from the category of the very parergon we are interested in. This means that, whilst the productive parergon has the power to complement the ergon and interact with it, the adornment will never leave its state of a supplement. Thus, the being in uncertainties, Mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact & reason. ” He adds that “ with a great poet the sense of Beauty overcomes every other consideration, or rather obliterates all consideration ” (43). This idea certainly plays its part in our romantic understanding of the creation and — as a deceptive consequence — also of the reception of art. In our analysis of literature, however, a merely emotional response is displaced and replaced by close analysis and interpretation. As Derrida predicts in The Truth in Painting: “ this [Kantian] discourse on the beautiful and on art, because it remains at the stage of a theory of judgment, gets tangled up in the — derived — opposition of subject and object ” (42). 11 The philosophical term aesthetics refers to the theory of affect rather than to the theory of beauty. In his famous work on The ‘ Uncanny, ’ Freud claims that “ aesthetics is understood to mean not merely the theory of beauty but the theory of the qualities of feeling ” (An Infantile Neurosis and Other Works 219). 12 Since the term interstice has already been introduced, it is interesting to see here that Barthes draws a similar analogy to the garment in The Pleasure of the Text: he illustrates the interstice, the gap where movement is not impeded, as follows: “ Is not the most erotic portion of a body where the garment gapes? [. . .] the intermittence of skin flashing between two articles of clothing [. . .], between two edges ” (9 - 10). 13 The three examples that Derrida, borrowing from Kant, gives of parerga are: the frame around a painting (visual arts), the garment on a statue (sculpture) and the columns around a building (architecture). What he leaves out here, namely literature, is covered by his references to Kant ’ s second edition of Religion within the Limits of Reason Alone as well as to his Critiques. It should, after all, be borne in mind that Derrida ’ s work focuses on the visual arts. Derrida ’ s Parergon and Kant 37 adornment will remain on the outside of the work. As a mere supplement or addition, it has no effect on the beholder (or reader) apart from its presence as an adornment: “ And if it [the frame] were simply an attractive, seductive, amusing exergue, not cooperating with what is proper to the work, a pure loss of value and waste of surplus value, then it would only be adornment ” (73). The difference between parergon and adornment is thus a matter of interaction, not placement. In the context of this study, parergon and adornment will be treated as two different types of frames. The differentiation between parergon and adornment, or between the real parergon and the parergon that only qualifies as adornment (as Kant and Derrida put it), has often been misconceived amongst critics. While Shaw suggests that it was not until Derrida ’ s Truth in Painting that a distinction was made between the two, 14 Cusset even claims that “ the ornament (the parergon: what is beside the work itself, what is added and unnecessary) determines the meaning of a work, by revealing the lack of a central meaning ” (125). Not only does she ignore the difference between parergon and adornment (here referred to as “ ornament ” ), but she also claims that it is the adornment that interacts with the work. Furthermore, she completely ignores deconstructionist attacks on logocentrism, the “ belief in an extra-systemic validating presence or centre which underwrites and fixes linguistic meaning but is itself beyond scrutiny or challenge ” (Hawthorn 108), by according a central meaning to a text. While it is never the case that the interpretation of a work can yield only one possible meaning, post-structuralists would also take issue with the idea that some central meaning is yielded at all. In a way, Cusset literally paralyzes the entire parergonal enterprise. The distinction between parergon and adornment can and should be transferred to literature. In literature, the distinction is a matter of interaction between the parergon and the ergon. As soon as that which is said or that which is indiscernibly happening in the sphere of the frame interacts with the work, the frame can be called a parergon. Even though it can be observed, in many cases, that the narrator mediating between parergon and work is the same in the parergon as in the ergon, the interaction between work and frame is not exclusively a matter of narrative agency. Thus, a preface that is already recounted by the same narrator as the work that follows does not necessarily qualify as a parergon. A formal dedication preceding the novel and signed in the 14 In his monograph on the sublime, Shaw gives a short account of Derrida ’ s treatment of parergonality with reference to Kant: “ In each case [both in Kant and in Derrida], the parergon appears to fulfil no intrinsic function; its status is merely decorative. Derrida, nevertheless, goes on to conclude something far more radical than this ” (117). Shaw then goes on to discuss what he deems is an extension of Kant ’ s account of the parergon. 38 2. Frameworks and Paratexts: From Typology to Function author ’ s name can be, in many cases (but does not necessarily have to be) an adornment, no matter whether the entity speaking in the dedication is the same as the narrator that guides the reader through the subsequent novel. Even though the transfer of the concept of parergonality back to literature functions analogously to the derivation of the parergon from Kant, the parergon very often, but not necessarily, takes the form of a paratext in the domain of literature. It might be useful, at this point, to make a first attempt to apply the concept structurally to literature. Derrida ’ s analysis of Kant ’ s written work provides a blueprint for such a taxonomy. Obviously, parerga are located somewhere in the liminal space that surrounds a work. At the same time, they are set against the foil of their surrounds, their historical or cultural background, in the same way as the painting is set against the wall. In literature, paratexts functioning as parerga occur in various forms, but they have to be part of a work and not mere adornments. A prologue or an epilogue to a play, performing a function and interacting with the main work, is an obvious example; so, too, are prefaces, codas, finales, couplets and many other forms, once they are closely connected with the work, i. e., if either an interaction takes place or, mostly, if the narrating entity is the same in the work as in its paratext. This means that, even in literary writing, the parergon does not necessarily have to take the form of a frame. It does not have to be located before or after the main work, but it can also occur within it, in places where the work opens up for interaction with its surrounds. This study examines the parergonality of frames in literature, the ways in which the frame, the parergon, connects the intrinsic and the extrinsic, and the inner and outer instances that influence the ergon, i. e. transcend the parergon: “ A frame is essentially constructed and therefore fragile: such would be the essence or truth of the frame. If it had any. But this ‘ truth ’ can no longer be a ‘ truth, ’ it no more defines the transcendentality than it does the accidentality of the frame, merely its parergonality ” (73). Since truth is characterized by stability, the only truth in parergonality is the presence of a dynamic oscillating mechanism, not the existence of one central true meaning. Parergonality can be detected by investigating the question of whether a frame has the capacity of transition (passe-partout) or whether it is merely an adornment. The parergonality of a frame is the characteristic that stabilizes it and assigns a function to it. When the possibility of adornment is excluded and the frame deserves, by definition, to be called a parergon, its function has to be worked out by means of a close analysis of the parergonal mechanism. Even though Derrida ’ s work is concerned with painting, the terminology he uses applies to literature as well because, after all, it is taken from (philosophical) writing. Interestingly, a bracketed imperative in one of his lemmata preceding the establishment of the parergonal construct instructs the reader to Derrida ’ s Parergon and Kant 39 “ [r]eread here the third and final part of the Origin [of the Work of Art, an essay in Martin Heidegger ’ s Poetry, Language, Thought]. . ., ‘ Truth and Art. ’” (23). When doing so, one is redirected towards poetic language as well in a sort of internal dialogue: If all art is in essence poetry, then the arts of architecture, painting, sculpture, and music must be traced back to poesy. That is pure arbitrariness. It certainly is, as long as we mean that those arts are varieties of the art of language, if it is permissible to characterize poesy by that easily misinterpretable title [i. e. art of language]. But poesy is only one mode of the lighting projection of truth, i. e., of poetic composition in this wider sense. Nevertheless, the linguistic work, the poem in the narrower sense, has a privileged position in the domain of the arts. (Heidegger 70 - 71) Derrida, through Heidegger, argues that basically art communicates through multiple channels, be it painting, architecture, music or literature. At the same time, the written text is the most authentic and original of all art forms. Heidegger differentiates between poesy as “ poetry in the narrower sense ” or “ the most original form of poetry ” (Heidegger 72) and poetry in a more general sense, denoting the rest of the communicative channels art uses. The written text therefore occupies a privileged position within artistic language in the broad sense (poetry), probably because it is more condensed (cf. German Dichtung) and self-aware (as being a written or spoken type of language) than communicational devices used in the other fields of art (painting, music, etc.). Derrida calls this “ the subordination of all the arts to speech ” (23). The Derridean imperative thus reinforces the line of argument taken in this study: its focus is indeed the parergon in literature, the essential art form. Generally, the parergon frames the ergon. Since this framing — including the sense of violence inherent in the word — is characterized by activity, the parergon is much more than mere adornment. Between the parergonal frame and the work, there are fractures through which transition takes place, transition that occurs everywhere (se passe partout) along the interface between work and frame. All of this terminology that is originally borrowed from a philosophical approach to the visual arts can be applied to literature; Derrida even presents a justification for doing so in his reference to Heidegger ’ s notion of poesy. It remains to be seen exactly how the interaction between work and frame operates, what mechanisms are at work and what functions of a parergonal framework can be distinguished. Furthermore, the parergon does not necessarily confine itself to the location of the paratext. Derrida has proven the concept of ergon and parergon to be useful in other fields of cultural output, namely the visual arts and architecture. In the context of this study, it finds its way back home to the written text. Yet before embarking upon such a full implementation of the concept in literature, it might be helpful to 40 2. Frameworks and Paratexts: From Typology to Function engage with other critics ’ approach to it. Thus, the following section will present an overview of the current status of Derrida ’ s parergon. The Parergon Today Compared to the wide range of possible applications Derrida ’ s concept of the parergon offers, it has only been used rather marginally. Even though it is not hard to find the concept in criticism, critics hardly ever fathom its full potential. One possible reason for this might be that the concept is not simply outlined and ready for use in Derrida, but needs to be retrieved from his accumulation of sometimes seemingly random notes. These notes are a product of Derrida ’ s conviction that “ [d]iscursive argument does not clear the ground to build from the ground up, on a foundation. You start wherever you are, in medias res ” (Culler, Framing the Sign 140). Foucault claims that discourse is constituted by sequences of signs, but these signs are part of a larger construct and need to be retrieved first so as to grasp a discourse present in a text. 15 In this sense, discourse is not built up from a clear ground and readily accessible. Starting in medias res, therefore, means that Derrida accesses the text at sites where a specific discourse is featured. Analogously, according to Culler, Derrida ’ s writing characterizes itself by “ its refusal to develop a general and consistent theoretical metalanguage but its exploration instead of the logic of particular terms within the texts he is analysing: [among others, e. g. the] parergon in Kant ” (140). It seems that critics, in assessing the parergon in Derrida, have already performed quite a large amount of work and thus deem it sufficient to simply point out that the concept also exists. References such as the following by Allmer are typical examples of the occurrence of the concept in criticism: In his discussion of framing in art, Jacques Derrida describes the parergon, the ‘ beyond the work ’ , as “ un mixte de dehors et de dedans, mais un mixte qui n ’ est pas un mélange ou une demi-mesure, un dehors qui est appelé au-dedans du dedans pour le constituer en dedans ” (Derrida 1978: 74). (118) 16 15 For a more detailed summary of Foucault ’ s notion of discourse, cf. the following section entitled “ Mechanisms, Functions, and the Effect of the Parergonal Framework ” (59). 16 Naturally, Allmer also provides the English translation of this passage: “‘ [. . .] a hybrid of outside and inside, but a hybrid which is not a mixture or a half-measure, an outside which is called to the inside of the inside in order to constitute it as an inside ’ (Derrida 1987: 63) ” (118n). Interestingly, she leaves out the beginning of Derrida ’ s sentence, which reads: “ And when Kant replies to our question ‘ What is a frame? ’ by saying: it ’ s a parergon, a hybrid of outside and inside [. . .]. ” In so doing, she does not acknowledge Derrida ’ s reference to Kant ’ s definition of the parergon and hence does not really give Derrida ’ s description of the concept. For a discussion of this very passage, cf. section “ The Hybrid: Fielding ’ s Tom Jones ” below (127n). The Parergon Today 41 Allmer uses Derrida (or rather Kant) as a starting point in her discussion of frames in the work of René Magritte. After briefly introducing Derrida, she moves on to J. Hillis Miller ’ s “ The Critic as Host, ” which discusses the insideoutside dichotomy of the word para. 17 In addition, her discussion of the two concepts serves to approach works of the visual arts. Allmer ’ s example combines two of the common uses of the concept: on the one hand, critics have a tendency to use the concept marginally in order to move on to something else, and on the other, they often apply the parergon within the field of the visual arts. Some, but not many, also transpose it to literature, however. Their small number is surprising, considering the fact that the concept originally stems from the field of philosophy, which Derrida, according to Culler, treats “ as a literary genre ” (On Deconstruction 183). As a matter of course, Derrida ’ s concept has been taken up and summarized by many theorists in order to critically analyze and explicate it. In so doing, these critics have remained within the realm of theory. In The Fate of Art, which is above all concerned with comparing various philosophical theories of aesthetics, Bernstein discusses Derrida ’ s parergon in relation to Kant ’ s work in great detail without taking it out of the realm of philosophy, particularly the analysis of beauty and aesthetic judgment (140 - 187). He claims that, generally, “ Derridean practice [. . .] focuses on concepts in accordance with which texts organize and close in upon themselves, totalize themselves, and exceed that closure ” (137). In “ Detachment from the ‘ Parergon, ’” Owens also situates Derrida ’ s theory within aesthetic discourse and discusses its purpose. Shaffer relates Derrida ’ s parergon and Romantic aesthetic theories to Kantian aesthetics. Milne provides a neat summary of Derrida ’ s “ Parergon ” and situates it in relation to Derrida ’ s later work. In her review of Derrida ’ s The Truth in Painting, Barzilai begins with a critical analysis of Derrida ’ s formal choice of lemmata as well as their arrangement in his presentation of the parergon. She continues to critically analyze his text in its relation to Kant ’ s writing. Finally, she playfully offers a text of her choice as a supplement to the first part, “ I. Lemmata, ” of Derrida ’ s “ Parergon. ” Harvey discusses the “ notion of exemplarity as parergonality, ” since this is enacted in Derrida ’ s use of examples from Kant in order to articulate his theory of the parergon (59). Since Derrida ’ s work frames Kant ’ s, it establishes a parergonal relationship to it. The example as a particular representative of a universal is discussed in Khanna (21). Starting with the idea that “ typicality itself tells a story of framing ” (11), Khanna presents a general approach to the workings of (political, scientific, or discursive) contexts by means of Derrida ’ s concept. 17 For a more detailed account of Miller ’ s essay, cf. section “ Frames, Paratexts, and Typology ” above (23 - 24). 42 2. Frameworks and Paratexts: From Typology to Function Culler ’ s discussion of Derrida ’ s parergon in On Deconstruction (1983) provides an elucidating summary of the concept and its derivation; but he, too, does not attempt to apply the concept to literature. Culler ’ s aim is rather to point out that “ the implications of deconstruction for the study of literature are far from clear. ” Even though Derrida “ frequently writes about literary works, ” he does not explicitly deal with “ the task of literary criticism ” or “ the methods for analyzing literary language ” (180). These practices need to be inferred from Derrida ’ s writing by literary critics. Even though Culler ’ s text is not a recent one, and even though “ literary criticism indebted to Derridean deconstruction ” undoubtedly exists (180), the demand is still there, at least in terms of his “ Parergon, ” “ a work of great pertinence for the literary theorist ” (193): in this sense, my study carries out such an inference of the concept in order to provide a method for literary criticism. Some critics, such as Shaw, use Derrida ’ s concept peripherally to draw a connection between their field of interest, Kant, and Derrida. In his work on the sublime, Shaw briefly introduces the concept to ease the transition into Derrida ’ s discussion of Kant ’ s “ Analytic of the Sublime, ” which is part of the Critique of Judgment. This naturally makes him oversimplify things somewhat. When he claims that the “ parergon, as a frame [. . .] or institution, is not [. . .] simply peripheral; rather it is directly related to the lack in the interior of the ergon ” (117), his statement is perfectly correct, but it fails to acknowledge that parergon, lack, and ergon are clearly specified terms in Derrida, which need further explication. At the same time, the essence of the concept, namely the direct relationship between parergon, lack on the interior of the ergon, and the ensuing mechanism between the three entities, remains in the dark. Sometimes, Derrida ’ s theories are introduced in order to set them off against a different kind of theory or institutional framework. Frow ’ s four-page excursus to Derrida ’ s The Truth in Painting in his chapter “ Text and System ” (Marxism and Literary History) briefly discusses Derrida ’ s concept in order to underline the necessity of a conscious critical framework when conducting a textual analysis. At the same time, it points out that, depending on the sort of frame we apply, our critical framework might be affected through its interaction with the work under scrutiny. Even though Frow refers to frames in literary texts, his frames are initially restricted to the formal paratexts of the book cover, the “ dedicatory material ” or the white margin around a poem, without discussing their potential parergonal roles (221). When leaving the formal domain, he discusses Lotman ’ s beginnings and endings as frames and goes on to focus on a specific frame narrative. In this latter discussion, he even comments on the distancing effect of textual framing, but not with reference to Derrida ’ s parergonal mechanism (221). He finally summarizes the point of introducing Derrida ’ s concept as follows: “ The frame deconstructs itself; a The Parergon Today 43 work of deconstruction is always already written into the concept. Here and later Derrida appeals to the work of the frame, the work done by the frame ” (224). A political analysis — and this is what Frow, as an exponent of Marxist criticism, naturally aims at — focuses on the work done on the text as well as on the frame, and thus exposes the “ institutional conditions of reading ” (224). He sets off the political reading against a sort of internal mechanism of deconstruction. By doing this, he delimits “ the frame of analysis ” against “ the framing of texts ” (224). Even though Frow ’ s discussion of Derrida ’ s parergon is rather detailed in comparison to others ’ , it does not engage with the systematics of its practical application. While Frow makes a tentative approach to a literary work in order to explain parergonality, Barbara Johnson ’ s analysis remains theoretical despite the literary text at its centre. She closely analyzes Derrida ’ s writing on Lacan ’ s reading of Poe ’ s short story “ The Purloined Letter. ” Derrida, according to Johnson, objects to Lacan ’ s reading of Poe ’ s text because of Lacan ’ s flawed critical frame of reference. Lacan does not consider the fact that the short story is connected to two other short stories by Poe, for instance. The double logic of the frame, which simultaneously connects and divides two entities, is at the core of Derrida ’ s criticism: “ The total inclusion of the ‘ frame ’ is both mandatory and impossible. The ‘ frame ’ thus becomes not the borderline between the inside and the outside, but precisely what subverts the applicability of the inside/ outside polarity to the act of interpretation ” (235). The interpretative frame and the object of analysis are constantly interacting, which, on the one hand, makes it impossible to set up a clear frame of reference. On the other hand, it is not possible to transform a textual signifier into a stable signified in order to arrive at a potential truth value of a text, either (236). As a metatheoretical discussion, Johnson ’ s work is highly interesting. Since it focuses on theory, however, it does not offer a possible general reading of frame-text interaction. Neither does it directly apply the parergon to other literary texts. Obviously, it would be interesting to discuss in what way parergonal interaction describes the mechanism of Derrida ’ s freeplay ( “ Structure, Sign, and Play ” 529 - 530), the infinite transferral of meaning in an oscillation between one signifier and the infinite field of its potential substitutions. 18 Derrida ’ s reading of Lacan, in turn, 18 In his essay “ Structure, Sign, and Play in the Discourse of the Human Sciences, ” the terminology Derrida uses to describe the mechanism of freeplay is partly identical with the one he uses for parergonality: “ The movement of signification adds something, which results in the fact that there is always more, but this addition is a floating one because it comes to perform a vicarious function, to supplement a lack on the part of the signified ” (529, my emphasis in italics). The signifier might thus perform the part of the parergon, in that its movements within the field of potential signifieds (the ergon) are motivated by its search to supplement the lack of a stable signified. 44 2. Frameworks and Paratexts: From Typology to Function enacts “ the eternal oscillation between unequivocal undecidability and ambiguous certainty, ” which is all that can finally remain in the totality of textual interpretation as well (242). In her dissertation on Kantian and Derridean versions of the parergon, to which Derrida notably wrote a preface, Dünkelsbühler tentatively discusses a sort of actual application of the concept in the field of literature. She first describes Kant ’ s and Derrida ’ s work in great detail. Being aware of her own project of framing Derrida ’ s theories, she consciously avoids summarizing them, since framing is in itself the object they discuss. Instead, she attempts a commented translation. 19 Towards the end of her text, notably in an excursus that is part of her coda, she ventures into the literary genre of the tragedy, which, she claims, may serve to supplement the impossibility of metaphysical philosophy illustrating the sublime (154). Whereas theory fails to illustrate the sublime, tragedy has the ability to show exactly this failure of illustration. In this sense, tragedy forms a parergonal supplement to philosophy. She exemplifies this hypothesis with an analysis of Sophocles ’ Antigone. 20 In this sense, her analysis proceeds in a similar direction to mine, but is concerned with a different scientific discipline, namely philosophy and translation, and a different hypothesis. In Reading Iconotexts, Wagner does not entirely leave the field of the visual arts in favour of an exclusively literary application of the parergon. When investigating the interaction between verbal framing and images, he calls the parergon ’ s function to “ comment on the central part, to control our vision by putting things into a particular perspective ” a “ subversive ” one (37). This 19 Dünkelsbühler describes her procedure as follows: “ Derridas Analysen resümieren zu können hiesse, dass sie ‘ rahm- ’ , d. h. ‘ vereinnahmbar ’ wären. Was, wie sich herausstellt, Schwierigkeiten macht, zumal wenn diese Problematik - mehr oder weniger explizit - selbst thematisiert wird ” (57). She calls her own activity “ übersetzende[. . .] Lektüre ” (57). I assume that this procedure is mainly motivated by the fact that she herself is a specialist in the field of translation. I argue that criticism in general does not necessarily need to comply with certain rules (of framing) set up in the object of its analysis. On the contrary, criticism is free to define its own critical framework. My study attempts to translate Derrida ’ s parergon to literary analysis, running the risk of framing it in a way that stands in a paradoxical relationship to the theory ’ s claims. 20 Her hypothesis is as follows: “ Die Tragödie supplementiert die Unmöglichkeit der Darstellung des Erhabenen. Sie würde damit zum parergonalen - konsitutiven - Rahmen der Theorie, d. h. hier der metaphysischen Philosophie ” (154). “ Das heisst aber genau nicht, dass die (kantische) Theorie des Erhabenen mit der Tragödie eine Identität bildet. Vielmehr geht es darum, zu hören, wie das ‘ Echo ’ , das die Theorie im Theater der Tragödie vernimmt, klingt. Nach der Hypothese würde deren Zusammenhang darin bestehen, dass genau das, was beim Erhabenen als Darstellung der Unmöglichkeit der Darstellung - nämlich ihr Scheitern - thematisiert wurde, in der Tragödie dargestellt würde ” (155). The Parergon Today 45 obviously shows an analogy with my study, which investigates the manipulative force of parerga in the reading process. In his analysis of Swift ’ s Gulliver ’ s Travels, Wagner focuses on the parergonal function of “ the introductory parts (consisting of texts, images and iconotexts — [his] term for the mixture of verbal and visual signs), ” which “ is very much part of a subversive strategy in which the text eventually defamiliarizes itself ” (39). He calls the introductory part a maze, which lures the readers into a journey of their own. Wagner ’ s study engages with parergonal constellations in literature and the visual arts. However, he does not exclusively focus on the written parts of the Travels, but devotes a great deal of space to all the visual representations that constitute this maze. At the same time, he does not investigate the intricate structure of parergonal interaction at all. Apart from the uses of Derrida ’ s concept in the field of the visual arts, which are of little interest in this study, there are some further studies within the fields of musical culture and film which use it as a methodological tool. Groom applies Derrida ’ s parergon in his study of cultural framings. He wants “ to consider some of the implications of framing [. . .] and [does] so by contriving a collision between Punk Art and eighteenth century antiquarian literature ” (87). He discusses Jamie Reid ’ s artwork for the Sex Pistols, for which Reid made “ terrorist uses ” of materials from all kinds of parergonal contexts, such as “ artistic and political theories ” (88). Groom points out the analogy between Reid ’ s work in terms of its frame and the materials collated by Thomas Percy, “ the arch-conservative collector of ballads ” with reference to their social and political background. In this sense, the ballads ’ relation to “ debates surrounding national identity and literary history, ” as well as the fact that Percy “ fudged his editing, ” function parergonally and “ illuminate [these] weirder aspects of Percy ’ s antiquarian work ” (89). Percy ’ s Reliques of Ancient English Poetry, in turn, presents “ a dizzying pattern of framing devices ” in itself (90). Even though Groom aptly deploys definitions related to Derrida ’ s concept, he does not investigate the exact operation between parergon and ergon. In his analysis of Peter Greenaway ’ s film The Draughtsman ’ s Contract, Tucker investigates the question of the boundary between the inside and the outside of works of art. He discusses elements of Greenaway ’ s film such as title sequences, drawings within the movie, each individual frame that segments it, or the screen onto which it is projected as spaces where this idea of boundary comes to bear. Umland ’ s essay circles around the question of “ what to exclude as non-essential to a cinematic art work and what to define as essential to a cinematic art work ” (57). Obviously, Derrida ’ s parergon is of interest in a discussion of this kind of boundary between the inside and the outside of a work of art. It is the case, however, that there are also some practical applications of Derrida ’ s concept that deal exclusively with English literature. Stephanie 46 2. Frameworks and Paratexts: From Typology to Function L. Johnson illustrates how the “ more radical feminist position ” (426) in Elizabeth Barrett Browning ’ s poem “ A Vision of Poets ” is tempered and qualified by her later epic poem Aurora Leigh. “ A Vision of Poets ” contains a “ subversive framing device that allows for the female poet to maintain a critical distance from the males ” (442). This framing device is absent in the later poem. By means of the structure of her poems, Barrett Browning “ creates discursive control for the female figures ” (426). In this sense, “ the boundary between the work and the world comes under question ” and the two poems negotiate the position of the female poet in interaction with “ Barrett Browning ’ s feminist frame ” (431). Johnson makes sure not only to name the concept of the parergon, but also to apply the Derridean terminology of work, frame, and lack. In her essay on Janet Frame ’ s The Carpathians, Ash analyzes the friction caused between the various narrative layers of the novel, which effects a certain irony between them (5). This irony, in turn, causes a re-evaluation of the relationship between writer and reader (8) by underlining the “ mutual dependency which exists between ” them. After all, “ words don ’ t exist until read ” (9). Even though Ash proposes a different understanding of the concept of the parergon than I do, partly because she often takes Derrida ’ s writing rather too literally, her analysis is diligent and insightful. In the end, she discusses potential misreadings of Frame ’ s novel and investigates the importance of truth for Frame, which, as she also admits, makes Derrida and Frame “ part company ” (12). Ash ’ s interest in a search for truth apparently undermines her own theoretical framework as well. In her essay on John Ashbery ’ s poetry, Malinowska analyzes the effect of framing devices by means of the oscillating mechanism of the parergon, which constitutes a “ means of directing focus ” (55). Nas, in turn, analyzes the parergonal force of the acrostic framing devices used in Barth ’ s experimental work LETTERS. All of these applications differ in their subject matter and the kinds of discourses that lie at their bases, but all generate an interpretative surplus in a more or less convincing application of Derrida ’ s concept. Some simply read through the pattern of the constituent members of the parergon, while others are interested in the mechanism of parergonality and its effect. However, no systematic study of the parergon in literature can be found. The mechanism at the root of the interaction between work and frame is central to my study. It is the criterion according to which textual constellations within the field of English literature either qualify or do not qualify as parergonal. The following section aims to shed light on this oscillating mechanism. In addition, it uses the initial direction of the mechanism so as to assign specific functions to textual constructs. The Parergon Today 47 Mechanisms, Functions, and the Effect of the Parergonal Framework Now that we have situated the parergon within the field of frame theories, located and defined the concept in relation to the ergon and the surrounds, and investigated the application of the concept within the field of literary and cultural studies, the focus shifts towards the nature of parergonal interaction. Work and frame cooperate through cuts, fractures or interstices on the surface of the work at the place where the work and its frame touch. The passe-partout as a site combines division and conjunction and presents the very liminal space in which parergonal oscillation is traceable. The nature and function of this oscillation, however, is the very basis for a practical application of Derrida ’ s concept. When one decelerates the oscillation mechanism and traces its movements, one can discern the location from which the oscillation is triggered. When one has decided whether the parergonal oscillation has been triggered either by the work or by the frame, one can assign a function to the literary parergon. On the basis of these functions, exemplary analyses can be conducted in order to demonstrate how the detection and configuration of a parergonal setup provides the ground for fruitful literary interpretation. Derrida approaches the mechanisms of interaction with the help of the term lack. The lack in the work prompts the mechanism of oscillation: It is not because they [the garment and the column, the frames which are parerga] are detached but on the contrary because they are more difficult to detach and above all because without them, without their quasi-detachment, the lack on the inside of the work would appear; or (which amounts to the same thing for a lack) would not appear. What constitutes them as parerga is not simply their exteriority as a surplus, it is the internal structural link which rivets them to the lack in the interior of the ergon. And this lack would be constitutive of the very unity of the ergon. Without this lack, the ergon would have no need of a parergon. The ergon ’ s lack is the lack of a parergon[.] (59 - 60) What Derrida terms “ lack ” is something that is missing in the work, but that only becomes noticeable through the workings of the frame, which is riveted to the interior of the work. 21 If there were no parergonal framework, the lack 21 For the derivation of this term, cf. section “ Derrida ’ s Parergon and Kant ” above (29 - 34). Had he written his work in English, Derrida would undoubtedly have exploited the phonetic and semantic similarities between the term lack and the term lacuna (even though, according to the OED, they are not etymologically related). In his analysis of Kant ’ s third critique, he states that Kant finished his work by “ admitting the lacunae and projecting a bridge over the abyss of the other two critiques [Critique of Pure Reason and Critique of Practical Reason] ” and thus spoke symbolically “ of his age ” (43). In the French original, the section is entitled “ Arête/ manque ” (50) and the above quotation is a translation of the following: “ en reconnaissant des lacunes et en projetant un pont par-dessus l ’ abîme des deux autres critiques, Kant parle de son âge ” (51). In this sense, the suggested word-play (lack — lacuna) would seem fitting in the context of the Critique of Judgment, as detached from and attached to the two other critiques at the same time. 48 2. Frameworks and Paratexts: From Typology to Function would remain concealed. Since a lack is basically an absence, it cannot appear. Thus, as Derrida aptly puts it, whether the lack appears or not amounts to the same thing. The defining criterion for a parergon is its internal structural link to the site of the lack in the ergon. By tracing this link, one can become aware of the lack. Derrida ’ s claim that “ [t]he ergon ’ s lack is the lack of a parergon ” is, of course, highly ambiguous due to the fact that Derrida first establishes the lack as a sort of entity in itself and then uses it idiomatically in the sense of something ’ s lack of something. On the one hand, ergon and parergon share an entity that is called ‘ lack. ’ Not only do they share it, but it is the ground or the reason for their interaction. The presence of the parergon complements the ergon and hence conceals its lack. On the other hand, the lack is revealed if the parergon is missing (if there is a “ lack of a parergon ” ). Since the appearance of a lack cannot be made out, we need to trace the alternation between absence and presence of the parergon. In a comparison between the two states, the lack in the work becomes apparent. In this sense, the lack in the work is indeed the lack of a parergon: only when the parergon is absent after having been present can we find the lack. Therefore, the parergon functions as a complement: it has the ability to tie perfectly into the lack and enters the ergon when it is at work. It is then not just a surplus feature that can easily be detached from the work. When it is at work, the parergon leaves its passive condition of a supplement and becomes a complement. This is the self-contained condition in which the lack as a concept comes into play. Furthermore, the absence of a mere adornment, a perpetual supplement, would not be apparent at all. In literary writing, the relationship between ergon, parergon and lack can be explained as follows: the lack defines the sense — including the French (phonetic) double sense — or the direction of reading given to a work by its parergon. The interplay between ergon and parergon is driven by the latter ’ s need to complement the lack in the work. The parergon intrudes upon the work so as to respond to this lack. If we consider the parergon to be the constitutive voice around the work, the lack is that which would be missing if this very voice did not point it out. This means that, if we did not have this voice available, we would not realize that something was missing. A simple example might clarify what is meant here. If a narrative is claimed, in its preface or in its introductory chapter, to be based on a true story, the interplay between this very parergon (the story having taken place in reality) and the ergon (the story itself) is already at work when we begin to read. Whenever something unbelievable happens (a possible lack), the reader ’ s judgment will recall the fact that even the The ergon — the two critiques — only prove to be lacking something once the third critique plays into them. At the same time, the section title shows that the French term for lack is manque, not — as argued here as fitting — lacuna. Mechanisms, Functions, and the Effect of the Parergonal Framework 49 most impossible events do occur in reality (the lack is filled). In this way, the parergon complements the ergon. The lack that appears (even if only for a very short moment) might be that an event in the story seems unbelievable; yet, by having ostensibly happened in reality (the claim made by the parergon), the lack disappears. Yet, if there were no claim that the story was based on a real event, the lack itself would not appear; if the story was unbelievable, it would not be rehabilitated by means of its frame; we might simply not find it particularly interesting. This interplay between the ergon and the parergon can be visualized as an oscillation that takes place continually while one is reading. In order to illustrate this mechanism, this example can be taken further. If, for instance, a second frame exposes the first frame as untrue by revealing that the narrative that was claimed to be based on a true story is really fictitious, the effect while reading will be very different; the reader will face two interacting systems. If, for instance, something unbelievable happens in the story, the reader may find this provocative in view of the fact that the story was once claimed to be based on real events; possibly, the story will even turn out to have lost everything which made it interesting to read. In such a case, the second frame counteracts the first, while both frames together constitute the parergon. One might ask, then, what the function of the first frame was: whilst its effect was to increase verisimilitude in order to render the story more believable, the second probably served, say, a political purpose and showed that the narrative, for instance a piece of propaganda, was mere fiction. Both frames simply tried to prevent the reader from noticing their underhanded task and consequently from wrestling with those parts of a work that create offence: parts which provoke the reader, such as a work ’ s unconventionality or political challenge. In this sense, ergon and parergon form one unit within which they are in continuous interaction. Derrida shows that the system of ergon and parergon is a closed one. This self-contained condition, however, is not static at all. It is only the outer appearance of a construct that is static, while the construct is continually at work within. Derrida points out that the absence of the frame at work would show the lack; but this would only happen by comparison (imagining the quasidetachment), if one had observed the parergon interacting with the ergon beforehand. If this were not the case, the lack would not appear. Within their closed system, the parergon rises against the ergon only to fall back into its passive condition of a supplement after having deployed its initial energy. The work cooperates with this change of condition in that it relegates the parergon to its initial position. But what is the driving force that enables the parergon to oscillate between these two extreme states of supplement versus complement? In Derrida, there is a lack of explanation concerning the force that drives on the interplay between ergon and parergon. Only in passing does he mention a 50 2. Frameworks and Paratexts: From Typology to Function possible driving mechanism by using the term energeia: “ [T]he self-protectionof-the-work, of energeia [. . .] becomes ergon only as (from) parergon: not against free and full and pure and unfettered energy (pure act and total presence of energeia, the Aristotelian prime mover) but against what is lacking in it ” (80). The fact that Derrida does not explain this driving force further places my study in a complementary position to Derrida ’ s work, and I will take the opportunity to elaborate on this very force. In our context, the Aristotelian energeia which Derrida mentions describes the dynamics achieved by the interaction between work and frame, the dynamics that occur in the location and by means of the passe-partout. Energeia deserves further scrutiny because it plays a major role in parergonal interaction. There is nothing supplementary, such as free energy, produced by adding a frame. The work itself attains its fullest execution when a frame in a relationship of interplay complements it. In Physics and Metaphysics, Aristotle differentiates between dunamis, energeia and entelecheia as forms of (potential) activity. In order to understand the notion of energeia, it is necessary to pay attention also to the two related concepts of dunamis and entelecheia and to describe important similarities as well as crucial differences between them. Dunamis, translated as “ potentiality ” (Cohen, section 14), “ potency ” (Sachs, Aristotle ’ s Metaphysics 167; Aristotle ’ s Physics 252) or “ capacity, capability ” (Apostle 480) is, on the one hand, matter ’ s potential for movement ( “ kinêsis, ” Cohen, section 12) and, on the other, “ not a thing ’ s power to produce a change but rather its capacity to be in a different and more completed state ” (Cohen, section 12). Such a “ potency in its proper sense will always emerge into activity when the proper conditions are present and nothing prevents it ” (Sachs, Aristotle ’ s Physics 252). This urge to undergo a metamorphosis has a narrative aspect. The progression of a former condition to a current one reminds us of the definition of event. 22 This inherence of a narrative aspect to such a process is where the notion of dunamis differs from those of energeia and entelecheia: whilst dunamis describes a potential, the latter two concepts refer to two different kinds of actual activity. The translations of the two terms energeia and entelecheia have caused considerable controversy amongst critics. Whereas some, such as Cohen, translate both energeia and entelecheia as “ actuality ” (Cohen, section 14), 23 Peters 22 According to Rimmon-Kenan, an event is defined as “ a change from one state of affairs to another ” (15). 23 In his study of Aristotle ’ s Physics, Sachs comments on this translation as follows: “ [I]t is usually translated as ‘ actuality, ’ a word that refers to anything, however trivial, incidental, transient, or static, that happens to be the case, so that everything is lost in translation, just at the spot where understanding could begin ” (245). For a more specific account of possible translations of entelecheia, cf. the quotation from Sachs below. Mechanisms, Functions, and the Effect of the Parergonal Framework 51 translates energeia as “ functioning, activity, act, actualization ” (55) and entelecheia as “ state of completion or perfection, actuality ” (57). George A. Blair, who dedicates an entire monograph to the two terms, takes issue with the use of the word actuality, since it denotes “ a kind of static modality of being ” (18). He first approaches the two concepts in terms of their etymology. Energeia is an Aristotelian coinage, a neologism consisting of the following components: “ the prefix ἐν -, meaning ‘ in ’ or ‘ within, ’ and ἐργεῖν (the originative form being the verbal one), a rare active voice of the common verb ἐργάζεσθαι , which as a middle deponent has the active meaning of ‘ to work, ’ ‘ to do, ’ ‘ to act, ’ or ‘ to be busy ’” (17). Since the verbal form itself already has an active meaning, the active voice added to the compound has the effect of “ call[ing] attention to the activity itself ” (18). Rather than simply presenting a translation of the term, Blair explains its original components and then uses the expression internal activity whenever he translates the Aristotelian original. He draws attention to the kind of activity the term denotes: even though activity implies change, “ there is no evident change going on ” (27), precisely because the activity is an internal one. Sachs, who criticizes most translations of the terms energeia and entelecheia as imprecise and deficient, translates energeia, as “ being-at-work ” and the latter, entelecheia, as “ being-at-work-staying-itself ” (244 - 245). The two concepts shade off into one another. “ Since the end and completion of any genuine being is its being-at-work, the meaning of the word converges [. . .] with that of [. . .] entelecheia ” (244). Entelecheia is a later Aristotelian coinage. The word, according to Sachs, is a combination of “ enteles (complete, full grown) with echein (= hexis, to be in a certain way by the continuing effort of holding on to that condition), while at the same time punning on endelechia (persistence) by inserting telos (completion) ” (245). Thus, energeia refers to those activities that are not perceptible from the outside, whilst entelecheia emphasizes the purpose of completion of such processes. Blair also lists the various components that constitute the later coinage, but he emphasizes the fact that entelecheia refers to the earlier coinage energeia and combines it with the word τέλος , meaning end or completion. Hence, “ the word would mean ‘ internal-end-having, ’ or ‘ having the end within [the being] ’ presumably as opposed to having the end outside it ” (79, square brackets in the original). Entelecheia therefore carries the additional aspect of completion. In order to understand the two concepts in their interrelationship, it does not suffice to merely compare the various different translations and the origins of the two words; it is necessary to fathom the terms by investigating their use in Aristotle ’ s writing. In his Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle ’ s treatment of the notion of energeia is restricted to the context of the human organism and human behaviour. It is the driving force for virtue and happiness: 52 2. Frameworks and Paratexts: From Typology to Function With those who identify happiness with virtue or some one virtue our account is in harmony; for to virtue belongs virtuous activity [energeia]. But it makes, perhaps, no small difference whether we place the chief good in possession or in use, in state of mind or in activity. For the state of mind may exist without producing any good result, as in a man who is asleep or in some other way quite inactive, but the activity cannot; for one who has the activity will of necessity be acting, and acting well. ” (Nicomachean Ethics 16, book 1.8) We still recall Blair ’ s translation of internal activity. Blair presents a list of applications of the term energeia in the context of Aristotelian ethics, among which we find the following cases: “ Happiness, the human being ’ s highest good, is an internal activity ” (73 - 74), “ Happiness is internal activity in accordance with the highest virtue, ” and “ Supreme happiness is in the internal activity of pondering ” (74). Not only is energeia directly linked to happiness and virtue but, more importantly in this context, it is linked to activities that are not evident, because they are internal. This is the essence of Aristotle ’ s insight, namely that “ what was always considered static was actually active, but that the activity was internal, as in living beings ” (47), “ while one is thinking or in an animal while it has its eyes open and is ‘ looking ’” (27). In this sense, the difference between dunamis (potency), kinêsis (movement) and energeia in the human body becomes clear. Dunamis refers to the capacity to change states, kinêsis is one of the possible manifestations of activity, namely movement, and energeia can be at work even if no movement is perceptible from the outside. Energeia, according to Sachs, refers to “ activities that are not motions; examples for these are seeing, knowing, and happiness, each understood as an ongoing state that is complete at every instant, but the human being that can experience them is similarly a being-at-work, constituted by metabolism ” (Aristotle ’ s Physics 244). Aristotle applies the term energeia “ beyond its original biological sense ” (Blair 31) and in “ a sense which is broader than is normally thought ” (43) as well, however. In Metaphysics, Aristotle explains the notion of energeia in a more generalized context (translated by Sachs): Now being-at-work [energeia] is something ’ s being-present not in the way that we speak of as in potency [dunamis]; and we speak of as being in potency, for example, Hermes in a block of wood or a half line in the whole, because they can be separated out, or someone who knows, even when he is not contemplating, if he is capable of contemplating. 24 The other way these things are present is in activity. And what we mean to say is clear by looking directly at particular examples [. . .] one can also see at one glance, by means of analogy, that which is as the one building is to the one who can 24 In his translation of the same passage in Aristotle, Apostle uses the image of a scientist to illustrate this idea: “ [A]nd we say that a man is a scientist even if he is not in the process of investigating something, provided that he is capable of doing this ” (151). Mechanisms, Functions, and the Effect of the Parergonal Framework 53 build, and the awake to the asleep, and the one seeing to the one whose eyes are shut but who has sight, and what has been formed out of material to the material, and what is perfected to what is incomplete. And let being-at-work be determined by one part of each distinction, and what is potential by the other. 25 (173 - 174, 1048a32 - 1048b5) Potency (dunamis) exists in Hermes being potentially carved out of a block of wood, a half line being potentially separated from a whole or in a person potentially able to contemplate but not momentarily contemplating. The crucial point about the above examples is that they form a narrative situation, in that we can differentiate between a former and a latter state of their condition. While dunamis is always inherent in the former state of the two, energeia is only present when we compare the former and the latter state to each other. Dunamis as a potential is therefore a static concept: a potential is inherent in something. Energeia, however, refers to activities and thus to a change of state. The former state contains the potential to become the latter, but as soon as we focus on the becoming itself, we are dealing with energeia. It is probably also this basis that made Wilhelm von Humboldt claim that language itself is an activity rather than a product. He anticipated Ferdinand de Saussure ’ s differentiation between the actual language in use, which the latter calls parole (85), and a conceptual model of language, langue, in that he called language energeia rather than ergon: Language, regarded in its real nature, is an enduring thing, and at every moment a transitory one. Even its maintenance by writing is always just an incomplete, mummylike preservation, only needed again in attempting thereby to picture the living utterance. In itself it is no product (Ergon), but an activity (Energeia). (49) The constant development of any language and its inherent dynamic is well described by Aristotle ’ s coinage. Even though, from a theoretical and more distanced point of view, language has its organisation and structure, a closer look reveals constant change. From the outside, this dynamic character cannot be made out. In connection with the initial use of energeia in the Nicomachean Ethics, we can say that the term energeia describes activities that are not (always) evident from the outside, but which are not restricted to living beings, either. The activity of thinking, for example, is not characterized by a perceptible movement and still, it is an activity. Some of the above examples seem less apt to illustrate this particular aspect, but rather emphasize the fact that energeia is not 25 In his translation, Apostle is more precise in labelling each part of the analogy: “ Let the term ‘ actuality ’ [energeia] signify the first part [i. e. the one building, the awake, the one seeing, what has been formed out of material, and what is perfected] of each of these differences and ‘ the potential ’ [dunamis] signify the second part [i. e. the one who can build, the asleep, the one whose eyes are shut but who has sight, the material, and what is incomplete] ” (152). 54 2. Frameworks and Paratexts: From Typology to Function restricted to living entities. Energeia is activity that is neither (necessarily) perceptible nor restricted to living beings, whereas dunamis as a potential for change is a static concept that is best understood before any change has happened (e. g. when contemplating the potential inherent in a block of wood before it becomes the statue of Hermes). Workings that only become apparent in a comparison between two states and that are not perceptible from the outside when they are at work thus qualify as manifestations of energeia. Energeia is the constant being-at-work that is inherent in a closed system such as a textual construct. This imperceptible working of energeia well describes how parergon and ergon interact, whilst the notion of dunamis might serve to illustrate the potential in certain textual constellations or narrative situations. If we are dealing with a paratextual arrangement or with an intrusive narrator, we encounter dunamis in the sense of a potential. The textual composition has the potential of being parergonal; its frame could, however, still fall into the category of adornment after a close analysis. In order to perceive the workings of energeia, we have to keep track of textual manipulation while we are reading. This means that, during the reading process, we have to be conscious of the textual interaction, be it between two texts, between text and ourselves as readers, or both. There are various possibilities for such manipulated readings: we might, for instance, realize that our understanding of a text has undergone various revisions after reading the preface; this preface might even have influenced the entire enterprise of textual reception. We might also find that we are manipulated by an intrusive narrator who makes us become aware of the fact that we are reading a book, rather than experiencing another reality. Such an encounter with metafictionality accounts for the workings of energeia: we feel the presence of parergonal oscillation. Energeia is the energy of the parergon that rivets it to the lack of the ergon: through energeia, the ergon is completed by the parergon against what is lacking in it. Energeia is the driving force that prompts the oscillation between frame and work. The interaction between ergon and parergon is indiscernible from, and sometimes even independent of, the textual constellation. This means that we do not necessarily need a paratextual composition in order to encounter parergonality and energeia. In his derivation of the term energeia in Aristotle ’ s Metaphysics, Peters, like Derrida above, 26 points out that the term energeia is directly linked to function (ergon): “ Thus we have the notion of en-ergeia, the state of being at 26 It seems symptomatic for this study that Derrida ’ s short, marginal references to Aristotle ’ s “ prime mover ” energeia (60, 71, 80) develop such parergonal power in relation to Derrida and also to my study. After we have traced the philosophical concept (energeia) back to its author, this kind of metaparergonality is set in motion. Hence, Aristotle ’ s legacy continues to be at work. Mechanisms, Functions, and the Effect of the Parergonal Framework 55 work, functioning ” (56). In its being-at-work, then, through energeia, the parergon complements the lack in the ergon. This notion of function is closely connected to the notion of end (telos), and this is where energeia and entelecheia merge (Peters 56). In the theoretical part of this study, however, it is the moment of ongoing being-at-work which is of prime interest. The functions or aims that a parergonal oscillation involves are central to each individual analysis that follows. Hence, in this study, energeia is of major interest in its mechanism (of being-at-work) and can be transferred to literary objects on this basis. In his study on the interaction of word and image, Krieger defines the literary Aristotelian concept of energeia with reference to Aristotle ’ s Poetics as “ [that] which characterizes the force that drives the developing plot, whose system of probabilities strives for the realization of all that is potential within it ” (76). This can be understood as energeia being the force behind the dynamics of parergonal interaction; it is, indeed, the realization of dunamis, or all that is potential within the work. At the same time, it is also the force that captivates the reader. In this sense, this very force is, on the one hand, at work within the self-contained parergonal system and responsible for the ongoing oscillation between parergon and work; on the other hand, its workings also prompt the interaction between reader and work. For this reason, it is the force that is responsible for parergonal transgression within the reader ’ s mind. As soon as the parergonal constellation is detected, its mechanism needs to be traced and analyzed. This is the reader ’ s main task in the interpretative process. This study attempts to combine a close analysis of Derrida ’ s parergon in literature with one of the main tenets of Reader-Response Criticism, namely that the reader plays a central role in the decoding of texts. 27 As soon as a parergonal constellation has been identified, we are able to analyze the parergonal mechanism. When we know in what manner ergon and parergon interact, we can assign a function to this interaction. The mechanism of textual interaction forms the basis for “ the dynamic interplay between textual data and interpretive strategies, ” which in turn makes “ the construction of narrative meaning ” possible (Neumann and Nünning 157). This does not mean that the parerga themselves generate meaning; it rather means that the mechanism of interaction between two textual entities can form the basis for interpretation. Usually, parerga influence the way in which a work is read: they give our reading a direction. I contend that the reader ’ s close analysis of a parergonal constellation might reveal the way in which a conventional reading might be 27 For a more detailed account on the basic ideas of Reader-Response Criticism, cf. Stanley Fish ’ s “ Interpreting the Variorum ” and Wolfgang Iser ’ s “ The Reading Process: A Phenomenological Approach. ” For an overview of the basic concerns of Post-structuralism, cf. Peter Barry ’ s chapter “ Post-Structuralism and Deconstruction ” in Beginning Theory (61 - 80). 56 2. Frameworks and Paratexts: From Typology to Function manipulated. It is on the basis of understanding the parergonal mechanism that we can judge its impact. This work of decoding provides the basis for the interpretation of parergonal texts. Wolfgang Iser claims that it is the reader ’ s imagination which completes the fiction triggered by the words on the page. In order to visualize this, Iser presents a tripartite structure consisting of the real, the fictional, and the imaginary. The reader adds to the fiction by means of his or her imagination on the basis of the real, the extratextual reality ( “ Akte des Fingierens ” 150 - 151). In this sense, the parergonal mechanism can unfold its workings in a reader ’ s mind even before any reading of primary literature has been conducted. A valid example of such a process would be rewritten texts with identical titles: even before one or the other book of such a dialogic constellation has been read, they start communicating in our minds. The notion of energeia figures as the driving force between work and frame. On the one hand, it rivets frame to work, and on the other, it has the power to captivate the reader in his or her role as mediator between the two. The parergonal constellation, however, does not necessarily have to take paratextual form; the narrator of a work can play an important part in this oscillation mechanism between work and frame as well. An intrusive narrator who repeatedly enters the work through its cuts by means of comments on an extradiegetic level exerts a parergonal force in his or her disillusionment of the reader. Sometimes, however, intrusions cannot be linked to any sort of narrating entity but build up a discourse of their own. In order to illustrate this mechanism of discursive intrusion, one might refer to a passage in Derrida ’ s Dissemination, where he describes the dynamics of discourse as follows: But who is it that is addressing you? Since it is not an “ author, ” a “ narrator, ” or a “ deus ex machina, ” it is an “ I ” that is both part of the spectacle and part of the audience; an “ I ” that, a bit like “ you, ” attends (undergoes) its own incessant, violent reinscription within the arithmetical machinery; an “ I ” that, functioning as a pure passageway for operations of substitution, is not some singular and irreplaceable existence, some subject or “ life, ” but only, moving between life and death, reality and fiction, etc., a mere function or phantom. (325) It seems that this ‘ I, ’ the mere function or phantom, is also featured in the mechanisms of the parergon. Derrida ’ s formulations, using the terms passageways, operating and substituting sound familiar. Energeia, the discursive power of the parergon, propels this ‘ I ’ : it is the driving force between reader and work, between reality and fiction, and it drives the parergon on to complement the work ’ s lack. In The Pleasure of the Text, Roland Barthes also makes an attempt to describe the driving force in the reading process. In his approach, energeia takes another analogous form. Barthes divides the effect of readings of texts into two Mechanisms, Functions, and the Effect of the Parergonal Framework 57 categories. First, there are texts of pleasure that put the reader in a more passive position; the reading is “ comfortable ” (14, original italicization omitted) and does not challenge, but pleasantly stimulates the reader ’ s mind (18 - 19). Texts of bliss, by contrast, have the potential to evoke “ discomfort ” (14) in the reader: they undermine the reader ’ s assumptions and values and have the power to bring the reader ’ s “ relation with language ” to “ a crisis ” (14). By this terminology, Barthes does not categorize entire works, but describes the reading process as such. Certain passages of text do not call for interaction and are sometimes even skipped, whilst other passages capture the reader fully. Texts, according to Barthes, create desire in their readers and seduce them (38). The way in which Barthes ’ bliss or jouissance breaks loose in a text resembles the effect of parergonal intrusion: we desire this bliss and hence find pleasure in search of it. Barthes ’ idea of a pursuit of pleasure and jouissance in reading also resembles the desire for the Derridean ‘ I ’ : As institution, the author is dead: his civil status, his biographical person have disappeared; dispossessed, they no longer exercise over his work the formidable paternity whose account literary history, teaching, and public opinion had the responsibility of establishing and renewing; but in the text, in a way, I desire the author: I need his figure (which is neither his representation nor his projection), as he needs mine (except to “ prattle ” ). (27) This concept of Barthes ’ desire and the parergon work in a similar way, namely by means of a mental presence in the reader. Like the parergon, Barthes ’ desire appears through interstices; like the parergon, it mediates between the work and the reader. It appears when the garment gapes open, when the gaping of the garment allows for the appearance of the statue or the work in a state of parergonal detachment. In the case of the statue, the parergon (the garment) conceals what is replaced by the imagination; it might be that moment that fills the lack in the work, the moment of mind work, the oscillation of the fantasy. The fantasy, then, is driven by the ‘ I, ’ the phantom, the figure which I desire, which enters the work through the interstices, exactly analogous to the dynamics of the parergon. Not only does parergonality offer an explanation for the mechanism of textual seduction and jouissance in the reading process, but it also accounts for our desire for an author figure. The notion of bliss well describes the parergonal interaction in full swing: the parergon ’ s rising against the work and communicative force in interstitial gaps, the site of the passepartout. The notion of desire, however, can be read in analogy to the power of energeia, which drives the reader onward in the reading process. The reader is captured by a force inherent in the reading process, skips passages, experiences his or her mind ’ s diversions and wanderings, and, consciously or not, engages in textual interaction. 58 2. Frameworks and Paratexts: From Typology to Function Barthes ’ notions of desire and textual bliss resemble the workings of energeia in two ways. On the one hand, the desire is the force behind the interaction of reader and text. Hence, it drives the reader on and constantly unsettles him or her in the reading of the text by opening up potentials to which the mind constantly tries to find answers. On the other hand, energeia is responsible for the moments of bliss in the text itself. Barthes observes: “ [T]he seam of the two edges, the interstice of bliss, occurs in the volume of the languages, in the uttering, not in the sequence of utterances ” (13). The parergon is active in the discourse; it acts within the utterance, not between the lines, and is thus prone to produce bliss. At the same time, this acting within the utterance links parergonality to discourse. It is neither restricted to paratextual arrangements nor confined to narrative levels. In The Archaeology of Knowledge, Foucault defines discourse as follows: [B]y discourse, then, I meant that which was produced (perhaps all that was produced) by the groups of signs. But I also meant a group of acts of formulation, a series of sentences or propositions. Lastly — and it is this meaning that was finally used (together with the first, which served in a provisional capacity) — discourse is constituted by a group of sequences of signs, in so far as they are statements, that is, in so far as they can be assigned particular modalities of existence. [. . .] [T]he term discourse can be defined as the group of statements that belong to a single system of formation; thus I shall be able to speak of clinical discourse, economic discourse, the discourse of natural history, psychiatric discourse. (120 - 121) Like the parergon, discourse is featured within the utterance, through interstices, produced by a group of signs. The parergon also often brings a discourse into play, as will be seen when discussing examples in the following analyses. The interstice is not a cut between utterances, but a cut within certain utterances. Due to the analogy between the workings of discourse and the concept of the parergon, the latter can also account for the presence of various discourses in the text. More generally speaking, the parergon in its components together with the force of energeia is closely linked to various other theoretical concepts that pivot around the question of text-reader interaction. Derrida ’ s “ Parergon ” in The Truth in Painting often works by means of association, by means of a “ resourceful play of mind and language ” (Abrams, “ The Deconstructive Angel ” 561, quoted in the introduction above, on page 5 - 6). In order to keep the play of mind and language in check (even though association has proved to be a fruitful resource, not only for Derrida, but also for this study), it is necessary to establish a clear and simple terminology. The concept of the author has already appeared in the quotation from Derrida ’ s Dissemination as well as in the context of Barthes ’ Pleasure of the Text: the author is the person who wrote the work; it is the person standing between his or her Mechanisms, Functions, and the Effect of the Parergonal Framework 59 work and its audience. The author ’ s success is dependent on the readers ’ reception of his or her work (even though this might be of little or no importance to the author). If the parergonal construct allows for conjecture concerning its creator ’ s motivation, this motivation will be assigned to the implied author, not the actual author, precisely because it is part of the text, not part of reality. 28 The entity that tells the story, in turn, is referred to as the narrator. 29 Furthermore, when a parergon is at work, I will call the voice of the frame, be it a preface, a prologue, a prelude, an epilogue or a finale, the narrator ’ s voice as well, not the author ’ s. This applies even if, for example, a dedication or preface (defined as a parergon) is signed with the author ’ s name (for instance, the dedication of Tom Jones signed by “ Henry Fielding ” ). Any narrating voice is going to be assigned to the narrator. These definitions make sense as soon as a frame has started functioning as a parergon. If a text is mere adornment, however (a dedication, for instance, signed in the author ’ s name, that has hardly any impact on the reading of the work), the case might be a different one; but since no non-parergonal frames are discussed in this study, it is a matter of consistency to use only the term narrator for the voice that tells us something in a written text. The term author is only used for a real-life person. In Image Music Text, Barthes emphasizes how important this distinction between author and narrator is: “ Narrator and characters, however, at least from our perspective, are essentially ‘ paper beings ’ ; the (material) author of a narrative is in no way to be confused with the narrator of that narrative. The signs of the narrator are immanent to the narrative and hence readily accessible to a[n] [. . .] analysis ” (111). The strict differentiation between author, implied author, and narrator is primarily a practical one in this study: it will help to keep things as clear and organized as possible, as well as to avoid biographical readings and intentional fallacy, 30 which will be a crucial issue when discussing the function of a framework. The author ’ s intention in using a framework is of little interest. Yet, a framework ’ s function, its mechanisms and its effect allow certain assumptions as to why the framework has been established as such. Whether these assumptions are correct in terms of the author ’ s intention will never be known. Still, potential effects of the framework for the author can be 28 Rimmon-Kenan defines the implied author as “ a construct inferred and assembled by the reader from all the components of the text ” (88). 29 For references concerning the concepts of author and narrator, cf. Gerald Prince ’ s Dictionary of Narratology (author: 8, narrator: 65 - 66). For a detailed overview of types of narrators as well as narration, cf. Gerald Prince ’ s Narratology (7 - 16). 30 According to Abrams ’ Glossary of Literary Terms, “ Intentional Fallacy signifies what is claimed to be the error of interpreting and evaluating a literary work by reference to evidence, outside the text itself, for the intention — the design and purposes — of its author ” (126, original bold print omitted). 60 2. Frameworks and Paratexts: From Typology to Function worked out and will, in part, be discussed as a motivation for its initial establishment. In order to investigate the purpose of a framework, or the question of why there is a frame at all, its basic parameters have to be clarified. Derrida specifies the questions that have to be asked in order to undertake an analysis of a parergonal construct: “ Where does the frame take place. Does it take place. Where does it begin. Where does it end. What is its internal limit. Its external limit. And its surface between the two limits ” (63). If we imagine the work, ergon or core text embedded in its surrounds, the parergon is closely connected to it and communicates with it at the site of the passe-partout. The parergon begins at the surface of the work and ends at the surface of the surrounds (or vice versa). In the case of discourse or of a narrator working parergonally, the parergon cannot simply be wedged in-between surrounds and work so easily or clearly; it rather takes a form that is riveted to so many sites in the work that one cannot make out where it really takes place. When ergon and parergon are interacting, there are various extreme stages of interaction worth describing. When the parergon is executing its full force upon the work, the work might be distorted and diminished to an extreme degree. The parergon literally frames up the work, in that it takes control and command of it. The ergonal reaction to such framing takes the opposite direction. The ergon relegates the parergon to its initial position. In rising against the work, the parergon has given rise to the work and falls back into the status of a forceless supplement immediately after having functioned as a complement. “ Framing always supports and contains that which, by itself, collapses forthwith ” (Derrida 78 - 79). 31 This means that the parergon stabilizes the construct; the system is rendered stable by being assigned a function. Yet, this function of a parergonal construct first has to be defined. It might be useful here to refer to the simple example given at the beginning of this section in order to illustrate the interaction of ergon, lack and parergon. The function of the first frame was to make the narrative believable (the reader was told that the story was based on true events), while the second, for instance, potentially served a political purpose (by revealing that the story was falsely said to be based on true events in order to disarm a piece of political propaganda). The two frames, then, initiate and channel the work ’ s communicational endeavours in two different directions. One could say that the energeia of the self-contained parergonal system is channelled in a certain direction. If the narrative aspires to be believable, the parergon serves this inner necessity of the 31 For an illustration of this mechanism, cf. section “ The Hybrid: Fielding ’ s Tom Jones ” above (138 - 139). Mechanisms, Functions, and the Effect of the Parergonal Framework 61 ergon, its quest for credibility; the communication, in this case, is prompted by the work and initially directed from work towards frame. The same is true of parerga that function as protective shields for works and, consequently, for their authors. The emphasis is therefore on the needs of the work. Hence, the parergon serves the ergon ’ s purposes. If, however, the parergon serves the political purpose of, for instance, avoiding censorship or revealing the mechanisms of political propaganda, the direction is the opposite: the communication is directed from the work ’ s (historical, political etc.) context towards the work. In such cases, the parergon needs to counteract the pressure coming from the context. In order to do so, it might even inflict (subtle) violence upon the work. A third possible channel of communication is that which is taken in explicitly intertextual relationships. In these cases, the reader as a representative of the surrounds has the role of setting up the communication between the two literary works. It is also through the reader that the mechanism of communication functions: if the reader recognizes a work as a rewritten version of an older original or as a sequel (or prequel) to it, the parergon is already at work. The lack in the ergon could thus be said to be its reference to a previous work, which then acts as a frame. In this sense, the mechanism is triggered by the parergon, since it channels the reading of the newer work. The effect, in these cases, is usually a dialogue between the two texts through the reader. The function is a re-evaluation of certain conceptions of both the original and the new work. Six possible functions that might be assigned to a parergon are introduced in this study, this division into various functions providing a logical structure to the following analysis. The functions themselves are exemplary within literary writing, in that they appear rather often. At the same time, they are not claimed to be exhaustive. The literary works that have been chosen to illustrate them are paradigmatic within their function, but not limited to it. This means that a given work can possibly be analyzed from the viewpoint of various different functions, even though one such function might offer itself as more fruitful for an analysis and an interpretation than another. At the same time, there are obviously numerous literary works that could serve as good examples to illustrate one particular function. In addition, usually more than one parergonal framework is at work within one textual constellation. In order to approach Derrida ’ s concept in literature, I have decided to provide one or two model analyses to illustrate each function, without usually discussing the applicability of other functions or more than one framework. There are two exceptions to this rule of one frame-discussion per work, namely A Midsummer Night ’ s Dream and Jane Eyre, where I also point out other potential parergonal frames. The reason for my general decision to discuss one frame per work is that this study does not seek to be exhaustive, either in the categories proposed or in the choice 62 2. Frameworks and Paratexts: From Typology to Function of works analyzed to illustrate them. Rather, the emphasis will remain on the transposition and applicability of Derrida ’ s concept in general. First of all, when analyzing a parergonal constellation and its function, one has to decide where the parergonal oscillation is triggered: it may have its starting point in the work, in the surrounds, or in the frame (communicating through the reader, as is the case in explicitly intertextual relationships). Clearly, this decision is far from straightforward, since it delves into origins. The investigation very often resembles the question of the chicken and the egg, and it is frequently a matter of personal opinion which of the two came first. In this study, the tripartite structure helps to ease the introduction of the more complex parergonal constellations at the end of the analysis. In this sense, it does not necessarily influence every single analysis and its findings, but helps the reader to find his or her way through the different examples. Sometimes, my decision on origins may conflict with the reader ’ s opinion. However, such cases are welcome in that they guarantee a certain critical awareness. Since it is not the category but the application of the methodological tool that produces an interpretation of the work, this kind of disagreement does not have very grave consequences. Hence, the tripartite structure should not pose an obstacle in terms of interpretative agreement. As illustrated by the example above, an oscillation might be prompted by the work if the work itself lacks plausibility. The need for plausibility, in turn, may serve two different functions. The parergon may serve to protect the author (the work ’ s creator), for instance by claiming that the story is not his or her own invention, as in Horace Walpole ’ s The Castle of Otranto. If the work is then vilified by critics, the author cannot be held personally to blame. The parergon can also be used to foreground a work ’ s discourse, as in the case of George Eliot ’ s Middlemarch. One could object here that, in these two cases, the pressure comes from the surrounds, from the social conventions or the taste of the readership (this would be the chicken-and-egg question in this example). My response to any such objection would be that, initially, protection of the author is needed because of the work ’ s unconventionality, for instance its use of supernatural elements at a time of pronounced rationality, or its presentation of (tempered) feminist issues at a time of female non-emancipation. The protection is secured without the experience of an actual threat. Thus, the oscillation is initially triggered by the work. A second type of parerga are those which primarily serve the work itself, for example by giving an explanation of its invention, as is the case with Nathaniel Hawthorne ’ s The Scarlet Letter; here, the parergon can provide a basis for the work, by relating how it came into existence. By this means, it assists the reader in his or her suspension of disbelief, by providing a reason for the work ’ s unlikely contents, for instance. The parergon, however, can also do the opposite, namely divest the reader of Mechanisms, Functions, and the Effect of the Parergonal Framework 63 his or her belief in the romantic fictional reality of a work, as in E. M. Forster ’ s A Room with a View. This creates an alienation effect: the parergon underlines the work ’ s status as an artefact. Henry Fielding ’ s Tom Jones is a work in which the parergon serves both purposes: its narrative constellation protects the author by taking a critical stance towards the work and, at the same time, it serves the story in that it generates a sort of complicity between reader and protagonist. In this sense, it might be termed a hybrid. If, on the other hand, the parergonal oscillation is triggered by the work ’ s surrounds, one can also differentiate between two parergonal functions. The surrounds might, for instance, be the political background against which a work was written. Here, too, there is a distinction between author and work: either the parergon serves to protect the author, for instance by soliciting a favourable reception by the political authorities, as the epilogue does in William Shakespeare ’ s A Midsummer Night ’ s Dream, or it serves the work itself. The preface of Daniel Defoe ’ s Moll Flanders does exactly that: it attempts to secure a favourable reception of the work ’ s inherent political propaganda by claiming that it is based on a true account. The eponymous heroine is forced to covertly serve this purpose. The preface thus instrumentalizes the work ’ s protagonist in order to exert political influence. In these cases, the protection of work (and author) is prompted by an actual threat. For this reason it is the surrounds that triggers the oscillation. The third part of my practical application of the concept of the parergon is devoted to explicitly intertextual relationships. In these cases, the reader plays the crucial part of a mediator between ergon and parergon (text and intertext). The oscillation can be said to be triggered by the frame, since the parergon communicates through the reader. In my analysis of Philip Roth ’ s rendering of the morality play Everyman, the parergonal relationship renegotiates traditional values on a content level, while making the two texts ’ parodic and satirical relationship transparent. Jean Rhys ’ Wide Sargasso Sea, which is traditionally read as a prequel to Charlotte Brontë ’ s Jane Eyre, establishes a competition, first between the two female protagonists (Antoinette/ Bertha and Jane), and then between all of the three protagonists (Antoinette/ Bertha, Jane, and Rochester). Once one has read both works, the constellation of three protagonists in competition cannot be undone. The parergonal relationship between the two texts provides the reasons why this is so. Even though this study engages exclusively with fictional literary frameworks, one cannot simply assume that parergonality only comes into play between two fictional texts. When introducing the theoretical framework, I differentiated between parergon and adornment in much the same way as Kant and Derrida do. The boundary between the two cannot be reduced to narrative agency (cf. “ Derrida ’ s Parergon and Kant, ” page 38 - 39 above) or to the text ’ s 64 2. Frameworks and Paratexts: From Typology to Function fictional or non-fictional status, however; it is not simply always the case that fictional prefaces work parergonally, while non-fictional dedications figure as adornments. The first complication arises with the question of fictionality; the second with the labelling of such paratexts. It is very hard to define a clear boundary between fiction and non-fiction, for instance. In addititon, as Derrida puts it, “ [t]he practice of fiction must [. . .] guard against having metaphysical truth palmed off on it once again under the label of fiction ” (81). Usually, parerga instrumentalize the reader ’ s scepticism towards their own and the works ’ fictional or non-fictional status. When reading the prologue of Hawthorne ’ s “ Rappaccini ’ s Daughter, ” many readers probably ask themselves whether they are dealing with a non-fictional editor ’ s note or with the fictional account given by a narrator posing as an editor. Even if we only doubt the fictional status of this piece of text for a very short moment, its parergonal mechanism has already set in and captivated us as readers (i. e. the text has already begun to create friction). A seemingly clear-cut case of a putatively non-fictional dedication would be that of Shakespeare ’ s sonnets to a “ Mr. W. H. ” This very paratext has sparked a great deal of controversy, especially in terms of biographical readings of the poems themselves. The dedication combines the question of authorization with an unclear status concerning its fictionality. While the publisher seems to assume the role of a mediator between the “ onlie begetter ” W. H. and the “ ever-living poet ” (2) by signing the dedication with his initials, the short text, in combination with the sonnets addressed to a young man, has often been interpreted in terms of the author ’ s alleged homosexuality. 32 Ingram comments on this issue as follows: This apparently straightforward dedication of a volume of poems, signed with the initials of the publisher (Thomas Thorpe), and seemingly addressed to somebody only indicated by initials, has raised a welter of ingenious speculations and conflicting interpretations. There is no evidence that the Dedication stimulated attention until very late in the eighteenth century, but since then it has been the playground of theorists who have allowed it to distract their interest from the poems as poems. (3) Not only does Ingram draft the history of the dedication ’ s reception, but he also assesses the text ’ s (parergonal) power as a potential threat to critics ’ focus on the (more important) core texts, the poems themselves. This means that we do not need to follow up every possible biographical clue, but we should focus on reading the poems as poems. In the same way, we do not need to negotiate the dedication ’ s status as fiction or non-fiction, but we should focus on its impact 32 For a more detailed account of the meaning and reception of the dedication, cf. Ingram ’ s “ Note on the Dedication ” (1 - 5). Mechanisms, Functions, and the Effect of the Parergonal Framework 65 on our reading of the text proper. I argue that, if we exclude all biographical clues and follow-up conjectures, the dedication still represents a communicational situation that is mirrored in the poems. Since there are speculations concerning the sex of the recipient of the poems, and thus concerning the relationship between the sender (or implied author) and that recipient, these speculations have a direct impact on the assessment of the communicational situation of the poems themselves. Consequently, some have been read as being addressed to a woman, and others as being addressed to a man. Hence, even if the dedication was non-fictional, it has had a great impact on the reading of the poems. An analysis of its parergonality should therefore not be concerned with biographical speculation regarding same-sex desire, but with the more general question of queerness and queer readings. The seemingly obvious case of a non-fictional adornment can thus easily turn out to have been functioning parergonally all along. By postulating that the reader ’ s interest should be focused on the poems as poems, Ingram implicitly raises the question of ranking between texts and their paratexts. Hence, Shakespeare ’ s dedication combines three elements that are crucial to this study: the question of fictionality, the editorial or authorial pose, and the question of ranking between texts. Even though the fictionality of a preface (as effected by the narrator ’ s posing as the author or editor) plays an important part in the course of textual analysis, a text ’ s status as fiction or nonfiction cannot be a criterion of its parergonal working. It is on the basis of the friction created by the oscillating mechanism of parergonal interaction that the reader decides whether a text qualifies as a parergon or not: this friction is the result of the parergon ’ s pressing against the work and the construct ’ s subsequent cooperation. It can usually be traced to its source by searching for incompatibilities between work and frame. As there is no clear-cut boundary between fiction and non-fiction, this status cannot be relevant for the reader ’ s assessment of a literary text, especially because biographical readings are excluded from this analysis. In his typology of paratexts, Genette attempts such a classification according to the text ’ s “ truthfulness ” (Paratexts 206) and engages with the question of fiction or non-fiction. Furthermore, he classifies texts on the basis of their type (e. g. dedication, epigraph, preface) and their communicative situation, or more specifically, their sender (author, publisher, third party). Therefore, he cannot avoid readings for authorial or editorial intentions, and an analysis based on his typology is confronted with all possible technicalities of authorand editorship: “ often the sender [of a paratextual message] is the author (authorial paratext), but the sender may equally well be the publisher: unless a please-insert is signed by the author, it customarily belongs to the publisher ’ s paratext ” (8 - 9). Concerning a text ’ s status of “ truthfulness ” or “ at the very least, sincerity ” 66 2. Frameworks and Paratexts: From Typology to Function (206), Genette is well aware of the fact that “ the contract of truth is offset, or countered, by a reverse contract, of fiction, which we will encounter [. . .] along with some more or less canonical variations on the inevitable blending of the two ” (207). There will always be a gray area rather than a clear boundary between the categories of fictional and non-fictional paratexts. For this reason, truthfulness cannot be a criterion of classification. If a text obsessively foregrounds its truthfulness, this already suffices to create friction. Macksey comments that, as “ [m]uch as Genette delights in the systematic deployment of categories, functions, and domains, he is even more fascinated by the fringes and borderlands between regimes that these explorations open up ” (xix). Yet, much though Genette might be fascinated by the borderlands between categorical regimes, his categories are what he is renowned for. When he differentiates between original and fictional prefaces, for instance, a vast borderland opens up, one which remains rather obscure, since a system that works by means of categories can hardly draw attention to idiosyncratic exceptional cases. Genette ’ s category of the original preface, for instance, “ has as its chief function to ensure that the text is read properly ” (197), whilst fictional prefaces all essentially serve the purpose of “ a fictional attribution ” (279). The original postface is the counterpart to the original preface and has the function of “ holding the reader ’ s interest and guiding him by explaining why and how he should read the text ” (238). The fact that there is a chief function among many others implies that “ each preface fulfils several functions successively or simultaneously ” (197). My study does not follow a textual typology but applies a basic principle of interaction between ergon and parergon, which assigns a specific function to a specific text. There is no exhaustive functional typology at the core of this study. It does not claim to be exhaustive with regard to the examples given, nor does it present an identical number of examples per type of function. The examples given do not all fall into the category of paratexts. They were chosen because they seemed especially apt to illustrate specific parergonal functions. Hence, they were selected by virtue of being “ outstanding specimens, ” a category Genette chose not to pursue (Genette, Paratexts 238). As an advocate of structural typology, Genette describes the procedure of a qualitative analysis of outstanding specimens as “ succumbing to a collector ’ s compulsion that lacks theoretical significance ” (Paratexts 238). 33 It must be stated at this point, however, that a typology of theoretical significance can only constitute the tip of the iceberg in the process of literary interpretation: the 33 Genette makes this remark on realizing that his category of original postface “ is a rarity ” (Paratexts 238). Instead of pursuing his search for examples, he decides to abandon this route, as it would present a collector ’ s practice. Mechanisms, Functions, and the Effect of the Parergonal Framework 67 naming of a phenomenon might be part of an analysis, but it does not automatically add to an interpretation, even if a function or a type of illocutionary force is attached to a name. Even though paratexts are situated at the periphery of the work, on its threshold, their function and its interpretation is far from peripheral. On the contrary, their incorporation into the process of interpretation is a rewarding process. In the process of analyzing and interpreting outstanding specimens chosen by virtue of a theoretical concept, one pursues a qualitative analysis. This kind of research might also form the basis of the interpretation of many more similar cases and thus provide the foundation for a different kind of writing with theoretical significance. It is remarkable, after all, that — according to Genette ’ s typology — there is not one classically original preface among the examples that I will discuss. One problem is definitely the distinction between fictional and original, i. e. non-fictional, since we can never be quite sure where one ends and the other begins. Genette ’ s original prefaces would probably fall into the category of adornment (dedications lacking impact, for instance). If one were to apply Genette ’ s typology of paratexts to the works discussed in this study, it would yield the following results (the works appearing in chronological order): in A Midsummer Night ’ s Dream, the epilogue might fall into the category of original postface, but in this study, it is not (only) read as a recipe describing how the play should be understood. The preface to Moll Flanders is fictional, and the parergon in Tom Jones is not constituted by a structurally clearly detached paratext, even though it contains a dedication “ run [ning] into a preface ” (6). The Castle of Otranto is preceded by two prefaces, the first of the disavowing authorial type and the second disavowing the first. In The Scarlet Letter, the introductory chapter is discussed, not the preface. Middlemarch contains a prelude and a finale, both structurally part of the work. “ A View without a Room ” (original italics), the appendix to A Room with a View, would probably fall into the Genettean category of later postface (237), a postface which is added to a later edition than the first. Explicitly intertextual relationships such as those between the two Everyman texts (one anonymous, the other by Philip Roth) or the one between Jane Eyre and Wide Sargasso Sea do not fall into any categories of paratexts but are examples of hypertextuality. When considering the parergonal constructs that function intertextually, paratextual nomenclature cannot be applied. All of these texts, however, have something in common, namely the interaction of a textual periphery with a textual core. Still, the application of a structural taxonomy concerning such threshold-core relationships only yields a range of different types. The Genettean typology offers no common denominator that forms a basis for textual interpretation. It therefore makes sense to apply a concept that does not merely label, but that describes a type of interaction. 68 2. Frameworks and Paratexts: From Typology to Function Parergonality offers a tool with which to approach many different textual forms. This does not mean, however, that this tool is better than structuralist typology and should replace it. Rather, it should complement it and thus do what it claims: put itself in a parergonal position and complement classical typology. Referring to Genette ’ s Palimpsests, which aims at categorizing textual interrelations, Dentith, when discussing textual interrelationships in the context of parody, comments that “ [t]he value ” of Genette ’ s functional distinction between types of intertexts “ is ultimately limited ” (14). Genette ’ s work is “ helpful in focusing on the diverse textual operations that can characterise that [linguistic or textual] interaction, but loses sight of the social and historical ground in which that interaction occurs, and the evaluative and ideological work performed by parody ” (14). This comment is also of crucial importance outside the context of parody or intertext, since it directs us to the role of the context, or Derrida ’ s surrounds. In A Theory of Parody, Linda Hutcheon praises Genette ’ s work as “ a superb achievement ” in terms of “ a formal analysis of textual interrelations. ” Since it focuses on categorizing textual relationships, however, it ignores the fact that, even though “ someone imitates and transforms, ” there is someone “ who perceives and interprets those textual relationships ” (21). Very often, the author relies on the implied reader ’ s textual knowledge to make a statement when instrumentalizing textual relations. A paratext exerts a force upon the text that follows or precedes it by virtue of a reader ’ s faculty of memorizing textual elements and including them in the process of interpretation. The same applies, of course, to explicitly intertextual relationships between texts. The reception of a rewritten text is dependent on the readership ’ s knowledge of the original. Such an explicit interrelationship between texts can also be successfully analyzed by using Derrida ’ s concept as a tool for literary interpretation. This will be the issue at hand in my discussion of the third category of parergonal frameworks, namely the explicitly intertextual ones. The aim of the following analyses is to give an insight into the different shapes and functions of the parergon by discussing the literary examples listed above. Whereas Derrida ’ s procedure is one of “ going backwards, by a reflective route, from the example (if possible) towards the concept ” (84), the procedure in this study will take the opposite, or deductive, direction: from the concept that has been introduced to the examples chosen to illustrate it. Derrida sums up the working of frame, work and lack as follows: The parergon inscribes something which comes as an extra, exterior to the proper field [. . .] but whose transcendent exteriority comes to play, abut onto, brush against, rub, press against the limit itself and intervene in the inside only to the extent that the inside is lacking. It is lacking in something and it is lacking from itself. (56) Mechanisms, Functions, and the Effect of the Parergonal Framework 69 My analysis is concerned with illustrating what exteriority comes into play by means of a parergon. My examples have been chosen to clarify and illustrate the processes of brushing against the limit and of intervening in the inside of the work in order to complement the work ’ s lack. This moment of the parergon coming to play, abutting onto, brushing against, rubbing, pressing against the work is the moment of friction. Its source is the lack in the work, to which the parergon is riveted. Even though a lack is, by definition, an absence, it is crucial to find out in what way the inside is lacking in order to understand the parergonal function. 70 2. Frameworks and Paratexts: From Typology to Function 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses The analytical part of this study has a tripartite form that is based on the three different functions established in the theoretical chapter. The three different types of parergonality are defined according to the initial direction of the parergonal oscillation. The first part of the analysis is devoted to parergonal constellations in which the oscillating mechanism is triggered by the work. Examples of this kind of parergonality are cases in which the main narrative strives for believability, be it to protect the work itself or be it to protect its author via the work. The parergon thus answers the needs of the work and cooperates with the latter ’ s ambitions; it serves an inner necessity of the ergon, namely its quest for credibility. The emphasis can be either on the protection of the work itself, for instance on an enhancement of its believability, or it can be on the protection of the work ’ s author via textual credibility. I will begin my analysis with two parergonal constructs that serve the latter purpose, namely to protect the works ’ authors. These cases are rather clear-cut and will facilitate the task of approaching more complex constructs later on. In a second step, I will look at constellations that clearly aim to protect the work for reasons other than merely the protection of the author. I Protection of Author or Work The basic motivation for establishing the protective type of parergonal frame is usually the fear of failure, which may result from an unconventional characteristic in either the work or its author. Two different cases with two different motivations can be distinguished: the parergon can either serve as a protective shield for its creator and the work it surrounds, or it can exclusively serve the work itself. Both cases are driven by the fear of unfavourable criticism, which would diminish the success of both the work and its author. In these cases, the lack in the work is usually its own or its author ’ s unconventionality. Its effect is anxiety: the author is afraid that his or her personality could interfere with the work ’ s success, or that the work ’ s failure (through its unconventionality) could detract from his or her reputation. There are many ways in which a literary work may break with convention. Unconventionality may most obviously mean that the work represents an exceptional challenge to the taste of its time. This means that, if the contents of a work challenge the habits of the period it is written in, as is the case with Horace Walpole ’ s The Castle of Otranto, it might be regarded as unconventional. It may, however, also be that the work ’ s creator as a personality causes the lack; for instance, as with George Eliot ’ s Middlemarch, if the author is a woman at a time when writing as a serious profession, not a mere leisure-time activity, is exclusively reserved for men. Unconventionality may have various consequences, the worst of which are an unfavourable reception, leading to potential failure (in sales), or even censure or prohibition. In the cases where the parergon focuses on the work itself, it serves the purpose of putting the work ’ s radical contents into perspective. This might be accomplished by qualifying the radical nature of the ergon, by (for example) rendering the work more believable by establishing a personal connection between author and work, as in the case of Nathaniel Hawthorne ’ s The Scarlet Letter, or by adding a mitigating course to the story after a radical turning point, as in E. M. Forster ’ s A Room with a View. Unconventionality causes a conflict between the work and its surrounds; it is, then, in the interest of the work ’ s optimum reception that the parergon is established. The author ’ s profit from his or her work ’ s success forms a sort of surplus value. Henry Fielding ’ s Tom Jones unites both of these purposes in one parergonal construct: the parergon protects the work and, indirectly, also its author. The two first examples in the first part of my analysis feature parerga that act as protective shields for author and work at the same time. The mechanism of interplay between ergon and parergon is concerned with the tension between work and surrounds. This tension places the parergon in a sort of dilemma: on the one hand, it has to comply with the demands of the work, and on the other hand, it has to meet the requirements of the surrounds. This tension is created because the surrounds — for instance, the literary audience and its contemporary taste — and the work ’ s content are incompatible. Tension is even increased when the dilemma is taken so far as to force the parergon to undermine the ergon, as, for instance, in The Castle of Otranto, by telling a lie about the work ’ s origin. It may, however, also be caused by a double perspective created by the author ’ s adoption of a pseudonym, as in Middlemarch: here, the author seemingly submits to the contemporary convention of male authorship. This strategy allows the text to raise and discuss feminist issues, and to even emphasize them, by means of an introductory chapter, a prelude. The author protects herself and her work by seemingly adhering to convention, whereas this very convention is circumvented by means of the pseudonym. In such cases, the parergon mitigates the lack in the ergon, namely its provocative content, by playing with the distance between the work and its surrounds. A critical reader might object at this point and argue that, in the cases where the author protects himor herself by means of a parergonal structure, the pressure and necessity for a parergon comes from the surrounds. Hence, the parergonal mechanism would be triggered by certain parameters within the 72 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses societal context of the work. I argue, however, that the protection of the author is secured without the experience of an actual threat coming from the surrounds: there is no law prohibiting Gothic fiction in the way that the institution of political censorship poses a threat to drama in the Renaissance. In this particular example, there could not even be any such law, since neither the genre nor its label had been established at the time of the work ’ s publication. Neither was there any official prohibition of women writers when Middlemarch was published. In addition, the context of the pre-eminence of male authorship is enshrined in Middlemarch in the form of a discourse, and is thus part of the work. The parergonal structure emphasizes this very discourse in interaction with the work. In this sense, it is clearly the work which triggers the oscillating mechanism. In Otranto, the case is even clearer: it is initially the novel ’ s novelty which is responsible for the author ’ s need for protection. The oscillation is thus apparently triggered by the work. A Matter of Reception: Walpole ’ s The Castle of Otranto When Horace Walpole ’ s short novel The Castle of Otranto was first published in the winter of 1764, it was an immediate success. Considering the fact that the work presents an absolute novelty, this is rather surprising: it is set in the dark Middle Ages, has a rather elaborate structure, and contains wondrous events interspersed with moments of comic relief that leave the reader somewhere between shock and laughter. Yet, this very work was published in the period of the Enlightenment, the age of reason and rationality. From the perspective of a modern reader, one recognizes many of the elements mentioned above as typical components of the Gothic genre: the time and setting, the supernatural events, as well as the coexistence of pleasure and terror in the sublime (Hogle 2 - 3). Even though the second edition of the work carries the subtitle A Gothic Story, one must bear in mind that, at the time of the novel ’ s publication, the term Gothic evoked “ anything obsolete, old-fashioned, or outlandish. ” 1 The subtitle is, therefore, generally understood as being designed to “ annoy stuffy critics who objected to the experiment ” of this new style of writing (Clery, “ The 1 Watt points out that one must take into consideration the “ range of meanings which the term held in the eighteenth century. The term ‘ Gothic ’ requires particular attention [. . .] because it was invoked in so many different contexts in the period in question, and used variously to describe (for example) styles of architecture, a form of print or type, and anything connected to the Goths themselves, as well as anything generally medieval, or even post-Roman ” (13 - 14). In the historical context, “ the Gothic was constructed both as a distant, non-specific, period of ignorance and superstition from which an increasingly civilized nation had triumphantly emerged, and as a (similarly distant) fount of constitutional purity and political virtue from which the nation had become dangerously alienated ” (14). I Protection of Author or Work 73 Genesis of ‘ Gothic ’ Fiction ” 21). At the time, these Gothic elements were not recognized either as representative of a return to the traditional genre of romance, or of the emerging genre of the novel (e. g. Henry Fielding ’ s Tom Jones). Only in retrospect has it been possible to recognize Walpole ’ s Gothic novel as the first of its kind: according to Clery, even the expression “‘ Gothic novel ’ is [. . .] a twentieth-century coinage ” ( “ Genesis ” 21). In addition, Clery states in his introduction to The Castle of Otranto that “ [t]he novel has often been described as a spontaneous, almost unconscious, extension of the dilettante ’ s activities ” (viii). This comment, which is, with variations, repeatedly uttered by critics, leads to the question of how such a work could achieve such great success. To be sure, the success of the work itself owes a great deal to its prefaces: each of the two editions was published with a preface that aimed at channelling the work ’ s reception. While the two prefaces contradict each other on the level of content, they both involve heavy interplay with the political and cultural context within which the short novel was written. The narrator of the preface to the first edition poses as the translator of an Italian work allegedly printed in 1529 (Walpole 5) and thus absolves the actual author from his responsibility for the work. While this pose creates an increase in distance between author and work, the preface to the second edition attempts to re-establish an everyday author-reader relationship by revealing the actual authorship. Yet, the fact that the initial pose cannot simply be erased, even though this is exactly what the second preface attempts to do, bears witness to its rather strange task and raises the question of motivation. Why does this work need this kind of accompaniment? This is exactly where the core text lacks: its two prefaces reveal the work ’ s questionable quality. The various accounts of the work ’ s origin are central to its parergonal structure. Such reports usually provide seemingly uncontroversial information that facilitates the initial assessment of a work. In addition, this kind of information is generally accepted without much questioning on the part of the reader. Therefore, it provides an effective disguise for the author ’ s desire to manipulate a work ’ s reading. In a famous letter to William Cole, dated March 9, 1765, Walpole claims to have dreamt the plot of the novel: I had time to write but a short note with the ‘ Castle of Otranto, ’ as your messenger called on me at four o ’ clock, as I was going to dine abroad. Your partiality to me and Strawberry 2 have, I hope, inclined you to excuse the wildness of the story. You will even 2 Walpole renamed his small villa Strawberry Hill and “ over the next twenty-five years proceeded to transform it into a gothic [. . .] castle in miniature, filled with art objects, curios, and rare books ” (Clery, Introduction vii). It was also in Strawberry Hill that Walpole set up his personal printing press, which was one of the reasons why he “ could [. . .] afford to be 74 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses have found some traits to put you in mind of this place. When you read of the picture quitting its panel, did not you recollect the portrait of Lord Falkland, all in white, in my Gallery? Shall I even confess to you, what was the origin of this romance! I waked one morning, in the beginning of last June, from a dream, of which, all I could recover was, that I had thought myself in an ancient castle (a very natural dream for a head filled like mine with Gothic story), and that on the uppermost bannister of a great staircase I saw a gigantic hand in armour. In the evening I sat down, and began to write, without knowing in the least what I intended to say or relate. The work grew on my hands, and I grew fond of it — add, that I was very glad to think of anything, rather than politics. [. . .] but if I have amused you, by retracing with any fidelity the manners of ancient days, I am content, and give you leave to think me as idle as you please. (Letters 4: 328) Walpole makes three important statements in this letter: he claims that the main feature of the plot, the giant piece of armour, came to him in a dream; that the writing of the story became a pleasurable diversion from his daily routine, which mainly consisted of politics; and that he would be satisfied if the story at least led to amusement. Clery states that “ the dream-origin of The Castle of Otranto has been mentioned more often as an explanation for its short-comings, than as a cause for enthusiasm ” (Introduction ix). This dream-origin, however, does not necessarily have to be considered an explanation for anything (when one takes into consideration the fact that it might be made up), but can rather be seen as a device to create a certain distance between author and work: even though the dream belongs to the author, he is not in control of it. This strategy resembles the one used in the preface to the first edition of the novel. In the preface to this first edition, which constitutes the first parergonal framework around The Castle of Otranto, the narrator assumes the persona of a translator by the name of William Marshal and claims to have found Onuphrio Muralto ’ s manuscript in “ the library of an ancient catholic family in the north of England ” (5). The Italian work is said to date back to a period between 1095 and 1243. 3 The narrator (cheekily) praises the “ beauty of the diction, ” “ the zeal of the author ” (5), and his style, which is “ as elegant as his conduct of the passions is masterly ” (7). Furthermore, the narrator of the preface praises the meticulous presentation of the characters, mainly the domestics, says that he hopes that the work will meet with success, and even expresses doubt as to the possibility of the work being based on true events. Due to the fact that “ Walpole eschews irony ” in the preface as well as the core text, the suspicion that this controversial, ” apart from the fact that he “ had a patrician ’ s disregard for common opinion, ” and a safe income “ from government sinecures, ” which was easily secured by means of “ some light politicking at the House of Commons ” (Clery, “ Genesis ” 24). 3 Regarding the date of the manuscript, the reader is informed that “ this work was not composed until the establishment of the Arragonian kings in Naples ” (5) which, according to Clery, only took place in 1442 ( “ Explanatory Notes ” 117). Thus, even at this early point, the text is already contradicting itself. I Protection of Author or Work 75 work is a “ spoof, ” which aims at simply amusing its audience, becomes groundless (Clery, “ Genesis ” 27). Even though the narrator claims to present the work to the public as a source of pure entertainment and apologizes for — even shows some surprise at — the fact that “ [m]iracles, visions, necromancy, dreams and other preternatural events, are exploded now even from romances ” (6), the entire setup is highly doubtful. While the motifs that appear in the novel were unusual at the time when it was published, Hogle claims that one of the most typical features of the Gothic is that it “ exaggerates its own extreme fictionality ” (14). This very characteristic of over-fictionality is certainly one of the main reasons for the existence of a preface that works parergonally. In so far as the preface creates distance between author and work on two levels, namely in terms of time (the Middle Ages) and geographical location (Italy), it also exaggerates the putative realism of the work ’ s historical background. In this sense, the preface ’ s exaggerated attempt to shift responsibility constitutes an appropriate response to the Gothic novel ’ s tendency towards over-fictionality. The fact that the whole framework is fictitious, and even more so the fact that its fictitiousness is highly exaggerated, renders the normally rather conventional pose of the narrator as a translator suspicious. Clery states that the novel was written at a time when, on the one hand, “ enthusiasm for the superstitious fancies of the past [grew]; and on the other, [. . .] this kind of imaginative freedom was forbidden, or simply impossible, for writers of the enlightened present ” (Introduction xi). In addition, “ there was impatience with the limitations of neoclassical taste ” (Clery, “ Genesis ” 27) and a “ boredom and satiety ” (29). Furthermore, he adds that a “ central tenet of the theory of the novel in the eighteenth century was the existence of a functional link between fiction and social reality ” (xxiii). In accordance with Horace ’ s principle of “ aut prodesse volunt aut delectare poetae ” (Ars poetica 333), literature was expected both to please and to instruct. 4 Yet, Walpole ’ s novel obviously challenged this rule by emphasizing the entertainment component more than the didactic principle. The narrator of the first preface even admits that the “ work can only be laid before the public at present as a matter of entertainment ” (6), because he is well aware of its shortcoming in not presenting “ a more useful moral than this; that the sins of fathers are visited on their children to the third and fourth generation ” (7, original italicization omitted). This moral is indeed extremely 4 Translations of this famous assertion vary, albeit only slightly. While Rudd translates just the first line of Horace ’ s verse as “ [p]oets wish to be of service, to please, or both ” (69, original italicization omitted), Sisson includes the second line ( “ aut simul et iucunda et idonea dicere uitae, ” original Latin in Rudd 69, line 334) in his translation as well: “ The poet seeks, either to give you pleasure / Or to say something about the conduct of life, / Possibly both [. . .] ” (327 - 329). Certainly, Sisson ’ s version nicely echoes Clery ’ s functional link between fiction and social reality. 76 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses doubtful and cannot pass as a didactic principle. When one reads it as a critique of the social order of the time, however, it turns out to have a rather subversive potential. Clery claims that “ pioneering Gothic romances tended to generate anxiety and provoke denunciation from the critics because they implied that there must be something awry in the contemporary social order itself. A Gothic revival in literature disturbed the comfortable vision of historical progress. ” This effect had its origins in the eighteenth-century understanding of romance as “ social allegory ” (Introduction xxv); if we attempt such a reading of Otranto, its central statement might be that the aristocratic system is one of “ power that contains the seeds of its own destruction ” (Clery xxxii-xxxiii). It is no surprise that such a reading would have challenged contemporary critics; it seems, however, that the preface is less concerned with the fear of causing offence with the work ’ s (supernatural) contents than with the author ’ s venturing to introduce it to the public in the first place. This hesitation is also present in the narrator ’ s assumption of a telling name (William Marshal), which suggests someone who ‘ marshals, ’ or guides others, even though he claims to have merely translated the manuscript. This paradoxical constellation of leading the reader back into the past without taking responsibility for it constitutes a rather daring pose for the narrator. Walpole, as the author of the work, protects himself by means of this double fraud: neither is it a translation, nor is it an old text. Edmund Burke ’ s theory of the sublime and the beautiful presents another possible reading of the novel. This time, the focus is not on the entirety of the social order as such, but on the values that Neoclassicism held high in terms of literature. The text opposes the accepted norm of literature having an instructive purpose by following the pleasure principle. Walpole ’ s work is often linked to Burke ’ s Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful (1757), which, according to Clery, “ was immediately influential, and favourably contrasted the powerful sublime [. . .] with the merely beautiful, linked with social pleasures and imitation ” (Introduction xiv). Surely this could be read as the political programme of a Gothic story, contrasting with neoclassical writing, the ideal of which was also to instruct, not just to please. Burke ’ s philosophical writing might have added to the challenge of breaking with contemporary writing conventions, even though Hogle claims that “ [t]he extremes that sublime or Gothic images point toward [. . .] are distanced and blunted enough by transformative representations to be pleasant in their terror. They not only lead to mixed but safe reactions ” (14 - 15). This means that the themes and motifs usually presented in Gothic writing certainly have the potential to cause terror in the reader, but thanks to the Gothic ’ s tendency towards over-fictionality, the reader never transposes the events into his or her own reality and thus never actually feels threatened. At I Protection of Author or Work 77 the same time, the reader is allowed to maintain a passive position of consumption rather than an active role of receiving instruction. The use of frameworks supports this impression of a safe distance. Newman puts it as follows: We read Gothic novels like Frankenstein precisely because we want our blood to “ congeal with horror, ” [Frankenstein 145 5 ] and the frames, by promising something powerfully horrifying at their center, heighten the effect; hence the affinity of frame structures for the Gothic. 6 Just as frames in general serve at once to delimit and extend, so do the frames around Gothic and supernatural fictions signify at once something highly charged, even dangerous, and the barriers that protect us from it. (159) Walpole ’ s frames, indeed, promise something powerfully horrifying at their centre, as well as a safe distance for the reader. The problem, in his case, is the flaw in the first promise: there is a lack at the centre of Walpole ’ s text, and his frames try to conceal this very lack. Literary frames such as Walpole ’ s prefaces establish a safe boundary to make the core text ’ s terror enjoyable from a safe distance. The terror invoked by means of the sublime, according to Burke, is inherently pleasant in that it is constituted through sheer affect. Burke claims that [w]hatever is fitted in any sort to excite the ideas of pain, and danger, that is to say, whatever is in any sort terrible, or is conversant about terrible objects, or operates in a manner analogous to terror, is a source of the sublime; that is, it is productive of the strongest emotion which the mind is capable of feeling. ( “ Of the Sublime ” 39) Burke characterizes this “ strongest emotion ” caused by the sublime as follows: The passion caused by the great and sublime in nature, when those causes operate most powerfully, is Astonishment; and astonishment is that state of the soul, in which all its motions are suspended, with some degree of horror. In this case the mind is so entirely filled with its object, that it cannot entertain any other, nor by consequence reason on that object which employs it. ( “ Of the Passion Caused by the Sublime ” 57) 5 The excerpt quoted here refers to Robert Walton ’ s letter of August 26 to his sister Margaret Saville. In the first edition, the beginning of the letter reads as follows: “ You have read this strange and terrific story, Margaret; and do you not feel your blood congealed with horror, like that which even now curdles mine? Sometimes, seized with sudden agony, he [Victor] could not continue his tale; at others, his voice broken, yet piercing, uttered with difficulty the words so replete with agony ” (145). The Norton Critical Edition of Mary Shelley ’ s Frankenstein is based on the text “ of the 1818 first edition ” (Hunter xii), which uses “ congealed ” rather than “ congeal. ” 6 The epistolary structure of the novel forms the frame through which Walton ’ s report of Victor Frankenstein ’ s fragmented account framing the monster ’ s tale is received. A further frame is added by the fact that the letters are all sent to England: Frankenstein ’ s tale is thus placed at a safe distance from its final recipient. 78 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses The image of one ’ s mind being “ entirely filled with its object ” and thus unable to give room to rational thought reminds us of Kant ’ s disinterested aestethic pleasure. The fascination that ensues from this kind of astonishment is well comparable to the Gothic ’ s fascination with supernatural and threatening forces. Burke ’ s writing grants that the concept of ‘ unreason ’ still (or again) has a place in the Age of Enlightenment: there are things, even at this time of humanist thinking, that reason cannot grasp. It is easy to understand why Otranto, as the pioneering work of a new literary genre, inclined towards such a concept. In addition, the Gothic mode as such instrumentalizes the fusion of beauty and terror in its intermixture of the sublime with what Burke calls the unthreatening “ beautiful ” and with the comically bathetic and other incongruous elements [that] add to the deliberately forced unreality that allows this mode to symbolize the threatening inconsistencies — including irrational desire and the immanence of death — in the personal and the political unconscious. (Hogle 15) Even though the Gothic mode clearly has a rather subversive potential and a great deal of revolutionary force, the cultural background which forms the surrounds of the work is not the main motivation for the writer to commit the fraud of the first preface. Even though it is possible to read Walpole ’ s work as a threat to the political establishment or as a new programme regarding literary conventions, this is not the main purpose that its parergonal structure serves. Such approaches rather bear witness to critics ’ attempts to defend the work ’ s inclusion within some literary canon in spite of its questionable quality. However, the parergon itself actually serves the less noble purpose of merely protecting its author. In order to evaluate the interaction between work and frame, it is crucial to investigate possible motivations for an author to write a work like The Castle of Otranto. On the one hand, Napier states that Walpole ’ s “ petulant insistence to Madame du Deffand that he wrote the work in despite of [sic] rules, heated by his own passions and visions, provides, perhaps the most accurate assessment of his motivations ” (77). On the other hand, Watt argues that “ Walpole ’ s project clearly needs to be viewed as a response to contemporary trends rather than as a completely novel experiment ” (15). These statements seem to suggest that Otranto is the product of the leisure-time activity of a dilettante who, on the one hand, found pleasure in this diversion from politics and, on the other, owing to his status, had a lot to lose through unfavourable reception. This means that the author feared the failure of his work much less than he feared his own; the motivation to have a parergonal framework precede the main text is a purely personal one, namely the fear of failure in the eyes of others. Even though the status of the work still seems to be controversial nowadays, its first edition was a I Protection of Author or Work 79 success, which led the author to admit his authorship in the preface to the second edition. Napier states that, even though Walpole was “ [c]hallenged (after he decide[d] to reveal his authorship) to provide a justification of his tale, [he was] unable to arrive at a coherent one ” (75). The way in which this justification is incoherent is crucial to the working of the parergonal structure. It is, however, very interesting in itself that Walpole decided to give a justification at all. On the one hand, the two prefaces interact with each other, while on the other, they interact — together — with the main work. If one analyzes these two interactions closely, they both turn out to serve one single purpose, namely to protect the position of the actual author. According to Clery, the second edition was published in April 1765 (Introduction xi), with the narrator confessing Walpole ’ s authorship in the preface: The favourable manner in which this little piece has been received by the public, calls upon the author to explain the grounds on which he composed it. But before he opens those motives, it is fit that he should ask pardon of his readers for having offered his work to them under the borrowed personage of a translator. As diffidence of his own abilities, and the novelty of the attempt, were his sole inducements to assume that disguise, he flatters himself he shall appear excusable. (9) Clery remarks that the “‘ Gothic Story ’ had proved a success in its antiquarian disguise, and he [Walpole] could afford to annoy the critics ” (Introduction xiii). Here again, the tension between audience and author seems to be treated by the latter as a game, a diversion. Had he really composed the work for the sake of promoting a new style of writing, he would not have had to add a preface at all. In this sense, he chose a rather safe path for his own reputation. The narrator, posing as author in the second preface, claims that one reason for his fraud was diffidence about his abilities, in addition to the novelty of the attempt. It is very possible, in fact, that the diffidence here was assumed on the side of the audience. The novelty of this kind of writing clearly embodies the potential to cause a certain insecurity on the part of its readers. Therefore, the narrator assumed the persona of the translator primarily in order to be safe, no matter how the writing might be judged. In the second edition, the subtitle A Gothic Story is added. This subtitle is often considered to mark the initiation of the new Gothic genre of writing. Even Clery, putting aside his usually protective standpoint towards the work, admits that “ [t]he main reason, both for the criticism and for the resilience of this work, is surely that The Castle of Otranto is never judged purely on its own merits, but rather as the founding text of a genre that has flourished, through various permutations, up to the present ” (Introduction ix). Watt, however, having previously remarked that the work is merely a response to trends, 80 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses contradicts Clery ’ s claim by saying that “ all of [the] comments on the work ’ s frivolity usefully serve to complicate the modern emphasis on its status as the origin of a literature of terror ” (40). The fact that Walpole ’ s text constitutes a new literary genre is only complicated by our assumption that any such new text inherently needs to be of high quality. This evaluative problem of canonization is thus perfectly illustrated by The Castle of Otranto. After his introductory apologies and attempts at justification, the narrator of the second preface explains that he has tried to “ blend the two kinds of romance, the ancient and the modern ” (9). In that sense, he attempts to return to the traditional literary model of romance, but is aware of the fact that such an undertaking will always yield something new. He says that he is “ [d]esirous of leaving the powers of fancy at liberty to expatiate through the boundless realms of invention, and thence of creating more interesting situations ” (9). According to Clery, he wants to “ combine the unnatural occurrences associated with romance and the naturalistic characterization and dialogue of the novel ” ( “ Genesis ” 24), the novel literally being “‘ the new, ’ [which] marked itself off as a new, more credible and progressive genre of fiction for an enlightened age by denigrating ‘ the old, ’ the romance ” ( “ Genesis ” 22). The moments in the novel when supernatural events occur, however, are neither endowed with a lot of terror nor very interesting, but rather, as has been pointed out by many critics, flat and pathetic. A closer look at the scene Walpole refers to in his letter to Cole serves to illustrate this point: Manfred [. . .] had however advanced some steps [. . .] when he saw it [the portrait of his grandfather] quit its pannel, 7 and descend on the floor with a grave and melancholy air. Do I dream? cried Manfred returning, or are the devils themselves in league against me? Speak, infernal spectre! [. . .] Ere he could finish the sentence, the vision sighed again, and made a sign to Manfred to follow him. (26) In this passage, the contrast between Manfred ’ s hysteria and the ghost ’ s lethargy produces a comical rather than frightening effect. In addition, the fact that the ghost is actually the ghost of a portrait of a real person — and thus twice removed from the original — not the apparition of someone long since dead, for instance, emphasizes the “ insistent artificiality ” of the Gothic in general (Hogle 15). Hogle argues that this artificiality is also supported by the fact that the first preface fakes the text ’ s being a translation. Walpole ’ s text is thus “ pointedly fake and counterfeit from the beginning ” (15). 7 This very description of the portrait caused doubt as to whether the writing was really antique in origin. Clery notes the wording of a review: “ We cannot help thinking that this circumstance is some presumption that the castle of Otranto is a modern fabrick; for we doubt much whether pictures were fastened in pannels before the year 1243 ” (120). I Protection of Author or Work 81 Furthermore, the prefaces constitute “ a notable contribution to the emerging cult of Shakespeare ” (Clery, Introduction xiv). Not only does the translator of the first preface call himself by the first name of the Bard, but Walpole ’ s text also presents “ a ringing defense of one aspect of Shakespeare ’ s practice that remained controversial even in Britain: the inclusion of comic scenes in the tragedies ” (Clery, “ Genesis ” 30). Admittedly, the way in which the comical is intermixed with the tragic in Walpole cannot compare to the way in which it is presented in Shakespeare. Usually, the combination in Walpole seems out of place and leads to textual ambiguities and bizarre misunderstandings between reader and text. Even though the narrator of the second preface claims that Shakespeare ’ s minor characters serve as models for his text, the servants in Otranto “ tend merely to undermine the woes of their masters, repeatedly bringing about a comic deflation ” (Clery, Introduction xix). Yet, the comic deflation which is addressed here falls far short of what is achieved in Shakespeare ’ s plays: hence, “ we feel the offspring are unworthy of their parent ” (Clery, “ Genesis ” 30). According to Napier, “ Walpole had enough critical judgement to know that his scenes were in no way Shakespearian ” (85). Clery adds that Walpole ’ s novel has the tendency to be peopled “ with mere ciphers ” (Introduction xvii), not round characters like those found in Shakespeare. In the same tone as in the first preface, the narrator, now flattering himself, comments on the domestics as follows: However grave, important, or even melancholy, the sensations of princes and heroes may be, they do not stamp the same affections on their domestics: at least the latter do not, or should not be made to express their passions in the same dignified tone. In my humble opinion, the contrast between the sublime of the one, and the naïveté of the other, sets the pathetic of the former in a stronger light. The very impatience which a reader feels, while delayed by the coarse pleasantries of vulgar actors from arriving at the knowledge of the important catastrophe he expects, perhaps heightens, certainly proves that he has been artfully interested in, the depending event. (10) After having posed as a translator in the first preface, the narrator takes on the persona of the author and then of a literary critic in the second. The result of this is, regardless of any precaution, a certain pomposity in the text: this is effected by the narrator posing as both author and literary critic at the same time. He finds the work which is allegedly his own worthy of discussion by himself. The passage Walpole refers to in the above quotation is often pointed out as a moment of pure bathos. It occurs when Manfred tries to find out whether his two servants, Diego and Jaquez, have found princess Isabella. The latter has fled at the prospect of being married to the man initially supposed to become her father-in-law, her original husband-to-be having been crushed by a giant helmet shortly before their wedding: 82 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses Here I am, said Manfred, as they came nearer; have you found the princess? The first that arrived replied, Oh, my lord! I am glad we have found you. — Found me! said Manfred: have you found the princess? We thought we had, my lord, said the fellow looking terrified — but — But what? cried the prince: has she escaped? — Jaquez and I, my lord — Yes, I and Diego, interrupted the second, who came up in still greater consternation — Speak one of you at a time, said Manfred; I ask you, where is the princess? We do not know, said they both together: but we are frightened out of our wits. — So I think, blockheads, said Manfred[.] (33) Napier states that “ [the] stiffness of Manfred ’ s emotions [. . .] and his metamorphosis from a man of gentleness to a remorseless villain are almost comically wooden and abrupt ” (95). Watt, referring to the use of the word blend in the second preface, goes so far as to state that, “ [i]f Walpole ’ s work is a ‘ blend ’ of anything, as a result, it is a blend not of ancient and modern romance, but of bathos and hyperbole ” (36). Not only is hyperbole apparent in Manfred ’ s exaggerated and pathetic reactions, but it also predominates whenever lovers converse. Theodore, especially, is prone to overuse hyperbole making declarations of his affection (my emphasis in italics): How? said Theodore: thinkest thou, charming maid [Matilda], that I will accept of life at the hazard of aught calamitous to thee? Better I endured a thousand deaths[.] (72) He used every gentle word to dispel her [Isabella ’ s] alarms, and assured her that, far from injuring, he would defend her at the peril of his life. (75) I meant to conduct you [Isabella] into the most private cavity of these rocks; and then, at the hazard of my life, to guard their entrance against every living thing. (76) He assured her [Isabella] that he would die rather than suffer her to return under Manfred ’ s power. (77) Since she [Matilda] cannot live mine, cried he, at least she shall be mine in death! (111) Furthermore, this fustian kind of writing with its overuse of hyperbole is symbolically reflected in the giant objects which initiate the terror among the characters. Exaggeration as a device has a constant presence in Walpole ’ s textual construct, be it with regard to the alleged origin of the work in the first preface, or be it in terms of the artificiality and over-fictionality of the main text. In this sense, the two prefaces that try to justify the existence of such a work are designed to remedy this symptom. When one examines the second preface more closely, it becomes clear that the narrator ’ s claims about what is inherent in his work are unfounded: none of his statements about the servants, the supernatural, or a Shakespearean manner can be verified in the text. What the two prefaces have in common is the fact that they divert attention away from the work ’ s shortcomings, for the sake of protecting the author. The lack that the parergon compensates for is, therefore, I Protection of Author or Work 83 not only in the work, but also in its creator. Clery states that “ [t]he significance of Otranto for literary history lies as much in the two Prefaces and their alternative constructions of the text as antiquity or innovation, as it does in the novel itself ” (Introduction xi). In this sense, both prefaces pursue ambitions that are not appropriate to the quality of the work. Yet what Clery calls alternative constructions are, with regard to the functions of the two parergonal frameworks, identical: when one examines their impact on the work, both prefaces function as justifications of the existence of such a novel as The Castle of Otranto. Such justification was necessary, since a neoclassical written work was, on the one hand, supposed to be based on a didactic principle for the social order and, on the other, expected to comply with the literary conventions of the time. Walpole ’ s work, however, constitutes a new genre of writing and is designed to amuse. Even if one argues that the educational purpose underlying this genre of writing might be to advocate reading as a diversion, fully endorsing the pleasure principle, Walpole ’ s work is still flawed by its excessive and bizarre nature. The two prefaces, however, are concerned with something other than the mere justification of the literary work, especially since the careful reader will not be taken in by this justification. In his letter to Cole, Walpole remarks that he especially enjoyed writing this novel because it made him think of something other than politics. One could therefore argue that the parergonal frames are mainly designed to divert attention away from the author ’ s dilettante status, by presenting false justifications. By that means, they protect the author from criticism that might damage his reputation, all the more so since Walpole ’ s reputation was highly dependent on his own good taste. Napier remarks that the two prefaces provide the author with “ a guaranteed escape route ” (79). Even the alleged dream-origin is part of this construct. Referring to the author ’ s attempt to confuse the audience with false justifications, Watt states that “ [w]hat was important for Walpole all along, it seems, was both to downplay the effort that went into writing Otranto [. . .] and to capitalize on the doubts of readers about what they were dealing with ” (29 - 30). Thus, it becomes clear what the real function of the two prefaces is: the implied author seems to be using a strategy that will work well for him in all cases, an escape route that can be taken in any direction. Hiding behind his narrator ’ s pretence of establishing and justifying a new genre of literary writing, he is only concerned with himself as a creator responsible for his writing. Both prefaces mainly serve to protect him — the author — as a person. According to Watt, Walpole was “ an arbiter of taste ” (19) and could not afford to be ridiculed through his writing. It seems as if readers were allowed to think whatever they liked about the work, as long as they did not ridicule its author; it did not matter much whether the work was seen as the initiator of a new genre, a tale designed to divert and amuse, or as a translation of an existing text from the Middle Ages. 84 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses This interpretation certainly assigns a very self-gratifying standpoint to the author; in the context of aristocratic life in the eighteenth century, however, this approach is justified, since a good reputation was a man ’ s most important attribute. Clery states that “ Walpole himself was sometimes inclined to dismiss it [his novel] as a piece of whimsy, and in the twentieth century critics have tended to agree. The story has been regularly censured for wooden characterization, and the amateurish self-indulgence of its supernatural effects ” (Introduction ix). These lacks (in the literary sense of the word) in the work cause the lack in this piece of writing: they are the reason why the implied author fears personal criticism that might damage his reputation. The parergon, namely the combination of both of the prefaces, is meant to overcome that lack. The disparities and contradictions between the two prefaces, as well as between the prefaces and the main text, lead to friction. This is the friction between the frame, the parergon, and the work, which is the symptom on the basis of which an analysis can be conducted. In the work ’ s contemporary context, the lack in the work was indeed cured by means of its parergonal frame. From the perspective of a modern reader, however, the justifications clearly attempt to divert attention away from its shortcomings as a piece of literature. When one takes a closer look at the entities at work, the whole mechanism becomes transparent: the prefaces both work excellently in their function of protecting the author of the work, and even nowadays, one is tempted to overestimate the work itself. The parergon, however, mediates between the audience and the author: it provides well-designed escape routes, a fact which, nowadays, even elicits a certain admiration for the cleverness with which they are implemented. Transgressing Gender Boundaries: Eliot ’ s Middlemarch The second example that illustrates how a parergon can function as a protective shield for an author is George Eliot ’ s Middlemarch. Not only does it have what one would call the classic parergonal structure, namely a parergon literally embedding the work between a prelude and a finale, but it also illustrates the fact that author-protection goes hand-in-hand with the protection of the work. The frame protects the work and the author by encouraging a favourable reception. At the same time, this framework is supported by a gender discourse within the novel, which occasionally develops into a feminist critique. The prelude and the finale combined, reinforced by a discourse permeating the work, form a first framework. It is the Theresa-theme of the prelude, which is revisited in the finale, that makes the two framing texts function parergonally through their interplay. The prelude defends the rights of women by expressing regret for the fact that women are generally thwarted in their quest for a I Protection of Author or Work 85 satisfying purpose or aim in their individual lives. The average woman and her opportunities in life are set against the foil of Saint Theresa, the “ Spanish mystic [and] founder of a religious order, ” and her achievements (Ashton, “ Notes ” 839). In being a female author who advocates women ’ s rights, George Eliot sets an example. At the same time, however, a second frame opens up by the author ’ s assuming a male pseudonym. Using this interplay between the two frameworks, the woman, in the role of the man (through the pseudonym), makes claims for the rights of womanhood (in the text). In doing so, she is simultaneously discussing women ’ s rights and qualifying them by using a male guise. These two frameworks — feigned male authorship together with the two framing texts — interact parergonally with the work and emphasize the feminist discourse intrinsic to the novel. The parergon thus underlines the tempered, but resilient feminism inherent in the work. George Eliot ’ s concerns with female writing are directly connected to her assumption of a male pseudonym, at least in terms of timing. After having published her essay entitled “ Silly Novels by Lady Novelists ” in the October 1856 issue of the magazine Westminster Review, Mary Ann (Marian) Evans finished the story The Sad Fortunes of the Rev. Amos Barton. In 1857, [w]hen Blackwood sent her a February copy of his magazine ( ‘ Maga ’ ) containing the second half of ‘ Amos Barton ’ , he addressed his letter ‘ My Dear Amos ’ . In her reply Marian expressed her resolve to preserve her incognito, and signed herself ‘ George Eliot ’ for the first time. (Pinion 27) In 1859, after Adam Bede was published and, according to Bradbrook, became a “ literary sensation, ” the “ identity of th[e] author was kept a close secret [. . .]. [A]ll London was speculating — one or two had [even] hazarded that it was a woman ” (54). It seems obvious that Eliot deliberately chose to assume a male pseudonym rather than merely an incognito. Mary Ann Evans had good reason to make use of such a male pen name, since female writers in the Victorian era were renowned for writing “ silly novels, ” featuring a heroine who “ is usually an heiress, ” her “ eyes and her wit [. . .] both dazzling. ” Even though “ her nose and her morals are alike free from any tendency to irregularity, ” she “ as often as not marries the wrong person to begin with, ” but eventually prevails, coming out of “ whatever vicissitudes she may undergo ” with “ a complexion more blooming and locks more redundant than ever ” (Eliot, “ Silly Novels ” 301 - 303). The irony in this description, as well as Eliot ’ s use of syllepsis — “ a construction in which one word (usually a verb or a preposition) is applied to two other words or phrases [. . .] in two differing senses, ” usually combining “ an abstract sense and a concrete sense ” (Baldick 251) — bear witness to Eliot ’ s contempt for this kind of writing. She, in turn, was fascinated with realist depictions of all classes of society, a style and subject a woman writer was not commonly considered fit for. 86 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses In her essay “ Silly Novels, ” she not only displays her disdain for the contents of these novels, but also comments on the conventional female novelist with ironic contempt: The fair writers have evidently never talked to a tradesman except from a carriage window; they have no notion of the working-classes except as ‘ dependents ’ ; they think five hundred a-year a miserable pittance; Belgravia and ‘ baronial halls ’ are their primary truths; and they have no idea of feeling interest in any man who is not at least a great landed proprietor, if not a prime minister. It is clear that they write in elegant boudoirs, with violet-coloured ink and a ruby pen; that they must be entirely indifferent to publishers ’ accounts, and inexperienced in every form of poverty except poverty of brains. (303 - 304) Apart from the cutting remarks about the average authoress ’ lack of erudition, she criticizes the average pattern used in the plots. Thus, not only does she assume a feigned male perspective through her pseudonym, but she also avoids being judged in the manner in which she herself judges the average writer of her own sex. It is essential to see, though, that Eliot ’ s approach to feminist issues has always been a tempered one. Fernando states that, according to Eliot, “ rights and functions had been confused ” in the discussion of women ’ s position in society at the time, a discussion which was partly based on “ the assumption that woman ’ s natural endowment [was] identical with man ’ s ” (80). Not only did Eliot disagree with the idea that nature made women and men the same, but she also considered any correlation between identical natural endowments and identical rights a fallacy: women ’ s rights were not to be defined on the grounds of natural endowment. The essence of George Eliot ’ s feminist claims is that “ women were not necessarily entitled to the same rights as men, since their personalities and functions in life were not the same. But although they were different from men they were not in any sense inferior ” (Fernando 80). Eliot ’ s choice of a male cover in order to depict the condition of women seems symptomatic of the kind of tempered feminism she promotes. She does not claim equality on the grounds of nature, but more rights within the confines of women ’ s own sphere. Despite virtually switching spheres in order to be taken seriously and to make a point, she cannot be said to have betrayed her own convictions. At the same time, her actions and convictions should not define a critical reading of her work. Even though Eliot herself was fortunate to live an exceptional life for her time (for which she also had to accept social ostracism), in her writings, she depicted the average woman and her condition in society, particularly in her novel Middlemarch. It is typicality that defines this novel, and a biographical reading in search of Eliot ’ s personal singularity projected onto her fiction is not called for. We can fathom feminist issues, however, by I Protection of Author or Work 87 investigating the mechanisms that are triggered by the various frameworks and which imperceptibly influence our reading of the novel. The fact that, in Eliot ’ s time, it made a difference whether an author was male or female justifies her chosen means. The pseudonym certainly made a favourable reception of a novel much easier. In terms of authorship, pseudonyms, according to Boumelha, subvert the paradigm of authorship with which, or at least in full awareness of which, we still mostly work: that the author (a coherent, historical, biographical, psychological entity) precedes, originates, — if you like authorises — the fiction of the text. Yet in the case of a pseudonym, this apparently commonsensical perception of the relationship is troubled, as it should be: ‘ George Eliot ’ is as much the work of the writing as the texts are works of hers[.] (15, in reference to Ginsburg) The “ status of the author as the origin of his text ” and the ensuing implications, such as the idea of textual authorization, are already problematic in themselves, but the situation becomes even more complex when a pseudonym is used, because the latter “ subverts, or inverts, the relationship between an author and his work ” (Ginsburg 543). By using a pseudonym, George Eliot becomes “ the offspring of her own work, her own imagination ” (543 - 544). This means that the persona of George Eliot also qualifies as a fictional frame in the same way as the fictional frames established around her works do. Sadly, our analysis of such a pseudonym bears witness to the fact that feminist issues are still topical today, even though the long process of negotiation might make us think they have long been resolved. At the same time, as Boumelha pointedly remarks, “ the name Eliot chose, ” namely George, after her “ pseudo-husband ” George Lewes (16), is counterbalanced by “ the act of choosing her name (a kind of selforigination). The moment of submission to the rule of writing as a male sphere (represented in the male name) is thus tempered by the fact that this name was her choice and part of her creating a new origin for her writing. The issue of the pseudonym plays an important role because an author ’ s sex is usually, even if we try to avoid such a reading, projected onto a narrative. It therefore underhandedly influences the reading of a text. Boumelha claims that the male pseudonym that takes the female pronoun brings out the double perspective we are so often aware of in reading her work, of a male narrative voice (an implied male author, even) that will, in an apparent paradox resolved by the hierarchies of gender, guarantee the authority of the text ’ s representation of its strong or aspiring female characters. (18 - 19) The female narrative voice under the cover of the male one thus authorizes the representation of the female characters and makes them credible. This optimistic feminist reading might also be qualified by another double per- 88 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses spective on Eliot ’ s procedure: even though she openly criticizes the conventional constraints faced by female writers and their consequences in the form of lady novelists, Eliot ’ s feminist stance is implicitly qualified by her assumption of a male pen name. When considering the pseudonym a fictional frame, we are confronted with a mise-en-abyme relationship between the woman in the frame and the characters in the novel: the implied author ’ s qualified feminism is mirrored in the female protagonists ’ frustrated aspirations. They do not become resigned, though, but keep striving. And even though they might not, in the end, have achieved as much as they wished for, they have still improved their own condition, which serves as a model for others. The pseudonym, together with the novel ’ s textual frame, constitutes the parergonal frame around Eliot ’ s novel. Not only does the parergon bear witness to the power of fiction, but it also discusses and qualifies feminist issues raised in the novel. More importantly, it invites the critical reader to actively do the same. The “ Prelude ” opens with an example of a satisfactory life-story of a woman, namely that of Saint Theresa, the Spanish founder of a religious order in the sixteenth century, whose circumstances are compared with the conditions in which women lived after her. The text investigates possible reasons for the discrepancies between the two different kinds of life: That Spanish woman who lived three hundred years ago was certainly not the last of her kind. Many Theresas have been born who found for themselves no epic life wherein there was a constant unfolding of far-resonant action; perhaps only a life of mistakes, the offspring of a certain spiritual grandeur ill-matched with the meanness of opportunity; perhaps a tragic failure which found no sacred poet and sank unwept into oblivion. [. . .] [F]or these later-born Theresas were helped by no coherent social faith and order which could perform the function of knowledge for the ardently willing soul. Their ardour alternated between a vague ideal and the common yearning of womanhood; so that the one was disapproved as extravagance, and the other condemned as a lapse. Some have felt that these blundering lives are due to the inconvenient indefiniteness with which the Supreme Power has fashioned the natures of women: if there were one level of feminine incompetence as strict as the ability to count three and no more, the social lot of women might be treated with scientific certitude. (3 - 4) Thus, the reason for women ’ s failure and their being prevented from developing their potential is founded in the lack of a social faith and order that would provide them with an ideal background. Even though some people are criticized for ascribing women ’ s failure to the God-given constitution of womanhood, this argument is dismissed as groundless since there is no point in engaging with such unprovable claims. Furthermore, and as a consequence of the lack of confidence in women, they only have a vague ideal, which does not drive them to lead adventurous lives characterized by extraordinary achievements. I Protection of Author or Work 89 The interplay between the issues presented in the prelude on the one hand, and in the novel itself on the other, manifests itself in the “ penetrating narrative comments by the female author on her male creations ’ expectations of women ” (Ashton, Introduction xvii). Ashton ’ s confusion of author and narrator (or character), as well as her underlining of the narrator ’ s and characters ’ sex, can hardly go unnoticed. This does not diminish her point, however: the comments she refers to are initially centred on the protagonist Dorothea Casaubon. Feminist issues are also raised by the critical approach towards women ’ s position in married life: the fact that the novel treats marriage critically at all offers a basis for intense interplay between novel and framework. Thus, the sites of friction between work and frame are those moments at which the text deals with the possibilities afforded to women as well as the occasions when women ’ s actions transgress the limits of these possibilities. At these sites, the frame connects with the work and engages in an interplay. The first book of the novel, entitled “ Miss Brooke, ” reflects on what is to become of Dorothea Brooke, one of the main characters; the cutting remarks about women ’ s role in society are mostly uttered in a by-the-way manner: the narrator comments that even though, at the time, “ [w]omen were expected to have weak opinions, ” Dorothea loves the “ extremes ” (9; ch. 1). She could randomly come up “ with a new scheme for the application of her income which would interfere with political economy and the keeping of saddle horses. ” As a consequence, “ a man would naturally think twice before he risked himself in such a fellowship ” (9). Even though, or precisely because, Dorothea is an exceptional woman in her endeavours, her ventures into the field of male actions are usually thwarted. When she wants to help her uncle with his paperwork, he (Mr Brooke) remarks: “ I cannot let young ladies meddle with my documents. Young ladies are too flighty ” (20; ch. 2), since, according to Sir James, “ [a] man ’ s mind [. . .] has always the advantage of being masculine — as the smallest birch-tree is of a higher kind than the most soaring palm — and even his ignorance is of a sounder quality ” (21). Notably, the inferior position of women is mirrored here in an image from nature. In addition, women ’ s inferior position as represented by an exotic tree is juxtaposed to the native species of the birch. 8 Women, according to Mr Brooke, are generally not to engage in study: “ that love of knowledge, and going into everything [. . .] that sort of thing doesn ’ t often run in the female line ” (46; ch. 5); furthermore, “ such deep studies, classics, mathematics, that kind of thing, are too taxing for a woman. ” Women ought rather to study “ music, the fine arts, that kind of thing, ” but only 8 In the section “ Competing Protagonists: Brontë ’ s Jane Eyre and Rhys ’ Wide Sargasso Sea, ” I will discuss in more detail the relationship between post-colonial and gender issues, here represented in a parallelism between women and foreign flora (211 - 212 below). 90 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses “ in a light way ” and only “ up to a certain point ” (65; ch. 7), because nothing more is expected of a woman than that she “ should be able to sit down and play you or sing you a good old English tune ” (65). These views, however, are not restricted to the men in the novel. Mrs Garth, who has learnt never to “ [commit] herself by over-hasty speech ” (242; ch. 24), has thoroughly considered the subject and decided that her own sex is “ framed to be entirely subordinate ” (243). At the same time, she is “ disproportionately indulgent towards the failings of men, and [is] often heard to say that these [are] natural. ” Nature is thus not only responsible for the subordinate position of women, but it is also used as an excuse for male failure. Her mother tells Rosamond, the second female protagonist: a “ woman must learn to put up with little things. You will be married some day ” (98; ch. 11). This means that, even though women might have certain aspirations before they enter the state of marriage, the latter marks the beginning of their imposed contentment with little things. Dorothea and Rosamond have in common the fact that they are both unhappily married, having both been disappointed in their expectations of married life. The novel offers many “ startingly frank expressions of opinion on marriage, men ’ s expectations of it, and women ’ s fitness or unfitness for the married state ” (Ashton, Introduction xv). This makes it possible for the reader, too, to form an assessment of the two women ’ s view of marriage. As if to underline the theme of matrimony, Eliot ’ s novel is structured along the lines of relationships. Most of the titles of the individual books that constitute what she initially subtitled A Study of Provincial Life 9 make one or the other reference to marital status ( “ Miss Brooke, ” “ The Widow and the Wife ” ), to relationships based on opposition ( “ Old and Young, ” “ Sunset and Sunrise ” ), or generally comment on notions associated with love and the married state ( “ Three Love Problems, ” “ Two Temptations ” ). This critique or study of (provincial) life, as Eliot calls it, is thus mainly concerned with the relationships between the characters that also define their condition of life. It is thus a study of a huge network or “ web, ” the latter constituting a recurrent motif in Eliot ’ s text: the narrator has “ so much to do in unravelling certain human lots, and seeing how they were woven and interwoven, that all the light [he or she] can command must be concentrated on this particular web, and not dispersed over that tempting range of relevancies called the universe ” (141; ch. 15). The narrator argues that there is already so much work involved in unpicking the fabric and 9 This subtitle only appeared in the first edition of Eliot ’ s novel, which was “ published in eight parts from December 1871 to December 1872 ” (Ashton, “ A Note on the Text ” xxv). Ashton also states that the text used in the Penguin edition “ is based on the second edition, published in one volume in May 1874. ” I Protection of Author or Work 91 following the threads of individual fates within the provincial town of Middlemarch that there is no room for generalities related to the entire universe. In a way, therefore, the narrator conducts an inductive analysis of human fate in that he or she forces himor herself to concentrate on certain human destinies, not their entirety. At the same time, these human destinies feature as representative of the vast majority of people. In this sense, they constitute typicality without recourse to a description of the entire universe. The destinies themselves are defined by constant changes in terms of relationships. Indeed, Dorothea comes to pity the man she had immense admiration for before she married him. Symptomatically, her disappointment stems from the fact that her husband assigns an inferior role to her in his research. Her involvement in her husband ’ s studies is restricted to copying “ the pamphlets — or ‘ Parerga ’ as he called them — by which he tested his public and deposited small monumental records of his march, [that] were far from having been seen in all their significance ” (279 - 280; ch. 29). In her notes, Ashton explains that the word parerga here means “ secondary works ” (845). These parerga form the secondary works to Casaubon ’ s work, a Key to all Mythologies. Even though he claims that the parerga are highly significant, his delegating their supervision to his wife bears witness to their putative inferiority. In addition, Dorothea is only supposed to copy them, not to actively take part in his research. Parerga originally are, in Derrida as well as in Kant, subsidiary written documents that refer to a main document. It is no coincidence that, in Eliot ’ s novel, the husband is in charge of the ergon and his wife merely trusted to copy the parergon. If one regards Casaubon ’ s fragmental work as the ergon, the relationship between the texts husband and wife work on epitomizes the initial constellation of the characters in this novel. In the context of the parergon ’ s subversive potential, Dorothea ’ s role in her husband ’ s life takes on a different significance: her aspirations will challenge his. One has to take into consideration, however, the fact that Casaubon, too, is only working at the periphery of an actual work, namely the mythologies themselves. In this way, Dorothea is really working on a “ a parergon concerning a parergon ” that is very close in structure to Kant ’ s source for Derrida (The Truth in Painting 55). 10 At the same time, Casaubon himself is trying to create a key, the Key to all Mythologies, a passe-partout. Whereas Dorothea is in charge of the parergon, 10 It is worth noting that religion plays an important role in this context. While Middlemarch is framed by the Theresa-theme, the structure of the parergon also stems from a work concerned with religion, namely Kant ’ s Religion within the Limits of Reason Alone. In this sense, the two texts really intersect here. Also cf. section “ Derrida ’ s Parergon and Kant ” above for more information about the relationship between Derrida ’ s parergon and Kant ’ s (28 - 34). 92 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses Casaubon is confined to the site of transition, the passe-partout. This very site and its implications, namely which position towards the main work is assigned to whom, becomes the place of their mutual alienation. Whilst Dorothea had hoped to be closer to her husband ’ s work, he is aware that he himself is still one step removed from the actual work, the mythologies themselves. His description of his goal makes it clear that what he is aiming at is unattainable. He is obsessed with the irresolvable question of origin: [H]e had undertaken to show (what indeed had been attempted before, but not with that thoroughness, justice of comparison, and effectiveness of arrangement at which Mr Casaubon aimed) that all the mythical systems or erratic mythical fragments in the world were corruptions of a tradition originally revealed. Having once mastered the true position and taken a firm footing there, the vast field of mythical constructions became intelligible, nay, luminous with the reflected light of correspondences. But to gather in this great harvest of truth was no light or speedy work. His notes already made a formidable range of volumes, but the crowning task would be to condense these voluminous still-accumulating results and bring them, like the earlier vintage of Hippocratic books, to fit a little shelf. (24 - 25; ch. 3) Not only does Casaubon investigate an origin that seems unfathomable, but he also only engages in eclectic work, aiming at a final condensation. He thus fails to produce an independent work of research. The transitional position of the passe-partout is also represented in terms of scholarship: he stands in-between the unattainable truth and the potential failure of all those who have chosen this path before him. His quest also puts him in a desperate position in-between his wife ’ s desire to assist him and his fear of losing her admiration for him by failing in his task. Dorothea, as the embodiment of the “ feminist impatience, which runs through the novel ” and “ pervades the analysis of adoration ” (Hardy 20), certainly does not make his task any easier. Indeed, Dorothea ’ s desire for learning and her eager questioning of everything soon result in a critical standpoint towards her husband ’ s erudition, rather than admiration for it. Their relationship is further encumbered by the fact that she herself is still trying to find a position in life. She is the one who “ blindly gropes forward, making mistakes in her sometimes foolish, often egoistical, but also admirably idealistic attempts to find a role ” (Ashton, Introduction xvi). Casaubon, on the other hand, needs, like all academics, a captive audience and so he marries one. She want[s] from Casaubon the binding theory his erudition seems to promise. [. . .] Casaubon soon realizes that instead of getting ‘ a soft fence ’ against a hostile audience, he has married his most damaging critic who questions everything about him. (Carroll 84) Dorothea is initially fascinated by her husband ’ s promise of closure in the revelation of an origin to all mythologies; soon, however, she realizes that I Protection of Author or Work 93 that new real future which was replacing the imaginary drew its material from the endless minutiae by which her view of Mr Casaubon and her wifely relation, now that she was married to him, was gradually changing with the secret motion of a watch-hand from what it had been in her maiden dream. (194; ch. 20) The discrepancy between her imaginary future and her present as the beginning of her real future slowly forms in her perception. Through her meticulous observations of her husband ’ s actions, she drifts away from him. This movement is described in terms of a minute hand that points to the endless minutes and that, together with the hour hand, forms a pair of compasses that irreversibly heads towards the extreme of being diametrically opposed. Whereas Casaubon marries his audience, Lydgate, the second male protagonist, marries a sort of complement to his obsession as a scientist. Whenever his interest in Rosamond ’ s character is described, it is confined to some superficiality of hers. Lydgate had regarded Rosamond ’ s cleverness as precisely of the receptive kind which became a woman. He was now beginning to find out what that cleverness was — what was the shape into which it had run as into a close network aloof and independent. No one quicker than Rosamond to see causes and effects which lay within the track of her own tastes and interests[.] (586; ch. 58) Rosamond, in her self-centred way, “ saw only that the world was not ordered to her liking, and Lydgate was part of that world ” (649; ch. 64). She comes to despise the man of whom she had such great expectations when she married him, since she realizes that rank and wealth, which she formerly considered inseparable, are not: even though Lydgate comes from a rich and titled family (91; ch. 10), Rosamond ’ s expensive lifestyle runs him into debt. Their alliance is founded on mutual expectations that each of them disappoints in the other ’ s eyes. Lydgate dresses up that part of the material world which his scientific acumen does not comprehend in the attractive shape of Rosamond Vincy. She uses him to gain access to that world of rank, that Eden where she will at last be fully appreciated. They each destroy each other ’ s plans[.] (Carroll 85) Rosamond marries Lydgate ’ s rank, not his person, whereas Lydgate marries her outer appearance, not the woman. Like Dorothea and Casaubon, they move into opposed positions: Lydgate “ was prepared to be indulgent towards feminine weakness, but not towards feminine dictation ” (650; ch. 64). In Eliot ’ s novel, the realities of the protagonists ’ marriages are thoroughly and carefully depicted. Even though Middlemarch, according to Ashton, attests to Eliot ’ s “ command of social comedy, ” which was “ often compared to that of Jane Austen ” (Introduction xxii), it does not end with happy marriages, but 94 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses starts with happy prospects that are soon frustrated. The marriages that are described in the novel are far from happy: “ Casaubon, the man of impeccable honour, [is] driven to leave a dishonourable will, ” by forbidding his wife under the threat of disinheritance to marry his second cousin Will Ladislaw (79; ch. 9), and “ the man of science [Lydgate] is driven to gambling and chance to keep at bay the material facts of life which Rosamond is now thrusting upon him. Rosamond, too, the epitome of what is becoming, is driven in desperation to her indiscretion with Ladislaw ” (Carroll 86). Marriage is not represented as a state of perfect harmony but is, according to Dorothea, “ so unlike everything else. There is something even awful in the nearness it brings ” (797; ch. 81). This nearness is responsible for the necessary disillusionment of her former expectations. The content of Eliot ’ s novel thus disappoints the reader ’ s expectations of a potential social comedy. D. A. Miller claims that the opposition between its unconventional content and the traditional form of the nineteenth-century English novel provides Eliot ’ s novel with a “‘ self-deconstructive ’ dimension ” : “ [I]f we allow its full ambiguity to the presence of both a traditional ground and a deconstructive abyss beyond its limits, we seem carried into further ambiguity over the possible meaning of their cofunctioning ” (188). The terms Miller uses are familiar. The conventionality of the work, namely its traditional form, borders upon an abyss of unconventionality in terms of content, its presentation of unhappy marriages and its negotiation of women ’ s position in society. Form and content deconstruct each other in their cofunctioning. The parergonal frame plays an important role in this process: while the opposition of conventional form and unconventional content establishes a tension within the work, this tension is mitigated by the frame that qualifies the work ’ s lack, its unconventionality. On the one hand, the text claims to be written by a man, and on the other, the prospects of aspiring women are drastically put into perspective. At the same time, the textual framework sensitizes the reader to feminist issues by expressing pity for women living at a time when it was impossible for them to attain great achievements. In the course of the novel, it soon becomes clear that Dorothea is the character who comes closest to the ideal described in the prelude. Whereas the prelude expresses the need for women to strive for an ideal, the finale places this struggle in the social context women live in. By means of idealizing and putting facts into perspective at the same time, Dorothea, according to Fernando, becomes “ an idealized type portraying what a woman could be; she [is] George Eliot ’ s portrait of what the emancipated woman could be like ” (89). The finale puts her quest for an ideal into perspective by eventually still making her find happiness in her marriage to Will Ladislaw, not in learning. It is, after all, the social faith and order that determines her fate: I Protection of Author or Work 95 For there is no creature whose inward being is so strong that it is not greatly determined by what lies outside it. A new Theresa will hardly have the opportunity of reforming a conventual life, any more than a new Antigone will spend her heroic piety in daring all for the sake of a brother ’ s burial: the medium in which their ardent deeds took shape is for ever gone. But we insignificant people with our daily words and acts are preparing the lives of many Dorotheas, some of which may present a far sadder sacrifice than that of the Dorothea whose story we know. ( “ Finale ” 838) Thus, it is not only the women who have to fight for their rights and, disregarding convention, live the lives they choose; it is also the social order, the insignificant people, who, as a powerful collective, have to adapt to new demands made by womankind in order to produce new conditions for women. The parergonal framework of Middlemarch relieves the tension between conventional form and unconventional content: the novel deconstructs not only the postulations made in the frame of prelude and finale, but also those made in the frame of the assumed pseudonym. The device of feigning male authorship gives the text a better chance of being read, while at the same time, by creating a supposedly male origin for her writing and consequently submitting to convention as a woman, Eliot presents a performative contradiction by acting out the opposite of what she advocates in her non-fictional writing. On the one hand, a woman should have the chance to make her voice heard, and she should be able to do so without putting on a male guise; on the other, it is the woman ’ s social background that puts such constraints on female writers that they are forced to find new ways to make themselves heard. This oscillating movement between the social collective and outstanding individuals is mirrored in the parergonal oscillation. It is because Eliot ’ s protagonists are not “ St Theresas — not, even, George Eliots — that their histories are exemplary ” (Boumelha 26). After all, realism in general and Middlemarch in particular is concerned with typicality, not singularity (30). The effect is one of qualification: the ideal keeps being qualified in reality, but reality heads towards improvement by adjusting the ideal: [T]he effect of her [Dorothea ’ s] being on those around her was incalculably diffusive: for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs. ( “ Finale ” 838) Owing to its inherent deconstruction, “ the novel [. . .] is deprived of a final or fully present meaning, and our provisional, erroneous interpretations can never make good the lack ” (D. A. Miller 189). Apparently, post-structuralism claims that there cannot be any fully present and fixed meaning. At the same time, the shift from Dorothea ’ s aspirations to her finding happiness in a rather ordinary life only presents one tiny oscillating movement within the gradual 96 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses improvement of social conditions in general, and the situation of women in particular. Even though there is no fixed meaning in a text, there is the possibility of assessing the contradictory devices and stances on feminist issues, which constitute the parergonal frame. It is not only Eliot ’ s decision to assume a male pseudonym but also the prelude depicting the ideal state of womanhood in contrast to the conditions women actually lived in that channels our reading of the novel and sensitizes it to issues connected with the position of women. By this means, we are able to decode the parergonal framework in terms of paratextual and discursive elements. The two frames that constitute the parergon compensate for the lack, namely the unconventionality of the novel, its feminist impulses and its depictions of female disillusionment, as well as the position of its author in comparison to the conventions of its time. Furthermore, they make it clear that their function is to emphasize the issues of the novel itself. It remains a matter of personal judgment how the device of assuming a male pseudonym in order to present one ’ s own claims is assessed; in the case of Middlemarch, at least, it is the path, not the end, that justifies the means. * * * In the examples discussed so far, the parergon served to protect the work and/ or its author. The oscillation between work and frame was initiated by the work, and the relationship between work and frame was characterized by tension. This means that energeia, the driving force, was initiated by the work, and on close analysis, it was responsible for driving the work and its surrounds apart because of the incompatibility of the two. Even though the frame was meant to protect the work and its author, the tension caused between frame and work made it possible to detect the lack in the work and the dilemma of the frame. This means that, no matter how hard the construct endeavoured to hide the tension, a close reading still made the gap between the two entities obvious. The following examples illustrate parergonal frameworks that mainly serve the story told in the work and that are less concerned with the protection of the author. The initial direction of the parergonal force is also from work to frame, since the parergon that serves the story is usually concerned with an ostensible harmony between surrounds, frame and work. This means that the parergon provides the reader with additional information concerning the work. It describes (in a prologue, for instance) how the work came to exist, or (in an epilogue) what later happened to the characters of the story. Still, the condition for a framework to be parergonal is its effect on the work: it must interact with the ergon, meaning that, again, the framework assigns a direction I Protection of Author or Work 97 of reading to the work. The driving force is also prompted by the work; but this time, the parergon complements the ergon by attempting to deal with the work itself rather than with its consequences for the author. The frame qualifies the feeling of harmony between the work and its surrounds. The parergon that exclusively serves the text proper manipulates the distance between the reader and the work. The effect achieved by the parergonal structure is either immediacy, if it is working by means of verisimilitude, or, depending on the tone of the narrator, it can also have a distancing effect. If the story, like The Scarlet Letter, is introduced as being based on an item that was found in a certain place, and if an exact description of both the place and the item are given, the reader ’ s interest in the story to follow is guaranteed. When a story is finished and the reader is about to part from the characters, an epilogue informing him or her of what subsequently became of the protagonists also serves a mediating purpose, and furthermore offers the possibility of including an unexpected twist, as in Forster ’ s A Room with a View. In this latter example, the parergon breaks the immediacy created in the novel; it breaks the closeness between reader and novel and puts the novel ’ s euphoric feeling into perspective by destroying the harmony between the work and its surrounds. If the epilogue merely offered an insight into the future of the characters and if it had no backward-impact on the work, then, if regarded as a frame at all, such an epilogue would be considered mere adornment: it would not offer a different perspective on the work and would not show it in a different light. The third example in the following section deals with a work that unites the protection of the work with the protection of the author. The narrative structure of Tom Jones creates a critical distance between author and work on the one hand, and thus relieves the author of his responsibility for the work, whereas on the other hand, the narrator establishes a sort of complicity between work and readership, which aims at a favourable reception of the work. In this sense, Tom Jones is an example that combines two possible functions of a parergonal oscillation. The parergonal structure, when functioning as a mediator between work and reader, is responsible for the distance between the former and the latter; closeness is usually achieved by means of verisimilitude, for instance by putting the work ’ s origin into a believable context. In such a case, we are dealing with an artefact following the aesthetic ideal of ars est celare artem: “ it is art to hide art. [. . .] Genuine or true art conceals art; i. e., the best art is the most natural ” (Adeleye and Acquah-Dadzie 37). On the one hand, it is art ’ s purpose to conceal the fact that it is artificial, and on the other, this purpose constitutes a difficulty in itself: it is a challenging task to conceal the artificiality of a text. Thus, this concealment can also easily be disrupted so as to disclose the gap between work and frame. When providing the reader with an indication of what is going to 98 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses happen after the incidents described in the story, the parergon puts the closeness between reader and work into perspective. The following section illustrates the concealment of artificiality in The Scarlet Letter, while the subsequent analysis of Forster ’ s A Room with a View provides an example of the exposition of artificiality. Bridging the Gap: Hawthorne ’ s The Scarlet Letter The introductory chapter of Hawthorne ’ s The Scarlet Letter elaborately tricks its reader: it presents a smooth path into the unfamiliar realm of the supernatural. The chapter begins with a detailed account of the origin of the work which follows. Whilst the reader dwells on descriptions of architecture, history and its archival reminiscences in a room in a custom-house, the introductory chapter — at first glance imperceptibly — ties various issues together. These are all related to the location of the Custom-House, which functions as a sort of portal: it opens up connections through time and space and creates an impression of immediacy between the reality of the reader, that of the narrator, and that of the work that follows. The connection between the reality of the reader and that of the work lies in its alleged origin. The narrator thus functions as a mediating agent between these three spheres. In this sense, the introductory chapter builds a bridge between the reader and the main story: it leads the reader directly into the core text with the help of the narrator who evidently, on the basis of an old manuscript and from his own experience, knows exactly what he is recounting. 11 The immediacy that is created between reader and text is, on the one hand, enhanced by the narrator ’ s use of verisimilitude. On the other hand, the need for this immediacy is a symptom of the lack in the work and raises suspicions towards the narrator ’ s motivations. Thus, the introductory chapter has a specific impact on the reading of the work to follow. It functions parergonally, by virtue of distorting the temporal and spatial relationships between the surrounds, the reality of the reader, the introductory paratext, which is the parergon, and the ergon, namely the work that follows. In addition, the suspicion raised towards the narrating agent forces the reader to investigate the structures of both accounts, the parergon as well as the ergon, and proves to be fruitful in the detection of the use of different styles: this is a further device for bridging the gap between reader and text. 11 In the absence of any clues to the sex of the narrator, Susan S. Lanser recommends using the pronouns him or her according to that of the author (The Narrative Act: Point of View in Prose Fiction 166 - 168). Following this rule, and with the support of further evidence, I use the masculine form for the narrator in Hawthorne ’ s novel. I Protection of Author or Work 99 The Scarlet Letter opens with a long and detailed preamble about how the book originated. These diligently arranged specifications create a textual undertow that imperceptibly pulls the reader into the midst of its realism. The nameless I-narrator tells the reader about the time when he used to be the Surveyor of the Revenue in the Custom-House in Salem, Massachusetts. He has, after a certain period of absence, returned to the place where he grew up: “ This town of Salem — my native place, though I have dwelt much away from it, both in boyhood and maturer years — possesses, or did possess, a hold on my affections, the force of which I have never realized during my seasons of actual residence here ” (11). The narrator ’ s personal affection for the town, its history and the Custom-House building permeates the text and takes hold of the reader. The accuracy with which even the smallest details are rendered seems to provide evidence of the affection felt when they are observed. The Custom-House building, its surroundings and the atmosphere of the premises throughout the ages are precisely described: Furthermore, on the left hand as you enter the front door, is a certain room or office, about fifteen feet square, and of a lofty height; with two of its arched windows commanding a view of the aforesaid dilapidated wharf, and the third looking across a narrow lane, and along a portion of Derby Street. All three give glimpses of the shops of grocers, block-makers, slop-sellers, and ship-chandlers; around the doors of which are generally to be seen, laughing and gossiping, clusters of old salts, and such other wharfrats as haunt the Wapping of a seaport. (10) The location of the Custom-House is constructed within the reader ’ s mind on the basis of the narrator ’ s description of it: he even provides its measurements and leads his audience through the rooms. Thus, the narrator figures as a guide, taking the reader by the hand and figuratively pulling him or her into the reality of the narrative. An important aspect of the Custom-House building is the fact that it has been there throughout the ages, and that its windows, like eyes, have observed the scene the narrator describes during all this time. In this sense, the Custom- House itself has anthropomorphic features: it is brought to life and becomes the personification of a witness to the passage of time. Symptomatically, the term prosopopeia is derived from the Greek prosōpopoi í ā , meaning “ representation in human form, ” which is based on the Greek words prósōpon ( “ face, person ” ) and poieîn ( “ make ” ) (Oxford Dictionary of English Etymology 717); indeed, the Custom-House literally ‘ makes ’ (or forms) a face by looking at both the wharf and the small town, its arched windows resembling the almond shape of eyes. Its testimony, however, is given by the narrator figure, who authenticates his tale by reference to the steadfastness of a building as a witness: having been there for centuries, it has outlived many generations of Salemites. The building 100 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses represents a portal that ties together different times, different people, their habits and the spaces in which they lived. In this way, like a palimpsest, it layers various temporal spaces that all bear the traces of the people who lived in them. Bercovitch states that “ [the] return to Puritan New England in The Scarlet Letter joins two historical time frames: first, the fictional time frame, 1642 - 49 [. . .]; and second, the authorial time frame, 1848 - 52, with its ominous explosion of conflict at home and abroad ” (4). 12 Hence, the reader enters two time frames in one and the same location when reading the Custom-House Introductory. One could even say that three time frames (the fictional, the authorial and the present time of the reader) are condensed within two locations: the Custom- House and the introductory text that sets the scene for the reader. Condensation takes place not only on the level of time at these two sites, but also on a content level in the reader ’ s mind. The Introductory provides an immense amount of information that first needs to be evaluated. The narrator claims to have found the source for the main text that is to follow in the upper-floor room of the Custom-House. This source serves as evidence of the truthfulness of the text and thereby also puts the reader under the spell of past mystery. On the second floor of the Custom-House, the narrator at some point discovers, among other documents, a manuscript that is bundled with a “ rag of scarlet cloth, — for time, and wear, and a sacrilegious moth, had reduced it to little other than a rag, — [which,] on careful examination, assumed the shape of a letter. It was the capital letter A ” (31). The six-page manuscript, which he finds to be a document written by a past surveyor, describes the events that occurred some two hundred years before the 12 Many critics call the narrator of the Custom-House Introductory the author, or Hawthorne. Here, the “ authorial time frame ” is used as referring to the time of the narrator ’ s account. Even though the narrator does not name an exact year in the introductory chapter, the historical background leads critics to assume that its time frame is identical with the time of the work ’ s conception. Bercovitch also blurs the distinction between narrator and author, in so far as he ascribes the contents of the Custom-House chapter to the author ’ s own experience. The reason for this can be found in the many autobiographical traits the Custom-House chapter undoubtedly bears. Neither the present section of my study, nor my study in general, inquires into the connection between author and narrator, even though the fact that Hawthorne was a Salemite and worked at the Custom-House might well have had an influence on the narrator ’ s precise description of the location as well as its history, which contributes a great deal to the realistic quality of the text. Colacurcio states that “ [i]n the end, ‘ The Custom House ’ does not even tell us how much of the hidden life of the recently released writer it may be appropriate to look for — resisting intimacy even as it invites a certain sympathetic familiarity ” (5). But even if it did tell us how to derive biographical features from the fictional text, our approach to Hawthorne on the basis of his writing would still necessarily be conjectural and would not lead the critic much further. After all, writing is often partly (and sometimes necessarily) autobiographical as well as intertextual. For this reason, biographical readings should be avoided. I Protection of Author or Work 101 narrator ’ s time. When the narrator loses his post because of a political stir, he decides to write a fictional account of the events recorded in the manuscript, pointing out that “ it should be borne carefully in mind, that the main facts of the story are authorized and authenticated by the document of Mr. Surveyor Pue ” (33). Significantly, the second storey of the house, where he finds the master document, has never been finished: it consists of “ a large room, in which the brick-work and naked rafters have never been covered with panelling and plaster ” (28). In the same way as the Custom-House functions as a witness to the passage of time, the upper room of the house mirrors the unfinished business of the past. Not only does the narrator detect a mysterious bundle of papers that promises to reveal past secrets, but he also assures the reader of those papers ’ authenticity by mentioning a former official ’ s warrant. In this sense, the Introductory to the text not only ‘ proves ’ its fictitious truth, but it also seems to function like a teaser of a movie. Its exact descriptions of the location, of the atmosphere and of past times, as well as its allusions to what is to come in the tale of Hester Prynne, the former owner of the scarlet letter, capture the reader ’ s attention and lead him or her to the very core of the time and atmosphere of the main text. The narrator himself emphasizes, on a textual meta-level, that his exact recounting of the incident corroborates the text ’ s authenticity: It will be seen, likewise, that this Custom-House sketch has a certain propriety, of a kind always recognized in literature, as explaining how a large portion of the following pages came into my possession, and as offering proofs of the authenticity of a narrative therein contained. (8) The wording of the two passages quoted above — “ the main facts of the story [being] authorized and authenticated ” by someone else and the pages coming “ into the narrator ’ s possession ” — raises the issue of the narrator diminishing his role to that of a mere editor. His motivation for posing as an editor thereby becomes central. For what reason does he have to prove the document ’ s authenticity? The assurance of authenticity not only assists the reader in his or her suspension of disbelief towards the fictional reality encountered in the reading process, but it also raises questions concerning its necessity. In the course of reading, more questions are raised and suspicion increases. The reader is, for instance, no longer certain what standpoint the narrator takes towards his hometown and his ancestors: it becomes dubious whether he feels entirely affectionate towards them. After all, he is an outcast, a “ writer of storybooks, ” practising a profession which his own ancestors would deem “ worthless, if not positively disgraceful ” (13). Yet, he claims to forgive and to accept martyrdom: “ I, the present writer, as their [the Puritan ancestors ’ ] representative, hereby take shame upon myself for their sakes, and pray that any 102 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses curse incurred by them [. . .] may be now and henceforth removed ” (13). This ambivalence towards his own role is mirrored in the inconsistencies of the text. Even though his account seems believable and neatly arranged thanks to its detailed and honest rendering, a closer look at the process of narration reveals certain incongruities which are symptomatic of the entire purpose of the paratext: it tries hard to keep the reader in a state of credulity, because the core text in itself is not likely to be easily accepted as a historical account. In this sense, the narrator ’ s emphatic assurances of the text ’ s authenticity bear witness to its questionable status as a historical document. The Custom-House as a location not only unites different times and historical events, but it also represents a portal into the fairy-tale world which Hester Prynne lived in and connects it with the reader ’ s own reality; in so doing, it combines different styles of recounting events. Furthermore, it opens up the issue of the narrator ’ s role as either authorial or editorial and makes him the centre of attention. Thereby, the introductory chapter parallels the narrator with the protagonist of the tale that is to follow. The Custom-House site, with its geographical as well as its textual location, thus ties many different threads together. Instead of creating an orderly rope, however, the appearance of contradictions on the level of content produces the fringed structure of an untidy knot; the introductory chapter ’ s realistic tone as opposed to the ornate language used in the main text underlines this impression. The Custom-House, both as a location and in its position within the introductory chapter, literally functions as a passe-partout, be it for sailors in former times passing it for customs purposes on their way from the sea to the town, or be it for the reader on his or her way into the events of the story. In Derrida ’ s terms, the parergon gives immediacy to the ergon by means of the passe-partout: the Custom-House chapter awakens the reader ’ s curiosity by foreshadowing events, and it guarantees an authentic report of the events that are about to be told. According to Quendler, “ the famous ‘ Custom-House ’ sketch [. . .] dramatize[s] the transition from the extra-fictional reality to the storyworld and the concomitant author-narrator transformation ” (257). The lack in The Scarlet Letter might be the distance, in the figurative sense, between the reader and the story, a distance which is created by the contrasting issues arising in the Custom-House portal. These include the contrast between the narrator ’ s (and the reader ’ s) reality versus Hester ’ s fairy-tale-like world, or the contrast in the styles of writing: a personal account of how the manuscript was found, versus the tale of Hester Prynne that took place some two hundred years earlier. When the narrator, a representative of a reality resembling the reader ’ s, finds the scarlet letter and a manuscript, this event symbolizes the artificial connection between frame and core text. The historical text is given its place in the narrator ’ s reality. The artificiality of the connection also becomes apparent I Protection of Author or Work 103 in the two different styles of language used in the introductory chapter and the subsequent story: whereas the Custom-House chapter describes events in precise detail, the subsequent text tends to allegorize and embellish them using much more ornate language. According to Colacurcio, there is “ a certain tension between Hawthorne ’ s ostensible Puritan setting and his noticeably romantic language ” (24). This tension is relieved in the introductory chapter, where the origin of a piece of fiction is set within the prosaic reality of a narrator. This technique of relieving tension is, furthermore, reflected in the use of language in either tale or introductory chapter. Miller Budick comments on Hawthorne ’ s use of different kinds of language as follows: “ And yet Hawthorne ’ s romances, despite their historical references, self-consciously exaggerate their fictionality; they explicitly accentuate their distance both from realism and from historical discourse ” (218). In terms of parergonality, the realism that constitutes the framework makes it distinct from the fictionality of the ergon, whilst both differ from the reader ’ s world, the reality of the surrounds of the work. The realism of the parergon might, therefore, again have the function of mediating between the reality of the readership and the fictionality of the core text. By this device, as announced in the Custom-House chapter, the reader is kept in “ a neutral territory, somewhere between the real world and fairy-land, where the Actual and the Imaginary may meet, and each imbue itself with the nature of the other ” (35). The introductory chapter provides the passe-partout between fiction and reality, whereas the function of the parergon is to mitigate the lack in the ergon, the distance between fiction and reality, by creating immediacy. The parergon presents Hester ’ s world in terms of a historical account and thereby attempts to diminish the distance between the surrounds and the work. The realism of the Introductory stands in stark contrast to the way in which the core text exaggerates its fictionality. In Hester ’ s tale, the atmosphere is often fairy-tale-like. The main characters, the elfish Pearl and the witch-like Hester, are the legal inhabitants of this fairy-tale world. Hence, the reader is not surprised when Pearl, the “ elf-child ” (164), seems to have supernatural powers. She can, for instance, see the scar in the shape of an ‘ A ’ on her father Dimmesdale ’ s chest, even though it is hidden by his clothes. When commenting on it, she gives evidence of her preternatural abilities: “ And, mother, he has his hand over his heart! Is it because, when the minister [Dimmesdale] wrote his name in the book, the Black Man set his mark in that place? But why does he not wear it outside his bosom, as thou dost, mother? ” (163). In both cases, the letter ‘ A ’ represents the act of adultery. 13 Especially because Dimmesdale is a religious 13 Even though the connection between the letter ‘ A ’ and adultery is not explicitly made in the novel, the text establishes it at the very beginning by calling Pearl and the letter ‘ A ’ Hester ’ s two 104 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses man, he is stigmatized by his scar. Pearl, the proof of Hester ’ s adultery, and therefore the cause of her parents ’ difficult situation, seems to personify a basic need to make the truth come to light. She always sees through things and is therefore perceived as slightly uncanny: “ There was witchcraft in little Pearl ’ s eyes; and her face, as she glanced upward at the minister, wore that naughty smile which made its expression frequently so elfish ” (135). The scene in which the family — Hester, Pearl and Dimmesdale — meet in secret in the forest has a surreal quality. This elevated mood stands in stark contrast to the realism of the introductory chapter. In the secret gathering, Hester has let down her hair and thus symbolically freed herself of all restraint and pretension on her part. She has also removed the letter from her chest — the “ stigma gone ” (176) — while Pearl is playing in the forest: Hester smiled, and again called to Pearl, who was visible, at some distance, as the minister had described her, like a bright-apparelled vision, in a sunbeam, which fell down upon her through an arch of boughs. The ray quivered to and fro, making her figure dim or distinct, — now like a real child, now like a child ’ s spirit, — as the splendor went and came again. (178) In her play, Pearl indeed resembles a spirit. She seems to be able to become invisible at moments, only to reappear as a shining vision at close quarters. These moments endow the text with a magic component, which leads Colacurcio to the conclusion that the story is more of a romance than a novel, since [o]riginally understood as an essentially subversive or revolutionary mode of writing, romance must be recovered as essentially an “ art of deception, ” overtly reassuring while, deeper down, it works to unsettle or embarrass the shape of custom and belief. If “ novel ” exists to tell the story of available truth, “ romance ” keeps reminding us, subtly, that there are holes in that story. (23) In his discussion of the generic labelling of Hawthorne ’ s text, Colacurcio draws attention to the fact that romance as a mode contains breaches, holes that tokens of shame. When she thinks of hiding the letter with the baby, she realizes “ that one token of her shame would but poorly serve to hide another ” (50). Later on, a townsman makes her offence more explicit when being interrogated by Roger Chillingworth, who later turns out to be Hester ’ s missing husband, Roger Prynne: “ Yonder woman, Sir, you must know, was the wife of a certain learned man, English by birth, but who had long ago dwelt in Amsterdam, whence some good time agone he was minded to cross over and cast in his lot with us of the Massachusetts. To this purpose he sent his wife before him, remaining himself to look after some necessary affairs. Marry, good Sir, in some two years, or less, that the woman has been a dweller here in Boston, no tidings have come of this learned gentleman, Master Prynne; and his young wife, look you, being left to her own misguidance —” (57 - 58). In addition, the phrasing of Pearl ’ s winking “ in the unadulterated sunshine ” is obviously suggestive (60). I Protection of Author or Work 105 demand utter scrutiny. 14 These breaches, in the context of this study, do not just bear witness to the subversive and revolutionary mode of the core text. If a narrator claims to present a story based on actual facts, then all the elements that seem unrealistic figure as holes in the sense used by Colacurcio. This, again, reminds us of Barthes ’ interstices. Even though the frame is aimed at establishing coherence between the fictional and the reader ’ s reality in that it puts the core text into a more believable context (and hence fills the holes), the interaction between work and frame underlines the gap between them. Colacurcio suggests that “ romance means to be ‘ more fictional ’ than other fictional modes ” (23). There definitely is a difference in the degree of fictionality of the introductory chapter and of the main text: they seem to be opposites. Whilst the introductory chapter attempts to persuade the reader of the truthfulness of the tale that follows, the tale itself undermines that claim by plunging into the sphere of the supernatural, into over-fictionality. The fictionality of the meeting scene is also characterized by its romantic quality, as opposed to the highly regulated Puritan world. In the same way, the Custom- House chapter, as opposed to the core text, neither reaches into the realm of the surreal and mystic, even though the constellation of hidden secrets in a room on the upper floor foreshadows the mysticism of the text that follows, nor really describes Puritan traditions, but merely alludes to them. It mediates between the reader ’ s reality and the text ’ s fictionality. The Custom-House Introductory also shows an interesting parallel between the condition of the narrator and that of the protagonist, Hester Prynne. According to Bercovitch, “ [t]he hiatus between introduction and story is the ideological link between Hawthorne and Hester ” (16). When the narrator finds the scarlet letter (which represents a constant element in the course of history), he picks it up and “ happen[s] to place it on [his] breast ” (32). The narrator describes the effect as follows: It seemed to me, — the reader may smile, but must not doubt my word, — it seemed to me, then, that I experienced a sensation not altogether physical, yet almost so, as of burning heat; and as if the letter were not of red cloth, but red-hot iron. I shuddered, and involuntarily let it fall upon the floor. (32) The narrator, now working as a customs officer, picks up the letter and places it on his chest. Through this act, he visually presents himself as Hester ’ s counter- 14 If one accepts the straightforward definitions given in Baldick ’ s Concise Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms, romance denotes a “ tendency in fiction opposite to that of realism, ” (221) whilst novel remains in the realm of “ realistic social observation ” (221). In terms of the present discussion, The Scarlet Letter could be said to be framed novelistically, but then to plunge into a world that edges dangerously close to the realm of romance. For a thorough discussion of the two terms in relation to each other, see Fuchs (105 - 122). 106 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses part. At the same time, the act of picking up a letter also symbolizes his return to his career as a writer. The emotion that this moment triggers implies that the letter takes possession of him again. Writing, at least in the opinion of his Puritan ancestors, puts him back into the position of the outcast; and like Hester, he will feel the effect of the letter. The two have in common the fact that they both violate Puritan laws: the narrator by returning to writing tales rather than following a ‘ decent ’ profession as his Puritan ancestors would have expected him to, and Hester by committing adultery in a marriage that, as her legal husband is (allegedly) missing, does not really exist. Both are marked by the letter. According to Baym, the narrator “ in being a literary man, thinks he is defying his Puritans just as Hester, in retaining her self-respect, defies hers ” (xxvi). With Hester, “ [t]he scarlet letter had not done its office ” (145): this means that Hester, even when bearing the letter, does not subject herself to Puritan laws. The relationship between the narrator and the letter remains ambivalent, however. Even though he previously suffered in his role as an outcast, he now bears his (former) profession with pride: during his time as a surveyor, he “ had ceased to be a writer of tolerably poor tales and essays, and had become a tolerably good Surveyor of the Customs ” (37). The letter makes him a confident “ literary man ” (42) again. In this sense, both the narrator and Hester succeed in changing the meaning of the symbolic scarlet letter: it comes to stand for their own true choice in life. Despite his reassurances, however, the narrator ’ s position still remains ambivalent in that he shows a certain concern for his ancestors. Furthermore, Colacurcio comments that the Custom-House Introductory “ expresses itself as a theory of Hawthorne ’ s Hester-like rebellion against the intense conservatism of his imagined readership ” (19), even though the narrator (seen by Colacurcio as identical with the author) addresses “ the few who will understand him ” (7), not those “ who will fling aside his volume ” (7). Discouraged by past experience, he no longer seeks acceptance as a writer among his townspeople: “ I shall do better amongst other faces; and these familiar ones, it need hardly be said, will do just as well without me ” (43). This means that his goal is rather a change of readership than a rebellion against his former readers. By means of the letter, the introductory chapter ties the narrator to the protagonist. At the same time, Hester ’ s tale, by proving worthy of being read, analyzed and interpreted, rehabilitates the narrator in his authorial pose after he has ventured into the realm of writing again. The main text proves the introductory announcement of a potentially “ poor tale ” wrong. Symbolically, the letter is found in a location above the narrator ’ s usual workplace as a customs officer, thereby signifying a higher goal to be pursued, this time successfully. The Custom-House Introductory ties together fiction and reality, romantic language and the language of realism, different points in history, as well as the narrator and the protagonist. The role of the narrator, however, still remains to I Protection of Author or Work 107 be clarified. Whether he functions as an editor or the author in respect of the main text seems to be contentious. Baym comments that “ [t]he pretense that an author is only the editor of other people ’ s papers abounds in the history of the novel ” (xxv). To create a whole book out of a six-page manuscript, however, is more than mere editorship, even though the narrator calls himself an editor: “ This, in fact, — a desire to put myself in my true position as editor, or very little more, of the most prolix among the tales that make up my volume, — this, and no other, is my true reason for assuming a personal relation with the public ” (8). Thus, the narrator calls himself an editor because of an editor ’ s mediating role, his “ personal relation ” with the public: the narrator ’ s editorial pose has its motivation in the parergonal effect of mediation. Colacurcio also questions the narrator ’ s claim of editorship: Whatever autobiographical experience may be encoded in the famous fiction of finding, in the upper room of the Custom-House, the faded letter, and also a manuscript version of the life and not-quite-Christian conversation of Hester Prynne, and of accepting, from the ghost of Mr. Surveyor Pue, the spiritual duty of writing up the affair in his own chosen mode, the thing clearly did not write itself. (3) After all, authorship is not just “ very little more ” than editorship; be it in the role of author or of editor, it remains certain that the narrator assumes the role of mediator between the reader and his tale. At the same time, his mediating role is also admittedly called for in terms of the tale ’ s “ prolix ” nature: its overfictionality and diffuseness. The Custom-House Introductory creates an immediate reality and, at the same time, tends to be incongruous. As a frame, it functions as both seam and cut: it connects and creates gaps simultaneously. On the one hand, it functions as a mediator between the reader and the tale and, on the other, it is purposely different from the main text. In the same way as the realism of the introductory chapter bridges the gap between reality and the over-fictionality of the core text, the devices used also have a confusing effect. The hybrid position of the introductory chapter between imaginary and real, between fairy-tale and historical event, or between seventeenth and nineteenth centuries, provides a way out of being forced to make clear claims. In the same way as the narrator adopts a position (or rather, fails to adopt a clear position) between selfless martyr and confident outcast, the use of different styles also creates a blurred vision of the events recounted. Both directions of the functioning of the frame, whether intentional distinction (in style, for instance) or a blurring effect, serve to lead the reader towards Hester ’ s tale; both directions of interplay create immediacy and capture the reader ’ s attention. The Custom-House Introductory constitutes the parergonal framework of the tale that follows. Schubert, however, regards the Custom-House chapter 108 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses together with the twenty-fourth chapter, the “ Conclusion, ” as the true framework. I have pointed out that a conclusion that merely describes subsequent events is, in this study, considered a part of the story and structurally a part of the main text. Even though the chapter under scrutiny might differ from the rest of the text by, for instance, its extreme condensing of time and by providing the reader with information as to what later became of the various characters, it has no backward impact on the story itself (in the way of a twist, for instance) and therefore does not function parergonally. By contrast, the finale in Middlemarch, for instance, becomes parergonal in its interplay with the prelude: it refers back to the Theresa-theme. Schubert refers to the conclusion of The Scarlet Letter as the second part of the framework, since “ it, too [like the Introductory], is separate from the main flow. It is a summary which ties the various threads together, ” giving an absolutely geometrical and “ most beautiful ” structure to the work (53). The conclusion, in not functioning parergonally but merely providing beauty, functions as an adornment (the difference in the impact of epilogues will become clear when I analyze the Appendix to A Room with a View). Therefore, it is the Custom-House chapter alone which I consider to be a parergonal framework. The Scarlet Letter has often been interpreted in terms of its political and historical background on the basis of “ The Custom-House ” and of the Puritan world Hester struggles with: it has been read as a response to the implications of a Puritan value system. Here, the focus will be on a slightly different aspect of its ideological context. It seems possible to read the constellation of text and paratext in terms of the establishment of an authentic American literary tradition. Such a reading does not focus on the text ’ s historical background, but concerns its position in literary history. The parergonal construct could be read as representing the process of textual reception. In this reading, the “ Custom-House ” serves as the portal through which the main text is received. Since the interplay between parergon and ergon is at work in both directions, it could also be said that the readership enters the domain of an independent, authentic American literary tradition through the introductory text. The two texts, in their interplay, enact their own reception. I have argued that the Custom-House Introductory functions as a passepartout in various senses. The double meaning of custom, however, sheds a new light on this passage, which is set at the geographical threshold of America. Not only does the plural of custom denote the site where imported goods undergo close examination, but the singular form of the word also has the meaning of established usage, a habit or a tradition. 15 Thus, not only are people and their 15 The Oxford English Dictionary provides the following meanings (among others) of the nouns custom and customs, respectively (4: 167): “ 1. a. A habitual or usual practice; common way of I Protection of Author or Work 109 goods scrutinized by the customs officer at this borderline, but the surveyor of customs also seems to be in charge of the American nation ’ s tradition. This double sense opens a new portal at the site of the Custom-House: it is the location where evaluation in the cultural domain is conducted, and where the reader enters the work to do exactly that. There are, again, numerous levels of representation at work. The immigrant enters the country, and the reader enters the text. Evaluation functions in both directions: in the same way as the immigrants are evaluated, the readership is also under close scrutiny. After all, what is to come is intended for those who will understand, not for those who will “ fling aside ” the book; and in the same way as access to a new country is granted and the immigrants receive nationhood, the readers literally and figuratively proceed in their reception of the text. The surveyor of customs, then, is the executive person involved in that process. He is the authority who is able to present the text and, at the same time, the person in charge of its evaluation; the surveyor simultaneously posing as both author and editor seems a sophisticated device in this context. The American eagle, which hangs above the custom house ’ s entrance, symbolically marks the official nature of a required evaluation, which is, after all, a national concern: Over the entrance hovers an enormous specimen of the American eagle, with outspread wings, a shield before her breast, and, if I recollect aright, a bunch of intermingled thunderbolts and barbed arrows in each claw. With the customary infirmity of temper that characterizes this unhappy fowl, she appears, by the fierceness of her beak and eye and the general truculency of her attitude, to threaten mischief to the inoffensive community; and especially to warn all citizens, careful of their safety, against intruding on the premises which she overshadows with her wings. Nevertheless, vixenly as she looks, many people are seeking, at this very moment, to shelter themselves under the wing of the federal eagle; imagining, I presume, that her bosom has all the softness and snugness of an eider-down pillow. But she has no great tenderness, even in her best of moods, and, sooner or later, — oftener soon than late — , is apt to fling off her nestlings with a scratch of her claw, a dab of her beak, or a rankling wound from her barbed arrows. (8 - 9) The bird itself represents the power of America as the provider of a national identity. Thus, the entity that offers protection is, at the same time, hovering threateningly above one ’ s head: it also represents potential rejection after a thorough evaluation and marks both the site and the situation as precarious. The eagle is not a tame bird but a wild one. In the same sense, America at that time was a country characterized by vast tracts of wilderness endowed with the acting; usage, fashion, habit (either of an individual or of a community). [. . .] [4.] b. customs (freq. without article), the area at a seaport, airport, etc., where goods, luggage, and other items are examined and customs duties levied. ” 110 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses prospect of their cultivation. Moreover, the vastness of the country is reflected in the bird ’ s enormous size. According to the OED, the adjective enormous also carries the meaning of an object ’ s “ [e]xtending beyond definite limits ” (5: 272, def. 1.b.). Thus, in the same way as the bird is still untamed, America has not yet cultivated its own authentic literary voice. The “ Custom-House ” thus represents a call to order in the domain of cultural production, since it is the site of evaluation and bureaucracy. The surveyor of customs is not the average official one would expect. He is a former and future writer, a representative of culture who literally surveys customs in the sense of reviewing a (literary) tradition in the role of an editor. As an author, he does not assume that his own lack of skill is the cause of his rejection, but instead suggests that the problem is the lack of a suitable community that might appreciate his literary achievements: It is a good lesson — though it may often be a hard one — for a man who has dreamed of literary fame, and of making for himself a rank among the world ’ s dignitaries by such means, to step aside out of the narrow circle in which his claims are recognized, and to find how utterly devoid of significance, beyond that circle, is all that he achieves, and all he aims at. (27) In this passage, the barrier to acceptance is not his lack of skill. After all, his claims are recognized by the few that are qualified to criticize his works. Rather, the problem is the narrowness of that circle, which ought to spread out to become one national community. The narrator ’ s writing (which is to follow immediately after the introductory text) might then become a part of a new national tradition of its own. In this sense, he could change (cultural) customs. It seems symptomatic that the letter the narrator picks up — Hester ’ s ‘ A ’ for ‘ adulteress ’ — is the first letter of the alphabet, symbolizing a new beginning in literary production both for himself and for America. In also figuring as the first letter of the word America, the letter ‘ A, ’ as a signifier, is vagrant. This linguistic vagrancy represents the search for a written representative of an authentic American literary voice. Similarly, Hester ’ s ‘ A ’ assumes a new meaning in the course of her tale, too, signifying a new beginning: The letter was the symbol of her calling. Such helpfulness was found in her, — so much power to do, and power to sympathize, — that many people refused to interpret the scarlet A by its original signification. They said that it meant Able; so strong was Hester Prynne, with a woman ’ s strength. (141) Beebe claims that “ Hester Prynne represents the type of the alienated artist ” (305); the letter ‘ A ’ thus assumes a further meaning, namely that of artist. According to Morse, the narrator and Hester both engage in the production of culture: “ since Hester ’ s skills [here: her needlework] are recognised on an I Protection of Author or Work 111 aesthetic level, she also figures as the pioneer artist, endeavouring to carve out within American culture a space within which writers such as Hawthorne himself will eventually try [. . .] to function ” (199). Moreover, Latin textum means fabric, a particularly refined version of which Hester produces. In this sense, Hester ’ s needlework symbolizes the work of the author; hence, this symbolic reading allows an interpretation of the letter ‘ A ’ as author. The parergonal framework thus mirrors Hester ’ s tale once more and clearly establishes a mise-en-abyme relationship with the work. This mise-en-abyme in turn creates a certain undercurrent by including the third level of literary reception. Hester ’ s pioneering mirrors the reestablishment of the narrator ’ s writing career, which raises the issue of the establishment of an authentic American text. American Romanticism is characterized by the call for distinctively American literature. In his speech entitled “ The American Scholar ” — which, for some, marks the beginning of American Romanticism as a literary epoch — Emerson “ entreated the writers of America to establish their literary independence from Europe ” (Hurley 13): Our day of dependence, our long apprenticeship to the learning of other lands, draws to a close. The millions that around us are rushing into life, cannot always be fed on the sere remains of foreign harvests. Events, actions arise, that must be sung, that will sing themselves. Who can doubt that poetry will revive and lead in a new age[.] (83 - 84) Emerson emphasizes the need for cultural independence from a European tradition and initiates a “ first illustration of American literary genius ” in the form of “ [t]he literature of American Romanticism, written between the late 1830 s and the onset of the Civil War in 1861 ” (Hurley 13). The surveyor of customs, then, might be seen as the one in charge of the constitution of this literary independence. As a customs official in the literal sense of the word, he witnesses the millions that enter the country and “ rush into life ” there, a new life independent of their European past. As an author, he endows them with a national harvest, the fruit of his work. For a new literary tradition, all that is needed is an audience, critics, artists and editors. These entities are all featured in the Custom-House Introductory. They are all connected in one way or another to the work of art, namely the text that is to follow. The whole setup of parergon and ergon can thus be read as representing textual reception together with the call for an authentic American literary tradition. This reading is certainly very optimistic as far as the quality of the main text is concerned. Hester ’ s tale is not only highly ornate, but it is also, apart from its historical background, indebted to the European Romantic tradition in terms of themes and motifs. Thus, the narrator in the introductory chapter builds up 112 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses rather high expectations if we read the chapter as referring to a new literary tradition. While the surveyor and the editor both engage in the process of integrating new goods, the narrator ’ s adoption of alternate poses as surveyor or editor has a distancing effect: the surveyor of customs is in charge of enforcing the law, but he does not make it. As an editor, too, the narrator is in charge of presenting the text, but he does not invent its story. Thus, both roles only have an executive function within a larger construct. Their position is obviously distanced from the central work, be it the law or the literary text. This might symbolize the distance between an ideal work of art, a new literary tradition, and an actual one. In the same way, Emerson ’ s call for an independent literary tradition refers to an ideal which, by definition, cannot be achieved. According to Keane, an “ indebtedness-independence polarity [. . .] play[s] out dialectically throughout Emerson ’ s lectures and essays ” (163). The clash between the downto-earth realism of the introductory chapter and the over-fictionality of Hester ’ s tale, as well as the editorial pose of the narrator, might emphasize just that. According to Morse, the reason for the constellation of the two texts is based on “ Hawthorne ’ s determined struggle for meaning, his attempt to work out an intellectual position that can acknowledge both Emerson ’ s concern with personal authenticity and the Calvinist awareness of the sign ” (172). Similarly, the narrator is inherently indebted not only to a European tradition, but also to his country ’ s past. The goal of producing American literature is real, whilst the aim of independence seems an ideal. 16 Thus, the parergonal construct not only captures the reader ’ s attention in order to draw him or her into the work ’ s fictional reality by means of immediacy through bridging and verisimilitude, but the parergonal frame might also be read as representing an ideological framework that serves the political purpose of constituting an authentic body of American literature. The parergon prefigures the moment of the American public ’ s reception of an authentic 16 There is an abundance of (traditionally) Romantic topoi in The Scarlet Letter which might be traced back to the most characteristic features of Romantic writing in Europe. The achievement of independence as such is a tricky undertaking, since it always involves independence of something else, and this something else will always influence what is claimed to be authentic. Thus, independence inevitably includes an element of indebtedness. There is one reference in European Romantic writing that seems so apt in the context of an independence-indebtedness relationship, as well as in the context of the establishment versus the execution of a law, that it must be cited here. In his “ Defence of Poetry, ” P. B. Shelley famously claims that “ [p]oets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world ” (482). The term unacknowledged seems very fitting when we bear in mind that the narrator of the preface complains about the lack of a suitable audience for his work. The labelling of poets — and hence authors — as legislators, however, offers a new view of the narrator ’ s posing as an editor instead of as the author. By distancing himself from responsibility for his work, it is impossible for the narrator to become the legislator of a new literary tradition. For this reason, the constellation seems to suggest that the enterprise is in jeopardy. I Protection of Author or Work 113 text, or a literary tradition of their own. The interplay between parergon and ergon, however, challenges this smooth operation. Whilst realism and overfictionality are bridged, their differences are simultaneously underlined. This seems to foreshadow the possible difficulties associated with a call for an ideal state of affairs in the realm of literature. The parergon ’ s effect of bridging the distance between audience and work aims at a favourable reception of the work as a piece of authentic American literature. The seam bridges, whilst the cut renegotiates: the work obviously first needs to find its position in culture. Morse presents an explanation for this fact: “ While Emerson is calling on his contemporaries to cultivate the gleam of inspiration in their own minds, Hawthorne is apparently still looking hopefully and deferentially elsewhere, still reverent before literature and the word ” (171). Apart from the fact that there is once again a confusion of author and narrator here, it needs to be borne in mind that the assumed editorship of a six-page document is a deliberately constructed pose. Such an evident distancing of the author-editor-narrator from his alleged work emphasizes the difficulties inherent in Emerson ’ s call for authenticity. There seems to be no such thing as pure independence. Perhaps that distance, which also dispenses with all responsibilities, is a sensible way out of the dilemma of never achieving an ideal. A Final Twist: Forster ’ s A Room with a View Edward Morgan Forster ’ s novel A Room with a View, which was published in 1908, tells the story of the protagonist Lucy Honeychurch ’ s development from a stereotypical Victorian girl consigned to the world of aristocratic conventions to a woman who has her own view of things. Her development towards individualism seems symptomatic of the age she lives in, namely on the brink of Modernism, and on the brink of a time when the world is shaken by wars and when rank, all of a sudden, is considered a mere accessory and not a guarantee of a certain lifestyle. This topic of sudden change finds its place in the parergon of the novel: fifty years after the appearance of A Room with a View, Forster published an epilogue, which functions as a sequel to his novel, entitled “ A View without a Room ” (original italics); 17 this parergon appears under the heading of an appendix in the Penguin edition. Even though its style seems rather “ lighthearted ” (Oliver Stallybrass, Introduction 14), it puts the novel ’ s tone of wishful optimism into perspective. If one takes the appendix into account, Lucy ’ s development loses some of its exceptionality and gains credibility. In a similar way as the realist tone of the introductory chapter to The Scarlet Letter forms a 17 According to Oliver Stallybrass, the sequel “ A View without a Room ” was first published in the Observer and the New York Times Book Review on July 27, 1958 (14). 114 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses bridge between the reader ’ s reality and the romantic mood of the text proper, the romance in Forster ’ s text is forced back to earth by means of the realism in the appendix. This procedure discloses the gap between the ideal prospects for Lucy and the realist ones. At the same time, it illustrates the difference between falling in love and having a relationship in difficult times. Thus, the appendix restricts the prospect of a view to the younger generation, and the view itself to those who remain true to their ideals. In order to understand the working of Forster ’ s parergon, which creates a twist in style and content in comparison to the ergon, it is necessary to take a closer look at Lucy ’ s development from girl to woman in the novel. The novel is divided into two parts. It starts with the Italian section, describing how Lucy Honeychurch, together with her cousin and chaperone Charlotte Bartlett, spend their time in Italy. Lucy, especially, undergoes a change in this southern region. Back in England, in the second part of the novel, she acts according to her new self and finally marries the man she loves, not the man she was supposed to marry. The novel contains a network of allusions, leitmotifs and metaphors, which have to be taken into consideration in order to understand its substance better. Oliver Stallybrass states that no novelist has obeyed more consistently yet unobtrusively Keats ’ s injunction to ‘ load every rift . . . with ore ’ . Rooms and views; light, shadow and darkness; spring and autumn; colours; violets and other flowers; water, baptism and blood; Christian ritual and pagan deities; faith and love; clothes and nudity; towers and columns; the Middle Ages and the Renaissance; Leonardo and Michelangelo; various composers; art and life; muddle; peevishness; the preposition ‘ across ’ — these interlocking sets of contrasted pairs, related images, symbols, leitmotivs and highly charged words are what give this charming period novel its extraordinary resonance. (Introduction 18 - 19) Some of these notions and certain others — namely rooms and views, epiphanies, nature, music, muddle and, finally, love — need to be discussed in order to examine their interplay with the parergonal text, the appendix “ A View without a Room. ” “ I have a view, I have a view ” (24) are the first words we hear from Mr Emerson, a fellow guest at the dinner table at the Pension Bertolini in Florence. Not only is the moment when he utters them highly unusual, since normally, “ people looked them [Lucy and her cousin Charlotte] over for a day or two before speaking ” (24), but the words themselves are also highly ambiguous. Even though, in the context of the situation, Mr Emerson clearly means the view from his room, the term view can be read in two more ways: either an opinion or an outlook. 18 The novel plays with these three notions, which, 18 The Oxford English Dictionary provides the following three meanings (among others) of the noun view (19: 620): “ [8.] b. A sight or prospect of some landscape or extended scene; an extent I Protection of Author or Work 115 whenever they appear, add a second or even third sense to the characters ’ statements. On first arriving at the pension, Lucy and her cousin Charlotte are disappointed that they have not been assigned the rooms they wanted, namely south-facing ones with a view of the Italian landscape. However, Mr Emerson and his son George, the outsiders at the pension, offer them these rooms: Emerson is a socialist and does not act according to the conventions of the English aristocracy. He addresses the two women directly and makes them an offer which implies that they will be in his debt on accepting it. As a result of his behaviour, the reader soon realizes that Emerson is a person with a distinct (political and ethical) view; unlike the rest of the English, his view as a socialist is that all human beings deserve equality. By offering Lucy a view, he not only offers to provide her with a literal view from her room, but covertly offers her assistance in also acquiring her own political and ideological views. In Italy, Lucy feels strangely displaced, not only because their rooms are facing the wrong way, but also because of a clash between what the interior of the pension suggests and what lies outside: “ Charlotte, don ’ t you feel, too, that we might be in London? I can hardly believe that all kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is one ’ s being so tired ” (23). Even though they are in Italy, they are made to feel at home by the English pension ’ s guests and décor: on the wall of the dining room, there is a portrait of the late Queen Victoria (according to whose standards Lucy has been brought up and educated so far), a “ heavily framed ” portrait of the late Poet Laureate, and a notice about the English church (23). These three elements represent the three fields of politics, culture, and religion, while “ the two rows of English people who were sitting at the table ” and “ the row of white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between the English people ” (23) stand for the social order and custom. By her close observation, Lucy implicitly points out that the English tourist abroad, according to his or her social conventions, stays in a place that pretends to be in England, but an England that has ceased to exist in reality: symptomatically, the people in the pictures on the wall are all dead: Queen Victoria passed away in 1901 and Lord Tennyson (identified on page 56) even earlier, in 1892, whilst the novel, according to the appendix, is set around 1908. 19 Thus, the whole English setting is displaced not only geographically, but also temporally: the English or area covered by the eye from one point. [. . .] 10. a. A particular manner or way of considering or regarding a matter or question; a conception, opinion, or theory formed by reflection or study. [. . .] 13. A prospect, anticipation, expectation, or outlook. ” 19 The appendix revisits the characters in 1958, when Lucy is “ in her late sixties ” and George “ in his early seventies ” (231). Knowing that they met before World War I (1914), at the time of which they were around 20 years old, one can assume that the time of their first encounter more or less correlates with the publication of the novel (1908), or perhaps precedes it by a few years. 116 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses community in Italy is anachronistic and belongs to a past century. This is the lesson Lucy is about to learn and the condition she is about to overcome. One could say that the Pension Bertolini resembles an English colony in Italy; it thus qualifies as an example of Foucault ’ s concept of the heterotopia, which he treats in “ Of Other Spaces. ” A heterotopia is an “ effectively enacted utopia in which the real sites, all the other real sites that can be found within the culture, are simultaneously represented, contested, and inverted ” (24). In that the pension Bertolini presents a past image of England, it offers a critical stance on England itself: even though its culture and politics are represented, they are thus questioned and finally, at the end of the novel, inverted by Lucy through her stay at Bertolini ’ s. Typical examples of heterotopias are the boat, which is the placeless place “ par excellence ” (27), and the colony (or nowadays the vacation village), which recreates a culture in a different space. The heterotopia always has a function: This function unfolds between two extreme poles. Either their [the heterotopias ’ ] role is to create a space of illusion that exposes every real space, all the sites inside of which human life is partitioned, as still more illusory [. . .]. Or else, on the contrary, their role is to create a space that is other, another real space, as perfect, as meticulous, as well arranged as ours is messy, ill constructed, and jumbled. This latter type would be the heterotopia, not of illusion, but of compensation, and I wonder if certain colonies have not functioned somewhat in this manner. (27) The pension is, then, a compensational heterotopia, England in Italy, so to speak, but more perfect. It therefore not only compensates for the imperfections of the real England, but it also constitutes an illusory space because England is in the course of changing greatly. The pension presents the perfect site for a displaced enactment of Victorian values at the time of their devaluation. It also functions as a site at which one can still learn Victorian manners, even though they do not correlate with the requirements of the time. Mr Emerson is the character who is able to differentiate between two times and their necessary prerequisites. He is also the character who will guide Lucy in her quest for a place in the society of her time. When Emerson offers them rooms with views, Lucy feels that his words “ dealt, not with rooms and views, but with — well, with something quite different, whose existence she had not realized before ” (25). She realizes that, in Mr Emerson, she is dealing with a person who, according to Mr Beebe, an old acquaintance, “ speak[s] the truth ” (29). This is the beginning of Lucy ’ s Bildung, her “ éducation sentimentale ” (Martin 76). The first in the series of incidents that constitute Lucy ’ s rite-of-passage happens in the midst of Italy, far from the pension. This is the moment when Mr Emerson offers help, not only momentarily, but in the form of a tutor-tyro I Protection of Author or Work 117 relationship between himself and the young woman. The day after they arrive, Lucy gets lost in the Piazza Santa Croce in Florence. She is upset, because Miss Lavish, another English acquaintance, has taken her Baedeker guidebook and suddenly disappeared (42). Again, it is Mr Emerson who comes to her rescue and shows her that, for most of the time in life, no guidebook is needed in order to cope. Even though Lucy is reluctant to converse with her new acquaintance, Emerson persuades her to walk with him: “ You are pretending to be touchy; but you are not really. Stop being so tiresome, and tell me instead what part of the church you want to see. To take you to it will be a real pleasure ” (43). He consciously steps into the role of a mentor to Lucy by offering her a piece of advice she will not understand until much later: “ You are inclined to get muddled [. . .]. Let yourself go. Pull out from the depths those thoughts that you do not understand, and spread them out in the sunlight and know the meaning of them ” (47). In terms of Emerson ’ s personal view, his way of approaching a matter without regard for social conventions provides Lucy with the prospect of gaining her own personal view as well. His exhortation is directed at a trait already present in Lucy: all she needs to do is allow for her true character to emerge and show itself in daylight. Lucy ’ s telling name, from Latin lux, meaning light, 20 thus contains the essence of the project: she must show her real self, let it be shone upon, and let it be enlightened. Emerson is the one who will, at the end of the novel, have “ shown her the holiness of direct desire [and have] made her see the whole of everything at once ” (225). Even though critics such as Colmer consider that it is the “ central weakness of the novel that Lucy ’ s emancipation from the spirit of muddle should have come from Mr Emerson [. . .], when the reader feels it should come from his son [Lucy ’ s future husband] ” (51), I contend that the difference in their ages is a necessity for Lucy to accept Emerson ’ s intrusion upon her in the first place. Thanks to her strict upbringing, she has respect for her elders. Emerson ’ s task is to disclose the basic parameters of life to the young woman, who is prone to become entangled in reality because she uses the tools social convention has provided her with for her survival, instead of her natural instinct. The first and last words uttered by Mr Emerson form a neat framework around Lucy ’ s education process: “ I have a view, I have a view ” (24) — “ [y]es, for we fight for more than Love or Pleasure: there is Truth. Truth counts, Truth does count ” (225). His task is, therefore, to open her eyes to the essential values in life, to excavate a truth lost to the rule of principles. 20 Both Hanks, Hardcastle, and Hodges ’ Dictionary of First Names (174 - 175) and Partridge ’ s Name This Child: A Dictionary of Modern British and American Given or Christian Names redirect the reader from the entry Lucy to Lucia or Lucius. Lucy thus derives from Latin lux and, according to Partridge, denotes “ (one) born at daylight ” (184 - 185). In this sense, Lucy ’ s initiation in Italy leads to her (re-)birth as an independent woman who knows what she wants. 118 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses A certain time after this rather confusing encounter with her new mentor, his words have an effect on Lucy: she decides to leave the protective walls of the pension on her own and without her Baedeker. So far, it was only when playing music that Lucy “ knew her desires so clearly ” (60). Her new situation in Italy, however, unravels new desires: “ she wanted something big, and she believed that it would have come to her on the windswept platform of an electric tram ” (60). Bearing in mind that A Room with a View is a “ cunningly organized and complex [. . .] novel ” (Oliver Stallybrass, Introduction 18), the notion of the tram also refers to George Emerson ’ s profession: he works for “ the railway ” (85). Ross states that it is this fact that “ condemns him to a social limbo in the eyes of Edwardian gentility, which shrinks from too close a contact with dynamism of any sort ” (83). The reference to the tram also alludes to the technological progressiveness of an industrialized society. Lucy ’ s statement underlines her desire for progress, not only in a technological sense, but also in the sense of acceleration: she needs to be taken to “ something big, ” and she needs to arrive there soon. In town, in the Piazza Signoria, Lucy dives into the “ hour of unreality ” (61) and experiences a moment of epiphany on seeing that “ the tower of the palace [. . .] seemed no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky ” (62). Just as she feels that “ [n]othing ever happens to [her] ” (61), “ something [does] happen ” (62): she witnesses the murder of an Italian who, at the moment of death, “ bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them ” (62). While all this is happening, George Emerson is “ looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something ” (62). George ’ s gaze wanders across the scene of the murder to Lucy; the scene, therefore, mediates between the two young people. The whole passage has often been read as depicting “ Lucy ’ s ‘ symbolic loss of virginity ’” (Buzard 297), and George ’ s gaze makes him complicit in this event. When transgressing the set of rules she usually adheres to, Lucy enters a scene with a surreal quality. She is first mesmerized by the free-floating, “ throbbing ” tower, a phallic symbol, in the “ tranquil sky ” in the “ hour of unreality, ” while the stream of blood coming from a dying man ’ s mouth visually symbolizes the moment of sexual initiation. Significantly, the scene ends with George Emerson catching her the moment she faints. The surreal quality of this initiation is maintained in the scene in which George kisses Lucy; on an expedition to Fiesole in order to “ [s]ee a [v]iew ” (79), Lucy falls down the hillside: “ From her feet the ground sloped sharply into the view, and violets ran down in rivulets and streams and cataracts, irrigating the hillside with blue, eddying round the tree stems, collecting into pools in the I Protection of Author or Work 119 hollows, covering the grass with spots of azure foam ” (89). At the moment of her “ arrival ” at the bottom, she meets George Emerson, who “ saw a radiant joy in her face [and who] saw the flowers beat against her dress in blue waves. The bushes above them closed. He stepped quickly forward and kissed her ” (89). In this scene, which depicts a first tangible manifestation of Lucy ’ s initiation process, nature seems to move in order to unite the lovers by means of “ blue waves, ” and to consciously “ close ” the bushes Lucy slipped through, so as to hide her and George Emerson from the view of others. Her very first encounter with the Emersons (father and son) brought her the promise of a view, and now this view is symbolized by the sloping ground that lures Lucy towards it. In this incident, it is not Mr Emerson ’ s service as mentor that propels Lucy forward, but nature itself; it is also due to the natural seclusion that George kisses her. If the Italian part of Lucy ’ s story is seen as a “ possible catalyst ” (Martin 76) that brought about her initiation, then the English part shows her struggle to keep this exciting, surreal quality of Italy alive within her: she tries to follow her desire to live her own life. In order to do so, she turns to playing music and relives at least an idea of the excitement which was awoken within her in the Piazza Signoria: Lucy, who found daily life rather chaotic, entered a more solid world when she opened the piano. [. . .] She was no dazzling exécutante; her runs were not at all like strings of pearls, and she struck no more right notes than was suitable for one of her age and situation. Nor was she the passionate young lady, who performs so tragically on a summer ’ s evening with the window open. Passion was there, but it could not be easily labelled[.] (50) Lucy ’ s approach to passion is a hesitant one. Singh states that “ great music [is] brought into the body of the novel [not only] as a contrast to the social world of turmoil and misunderstanding, but as an indication of the underlying rhythm in existence ” (39). Music stirs the feeling of passion within her: “ Like every true performer she was intoxicated by the mere feel of the notes: they were fingers caressing her own; and by touch, not by sound alone, did she come to her desire ” (51). It is also music that gives her confidence. Whenever she plays, it is her choice of a piece, even though sometimes “ not consider[ed . . .] happy ” (51). Mr Beebe, the clergyman, comments on her playing as follows: “ If Miss Honeychurch ever takes to live as she plays, it will be very exciting — both for us and for her ” (52). It seems as if he already has an idea of the need for Lucy to break out of her daily routine. The first step was taken in Italy; now, that beginning has to be brought to fruition. Playing the piano allows her to enter the world of passion, and she “ re-enter[s] daily life ” (52) when the music stops. This means that music is a catalyst for her desires in the same way as her holiday in Italy worked as a catalyst for her personal development. Fortunately, on their 120 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses return to England, the Emersons move into Lucy ’ s neighbourhood. Their closeness works as a constant reminder of her new self. In the course of the novel, Lucy manages to break out of the life which convention assigned to her by admitting to herself that she really is in love with George and by deciding to marry him instead of Cecil, the aristocrat that society would have wished to see as her husband. The novel ends in Italy, with Lucy and George on their honeymoon; it is the perfect happy ending: “ Youth enwrapped them; the song of Phaethon announced passion requited, love attained. But they were conscious of a love more mysterious than this. The song died away; they heard the river, bearing down the snows of winter into the Mediterranean ” (230). The notion of Phaethon has appeared once before in the novel, namely during the English tourists ’ journey to Fiesole: the young Italian who, accompanied by his mistress, drove the English people ’ s carriage was compared to the Greek god: It was Phaethon who drove them to Fiesole that memorable day, a youth, all irresponsibility and fire, recklessly urging his master ’ s horses up the stony hill. [. . .] And it was Persephone whom he asked leave to pick up on the way, saying that she was his sister — Persephone, tall and slender and pale, returning with the spring to her mother ’ s cottage, and still shading her eyes from the unaccustomed light. (79) In Greek mythology, Phaethon, the son of Helios, asked his father ’ s permission to drive the sun chariot in order to demonstrate his divine origin. Scared of the animals constituting the signs of the Zodiac, he dropped too low, then rose too high, and finally experienced a fatal fall (Grimal 363). This is one of the examples by which Greek mythology illustrates the notion of hybris, i. e. downfall or destruction as a punishment for behaving presumptuously towards a god or a higher power (Baldick 116 - 117). “ Persephone, daughter of Zeus and the corn-goddess Demeter, was, in one version of the legend, carried off by Hades, was later returned on the intercession of Zeus, but thereafter had to spend part of every year in the underworld ” (Oliver Stallybrass, “ Notes ” 245). If we apply the Greek myth to Forster ’ s novel, the notion of hybris might refer to the recklessness of youth, which was sparked in Lucy during her stay in Italy. At the same time, it also refers to reckless young love and foreshadows what will happen with Lucy and George. Lucy, as a version of Persephone, needed to free herself from the darkness in her life and become light in order to attain love. The description of George ’ s and Lucy ’ s “ love attained, ” which has meanwhile become less “ mysterious ” than it was at the beginning, expresses the moment when passionate new love turns into the deep love experienced when two people feel they belong together. The song of Phaethon dies away, because their love does not bear the characteristic of hybris any longer: it is no longer a I Protection of Author or Work 121 boundless feeling but moderately enters the flow of the world, the river of life, turning into a thing of seemingly eternal value to those who possess it. The appendix that follows this description of a love that offers so much hope to those who are part of it disrupts the euphoria the reader feels at the end of the novel. Fifty years later, the narrator asks: “ [The novel] contains a hero and heroine who are supposed to be good, good-looking and in love — and who are promised happiness. Have they achieved it? ” (231). He then goes on to tell the reader what subsequently became of the two. Lucy, now in her late sixties, and George, in his early seventies, are still “ fond of each other and of their children and grandchildren ” (231). Their love has literally become familiar: they love each other in the way one loves one ’ s family. Only the place where they live seems difficult to determine. Hence the title of the appendix, “ A View without a Room ” : this view of the couple remains without a room (or location). This seems to be symptomatic of the displacement that the reader feels on being faced with the reality of an old married couple so soon after having experienced them as young lovers. Moreover, the utopian prospect of a couple leading a life of perfect harmony is brutally disrupted by the reality of war and infidelity: they “ were becoming comfortable capitalists when World War I exploded — the war that was to end war — and spoiled everything ” (231). Probably due to his father ’ s ideological convictions, George becomes a “ conscientious objector ” (231), while Lucy “ declared herself a conscientious objector too, and ran a more immediate risk by continuing to play Beethoven ” (231 - 232), thus displaying the independence of her taste in music from the political situation. Albeit presented with a certain touch of humour, the young couple ’ s prospects turn out to have been empty; when the novel ended, they were about to enter a time of war and restrictions together. Lucy, still clinging to the power music used to have for her and still attempting to show confidence in her choice of music, has since become a mere shadow of her former self. Mr Emerson seems to be the only one who persistently clings to his ideology, being “ confident that Love and Truth would see humanity through in the end ” (232), and who always thought and still thinks “ of socialism as identical with what it was in the blush of its youth ” (Bedient 249). With the advent of World War II, “ the one that was to end with a durable peace, ” George enlists immediately; he knows how to “ distinguish between a Germany that was not much worse than England and a Germany that was devilish ” (232). Personally, he “ discovered that he loved fighting and had been starved by its absence, and also discovered that away from his wife he did not remain chaste. ” This sentence perfectly sums up how things have changed in the course of time: George ’ s fighting in the war rekindles the desire he felt when he unwaveringly fought for his love towards Lucy. This now leads to his 122 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses being unfaithful to her. Since fighting rekindles his passion, it must have been the former harmony with his wife that robbed him of that passion. “ For Lucy the war was less varied. She gave some music lessons and broadcast some Beethoven, who was quite alright this time ” (232). Whilst not remaining chaste provides a certain variation for George, Lucy still finds an alternative way to cope with her desires. As often in Forster ’ s novel, the narrator ’ s tone is not serious: the events are recounted in a spirit of generosity, by someone who has seen it all. This tone has a different impact with respect to the narrator ’ s account, however: the distance which is created in the appendix shatters the closeness which it formerly established towards the young lovers. George is taken back to Mussolini ’ s Italy as a prisoner, finding “ the Italians sometimes as sympathetic as they had been in his tourist days, and sometimes less sympathetic ” (233). Certainly, the war has destroyed the misty-eyed Italian feeling George experienced as a young lover; yet, he attempts to retrace its source. When, after “ Italy [has] collapsed, ” he tries to find the Pension Bertolini, he fails. It is impossible for him “ to decide which room was romantic half a century ago. ” Memories fall victim to forgetfulness. Thus, the Italian part of the novel becomes a fading memory. Even though the Piazza Signoria, where the murder took place, is still there, George finds that, “ though nothing is damaged all is changed. ” This sentence seems to epitomize the whole chapter: even though the constellation of characters is still the same, everything has changed, much to the reader ’ s disappointment. Whilst George reports to Lucy that the “ View was still there and that the Room must be there, too, but could not be found, ” Lucy is described as “ homeless, ” which she is literally and, “ at that moment, ” probably also in a figurative sense, owing to this failure to trace the site of their first encounter. What they have left is their own view: it “ [is] something to have retained a View, and, secure in it and in their love as long as they have one another to love, George and Lucy await World War III — the one that would end war and everything else, too ” (233). Everything has changed, indeed: the promising view youth is endowed with has been replaced by one of secure cohabitation, with nothing but the desolate prospect of one or the other ’ s death, their routine of love, and the fear of another World War. Bedient states that [i]n Forster, the personalization of the self thus involves a personalization of the universe. As the self opens to itself, the world opens to it, too. As the self grows more precious to itself, as it understands its own mystery and its own order better, it finds itself the inhabitant of a precious and mysteriously ordered world. (205 - 206) It seems as if this statement ties together the novel and its appendix in an antithetical relationship; whereas, in the novel, the two lovers experience the I Protection of Author or Work 123 personalization of the self in interaction with nature and the world, the appendix shows the opposite: the world has the power of depersonalization, of turning the exceptional into routine. If the world loses its mystery, so does the self. The appendix, thus, deconstructs the novel. It counteracts it by taking apart what has been built up, accurately referring to detailed notions of its initial setup. The euphoric feeling which was created in the novel is first put into perspective, and then thoroughly erased, in the appendix. The lack in the novel might be its very feel-good quality, which is qualified by its counterpart, the appendix. The appendix functions parergonally, since it interacts with the ergon, the novel. The parergonal framework creates a distance between reader and novel and puts the perfection of the love story into perspective. A possible reason, from the authorial side, for the creation of such a framework might be that Forster always openly opposed happy endings. Referring to one of Forster ’ s notes dating from June 1907, Oliver Stallybrass comments: For a ‘ conscientious and artistic ’ writer to end a novel with ‘ the sound of wedding bells ’ , or even with a visit to a registry office, was not merely ‘ toshy ’ , it was positively immoral. And in this instance the offence was aggravated by the fact that an earlier version of the novel had ended with the obligatory ‘ scene of separation ’ : in fragment X of ‘ New Lucy ’ George, bicycling home after an abortive elopement with Lucy, is killed by a falling tree. (Introduction 17) It is left to the reader to judge which of the two endings, this earlier unhappy one or the published appendix, is the better means of adding a twist to the novel. Forster ’ s reason for finally choosing the latter is not relevant; the effect of putting the events of the novel into perspective and of providing a new view of it, however, is successfully achieved. The Hybrid: Fielding ’ s Tom Jones Critics ’ opinions on Henry Fielding ’ s Tom Jones, which was published in 1749, have always been divided. Some think that it “‘ gave ’ plot to the novel, as Defoe ’ s novels contributed social realism ” (Goldknopf, “ The Failure of Plot in Tom Jones ” 125), even though its plot has been “ found tiresome taken alone ” (Empson 220), since “ [f]undamentally, the narrative base of Tom Jones is trivial: boy meets — loses — gets girl ” (Goldknopf 141). Others, however, argue that it contains “ too much plot ” (Kettle 77), although it is meticulously structured in respect of “ its tripodal division into six books devoted to country life, six to city life, and six intervening books to the passage of the principals from one to the other ” (Goldknopf 127 - 128). What critics usually agree on, however, is the fact that the novel contains a highly complex narrative structure which plays with the distance between the reader, the narrator, and the text. This complexity is 124 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses mainly achieved by combining an “ amiable, digressive, outside-observer narrator ” (Stam, “ The Theory and Practice of Adaptation ” 35) with textual information that makes the reader empathize with the fictional reality of the novel. By this means, the narrative structure pushes the reader into an active role in the reading process since he or she constantly needs to readjust to the changing narrative distance. Preston unites the two levels of plot and narrative strategy 21 in the following statement: The plot of Tom Jones, then, may be best understood in terms of the way it is read. Its structure is the structure of successive responses to the novel. It exists in the reader ’ s attention rather than in the written sequences. This means that its effect is epistemological rather than moral. It helps us to see how we acquire our knowledge of human experience[.] (295) The successive response of the reader to the novel is, at the same time, a response to the narrator, who, in various different ways, interacts with the reader through cuts — or interstices — in the text. In this sense, the complex narrative structure that is presented in the novel functions as a parergon in relation to Tom Jones ’ tale. Its effect is one of an unsettling reading process, which allows the reader to empathize with Tom in the course of his coming of age. This empathy is only possible if the reader is able to form his own independent judgment. It is no surprise that the woman for whom Tom faces all his hardship is called Sophia. As Partridge points out, the name Sophia is Greek for wisdom. Personified Wisdom, in turn, was “ the mother of fair Love and Hope and holy Fear ” in antiquity (255 - 256). The readers ’ empathy, therefore, literally accompanies Tom on his path to wisdom, as we face all the vicissitudes of love, fear, and hope with him. The most conspicuous characteristic of Fielding ’ s novel is its featuring of an intrusive narrator. According to Baldick, an intrusive narrator is “ an omniscient narrator who, in addition to reporting the events of a novel ’ s story, offers further comments on characters and events, and who sometimes reflects more generally upon the significance of the story ” (128). This narrator ’ s role is twofold: on the one hand, he 22 is responsible for an ironic distance between author and work. This distance mitigates the novel ’ s potential offensiveness to its readership and 21 According to Abrams, the concept of plot “ in a dramatic or narrative work is constituted by its events and actions, as these are rendered and ordered toward achieving particular artistic and emotional effects. ” Story designates “ a bare synopsis of the temporal order of what happens ” (Glossary 224). Whereas story is concerned with the chronological events of a work, the plot is the sequence in which events are actually related. Narration and narrative strategy refer to the way in which a plot is told. Usually, the narration of a tale is located on a level above it, an extradiegetic level outside the fictional reality. 22 In one of his intrusions in Tom Jones, the first-person narrator reveals to the reader that he is male: “ I have thought it somewhat strange, upon reflection, that the housekeeper never I Protection of Author or Work 125 also creates a critical distance between text and reader. On the other hand, the narrator ’ s mocking tone underlines the satirical purpose of the novel. At the same time, the narrator also represents himself as someone who is very close to the characters in the novel. These two contradictory narrative positions make the reader experience the same hardship in a process of acquiring knowledge that the eponymous hero faces. In this sense, the effect of the narrative intrusion is highly metafictional. The ensuing interruptions of the reading process constitute the parergon of the novel. Tom Jones ’ parergonal structure occupies a hybrid position in terms of its function. It presents a possible backdoor for the author if the novel (which, at the time, was literally new) is not well received. At the same time, the parergonal structure establishes closeness between reader and work by means of its intense communicative strategies, thus favouring the reader ’ s involvement in the novel. In this sense, the parergonal structure displays the possible tension between its surrounds, its readership, and the work by establishing a narrator who is himself critical about the novel. At the same time, the novel tries to hide this tension by establishing a sort of complicity between the surrounds, the readers, and the novel in that the readers in a way experience the protagonist ’ s hardship, guided by the same narrator. In Tom Jones, the narrative method figuring as the parergon indeed constitutes the Derridean ‘ I ’ ; it is an ‘ I ’ “ that is both part of the spectacle and part of the audience; an ‘ I ’ that, a bit like ‘ you, ’ attends (undergoes) its own incessant, violent reinscription within the arithmetical machinery, ” moving between fiction and reality, resembling a “ mere function or phantom ” (Dissemination 325). 23 This ‘ I ’ is the source of the reader ’ s uneasiness. It is impossible to settle down comfortably and receive a seemingly objective account of Tom ’ s adventures. The phantom, in the guise of a narrator who intrudes upon the text, is not a reliable companion for the reader: whenever the reader accepts the invitation to experience the events of the novel side-by-side with the protagonist Tom, he or she realizes that the guiding hand, which was trusted before, is deeply unreliable. The reader is left in doubt as to which of the narrative interactions are trustworthy and which are not. The narrative, then, is upheld by two forces of telling, or of diegesis: a voice that conveys the impression of immediacy to the reader, and a voice that leaves him or her in doubt as to what to believe. Whereas the first voice acts in favour of the text and creates immediacy between the reader and the text in the same way as the “ The Custom-House, ” the introductory chapter to The Scarlet Letter, does, the acquainted Mrs Blifil with this news, as women are more inclined to communicate all pieces of intelligence to their sex than to ours ” (81; bk. 1, ch. 5). 23 For a more detailed discussion of this concept, cf. section “ Mechanisms, Functions, and the Effect of the Parergonal Framework ” above (58). 126 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses second voice creates an alienation effect, 24 by means of regular intrusion into the close relationship between reader and text. It undermines the first voice and creates a distance, in the same way as does the preface to the first edition of The Castle of Otranto. It is thus no surprise that a dedication, signed in the name of Henry Fielding, precedes the novel Tom Jones: this dedication paves the way for the intrusive narrator in the authorial pose. This opposite functioning of the narrative voices keeps pushing and embracing the reader at the same time: the voices alternately act in favour of either work or context, supporting immediacy or distance. In terms of the two possible functions assigned to a parergon the mechanism of which is triggered by the work, Tom Jones can be said to exemplify a hybrid 25 of the two: it protects the work and the author to the same extent. Furthermore, the novel exemplifies a parergonal structure which is not located in a paratext but in the narrative structure of the novel. It visualizes what is meant by interstices by literally functioning through cuts in the work opened up by the narrator ’ s intrusions. Derrida approaches the problem as follows: Hence one must know — this is a fundamental presupposition, presupposing what is fundamental — how to determine the intrinsic — what is framed — and know what one is excluding as frame and outside-the-frame. We are thus already at the unlocatable center of the problem. (63) It is important to attempt this (impossible) separation between the ergon (the story told), and the parergon (the way in which that story is told). Compared to the examples treated in the preceding chapters, the location of the parergon is no longer so obvious. The problem occurs since the parergon is constituted by the narrative method and does not occupy an exact location, except for its being 24 According to Abrams, “ [the] German term [Verfremdungseffekt] is also translated as estrangement effect or distancing effect; the last is closest to Brecht ’ s notion, in that it avoids the connotation of jadedness, incapacity to feel, and social apathy that the word alienation has acquired in English. This effect, Brecht said, is used to make familiar aspects of the present social reality seem strange, so as to prevent the emotional identification or involvement of the audience with the characters and their actions in a play. His aim was instead to evoke a critical distance and attitude in the spectators, in order to arouse them to take action against, rather than simply to accept, the state of society and behavior represented on the stage ” (Glossary 4 - 5, original bold print omitted). The results of the alienation effect in Tom Jones will be thoroughly discussed in this section. 25 If Derrida ’ s use of the term hybrid is included, Tom Jones is a double hybrid: “ And when Kant replies to our question ‘ What is a frame? ’ by saying: it ’ s a parergon, a hybrid of outside and inside, but a hybrid which is not a mixture or a half-measure, an outside which is called to the inside of the inside in order to constitute it as an inside; and when he gives as examples of the parergon, alongside the frame, clothing and column, we ask to see, we say to ourselves that there are ‘ great difficulties ’ here, and that the choice of examples, and their association, is not selfevident ” (63 - 64). The parergon is itself a hybrid, even more so in this example, where outside and inside are difficult to locate. Moreover, its function is a hybrid as well: the frame serves two functions at the same time. Hence the expression ‘ double hybridity. ’ I Protection of Author or Work 127 ‘ extradiegetic ’ (somewhere outside the tale) but interacting with it at various sites; hence the concept of an unlocatable centre. The narrator intrudes upon the text through innumerable cuts. In order to approach the narrative structure of the novel, it is necessary to differentiate between different forms of narration. In Image, Music, Text, Barthes distinguishes two narrational systems: “ In fact, narration strictly speaking (the code of the narrator), like language, knows only two systems of signs: personal and apersonal. These two narrational systems do not necessarily present the linguistic marks attached to person (I) and non-person (he) ” (112). 26 This means that it is not the narrative perspective (first or thirdperson), but the distance between narrator and characters which determines whether a narration is personal or apersonal: the narrator ’ s account is either restricted to the outside appearance of what is happening (apersonal) or it is able to approach the inside of characters so as to describe what is happening within their minds (personal). “ He thought it strange, ” for instance, is personal, since the narrator seems to say “ I am reading his thoughts and I know that he thinks it strange. ” “ He seemed to find it strange, ” however, is apersonal, since the narrator is guessing the character ’ s thoughts from his point of view as an observer. As soon as a narrator becomes omniscient (which is, paradoxically, the ultimate form of personal narration) in the sense that he or she is able to read the characters ’ minds (as well as know the past and the future of all the characters in the novel, for instance, and be ready to make his or her knowledge accessible to the reader), the distance between reader and text is diminished, since the narrator effaces himor herself by presenting a seemingly objective account. Apersonal narration, however, increases the distance between reader and narrative by consciously establishing and underlining the narrative level. The two narrational systems, namely apersonal and personal narration, can well be combined in the authorial novel. 27 According to Stanzel, the “ guise of 26 In his analysis, Barthes goes so far as to divide sentences into personal or apersonal parts according to the criterion of whether or not the single components are visible to someone observing a character. In my analysis, the distinction will be made according to the criterion of whether the narrator is merely observing what is happening from the outside (apersonal) or whether he or she has access to the characters ’ thoughts or sight (personal). In this sense, one could also deploy Rimmon-Kenan ’ s notion of narratorial focalization from without (apersonal) or from within (personal) (77). I prefer Barthes ’ terminology here, because it is simple and insightful at the same time. In addition, since I focus exclusively on the narrator, I do not need to distinguish between internal and external focalization (the position of focalization relative to the story): an external focalizer “ is felt to be close to the narrating agent, ” whereas “ the locus of internal focalization is inside the represented events ” (75 - 76). 27 The term authorial novel describes the type of novel that features a narrator who apparently figures as its author. If the narrator in a novel told in the first person figures as an authorial 128 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses the authorial narrative process was very popular during the real flowering period of the authorial novel in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries ” (41). In Tom Jones, the first-person narrator switches between the two modes of distanced and intimate accounting by providing personal and apersonal information interchangeably. In some parts of the novel, he is even perceived to be a third-person narrator, for instance at the very beginning: “ An author ought to consider himself, not as a gentleman who gives a private or eleemosynary treat, but rather as one who keeps a public ordinary, at which all persons are welcome for their money ” (29; bk. 1, ch. 1). He then ends his comparison of an author with a cook by switching to the first person plural: “ Having premised thus much, we will now detain those who like our bill of fare no longer from their diet, and shall proceed directly to serve up the first course of our history for their entertainment ” (31). This example well illustrates how the narrator uses different positions in relation to the tale and to the reader: he moves into the tale by means of this switch of narrative position. In order to create distance, in turn, the first-person narrator poses as the author and provides information about the writing of a novel in general. He switches his tone from that of an apersonal commentator on what is happening, often ending up in an excursus, to that of a personal observer and seemingly best friend of the characters, who comments on their actions in a personal manner, making the reader believe that he has known them for a long time. Of all the different modes of narration, the apersonal narrator ’ s accounts are responsible for an incessant re-evaluation being forced upon the reader. In his intrusions, the narrator covers a large range of topics and leaves all kinds of impressions: while the narrator in Middlemarch describes this narrator of Tom Jones as a good-natured “ great historian ” who “ glories in his copious remarks and digressions as the least imitable part of his work, and especially in those initial chapters to the successive books of his history, where he seems to bring his arm-chair to the proscenium and chat with us in all the lusty ease of his fine English ” (141; bk. 2, ch. 15), 28 J. F. Smith states that “ [o]nce a reader recognizes that Fielding ’ s narrator is not a completely reliable friend but rather a rogue and comic trickster who misleads and entraps his readers, the formerly neat, closedended reading collapses into ironic contradiction ” (1). From being a friendly narrator, this can serve to achieve a satirical effect by the narrator ’ s commenting on the novel itself or by his mocking the activity of being an author. 28 Ironically, the narrator in Middlemarch shortly afterwards adds one such first-person intrusion as well, illustrating that such intrusions are not necessarily meant to leave the reader at ease: “ At present I have to make the new settler Lydgate better known to any one interested in him than he could possibly be even to those who had seen the most of him since his arrival in Middlemarch ” (141 - 142). In so doing, the narrator underlines the fact that none of the characters in the book can possibly have the same knowledge of this character as he or she does. I Protection of Author or Work 129 comrade who lends the reader his assistance towards better comprehension by drifting into “ essayistic excursuses ” (Stanzel 47), the narrator switches to a mocking tone, as in the following example: Tacit obedience implies no force upon the will [. . .]; but when a wife, a child, a relation, or a friend, performs what we desire, with grumbling, and reluctance [. . .], the manifest difficulty which they undergo must greatly enhance the obligation. As this is one of those deep observations which very few readers can be supposed capable of making themselves, I have thought proper to lend them my assistance; but this is a favour rarely to be expected in the course of my work. Indeed, I shall seldom or never so indulge him, unless in such instances as this, where nothing but the inspiration with which we writers are gifted can possibly enable anyone to make the discovery. (40; bk. 1, ch. 5) Certainly, at this point, the narrator ’ s remarks are ironic. The discovery made is not that clever; on the contrary, the narrator observes something most people know from personal experience. In addition, the narrator announces that, in the course of the novel, he will not be of further assistance, or only rarely. This is, however, a promise he implicitly breaks whenever he intrudes upon the text (and the reader). It is also worrying that the narrator goes so far as to praise the faculties of a writer. Who is he mocking now? The answer may well be possible competitors who indeed display their wisdom in comments like the one cited above: in this sense, these narratorial intrusions create a satirical effect. At some points, the narrator ’ s tone becomes insulting. As a result, the reader cannot simply remain a literary consumer, but needs to (internally) respond to these unsettling moments: the narrator relies on “ the reader ’ s heart (if he or she have any) ” (146; bk. 4, ch. 5), or leaves him or her to “ guess Blifil ’ s answer; but if he [the reader] should be at a loss, we are not at present at leisure to satisfy him ” (783; bk. 16, ch. 3). The narrator also admits that he aims to manipulate the reader ’ s thoughts: That the reader, therefore, may not conceive the least ill opinion of such a person, we shall not delay a moment in rescuing his character from the imputation of this guilt. (342; bk. 7, ch. 15) But lest our readers, of a different complexion, should take this occasion of too hastily condemning all compassion as a folly, and pernicious to society, we think proper to mention another particular which might possibly have some little share in this action. (343; bk. 7, ch. 15) Such commenting on the action and on the reader ’ s response 29 has often been compared to the role of the chorus in Greek tragedy; indeed, the narrator himself says: “ I ask pardon for this short appearance, by way of chorus, on the 29 For a detailed analysis of text-reader interaction and devices in Fielding that control the reading process, cf. Wolfgang Iser ’ s “ Die Leserrolle in Fieldings Joseph Andrews and Tom Jones, ” 81 - 93. 130 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses stage ” (122; bk. 3, ch. 7). Goldknopf, however, points out that these intrusions serve a different purpose: Thus the chorus in Oedipus Rex and the authorial intrusions in Tom Jones might seem to have analogous functions. But the chorus participates in or comments directly on the action, while Fielding ’ s personal interventions are designed to add intellectual dignity to the action of his work. The chorus complements the plot; Fielding ’ s voice supplements it. ( “ The Failure of Plot in Tom Jones ” 137) Even though Goldknopf ’ s terminology is incompatible with mine in that he identifies the narrator with Fielding, his distinction between complement and supplement is an interesting one. To him, the chorus in Greek tragedy is clearly a part of the work and complements it. At the same time, its activity shows parallels to authorial intrusion in that it mediates between the play and the audience. The narrator in Fielding, according to Goldknopf, is an outer addition or supplement to the work (he is extradiegetic). This idea of parallelism between the two activities of complementing and supplementing is taken up in the concept of the parergon, which can assume both roles. 30 Depending on the stage of interaction between work and frame, the parergon can take both forms, that of a supplement as well as that of a complement. Since the parergon in Tom Jones is constituted by its narrative strategy, the narrative intrusions sometimes constitute a complement to Tom ’ s tale and sometimes merely form a supplement to it. What is interesting in Goldknopf is his perception that the intrusive narrator in Tom Jones often underlines the fact that he is not part of the work (and is thus supplementary): even though he presents the fictional reality, he is not a character in it. This is exactly what creates the distance the reader perceives when reading the novel: in his intrusions, the narrator not only establishes a distance between himself and the tale he tells, but he also creates a distance between himself and his audience through his mockery. The narrator ’ s interruptions do not just create this distancing effect, however. According to Goldknopf, “ the author [meaning the first-person authorial narrator] compensates for the disengagement of our interest in the narrative by setting up a camaraderie between himself and us. But the palship is founded on the shared attitude of condescension toward the narrative ” ( “ The Failure of Plot in Tom Jones ” 139). The narrator, it seems, is well aware of this attitude: [W]e have taken every occasion of interspersing through the whole sundry similes, descriptions, and other kind of poetical embellishments. These are, indeed, designed to [. . .] refresh the mind, whenever those slumbers, which in a long work are apt to invade the reader as well as the writer, shall begin to creep upon him. (131; bk. 4, ch. 1) 30 Cf. section “ Derrida ’ s Parergon and Kant ” above (31 - 32: supplement-complement discussion). I Protection of Author or Work 131 This tone of condescension towards Tom ’ s tale is confirmed when the narrator calls his own remarks and comments sundry embellishments that prevent the reader from falling asleep. As a further reason for his essayistic digressions, the narrator names “ contrast ” : “ for what demonstrates the beauty and excellence of anything, but its reverse? ” (183; bk. 5, ch. 1). The question is merely which of the two narrations, narrating the story of Tom or intruding in the form of essays, is what constitutes beauty. Even within the apersonal mode, there are differences in the narrator ’ s distance from his readers. He not only mocks them, but also offers a sort of complicity in the critical evaluation of the narrative. Both narrative stances are adopted at the expense of his commitment to the narrative, however. In Tom Jones, book-initial chapters mainly treat one or the other aspect of writing. The first chapter of the ninth book, however, presents a self-referential justification of the practice of these essays: Among other good uses for which I have thought proper to institute these several introductory chapters, I have considered them as a kind of mark or stamp, which may hereafter enable a very indifferent reader to distinguish what is true and genuine, in this historic kind of writing, from what is false and counterfeit. Indeed, it seems likely that some such mark may shortly become necessary, since the favourable reception which two or three authors have lately procured for their works of this nature from the public will probably serve as an encouragement to many others to undertake the like. (422) Here, the narrator makes another comment on his potential competitors ’ work, which adds to the satirical effect of the novel. In the section on Walpole ’ s Castle of Otranto, I gave a brief account of the position of the novel in the eighteenth century. There is indeed a risk that the task of writing a ‘ novel ’ — literally ‘ something new ’ — will be undertaken by others as well. In this sense, the narrator mockingly refers to the historical context of a new genre. At the same time, he displays his awareness of what he is doing: he wants to make sure that his readers recognize his writing as true and genuine, as opposed to some of the writing other authors produce, which he calls false and counterfeit. In the same vein, this gives the narrator the right to have certain expectations with respect to his readers ’ reception of his work: I am, in reality, the founder of a new province of writing, so I am at liberty to make what laws I please therein. And these laws, my readers, whom I consider as my subjects, are bound to believe in and to obey; with which that they may readily and cheerfully comply, I do hereby assure them that I shall principally regard their ease and advantage in all such institutions: for I do not, like a jure divino tyrant, imagine that they are my slaves or my commodity. I am, indeed, set over them for their own good only, and was created for their use, and not they for mine. (68 - 69; bk. 2, ch. 1) 132 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses The narrator in the role of the author is thus the maker of laws for his own gated community of readers. Paradoxically, though, his readers are not part of the realm of fiction he considers his field of jurisdiction. Even though he claims to have been set above his readers, it is striking how he admits in this very passage that he himself is a creation within the fictional realm: he was created for the use of his readers. While he wants to persuade his readers that he can provide access to a genuine truth, it is his own position that undermines his claims. His not being part of either the readers ’ or Tom ’ s reality makes the readers realize that they are confined to their own reality as well: the narrator ’ s intrusions govern the readers ’ constant awareness that they are dealing with an artefact, not with the genuine truth or with a kind of historic writing. By this means, the narrator again mocks his readers and at the same time teaches them a lesson in astute reading. However, the narrator repeatedly abandons his position of superiority in order to present a more intimate account of his characters. Stanzel remarks that “ [t]he narrator of Tom Jones rises far above the fictional reality in his essayistic sections, only to appear again immediately thereafter in the role of a chronicler who must assemble the facts of his history with laborious effort ” (41). This description refers to the transition from the apersonal to the personal perspective. Even though the narrator seeks to emphasize his non-membership of the fictional reality by means of his essayistic digressions, he also repeatedly positions himself close to the characters within the novel, as someone standing right next to them, commenting in the most immediate way on what is just happening (Stanzel 51). The narrator is thus functioning as a close mediator between characters and readers, providing closeness, intimacy and immediacy. This personal approach by the narrator is often characterized by his use of possessive pronouns: for instance, he calls the protagonist “ my friend Tom ” (147; bk. 4, ch. 5). He also seems to know the landlady at the inn in Upton: Not that I would intimate that such strict chastity as was preserved in the temple of Vesta can possibly be maintained at a public inn. My good landlady did not hope for such a blessing, nor would any of the ladies I have spoken of, or indeed any others of the most rigid note, have expected or insisted on any such thing. (432; bk. 9, ch. 3) In addition, he claims to know the protagonist very well: “ To confess the truth, I am afraid Mr Jones was one of these [who avoid a fight if possible] ” (433). By adding a comment such as “ I suppose, ” “ I think, ” or “ I assume, ” the narrator makes it clear that he is located on the same level as the characters: “ Jones, I believe, knew this woman ” (433). Accordingly, he is no longer able to read their minds. Instead, he uses his new position to mediate between the narrative and the reader. By knowing his characters so well, he increases the potential truth value of his narration. At the same time, he loses some of his reliability, since he I Protection of Author or Work 133 simply cannot know everything. In his more distanced position, however, the reader has always perceived him to be a “ higher narratorial authority ” (Rimmon-Kenan 96). The narrator in Tom Jones casually switches between the different modes of narration, almost imperceptibly leaving his more distanced position to present more intimate accounts. Usually, the position of an authorial narrator enables him, according to Stanzel, “ to assume a position of superiority over his figures ” (39). Narrative distance is a major characteristic of such a narrative situation. In addition, the fact that “ the authorial narrator stands in a relationship of posteriority to the narrated material ” adds to the impression of distance (Stanzel 43). An example of apersonal narration is the way in which Mr Allworthy is introduced: “ In that part of the western division of this kingdom which is commonly called Somersetshire, there lately lived (and perhaps lives still) a gentleman whose name was Allworthy, and who might well be called the favourite of both Nature and Fortune ” (31; bk. 1, ch. 2). In authorial narration, according to Stanzel, there is a “ tendency of the authorial narrator to keep his relationship to the narrated material as imprecise as possible in order to give himself free rein ” ; this surely applies to the above example (Stanzel 43). The third-person narrative perspective adds to the distance and allows the narrator to zoom in on specific characters or events. Even though the third-person perspective is maintained, the apersonal narrative switches to a personal one as soon as the narrator comments on the characters ’ feelings or general attitudes: This loss [the loss of his wife], however great, he [Mr Allworthy] bore like a man of sense and constancy, though it must be confessed he would often talk a little whimsically on this head; for he sometimes said he looked on himself as still married, and considered his wife as only gone a little before him[.] (32) Even though the narrator discloses some intimate details at the end of this passage, there is still a certain distance between himself and his narrative: after all, it makes a difference whether he says “ it must be confessed ” or “ I must confess. ” The former variant still conveys the impression that the narrator is referring to common knowledge, whereas the latter would characterize him as someone who knows the character better than do many of the characters within the fictional reality. This well illustrates the fact that, even though third-person narration may constitute the most personal kind of narration owing to the narrator ’ s covertness and seemingly direct access to the characters, first-person ‘ complicit ’ narration is closest to the characters, even though it is necessarily apersonal and thus loses some of its reliability. Thus, distance and closeness do not correlate with the apersonal and personal modes. Changing narrative distance has a direct effect on the reader. The more distanced intrusive narrator, occupying the most complex of all narrative 134 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses positions, poses a challenge to the reader ’ s decoding of the work, in that he assumes many different roles: Although Fielding ’ s narrator displays moods ranging from the sceptical to the sentimental, and appears by turns as learned man, teacher, judge, literary critic, moral philosopher, dramatist, and novelist at work, as well as an actuary accounting for the probabilities of human life and a person with first-hand experience of the spectrum from low life to high, he is above all an interlocutor — a figure engaged in familiar exchange with readers. (Bender xxiv) By means of this challenge, the reader is invited to enter a sort of dialogue with the narrator. The latter notably calls his relationship with the reader a “ conversation ” and often addresses his readership directly: “ Reader, it is impossible we should know what sort of person thou wilt be; [. . .] we think proper [. . .] to give thee a few wholesome admonitions ” (453; bk. 10, ch. 1). 31 He also refers to the reading process as the “ course of our conversation ” (454); 32 this conversation, signifying the exchange between reader and narrator, serves the purpose of independent judgment on the part of the reader. According to Goldknopf, the narrative interpolations “ slow down the pace of the story considerably. This in itself gives it a more reflective tone ” ( “ The Failure of Plot in Tom Jones ” 139). This reflection is necessary, since the protagonist, “ [t]he bastard, and especially the foundling, is a threat to the social order ” (129 - 130). This is, after all, one of the central themes of the novel. The narrator moves freely within the liminal space between the readers ’ and the characters ’ reality. The ensuing variety of narrative positions serves the purpose of leaving the reader unguided. Owing to the range of narrative positions, every single one turns out to be untrustworthy. According to Bender, “ Fielding fused the all-but-sensual pleasure wrought by intricate, tightly structured storytelling with the indomitable, yet thoroughly problematic, human compulsion to judge the conduct of others ” (xvii). This seems to be the effect of the narrator ’ s sudden intrusions and interspersed comments, as well as his perceptible absences and lack of guidance: again and again, he judges; and, at the same time, he exhorts the reader to do the same. As Preston puts it: The reader has his responsibility also: he must try to judge well. To encourage him to do so is itself a part of the subject of the book. That is, the book is about judgment, and the understanding necessary for good judgment. This is where the moral sense is 31 For the unabridged version of this quotation, cf. section “ Breaking the Fourth Wall: Shakespeare ’ s A Midsummer Night ’ s Dream ” below (147n). 32 According to the OED, conversation always signifies an interchange between two or more entities (3: 868). Even though reading might be considered a passive occupation, it does, after all, involve mental intercourse with the narrator ’ s thoughts. I Protection of Author or Work 135 located, in the analysis and evaluation of diverse judgments. It is epistemological in this way also. (297) The reader himself or herself has to undergo the philosophical process of epistemology. In addition, I have shown that the intrusive narrator in Tom Jones establishes a parallelism between the creation of writing and the institution of the law. He claims that, as the creator of the writing, he also establishes the laws of the reading process. Since he himself cannot figure as a judge because his subjects, the readers, are not part of his reality, the judgment — in his implicitly subordinating himself to his readers — is passed on to them. In this sense, the use of law metaphors describes what the reader is supposed to do. In addition, the narrator deems most of his readers “ much abler advocates for poor Jones ” (125; bk. 3, ch. 8) than the rest of the characters and, seemingly also himself. 33 Thus, the reader is asked to deliberate about Tom Jones ’ actions in order to finally be able to judge the character himself. If the novel describes the development and the Bildung of Tom Jones, the orphan, it offers the same stony path of thorough education (both intellectual and emotional) to the reader. 34 Preston makes the following postulation: What we are to appreciate in his [Tom ’ s] nature is something like the discernment and judgment we ourselves are expected to display in our reading of the novel. The book, by making us conscious of ourselves as readers, by exercising our critical faculties, is contributing [. . .] to a philosophical process. (306) Not only are we as readers supposed to judge the encounters and decisions Tom makes on his way to adulthood, but we are also invited to judge the sources which convey the information in the novel. In this sense, the various narrative positions also effect a re-evaluation of the narrative strategy in Tom Jones. The range of narrative perspectives not only enforce a reflective reading by pushing the reader to adopt a certain position, but they also determine the reading process: the reader continually oscillates between the different sources of information. In “ The Reading Process: A Phenomenological Approach, ” Iser describes the epistemological process of reading as follows: “ In the oscillation between consistency and ‘ alien associations, ’ between involvement in and observation of the illusion, the reader is bound to conduct his own balancing operation, and it is this that forms the esthetic experience offered by the literary text ” (1227). The narrator in Tom Jones generates precisely this oscillation between a ready involvement in and an objective observation of the 33 In “ Die Leserolle in Fielding ’ s Joseph Andrews and Tom Jones, ” Wolfgang Iser examines the notion of judging as represented in the accumulation of law metaphors (92). 34 Cf. the section entitled “ Competing Protagonists: Brontë ’ s Jane Eyre and Rhys ’ Wide Sargasso Sea ” below for more information on the genre of the Bildungsroman (233 - 235). 136 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses fictional illusion of the literary work. This idea of an oscillation between two mutually incompatible positions and the necessity of a constant evaluation of it is what links Reader-Response Criticism, here represented by Iser ’ s famous essay, to Derrida ’ s concept of the parergon. On the one hand, Fielding ’ s narrator poses as an author who intrudes upon his own narrative. On the other hand, he also poses as a complicit mediator between reader and tale: this change of position makes the reader aware of the artificial construct he or she is dealing with. Metafiction, according to Currie, effects “ a self-consciousness of the artificiality of [fiction ’ s] constructions ” (2). This claim is as elucidating as it is problematic: Currie is well aware of the problems involved in attributing a consciousness to a work of fiction (Metafiction 1). By means of the range of narrative positions and its effect in Fielding ’ s novel, the text qualifies as metafiction in the sense defined by Currie. According to Currie, “ metafictions dramatise the boundary between fiction and criticism, either as illusion-breaking authorial intervention or as integrated dramatisation of the external communication between author and reader ” (4). Criticism, for Currie, comprises all theoretical metadiscourse which seemingly places itself outside fiction in order to comment on the topic of that fiction. Intrusive narration is metafictional, in that it has the reader believe that its origin is outside the fiction (namely in the author). Yet narration is obviously part of the literary work. At the same time, the breaking of the illusion created by intrusive narration makes the reader aware of the constructedness of a fictional reality. If the narration forms the parergonal frame around a piece of fiction, it is the parergon ’ s versatility that allows these two opposite movements of the frame. By entering the work and complementing it at some points, the parergon is not detachable from the work; by taking a distanced position towards the narrative, however, it seemingly detaches itself. Even though the parergon constitutes a sort of frame, it keeps changing in the course of its work; it keeps breaking and reforming. The second defining feature of Currie ’ s notion of metafiction, namely the integrated representation of an external communication system, is usually featured in classic frame stories. 35 Fielding ’ s novel does not qualify as such, as its narrator is an extradiegetic one outside the first narrative and not an integrated part of the latter. However, in his pose as mediator between Tom and the reader and in his intimate disclosures of personal information, he seemingly becomes a character in the story as well. He thus also establishes himself as a character through his relationship to the other characters of the novel. At the same time, he literally incorporates the reader into his text by means of his detached 35 In the section “ Frames, Paratexts, and Typology ” above, I briefly discuss the classic frame story with reference to narratives featuring an extradiegetic narrator (25 - 26). I Protection of Author or Work 137 descriptions of the reading and writing processes when posing as an authorial narrator. The parergonal framing device in Fielding thus constitutes a seemingly integrated teller-listener relationship as well. Stepto claims that frames generally constitute storyteller-storylistener constellations: Framed tales by their nature invent storylisteners within their narratives and storyreaders, through their acts of reading, may be transformed into storylisteners. In tale after tale, considerable artistic energy is brought to the task of persuading the reader to constitute himself as a listener, the key issue affecting that activity being whether the reader is to pursue such self-transformations in accord with or at variance with the model of the listener found within the narrative itself. (322) Frame structures thus, according to Kaplan referring to Stepto, “ demonstrate the reading models which readers are meant to adapt. ” The models, in turn, “ interpolate their readers into the text ” (130). The effect on the reader is one of active engagement in the reading process, which, in turn, can lead to increased empathy with the tale ’ s characters. Even though the narrative structure of Tom Jones partially invites the reader to adapt to the putative storyteller-storylistener constellation, this engagement is continually challenged by the work of the intrusive narrator. This paradox is effected by the versatility of the narrative frame. One can say that the way in which the narrator behaves at the edge of the work, both repelling and embracing the reader, resembles the way in which the characters in the book treat the orphan. This means that the reader encounters both the hardship Tom is confronted with in the process of his Bildung and the situation an orphan faces in general. The hybrid nature of the narrator role, the mix of two different approaches, namely a distancing one and one which causes immediacy between reader and work, visualizes, or rather emotionalizes Tom ’ s position as someone who undergoes his personal Bildung as well as someone who is in the position of the foundling. Tom ’ s Bildung is emotionally displayed to the reader by his or her own treatment in the reading process, which is based on an oscillation caused by the lack of an anchor point in the narrative strategy. At the same time, the narrator ’ s authorial pose renders this entire process conscious. Even though the reader is invited to empathize with Tom and evaluate his decisions, the incessant narrative intrusions make the reader aware of the fact that Tom Jones is a fictional text. The split narrator, who is distanced and immediate at the same time, has pathological traits. According to Derrida, there is a pathological moment occurring at times with the parergon: “ [A]ccording to the logic of the supplement, the parergon is divided in two. At the limit between work and absence of work, it divides in two. And this division gives rise to a sort of pathology of the parergon [. . .] ” (64). This means that the parergonal structure 138 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses only becomes obvious in its interplay with the work. At the moment of absence of the work, the parergon becomes a supplement instead of a complement. An example of such a moment is provided by the essayistic parts interspersed throughout the novel, as when the apersonal I-narrator, for instance, expands on the subject of good writing. At this moment, Tom Jones ’ tale is absent. When the I-narrator, in a personal manner, returns to the protagonist, the work is present again; the ‘ I ’ of the narrator, however, is believed to be the same. This leads to the notion of pathology. This textual strategy, which combines moments of great distance between the narrator and the tale with elements of complicity between protagonist and reader, seems pathological in that the two kinds of telling compete with each other and haunt each other. The two opposite narrator roles thus constitute a dichotomy. In Barthes ’ terms, 36 one could say that this dualism also reproduces the physique of the alibi (which is, as one realizes, a spatial term): in the alibi too, there is a place which is full and one which is empty, linked by a relation of negative identity ( “ I am not where you think I am; I am where you think I am not ” ). [. . .] In the same way, if I am in a car and I look at the scenery through the window, I can at will focus on the scenery or on the windowpane. At one moment I grasp the presence of the glass and the distance of the landscape; at another, on the contrary, the transparence of the glass and the depth of the landscape; but the result of this alternation is constant: the glass is at once present and empty to me, and the landscape unreal and full. ( “ Myth Today ” 109 - 110) 37 This means that the narrator alternates between being (too) present and (too) absent. 38 The reader is forced to focus on the changing narrative position, just as the passenger in the car can focus either on the window or on the landscape. If there were no such alternation in Tom Jones, the effect might be that the reader 36 Barthes uses the concept of the alibi in the context of mythology. It can, however, generally be said to visualize the notion of oscillation. 37 The example of the window seems especially fitting. One reason for this might be that seeing equals understanding. An alternation, though, is only palpable if it can be followed. Therefore, it has to be considered in slow motion and contemplated at leisure. In Jim Jarmusch ’ s film Down by Law, Roberto (Roberto Benigni) draws a window on the wall of the prison cell he is sharing with Jack (John Lurie) and Zack (Tom Waits). Eager to improve his English, he asks Jack whether he has to say “ I look at the window ” or “ I look out the window. ” Jack answers: “ [I]n this case, Bob, I am afraid you gotta say I look at the window. ” In this example, the possible alternation is stopped by the window ’ s lack of transparency, which stops the oscillation. 38 In “ Of Other Spaces, ” Foucault, in the context of his heterotopia, illustrates the same mechanism by comparison with a mirror: “ The mirror is, after all, a utopia, since it is a placeless place. In the mirror, I see myself there where I am not, in an unreal, virtual space that opens up behind the surface; I am over there, there where I am not, a sort of shadow that gives my own visibility to myself, that enables me to see myself there where I am absent: such is the utopia of the mirror ” (24). For more information on Foucault ’ s concept, cf. section “ A Final Twist: Forster ’ s Room with a View ” above (117). I Protection of Author or Work 139 would focus more on the plot itself, which would then probably seem rather lengthy — confined, story-wise, to the initially introduced basic formula of boy meets — loses — gets girl; the system of interspersed comments throughout an underlying plot, the interaction of which effects reader responses, would collapse. Derrida states that “ [f]raming always supports and contains that which, by itself, collapses forthwith ” (78 - 79). The non-functioning of the parergonal structure would, in the case of Tom Jones, detract from the experience of reading. According to Goldknopf, the “ result would certainly have been a drastically diminished work, a banal, romantic comedy ” ( “ The Failure of Plot in Tom Jones ” 139). The process of alternation, however, guarantees the reader ’ s active involvement by pushing him or her into an uneasy position. In order to imagine such a complex parergonal structure, one can refer to another Derridean concept introduced by Culler in On Deconstruction. There, Culler presents Derrida ’ s coinage invagination, which, in my opinion, also provides an image for the sort of intrusive narration we find in Tom Jones. A close analysis of parergonality in Fielding ’ s novel reveals its convoluted narrative structure. Derrida, according to Culler, uses the term invagination “ for the complex relation between inside and outside ” : What we think of as the innermost spaces and places of the body — vagina, stomach, intestine — are in fact pockets of externality folded in. What makes them quintessentially inner is partly their difference from flesh and bone but especially the space they mark off and contain, the outside they make inner. An external frame may function as the most intrinsic element of a work, folding itself in[.] (198) The narrator switches position from the pose of being the author of the work to that of a potential friend of the protagonist ’ s. In these poses, he thus seemingly transgresses the boundaries of Tom ’ s fictional reality. Because of the difficulty of simply calling the narrator an extradiegetic one — which, strictly speaking, he is — his intrusions resemble the Derridean pockets of externality, which are folded into the core narrative. In addition, the intimacy the narrator sometimes conveys goes well with the idea that his position at these moments is in the innermost space of the work. The intrusive first-person narrator often explains that his main concern is for the truthfulness of the story: “ for our business is only to record truth ” (666; bk. 14, ch. 6). This is stated by a narrator whose position usually takes the reader out of his or her suspension of disbelief: he disrupts the story and claims, in this disruption, to be concerned with the true presentation of events to the reader. This, in other words, signifies that it is of great importance to the narrator that the reader is always aware of his dependent position. The parergonal constellation leads to a reflection on this very remark. J. F. Smith 140 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses describes the role of the narrator as follows: “ Fielding ’ s narrator foregrounds himself by his intrusiveness. He calls attention to himself as an actual character and to his narration as a narrative act, emphasizing both the artificiality of the plot of Tom Jones and the fictiveness of his ‘ history ’” (2). At the same time, the reader is assured that he is being told the truth. When one considers the role of the narrator as one who emphasizes the fictiveness of the tale, reflection on his remark leads to the realization that one is not being told the truth but is dealing with fiction: the effect of the remark is the exact opposite of its content. The narrator is not recording truth at all, but making up a fictitious tale. Since the narrator ’ s intrusions constitute the frame of the work, this very parergon is responsible for pointing out the fictitiousness of what is called the truth: it tells the truth about the fiction, wherein lies the truth of the frame. The parergonal structure of Tom Jones is a complex one and is rooted in the two opposite narrator roles and the range of narrative positions that ensue, which constitute the narrative strategy of the novel. The way in which the reader is treated by the narrator illustrates the way in which Tom Jones, in the course of his Bildung, is treated by the various forces that influence him. More specifically, since it applies to Tom Jones, this treatment also resembles the way in which a foundling was handled by society in the eighteenth century. In this process, the reader learns, like Tom, to build up and rely on his or her personal judgment; and in this way, the frame teaches the reader to filter a work in the search for true and valid judgment. II Diminution or Amplification of the Work ’ s Political Impact The following sections are concerned with analyzing frameworks designed to serve the necessities coming from the work ’ s political or socio-historical context; this means that the oscillation between work and frame is not triggered by the work, but by its surrounds. With works where an inner necessity requires a frame, the lack is usually the unconventional nature of the work or an unconventional characteristic in its author. This means that the protection of the author is secured without the experience of an actual threat coming from the work ’ s context. If it is the surrounds that triggers the oscillation, however, the protection of the work (and its author) is prompted by an actual threat. When dealing with needs coming from the work ’ s context, the lack that needs to be overcome by a framework is usually (again, as a broad generalisation) the politically offensive nature of the work, or a politically offensive general attitude on the part of its author, rather than the work ’ s apparent unconventionality in terms of genre, for instance. Both possibilities will be illustrated, II Diminution or Amplification of the Work ’ s Political Impact 141 beginning with a work that has the potential to be politically offensive, namely Shakespeare ’ s A Midsummer Night ’ s Dream. Defoe ’ s Moll Flanders then serves to illustrate what devices an author may use to express his or her political attitude against all odds. Generally speaking, the parerga in both texts respond to challenges coming from the surrounds, not to the work ’ s unconventionality in terms of novelty, for instance. Even though Moll Flanders is regarded as one of the first novels in English literature, this kind of novelty is not at issue in the parergonal working under scrutiny. Again, the critical reader could claim that an inherent discussion of politics is an unconventional trait in the work and thus an inner necessity that the parergon serves. However, I maintain that, above all, it is the political context that demands such critical writing. In this sense, the oscillation is triggered by the context, and the parergon circumvents the impossibility of overt political writing by its covert presentation of political issues. Again, I would like to emphasize that the origin of the oscillating mechanism only affects the order of my analyses, not the analyses themselves. Breaking the Fourth Wall: Shakespeare ’ s A Midsummer Night ’ s Dream Before I proceed to the analysis of one specific parergonal function that the epilogue of Shakespeare ’ s A Midsummer Night ’ s Dream serves, I would like to make a few general comments about potential parergonal frameworks that can be deployed around a classic text such as a Shakespearean play. A Midsummer Night ’ s Dream constitutes an example of the numerous canonical texts 39 that are liable to be framed (up) by parerga like, for instance, the entirety of their criticism or the editorial work they have undergone. The fact that countless studies have been written on Shakespeare ’ s comedy forms a parergonal structure around the work. Each of these literary studies is part of an intrusive parergonal pattern that not only enters the work at specific sites but also potentially changes our reading of the play. For this reason, it is a wise strategy to treat criticism as a terminal frame, to use Wolf ’ s terminology of framing. 40 39 According to Furniss and Bath, the concept of the canon is highly controversial, since it tends to marginalize certain groups of authors. Indeed, some say that it favours the writing of “ dead, white, middle-class ” and usually heterosexual men (319), even though this claim is obviously exaggerated and over-simplified. Yet it “ is none the less true that writing by white males is predominant in literary histories and academic syllabuses ” (320). The canon is a manifestation of a defined literary tradition. There are, however, “ traditions rather than a single tradition ” (323). “ [T]hese different traditions overlap and interact with each other in productive ways ” (323). The canon is one of the “ Western narratives of mastery ” that Postmodernism has sought to dispose of (Freedman 189). 40 Wolf ’ s typology is introduced in the section “ Frames, Paratexts, and Typology ” above (24 - 25). The question of the sequence of reading in the first reception of a textual constellation is revisited in the section “ Textual Dialogues: The Reader as a Mediator ” below (182 - 183). In 142 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses This means that the reading of criticism, including any introduction to such a work, ideally comes after the reading of the work in the reception process. Such a procedure makes it possible to define one ’ s own initial critical framework, such as a reading for potential parergonality, before reading other critics ’ contributions. Particular care is required with editorial introductions to literary works; as part of the work ’ s frame of criticism, they need to be read after the work as well, since they provide information that the average reader does not have available before his or her first reception of the work. Editorial introductions are examples of the Derridean observation that the foundation often comes after having come first. 41 Even though they usually refer to facts a reader can only understand after having read the work, they come first in the sequence of textual presentation. Ideally, these editorial comments ought to follow the work so as to avoid this inversion of reading also discussed in Derrida. Conventionally, however, they do not. With editorial introductions, as opposed to paratexts that belong to the work, the reader should therefore ignore the textual sequence: they should be read later, despite having come first. According to J. Hillis Miller, literary critics “ perform a reading in the strong sense ” in order to contribute to the critical corpus which belongs to a ‘ canonized ’ work of fiction ( “ Joseph Conrad ” 104). This means that critics form “ an active responsible response ” instead of merely “ run[ning] the words passively through the mind ’ s ear ” (104). Even though the canon is controversial owing to the exclusions it makes, the process of canonization always implies that a work has to be read before it can be deemed unworthy of the canon: one cannot decide whether a book is worth reading without reading it. J. Hillis Miller puts his finger on the problem by stating that, as soon as one has read a book, it is too late. I have already read it, been affected by it, and passed my judgment, perhaps recorded that judgment for others to read. Which of us, however, would or should want to take someone else ’ s word for what is in a book? Each must read again in his or her turn and bear witness to that reading in his or her turn. ( “ Joseph Conrad ” 104) The problem is twofold: one should not judge without reading, and one cannot read without judging. All the critics ’ testimonies, which bear witness to their readings and judgments, form a vast parergonal structure around a piece of fiction. These testimonies are contradictory or in line with each other, they compete or harmonize, create friction or flow. This body of pluralist voices forms a parergon around each single work. The lack in the work, one could say, addition, I will discuss how a reading of a literary text always qualifies the impact of existing criticism in the section “ Competing Protagonists: Brontë ’ s Jane Eyre and Rhys ’ Wide Sargasso Sea ” below. 41 For a discussion of the sequence of production and reception with reference to introductions, cf. my introduction “ Frameworks, or the Frame at Work ” above (13 - 14). II Diminution or Amplification of the Work ’ s Political Impact 143 is the temptation it places before critics to decode it; it is its very lack of one fixed, inherent meaning. Literary critics produce meaning on the basis of textual structures. As long as there are sites in texts that can be unlocked, the frame is at work, intruding upon the piece of fiction in the course of analyzing and interpreting it. There will always be such sites, since approaches to literature are in constant flux themselves. In addition, interpretative meaning is produced, not extracted from a work. After all, textual meaning is not a finite reservoir which criticism can empty; hence, divergent readings of the same primary text are highly productive in terms of literary criticism. Stanley Fish, one of the major exponents of Reader- Response Criticism, aptly describes the paradigm change that underlies this observation as follows: he opposes “ the assumption that there is a sense [in a literary text], that it is embedded or encoded in the text, and that it can be taken in at a single glance ” (107). Fish criticizes not only the implied disregard for the reading process itself, which is one of the major issues of Reader-Response Criticism, but even more the once-common assumption that there is only one ‘ true ’ sense in a text that needs to be extracted in order to successfully conclude the enterprise of textual interpretation. In an approach to film adaptation, Robert Stam puts this as follows: “ Like poststructuralism, reception theory, too, undermines the notion of a semantic core, a nucleus of meaning, ascribable to novels ” ( “ The Theory and Practice of Adaptation ” 10). Stam contends that “ there is no such transferable core: a single novelistic text comprises a series of verbal signals that can trigger a plethora of possible readings ” (15). Fish also argues that criticism is supposed to engender an interpretative range of meanings that opens up with reference to one single text. We are aware of the fact that the entirety of criticism, of metatextual products (Genette, Palimpsests 4), in reference to one literary work adds up to a pool of critical pluralism (Furniss and Bath 387 - 390). In this sense, interpretation “ becomes open-ended ” (Furniss and Bath 390). Chaotic though the interaction between the entirety of criticism and the work under scrutiny might seem at first, it is well possible to disentangle this convoluted structure by means of the theoretical tool of the parergon. At the very beginning of his subchapter entitled “ The Parergon, ” Derrida describes such a procedure as follows: [To] economize on the abyss: not only save oneself from falling into the bottomless depths by weaving and folding back the cloth to infinity, textual art of the reprise, multiplication of patches within patches, but also establish the laws of reappropriation, formalize the rules which constrain the logic of the abyss and which shuttle between the economic and the aneconomic, the raising [la relève] and the fall, the abyssal operation which can only work toward the relève and that in it which regularly reproduces collapse[.] (37, square brackets enclosing French wording in the original) 144 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses In the context of criticism, this means that, in addition to an infinite number of textual answers to one primary text, partly repeating it (and thus deemed uneconomic), one can establish the rules of critical appropriation in order to grasp the basic mechanism of literary criticism. The parergon constitutes the tool at the edge of the abyssal operation. By adopting this position, its mechanism implicitly formalizes the rules of interaction between critical frame and work. When we consider the entirety of criticism referring to one work, the parergon allows us an insight into the process of literary criticism in general. Criticism thus rises against the work when it accesses it at interstitial sites. It then also collapses through the reaction of the work. It constantly needs to reassess its own methodologies so as to respond to the versatility of a literary work. The work ’ s reaction thus prompts a counter-argumentation on the level of criticism. One of the fields in which criticism was, and still is, particularly active is that of generic categorization; categories, it seems, constitute a first step in the critic ’ s approach to a literary text. As Stanley Fish points out in his essay on Milton ’ s poetry, when one reads Milton ’ s elegy “ Lycidas, ” knowing that the poem is an elegy (as proclaimed by other critics and inherent in the headnote to the poem) immediately triggers certain expectations in the reader. This process applies to the reading of literature in general: the reader is immediately predisposed to perform certain acts, to ‘ find, ’ by looking for, themes (the relationship between natural processes and the careers of men, the efficacy of poetry or of any other action), to confer significances (on flowers, streams, shepherds, pagan deities), to mark out ‘ formal ’ units (the lament, the consolation, the turn, the affirmation of faith, and so on). [The reader ’ s] disposition to perform these acts (and others; the list is not meant to be exhaustive) constitutes a set of interpretive strategies, which, when they are put into execution, become the large act of reading. (113) Shakespeare ’ s plays have been the subject of various attempts to fit them into a system of generic categories, with the initially tripartite structure of history, tragedy, and comedy later being broadened to include the group of romance (encompassing Cymbeline, Pericles, The Winter ’ s Tale, and The Tempest) (Greenblatt 65). No matter how many categories one establishes, however, there will always be (necessary) controversies as to the categorization of certain Shakespearean plays. At the same time, the boundaries between the different genres are not stable, either. Sometimes, not even the individual parts of a work can be consistently categorized (cf. e. g. Susan Snyder ’ s reading of Romeo and Juliet as shifting from comedy to tragedy in the course of the play). When investigating the parergonal efforts of generic frames, one could say that the lack in the ergon might be its featuring of a group of characteristics that II Diminution or Amplification of the Work ’ s Political Impact 145 seem typical of one or the other generic category. At the same time, these features are combined with the reader ’ s desire to categorize the text in order to better understand it. A generic label endows a text with a basic familiarity: “ Genre is a context which [. . .] allow[s] us to read the text with greater confidence and insight ” (Furniss and Bath 265). Both definitions of genres and applications of genre labels, however, are characterized by a “ disquieting instability ” (266). According to Furniss and Bath, “ not only genres themselves but also our conceptions of them are historically changing ” (268). In addition, the readers ’ tendency to generate as well as to reveal organized structures within which they can experience closure often adds a subtle violence to generic readings. After all, every single text can be read for what it is at the same time as for what it is not. Frow puts this as follows: I try to stress that genres are not fixed and pre-given forms by thinking about texts as performances of genre rather than reproductions of a class to which they belong, and by following Derrida in stressing the importance of edges and margins — that is, in stressing the open-endedness of generic frames. (Genre 3) The generic parergon in particular is characterized by its indefinite beginning and ending. 42 Through the shifts and divergences in definitions of genre, generic readings are in constant flux as well. Rigid generic structures would only impede the production of interpretation. At the same time, a literary analysis can hardly be executed without a theoretical frame: obviously, my analysis of the parergon in literature investigates the texts through the prism of Derrida ’ s concept. In the same way as generic labels raise the reader ’ s expectations, so do the theoretical premises in this study. After all, according to Eagleton in Literary Theory, “ without some kind of theory, however unreflective and implicit, we would not know what a ‘ literary work ’ was in the first place, or how we were to read it ” (xii). Literary criticism in general, and the theoretical frame in particular, are therefore necessary frames around every single literary work. Still, we need to deal with them consciously so as not to let their parergonal force influence our own reading and criticism too much. A second parergonal framework around all classic texts is constituted by the sum of the editorial emendations they have undergone in the course of time. Even though all editors of Shakespeare have probably aimed at presenting some sort of master text, an “ unobstructed, clear window into Shakespeare ’ s mind ” (Greenblatt 71), all their efforts have failed, mostly because Shakespeare ’ s plays 42 Cf. Derrida ’ s catalogue of questions referring to the boundaries of the parergon: “ Where does the frame take place. Does it take place. Where does it begin. Where does it end. What is its internal limit. Its external limit. And its surface between the two limits ” (63), quoted in the section “ Mechanisms, Functions, and the Effect of the Parergonal Framework ” above (61). 146 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses are nowadays conceived as “ working scripts, composed and continually reshaped as part of a collaborative commercial enterprise in competition with other similar enterprises ” (68). 43 Obviously, this viewpoint necessarily has to dispense with the idea of Shakespeare as a “ solitary, inspired genius ” (68) as well as with “ the dream of the master text ” that, above all, aims at a certain transparency in terms of relationships between the various editions (71). An “ authentic Shakespeare, ” according to de Grazia and Stallybrass, “ is itself a problematic category, based on a metaphysics of origin and presence that poststructuralism has taught us to suspect ” (256). Even more, Peter Stallybrass criticizes editors ’ failure to realize what the real problem of a Shakespearean emendation is, namely the lack of fixed orthography as well as the lack of marked emendation ( “ Shakespeare, the Individual, and the Text ” 600). The editorial project, according to Greenblatt, has thus produced quite the opposite of transparency. After Shakespeare ’ s work had been edited and commented on by, among others, Rowe, Pope, and Warburton (Johnson 38 - 39), Samuel Johnson published the edition that gained academic respectability. As early as 1765, he remarks in his preface to The Plays of William Shakespeare: Of all the publishers, clandestine or professed, their negligence and unskillfulness has by the late revisers been sufficiently shown. The faults of all are indeed numerous and gross, and have not only corrupted many passages perhaps beyond recovery, but have brought others into suspicion, which are only obscured by obsolete phraseology, or by the writer ’ s unskillfulness and affectation. To alter is more easy than to explain, and temerity is a more common quality than diligence. Those who saw that they must employ conjecture to a certain degree were willing to indulge it a little further. Had the authour published his own works, we should have sat quietly down to disentangle his intricacies, and clear his obscurities; but now we tear what we cannot loose, and eject what we happen not to understand. (442) The problem with an edition of Shakespeare, according to Johnson, is thus twofold: on the one hand, editors have generally been too liberal in changing, adding to, and conjecturing on Shakespeare ’ s text; and on the other hand, there has never been a publication by the author himself. This idea of authorship is nowadays considered problematic as well: the present-day notion of an 43 In this context, one of the comments made by Fielding ’ s narrator in Tom Jones (as previously quoted in an abridged version) seems particularly fitting: “ Reader, it is impossible we should know what sort of person thou wilt be; for, perhaps, thou may ’ st be as learned in human nature as Shakespeare himself was, and, perhaps, thou may ’ st be no wiser than some of his editors. Now, lest this latter should be the case, we think it proper, before we go any farther together, to give thee a few wholesome admonitions; that thou may ’ st not as grossly misunderstand and misrepresent us, as some of the said editors have misunderstood and misrepresented their author ” (453; bk. 10, ch. 1); cf. section “ The Hybrid: Fielding ’ s Tom Jones ” above (135). II Diminution or Amplification of the Work ’ s Political Impact 147 individual author was not yet established in the Renaissance period. According to Peter Stallybrass, our understanding of an individual author would have appeared problematic or even absurd to a Renaissance dramatist (602). By contrasting the age of Shakespeare to that of Milton, Stallybrass summarizes the problems confronting Shakespearean editors as follows: Before, writing as [a] composite process, involving many hands; after, the individual author ’ s control of every stage of the process. Before patronage; after, the market economy. Before, the shifting orthography in which word bleeds into word; after, the standardized orthography of the individual word. (609) Stallybrass concedes that these oppositions are deliberately crude (and sometimes perhaps even incorrect as generalizations: after all, Milton also had to delegate some of his writing because of his blindness), so as to illustrate the shifts that took place in the course of the seventeenth century. What is very important, however, is his observation that, owing to the lack of standardized orthography, there is no “ rule whereby one can tell one word from another ” (600). Shakespeare ’ s fondness of puns has obscured his writing even more. The level of individual words is a good example of the parergonal intrusion of editorial emendation. 44 What de Grazia and Stallybrass call the materiality of the Shakespearean text, namely its featuring of “ old typefaces and spellings, irregular line and scene divisions, title pages and other paratextual matter, and textual cruxes ” (256), refuses “ to yield to modern norms ” (266). This refusal “ bears witness to the specific history of the texts [these features] make up, a history so specific that it cannot comply with modern notions of correctness and intelligibility. ” Since the text defies contemporary norms, it also casts them into doubt: our norms leave no room for the “ mutable Renaissance signifier, ” because in our system, most signifiers are not linguistically vagrant (266). A Renaissance text allowed a word such as hair “ to appear as ‘ hair, ’ ‘ heir, ’ ‘ heire, ’ ‘ heere, ’ and ‘ here ’ and heir as ‘ heir, ’ ‘ aire, ’ ‘ are, ’ ‘ haire, ’ and ‘ here ’” (265 - 266). This kind of slippage inherent in Renaissance texts needs to be contained. This task, however, is problematic in itself. On the one hand, contemporary readers have already “ internalized the modernizing process that the editor performs on the text ” (266), while on the other, there is no room for this kind of slippage of a word in the strict orthography we use today. It therefore needs to be represented in the form of printed variants. This, of course, is highly problematic. In contemporary editions, silent emendational matters such as typeface problems are discussed in the “ Note on the Text ” preceding the play, if 44 For examples of word emendations and striking semantic shifts, cf. de Grazia and Stallybrass (262 - 266). They discuss the editorial representations of weyard, weyward, wayward, and weird as well as of air, hair, and heir in Macbeth. 148 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses they are mentioned at all. Such editions try to deal with spelling issues by presenting various renditions of the same word, phrase, or passage in the form of notes, mostly footnotes, that also indicate the printed source text. The footnote, however, is conventionally regarded as a locus of a different ranking than the text proper: the variant chosen in the edition itself is thus assigned a different rank from those relegated to the footnote. Such a representation of textual variance is certainly inadequate. Still, one can hardly imagine a different (or better) means of representation on the printed page. If all variants were printed at the same textual site, they would become illegible. If they were printed consecutively as variants or stacked vertically, we would still have a sort of visual ranking. Electronic versions of a Shakespearean text could, perhaps, answer the problem of linguistic slippage: by displaying constantly changing variants, for instance, they could illustrate the problem at the core of each edition. Even though an electronic document could circumvent the choice of any one variant, however, the task of displaying an editorial history would probably lead to great confusion during the reading process. The editorial parergon is thus omnipresent in a reading of a classic text; and in the form of editorial intrusion, it accompanies all Shakespearean texts. Usually, this leads to a parallel reading of both the text and the footnotes at the bottom of each page (up to half of which is often occupied by the footnotes themselves) or at the end of the play. These footnotes, to use Wolf ’ s typology once more, qualify as internal framing. This kind of parergonal framing can also bear an ideological imprint. Different editors simply engage with, or at least allow for, different discourses and will thus select one spelling over another, and encourage a reading for a pun that others would not emphasize. In The Ethics of Reading, J. Hillis Miller makes the following comment with reference to a particular footnote in Kant: “ Footnotes, as any astute reader will know, are often places where an author gives himself away in one way or another in the act of fabricating a protective cover ” (15). In this sense, footnotes in general have huge potential for parergonality, since they usually provide information that complements or qualifies what has been said in the text. The author, according to Miller, “ turns back on himself, ” in that he reads his own text and thus becomes “ the same ” as the reader (15). Editorial footnotes are a special case, in that they present the collected comments made on a work in the course of the editorial process. Thus, they work in at least two ways: first of all, they have a critical potential by favouring certain readings of passages; these comments undoubtedly channel our reading. In addition, the general understanding that editorial footnotes provide an objective presentation of an eclectic work can indeed function as a protective cover for a specific editor ’ s personal choice of arrangement. At the same time, the editor also turns back on himself or gives himself away through II Diminution or Amplification of the Work ’ s Political Impact 149 the mere presence of the footnotes. Needless to say, a detailed analysis of the parergonality of such an internal framing would be highly challenging. The sum of critical writing on a classic text, together with all its various editions, form two potential parergonal frameworks that are difficult to evaluate, even though they present clear conditions as to where the primary text is accessed by the frame: the textual evidence in criticism, as well as the words or passages in editions are the sites of parergonal intrusion. These two parergonal frameworks, which probably apply to most literary texts in varying degrees, can never be fully accounted for by each individual critic or reader, but they need to be met consciously. In the same way as it does not make sense to read the entirety of critical writing on one work before writing one ’ s own, a critic does not need to be an editorial specialist to write on Shakespeare. Critics do need to be aware of a potential channelling in their reading, however. After these excursuses, I will now turn to my more specific analysis of the epilogue in A Midsummer Night ’ s Dream. Above all, I read the paregonally functioning epilogue of Shakespeare ’ s play as an answer to Renaissance censorship. It literally mediates between the reality of the audience and the fictional reality of the play. In this sense, it performs what has been called the breaking of the fourth wall: it addresses the audience directly and disposes of the invisible barrier between the stage and the auditorium, or between the actors and the audience. In case the play were understood as a challenge to the current political order, the epilogue reminds those who are offended that they are merely dealing with a dream: If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended: That you have but slumbered here While these visions did appear; And this weak and idle theme, No more yielding but a dream, Gentles, do not reprehend; If you pardon, we will mend. [. . .] (5.1.401 - 408) This elegant circumvention of potential censorship simultaneously allows the play to articulate political criticism. The epilogue functions as a parergonal frame between Renaissance politics and the work itself, a vessel of political criticism. Political censorship has always been part of the politics of suppression. Censorship in literature represents the desperate attempt to control writers ’ and readers ’ (political) views; this, of course, has been the case in various epochs, usually in connection with an autocratic system. The Renaissance serves to epitomize the role and devices used in literature so as to evade censorship and to escape political persecution. At the end of the sixteenth 150 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses century, Renaissance authorities (meaning Queen Elizabeth I and, later, King James I) empowered the Master of the Revels, who had been placed in charge of organizing entertainment at court, 45 to conduct censorship. Clare describes this act as follows: In 1581 Elizabeth I gave a commission to the recently appointed Master of the Revels, Edmund Tilney, which contained a statement of the duties with which he was to be entrusted. Such powers were now invested in him as virtually to transmute his office from purveyor of royal entertainment to dramatic censor. (169) Montrose adds that “ [b]y such means as these [censorship, licensing, and the payment of fees to the Master of the Revels], the royal government at once enjoyed and protected but also sought to limit, control, and profit from the professional theatre ” (The Purpose of Playing 99). This means that Elizabeth created the office of the Master of the Revels to keep the theatre “ under surveillance, ” to “ ensur[e] high quality in her own entertainment, ” and to “ initiat[e] the recentralization of the theater under court patronage ” (Patterson, “ Bottom ’ s Up ” 167). If a play implicitly criticized the authorities, if it mocked the monarchy or if it contained a suspicious description of a rebellion, both the author and the actors faced the threat of imprisonment, “ physical torture and dismemberment ” (Freedman 179). 46 Usually, the offending passages in the text had to be changed or deleted. Interestingly, Patterson ’ s study of Renaissance censorship shows that severe punishment took place less often than we would expect. According to Patterson, this was the result of an “ implicit social contract between authors and authorities, [. . .] intelligible to all parties at the time, as being a fully deliberate and conscious arrangement ” (Censorship and Interpretation 17). One central device to guarantee such a contract and the ensuing “ noncensorship ” (Patterson 17) was the conventional apology in the epilogue of a play, the parergon to the work. 45 According to Suerbaum, the court engaged external theatre companies: “ Der englische Hof unterhielt ein eigenes Vergnügungswesen, zu dem auch theatralische Veranstaltungen wie die prunkvoll ausgestatteten Maskenspiele, court masques, gehörten, aber kein eigentliches Hoftheater. Man bezog statt dessen Schauspielaufführungen von den öffentlichen Bühnen, die normale Repertoirstücke, teilweise überarbeitet und dem Zweck angepasst, in den Räumlichkeiten des Hofes darboten ” (40). 46 Schabert comments on the practice of censorship as follows: “ Allein der Verdacht einer böswilligen Anspielung auf die Erbfolge oder die neuen schottischen Könige konnte zur Schliessung der Theater und zur Inhaftierung der Schauspieler und Autoren führen ” (129). The Licensing Act of 1737 transferred the function of stage censorship to the Lord Chamberlain (Encyclopædia Britannica Online). Interestingly, it was only as late as 1968 that Parliament passed the new Theatres Act that abolished the Lord Chamberlain ’ s duty as censor of theatrical performances (Stevenson 304). II Diminution or Amplification of the Work ’ s Political Impact 151 During the court revels, the whole of the nobility gathered around the sovereign and opened the court to those members of Elizabethan society that provided entertainment, namely actors and dramatists. In this sense, the revels opened up the boundaries between groups that had very little in common in their everyday lives. The revels were, according to Barroll, usually occasioned by the aristocrats displaying their magnificence in generosity towards the actors and by executing their Christian duty of charity: The visits of professional actors to court at the time of Christmas revelry and Shrovetide “ carnival ” were, I would argue, very much a function of this notion of magnificence. At Christmas the sovereign as often as not made a journey to a central palace such as Whitehall or, later, Hampton Court, and [. . .] gathered the nobility together in an atmosphere of general holiday activities. Noble weddings often took place at this time between the middle of December and the middle of January[.] (96) Not only did these kinds of revels partly take place during carnival time, but the suspension of hierarchies (at least in terms of gathering members of all ranks in one location) constitutes a typical feature of the carnival itself. In his study Rabelais and His World, Bakhtin inquires into the nature of the carnivalesque, stating that, “ during carnival there is a temporary suspension of all hierarchic distinctions and barriers among men and of certain norms and prohibitions of usual life ” (15). The theme of the mask is inherent in this process and creates not only equality between people of different ranks, but even an inversion of the normal social order: the lower classes take over for a specific period of time in so far as attention is focused on the entertainment provided by them. Terry Eagleton points to the fact that the carnival period might even be institutionalized by the authorities in order to create a political outlet for the powerless majority of the people: “ Carnival, after all, is a licensed affair in every sense, a permissible rupture of hegemony, a contained popular blow-off as disturbing and relatively ineffectual as a revolutionary work of art. As Shakespeare ’ s Olivia remarks, there is no slander in an allowed fool ” (Walter Benjamin 148). Stallybrass and White also openly wonder whether “ carnival is not simply a form of social control of the low by the high and therefore serves the interests of that very official culture which it apparently opposes ” (13). Still, there is room for actual subversion even within an institutionalized suspension of hierarchies. When the Renaissance revelries are compared with this kind of carnival, it becomes clear why the content of the plays potentially aims at touching upon sensitive topics, and why the Master of the Revels had to be aware of these contents when conducting censorship. Censorship was met with caution: Shakespeare ’ s epilogues were a precaution in case a play was read as a critical representation of the actual court order, which might offend the authorities. In the same way as the carnivalesque was potentially institutionalized, so was its 152 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses excuse in the form of a paratext read by an actor. Barroll agrees that “ there were particular ideological circumstances other than some generally aristocratic love of drama that might bring these common playing companies to the royal palace in the first place ” (92): While carnival as communal celebration is one concept that seems to legitimize a social miscegenation in which servants, rather than dutifully obeying a noble ’ s bidding, become, at least temporarily, the social cynosure — watched and listened to more or less quietly by an assemblage of rich, ranked, and often royal auditors — such interconstituency gestures need also to be viewed as a reaffirmation: an enactment of the order of things as understood not only by monarch and nobility, but also by those they considered their underlings. (92) The revelries, like the carnival, were, according to Barroll, institutionalized in order to reaffirm the hegemonic hierarchy of the monarchy. The leading members of society let the lower classes, such as actors, enact an artificial hierarchy and participate in their festivities in order to display their real position of power. The lower classes were temporarily granted a certain freedom, in order to show them that this moment was extraordinary in that the prevailing order was inverted. The temporary suspension or inversion of the hierarchies might lose its subversive edge by being officially sanctioned. At the same time, the transgression was still controlled by the Master of the Revels, which attests to the subversive potential inherent in even a licensed offence. A play, therefore, needs the versatility to accommodate both variants: while seeming to present only a moderate and temporary transgression, it can actually commit a political offence. A play can thus be designed to amuse its audience while, at the same time, this very audience is the target of its inherent political criticism. A Midsummer Night ’ s Dream manages to walk this tightrope with the aid of its parergonal frame. Shakespeare ’ s company was always favoured by the nobility: it enjoyed high-ranking patronage during Elizabeth ’ s reign, and its members even became the “ King ’ s Men ” when James I ascended the throne in 1603. 47 Thanks to the nobility ’ s favourable attitude, it could afford a certain degree of political offence in the plays it performed. In the Renaissance, people were not ‘ political ’ 47 Barton gives a more detailed account of the patronage enjoyed by Shakespeare ’ s company: Shakespeare “ is likely, indeed, to have performed there [at the locations of revelries] with other members of his company, not only in plays from the repertory of the King ’ s Men but in court masques, which relied upon professional actors for the speaking parts. As James ’ s own liveried servants, granted their royal patent only a few weeks after he was proclaimed king, Shakespeare ’ s company enjoyed a certain prestige. They had already been fortunate, during the latter part of Elizabeth ’ s reign, in the patronage of George Carey, second Lord Hunsdon, the queen ’ s second cousin and, from 1597, Lord Chamberlain ” (123). Before they became the King ’ s Men, they were The Lord Chamberlain ’ s Men or The Lord Chamberlain His Servants. II Diminution or Amplification of the Work ’ s Political Impact 153 in the sense in which we use the word nowadays: they did not have a choice of political standpoint within their monarchy. Even though Shakespeare “ made no arbitrary separation between what is politics and what is not [. . .], he showed throughout his career a lively concern with men not only in their private and personal, but in their public and formal, relations ” (Knights 86 - 87). After all, politics also refers to the “ [c]onduct of private affairs, ” and is thus not restricted only to government matters (OED 12: 32, def. 3.f.). The OED Online also defines politics as the “ assumptions or principles relating to or underlying any activity, theory, or attitude, esp. when concerned with questions of power and status in a society ” (def. 3.b.). Hence, an author like Shakespeare touched upon politics when investigating the political context in which his characters were placed, or when inquiring into the “ questions of power and subordination, of mutual relations within a constituted society, of the ends and methods of public action ” (Knights 87). Montrose puts this as follows: The theatrical power [. . .] did not lie in the explicit advocacy of specific political positions but rather in the implicit but pervasive suggestion — inhering in the basic modalities of theatrical representation and dramatic conflict — that all such positions are relationally located and circumstantially shaped and that they are motivated by the passions and interests of their advocates. (The Purpose of Playing 105) A political standpoint is inherently taken when describing the circumstances, the social network, and the motivations that make a character (on stage) act as he or she does. In the context of censorship, such political double-readings could harm an author or a company. In her essay “ Bottom ’ s Up: Festive Theory in A Midsummer Night ’ s Dream, ” which investigates the transgressive nature of the May festival 48 that takes place during Shakespeare ’ s play, Patterson detects political actions which challenge the (excessively) strict authority of Theseus, Duke of Athens: not only does Oberon, the king of the fairies, clearly humiliate his queen Titania by tricking her into yielding her changeling boy for the love of the weaver Bottom, a representative of the lower orders of society, but Bottom also symbolically inverts the top and bottom positions by wearing an ass ’ s head: the ass presents a pun with the “ vulgar, dialectical spelling of arse ” (173), a different kind of bottom, which is now being positioned at the top, on Bottom ’ s head (172 - 175). This incident represents the inherent potential of political inversion: the one ranking among those at the top of the hierarchy falls 48 In Shakespeare ’ s Festive Comedy: A Study of Dramatic Form and Its Relation to Social Custom, Barber gives a detailed account of the May game and its depiction in A Midsummer Night ’ s Dream (119 - 162). 154 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses madly in love with the one who literally constitutes the bottom of it. In terms of Titania ’ s manipulation of Bottom, Montrose analyzes this incident as a “ fantasy of male dependency upon woman. ” When we consider the fact that Titania herself is manipulated by Oberon, however, it indirectly becomes a “ fantasy of male control over woman ” ( “‘ Shaping Fantasies ’” 65). The latter aspect is also inherently present in Hippolyta, the defeated Amazon queen, who is forced to marry Theseus (67). In a political double-reading, this not only constitutes a critique of authoritarian power in general, but it also undermines the potential power of a woman, such as Queen Elizabeth, by depicting women forcibly subjected to the patriarchy. After all, it is no surprise that the rule of a woman would have potential repercussions within a patriarchal society. In order to counteract a politically offensive reading, an apologetic epilogue was therefore added to the play, unmasking the apparent reality of the theatre as fiction. Such an epilogue functions as a mediator between play and audience: the actor delivering it steps out of the fictional reality of the play and into the reality of the audience in order to apologize for any possible offence; and, at the same time, by staying in his role (in the costume of Puck, for instance) he marks his close connection with the play. Frow comments that, especially in “ [t]he theater, where the frame is manifested largely as a visible architectural border ” (223), “ [w]e have been taught to naturalize the space of the aesthetic object, to lose ourselves in an inside which is as unlimited as the world, and this means that our ‘ natural ’ inclination is to see the work in the same way we see the world, without awareness of the edge of our eyes ’ scan ” (Marxism and Literary History 224). The idea that the frame between two realities becomes an absence, a wall broken down, applies particularly well to the theatre with its two adjacent spaces: owing to the suspension of disbelief prompted by the theatrical performance “ the darkness around the stage disappear[s] ” (224). This conventional setting, as well as the sequence of events in the performance of a play, is what constitutes Goffman ’ s theatrical frame (124 - 155). At the end of the play, “ the final applause wipes the make-believe away. The characters that were projected are cast aside, as are those aspects of the viewers that entered sympathetically into the unfolding drama, and persons in the capacity of players or performers greet persons in the capacity of theatregoers ” (Goffman 131 - 132). In the case of A Midsummer Night ’ s Dream, this moment already occurs before the final applause, with the actor addressing the audience directly in an epilogue. A potential political double-reading is thus countered by the establishment of one actor straddling two realities, who suddenly emerges from the fictional reality of the play to assure the audience of its fictionality. One might say that the actor is standing at the location of the passe-partout at this point: he or she marks the hybrid realm of transcendentality by participating in both realities, that of the play and that of the audience. II Diminution or Amplification of the Work ’ s Political Impact 155 This bridging of two realities is also mirrored in the setting of the play, which, in A Midsummer Night ’ s Dream, presents two neighbouring and seemingly incompatible worlds. These two competing realms are introduced in the guise of a playful romantic comedy. In the play, the court of Athens lies immediately adjacent to the fairy-tale world of the forest, which, according to Homan, is “ a world incomprehensible to reason, a world not fully defined by the laws of civilization ” (80). The court, then, is the hierarchically structured world of civilized human beings. Yet, even though these two worlds seem to stand in opposition, they are not antithetical: “ [i]t is all one world; the same moon shines on the mortals and the supernatural overseers ” (Homan 83). This is the central issue of the play: even though it is seemingly light-hearted and paints the colourful pictures of a fairy-tale world, both worlds — the courtly and the natural one — are hierarchically structured and resemble each other in their concern with rank and order. Knights comments on this issue as follows: “ Their [Shakespeare ’ s plays ’ ] real meaning is only revealed when political life is seen, as Shakespeare makes us see it, in terms of the realities of human life and human relationships ” (104). Not only do the two realms of nature and civilization within the play resemble each other, but they also mirror the hierarchically structured social order of the Elizabethan Age. Even though A Midsummer Night ’ s Dream is not a political play in the modern sense, the resemblance between stately order, natural order, and the Elizabethan social order raises the question of authority. Tennenhouse observes that “ the problem which authority has to master is a problem with authority itself, authority grown archaic. At the outset, the law seems to serve only the will of the father. A comedic resolution obviously requires either the independence of the law or the generosity of the father ” (111). Egeus, Hermia ’ s father, for instance, would prefer Demetrius as a match for his daughter; Hermia, however, is in love with Lysander. According to Athenian law, a father is responsible for choosing his daughter ’ s husband; however, it is Theseus who finally makes the decision in favour of the daughter ’ s choice: Egeus, I will overbear your will; For in the temple, by and by, with us These couples shall eternally be knit. (4.1.176 - 8) Theseus thus decides in favour of love and allows Hermia to marry Lysander, while Demetrius is to marry Helena. Tennenhouse ascribes this inversion of the law to the “ formation of an authority figure who overrules the existing law of the father ” (111). Such an authority figure is present in the natural realm of the forest, which, as the world of unreason, is the location where the webs of love are woven and where the couples find each other after they have eloped from the civilized 156 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses world of Athens. As a counterworld, the forest underlines the inversion of the law by producing a second authority figure, namely Oberon, king of the fairies (Tennenhouse 111). At the same time, it features Puck as an agent who easily crosses the boundaries between nature and civilization, fictional reality and illusion: Oberon represents the traditional alternative to patriarchal law. He is the figure of carnival, and the introduction of this principle into the play triggers a series of inversions. As if Titania ’ s playing the role of an unruly woman were not enough to tell what this is all about, Puck reproduces similar forms of inversion among the Athenians — both lovers and mechanicals — who have wandered into the woods. Such inversions — of gender, age, status, even of species — violate all the categories organising Elizabethan reality itself. (Tennenhouse 111) The inversion of status and species refers to the fact that Puck ’ s love potion triggers a liaison between the unruly queen and the weaver Bottom wearing a donkey ’ s head. At the same time, Puck also meddles with the emotions of the four young dissidents. Symptomatically, Puck not only figures as the leading agent in this confusion, but he is also the one who reads the epilogue: he is the agent of parergonality and holds the power to transgress all the boundaries set up within and around the fictional world. When, on the one hand, one takes into consideration the fact that the play itself is part of the revels, a form of Elizabethan carnival, the topic of political authority and potential inversion is clearly underscored. On the other hand, Tennenhouse makes a valid point when he concludes that, “ if Theseus authorises certain inversions of power relations by situating them within the framework of festival and art, then it is also true that the introduction of disorder into the play ultimately authorises political authority ” (112). This, again, supports the notion that this kind of inversion is a form of social control of the lower ranks by the high; and again, it serves the interests of the authority that it apparently opposes. Nevertheless, the implicit social contract between authors and authorities bears witness to a certain anxiety as regards this sort of inversion. At the same time, it is not only the notion of inversion that leads to a parallel reading of the fictional politics in relation to real-life politics, but also the doubled mise-en-abyme relationship of the revels within the revels and the play within the play. The play ends with Theseus and Hippolyta ’ s marriage festivities. Theseus calls Philostrate, his Master of the Revels, and asks: What revels are in hand? Is there no play To ease the anguish of a torturing hour? [. . .] What masque, what music? How shall we beguile The lazy time if not with some delight? (5.1.36 - 41) II Diminution or Amplification of the Work ’ s Political Impact 157 The Duke chooses “ [a] tedious brief scene of young Pyramus / [a]nd his love Thisbe, very tragical mirth ” (5.1.56 - 57) played by “ [h]ard-handed men that work in Athens here ” (5.1.72). What follows is a persiflage of Ovid ’ s tale from Metamorphoses. Even though it is approached with great seriousness on the part of the actors, it turns out to be a mockery. The play within the play mirrors the way in which plays were integrated into court life. Barroll states that “ the comic exaggerations of a seasoned player (Shakespeare) may nonetheless have resonated with the class distinctions of the court as we observe Pyramus and Thisbe tolerated as part of Theseus ’ wedding-celebration ” (96). This sort of resonance forms exactly the subversive element in Shakespeare ’ s play. Not only is the choice and quality of the play within the play potentially projected onto the actual revels Shakespeare is otherwise depicting, but so is the play ’ s questioning of authoritarian law structures. As if to underscore the boundary between the fictional and the actual reality, and thus invite a potential parallel reading, Theseus comments on how the actors create the theatrical illusion as follows: “ The best in this kind [actors] are but shadows; and the worst are no / worse, if imagination amend them ” (5.1.205 - 6). Even though a play wants its audience to submerge itself in its fictional reality, Theseus emphasizes that actors are “ but shadows ” and thus cannot really have an impact outside the reality of the theatre. Hallett Smith comments that Theseus underlines the constructedness of the theatrical reality by claiming that “ [a]ctors are shadows, [. . .] pale imitations of reality, who must be supported by the imagination of the audience if they are to be taken seriously ” (131). This element within the play also works towards a mediation between play and audience. Moreover, the practice of adding an apology to the play is treated as well: Quince the carpenter, in the role of Prologue, plays with this issue: If we offend, it is with our good will. That you should think, we come not to offend, But with good will. To show our simple skill. (5.1.108 - 110) In his notes, Foakes comments on these lines as follows: “ Quince apparently reads from a scroll, garbling the sense by mistaking the punctuation ” (120n). The last two lines should “ [c]orrectly read ” : “ That you should think we come, not to offend, / But with good will to show our simple skill ” (121n). Quince then goes on to dismantle the illusion of the theatre in an attempt to explain why there is going to be a play at all. By this means, the “ prologue will break whatever subsequent illusions the actors may establish ” (Homan 94). The personified prologue to the play within the play thus performs exactly the same task as Puck does in the epilogue. When the internal play is finished, however, Theseus demands: “ No epilogue, I pray you; for your play needs no excuse ” 158 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses (5.1.335). Not only is the play a persiflage of Ovid ’ s original tale, but the Duke ’ s treatment of the theatrical performance is also highly satirical. It shows, once more, that on a day of revels, Quince is allowed to turn the courtly world topsyturvy. Puck proceeds analogously in terms of Shakespeare ’ s play. Once the play within the play is finished, the play itself is almost over. For this reason, actual theatrical convention is observed soon after it has been treated with satirical condescension. Theseus ’ previous remarks thus resonate when Puck addresses the audience directly in his last soliloquy, which functions as an epilogue. Puck calls the actors “ shadows ” (5.1.401), and if the play should possibly have offended in any way, the audience, and especially the nobility, are recommended to imagine they merely dreamt what they have just seen. This recommendation diminishes the inherent potential for offence. Puck breaks the fourth wall and suspends the suspension of disbelief by stepping out of his role into the realm of the audience and by pointing out that the whole play was a mere illusion, a midsummer night ’ s dream. By offering to make amends for any potential offence, Puck attests to the possibility of the play ’ s power to manipulate the audience. Even though actors are but shadows, they have the power to access the audience ’ s imagination. In so far as the text qualifies the potentially offensive elements of the play, it also bears witness to their subversive power. This double logic is a typical feature of the parergon. While it establishes the boundary between the play and reality, it also invites the violation of this boundary by a comparison between the two. This means that, while the frame qualifies the play, it simultaneously underscores its power. Puck illustrates precisely this mechanism by qualifying as well as underlining the play ’ s power. The notion of the dream embodies this subversive power as well. The dream, in psychoanalytical terms, is one of the channels through which we have access to our unconscious. According to Freud, we know of the existence of the unconscious in three ways: “ through dreams, through parapraxes, principally slips of the tongue; and through the technique of analysis and its main tool, free association ” (Childs and Fowler 191). Whereas our memory is temporally limited, “ from the unconscious nothing ever goes away ” (191). The conscious only presents a selection of perceptions; the rest are stored and repressed in the unconscious. The dream is a stage that parallels everyday reality; it is the stage where the repressed can act, narrate, and show. In this sense, the relationship between reality and dream also has features of the carnivalesque, since the repressed has the power to enter our conscious in a sort of inversion. Labelling a text a dream thus implicitly evokes this idea of providing a site for that which should not make an appearance. In her psychoanalytical reading of Shakespeare ’ s play, Freedman pays particular attention to the text ’ s inherent subversive energies. According to II Diminution or Amplification of the Work ’ s Political Impact 159 her, Shakespeare ’ s audience is constantly “ asked to determine the status of various imaginative experiences ” (183). The audience is invited to evaluate the various comparisons made in the play with the actual social order: “ By punishing those who make unlawful comparisons between themselves and others, A Midsummer Night ’ s Dream seeks to preserve a rigidly hierarchical social order against the threats of encroaching bourgeois individualism ” (184). Hermia, for instance, wants to compare herself to her father by making her own choice of a husband. Titania wants “ to play both lord and lady ” and thus questions and challenges Oberon ’ s position. Bottom not only inverts the social hierarchy, but also “ desire[s] to play every part in the production of Pyramus and Thisby ” (185, cf. 1.2.16 and 1.2.42): he thus “ threatens the success ” of the play by putting himself in a superior position to the others. When the audience translates these unlawful comparisons to the actual social order, they clearly jeopardize “ the success of a collaborative production we term Elizabethan social reality ” (185). In so far as the play, which stages unauthorized acts, is finally termed a mere dream, Freedman contends, A Midsummer Night ’ s Dream evades censorship in that “ it visibly inscribes something only to make it appear as having disappeared ” (195). Even though the unruly are punished, however, their unruliness is not erased: it is put under erasure. 49 In this sense, Shakespeare ’ s text is in control of the boundary between the real and the imaginary, or between waking and dreaming. This is the text ’ s strategy to control censorship. Greenfield remarks that Freudian readings of the play “ pursue the strong impulse to emphasize a dark underside of the play ” (339). In an alternative reading, she suggests accepting the dreams within the play and the play-as-adream as “ valid verbal, visual, and emotional constructs. They are autonomous and significantly experiential in themselves, rather than ‘ masks ’ or displacements of some ‘ real ’ meaning that has been translated and obfuscated by a concealed operant located somewhere within the dreamer ” (333). Even though she suggests that Freudian readings underscore a dark underside of the play, her accessing the dream reality directly as representing the “ dreamlike experiential mode ” of the play itself does not disarm the overall subversive potential of the play. Quite the contrary: treating this experiential mode as an equivalent to the fictional (not dreamlike) reality of the play constitutes a threat to a rigid order as well. Derrida aptly comments on the quality of dream reminiscences as follows: This morning ’ s decision: upon waking, take notes on what remains of certain of my dreams, before they sink back into oblivion. Retain in particular those — they are finally rather rare — that already have a verbal consistency. This promises them an 49 In the section “ The Average and the Individual: Everyman Meets Roth ’ s Everyman ” below, I will introduce this concept originally taken from Heidegger in more detail (207). 160 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses ideal identity, an autonomous existence of sorts, at the same time lighter and more solid. For me, the duration of these words is like the solitary persistence of a wreck. ( “ Biodegradables ” 812) In terms of Shakespeare ’ s play, the dream label as such does not just undo what has been verbally stated in the (potential) dream; it endows it with an autonomous existence. The epilogue does not erase political criticism, but adopts a clever strategy by qualifying it. The dream label for something that has just occurred in the reality of wakefulness is like the rhetorical device of qualifying a statement with a preceding it goes without saying: what has just happened, like what is then said, is hedged but not non-existent. It has an existence of its own for which its author bears no responsibility. The status of potentially being a dream provides a text with immense subversive power, since it then lacks conscious authorship and is of a different rank from a daytime account: it is less controllable and evades any charges of responsibility. The epilogue of A Midsummer Night ’ s Dream uses exactly this qualifying strategy in order to hide its subversive power: it instructs the audience to consider the play a dream if it should have offended. The parergon, namely the epilogue, seemingly disarms the ergon ’ s subversive power. After close scrutiny, however, it also underlines this power and, by protecting it, lets it unfold. The dream thus gains an autonomous, uncontrollable existence. Even though A Midsummer Night ’ s Dream is a romantic comedy, it embodies delicate issues such as the discussion of political authority, the position of a female ruler, and the workings of a political hierarchy. Considering the possible political readings of the play, the ergon seriously needs mending: its lack is the very challenge which is presented when one reads the play as a critique of the Elizabethan order. * * * Whereas Shakespeare ’ s epilogues can function as a precaution to protect the work, its author, and the actors from the authorities, the parergon in the following analysis is used to enhance the political impact of a work, when interacting with the outer necessities, the political context of the ergon. It conceals the morally offensive nature of the work so as to guarantee its impact at a time before freedom of opinion was a fact. Defoe ’ s Moll Flanders raises the issue of how the author might be using a parergonal framework to express his political and moral views, since direct utterances in his former journalistic writing had turned out to be too daring. Daniel Defoe was bankrupt for the first time at the age of thirty-two; “ [t]hough he succeeded in more or less extricating himself from that position, he was in even more serious trouble about ten years later, in 1703, when his satirical pamphlet on religious bigotry, The Shortest Way II Diminution or Amplification of the Work ’ s Political Impact 161 with Dissenters, sent him to prison and the pillory ” (Goldknopf, “ The I-Narrator in the Pseudomemoir ” 45). The pamphlet dealt with High Church extremism, religion being one of many topics Defoe was concerned with in his journalistic writings. Even at this early point in his career as a writer, he already used the technique of creating autobiographers functioning as narrators in his essays. Much later, he turned to the genre of the novel, publishing Robinson Crusoe in 1719 and Moll Flanders in 1722 (Blewett, “ Chronology ” 31) and refining his technique of creating this kind of autobiography. In Defoe ’ s writings, “ we find him invariably throwing his stories into the form of autobiography, in which the chief character is simply a more sustained and more fully developed persona than those he had made use of from time to time in his earlier non-fictional writing ” (James Sutherland 42). In Moll Flanders, the author uses a split narrative method: there is, on the one hand, a narrator who makes his appearance as an editor in the preface (and as the persona who has revised the language throughout the novel); and, on the other hand, a first-person narrator, Moll Flanders, who relates her own lifestory. The preface which introduces the editor constitutes the parergon: by means of revision, the editor intrudes upon the work and is present in Moll ’ s utterances; it is, after all, Moll ’ s story that constitutes the ergon, the body of the work. The following section inquires into the functioning of such a parergonal system and into the devices used to bring it into play. A Usurped Autobiography: Defoe ’ s Moll Flanders Moll Flanders employs a split narrational system: there is, on the one hand, the character of Moll telling the story of her criminal life in a first-person narrative; and on the other hand, there is the character of an editor who introduces himself in the preface, informing the reader that he is in charge of necessary revisions to Moll ’ s tale. This technique first of all enhances the illusion of authenticity by letting Moll tell her story herself, in her own words. As Ehrismann puts it: “ They [Defoe ’ s prefaces] inherit the tradition of claiming the truth for the text, presenting the author as a mere editor to a story written by the protagonist himor herself ” (81). By “ claiming the truth for the text, ” Ehrismann is referring to the fact that the editor provides the assurance that the text is authentic. Blewett adds that, “ [i]n Moll Flanders Defoe set himself a [. . .] difficult task. Not only did he boldly try the experiment of writing the autobiographical confession of a woman, but in Moll he deliberately chose a woman notorious for the viciousness of her life ” (Introduction 2). This increases the reader ’ s expectations and curiosity; after all, it is intriguing to read the first-hand account of a (repenting) criminal. 162 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses These expectations are already raised by the novel ’ s original full title, which reads: The Fortunes and Misfortunes of the Famous Moll Flanders, &c. Who was Born in Newgate, and during a Life of continu ’ d Variety for Threescore Years, besides her Childhood, was Twelve Year a Whore, five times a Wife (whereof once to her own Brother) Twelve Year a Thief, Eight Year a Transported Felon in Virginia, at last grew Rich, liv ’ d Honest, and died a Penitent, Written from her own Memorandums. It is not only by means of the novel ’ s full title, but also by means of its preface that Defoe “ rouse[s] the reader ’ s curiosity for the novel. He does so by continuous reference to sensational events, scandalous practices, and criminal deeds ” (Ehrismann 83). In addition, Ehrismann comments that “ the revisor fulfils the important secondary task of assuring the reader that the moral standards concerning the truth are kept ” (86 - 87). Moreover, the editor ’ s claim that he has revised offensive passages guarantees the non-offensive nature of the work: All possible Care however has been taken to give no lewd Ideas, no immodest Turns in the new dressing up this Story, no not to the worst parts of her Expressions; to this Purpose some of the vicious part of her Life, which cou ’ d not be modestly told, is quite left out, and several other Parts are very much shorten ’ d; what is left ’ tis hop ’ d will not offend the chastest Reader or the modestest Hearer[.] (38) What the editor has done, however, seems to be more than merely amend Moll ’ s account: he has taken the liberty of shortening and deleting entire passages. In addition, he even admits that he has done so. The editor claims to have revised the written text; Goldknopf states that “ the discussion of the editorial changes tends to confirm the story ’ s authenticity because, it is explained, they apply only to style, not to substance ” ( “ The I-Narrator in the Pseudomemoir ” 43). This claim, however, is not entirely true — quite the opposite: the editor has appropriated and revised Moll ’ s entire history. The editor calls his work, namely the revision of Moll ’ s report, dressing it up: “ The Pen employ ’ d in finishing her Story, and making it what you now see it to be, has had no little difficulty to put it into a Dress fit to be seen, and to make it speak Language fit to be read ” (37). He represents his revisions by II Diminution or Amplification of the Work ’ s Political Impact 163 means of the image of a pen dressing the story up and giving it a presentable appearance. Ehrismann comments on the notion of dress as follows: [T]he implications of the dress metaphor are quite complex. The distinction between dress and what is implicitly the body is meant to stand for one between form and content. But even a cautious approach to the relationship between the two must acknowledge that there is always a body underneath the dress, no matter what dress is chosen by the pen. Thus, there is always the possibility of an interplay between the two. (87) Ehrismann ’ s wording seems familiar: he uses the terms dress, body, underneath and interplay. The notion of dress is inherent in the parergonal system. Derrida compares the parergon to the dress on a statue: the interaction between a work and what surrounds it takes place where the dress gapes open. The work of the editor is compared to a dress that covers up the body (of writing) of Moll. His interaction with her account thus takes every opportunity of interfering with the work at the interstitial sites: it can even be found within her utterances. At the same time, however, the editor states that he not only dresses, but also wraps up Moll ’ s account: When a Woman debauch ’ d from her Youth, nay, even being the Off-spring of Debauchery and Vice, comes to give an Account of all her vicious Practises, and even to descend to the particular Occasions and Circumstances by which she first became wicked, and of all the progression of Crime which she run through in threescore Year, an Author [the editor] must be hard put to it to wrap it up so clean, as not to give room, especially for vicious Readers to turn it to his Disadvantage. (37 - 38) The editor ’ s pretext for his kind of revision is that he seeks to protect the honest reader and not to satisfy the vicious one. Yet, the term wrapping up implies the notion of masking, of presenting a different façade from just the original in a dress: the appearance of the authentic body seems to be manipulated by the censoring editor ’ s intrusions. Referring to the progression from the word dress to wrap, Ehrismann states that “ [t]he secretary ’ s [the editor ’ s] rhetorical way of playing the devil ’ s advocate is extended and only achieves the full power of innuendo in this part of the phrase ” (88). The editor ’ s activity thus implies fraud under the pretext of goodwill. Significantly, the editor states at the beginning of the preface that “ [t]he Author is here suppos ’ d to be writing her own History ” (37). By “ author, ” he is referring to Moll Flanders, whereas in the passage quoted above, where he states that an author must be careful to wrap the story up, he uses the same term to refer to himself. By this means, he betrays what he is really doing in the course of Moll ’ s tale: he is using Moll ’ s authentic voice for his own moral preaching. Finally, there is a real author with a potential political purpose 164 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses standing behind the two narrators and obscured by them. Ehrismann states that “ the revisor [. . .] helps Defoe to obscure the question of authorship. Since two fictional characters are purported to have written the story, it becomes impossible to discover which of the two is writing any one passage ” (91). When one examines certain passages more closely, however, the voices can be distinguished. The editor ’ s intrusions are usually characterized by seemingly objective moral preaching; this means that the parergonal system manifests itself not only in the position of the preface, the paratext preceding the novel, in which the editor makes his first appearance, but also throughout the novel using Moll ’ s voice. Moll ’ s tale constitutes the ergon. Even though it is told by her authentic voice, it is at times usurped by the editor ’ s, which dresses it and wraps it up to his liking. Thus, the editor intrudes upon the ergon, the body of the work. One could describe this intrusion, or, in Derrida ’ s terms, invagination, 50 as literary rape. The editor, and behind him the implied author, misuses Moll ’ s authentic voice for his own purpose, that of moralizing. The editor literally merges with the first-person narrator, Moll, who embodies the ergon; he intrudes upon her and speaks through her. Derrida states that [w]ith respect to the background which the general text[, the context,] is, it [the parergon] merges into the work which stands out against the general background. There is always a form on a ground, but the parergon is a form which has as its traditional determination not that it stands out but that it disappears, buries itself, effaces itself, melts away at the moment it deploys its greatest energy. (61) The energy deployed is the work ’ s impact, its capacity for moralizing. On the one hand, the narrative method of merging with the protagonist increases the impact of the moral conveyed by the narrative; at the same time, the creation of an editor also serves to protect the author from having to take responsibility for the tale. The narrative method of speaking through the protagonist has the function of creating a distance between reader and author: “ the invention of a second author, revising Moll Flanders ’ tale allows the author of the book to increase the sense of obscurity concerning authorship ” (Ehrismann 85). While authorship is obscured, this narrative system also increases the impact of the story by giving the impression of authenticity and of first-hand accounts of sensational events. The character of Moll offers fertile ground for moral criticism: “ Defoe chose Moll Flanders for his moral fable for a very good reason. If Moll is capable of spiritual redemption and regeneration, then no one is beyond the merciful intervention of divine providence ” (Blewett, Introduction 1). The author ’ s 50 For a more detailed discussion of this Derridean term, cf. section “ The Hybrid: Fielding ’ s Tom Jones ” above (140). II Diminution or Amplification of the Work ’ s Political Impact 165 choice of creating the autobiography of a ‘ debauched ’ woman is a device that allows him to speak as plainly as necessary to create authenticity, yet without causing offence: when it comes to crimes or sexual allusions, Moll is allowed to speak more openly than the reading audience would have accepted an average autobiographer doing. This is also achieved by the controlling function of the editor, who takes responsibility for the work in having censored her account. Furthermore, Moll ’ s reports are a vehicle of verisimilitude in themselves: because the impact of her repentance depends on the severity of her crimes, she has no reason to manipulate her own account, at least not for the better. In addition, verisimilitude is also created by Moll ’ s particularity concerning sums of money. She often takes the part of an accountant in the literal sense: not only does she present entire bills in her account (223 - 224) but, after having unwittingly married her half-brother, who soon afterwards takes her with him to Virginia, she gives a very detailed account of how she tried to make up for having him believe she was a wealthy widow: I let him please himself with that 160 l. two or three Days, and then, having been abroad that Day, and as if I had been to fetch it, I brought him a Hundred Pounds more home in Gold, and told him there was a little more Portion for him; and in short in about a Week more I brought him 180 l. more, and about 60 l. in Linnen, which I made him believe I had been oblig ’ d to take with the 100 l. which I gave him in Gold, as a Composition for a debt of 600 l. being little more than Five Shilling in the Pound, and overvalued too. (130 - 131) Later on, after her return to England, she begins “ to cast up [her] Accounts ” (180), an activity she takes up and performs repeatedly, also in terms of goods stolen in a burglary (e. g. 271 - 272). At the same time, her accounting also represents a calculated strategy on the part of the author. Creating such a narrational system and choosing a character like Moll as the protagonist enables the author to criticize without impediment: his authorship is hidden behind two fictional characters, both of whom work hard to promote verisimilitude. In the preface, the editor makes contradictory claims concerning the reader ’ s task in the perusal of Moll ’ s story: on the one hand, the reader is encouraged to judge freely, and on the other, he or she is expected to gain moral instruction by reading the narrative. This conveys the impression that the editor is manipulative and not trustworthy. The preface begins as follows: The World is so taken up of late with Novels and Romances that it will be hard for a private History to be taken for Genuine where the Names and other Circumstances of the Person are concealed, and on this Account we must be content to leave the Reader to pass his own Opinion upon the ensuing Sheets, and take it just as he pleases. (37) 166 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses The editor first admits that the reader will not be fully informed, since the events he or she is about to be told are secrets and the people involved in them are in need of protection. For instance, “ [a]s both Moll and her editor are quick to point out, ‘ Moll Flanders ’ is not her real name [. . .], but a nickname ” (Blewett, Introduction 3). After all, the story is going to deal with prostitution, incest, theft, transportation, wealth, and penitence. Because of this lack of information, the editor has no right ( “ we must be content ” ) to make claims on the reader ’ s response and judgment. Later in the preface, however, the editor does make such claims: he uses Moll ’ s life in order to moralize, and openly describes this goal in his preface. His emphasis is on the moral, not the entertainment offered during the reading process: But as this Work is chiefly recommended to those who know how to Read it, and how to make the good Uses of it, which the Story all along recommends to them, so it is to be hop ’ d that such readers will be more pleas ’ d with the Moral than the Fable, with the Application than with the Relation, and with the End of the Writer than with the Life of the Person written of. (38 - 39) He goes on to assure us that “ this Book is recommended to the Reader, as a Work from every part of which something may be learned, and some just and religious Inference is drawn, by which the Reader will have something of Instruction, if he pleases to make use of it ” (40). Within her account, Moll herself seems to have the same intentions as the editor: “ [T]he publishing this Account of my Life is for the sake of the just Moral of every part of it, and for Instruction, Caution, Warning and Improvement to every Reader ” (409). Moll ’ s wording is similar to the editor ’ s, and it seems as if she is merely restating his intention. Owing to the fact that the editor claims to be in control of all her utterances, this seems to be one of the moments when he intrudes and manipulates them. Even at this early stage, though, there are certain inconsistencies: the reader is said to be free in his or her judgment of the text, but he is supposed to be morally instructed by it; there is an authentic voice which implies verisimilitude, but it repeats what the editor says in the preface. Apart from the fact that the editor uses Moll to proclaim his own convictions, his emphasis on the moral of the story is also slightly suspect, especially when he says that “ the Moral, ’ tis hop ’ d will keep the Reader serious even where the Story might incline him to be otherwise ” (38). Could it not be, then, that the moral is used to cover up a piece of entertainment? The two sides of the coin are inherent in the text: it is a moral tale as well as an entertaining picaresque novel. In his Glossary, Abrams defines the picaresque as the story of II Diminution or Amplification of the Work ’ s Political Impact 167 an insouciant rascal who lives by his wits and shows little if any alteration of character through the long succession of his adventures. Picaresque fiction is realistic in manner, episodic in structure [. . .], and often satiric in aim. (191, original bold print omitted) Abrams describes Moll as “ a colorful female version of the old picaro, ” which is Spanish for rogue (190 - 191). Moll Flanders thus combines the picaresque with the morality tale, which functions as a corrective of deplorable social conditions. It seems that the entertaining satire uses the pretext of the moral in the same way as Moll as a character is used for moralizing purposes. The editor (and, indirectly, the implied author) thus uses her for his own intentions and, perhaps, he also exploits the readership ’ s trust in his good intentions, when actually he is only arousing their thirst for sensationalism. While the combination of the two genres works towards obscuring the implied author ’ s position even more, the editor is primarily preoccupied with the moral of the story. In this sense, the editorial parergon uses the protagonist for the sake of a believable moral tale. The editor ’ s violent intrusions and merging with the female protagonist can best be illustrated by a close examination of certain passages. Whereas at the beginning of the novel, Moll is aware that she has left the path of virtue, she seems to become detached from her own person in the course of the novel. At the beginning, she regrets having strayed; she is shocked to have become a man ’ s mistress, a thief and a fraud, and she despises herself for what she has done. Later in the novel, however, instead of regretting her deeds, she more and more starts preaching about what has just happened. These are the moments when the parergonal voice of the editor takes over; the contrast between the two types of account and their respective concerns is stunning. At the beginning of her life as a criminal, Moll becomes a man ’ s mistress and falls pregnant. After the child is born, she receives a farewell letter from the father, in which he tells her that he does not want to see her any more but that he will take care of the child. At this point, she is desperate: “ I was struck with his Letter as with a thousand Wounds, such as I cannot describe; the Reproaches of my own Conscience were such as I cannot express, for I was not blind to my own Crime ” (177). Moll ’ s emotions here seem genuine: she is truly devastated about what has and is to become of her. Later on in her story, she does not even regret the crimes she has just committed, as her former self would have done, but has to let the preaching voice of the editor take over. In the course of the novel, she ceases to be merely a man ’ s mistress but appears in the guise of a prostitute in order to rob rich men. Yet when she seduces a drunken gentleman and then steals his money as payment for sexual intercourse, she does not see herself as having become a prostitute. Her comments do not seem to be her own in terms of emotion, style, 168 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses and word choice. It is the editor who intrudes upon her utterance and delivers a sermon about the vice of drinking, concluding with the moral that it is just punishment for a man of honour to find himself robbed after what he has done. Moll is solely concerned with her victim ’ s guilt; there is not a trace of selfreproach for what she herself has done: There is nothing so absurd, so surfeiting, so ridiculous as a Man heated by Wine in his Head, and a wicked Gust in his Inclination together; he is in the possession of two Devils at once, and can no more govern himself by his Reason than a Mill can Grind without Water; His Vice tramples upon all that was in him that had any good in it, if any such thing there was; nay, his very Sense is blinded by its own Rage, and he acts Absurdities even in his View; such as Drinking more, when he is Drunk already; picking up a common Woman, without regard to what she is, or who she is; whether Sound or rotten, Clean or Unclean; whether Ugly or Handsome, whether Old or Young, and so blinded, as not really to distinguish; such a Man is worse than Lunatick; prompted by his vicious corrupted Head he no more knows what he is doing than this Wretch of mine knew when I pick ’ d his Pocket of his Watch and his Purse of Gold. (294) In terms of Moll ’ s own guilt, the reader might have expected her to react in a similar manner to when she received the letter from her former lover; but instead of regretting what she has just done, her voice starts preaching. She seems to be emotionally detached, as if her voice did not belong to her. Certainly, her tone could be one of justification for why she had the right to act as she did; strangely, however, she seems to speak about herself, the common woman, as if the whole incident had nothing to do with her. This indicates that, again, she has been usurped by the other narrating persona. When her account switches back from her general comments on men and alcohol to her own experience, even the language changes: the rhetorically balanced rhythm gives way to Moll ’ s own abruptly elliptic style, in the phrase “ than this Wretch of mine knew when I pick ’ d his Pocket of his Watch and his Purse of Gold. ” It seems as if she merely links the sermon to her own experience, without acknowledging the former as her own, or as if she suddenly awakes in the midst of the other ’ s preaching. A further example is Moll ’ s relationship with her children: after a while, she shows a “ rather off-hand attitude towards her offspring. For most of the time, Moll ’ s children are of [. . .] little significance ” (Bell 165), whereas at the beginning, she emphasizes the importance of care towards little children: It is manifest to all that understand any thing of Children, that we are born into the World helpless and uncapable either to supply our own Wants, or so much as make them known; and that without help we must Perish; and this help requires not only an assisting Hand, whether of the Mother or some Body else; but there are two Things necessary in that assisting Hand, that is, Care and Skill, without both which, half the II Diminution or Amplification of the Work ’ s Political Impact 169 Children that are born would die, nay, tho ’ they were not to be deny ’ d Food; and one half more of those that remain ’ d would be Cripples or Fools, lose their Limbs, and perhaps their Sense: I Question not, but that these are partly the Reasons why Affection was plac ’ d by Nature in the Hearts of Mothers to their Children; without which they would never be able to give themselves up, as ’ tis necessary they should, to the Care and waking Pains needful to the Support of their Children. (234) However, Moll leaves her own children scattered in various places. Thus, even with issues that are inherent in womanhood such as pregnancy, birth, and childcare, she seems to be merely theorizing. Again, the editor preaches through her, whenever her actions and usual remarks about children prove her lack of interest in the topic. When her first husband dies, she states that her “ two Children were indeed taken happily off of [her] Hands by [her] Husband ’ s Father and Mother ” (102). When, many years later, she returns to the hometown of her first husband ’ s parents, she does not even talk about her own children: The young Ladies [her former sisters-in-law] had been all married or gone to London; the old Gentleman, and the old Lady that had been my early Benefactress all dead; and which troubled me most the young Gentleman my first Lover, and afterwards my Brother-in-Law was dead; but two Sons Men grown, were left of him, but they too were Transplanted to London. (342) One would have expected Moll to inquire after her two children; after all, they had been entrusted in the old couple ’ s care. Yet, what troubles her most is that the man who first deceived her is dead; and she is even more concerned with his sons than with her own children. Again, this passage shows an inconsistency: on the one hand, it seems to lack authenticity, since the reader would not expect a mother to forget about her own children; on the other, however, it simply contradicts her expressed attitude towards having children in general. The editor ’ s intrusion is apparent in Moll ’ s repeated inconsistency. Moralizing passages show that it is often not Moll ’ s authentic report one is reading, but a report placed in her mouth. There are evidently “ practical and moral warnings that echo through the story ” (Michael 372) which do not originate in Moll. Furthermore, Moll herself claims that it is not her intention to instruct directly: “ [I]t is none of my Talent to preach ” (109) and “ The Moral indeed of all my History is left to be gather ’ d by the Senses and Judgment of the Reader; I am not Qualified to preach to them ” (343). Instead of preaching, she would rather instruct by telling others about her experiences. When Moll arrives at her house after having robbed the drunken gentleman, the governess (with whom she lives) comments on her crime as follows: “ [T]he usage may, for ought I know, do more to reform him, than all the Sermons that ever he will hear in his Life, and if the remainder of 170 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses the Story be true, so it did ” (297). Apart from insinuating that the gentleman will learn his lesson, the governess claims that experience is much more valuable than mere theory. The common woman thus relies on experience and has no talent to preach. This, again, makes Moll ’ s habit of preaching in her own report very implausible. Instances such as these make it obvious that, in the same way as Moll abuses the world around her, she herself is abused by the editor and by the implied author, who both use her in order to moralize without constraint. She is just a device. This is how the frame functions: the implied author is able to speak freely through Moll, whose sociolect, choice of words and approach to topics create authenticity and allow creative freedom; Moll and her tale constitute the ergon. Furthermore, the author provides himself with the controlling voice of an editor, who guarantees that there is no offence. These two narrating voices obscure the true authorship of the tale. The voice of the editor works parergonally; it intrudes more and more upon Moll ’ s voice of authenticity as the novel progresses, making it possible for the author to utter his personal views through an authentic mediator. This whole process resembles a violent usurpation of the character of Moll. Furthermore, the pretence of an autobiographical report protects the author and, at the same time, creates an inversion of roles: Moll, the criminal, is abused by the author as well as by the persona of the editor and thus suddenly becomes a victim. This inversion is caused by the operation of the parergon, intruding, merging and rubbing against the work, the ergon. Thus, what the editor calls dressing or wrapping up is much more than this: he intrudes upon, merges with and deforms Moll ’ s account (and character) for the sake of moral preaching in the novel. Ultimately, Moll is the victim of literary rape. Some elements in the ‘ dressing ’ of the novel call into question the seriousness of its task, however: its combination of picaresque and moral tale, the full title of the novel, as well as some of the editor ’ s dubious comments in the preface seem highly ironic. The full title of the novel emphasizes not only all of Moll ’ s misdemeanours and moral lapses (whore, polygamous wife, thief, felon) and thus promises an entertaining reading experience, but it also ironically underlines the place to which she was transported, and the positively connoted attributes she subsequently acquires (rich, honest, penitent). Considering her favoured activity of accounting, it is no surprise that the materialistic attribute precedes the moral values; it might also underline the moneymaking purpose behind the writing of an entertaining piece of fiction. The choice of elements in the full title leads the reader to surmise that Moll Flanders is, despite the apparent efforts to sell it as a piece of moral writing aimed at improving society, an entertaining satire about the social injustices as well as the moralizing tendencies of its time. Its excessiveness in enumerating all II Diminution or Amplification of the Work ’ s Political Impact 171 of Moll ’ s crimes first in order to underline the improbable fact of her penitence, or amusing elements such as her journey to Virginia, of all places, after unwittingly marrying her half-brother, seem cleverly contrived to undermine the assumption of seriousness in the account. Perhaps the editor aims precisely at presenting a story that will “ incline him [the reader] to be otherwise ” than serious (38). Possibly, Moll Flanders is above all a picaresque satire cunningly designed to amuse its readers; however, the editorial preface, which forms the parergon, seems preoccupied with the moral aspects of the novel. For this reason, the moral pretext for a literary usurpation of the main character was pre-eminent in this section of my study. Certainly, the possibility of reading the work either as a serious invitation to penitence or as an amusing satire also provides an escape route for the author in case it is not well received. Whereas Robert Walpole and Daniel Defoe were contemporaries and contemporary politicians, Walpole ’ s son Horace appears to have established a sort of fellowship with Defoe — in terms of their literary escape routes — in The Castle of Otranto, even if his revived and transformed romance was published only thirty years after Defoe ’ s death. III Textual Dialogues: The Reader as a Mediator Parergonality accounts not only for personal or political anxieties of an author and his or her work (work ’ s impact, readers ’ reception, various discourses, etc.), but also for relationships between various literary works. In his Concise Glossary of Contemporary Literary Theory, Hawthorn defines intertextuality as a “ relation between two or more texts which has an effect upon the way in which the intertext (that is, the text within which other texts reside or echo their presence) is read ” (99). 51 Based on this definition, parergonality indeed accounts for intertextual relationships. Irrespective of the textual form the parergon takes, be it paratextual, intrusive or discursive, it always relates to the core text and only deserves the label parergon if it has an impact on the reading of the ergon. In this sense, intertextual working can be approached on the basis of parergonality. Parergonality cannot replace a classification of interor transtextual relationships as presented by Gérard Genette (Palimpsests), for instance, but the concept can account for a certain kind of textual interaction. 51 I believe one can even broaden this definition by arguing that intertextuality works both ways: intertextuality has an effect upon the way in which both the text and the intertext (in my understanding, the text that resides in the text I currently focus on) are read. According to Baldick, the term intertext does indeed include both directions of textual relation: “ The term intertext has been used variously for a text drawing on other texts, for a text thus drawn upon, and for the relationship between the two ” (128, original bold print omitted). 172 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses Intertextuality has been defined in so many different ways that the term has become polyvalent. In his monograph on intertextuality, Allen comments on its definition as follows: Intertextuality, one of the central ideas in contemporary literary theory, is not a transparent term and so, despite its confident utilization by many theorists and critics, cannot be evoked in an uncomplicated manner. Such a term is in danger of meaning nothing more than whatever each particular critic wishes it to mean. (2) Allen consciously avoids providing one valid definition of the term. Instead, he tries to shed light on its various uses and their history. The diverse approaches to intertextuality range from very general, almost over-generalizing concepts such as Julia Kristeva ’ s (Desire in Language, French original 1969; Revolution in Poetic Language, French original 1974), Roland Barthes ’ (Image, Music, Text 1977) or Jacques Derrida ’ s ( “ Biodegradables ” 1989) and related concepts such as influence (Harold Bloom, The Anxiety of Influence 1973, A Map of Misreading 1975) to very structural, specific labelling and categorizing systems (e. g. Gérard Genette, Palimpsests 1982). Generally, Genette ’ s terminological clarity seems useful and applicable, whereas Kristeva ’ s and Barthes ’ approaches to the concept are mainly concerned with the repetitive nature of language as such and do not really supply methodological tools. Bloom investigates the relationship between precursor and successor texts that raises the issue of originality and influence, which is also inherent in any oscillation mechanism. All the famous contributions to the intertextuality debate contain certain aspects that are highly interesting in the context of this study. The theories of intertextuality that I will introduce deal with specific issues that are also of major importance to parergonality. Parergonality is thus also anchored in the field of intertextuality (not only paratext, discourse, and narrative structure), and I will work out the very anchor points. The clear terminology, the basic mechanism, and the question of directing, channelling, and influencing a reading can be accounted for by the concept. Since a parergonal relationship is defined according to its basic (textual) constellation, its mechanism of interaction, and its impact on the reading, parergonality offers an appropriate tool with which to approach intertextual relationships (in the classic sense of the word, namely source study) and to assign a function to them. Parergonality cannot replace the above-mentioned theories, but it can usefully integrate or complement them. It is thus necessary to take a closer look at the characteristics of the various definitions of intertextuality in order to work out in what way parergonality covers or complements the existing approaches. The more generalizing approaches present the basic parameters necessary for parergonal intertextual workings, whereas the more specific theories tend to complement parergonality rather than provide a basis for the concept. III Textual Dialogues: The Reader as a Mediator 173 Parergonality first has to be situated within the broad context of the former theories, before one can work out how the concept functions as a complement. According to Furniss and Bath, Barthes ’ and Kristeva ’ s works represent “ a radical break ” with the idea that “ [i]ntertextuality is [. . .] used as an umbrella term for all the different ways in which [specific] texts interrelate with each other (allusion, imitation, influence, parody, and so on) ” (323 - 324). This break is founded in the post-structuralist conception of text as such, especially as represented in Barthes and Derrida. They expand the concept of text “ to include all kinds of language use — written documents, everyday speech, songs, advertisements, and so on ” (Furniss and Bath 324), and for them, as for most contemporary critics, “ texts are by definition fragments in open and endless relations with all other texts ” (Elam 620). This is where Derrida ’ s famous saying “ there is nothing but context, and therefore: there is no outside-the-text [il n ’ y a pas de hors-texte] ” ( “ Biodegradables ” 873, square brackets in the original) comes in: according to Derrida, text has no boundary. Texts are all interrelated, and for this reason, it is impossible to differentiate between text and context. The challenge for the critic is the exploration of the liminal spaces, the spaces of interrelation within this textual structure. The aim of the critic is the detection and dismantling of textual elements within the blend of components called context: One of the most necessary gestures of a deconstructive understanding of history consists rather (this is its very style) in transforming things by exhibiting writings, genres, textual strata (which is also to say — since there is no outside-the-text, right — exhibiting institutional, economic, political, pulsive [and so on] ‘ realities ’ ) that have been repulsed, repressed, devalorized, minoritized, delegitimated, occulted by hegemonic canons, in short, all that which certain forces have attempted to melt down into the anonymous mass of an unrecognizable culture, to ‘ (bio)degrade ’ in the common compost of a memory said to be living and organic. From this point of view, deconstructive interpretation and writing would come along, without any soteriological [the branch of theology that deals with salvation] mission, to ‘ save, ’ in some sense, lost heritages. ( “ Biodegradables ” 821) Here, Derrida draws the image of culture as an organic mass represented in a collective memory. This mass, in the course of time, necessarily becomes on the one hand more and more homogeneous — and hence less diversified — and on the other hand, it decreases in quantity as a result of simplification processes and memory loss. Derrida ’ s metaphor of culture as compost emphasizes the two major problems a critic is confronted with: first of all, it presents cultural history as a blend of material that needs to be sorted out and re-evaluated. Furthermore, it shows the necessity of such an undertaking, since the critic preserves cultural history by means of textual transformation — writing about writing, for instance — in a race against time. The aspect of decomposing 174 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses emphasizes the time component. In addition, text, in Derrida ’ s essay, is more than the written words on a biodegradable sheet of paper. Derrida ’ s famous statement that there is no outside-the-text “ signifies that one never accedes to a text without some relation to its contextual opening and that a context is not made up of only what is so trivially called a text, that is, the words of a book or the more or less biodegradable paper document in a library ” ( “ Biodegradables ” 841). Derrida cleverly shows that the biodegradability of paper, and thus its precarious material existence, cannot be a distinguishing feature of text. Imagine, for instance, all of humanity ’ s written records, all cultural history, being irretrievably lost; this does not mean that these records are also erased from humanity ’ s memory. The notion of text in Derrida is thus not connected to materiality. This idea, which also appears in Kristeva and Barthes, works well with the third type of parergonal interaction introduced here. Texts that make explicit references to each other, and that thus stand in an explicit intertextual relationship to one another let these references work via the reader ’ s understanding of them. In this sense, the reader actively establishes an immaterial communicative relationship between two texts, which can be called text and intertext or ergon and parergon. Julia Kristeva ’ s initial definition of intertextuality is based on a spatial representation of such textual interrelations and thus explains the role of the reader in more detail. On this basis, the spatial aspect of texts is also relevant for a parergonal construct. Julia Kristeva is said to have coined the term intertextuality on the basis of her reading of Mikhail Bakhtin ’ s studies of speech interaction and interaction of contexts (Juvan 11). The term intertextuality is a neologism made up of “ the Latin prefix inter ( ‘ between, in, among, or shared ’ ) that denote[s] complexity, connectedness, and mutual dependence of the two component conditions ” (11). Very generally speaking, intertextuality for Julia Kristeva “ situates the text within history and society, which are then seen as texts read by the writer, and into which he inserts himself by rewriting them ” (Desire 65). This situating of a text works by means of two axes, which she terms horizontal and vertical: The word ’ s status is thus defined horizontally (the word in the text belongs to both writing subject and addressee) as well as vertically (the word in the text is oriented towards an anterior or synchronic literary corpus[)]. The addressee, however, is included within a book ’ s discursive universe only as discourse itself. It thus fuses with this other discourse, this other book, in relation to which the writer has written his own text. Hence horizontal axis (subject-addressee) and vertical axis (text-context) coincide, bringing to light an important fact: each word (text) is an intersection of word (texts) where at least one other word (text) can be read. In Bakhtin ’ s work, these two axes, which he calls dialogue and ambivalence, are not clearly distinguished. Yet, what appears as a lack of rigor is in fact an insight first introduced into literary theory by Bakhtin: any text is constructed as a mosaic of quotations; any text is the absorption and III Textual Dialogues: The Reader as a Mediator 175 transformation of another. The notion of intertextuality replaces that of intersubjectivity, and poetic language is read as at least double. (Kristeva, Desire 66) The image Kristeva draws is one of two axes that intersect at the point where one focuses on a text or a word. At this intersection, words or texts multiply, because they have been used before (vertical axis of a synchronic or diachronic literary corpus) by other subjects (horizontal axis). This multiplication of words or texts in various contexts enhances the meaning and the understanding of each individual text or word through its contextual biography. The idea of a temporal and a communicative axis is also inherent in the third type of parergonal interaction; after all, it is the reader who establishes the communicative channels between ergon and parergon. Furthermore, the contextual information each text carries with it is also transposed and integrated into a later reading of the same text. In other words, a rewritten text (parergon) not only comments on an earlier text (ergon), but it also potentially comments on an earlier context (the surrounds). These comments have an impact on a contemporary context as well. This very well illustrates the interrelation of parody (the textual comment) and satire (the impact on the respective surrounds). One could thus say that, even though Kristeva ’ s definition of intertextuality is a very broad one that includes the entire system of language, its communicative mechanisms resemble, illustrate, and thus complement those of parergonality. Since the term intertextuality had often been used in a much more restricted sense than that postulated by Kristeva, she found it necessary to redefine her concept by means of the term transposition in La révolution du language poétique, published in 1974. Intertextuality had come to denote a textual relationship in which one specific literary text refers to another, usually older, specific literary text. It was precisely the breadth of her definition that forced Kristeva to find another term for her concept in order to establish a border between her idea of intertextuality and what she called the banal study of sources: The term inter-textuality denotes this transposition of one (or several) sign system(s) into another; but since this term has often been understood in the banal sense of ‘ study of sources, ’ we prefer the term transposition because it specifies that the passage from one signifying system to another demands a new articulation of the thetic — of enunciative and denotative positionality. If one grants that every signifying practice is a field of transpositions of various signifying systems (inter-textuality), one then understands that its ‘ place ’ of enunciation and its denoted ‘ object ’ are never single, complete, and identical to themselves, but always plural, shattered, capable of being tabulated. In this way polysemy can also be seen as the result of a semiotic polyvalence — an adherence to different sign systems. (Kristeva, Revolution 59 - 60) By means of the term transposition, Kristeva provides her concept with a name that brings the universality it initially demanded. She “ reject[s] her neologism 176 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses of 1966 ” and also states that she is “ indignant that it [the term intertextuality] had deteriorated and come to denote banal ‘ source-hunting[ ’ ] ” (Juvan 102). No matter which term one prefers, Kristeva ’ s image of two intersecting axes which, at each of their intersections, open up layers of a history of dialogues is certainly a valuable contribution to the understanding of all textual interaction. The idea that the two axes intersect everywhere, i. e. that they are highly flexible in their drawing of a huge network of all language use, gives us an idea of how complex and how difficult it is to fathom these relations. Roland Barthes later appropriates Kristeva ’ s use of the term intertextuality for his own purposes. He ties in with her image of an untraceable textual network in which each text is cryptically inscribed: [T]he Text [is] woven entirely with citations, references, echoes, cultural languages (what language is not? ), antecedent or contemporary, which cut across it through and through in a vast stereophony. The intertextual in which every text is held, it itself being the text-between of another text, is not to be confused with some origin of the text: to try to find the ‘ sources ’ , the ‘ influences ’ of a work, is to fall in with the myth of filiation; the citations which go to make up a text are anonymous, untraceable, and yet already read: they are quotations without inverted commas. (Barthes, Image 159 - 160) Juvan comments on Barthes ’ use of the term intertextuality as follows: “ From 1968 to 1973 he welcomed and replayed Kristevan conception of general intertextuality, commented on it, while also implementing it in his syncretic writing ” (105). “ [A]ny text is an intertext; other texts are present in it, at varying levels, in more or less recognisable forms: the texts of the previous and surrounding culture, ” Barthes claims in his essay “ Theory of the Text ” (39). The very end of this quotation invokes Kristeva ’ s two axes: the vertical axis of time and the horizontal axis of cultural communication. In the above statement, we find Kristeva ’ s network enhanced by an emphasis on the acoustic dimension (stereophony) as well as by an allusion to and a rejection of family relations between texts (which will be central to Harold Bloom ’ s approach to the notion of influence below). Barthes ’ version of Kristevan intertextuality makes it clear that both critics define the term in such a general way that it becomes hard to apply it to literary writing. The definitions rather provide an idea of the practice and speed of linguistic productivity. The communicative model provided by the concept of parergonality not only offers an alternative image of a communicative situation, but it also has the potential to slow down the said untraceable textual relations, to make traces visible, and to enable their analysis and interpretation. Thus, both Kristeva and Barthes use the term intertextuality very broadly. Their approaches can be subsumed by Derrida ’ s famous statement that there is no outside-the-text. The difficulty with such a broad definition of text and III Textual Dialogues: The Reader as a Mediator 177 context and the resulting intertextual relationships is twofold: on the one hand, it becomes hard to decide what kind of textual relationship would not qualify as intertextuality; on the other, the range of definitions of the term requires more terminology that covers its broader sense, such as Kristeva ’ s “ transposition ” (Revolution 59 - 60). Eagleton comments on such a broad use of a term as follows: “ Any word which covers everything loses its cutting edge and dwindles to an empty sound ” (Ideology 7). Its effect is one of overgeneralization through terminology. The positive aspect of Kristeva ’ s and Barthes ’ work is, according to Furniss and Bath, that they, “ as Barthes intimates, [. . .] do away with the notion of origins and originality: no text can be wholly original, an author cannot claim to be the originator of the text ’ s language, and it is impossible to trace its original sources ” (324). This question of origin is excluded from the two critics ’ work, because tracing it in the general entanglement of textual interrelations is an impossible task. Recalling the impossibility of regaining my first conception of Charlotte Brontë ’ s novel Jane Eyre after having read Jean Rhys ’ Wide Sargasso Sea, I must say that it is precisely the fact that these interrelations are almost untraceable that makes such textual constellations so intriguing. Only on noticing that the two texts cannot easily be disentangled any more do we realize how we are textually manipulated. In the case mentioned above, it is exactly what the texts do to each other that mirrors what they convey, namely the impossibility of redemption through writing: the sequel cannot ‘ unwrite ’ the prequel. The fact that it writes against it and that it causes friction is of primary interest for an interpretation. In this sense, it would indeed be pointless to present a perfect disentanglement in order to isolate a textual origin and consequently to miss out on the dynamics and results of textual interrelation. What one can do is trace the textual interaction and grasp the general mechanism between the two texts. On this basis, one can also draw the line between the two categories of adaptation and appropriation in order to make a comment on the complexity of change in the later work. According to Sanders, [a]n adaptation signals a relationship with an informing sourcetext or original; a cinematic version of Shakespeare ’ s Hamlet, for example, [. . .] remains ostensibly Hamlet, a specific version, albeit achieved in alternative temporal and generic modes, of that seminal cultural text. On the other hand, appropriation frequently affects a more decisive journey away from the informing source into a wholly new cultural product and domain. (26) If we apply this definition, Wide Sargasso Sea clearly qualifies as appropriation of Jane Eyre since it literally takes a decisive journey away from England and the original text (only to return in the end). Roth ’ s version of the morality play Everyman is a tricky case, however, because its title suggests similarity, while the 178 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses text, at first glance, has nothing to do with the play. A close reading yields numerous parallels, but I think the differences are too telling to allow the label of adaptation. Hence, a perfect disentanglement is a pointless goal, while an initial assessment in terms of similarities and differences is useful. Even though the notion of origin is of minor importance in our context, mechanisms of influence are the key to fruitful interpretation. Harold Bloom, to use Barthes ’ formulation, falls in with the myth of filiation (cf. the quotation from Barthes above) and argues that, in analogy to the Oedipal struggle between fathers and sons described by Freud, a poet has to overcome past poets — his precursors — in order to create new original works. 52 “ And since this struggle for identity and originality is a psychologically violent one, only ‘ strong ’ poets emerge from it with the illusion of originality, while ‘ weak ’ poets remain thoroughly traditional and conventional ” (Furniss and Bath 315). In this sense, successor poets have to misread their precursors ’ work in order to find their own original voice. This means that Bloom, as opposed to the poststructuralist theorists of intertextuality, “ limits universal intertextuality to the aesthetic-artistic field — that is, to inter-poetic relations ” (Juvan 63) and hence claims that “ influence remains subject-centred, a person-to-person relationship ” (Bloom, A Map of Misreading 77). In the course of poetic production, the poet is “ verbally contending with the father figure of his precursor and the influential power of the latter ’ s imagination ” (Juvan 64). Reading, according to Bloom, is “ always a misreading ” (Map 3) owing to the act of deciding which of all the possible meanings a reader should favour. Bloom thus argues that influence means that there are no texts, but only relationships between texts. These relationships depend upon a critical act, a misreading or misprision, that one poet performs upon another, and that does not differ in kind from the necessary critical acts performed by every strong reader upon every text he encounters. (Map 3) The misreading Bloom refers to thus takes place on both sides of the communicational model of writer and reader: not only does the poet misread his or her precursor poets, but the reader also misreads the precursor text in terms of criticism. The term misreading might, at first glance, seem misleading. 52 Cf. Bloom ’ s The Anxiety of Influence: A Theory of Poetry, which refers to Freud ’ s idea of Oedipal struggle in The Interpretation of Dreams. In this famous work, Freud describes an analogy between Oedipus ’ fate and what we fear might be our own: “ His [Oedipus ’ ] destiny moves us only because it might have been ours — because the oracle laid the same curse upon us before our birth as upon him. It is the fate of all of us, perhaps, to direct our first sexual impulse towards our mother and our first hatred and our first murderous wish against our father. Our dreams convince us that that is so. King Oedipus, who slew his father Laïus and married his mother Jocasta, merely shows us the fulfilment of our own childhood wishes ” (262). III Textual Dialogues: The Reader as a Mediator 179 The point Bloom is making is that, as soon as one meaning is favoured over another by a critic, or as soon as a work is created that is what its precursor work is not, a source text is necessarily misread, since many other meanings or creative possibilities are disregarded. From a contemporary perspective, one might call Bloom ’ s misreading an incomplete or partial reading, or also a reading/ writing against the grain. Yet, even though he focuses entirely on relationships between (male) poets, his theory can be applied to the relationship between the various generations of readers as well. In the same way as poets might be anxious not to be influenced and keen to be original, the reader necessarily produces his or her own reading, which ideally differs from the readings performed before. Which reading we agree or disagree with depends on the reading ’ s convincing or unconvincing evidence. This is the essence of critical pluralism. This idea again emphasizes the fact that, while the notion of origin is difficult to assess, influence and divergence can be traced; they present a valid basis for interpretation. A focus on one spot always produces a fading out in another. Both focuses, or all of them, are in dialogue and therefore constantly influence each other. At the same time, misreadings (or simply re-readings) are always already influenced and make it impossible to regress. This influence neatly summarizes the effect of intertextual parergonal working: while the intertext or parergon continually influences our reading, there is no going back to a former state of knowledge. Furthermore, misreadings are at the core of critical pluralism. 53 Whilst Bloom ’ s definition of textual influence resembles those of Barthes and Kristeva on a much smaller scale, in that a successor poet needs the strength to overcome the mere repetition of already existing poetic language, his idea of the struggle of successor poets who overcome their precursors by means of their writing is highly interesting in the context of this study. Even though intertextuality is theoretically omnipresent, certain texts directly influence our reading of other texts. In this sense, a struggle between precursor and successor text takes place in the reader ’ s mind. This well describes the powerplay between ergon and parergon: if we regard intertextual references to precursor texts as passageways of parergon to ergon, the former succeeds in channelling the reading of the ergon. Whenever references are detected, however, the textual relationships are immediately clarified and the reader is thrown back into the exclusive reading of the ergon. This is the moment when the parergon deflates and becomes a mere supplement (Derrida 61, [54, 55]; cf. “ Derrida ’ s Parergon and Kant ” above, page 32). 53 For a more detailed discussion of critical pluralism and its parergonal workings, cf. “ Breaking the Fourth Wall: Shakespeare ’ s A Midsummer Night ’ s Dream ” above (142 - 146). 180 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses Gérard Genette ’ s formal categories of transtextual relationships in Palimpsests stand in stark contrast to all these rather vague definitions of influence and intertextuality. On a content level, these definitions all cover valuable aspects of intertextual parergonality. Genette ’ s categories (Palimpsests 1), however, cannot be read as being partly covered by the concept of parergonality, and hence complement it well. In this sense, parergonality can add a more contentoriented approach to the Genettean classification. In Genette, transtextuality is used as an umbrella term that describes all relationships between texts. He distinguishes between five types of transtextual relationships. Intertextuality denotes the co-presence of one text and a specific other text (1); subcategories of intertextuality are allusion, quotation and cases of plagiarism. This definition of intertextuality is certainly very limited. The second type he describes is called paratext (3) and refers to all the textual entities that surround a text. In his later work entitled Paratexts: Thresholds of Interpretation, Genette elaborates this second type in great detail (cf. “ Mechanisms, Functions, and the Effect of the Parergonal Framework ” above, page 66 - 68). The remaining three types are metatextuality, architextuality (4) and hypertextuality (5). The first describes texts about texts, for instance secondary sources in literary criticism. Architextuality refers to basic constellations of a sum of texts, in which they are repeated. Hence, this category is a taxonomic one and describes, for example, generic relationships. Hypertextuality, the type Genette is mostly concerned with, is a very useful term, which, as its name tells us, relates to the layering of texts. A hypertext is “ a text derived from another pre-existent text ” (5). Rewritten texts thus fall into this category. The original text is called the hypotext (e. g. Homer ’ s Odyssey) and the rewritten one would be the hypertext (e. g. James Joyce ’ s Ulysses). This textual relationship is very close to the notion of the palimpsest — and hence the title of Genette ’ s work — which originally referred to “ a manuscript written on the surface from which an earlier text has been partly or wholly erased ” (Baldick 181). Genette ’ s categories are useful in that they indicate more than the fact that two texts are in some way related to each other. In his terms, the two sets of transtextual texts under scrutiny in this study both fall into the category of hypertextuality, even though only one set, at least theoretically, presents a classic case (Everyman, the morality play, and Philip Roth ’ s novel Everyman), while the other constitutes a prequel-sequel relationship (Jean Rhys ’ Wide Sargasso Sea is the prequel to Charlotte Brontë ’ s Jane Eyre). Admittedly, there is always also a metatextual dimension to such a hypertextual relationship: after all, rewritten texts usually present a critical approach to the original text. In this sense, all the theories presented in this introductory section to the third part of my analysis are in part covered — or at least complemented — by the concept of parergonality. The information that the parergon cannot yield III Textual Dialogues: The Reader as a Mediator 181 can always be supplied by an application of the respective theory. Genette ’ s categorization, for instance, and his term hypertextuality are valuable for my analysis. So are Kristeva ’ s communicative axes in order to explain the dialogic mechanisms between ergon and parergon, especially in terms of parody and satire. Derrida ’ s technical image of paper biodegradability prompts a logical conclusion: text, according to Derrida, is not destructible since it does not take a material form. Its presence in a reader ’ s (or a collective) memory is the key to a detection and an analysis of intertextual parerga. At the same time, this immaterial quality provides textual versatility. These textual characteristics, namely the potential of distortion, the verging on self-destruction and the impossibility of exactly that, and related forms such as self-effacement, are central to parergonal working. Bloom ’ s idea of precursor and successor texts highlights the powerplay at work between the two entities under scrutiny. Barthes ’ idea of a “ text-between of another text ” emphasizes the fact that intertextuality and also parergonality are not necessarily linked to textual entities, such as texts and intertexts or texts and paratexts, but that the working that he calls intertextual is one that permeates all texts, entering them in interstitial sites, transgressing and blurring all textual boundaries. The following two analyses highlight those aspects of intertextuality that are inherent in a parergonal relationship and that are relevant to a description of a function of parergonal working. At the same time, critical terminology such as Genette ’ s categorizing system is used whenever it enhances the interpretative enterprise. In explicitly intertextual relationships, two main texts enter a dialogic situation. Because they are usually two independent publications, we are not dealing with one text that carries an inherent potential for parergonality, but with two texts that influence each other mutually. For this reason, the terms ergon and parergon could theoretically be applied to both texts: the original text could be the ergon, the reading of which is influenced as soon as we have read the parergon, its rewritten variant. Conversely, the original text could also be the parergon because its existence influences our reading of the rewritten text. This is a moment at which one of the criteria of Werner Wolf ’ s typology comes to bear, namely the temporal “ location of framings in the reception process ” ( “ Frames, Framings and Framing Borders ” 21, original bold print omitted). 54 Wolf distinguishes between initial, internal and terminal framings. Since the original text has probably been read first, and probably even without any sort of parergonal channelling, it qualifies as initial framing as soon as it functions parergonally. For this reason, I have decided to reserve the term ergon for the rewritten text, the reading of which is manipulated through the existence of an 54 For a more detailed account of Wolf ’ s typology, cf. “ Frames, Paratexts, and Typology ” above (24 - 25). 182 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses original. Therefore, the hypertext is termed ergon, whereas the hypotext is called parergon. Parergonal workings already begin with our knowledge of a text being a hypertext. In this sense, the parergon (or its presence in our minds) triggers the mechanism of communication between reader and works. We might realize that this labelling runs counter to our intuition, since we would wish that the classic, original text were labelled the work, the ergon. The disappointment of this first impulse illustrates how deep-rooted our notion of the value of literature is and how powerful an entity the parergon presents. Ergon and parergon close ranks when placed under scrutiny in terms of ranking. In accordance with the established terminology, Roth ’ s Everyman is thus termed ergon and the anonymous morality play functions as its parergon. Analogously, Rhys ’ Wide Sargasso Sea is the ergon framed by Brontë ’ s Jane Eyre. The Average and the Individual: Everyman Meets Roth ’ s Everyman Philip Roth ’ s 2006 novel Everyman delves into a grave topic, indeed. Symptomatically, the novel begins with a burial. Not only does the oblong shape of the grave play an important part in the protagonist ’ s attempt to grasp the abstract notion of impending death, but it also symbolizes the novel ’ s framing of the medieval morality play Everyman. Even though both texts describe the condition of life in the face of death, they do so in reverse order: Roth ’ s novel presents a life account told in ulterior narration, prompted by the protagonist ’ s burial at the beginning of the text. As if to emphasize the circularity of life and death, the novel begins with the words “ [a]round the grave ” (1) and ends with “ from the start ” (182, cf. Rodgers 4). In contrast, the original play, which “ dramatize[s] the moral struggle that Christianity envisions as present in every individual ” (Abrams, Introduction 363), proceeds chronologically and lets its protagonist adjust gradually to the idea of dying after his shocking first encounter with Death. It therefore expands the time span between the announcement of his impending death and the moment of his passing away in a sort of slow motion. Together, the two texts not only illustrate the circular nature of existence, but their interconnection also resembles an incessant dialogue. Roth ’ s novel uses the rectangular form repeatedly, obviously to frame death, but also, it seems, to show that there is some force at work if one text frames another: in this sense, the continuous dialogue turns into debate, as Roth ’ s framing unfolds its parergonal capacity. The two texts break the circular monotony and give way to textual dispute and parodic attacks. While impending death is an unchangeable feature of the condition of life, life ’ s most inherent values are subject to negotiation. This is exactly what the two texts demonstrate in their interaction: even if circumstances do not change much, it is one ’ s attitude towards these circumstances that counts. III Textual Dialogues: The Reader as a Mediator 183 Roth ’ s narrative text is an appropriation of the allegory Everyman. At first glance, the task of rewriting a text is not a novelty that poses analytical problems for the critical reader; neither does the decoding of an allegory nor the understanding of a novel. Morality plays have conventionally been read on two levels: the first, symbolical level presents personifications, and these, in turn, need to be decoded on a second level of abstract ideas in order to understand the text ’ s implications. 55 Novels as a genre, however, traditionally present either individuals or types, but rarely personified abstract ideas. Novels are characterized by the idiosyncrasies of their characters. The choice of genre, therefore, complicates the process of adapting the original text considerably: whereas allegory works by means of abstraction, the novel is based on concreteness. This means that the rub lies in the textual constellation as well as in specific textual elements. This is the site of friction: even though we are dealing with two texts that claim to have something in common, we need to overcome a number of obstacles in order to even begin our analysis of this very commonness. This observation is representative of what happens when one reads Roth ’ s text: the claim to comparability is continually undermined by the differences between the two texts. They both deal with death and present a final account (in both senses of the word) of someone ’ s life. At the same time, the two texts stand in stark contrast to one another: the difference between the two starting points — life or death — initiates their textual opposition. Whereas the original text shows the protagonist ’ s journey in chronological order and thus presents mimetically what the approach of one ’ s end entails, the novel presents a reevaluation of a life span in retrospect. Comparable elements in the rewritten version continually undermine elements of the original source text. Very often, these comparable elements are even shifted into opposition, as is the case with the generic choice of diegesis versus mimesis. Thus, the two texts stand in mutual negotiation. On the level of content, this negotiation involves choosing principal values inherent in life, which become essential in the face of death. In this sense, the morality play does indeed frame Roth ’ s novel: by virtue of borrowing the original title, the novel is exposed to the force of parergonal 55 According to Chris Baldick, morality plays are “ dramatized allegories, in which personified virtues, vices, diseases, and temptations struggle for the soul of Man as he travels from birth to death ” (161). David Bevington claims that the device of allegory was primarily used “ to convey a moral lesson about religious or civil conduct, presented through the medium of abstractions or representative social characters ” (9). G. A. Lester lists these social characters: they include “ generalized types (Fellowship, Cousin), ” Everyman, of course, as well as the figure of “ God ” (xi). Still, the decoding of such an allegorical text proceeds by means of translation from one level to the other, no matter whether the dramatis personae only include personified abstractions or whether they also include generalized types and a divine figure. 184 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses friction. It is not only the title that the two texts share, however. Roth ’ s novel succeeds in echoing elements of the original play, only to emphasize their relativity in the course of negotiation. Formally, this negotiation proves to be the essential basis of interpretation. It constitutes the friction between the new work, the ergon (the rewritten text, palimpsest or Genettean hypertext), on the one hand, and, on the other, the work which gives rise to it, underlies and undermines it, the hypotext, which functions as its parergon. The Derridean lack of the work, one could say, is its reference to another text by virtue of its title. In this way, the original text functions parergonally by means of a conventional setup, namely the promise of a rewritten version. This means that the parergon is summed up and featured for the very first time in the title of Roth ’ s short novel. This constellation poses a task for its reader: intertextual relations need to be detected and evaluated in order to determine in what sense the rewritten text differs from the original and what statements these differences make. Furthermore, the references to a work from the past and statements uttered in gaps between the two texts also have an impact on the contemporary version ’ s surrounds. This direction towards the “ world, ” as Linda Hutcheon terms it (A Theory of Parody 111), sets up the tripartite structure of parergonal working, which is central to this study: ergon, parergon, and surrounds. Furthermore, ergon and parergon constitute a parodic relationship and, at the same time, their respective relations to a world, the surrounds, add a satirical component to this textual construct. In this sense, the textual interplay opens the gates for a satirical reading. In order to trace this inherent deconstruction, the interplay of comparable textual elements has to be evaluated in what one could call a freeze-frame analysis. Similarity presupposes difference, since the former always implies the latter. If two things are similar, they are different by definition, since they are not the same. The antonym of difference is thus sameness, not similarity. 56 It is, however, the difference between similarity and sameness that is central in the context of the two Everyman texts. In other words, it is precisely the parodic space between sameness and similarity that is examined here. When we compare the two Everyman texts, recognition of putatively identical elements gives way to differences, which finally prevail, as we have just seen in the generic context. A close look and some flexibility is required in order to successfully master the quest for similarities and, hence, to deal with the impact of differences. In this sense, the differences that emerge from a parallel reading turn out to make 56 A more detailed discussion of the two terms sameness and difference in relation to each other can be found in Currie ’ s Difference. The following basic remark summarizes the point of this paragraph: “ What could be more straightforward than the idea of difference? It is the opposite of sameness ” (1). III Textual Dialogues: The Reader as a Mediator 185 stronger statements about the texts themselves than their similarities. As soon as the reader has adapted to this continual shifting of similar elements, he or she can engage in their playfulness. This playful transformation of one text into another is, according to Genette, the principle of parody (Palimpsests 25 - 28). The two texts vary not only on the level of plot, but also in their thematic approach to an account of a life. The allegorical Everyman literally starts out on a journey to collect elements for his final reckoning, whilst his unnamed counterpart ’ s 57 life is recounted in terms of his medical history, his anamnesis. 58 Both protagonists share the fact that “ eluding death seemed to have become the central business ” of the remainder of their lives (Roth 71). Roth ’ s main character, however, goes as far as to admit that “ bodily decay [has become] his entire story ” (71). The original Everyman collects aspects to his life that will favour his passing the last judgment, i. e. he conducts a spiritual reckoning. His counterpart ’ s life, however, is presented in tangible, medical facts. Roth ’ s narrator dryly comments that elderly people ’ s “ biographies hav[e] by this time [i. e. once they are old] become identical with their medical biographies ” (80). Elaine Scarry, who investigates the relationship between body and world in old age, argues that “ [a]s the body breaks down, it becomes increasingly the object of attention, usurping the place of all other objects ” (32). In this sense, memories of a life span are replaced by the here-and-now of bodily pain. Millicent Kramer, who lives in the same condominium as Roth ’ s protagonist, aptly comments on this sort of isolation: “ It ’ s just that pain makes you so alone ” (91). The textual device of collecting and centring medical facts accounts for this mechanism. 57 In Roth ’ s text, the title Everyman does not make a clear reference to the protagonist. In this study, he is called Everyman ’ s counterpart on the basis of their both being the protagonists of two texts bearing the same title. We will see later that, in Roth ’ s novel, the title refers to the name of the protagonist ’ s father ’ s jewellery store. 58 The anamnesis — obviously — starts with his birth (16), includes various cases of surgery during boyhood (a hernia operation, page 16, and the removal of his tonsils, page 17), goes on to surgery during adulthood, which consists of treatment for a burst appendix and peritonitis (37), quintuple bypass surgery (48), treatment for an obstruction of his renal artery (62) and then of his left carotid artery, which is called a carotid endarterectomy (67). He suffers a silent heart attack and undergoes an angioplasty (71 - 72), another angioplasty (72), and the insertion of stents to repair arterial obstruction (72). He then needs a permanently inserted defibrillator (74) and undergoes further surgery on the obstruction of his renal artery (62). The final surgery on the obstruction of his right carotid artery leads to cardiac arrest (182). This shows that the two main bodily regions where surgery took place are the abdomen and the heart. When read in a figurative sense, these are the two sites which have the strongest conventional associations: the processing of memories and experiences of a lifetime resembles digestion, whereas emotional relationships might finally, at a certain age, wear out one ’ s heart — both symbolically and literally. When pondering the motivation for such a detailed enumeration of medical treatments, Posnock dryly comments that “ health holds small narrative incentive ” (53). 186 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses There is, however, not just one written document that bears witness to the life of Roth ’ s protagonist, since, after writing his will at the age of sixty-five, after surviving major surgery, he takes to “ the updating and revising and carefully reconsidered rewriting of [it] ” (62). Again, the protagonist endows death with a material presence, in the form of a written document. This time, however, he actively participates in making his life tangible. His biography consists of medical facts and a written will rather than abstract recollections. His recollections are always, in a way, once removed from his actual biography by merely being triggered through tangible facts. Both protagonists try to “ confuse death ” in their own way (Roth 75): Everyman tries to talk himself out of a confrontation with Death, and Roth ’ s character trusts his permanently fitted defibrillator, “ a thin metal box about the size of a cigarette lighter ” (75) to do this work for him. Already, the differences between the two texts make a clear statement: there is a focus on a material presence of things that forms a constant thread running through Roth ’ s work, whereas the original text favours the spiritual component, namely the collection of good deeds in preparation for the final reckoning. According to Mendelsohn, the “ opposition between concreteness and abstraction (and, naturally, between everything those two could be expected to stand for in a novel: the material and the spiritual, the body and the soul, the profane and the sacred) ” permeates the novel, even though Mendelsohn only ascribes a peripheral role to these elements (sec. 2). Instead of following the basic story of the original work, elements of the play are interspersed throughout Roth ’ s novel. This creates the impression of a certain force of rewriting at work, as if original elements had been slotted into the new text. The cracks opened up between the parallel elements work against this parallelism. Religion, of course, is one of the fields in which many parallels between the original text and the new Everyman manifest themselves. Yet, in terms of religion, the protagonist of Roth ’ s text is the exact opposite of Everyman in the original play. Even though the medieval Everyman does not lead a life in accordance with religion, he is and proves himself to be a true believer (otherwise he would not be redeemed). Not so Roth ’ s protagonist. Denial of religion is part of his belief in materialism as opposed to abstraction. The protagonist regards religion as a lie that he had recognized early in life, and he found all religions offensive, considered their superstitious folderol meaningless, childish, couldn ’ t stand the complete unadultness — the baby talk and the righteousness and the sheep, 59 the avid believers. No 59 It is striking that the atheist, of all people, is “ shepherded to the operating room by a nurse ” for one of his many medical treatments (69). One could conjecture that his new religion, his actual belief, is implied to be in medicine. III Textual Dialogues: The Reader as a Mediator 187 hocus-pocus 60 about death and God or obsolete fantasies of heaven for him. There was only our bodies, born to live and die on terms decided by the bodies that had lived and died before us. (51) Not only does Roth ’ s protagonist clearly deny the existence of God, but he also makes a concise statement about what he believes in: his belief is “ not in God or any other comforting abstraction ” (Posnock 54), but in the fact that all that remains is our dead bodies: the “ flesh melts away but the bones endure ” (Roth 170). He thus eschews abstract notions of the soul or of an afterlife — all the “ solace of religion ” (Royal 16) — and limits himself to what is tangible, the material manifestation of what is still there. In the same sense, Roth ’ s protagonist is “ convinced of his right, as an average human being, to be pardoned ultimately for whatever deprivations he may have inflicted upon his innocent children in order not to live deranged half the time ” (32). The notion of a final pardon is taken up, but the protagonist does not expect to be pardoned by God, an entity he does not believe in, but by his children. This, again, shows the text ’ s advocacy of happiness in earthly existence as opposed to a deferment to spiritual fulfilment in an afterlife. The protagonist ’ s children will pardon his selfishness as soon as they become aware of his motives, i. e. when they have families of their own and know what this entails. For him, as a materialist, family life is an encumbrance that constricts him in his actions as an independent man. In his life, every moment of ultimate freedom necessarily means deprivation for his children, but this deprivation will be pardoned as soon as they realize at what cost he also gave them comforts. Hence, the protagonist does not lead a good life in order to face the final judgment, but he consciously lives a life that is only peripherally limited or defined by the needs of others, particularly his family. He does not expect a transcendental pardon from God, but seeks forgiveness in this world. His two sons, however, are previously shown to be unforgiving. Since the protagonist ’ s burial precedes his retrospective account of his life, the reader is 60 One of the possible etymologies of hocus-pocus adds an additional irony to this statement. Even though The Oxford Dictionary of English Etymology considers this “ an unlikely guess ” (443), the Etymological Dictionary of Modern English makes the following observation: “ the fact that hokuspokusfiliokus is still used in Norw. & Sw. suggests that there may be something in the old theory of a blasphemous perversion of the sacramental blessing, hoc est corpus (filii) ” (719). Not only does this render the protagonist ’ s statement more provocative than it already is, but it also alludes to the central position that the seven sacraments — “ Baptism, confirmation, with priesthood good, / And the sacrament of God ’ s precious flesh and blood, / Marriage, the holy extreme unction, and penance ” (723 - 725) — have in the original text, in which Everyman finally receives “ the sacrament for [his] redemption, And then [his] extreme unction ” (773 - 774). The transformation of the words of the sacrament illustrates the development of one possible contemporary attitude towards religion. This is a topic which is clearly taken up in Roth ’ s text. 188 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses aware of the dramatic irony constituted by the great misunderstanding between father and children. Both parties cling to their principles: until his death, the father claims to have a right to be pardoned, whereas the sons must remain unforgiving in order to live up to what they feel they owe to their mother. The final pardon, which is granted at the end of the original text, is shown to be wishful thinking at the moment when it is introduced into the novel. Yet, it is not only the notion of pardon from one ’ s closest family that presents a point of comparison between the two texts, but also the relationship of the protagonist with his relatives in general. While the medieval Everyman turns to his relatives in vain, Roth ’ s protagonist cannot even turn to them, since he cannot transcend the limits of his own narcissism. After having been forsaken by Fellowship, the medieval Everyman implores his relatives to accompany him on his journey; since he deems them closest to himself, he thinks they will do anything for one of their own kind: To my kinsmen I will, truly, Praying them to help me in my necessity. I believe that they will do so, For kind will creep where it may not go. (313 - 316) Roth ’ s protagonist imagines a similar situation when pondering his own death. An appeal to his relatives is presented as one of his fantasies: He saw himself racing in every direction at once through downtown Elizabeth ’ s main intersection — the unsuccessful father, the envious brother, the duplicitous husband, the helpless son — and only blocks from his family ’ s jewelry store crying out for the cast of kin on whom he could not gain no matter how hard he pursued them. (164 - 165) Like the original Everyman, Roth ’ s protagonist cannot reach his relatives and, much worse, cannot even articulate his appeal. Yet, there is a crucial difference between the depictions of the two scenes: while the original Everyman meets his relatives and argues with them (as represented by the allegorical figure of Kindred), his counterpart does not imagine his relatives, but replicates himself in his various family roles. He becomes kindred to the others by means of replication as the “ unsuccessful father, ” the “ envious brother, ” the “ duplicitous husband, ” and the “ helpless son ” at the same time. Thus, his fantasy is not one of true appeal to his kindred, but one of a narcissistic indulging in self-pity by imagining his own death and failure in the eyes of others. The alacrity with which relatives and friends leave the respective protagonist forms a comical parallel between the two texts. Not only does this parallel create a paradoxical moment in both texts, considering the grave circumstances of the protagonist, but the close imitation of the original scene after the protagonist ’ s burial at the beginning of the novel also establishes and III Textual Dialogues: The Reader as a Mediator 189 emphasizes its parodic purpose. The “ undue haste ” with which everyone flees from any obligation towards the protagonist in the original text stands in stark contrast to what they promised him earlier (Abrams, Introduction 364). Even though Everyman ’ s friends and “ kinsmen promised [him] faithfully / For to abide with [him] steadfastly ” (381 - 382), “ now fast away do they flee ” (383). After swearing that he would “ not forsake [him] to [his] life ’ s end ” (213), that he would “ be slain for [him] ” (219), that even if he knew he “ should die ” (220), he would abide by his side or “ go to hell ” (232) with him, Fellowship can hardly wait to let Everyman down when he realizes that this is exactly what he is asked to do. The final promise he makes before disappearing is to “ remember that parting is mourning ” (302). Four times, Fellowship utters a false promise, unaware of what is going to be asked of him. This hyperbole brings comic relief in spite of the serious situation Everyman is in, and his cousin ’ s weak excuse of having “ the cramp in [his] toe ” (356) amplifies the comic effect. Parting as mourning does not entirely hold true in Roth ’ s text, however: “ though many were grief-stricken, others remained unperturbed, or found themselves relieved, or, for reasons good or bad, were genuinely pleased ” (15). The alacrity with which Fellowship and Kindred leave Everyman is repeated in the funeral scene at the beginning of Roth ’ s text. “ In a matter of minutes, everybody had walked away — wearily and tearfully walked away from our species ’ least favorite activity — and he was left behind ” (15). In the novel, the journey towards the protagonist ’ s last judgment is not an issue, the reckoning not at stake. “ Fellowship ” and “ Kindred, ” namely the protagonist ’ s friends, colleagues and family, do not have to make a similar decision in the contemporary text, not only because the deceased was not a believer, but also because the work starts where medieval Everyman ends. In addition, their relative ’ s death was sudden and unexpected. What remains is the speed with which his closest associates leave him behind or — as it is called in the medieval play — forsake him. Burials are, indeed, most unpopular events, if one wants to stick to the emotionally detached tone of Roth ’ s third person narrator, for reasons not mentioned explicitly in the text. One of the deceased protagonist ’ s sons, however, despite or precisely because of being “ irreconcilably alienated ” from his dead father, begins to tremble uncontrollably and looks “ as though he were on the edge of violently regurgitating ” (13). It can only be assumed that his violent reaction stems from the effort of suppressing any emotional responses to the situation, 61 for shedding “ another gallon of tears between family and friends ” is out of the ordinary and causes embarrassment (11). 61 In a reference to the protagonist ’ s medical history, it has been observed that digestion can be understood as symbolizing mental processing. This literal regurgitation would thus indicate an undigested past, which is also most fitting in this context. 190 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses It is not surprising that people experience funerals as unbearable, because the physical display of grief is their most important intrinsic component. After all, “ life ’ s most disturbing intensity is death ” (Roth 169). Yet death is also part of an everyday routine and has to be coped with as such. It is something that happens very often but only affects those who are closely involved in it: “ Up and down the state that day, there ’ d been five hundred funerals like his, routine, ordinary ” (14). This opposition of an emotionally detached everyday routine and the radical impact of such a personal blow can hardly be bridged. Even though each of these deaths leaves behind many mourning family members or friends, the large number of such occurrences leaves the impression that nowadays, one needs to be emotionally hardened in order to survive this accumulation of fatal blows; or that one needs to be indifferent in the face of everyday routine. In a way, the death of Roth ’ s protagonist bridges the incompatibility of routine and fatal blow: due to his routine of surgery, he does “ not bother to tell Nancy [his daughter] about the pending operation, ” from which he never wakes up (156). The novel describes two funerals, the protagonist ’ s and later his father ’ s, which recalls the theme of religion. The protagonist ’ s father — in a sense somewhat closer to the original Everyman — “ had become religious in the last ten years of his life ” (51), and therefore his funeral, according to “ the traditional Jewish rites [. . .], called for burial by the mourners ” (58). It takes the mourners almost an hour to bury him, a process which makes death more tangible. It seems to the son that “ they would be there burying his father forever ” (59). The long procedure of bidding farewell to the deceased leads to the protagonist ’ s sudden awareness of his father ’ s death: His father was going to lie not only in the coffin but under the weight of that dirt, and all at once he saw his father ’ s mouth as if there were no coffin, as if the dirt they were throwing into the grave was being deposited straight down on him, filling up his mouth, blinding his eyes, clogging his nostrils, and closing off his ears. (59 - 60) As a consequence, he wants to stop the ritual, as if this would undo his father ’ s death. It seems to him that the covering of his father ’ s face “ block[s] the passages through which he sucked in life ” (60). The burial ritual, presented here as suffocating the dead, in a way re-enacts the death of the person in front of the mourners ’ eyes and forces them to literally face their loss, to openly weep and bemoan it. This contrasts with the procedure described earlier at the protagonist ’ s own funeral, when the mourners leave the site of mourning as fast as they can in order not to face this awareness and embarrass themselves in front of others. At his father ’ s funeral, the mourners depart “ slowly, ” which allows the mind to “ circl[e] back even as the feet walked away ” (61). What is left is a literal taste of death: since “ a wind had been blowing while the grave was being filled, ” the protagonist “ could taste the dirt coating the inside of his mouth ” (61 - 62). III Textual Dialogues: The Reader as a Mediator 191 In addition, the father ’ s death and burial remind the reader again of the original play, and hence emphasize the parallels between the two religious characters. The scene described above also depicts the final shutting down of four of the five senses. In the same way, Five-Wits — representing the five senses — leaves Everyman shortly after Strength and Discretion have left him. In this sense, physical death is also allegorically enacted in the original play. Five-Wits ’ last words, “ I will no longer thee keep. / Now farewell, and there an end! ” (849 - 850), suggest that the senses control the person more than vice versa. They watch over Everyman, and when they leave, there is no longer a connection between the concrete world and the dying person. Austenfeld remarks that, in Roth ’ s text, the protagonist “ dies under an-aesthesia ” (215), which, when we take an-aesthetic as the antonym of aesthetic, implies the end of all sensory perception (220). 62 In this sense, the disappearance of Five-Wits in the original play is doubly featured in Roth ’ s text: first rather prominently with a minor character of the novel and then, at the end, almost imperceptibly with the protagonist. For Roth ’ s protagonist, all that remains after death is a dead body. In the original play, Everyman and Good Deeds descend into the grave together. Everyman takes this abstraction of goodness with him, since it is all that counts for his last judgment. In Roth ’ s text, goodness is to be found somewhere completely different: the element is shifted towards the periphery of the main character. The element of pure goodness in a character, which stems from the need to be pardoned in the original text, becomes the predominant characteristic of one of the minor characters, namely the protagonist ’ s daughter. Shostak aptly comments that the “ minor figures [. . .] give the sparkle to the novel ” (13). This shift of originally central elements towards the textual periphery, as also demonstrated above with the protagonist ’ s father and sensory experience, is one significant strategy the novel uses. To enhance the irony at work, Roth ’ s protagonist openly wonders at the goodness of his daughter as opposed to his own flawed character: he does not understand how it happened that such a child should be his. He hadn ’ t necessarily done the right things to make it happen, even if Phoebe [the daughter ’ s mother] had. But there are such people, spectacularly good people — miracles, really — and it was his great fortune that one of these miracles was his own incorruptible daughter. (76) It is thus not only the pardon in Roth ’ s work that belongs to the actual world and not to some sort of limbo or transcendental space, but miracles also take place here and not within the metaphysical realm. This belief in the actuality of 62 Austenfeld examines this semantic relation on the basis of the adjective aesthetic and without reference to the original text: Roth ’ s text “ invites readers to reconsider the root meaning of the term ‘ aesthetics ’ by suggesting that the antonym of the adjective ‘ aesthetic ’ is not ‘ unaesthetic ’ or ugly, but ‘ an-aesthetic ’ or devoid of sense-perceptions ” (220). 192 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses things, as opposed to abstract notions such as the idea of religion, turns out to be typical of Roth ’ s protagonist and simultaneously presents a return — a backward movement in an ongoing oscillation — to the medieval text: the original Everyman exclusively trusts in material goods during his lifetime, which turns out to be his major flaw. Both protagonists are committed to a belief in materialism. However, Roth ’ s main character never abandons this conviction, while the original Everyman experiences a change of belief when literally facing death. When Death summons him, Everyman is aware of the fact that he has always only trusted in material goods. Death makes the following comment: He that loveth riches I will strike with my dart, His sight to blind, and from heaven to depart — Except that Almsdeeds be his good friend — In hell for to dwell, world without end. (76 - 79) Everyman, whose “ mind is on fleshly lust and his treasure ” (82) only, will be sent to hell, unless he can prove that he has also given and not only taken. For this reason, he has to prove, by his book of final reckoning, that alms have indeed been “ his good friend. ” What counts is only what he has given to the needy, his good deeds, not what he possesses. This means that, as soon as he faces death, he remembers the value of abstract qualities and tries to find proof of his innate inclination towards generosity. During the best days of his life, the protagonist in Roth ’ s text is also a great defender of all material goods, as is symbolized, for example, in his relationship towards the ocean: he only trusts concreteness as opposed to abstraction. In daylight, he loves to swim in the surf; on the one hand, the ocean by day is framed by the horizon and the coastline and thus suggests controllability, while on the other hand, the surf indicates the part of the sea where its bottom is still within reach. At the same time, the waves represent a challenge. At dusk and during the night, however, the sea scares him. For him, the ocean at night suggests death and becomes abstract: The only unsettling moments were at night, when they [his second wife, Phoebe, and he] walked along the beach together. The dark sea rolling in with its momentous thud and the sky lavish with stars made Phoebe rapturous but frightened him. The profusion of stars told him unambiguously that he was doomed to die, and the thunder of the sea only yards away — and the nightmare of the blackest blackness beneath the frenzy of the water — made him want to run from the menace of oblivion to their cozy, lighted, underfurnished house. (29 - 30) At night, there is no boundary between the darkness of the sea and the sky. Furthermore, the blackness of the sea suggests the loss of ground beneath one ’ s III Textual Dialogues: The Reader as a Mediator 193 feet. When confronted with a dark premonition of death and the nothing that follows it for an atheist, Roth ’ s protagonist longs for home. Facing the question of death and transcendence, he retreats to the artificial and the domesticated, here represented by his house. Taking swims in the surf in daylight, however, represents him at his best. Even though he can always touch the bottom, he is continuously challenged to stay on the surface. As a boy, all his days are dedicated to the ocean: he plunges into it as soon as the day begins, remains at one with its movements all day long, and leaves it as dusk falls. His relationship with the ocean mirrors his own condition: as a boy, his body rode the waves from way out where they began to build, rode them with his arms pointed like an arrowhead and the skinny rest of him following behind like the arrow ’ s shaft, rode them all the way in to where his rib cage scraped against the tiny sharp pebbles and jagged clamshells and pulverized seashells at the edge of the shore and he hustled to his feet and hurriedly turned and went lurching through the low surf until it was knee high and deep enough for him to plunge in and begin swimming madly out to the rising breakers — into the advancing, green Atlantic, rolling unstoppably toward him like the obstinate fact of the future — and, if he was lucky, make it there in time to catch the next big wave and then the next and the next and the next until from the low slant of inland sunlight glittering across the water he knew it was time to go. (126 - 127) It is striking that the boy focuses on swimming back to the shore with the waves and experiences swimming out against the waves as merely a means to an end. To be one with the eternal movement of the ocean is his goal, not to face the “ fact of the future, ” the passing of his childhood. This represents the adherence to the here-and-now one experiences as a child. Growing older is, however, an obstinate fact of life, and growing older is mirrored in the protagonist ’ s approach to the great waters of the ocean. His deteriorating medical condition is — like the sea at dusk — a sign of approaching death. Now, the protagonist loses “ the confidence for the surf ” (107) and merely trusts the safety of the swimming pool. There are thus two places of refuge from the threat represented by the ocean. On the one hand, the swimming pool is an imitation of a natural feature and represents concreteness in the form of domesticated nature. On the other hand, when Roth ’ s protagonist perceives the ocean at night as a symbol of death and transcendence, he longs for the safety of his house. In this sense, the opposition between abstraction and concreteness corresponds to the opposition between impending death and material safety. In a similar way, Roth ’ s protagonist confuses his longing for spiritual love — a secular substitute for religious transcendence — with a tangible phenomenon, namely the quest for sexual adventure. When his medical condition continues to deteriorate, the process of bodily decline prompts a change in the perception of his past. He realizes that he has only pursued concreteness throughout his life. His greatest mistake, he thinks, is to have lost Phoebe, his second wife, 194 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses because he had an affair with another woman. His marriage to Phoebe was a happy one, except for the lack of passion. Phoebe comments on his betrayal as follows: The man loses the passion for the marriage and he cannot live without. The wife is pragmatic. The wife is realistic. Yes, passion is gone, she ’ s older and not what she was, but to her it ’ s enough to have the physical affection, just being there with him in the bed, she holding him, he holding her. The physical affection, the tenderness, the comradery, the closeness . . . But he cannot accept that. (122) When he marries the model he betrayed her with in order “ to appear responsible ” to his daughter (123) and “ to cover up the crime ” (124) of adultery, he soon realizes that there is nothing more to Merete, his new wife, than her bodily presence. He realizes that he left an exceptional woman for the sake of sexual fulfilment; he forsook true love — abstract in itself — for its material substitute. Merete is characterized by her “ inability to think anything through ” (123 - 124), as well as by her “ uncertainties, ” her “ vanity ” and her “ fear of aging ” (124). She goes “ to pieces under the slightest pressure ” (124). Thus, his initial object of desire turns out to be most fragile and vain in both senses of the word. His doctor even describes her as “ an absence and not a presence, ” which foreshadows the fact that she will, at some point, go unnoticed (45). Roth ’ s protagonist, who initially only wanted his new wife ’ s bodily presence, is suddenly confronted with parts of her he does not want to deal with, namely her emptiness and related fears. When he realizes her true nature, his interest in her diminishes. Accordingly, he starts an affair with his nurse and thereby keeps his bodily desires within the realm of the merely physical and subject to a certain time limitation, since the nurse will leave him as soon as his body has recovered. Only later does he realize his own superficiality. Reflection upon his life comes with his physical deterioration, which marks the approach of death. However, his retrospection upon his life does not effect a change in attitude as in the original play. Instead of attempting to change himself, Roth ’ s protagonist is alienated from himself. He feels estranged; a “ sense of otherness ” overtakes him (129). In Scarry ’ s terms, “ the body works to obliterate the world and self of the old person ” (32). Since he is forced to centre on his deteriorating health, he is distanced from his former self and from the world surrounding him. Instead of turning towards spiritual goods on reaching a certain age and on having become aware of his mistakes during his life, he uses this distance to become his own enemy. In this sense, he once again keeps evolving around himself and cannot overcome his own narcissism. He turns against his alienated alter ego and hence against himself. Like Everyman, Roth ’ s protagonist begins to have doubts concerning his life. Unlike him, though, he starts doubting his life ’ s achievements, not his III Textual Dialogues: The Reader as a Mediator 195 attitude towards what is important in life. He always wanted to paint after his retirement; painting represents a long-cherished yearning, the fulfilment of which is deferred to old age. In this sense, art — like love — also constitutes a secular replacement for spiritual transcendence. According to Posnock, art “ is not a safe harbor of escape but rather a counterlife, a contestation, an antagonism ” (59). Whereas, with love, he continued to err throughout his life, with art he capitulates immediately when he starts thinking that his supposed talent was a delusion. After his retirement, he follows his desire and at first does not mind that his two sons from his first marriage make fun of him by calling him the “ happy cobbler ” (96). When — prompted by his physical decay — he comes to the conclusion that they might have been right, he — a true believer in material goods — falls apart: “ My God, he thought, the man I once was! The life that surrounded me! The force that was mine! No ‘ otherness ’ to be felt anywhere! Once upon a time I was a full human being ” (130). The loss of his strength and his inability to cherish the entirety of life surrounding him alienates him from himself. He feels incomplete from without, and otherness is rising from within. He feels utterly ridiculous in everything he does. His sons were right, he thinks, in what they called him: “ The delusion — as he now thought of it — had lost its power over him, and so the books [on art] only magnified his sense of the hopelessly laughable amateur he was and of the hollowness of the pursuit to which he had dedicated his retirement ” (128). As a consequence, he renounces painting and spends his days in the routine of boredom. He realizes that, for him, “ old age isn ’ t a battle; old age is a massacre ” (156). The full human being that he once believed he was is cut apart and scattered by old age. He feels as if he is “ in the process of becoming less and less ” (161). Similar to his last wife, he also falls apart under the pressure of approaching death. Through his physical deterioration, his material presence, and hence the foundation of his beliefs, is diminished and leaves only the prospect of complete effacement. Posnock describes this process in terms of an “ unmistakable death drive ” (57), which replaces the protagonist ’ s former desire to live, “ to have it all all over again ” (Roth 171). It is thus the moment of physical decay that shifts the novel ’ s focus to “ Thanatos, ” the Freudian death drive (Shostak 7). 63 This is obviously acted out in the original text: Everyman is literally driven on to action by the figure of Death. 64 63 In translations of Freud, the death drive is often called the death instinct (Beyond the Pleasure Principle 44 and 44n). On a conceptual level, however, Freud refers to it as a drive. 64 One could argue that this analogy is faulty owing to the fact that, in Freud, the death drive is a characteristic inherent in any living being. In addition, the death drive is usually understood as a drive towards death, not as being driven by death: “ It would be in contradiction to the conservative nature of the instincts if the goal of life were a state of things which had never yet been attained. On the contrary, it must be an old state of things, an initial state from which the 196 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses In his quest for concreteness, Roth ’ s protagonist visits the cemetery and asks the gravedigger to give a detailed account of his work. 65 The accumulation of rectangular forms that follows and the use of a wooden frame to literally frame death by framing a grave not only summarizes the point of Roth ’ s text, but is also a coincidental reference to its parergonal structure. Through the material presence of the grave, death becomes more tangible for the protagonist. The gravedigger provides the following explanations: I have a wood frame that I lay down on the ground and that ’ s what I cut the soil to. I take an edger first and I cut the sod to the size of the frame. Then I size it down, make onefoot-square pieces of sod, and put them back of the grave, out of sight — because I don ’ t want to make any kind of mess where the funeral will be. (173 - 174) The rectangular form keeps reappearing throughout the gravedigger ’ s report. The gravedigger uses a “ square shovel, ” a “ standard shovel ” and “ a straight fork, ” he uses the “ edger to square the hole, ” he needs to “ keep it square ” and emphasizes: “ You ’ ve got to keep it square as you go ” (175). The specifics of the grave, its frame, so to speak, make death easier to approach for a character who is pledged to a belief in materialism. In this sense, Roth ’ s protagonist thanks the gravedigger “ for the concreteness. ” He tells him that he “ couldn ’ t have made things more concrete ” for him, which is, after all, all that counts in his life (180). The rectangular form also emphasizes the theme of the average, the common, that originates in the medieval Everyman. In Roth ’ s text, the notion of the average is not necessarily personified in the main character, but it is a literary theme that permeates the text. Roth ’ s text takes various stances on the notion of the average. Its protagonist tries to represent himself as an average man who is not to be blamed for anything out of the ordinary he might have done. At the same time, commonness is shown to be a desperate condition for those who bear the label: “ But then it ’ s the commonness that ’ s most wrenching ” (14 - 15). The label itself allows both a positive and a negative reading: on living entity has at one time or other departed and to which it is striving to return by the circuitous paths along which its development leads. If we are to take it as a truth that knows no exception that everything living dies for internal reasons — becomes inorganic once again — then we shall be compelled to say that ‘ the aim of all life is death ’ and, looking backwards, that ‘ inanimate things existed before living ones ’” (Beyond the Pleasure Principle 38). Yet, in Greek mythology, Thanatos is “ [t]he masculine winged spirit who personified Death ” (Grimal 442). On this basis, such a literal reading is possible. After all, allegory works by means of symbolization, here effected by an external figure of Death driving Everyman towards his end and urging him to action. 65 Obviously, the gravedigger scene constitutes an intertextual reference to Shakespeare ’ s Hamlet. In the discussion of the two Everyman texts, I will exclusively focus on the explicit intertextual reference between Roth ’ s text and the original play. For a more detailed discussion of this allusion, cf. Rodgers and Royal (24). III Textual Dialogues: The Reader as a Mediator 197 the one hand, it protects one from attacks on one ’ s individuality, and on the other hand, it also denotes a lack of originality. Hence, commonness protects and exposes at the same time. It is shown to be a burden and, simultaneously, it offers a great range of freedom. The same is true of individualism, one of the major concerns of the Romantics invoked by the text ’ s ornamental epigraph from Keats ’ “ Ode to a Nightingale. ” The poetic speaker in Keats ’ poem explores the capacity of his own imagination to overcome this limited world. He “ strives to escape from suffering by losing his own identity and becoming one with the nightingale through an act of sympathetic identification ” (Furniss and Bath 15). The poem thus discusses the potential of escapism through art. Yet, the speaker recognizes “ the limitations of the imagination ” (Furniss and Bath 15), which catapult him back into this world “ where men sit and hear each other groan ” (Keats 24). Roth ’ s protagonist — on reaching a certain age — also finds himself in the midst of people complaining because they suffer from physical ailments inflicted upon them by old age. Whilst Keats ’ speaker muses about the worth of poetic transcendence, Roth ’ s protagonist does not even allow for the possibility of transcendence as a solution. In this sense again, art constitutes a secular replacement for spiritual transcendence, which is fathomed in Keats ’ poem and which is clearly renounced by Roth ’ s protagonist. Once more, he strategically clings to a material presence of things and denies spirituality. Even though he has thoroughly celebrated his individualism and independence throughout his entire life, Roth ’ s protagonist uses the notion of commonness to avert any sort of exposure to critical issues of his past. In order to do this, he denies his own idiosyncrasies. He comes to truly consider himself a common man. Even though commonness seems to be the antagonist of individuality, they both share the paradox of offering protection while they simultaneously also potentially expose. In Roth ’ s text, the theme of being common figures as a counterpart to the eponymous character in the original Everyman. The notion of the average protagonist is one of the elements renegotiated by Roth ’ s text. The narrator in Roth ’ s text tries to convince the reader that the protagonist is an average man, but his characterization tells a different story. The text presents the main character as quite idiosyncratic, whereas the protagonist regards himself as completely ordinary, or “ square. ” During his best days, he “ never thought of himself as anything more than an average human being ” (31) and he “ was not claiming to be exceptional ” (32). Again, the notion of the common man is presented in terms of geometrical squareness: Roth ’ s protagonist had always “ thought of himself as square ” when he was young and still believes that people “ would have thought of him as square ” when he grows old (31). Generally, he “ held no grudge against either the limitations or the comforts of conformity ” (32). His own actions, however, 198 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses undermine this notion, for he is not an average man in many respects: he is wealthy, has been married three times, has an uncommonly strong libido despite his age, and has a very unlucky medical history. Furthermore, one white, American, Jewish male cannot be representative of all contemporary humankind. Thomas Austenfeld, who investigates the notion of the aesthetic in Roth ’ s novel, is correct when he emphasizes the significance of the fact that the protagonist is unnamed. This is part of the protagonist ’ s strategy to present himself as common. Austenfeld overstates his case, however, by claiming that “ [t]hrough every stylistic and narrative tool available to him, Roth thwarts the reader ’ s expectation of personal significance. ” This, he argues, “ results in depersonalization ” of the main character (211). Quite on the contrary, the narrator in Roth ’ s text gives quite a detailed insight into the protagonist ’ s personality. After all, the novelistic form often presents a single-focus narrative system, which, among other criteria defined by Altman in A Theory of Narrative, features a “ narrator attracted by a main character capable of satisfying the reader ’ s curiosity through unusual qualities, surprising activities, or culturally unacceptable practices ” (189). This is true of Roth ’ s novel, no matter how the protagonist defines himself. Paradoxically, one could say that Roth ’ s protagonist is a typical main character because of his exceptionality. It must be added that, in our age of emphatic individualism and increasing emancipation from religion, it would have been a difficult task to choose characteristics that apply to a majority of people. This means that Roth ’ s protagonist might indeed represent an average contemporary person precisely by virtue of being exceptional. He is thus not de-personalized, but individualized in order to become the average, or rather typical, case: a unique character. Even though individuality defines people ’ s lives today, the notion of the common is still associated with what applies to a more or less homogeneous community of people. According to the OED, commonness is “ [t]he quality of being ordinary or undistinguished ” (3: 571, def. 3.a.) and can even mean “ want of excellence or distinction ” (def. 3.b.). Roth ’ s text plays with the two aspects — commonness and individuality — in that the facts about the protagonist as presented in the novel undermine the protagonist ’ s representation of himself. Even though Roth ’ s protagonist is quite an extraordinary character, commonness becomes an anchor he clings to in order to cope with his life. Although Roth ’ s protagonist is not an everyman in the traditional sense, he keeps telling himself that he is in order not to take responsibility for all the uncommon things he has done. After all, he has left all of his wives, abandoned two of his three children, given up on God and finally also on himself. His social and ethical background creates needs he has to meet. For this reason, he devises a strategy to lead a life without impediments. This means that the main III Textual Dialogues: The Reader as a Mediator 199 character ’ s psychological depth and his exceptional personality, including all his oddities, are the cause of the textual reference to the notion of commonness. This, again, underlines the textual opposition based on generic differences between the texts. The novel is interested in the complex individual, whereas the allegory presents personified ideas, which make it impossible for it to offer an insight into psychological depth of character. Therefore, the textual constellation creates tension between the original allegorical character and its individualized counterpart that is typical by virtue of being untypical. Whilst Roth ’ s protagonist strategically resorts to the notion of commonness, his medieval counterpart is ready to bear the consequences of all his misdeeds. In this sense, the notion of commonness creates tension between the parergonally operating medieval hypotext and Roth ’ s hypertext. Friction is caused by the mechanism of mutual reference triggered by the textual constellation. Because of the original text, this lack in Roth ’ s work — its claim to be an adaptation and its failure to make clear textual references — is revealed. At the same time, this lack would have gone unnoticed if Roth ’ s text had not explicitly claimed to be a rewritten version of the original play. The recurrence of the motif of squareness as both a geometrical form and a personal characteristic has a special status in the context of this study. Roth ’ s work presents a considerable accumulation of frames and thus has a parergonal quality in itself. Both the black cover framing the original edition of Roth ’ s novel and the ornamental epigraph from Keats ’ ode prepare the reader for the approach of death on a formal level. On the level of content, the frame — to use Derrida ’ s terminology again — labours indeed. 66 Not only is the wooden frame around the grave prone to be deformed by the impact of death itself and therefore overrated in its comforting function, but, if the protagonist considers himself “ square ” and static within a certain frame of normality, this frame is also warped by the narrator ’ s account of the protagonist ’ s life. In addition, the work is framed by the original text. Hence, the wooden frame is at work within a work that is also surrounded by a work. This mise-en-abyme constellation prompts a projection on the world surrounding Roth ’ s text and adds a satirical component to the texts at play. In the reading process, the reader ’ s imagination adds to the fiction represented by words on a page (cf. the division between the real, the fictional and the imaginary established by Iser and introduced in my discussion of parergonal functions above, on page 57). The reader mediates between texts 66 Cf. Derrida quoted in the introduction (12): “ The frame labors [travaille] indeed. [. . .] Like wood. It creaks and cracks, breaks down and dislocates even as it cooperates in the production of the product, overflows it and is deduc(t)ed from it. It never lets itself be simply exposed ” (75, square brackets enclosing French wording in the original). 200 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses and is in charge of establishing possible connections between them. Especially when dealing with a rewritten text, the reader acts as a textual mediator, whose position and evaluative work is essential in order to create a parodic effect. Baldick defines parody as “ a mocking imitation of the style of a literary work [. . .], ridiculing the stylistic habits of an author or school by exaggerated mimicry ” (185) and satire as “ a mode of writing that exposes the failings of individuals, institutions, or societies to ridicule and scorn ” (228). When breaking these definitions down to a very simple level, one could say that parody is concerned with other texts, while satire is aimed at a real social order. According to Linda Hutcheon in A Theory of Parody, the effect of satire by means of parody is triggered through the following mechanism: [T]hrough the pragmatic need for encoder and decoder to share codes, and through the paradox of [the parodic text ’ s] authorized transgression, 67 the parodic appropriation of the past reaches out beyond textual introversion and aesthetic narcissism to address the “ text ’ s situation in the world. ” (116) The protagonist ’ s taking deceptive comfort in a wooden frame and the construct of his perceptions of the self might give an impression — in a projection on the world — of how convictions or biographies are warped in order to make past mistakes bearable. At the same time, the original text is also, in a way, deformed by means of the contemporary version. This also has an impact on the perception of the social order in which the original allegory is embedded. According to Stam, adaptation “ is a work of reaccentuation, whereby a source work is reinterpreted through new grids and discourses. Each grid, in revealing aspects of the source text in question, also reveals something about the ambient discourses in the moment of reaccentuation ” ( “ The Theory and Practice of Adaptation ” 45). This means that a re-reading and reinterpreting of the original play will always prompt a comparison with the later text and the reader ’ s contemporary situation. At the same time, the effect of the contemporary version is also directed retrospectively towards the world of the original text. In a comparison of the two texts ’ worlds, life ’ s most inherent values are negotiated. In a symbolical reading of the ending of the original play, Mendelsohn — figuring as such a textual decoder — emphasizes the notion of art transcending death (sec. 2). He argues that, in the original play, art comes out of death: after Everyman “ hath [. . .] made ending ” (Everyman 890), there is the angels ’ singing and making “ of great joy and melody ” (Everyman 892). In the context of the two texts ’ renegotiation of principal values inherent in life, this comment seems especially apt. After all, the central theme of death has produced two works of 67 This paradox of authorized transgression will be discussed in more detail below. III Textual Dialogues: The Reader as a Mediator 201 art, two literary texts. Together, they frame a time period of more than five hundred years and in this way demonstrate the timelessness of the issue. The moment of art ’ s triumph over death is a literary topos. 68 Especially in Roth ’ s text, art plays a major role. In the same way as art comes out of death and triumphs over it in the original text, art as carrying a transcendental potential plays a major role in the contemporary Everyman. Howie, the protagonist ’ s elder brother, states in his speech at his brother ’ s burial that, for himself, “ diamonds fostered a desire to make money. ” For his deceased brother, however, “ looking at the facets of the diamonds through [their] father ’ s jewelry loupe [. . .] fostered his desire to make art ” (7). It is significant that it is their father ’ s jewellery store that shares its name with the original medieval text: [T]he stroke of his [the father ’ s] genius was to call the business not by his name but rather Everyman ’ s Jewelry Store, which was how it was known throughout Union County to the swarms of ordinary people who were his faithful customers until he sold his inventory to the wholesaler and retired at the age of seventy-three. (56 - 57) Their father wanted to sell diamonds to average people, and thus to everyman, since it is “ a big deal for working people to buy a diamond ” (57). These very diamonds become the foundation on which the two brothers make existential decisions. Roth ’ s protagonist does not entirely dedicate his life to art, however. On becoming the director of a New York advertising agency, 69 he relegates art to the periphery of his everyday life by making his desire to paint a leisure time 68 The motif of literature surviving death has a striking presence in Renaissance and Romantic writing. Death is omnipresent as a memento mori and can only be defeated by the eternal lines of poetic writing in the Renaissance. A famous example of this is Shakespeare ’ s Sonnet 18 ( “ Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer ’ s Day ” ). In saying that “ in eternal lines to time thou grow ’ st ” (12), the speaker is referring to the lines of the poem outliving the beauty of the person described and thus, in a way, running parallel to the timeline of history. The sonnet emphasizes this point in the final couplet by making a reference to itself as a text: “ So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, / So long lives this, and this gives life to thee ” (13 - 14, my emphasis in italics). Examples of texts that take the supremacy of art over death as their central issue include, among many others, P. B. Shelley ’ s “ Ozymandias, ” or Edgar Allan Poe ’ s “ The Oval Portrait. ” In addition, as we have seen already, the transcendence of earthly suffering by means of art is also central to John Keats ’ “ Ode to a Nightingale. ” Not only the notion of art as more powerful than death, but also its dealing with a transcendental state such as the one before birth or the one after death are typical elements of Romantic writing. Therefore, escapism and death drive are typical motifs in Romantic literature. By alluding to the gravedigger scene in Hamlet and by quoting Keats, Roth ’ s novel makes a point in combining the two: the relationship between art and death is clearly renegotiated. At the same time, Roth ’ s protagonist rejects all these ideas of transcendentalism. In this sense, all we have in the end is the material presence of Roth ’ s book, whereas during the reading process, our minds transcend the mere presence of words on a page. 69 Austenfeld fittingly comments that the talented advertiser at some point becomes “ unable to maintain critical distance from his own product ” (217). He marries the Danish model Merete, 202 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses occupation. After all, he “ had mouths to feed ” (104), as his daughter Nancy puts it. Painting only becomes his central occupation after his retirement (52). Thus, art as an occupation is shifted from the centre towards the periphery and back to the centre again in a sort of internal negotiation with the subject. The two poles — financial security versus a life dedicated to art — are united in the symbol of the diamond. On the one hand, the facets of a cut diamond inspire the artist; on the other hand, the diamond is the ultimate imperishable material commodity. This is what makes it so exceptional and precious in the eyes of the protagonist ’ s father: “ Because beyond the beauty and the status and the value, the diamond is imperishable. A piece of earth that is imperishable, and a mere mortal is wearing it on her hand! ” (57). We have seen that Roth ’ s protagonist generally trusts more in concrete things than in abstraction. In terms of art, here represented by the diamond, this premise is challenged. The diamond not only unites art and material value, but it also symbolizes transcendence — the eternity of the (future) marital bond when it is worn as an engagement ring — in stark contrast to the finite nature of human life. Even though he really desires to create art in painting, the protagonist becomes the head of an advertising agency. In this sense, he commercializes art for the sake of material safety. After his retirement, he finally decides to dedicate most of his time to the creation of art by painting. As the inevitable result of this choice, however, the motif of routine sets in once more and turns a lifelong dream into prosaic reality: “ happily painting away ” becomes “ a routine that yielded all the excitement he ’ d expected ” (64). Initially, Roth ’ s protagonist feels an excitement that is produced by the act of painting. This excitement, however, subsides and finally gives way to the normality of routine: “ he ’ d become bored with his painting ” (102). He therefore starts teaching art lessons to elderly people, who also make an appearance at his funeral. Hence, Roth ’ s text brings together not only friends and family for this final farewell, but also the protagonist ’ s art students, the “ elderly to whom only recently he ’ d been giving art classes ” (1). In this sense, too, art is present in death in Roth ’ s version of the text, even though the reference is slightly tongue-in-cheek. His taste in art seems to constitute an exception to the protagonist ’ s insistence on the worth of material things, since his personal preference is for abstract painting. As an art teacher, however, he insists on his students painting still lives, even though some of them object to doing so: “ I don ’ t want to do flowers or fruit, I want to do abstraction like you do ” (83). Mendelsohn comments that it is “ hard here not to recall the French term for still life: nature morte ” (sec. 2). Thus, art literally comes out of death here, namely out of ‘ dead whom he meets on a photo shoot. According to Austenfeld, “ the advertiser has fallen prey to his own machinations ” (217). III Textual Dialogues: The Reader as a Mediator 203 nature. ’ The protagonist shows an inclination towards abstraction within abstraction, namely the abstract mode within art. At the same time, he undermines his own inclinations by what he teaches others, namely a love of material things. One could say that it is his affinity for material things that shines through once again. On the other hand, one could also argue that he keeps betraying his true calling for the sake of material security. Therefore, the play and Roth ’ s novel also initiate a negotiation of the relationship between art and life in the context of financial security. The contemporary text presents a complex relationship between the protagonist and the issue at hand: whilst art comes out of death in the original text, Roth ’ s version opens up a discussion of art in relation to a material world. The connection between death and art is not obvious in Roth ’ s text: it is a theme that recurs in various places and which is thus latently present rather than overtly central. Roth ’ s text repeatedly employs the strategy of de-centring textual elements that are central in the original play. Parallels to the original character of Everyman, for instance, are to be found in connection with the character ’ s father (his store, his religion and his funeral) or daughter (her goodness, for instance) more than in the character himself. In this way, the character who bears traits that are connected to the original text becomes peripheral in Roth ’ s text. He is shifted towards an idealized memory of someone who is dead, namely the protagonist ’ s father, or an idealized image of someone still to come, namely his daughter. Furthermore, commonness can be found in everyday routine, in the repetitions life entails, more than in the protagonist himself. In this sense, the notion of the average is shown to be a paradigm which shifts in the course of time and which can only be grasped when comparing the values of various generations. This movement towards the textual periphery also reflects what happens to the notion of old age and death itself. Roth ’ s protagonist keeps deferring thoughts of growing old throughout the novel: “ the menace of oblivion ” is omnipresent (30, cf. discussion of the ocean above), but the protagonist tells himself to “ [w]orry about oblivion [. . .] when you ’ re seventyfive! The remote future will be time enough to anguish over the ultimate catastrophe! ” (32). Whereas originally central elements are de-centred, the centre is now occupied by a character who is unable to survive without medical intervention and who is buried at the very beginning of the novel. In a way, he figures as a potential absence, while the periphery starts filling the centre. On a very general level, our attention to the original text has prompted us to shift seemingly marginal elements to the centre of this discussion. This is the effect of the parergonal interplay between the two works. Finding one text transformed into another naturally raises the question of the extent to which the rewriting parodies the original. The fact that only traces of the original text are present in the novel adds a ludic component to the 204 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses decoding of the two texts. In Genette ’ s terms, Roth ’ s Everyman falls into the category of parody because it presents a playful transformation of the original text (Palimpsests 28). This definition, however, does not shed any light on the “ intent ” of such a parody (Hutcheon A Theory of Parody 38). Hutcheon makes a point when she claims that “ [p]arody today cannot be explained totally in structuralist terms of form ” (116). According to her, “ [p]arody is [. . .] repetition with critical distance, which marks difference rather than similarity ” (6). 70 This is exactly the point of this reading of Roth ’ s text. It has been shown that, in a parallel reading, the differences between similar elements are the crucial sites of interpretation. It now remains to be decided in what way Roth ’ s parody makes a statement about a status quo, i. e. in what way the parodic space opened up between the original text and the contemporary representation makes a statement about the change of values in life over the course of time. The original text ’ s didactic aims might be a good starting point for such a discussion. Even though the medieval Everyman enjoyed the pleasures of life in the company of good friends and did not strive to avoid tempting vices, he is finally redeemed. Everyman — through personified Knowledge — learns that penance — when done sincerely and by a true believer — will redeem him and open the gates of heaven for him. Therefore, the lesson learnt might not be the one postulated in the play, as formulated by the figure of the Doctor, who appears at the end and “ explains the meaning of the play ” (Abrams 384 n): Ye hearers, take it of worth, old and young, And forsake Pride, for he deceiveth you in the end. And remember Beauty, Five-Wits, Strength and Discretion, They all at the last do Everyman forsake, Save his Good Deeds there doth he take — But beware, for and they be small, Before God he hath no help at all — None excuse may be there for Everyman. (903 - 910) Throughout his entire life, Everyman trusted Pride, Beauty, Five-Wits, Strength and Discretion and did not try very hard to strengthen his friend Good Deeds. Furthermore, his most beloved companion of all was Goods. Yet still, he manages to be redeemed. For this reason, the text seems to tell us that it is the end that counts. Everyman takes good advice in collecting the sacrament for his redemption and the final extreme unction (381). They remove all his flaws. By means of these rituals, Everyman proves himself to be a true believer and so to deserve redemption. Even though this procedure would seem, to the contemporary reader, to invite misbehaviour, it holds true within the limits of 70 In this quotation, the emphasis is on the extent to which difference is marked rather than on the opposition of difference and similarity, and hence it fits well into the argument. III Textual Dialogues: The Reader as a Mediator 205 its own religious system. The point is that counting on redemption would be an untrue belief. The allegory Everyman is designed to teach a valuable lesson, even though from a contemporary point of view, the system undermines itself: a true believer would not count on being redeemed, but is only proven to be a true believer when granted forgiveness in the end. Roth ’ s text presents a protagonist who remains committed to his own principles no matter what happens to him. In this sense, Roth not only describes a change in values over the course of history but also marks the didactics of the original text. From our point of view, Everyman, the play, anticipates the Renaissance memento mori and suggests a carpe diem attitude. After all, the original text makes no secret of the tendency towards hedonism at that time. When we reconsider the values of the original play through the lens of Roth ’ s text, the medieval didactics can be misunderstood. The novel prompts a reexamination of the morality play in terms of its didactics and thus urges the original text to deconstruct itself. Furthermore, Roth ’ s protagonist ’ s strategy of abnegating responsibility is morally problematic as well. Here, similar elements shed light on huge differences in the two texts ’ social orders. In this sense, the parodic relationship gives way to a satirical reading of the texts ’ respective social orders. If we apply Hutcheon ’ s theory, Roth ’ s text “ use[s] parody [. . .] to comment on the ‘ world ’ in some way ” and thereby “ establish[es] a dialogue with the past ” (111). Even though parodies often aim to attack an original text, their very reference to it paradoxically also pays tribute to it. This is what Hutcheon calls the merging of “ conservative and revolutionary impulses ” (115) culminating in an “ authorized transgression ” (101). 71 In that elements taken from the original play appear in Roth ’ s text, they are exposed to attack. Yet, at the same time, they live on in the novel: elements or the original are thus subverted and simultaneously preserved. The two texts, pointing to each other by virtue of sharing their title, keep negotiating the values that finally count in a man ’ s life. In this way, the most relevant statement of all is made: these values have to be renegotiated in order to remain in a platonic relationship to a societal ideal. This is exactly what the two texts — the one functioning as the ergon and the other as its interplayer, its parergon — demonstrate. In this sense, the reader, as the decoder, follows the direction of the two texts ’ negotiation to decode statements made on their situation in the world. Furthermore, the comparison of two social orders invites readers to reflect on their own situation. The two texts “ serve to continue the conversation of the world ” (Dentith 189). The 71 Hutcheon argues that “ [a]ccording to Gilles Deleuze, repetition is always by nature transgression ” (101), namely a transgression into a domain authorized by someone else. 206 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses process of decoding a rewritten text never comes to an end, since this very world is in constant change. Heidegger ’ s practice of crossing out passages but leaving them in the text in The Question of Being was termed sous rature by Derrida. Sous rature was translated as under erasure by Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak and responds to the need for constant revision and its limits posed by the limits of language. 72 In her “ Translator ’ s Preface ” to Derrida ’ s Of Grammatology, Spivak describes the process of text being under erasure as follows: “ This is to write a word, cross it out, and then print both word and deletion. (Since the word is inaccurate, it is crossed out. Since it is necessary, it remains legible.) ” (xiv). The point of this practice is to show that it is impossible to do “ without the very words one recognises as inadequate ” (Dentith 15). In the context of Roth ’ s parody, the original text is necessary in order to create textual differences and thereby open up the parodic space of textual interaction. Phiddian appropriates Derrida ’ s concept to approach the workings of parody as follows: [A]ll parody refunctions pre-existing text(s) and/ or discourses, so it can be said that these verbal structures are called to the readers ’ minds and then placed under erasure. A necessary modification of the original idea is that we must allow the act of erasure to operate critically rather than as merely neutral cancellation of its object. Parodic erasure disfigures its pre-texts in various ways that seek to guide our re-evaluation or refiguration of them. (13 - 14) It takes a decoder — a reader, in the context of literature — to work out the “ intent ” (cf. Hutcheon above) of Roth ’ s parody. There are two practices that the novel employs: on the one hand, original elements are forced into the new text for the sake of re-evaluation, and on the other, originally central elements are shifted towards the periphery. By means of the former practice, Roth initiates a textual negotiation between ergon and parergon, which circles around moral values inherent in social orders. Roth ’ s text, by undermining the original play, does not advertise specific values in human life; it rather advocates the importance of an ongoing negotiation of these values. It is important at some point to reflect on one ’ s biography and the values one holds dear in life. This can be done in various ways, be it in a book of final reckoning, in a will, in a medical record, or by means of critical recollection. The practices employed by the medieval Everyman and his unnamed counterpart both leave room for improvement. In this sense, Roth ’ s parody opens the channel to the world: it raises the issue of renegotiating social values. By means of such a reading, the original text is 72 Spivak comments: “ Derrida directs us to Martin Heidegger ’ s Zur Seinsfrage [The Question of Being] as the ‘ authority ’ for this strategically important practice ” (xiv), which will not be further discussed in this context. For a more detailed discussion, see Spivak, xiv - xviii. III Textual Dialogues: The Reader as a Mediator 207 “ refracted through the prism of adaptation ” (Stam, Literature through Film 1) and thus undergoes a change initiated by its rewritten version. Projected onto the world, the act of shifting originally central elements to the textual periphery or to different generations of people on the content level parallels the paradigm shifts that necessarily take place over the course of time. It would be slightly worrying if the contemporary text presented the same constellations as the original play, which dates back to the late Middle Ages. The ongoing oscillation between original text, contemporary version, and world — parergon, ergon and surrounds — represents the necessity of dialogue. Most importantly, however, Roth ’ s text does what it claims to be absolutely essential: it advocates constant renegotiation. Competing Protagonists: Brontë ’ s Jane Eyre and Rhys ’ Wide Sargasso Sea Whereas the interaction between Roth ’ s novel and the original Everyman has a direct impact on the assessment of values promoted in each individual text, the case with Jean Rhys ’ treatment of Charlotte Brontë ’ s Jane Eyre is somewhat different. In explicitly intertextual relationships, the text that is written earlier constitutes the parergon, and the later text is termed the ergon. This newer version interacts with the parergon in that the original text channels the reading of the new text. While in the case of Everyman, this channelling triggers the reader ’ s evaluation of essential choices one makes in life, Rhys ’ text prompts a comparison with the original text that reveals certain aspects in Brontë that could easily go unnoticed without this backward-projection. The process of textual analysis thus consists of a channelled reading of the rewriting, which then triggers a re-reading of the original text as well as a re-evaluation of its criticism. Similar to the satirical aspect of the parodic relationship between Roth ’ s text and the medieval drama, the textual interaction between Wide Sargasso Sea and Jane Eyre also has a backward-impact on the reading of the original text and its surrounds. The difference between the preceding analysis and the present one, however, lies in the consequences of the comparison: it does not effect a critical view of societal values, but it produces an unsettling reading experience, which leads to a reassessment of the three protagonists Antoinette Cosway (Bertha Antoinetta Mason 73 ), Jane Eyre, and Edward Rochester, and a critical view of the hitherto existing evaluation of the two texts. Brontë ’ s novel forms the parergon of Rhys ’ text: the structure of the later text leaves a great deal of room for interaction with the earlier text. The new text opens gaps and needs to be reassessed at so many sites that, after both texts 73 Cf. Brontë 304; vol. 2, ch. 11. 208 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses have been read, it is difficult to make out which piece of information stems from which source. The lack in Rhys ’ work is thus the pre-existence of its future events: the narrative fragmentation within Rhys ’ novel, for instance, is mirrored in the overall textual constellation of the prequel-sequel relationship. According to Baer, “ Rhys has written a novel that exists both before (in a literary sense) and after (in reality) the novel Jane Eyre. ” Thus, and in reference to Susan Gubar, 74 she calls Wide Sargasso Sea a “ post-dated prequel ” (132). According to Paravisini-Gebert, Rhys ’ text acts “ as though it were a portion left out of the original novel ” (249). It combines (partly changed) material from Jane Eyre with new elements. This constellation illustrates how the later text is designed to tie in perfectly with the original novel: together, they form a new whole. According to Robert Stam, “ [a]daptations [. . .] might be seen as filling in the lacunae of the source novels, calling attention to their structuring absences ” (10). Even though Stam is referring to film adaptations here, literary hypertexts do exactly the same. Thus, Rhys ’ novel underlines certain elements in Brontë that are then reassessed. Through the metanarrative act of calling attention to elements that are missing in the earlier text, hypertexts always also work metatextually. This means that the structural level of hypertextual relationships makes a statement in itself. Intertextual relationships vary in terms of the presence of one text within another. Whereas it is a difficult task to extract the similarities between the two Everyman texts, critics have generally found ample evidence in Jean Rhys ’ novel to term it Jane Eyre ’ s prequel or at least a “ rewriting, ” even though not “ in the proper sense ” (Melikoglu 127). Considering the fact that only a few minor characters in Rhys ’ text bear the same names as in Brontë ’ s earlier novel and that the main characters have different names, at least at the beginning of the text, 75 or are not named at all, this easy acceptance seems surprising. The two novels also differ in their (main) setting — the West Indies (Jamaica and Dominica) versus England — as well as in the dating of the action. A prequel-sequel relationship requires disparity in terms of time: the two texts are supposed to constitute a sequence except for flashbacks in the text that is set later, prolepses or at least a foreshadowing in the text that is set earlier, and a 74 In a note, Baer explains that Susan Gubar “ suggested [the term] to [her] in a telephone conversation in March 1981 ” (335). 75 Only after the first half of Rhys ’ novel does the unnamed male character begin to call Antoinette ‘ Bertha. ’ Antoinette comments on this as follows: “ He never calls me Antoinette now. He has found out it was my mother ’ s [Annette ’ s] name ” (Rhys 94). In my analysis, I will use the first names Antoinette or Bertha to indicate a reference to Wide Sargasso Sea or Jane Eyre, respectively. Since Jane is not named in Rhys and probably only makes a marginal appearance, if any, in the novel (cf. note 88, page 222 below), her name is always used in reference to Brontë ’ s novel. III Textual Dialogues: The Reader as a Mediator 209 certain overlap between the two main plotlines. Yet the two texts being compared here are incompatible: the action of Wide Sargasso Sea starts after 1833, the year in which the Emancipation Act that banned slavery in the West Indies was passed (Rhys 15), while the action of Jane Eyre, which is supposed to take place later than that of Rhys ’ novel, covers the 1820 s and 30 s (Jenkins viii). 76 Indeed, poetic license has been taken even further: family liaisons have been reinvented, a first marriage becoming a second one, and thus a brother, Richard Mason, becoming a stepbrother (Rhys 27, Brontë 321; vol. 3, ch. 1). Also, the notion of Creole has different representations in the two novels: 77 whereas in Jane Eyre, Bertha is black even though her “ racial origins remain vague, ” Antoinette (Bertha) in Wide Sargasso Sea is a “ white Creole woman ” (Azim 183). 78 Thus, the basis for a relationship between the two texts does not lie in their settings or in shared events, but primarily in the two female protagonists ’ similar pasts. This parallelism is welcome: not only are they competitors in marriage, but they are also competitors as protagonists throughout the two texts. The basis for the reader to accept the challenge of such a comparative and potentially unsettling reading experience is the initial mirroring of biographical data and the consequent promise that it is possible to make sense of the disparate information stemming from the two sources. The biographical similarities, however, are a feature of only the first parts of the two novels. 79 Yet, a serious comparison needs to take into consideration the entirety of both texts. It is crucial to investigate the strategies that Rhys ’ text uses to tie in with Brontë ’ s as an additional source of textual information. Rhys ’ text offers a variety of features allowing Brontë ’ s parergon to be riveted to the work ’ s interior. Points at which friction occurs — where the two texts are incompatible or where a feature of one text is foregrounded by the other — are the sites that yield access to their parergonal interaction. At these sites, the reader discovers that Rhys ’ text uses various strategies that make the reader return to the original 76 For a detailed discussion of historical references and dating of the action in Jane Eyre, cf. Sue Thomas ’ The Worlding of Jean Rhys, 155 - 156. 77 According to Firdous Azim, the term Creole can denote “ a white person born in the colonies ” as well as “ a person of mixed European and Indian — native — or Black descent ” (182). 78 Cf. Sue Thomas ’ Imperialism, Reform, and the Making of Englishness in Jane Eyre for a detailed account of Bertha Mason ’ s racial origins (31 - 32) and the notion of Creole (32 - 37). 79 Even though my edition of Jane Eyre is based on a collation of Brontë ’ s manuscript and her first, second and third editions, it still has the tripartite structure and chapter numbering of the “ early editions ” (Margaret Smith, “ Note on the Text ” xxviii). The three volumes of these early editions, “ the usual format for novels in the mid-nineteenth century ” (Margaret Smith, “ Note on the Text ” xxviii), are mirrored in the three parts of Rhys ’ Wide Sargasso Sea. Baer claims that these three parts represent “ the traditional three stages of the quest ” of the novel of development: “ separation, descent/ initiation, return ” (136). 210 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses text in order to evaluate the informational disparities: on the level of characterization, Rhys ’ text triggers the desire for closure in the reader by presenting biographical parallelisms between the two heroines. Owing to incompatibilities in terms of character traits, however, closure cannot be achieved. This forces the reader to engage thoroughly with the two female protagonists as well as with their (future) husband. Rhys ’ text also uses strategies on the level of narration that prompt a critical analysis of the narration in Brontë. This analysis reveals that the first-person narrators in both texts are necessarily unreliable, even though Jane ’ s putative autobiography stresses its truthfulness. In both texts, the protagonists also figure as narrators, which directs the reader back to these characters. In addition, a close analysis of the narrative reveals that specific characters are accompanied by certain textual moods. Therefore, generic shifts add to characterization and to an evaluation of the narrative situation. Since these aspects, namely characterization, narration, and genre of both texts, have often been commented on, the friction between the two texts also results in a re-evaluation on a metatextual level. Rhys ’ text makes its readers constantly evaluate textual information. First of all, Brontë ’ s text influences our reading of the characters in Rhys. As soon as we know — and we potentially know this from the very beginning — that the main characters are younger versions of Brontë ’ s, we automatically incorporate our knowledge of their future into our reading. The parallelisms between the two female protagonists ’ biographies offer closure: there is hope of finding an interpretative surplus by working out the analogies in detail. The desire for closure drives the reading process on; it is one of the sources of energeia at the beginning of a comparative reading of Rhys after Brontë. The textual fragmentation forces readers into an active role in the reading process: they have to evaluate incompatible pieces of information. In addition, they have to situate textual information in the whole construct of the two texts. This work of decoding propels our reading. At the same time, it opens gaps and causes friction with the original text. Thus, the novel makes the reader take an ideal evaluative approach to the two texts: after a channelled reading of the rewritten text, he or she has to return to the original and thus trace the oscillation that ergon and parergon perform. By this means, the novel illustrates the reception of disparate pieces of information and their processing by critics. This also has an instructive purpose: textual information needs to be re-evaluated, especially when stemming from various sources and when incompatible. Feminist and post-colonial critics have explored the characters of Antoinette (Bertha) and Jane in great detail and have often read them as either competitors or doubles (also in the context of Jane Eyre on its own). Even though Rhys ’ novel can be read as a post-colonial answer to the earlier text, its effect is not primarily one of writing back and ‘ setting things right. ’ Rewritings III Textual Dialogues: The Reader as a Mediator 211 and appropriations never unwrite previous texts; rather, they present answers or alternatives to some of the happenings in the earlier writing. Post-colonial criticism generally displays a certain satisfaction with Rhys ’ achievement of articulating a reply to the ideological discourse of imperialism in Jane Eyre. 80 This satisfaction with Rhys also has its origin in the fact that the discussion of the feminist discourse in Brontë, namely an assessment of her text as a feminist attack on a patriarchal system, had previously marginalized the post-colonial discourse connected to Bertha. In her essay “ Problems in Current Theories of Colonial Discourse, ” Parry summarizes one of the main points of Spivak ’ s “ Three Women ’ s Texts and a Critique of Imperialism ” as follows: [B]ecause the construction of an English cultural identity was inseparable from othering the native as its subject, the articulation of the female subject within the emerging norm of feminist individualism during the age of imperialism, necessarily excluded the native female, who was positioned on the boundary between human and animal as the object of imperialism ’ s social-mission or soul-making. (38 - 39) Thus, the formation of Western female individualism in Jane Eyre proceeds at the expense of Bertha in Brontë ’ s or Antoinette in Rhys ’ text, since it needs her as an ‘ other ’ figure rather than as a sister in a relationship of female solidarity. According to Spivak, Rhys ’ text rehumanizes Antoinette, Jane Eyre ’ s Bertha (Critique 125). In my opinion, the strategy of playing the two women off against each other is not a wise one, especially if critics are concerned with disadvantaged groups ’ issues. In addition, these approaches need the character of Rochester (or the unnamed male character in Rhys) as a representative of patriarchal society. This is unfortunate since Rochester, in both texts, is himself a victim of the latter. He needs to be pushed into the role of the ruthless misogynist to turn Jane into a potential victim as well. The female protagonists ’ similar experiences as children and adolescents evoke the idea that Jane might face the same fate as Bertha in her marriage to Rochester. 81 Bertha thus constitutes “ the figurative representation of something unspeakable and [. . .] a projection of Jane ’ s own dark potentials ” (Grudin 145). 82 The motivation to focus on the parallels between these two characters thus lies in the fear that Jane might undergo a similar process to Bertha and end up in confinement. After all, 80 As examples of such post-colonial readings of Rhys ’ text, cf. e. g. Drake, Gregg (Jean Rhys ’ s Historical Imagination 82 - 115), Parry ( “ Two Native Voices ” ), or Spivak (Critique and “ Three Women ’ s Texts and a Critique of Imperialism ” ). 81 In reference to Chase (108) and Rich (469), Gilbert and Gubar discuss Bertha ’ s monitory role for Jane in Jane Eyre (361). When also including Rhys ’ textual information, Baer puts it as follows: “ Rhys is asserting that Antoinette ’ s madness is not so aberrant — that insanity could have been Jane ’ s fate, too ” (133). 82 Even though Grudin focuses on Jane Eyre in his analysis, this projection of Bertha ’ s (Antoinette ’ s) fate onto Jane constantly resonates when one reads Rhys ’ novel. 212 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses Brontë explicitly makes reference to the tale of Bluebeard (112; vol. 1, ch. 11). It seems necessary, however, to approach all three main characters individually, without letting certain character constellations exert subtle violence upon our reading of another character. All of the three main characters in both Brontë and Rhys — namely Jane, Rochester and Antoinette (Bertha) — are forced to undergo many changes, which proves them to be round characters (Rimmon-Kenan 40). These changes create many intersections in terms of character traits and biographies. The intersections, in turn, tempt readers in their quest for compatibility between the two novels. Yet, while the contrasting and mirroring of biographical data and character traits give us indications of a possible compatibility, the texts remain evasive: constant changes guarantee an ongoing investigation, and this very investigation is thus proven to be the essence of such a comparison. Critics were quick to observe that the characters of Jane and Antoinette display many biographical similarities (cf. e. g. Thorpe 176 - 177): owing to Antoinette ’ s English descent and Jane ’ s mother ’ s family background, they are both “ members of the gentility ” (Melikoglu 128); at the same time, they are also “ the offspring of a socially resented marriage ” of unequal partners (133). Whereas Jane ’ s parents both die of typhus fever after having been married for a year and leave her an orphan (26 - 27; vol. 1, ch. 3), Antoinette ’ s father Alexander Cosway “ drank himself to death ” (Rhys 24). Both Antoinette and Jane confront “ a family situation where a male child is strongly preferred ” (Baer 135): in Antoinette ’ s case, it is her younger brother Pierre, and in Jane ’ s, it is her cousin John Reed. After her younger brother dies (39), Antoinette is rejected by her mother Annette, who cannot bear her loss and gradually turns insane. When Antoinette at one point attempts to embrace her mother and kiss her, the latter screams “‘ No, no, no ’ very loudly and [flings her] from her ” so impetuously that she hurts herself (40). According to Simpson, this reaction is symptomatic of “ the split-apart world that this novel conjures, ” in that “ cold hatred always mediates against warm affection ” (116). Antoinette ’ s mother, like Jane ’ s uncle Reed, is the only close relative left to her. At the same time, her mother, also like Jane ’ s uncle, is lost to her: whilst the latter died during Jane ’ s childhood, Antoinette ’ s mother suffers the symbolic death of madness. Antoinette therefore forces herself to “ forget and pray for [her] as though she were dead, though she is living ” (46). Both girls “ are raised by aunts ” (Baer 135): Jane ’ s Mrs. Reed and Antoinette ’ s aunt Cora. Later on, both women (seemingly) profit from the help of an unexpected benefactor: Jane inherits her uncle ’ s fortune, and when Antoinette ’ s mother remarries, their desperate financial situation is overcome. In addition, Antoinette ’ s money from her stepfather and Jane ’ s inheritance make it possible for both women to marry III Textual Dialogues: The Reader as a Mediator 213 according to their own choice. Finally, the money that each woman comes into originally stems from the British colonies: Jane ’ s uncle John Eyre is a winemerchant in Madeira (97; vol. 1, ch. 10; 404; vol. 3, ch. 7), while Antoinette ’ s stepfather Mr. Mason is said to have come to the West Indies “ to make money as they all do ” (25). Yet it is not only in terms of family relationships that the two protagonists show parallels, but also in terms of their relationships towards fellow pupils or teachers at school. Both girls are bullied by other children: Jane by her cousins, mainly John Reed, who “ bullied and punished [her]: not two or three times in the week, nor once or twice in the day, but continually ” (10; vol. 1, ch. 1), while Antoinette refuses to leave her aunt Cora to go to school until “ [her aunt] got impatient, so I [Antoinette] forced myself away from her and through the passage, down the steps into the street and, as I knew they would be, they were waiting for me under the sandbox tree. There were two of them, a boy and a girl ” (41). One of these is a black Creole boy and the other a native girl, and they torment Antoinette for being a white Creole, belonging neither to them nor to the English people in England. 83 At the same time, Antoinette and Jane both find friends in school who also figure as models. At Lowood school, Jane tries to comprehend Helen Burns ’ Christian “ doctrine of endurance ” (58; vol. 1, ch. 6), while at the convent, Antoinette deeply admires the de Plana sisters, especially Louise, who has been assigned to support her in case she should “ feel strange ” (44). Unlike Helen, Louise excels in beauty, not strength of character. The first assistance she offers Antoinette involves disrespect towards their teacher: “ We always call Mother St Justine, Mother Juice of a Lime. She is not very intelligent, poor woman. You will see ” (44). Jane closely observes Helen ’ s principles and behaviour, which she can neither “ understand [n]or sympathize with ” (58; vol. 1, ch. 6); Antoinette, though, is mainly impressed by the de Plana 83 When the girl attacking Antoinette pushes her, her books fall to the ground. She is defended by Sandi, Alexander Cosway ’ s son, i. e. one of her illegitimate half-brothers, whom she calls her cousin (42). Simpson contends that Sandi picking up her book is a symbolical enactment of what Rhys does with Brontë ’ s novel: “ Retrieving one of the dropped books that Antoinette has almost abandoned in her attempt to run from the other children, and simultaneously promising to shelter her from future harassment, her cousin Sandi, a colored relation, delineates a locus that speaks of difference. The episode in its entirety points to the inadequacy of books like Jane Eyre to tell the lives of the colonized: of the girl, of her companion, of Sandi, and most pointedly of Antoinette, all the victims of misunderstanding and persecution. It demonstrates through Sandi ’ s empathic gesture how a cultural other, that is, Rhys herself, can write another kind of narrative, one that reveals a complex understanding of relations among the islanders as well as the colonized and colonizers and thereby provides a nuanced account of the forces with which Antoinette must contend ” (136 - 137). Thus, a Creole picking up a book of Antoinette ’ s (Bertha ’ s) and returning it to her with the promise of protection is the analogy Simpson draws between this episode and Rhys ’ project of rewriting Brontë ’ s novel. 214 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses sisters ’ beauty and “ coiffure, ” especially because it is “ achieved without a looking-glass ” (45). Whereas Jane engages in intellectual exchanges with her friend, Antoinette ’ s beauty idols remain unreachable. During their childhoods, both girls “ have strong, nurturing surrogate mothers from the servant class: Jane ’ s Bessie and Antoinette ’ s Christophine ” (Baer 135). At school, Jane finds a substitute mother-figure in her superintendent, who, in retrospect “ stood [her] in the stead of mother, governess, and, latterly, companion ” (87; vol. 1, ch. 10). Even though the convent is a place of “ refuge ” for Antoinette (47), she does not form a similar attachment to Mother St Justine, her teacher. Since she only feels safe behind the convent walls, Antoinette, as opposed to Jane, “ acquires no shield against reality ” there (Thorpe 177). Thus, even though the two female protagonists share similar experiences as girls, differences in their behaviour arise: Jane engages with her surroundings and strives to find her own way, while Antoinette withdraws to the safety behind walls. On a more abstract level, the two heroines also distinguish themselves by their relationships towards mirrors. Antoinette ’ s description of her life as a child uses the image of the mirror. Whereas she had “ got used to a solitary life ” (15), she repeatedly observes her mother glancing at herself in the mirror. Her “ mother still planned and hoped — perhaps she had to hope every time she passed a looking glass, ” because her beauty is essential for her to acquire a new husband and a new life (15 - 16). The mirror is thus established as an alternative reality to the one the character currently feels trapped in. At one point, she tells her husband about an encounter with rats the size of cats. In reality, Antoinette feels threatened by everything and everyone around her, but she remains calm because this time, she sees the threat in the mirror: “ I was not frightened. That was the strange thing. I stared at them and they did not move. I could see myself in the looking-glass the other side of the room, in my white chemise with a frill round the neck, staring at those rats and the rats quite still, staring at me ” (69). Antoinette, dressed in an English chemise for the night-time, calmly faces this natural threat and, according to her recollection, does not even avert her gaze. Her fearlessness is only possible within the distanced reality of the mirror. The incident offers an alternative to her reaction in reality: she finds it strange that she is not frightened. By means of the mirror, Antoinette also assures herself that she is still there and thus calms the fear of her own effacement. Thorpe comments that she “ constantly needs [a looking glass] to be reassured of her identity ” (176). In her room in England, there is no mirror: “ There is no looking-glass here and I don ’ t know what I am like now ” (147). In the third and final part of her recurring dream, she has withdrawn from the world so much that she hardly recognizes herself: “ It was then [i. e. in the hall of Thornfield] that I saw her — the ghost. The woman with streaming hair. She was surrounded by a gilt frame III Textual Dialogues: The Reader as a Mediator 215 but I knew her ” (154). 84 In a different context, Spivak compares this mirror image with Narcissus ’ pool (Critique of Postcolonial Reason 126). If it is not for vanity that she needs her reflection, it is at least to dispel the fear of the void in her stead. The motif of the mirror in Rhys directs the reading back to mirrors in Brontë: when Jane is locked up in the red room after one of her fights with her cousin, for instance, she has an eerie encounter with her alter ego in the looking glass: Returning, [she] had to cross before the looking-glass; [her] fascinated glance involuntarily explored the depth it revealed. All looked colder and darker in that visionary hollow than in reality; and the strange little figure there gazing at [her], with a white face and arms specking the gloom, and glittering eyes of fear moving where all else was still, had the effect of a real spirit[.] (14 - 15; vol. 1, ch. 2) The uncanny nature of the moment and Jane ’ s perception of herself as a ghostlike figure culminate in her imaginary encounter with the ghost of her uncle. It is as if the hollow depth of the mirror grants access to the cold room of the past. Jane ’ s relationship towards the mirror is thus concerned with the depth of a mirror image, not simply the superficiality of outward appearance. At the same time, her uncanny perception of herself in the mirror in combination with the ghost of her uncle makes Jane aware of her own reality as a solitary outcast. Whereas Antoinette shows a tendency to be trapped in the mirror, in that mirror images constitute an alternative reality or reassure her of an existence that she cannot feel any more in reality, Jane ’ s mirror image instantly redirects her to the here-and-now of her existence. Symptomatically, the first encounter between Bertha and Jane in Brontë ’ s novel takes place in the unreality of a mirror shortly before Jane ’ s wedding: “ But presently she [Bertha] took my veil from its place; she held it up, gazed at it long, and then she threw it over her own head, and turned to the mirror. At that moment I saw the reflection of the visage and features quite distinctly in the dark oblong glass ” (297; vol. 2, ch. 10). Naturally, the two women have been read as doubles: Azim comments that “ Jane looks into the mirror to see Bertha ’ s image reflected back to her ” (176). 84 The pun between gilt and guilt can hardly go unnoticed: apparently, Antoinette projects the guilt imposed on her onto her alter ego. Interestingly, in The Truth in Painting, Derrida, in reference to Kant, illustrates the idea of adornment by means of a “ gilded frame ” : “ the example of this degradation of the simple parergon into a seductive adornment is again a frame, this time the gilded frame (goldene Rahmen), the gilding of the frame done in order to recommend the painting to our attention by its attraction (Reiz) ” (64). If it is their recourse to mirror images that the two protagonists Jane and Antoinette share, it might be precisely the gilded frame of Antoinette ’ s mirror that wrongs her so much by emphasizing her beauty and attraction rather than her personality. In this sense, Antoinette ’ s relationship to mirrors is motivated by the stagnation of eternal youth and adds to her passivity, while Jane ’ s mirror images bear witness to her ongoing change. 216 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses The mirror image of Bertha here also symbolizes the impossibility of the existence of another bride. For both Bertha and Jane, the face they see in the mirror (for Bertha will see Jane as well) is not supposed to be there. Both brides need the other to be excluded from their lives. In this sense, the nexus between the two mirror images is Rochester. The establishment of the mirror motif in Rhys implicitly directs the reader towards the mirror in Brontë, which, in turn, leads to the male protagonist. The two female protagonists share an idiosyncratic relationship not only with the illusory space of the mirror, but also with mental spaces: they both have the tendency to have unsettling dreams. 85 While Antoinette ’ s dream sequences turn out to foreshadow the events of her marriage and her existence in England (Rhys 23, 50, 153 - 154), even though she tells herself that her “ dream had nothing to do with England ” and that she “ must not think like ” it had (92), Jane ’ s dreams often depict a child and present a sort of doubling: “ [D]uring the past week scarcely a night had gone over [her] couch that had not brought with it a dream of an infant ” (231; vol. 2, ch. 6). When she was a child, she had overheard Bessie, her nurse, saying that “ to dream of children was a sure sign of trouble ” (231; vol. 2, ch. 6). Shortly before her wedding, she dreams of “ the charge of a little child ” again (295; vol. 2, ch. 10) and of Thornfield in ruin. The latter presents another analogy between the heroines ’ dreams made out in retrospect. After she has climbed to the top of the ruin, her burden, the child that is clinging to her, rolls “ from [her] knee ” (296; vol. 2, ch. 10). She then also loses her balance and falls. According to Gilbert and Gubar, the child represents Jane ’ s “ orphaned alter ego, ” from which she will only be disburdened much later: she will be freed only after she has achieved her (financial and personal) independence, and after Bertha has died in the flames of Thornfield Hall (and jumped from the roof, also in analogy to the orphan child) and thus also freed Rochester to remarry (357 - 358, 362). 86 It goes without saying that, for Gilbert and Gubar, this presents enough evidence to identify Bertha as Jane ’ s alter ego. For Raiskin, Antoinette ’ s dreams are the realm of “ the awakened and furious colonized figure. ” They become reality when “ violence [is] visited upon the English institution (Thornfield Hall) and English literature (Jane Eyre). ” Dreaming, according to Raiskin, is therefore Antoinette ’ s “ answer to her loss of agency ” (148). Harrison emphasizes the “ fated quality ” of Antoinette ’ s life as represented in her dreams (133); this reading obviously refers to the fact that Antoinette seems to anticipate her future in her dream sequences. Unlike Jane, 85 For a more general approach to the notion of dreams, cf. section “ Breaking the Fourth Wall: Shakespeare ’ s A Midsummer Night ’ s Dream ” above (159 - 160). 86 For a detailed account of dreams in Brontë ’ s novel, cf. Ronald Thomas ’ “ The Advertisement of Jane Eyre. ” In his essay, Thomas elegantly develops the notion of psychological independence as manifested in dreams with financial success and market-place issues. III Textual Dialogues: The Reader as a Mediator 217 however, Antoinette cannot rid herself of what ails her, and therefore she continually withdraws into her mental space; she resigns herself to the fated nature of her life. Symptomatically, she calls the English institution the same as English literature, namely a “ cardboard house, ” a piece of fiction (Rhys 148). For her, England does not exist because it differs so much from what she once imagined it to be (92). That the two heroines seem to have some sort of telepathic connection in terms of dreams recalls the marsh scene in Jane Eyre, where Jane hears Rochester despite the distance that separates them (442; vol. 3, ch. 9). This, again, supports the impression that, however much we attempt to focus on a comparison between the two female protagonists, we are directed towards the original novel and the character of Rochester. Even though the two female protagonists share many biographical features, they differ in terms of character traits, and this difference can be well observed in their perception of the world around them and their reaction to it. Because of their isolation, they share a desire for belonging. They thus both undertake a search for this condition. Whereas Jane has specific plans and strives for financial independence and the ensuing personal freedom, Antoinette constantly withdraws in her search for safety. Jane is passionate, and this characteristic is underlined throughout Brontë ’ s novel. Even as a child, she is told by Bessie that, too often, she is “ passionate and rude ” (13; vol. 1, ch. 2), while Helen admonishes her for being “ too impulsive, too vehement ” (72, vol. 1, ch. 8). As an adult, Jane describes herself as “ passionate, but not vindictive ” (251; vol. 2, ch. 6). Her cousin St. John discerns a common trait in their respective natures, which is “ detrimental to repose ” (373; vol. 3, ch. 4); this means that Jane ’ s personality drives her on and does not let her rest. Simpson contends that “ [t]he alternative to the powerful phenomenon of rage, which is, in its intensity, life-affirming, is a condition of torpor and near-death ” (117). Whereas Jane ’ s passion often culminates in sheer rage, Antoinette ’ s withdrawal bears the traits of lethargy. Antoinette only longs for safety. Her movement is thus one of retreat from the world. On the first page of Rhys ’ novel, Antoinette tells the readers that “ feeling safe in bed ” for her “ belong[s] to the past ” (15); she longs for her mother to “ keep [her] safe ” (19). The native children on the island bully her and call her names, and she describes her homecoming after such an encounter as follows: “ When I was safely home I sat close to the old wall at the end of the garden. It was covered with green moss soft as velvet and I never wanted to move again. Everything would be worse if I moved ” (20). Not only does Antoinette later on feel safe within the walls of her convent school, but she already found moments of protection as a little girl hidden behind the wall of the garden surrounding their house. She feels safe when she does not move, when she remains completely passive, almost one with the moss on the wall. 218 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses Her stillness, as well as the velvety quality of the moss, evoke the image of her lying in a coffin. Moss, in addition, is what covers dead matter. Thus, her desire also bears traits of Thanatos, the Freudian death drive. After the unsettling dreams of her future, she returns to the safety of her own reality: “ I am safe. There is the corner of the bedroom door and the friendly furniture. There is the tree of life in the garden and the wall green with moss. The barrier of the cliffs and the high mountains. And the barrier of the sea. I am safe. I am safe from strangers ” (23). The anthropomorphic characterization of the furniture in her room emphasizes her desperate condition of isolation. Moreover, the tree of life echoes a reference to the Garden of Eden made earlier in the novel: “ Our garden was large and beautiful as that garden in the Bible — the tree of life grew there ” (16). Together with her unsettling dreams and the barrier of the sea, which makes her feel safe from strangers, this Biblical allusion adds to the premonition of her fall from grace with the Englishman she is going to marry. At the same time, this allusion to paradise underlines the notion of Thanatos. The combination of the fertile garden and its mouldering walls is already established in the title of Rhys ’ novel: according to Maurel, the Sargasso Sea is named after the seaweed that accumulates in that becalmed area because of eddying currents. Forming a large, intricate mesh on the surface which makes sailing perilous and causes many shipwrecks, the sargassos may be seen as an apt figure for stagnation and deadly repetitive patterns. [. . .] On the other hand, being one of the places where eels return each year to lay their eggs, the Sargasso Sea is also a strategic site as far as the natural rhythms of regeneration are concerned. In its dormant waters, repetition has a creative function; both lethal and fecund, the Sargasso Sea is the seat of cyclical renewal, of creation within repetition. (128 - 129) Apparently, this kind of strategic creation within repetition lies at the root of Rhys ’ text. Sanders comments that this “ contradictory presence of stifling repetition and the possibility for creating something new drives any work of appropriation, and drives Wide Sargasso Sea with a particularly compelling force ” (104). For Antoinette, nature in general is where she feels safe: “ From a long way off I saw the shadow of our house high up on its stone foundations. There was a smell of ferns and river water and I felt safe again ” (28). The garden in Rhys alludes to the “ Eden-like ” orchard in Brontë, where Rochester asks Jane to marry him (260 - 269; vol. 2, ch. 8). As if to enhance the irony in this analogy, Rochester, after his proposal, knocks on Jane ’ s door three times in the course of two hours to ask her “ if [she] was safe and tranquil ” (269; vol. 2, ch. 8). After intruding upon her sacred garden in her dreams and thus symbolically violating her most personal sphere (Rhys 50), Antoinette ’ s husband is only seemingly concerned about her safety: even though he promises her “ peace, happiness, safety ” if she marries him (66), he keeps III Textual Dialogues: The Reader as a Mediator 219 telling her that she is safe because “ [s]he ’ d liked that — to be told ‘ you are safe[ ’ ] ” (78). All of these reassurances are to no avail, however: Antoinette pursues her course of withdrawal until she is confined to her mental space. According to Gilbert and Gubar, Jane abandons a possible escape route into madness after her fit in the red room; from then on, her escape is a literal one, the path of her Bildung away from Rochester into literal and figurative independence and back to him (341). The two female characters differ in their demand for equality in marriage as well. When Antoinette realizes that her husband does not love her, she is paralyzed and unable to react, even verbally. Even though Christophine, her nurse, tells her to “ pack up and go, ” she is unable to leave her husband, not only for the love she has for him, but also because of her fear of going to “ some strange place ” (90). By contrast, Jane is not afraid to set out on a journey for the sake of her own sanity. She leaves Thornfield immediately after she learns about Rochester ’ s first marriage, because she was “ born to strive and endure ” (334; vol. 3, ch. 1). According to Azim, “ Jane ’ s declaration of equality and independence is a form of protest against a discourse in which she is controlled and guided by her male master and lover ” (194). It is exactly this ability to counter Rochester ’ s dominance that Antoinette lacks. Even though Terry Eagleton concedes a certain “ habitual meek passivity ” in Jane, he claims that this very passivity is a calculated part of her “ quietly self-sufficient independence of Rochester ” by which she keeps him tied to her ( “ Jane Eyre ” 18). In addition, Jane is highly ambitious. Antoinette, by contrast — even though or precisely because she is proud — withdraws and chooses the internal escape route. Throughout Rhys ’ text, Antoinette longs for nothing other than safety: when her family and husband reject her, she can only withdraw to the safety of her own mind. Even though the two female protagonists share a desire to belong, their quests have different aims: Jane has ideas of her own ideal condition of independence, while Antoinette is trapped in her condition of unrequited love. Thus, the similar biographical data prompt a direct comparison of the two characters, which results in the recognition of two diametrically opposed protagonists in terms of character. Not only do Jane and Antoinette differ more in terms of character than a first reading would lead us to assume, but the two representations of Rochester also seem quite incongruous. As soon as the reader enters the second part of Rhys ’ text, the ambivalent character of the male protagonist causes friction. First of all, this character, who also figures as the narrator of most of the second part of the novel, is not named; preconditioned by Brontë ’ s text, however, the reader can assume that he is supposed to be the younger version of Rochester. Whereas Rochester in Rhys ’ text is appalled by Antoinette ’ s “ fixed ideas [that] would never change ” (78), the male protagonist in Brontë ’ s version is fascinated by Jane ’ s recalcitrant nature: 220 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses I never met your likeness. Jane, you please me, and you master me — you seem to submit, and I like the sense of pliancy you impart; and while I am twining the soft, silken skein round my finger, it sends a thrill up my arm to my heart. I am influenced — conquered; and the influence is sweeter than I can express; and the conquest I undergo has a witchery beyond any triumph I can win. Why do you smile, Jane? What does that inexplicable, that uncanny turn of countenance mean? (273; vol. 2, ch. 9) Interestingly, Rochester ’ s relationship to Antoinette ’ s literal witchery is much less generous: when she dabbles in Obeah, the magic the natives of the island use, he thinks he has “ been poisoned ” (113). Her witchery is one of love as well, though: it is a love potion that Christophine has reluctantly given her. In the same vein, Rochester is attracted by Jane ’ s passionate nature, but intimidated by Antoinette ’ s sexual passion (Rhys 77; Brontë 323; vol. 3, ch. 1). “ [H]er [Antoinette ’ s] passion for Rochester will become the excuse for his detachment from her rather than his emotional commitment ” (Simpson 118). Furthermore, Rochester has taken to Jane ’ s habit of slightly tilting her head when making inquiries (327; vol. 3, ch. 1), whereas in Rhys, he finds Antoinette ’ s “ holding her left wrist with her right hand [. . .] an annoying habit ” (105). Her habit seems to express her need for tenderness. Shortly before she sets fire to Thornfield in her dream in Rhys ’ s text, Antoinette holds her “ right wrist with [her] left hand and wait[s] ” (154). Even though Jenkins argues that Anoinette is “ [p]erhaps [. . .] looking in a mirror ” ( “ Notes ” 145), I read her gesture as a symbol of her desperate condition as well as a hint at Rochester ’ s previous imprecision as an observer and negligence in his perception of his wife. Rochester ’ s relationship to nature also bears witness to his ambivalence of character. In Rhys ’ text, Rochester feels threatened by the tropical landscape: “ [A] wild place. Not only wild but menacing. Those hills would close in on you ” (58), whereas in Brontë, he is very fond of his orchard. Jane describes his evening walk as follows: [E]ventide is as pleasant to him as to me, and this antique garden as attractive; and he strolls on, now lifting the gooseberry-tree branches to look at the fruit, large as plums, with which they are laden; now taking a ripe cherry from the wall; now stooping towards a knot of flowers, either to inhale their fragrance or to admire the dew-beads on their petals. (261; vol. 2, ch. 8) Rochester ’ s liking for the English orchard is not simply a preference for cultivation over wilderness. When, in Brontë, a “ great moth [. . .] alights on a plant at Mr. Rochester ’ s foot, ” he “ sees it, and bends to examine it ” : “ Look at his wings, [. . .] he reminds me rather of a West-Indian insect; one does not often see so large and gay a night-rover in England: there! he is flown ” (261; vol. 2, ch. 8). Brontë ’ s Rochester is fascinated by the insect even though it reminds him of the West Indian wilderness; likewise, he enjoys the scent of the flowers. In Rhys ’ text, III Textual Dialogues: The Reader as a Mediator 221 by contrast, his relationship with nature is ambivalent and mirrors his current condition. Whereas he once picked “ orchid[s] with long sprays of golden-brown flowers ” for Antoinette because he saw her beauty in them, he later breaks “ a spray off and trample[s] it into the mud ” (82). 87 Whereas he finds the tropical landscape menacing, he also experiences moments of nostalgia and tenderness in nature. Rhys mirrors the encounter with the moth in the following passage: A large moth, so large that I thought it was a bird, blundered into one of the candles, put it out and fell to the floor. ‘ He ’ s a big fellow, ’ I said. ‘ Is it badly burned? ’ [asked Antoinette] ‘ More stunned than hurt. ’ I took the beautiful creature up in my handkerchief and put it on the railing. For a moment it was still and by the dim candlelight I could see the soft brilliant colours, the intricate pattern on the wings. I shook the handkerchief gently and it flew away. (68) Ironically, Rochester comments on the incident by saying “ I hope that gay gentleman will be safe, ” thus articulating the analogy between the representative of nature and his wife in their common desire for safety (68). There are further tender moments when Rochester softly touches flowers (72) or describes his window as “ covered with small pale flowers too fragile to resist the wind ” (72 - 73). Even though his general attitude towards nature in the West Indies is one of rejection, his moods are mirrored in his treatment of flowers that open “ when darkness came ” (74) and his perception of their scent. Nature sometimes deeply stirs and sometimes appals him. After he realizes that his marriage to Antoinette was a mistake, everything in nature “ is too much ” for him: “ Too much blue, too much purple, too much green. The flowers too red, the mountains too high, the hills too near ” (59). The fact that Antoinette resorts to nature when in need and that she loves colours bears witness to the fatal unsuitability of their match. It would be rash to claim that the incongruous moments in the two texts are restricted to the character of Rochester, however: after all, he is the character about whom both texts provide a certain amount of information, whereas Brontë ’ s novel tells us little about Bertha, and Rhys ’ text “ remove[s] Jane from the story ” (Lerner 277). 88 Thus, the information that is given about the male protagonist is prone to be inconsistent. It is therefore more appropriate to note 87 It is interesting to note that the name Antoinette is related to the name Anthony, the spelling of which “ represents a learned but erroneous attempt to associate it with Greek anthos ‘ flower ’” (Hanks, Hardcastle, and Hodges 18). The faulty association between the name and the flower, here an orchid, is re-enacted by Rochester in Rhys ’ text. 88 In her description of one of her nightly explorations of Thornfield, Antoinette observes “ a girl coming out of her bedroom ” (149) because she has heard some noise. In correlation with the passage in Brontë (154 - 155; vol. 1, ch. 15), this girl could be Jane, even though the events are not identical in terms of dialogue, for instance. 222 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses that Rochester is one centre of friction — but not the only one — between the two novels. In addition, there are several possible explanations for the disparity in the presentation of Rochester ’ s character. In Rhys ’ text, he is younger than in Brontë ’ s: “ I was young then. A short youth mine was ” (70). By this remark, he refers to the change in him that comes with his marriage to Antoinette and his conviction that it was the wrong decision to have complied with his father ’ s plan for him to marry her (59). In addition, he accuses Antoinette of purposefully having withheld information concerning her mother ’ s madness from him (105 - 107). The marriage, or generally “ [h]is stay in the West Indies, ” Grace Poole claims in Rhys, “ has changed him out of all knowledge. He has grey in his hair and misery in his eyes ” (145, original italicization omitted). The change in him is thus not merely the physical one of having grown older, but also a result of his personal suffering. A further parameter is the way in which information is conveyed. In Brontë, Rochester is characterized by the first-person narrator Jane. Even when he is presented indirectly by means of action or speech (Rimmon-Kenan 61 - 65), it is only her perception of him that we have access to. It may be noteworthy that even her potentially biased representation of him raises suspicions in the reader towards his true nature. Rhys takes full advantage of this and constructs her unnamed male character on the basis of the reader ’ s ambivalence and distrust. Even though, in Rhys ’ text, we have the possibility of accessing Rochester ’ s account directly, it is flawed by his tropical fever and consumption of alcohol. In Rhys, according to Le Gallez, Rochester ’ s character “ is considerably fleshed out so that his cruelty becomes understandable while, at the same time, just as inacceptable ” as it is in Brontë. His cruelty thus becomes a “ constituent element of his own human frailty ” (142). The perception of the character ’ s frailty is exactly what is lost when one labels him the representative of patriarchy or ruthless colonialism. The parallelisms between the two female protagonists as well as the two presentations of Rochester clash with the reader ’ s desire for and the two texts ’ promise of closure. Thus, one might start looking for other possible parallels in the field of characterization. The combination of the two Rochesters in Rhys and Brontë allows for a certain parallel reading with Jane. This apparently creates a strange allegiance between the two texts, considering the fact that Rhys ’ has generally been read as a defence of Antoinette (Bertha). In addition, Rochester also shares the problems that are usually discussed as issues of the female protagonists: as the younger of two sons, he is the victim of patriarchal society. Furthermore, after his first marriage, he also has to deal with madness in his own family. His attempt to rescue Bertha from the flames even costs him his eyesight and leaves him maimed (Brontë 452; vol. 3, ch. 10). It is not only between Antoinette and Jane, but also between Jane and Rochester in Rhys and Brontë that there are a number of biographical parallels. III Textual Dialogues: The Reader as a Mediator 223 They are both from respectable families, but still cannot resort to their family ’ s money to support themselves. Eagleton comments on the parallels between the two characters as follows: Rochester, an oppressed younger son of the gentry, has suffered at the hands of social convention and so like Jane has a history of deprivation; but unlike her he has achieved worldly success, cuts a glamorous figure in country society, and also blends social desirability with a spice of thwarted passion and an underdog past. ( “ Jane Eyre ” 20) Like Jane, he “ lives out a [. . .] deadlock between passion and convention ” (19). Jane ’ s mother stems from a rich family, but has been disinherited after her unequal marriage to Jane ’ s father. Bessie reports that her “ mother had married [her father] against the wishes of her friends, who considered the match beneath her; that [her] grandfather Reed was so irritated at her disobedience, he cut her off without a shilling ” (26; vol. 1, ch. 3). Yet Jane ’ s mother is not only disinherited; she is also “ together with her husband, doomed to a premature death ” (Melikoglu 134). Interestingly, Rochester ’ s mother also dies quite early (105; vol. 1, ch. 11). Rochester needs to find a way to support himself because he is only second in the line of inheritance as the younger son of a wealthy family and thus cannot expect to come into money at some later point. Whereas Jane becomes a governess to make a living, Rhys ’ Rochester clearly submits to his father ’ s plans for him to marry for wealth and blames himself for this fatal decision. This fact is the main reason for his rejection of Antoinette: he projects his own experiences of manipulation onto Antoinette and assigns to her a “ marionette quality ” (123). When he realizes that he “ sold [his] soul ” in marrying Antoinette (59), 89 he summons up the strength to see Antoinette also as a victim, not only as the cause of his unhappiness: “ [S]uddenly, bewilderingly, I was certain that everything I had imagined to be truth was false ” (138). He clings to this revelation he “ had found [. . .] in a hidden place ” and accordingly, he will “ hold her ” (138) as a reminder. She becomes the token of his unhappy decision, a token he appropriates fully: “ She ’ s mad, but mine, mine ” (136). He summarizes his realization thus: “ She had left me thirsty and all my life would be thirst and longing for what I had lost before I found it ” (141). The retrospective realization of his own flaw is projected onto the rest of his life. At the beginning of his marriage, life was full of possibilities; he was thirsty for more to come. After the recognition of his mistake, however, his life is flawed beyond repair. His thirst remains, but is coupled with the knowledge 89 In her chapter on Wide Sargasso Sea, Le Gallez discusses the biblical significance of the motif of the crowing cock, which appears for the first time shortly before this subsequent conclusion of Rochester ’ s, namely having sold his soul by marrying Antoinette (147 - 150). Allusions to the Garden of Eden have already been discussed briefly above. For an account of biblical allusions, cf. Gregg ’ s “ Symbolic Imagery and Mirroring Techniques in Wide Sargasso Sea ” (159 - 160). 224 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses that it will never be satisfied and an idea of what this satisfaction could have been like. All that he has left is his mad wife, the reminder of a decision that spoilt his life. In this sense, the flaw clearly lies with Rochester, who is himself a victim of patriarchal society, not with Antoinette. Brontë ’ s Rochester tries hard to explain to Jane how he was tricked into marriage, and he blames his father more than his wife. Even though Mrs. Alice Fairfax, Rochester ’ s housekeeper in Brontë, is ignorant of “ the precise nature ” of the painful position Rochester was placed in, she claims that the main motivation for his father to put him there was his fondness of money (133 - 134; vol. 1, ch. 13). By contrast with Mrs. Fairfax ’ uninformed account of events, Rochester claims that his father had “ said nothing about her [Bertha ’ s] money, ” even though he had “ thought only of the thirty thousand pounds ” in his intention to marry his younger son to her. His father had merely told him that she was “ the boast of Spanish Town for her beauty ” (321 - 322; vol. 3, ch. 1). Thus, it was Rochester ’ s free choice, despite some possible machinations behind his back, to marry Bertha. He hates her because neither she nor his family had told him that madness ran in hers. Le Gallez comments that his transformation in Rhys ’ text to a Rochester who knows that he marries for money “ makes Edward into more of a victim of his own background than was suggested by the Bronte [sic] text ” in that it is explicit about it (141 - 142). Both accounts, Brontë ’ s and Rhys ’ , together yield the insight that it is, after all, Rochester who carries the heavy burden of having submitted to his father ’ s will and his own desires. Bertha ’ s madness is a sort of subsequent complication that forces him to reflect on past events. Ironically, the entire money issue is resolved shortly after his marriage in both accounts: “ My brother in the interval was dead; and at the end of the four years my father died too ” (323; vol. 3, ch. 1). In Rhys ’ text, Grace Poole remarks, “ [Rochester] was in Jamaica when his father and his brother died [. . .] He inherited everything, but he was a wealthy man before that ” (145, original italicization omitted). After his father ’ s death, Rochester, like Jane, is orphaned. Both Rochester and Jane come into money from the colonies; in Rochester ’ s case, this money is the unnecessary cause of his unhappiness. Both Jane and Rochester pass through turning points in their lives that change them irreversibly. In addition, they are both aware of these changes and comment on them. Rochester loses his youth early as a result of his erroneous first marriage (Rhys 70; cf. quotation above), while Jane stays at Lowood as a pupil and then as a teacher for eight years. “ [A]t the end of that time I altered, ” she comments (87; vol. 1, ch. 10): her idolized teacher, Miss Temple, leaves to get married. “ From the day she left I was no longer the same: with her was gone every settled feeling, every association that had made Lowood in some degree a home to me ” (88; vol. 1, ch. 10). Usually, the grown-up child leaves its mother III Textual Dialogues: The Reader as a Mediator 225 and its home at some point to start its own independent life. Jane, however, does not leave until both surrogate mother and home have left her. This inversion of the normal sequence of events during adolescence reminds the reader of the inversion in Rhys: in marrying Antoinette, Rochester loses something he has never really found. The motivation behind his marriage to Antoinette makes it impossible for him to be happy. Both inversions, the one in Jane ’ s and the one in Rochester ’ s biography, create a sense of irretrievable loss that adds to a mood of nostalgia in both characters. At the same time, this background is a necessity for both of them to keep striving and to find a possible new home in each other. In terms of character traits, the passionate nature of both characters has led critics to describe them as a “ Byronic ” hero and heroine, respectively: Rochester is characterized by a “ proud Byronic sexual energy ” and Jane by “ Byronic pride and passion ” (Gilbert and Gubar 338). Rochester describes Jane ’ s enigmatic nature as “ full of strange contrasts ” (330; vol. 3, ch. 1) and herself as a “ savage, beautiful creature ” (335; vol. 3, ch. 1). With regard to her own character, Jane comments that she “ know[s] no medium ” (422; vol. 3, ch. 8). In terms of looks, neither of them is attractive. Her cousin Mary describes Jane ’ s face as “ peculiar, ” “ fleshless and haggard ” (357; vol. 3, ch. 3), while St. John simply calls her “ plain ” (358; vol. 3; ch. 3). After their first encounter, Jane describes Rochester ’ s appearance as follows: I knew my traveller with his broad and jetty eyebrows; his square forehead, made squarer by the horizontal sweep of his black hair. I recognized his decisive nose, more remarkable for character than beauty; his full nostrils, denoting, I thought, choler; his grim mouth, chin, and jaw — yes, all three were very grim, and no mistake. His shape, now divested of cloak, I perceived harmonized in squareness with his physiognomy: I suppose it was a good figure in the athletic sense of the term — broad chested and thin flanked, though neither tall nor graceful. (125; vol. 1, ch. 13) From Rochester ’ s features, she immediately derives certain character traits: his strictness in principle (the decisiveness of his nose projected onto his character), his tendency towards fits of rage, and his general grimness. 90 Later on, and already in love, she puts these negative character traits into perspective: “ My master ’ s colourless, olive face, square, massive brow, broad and jetty eyebrows, deep eyes, strong features, firm, grim mouth, — all energy, decision, will, — were not beautiful, according to rule; but they were more than beautiful to me ” (183 - 184; vol. 2, ch. 2). Whereas she pointed out his violent temper and 90 This derivation of character traits from features might be another example of Jane ’ s engaging in the “ pseudo-science of phrenology. ” Supporters of phrenology “ share the belief, popularized in the nineteenth century by George Combe, that character is revealed in the shape of the skull ” (Margaret Smith, “ Explanatory Notes ” 481 - 482). 226 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses grimness before, she now emphasizes his energetic character, his decisiveness and strong will. Both protagonists are characterized by a strong will and an adherence to their own principles. One of the effects of their common character traits is Jane ’ s and Rochester ’ s continuous striving for something better, namely independence. While Rochester aims at a new start in life independent of his former charge Bertha, Jane primarily strives for financial independence, which will guarantee her a certain freedom of choice. The constitution of her character is the main reason why we need not fear for Jane. Unlike Antoinette, she succeeds in putting her will into action: “ It is in vain to say human beings ought to be satisfied with tranquillity: they must have action; and they will make it if they cannot find it ” (114 - 115; vol. 1, ch. 12). Similarly, Rochester cannot settle down. Mrs. Fairfax comments on his restlessness as follows: “ I don ’ t think he has ever been resident at Thornfield for a fortnight altogether, since the death of his brother without a will, left him master of the estate: and, indeed, no wonder he shuns the old place ” (134; vol. 1, ch. 13). Even though Brontë ’ s Mrs. Fairfax cannot know Rochester ’ s reasons — in complete contrast to her counterpart in Rhys ’ text, who knows about the secret resident at Thornfield (145) — she simply assumes that he finds his mansion gloomy. Apparently, however, his travelling is an escape from the fetters of his first marriage. Jane is driven by fantasies of achievements beyond her reach. Eagleton describes how she repeatedly climbs up to the leads of Thornfield to scan a new possible horizon from the battlements ( “ Jane Eyre ” 20): she “ looked out afar over sequestered field and hill, and along dim skyline[.] ” This makes her long “ for a power of vision which might overpass that limit; which might reach the busy world, towns, regions full of life [she] had heard of but never seen: that then [she] desired more of practical experience than [she] possessed ” (Brontë 114; vol. 1, ch. 12). This well illustrates the power by which she is driven towards unknown, unreachable regions and spheres. Sue Thomas comments that the motif of “ a woman ’ s look from her abode ” is common “ in the literary heritage of British women. ” It represents the “ desire for transcendence of the materiality of her domestic circumstances ” (Imperialism 71). Jane comments on her compulsion towards disquiet as follows: I could not help it: the restlessness was in my nature; it agitated me to pain sometimes. Then my sole relief was to walk along the corridor of the third story, backwards and forwards, safe in the silence and solitude of the spot, and allow my mind ’ s eye to dwell on whatever bright visions rose before it — and, certainly, they were many and glowing[.] (114; vol. 1, ch. 12) Like Antoinette, she uses the faculty of her mind as an escape route; but unlike her, this habit is a transitional one that she transforms into action whenever her III Textual Dialogues: The Reader as a Mediator 227 life becomes too rigid in its routine. Significantly, the third story is where Bertha is hidden in Jane Eyre (306 - 307; vol. 2, ch. 11). Glen observes that, even at Lowood, Jane already starts ailing after Miss Temple has left (Glen 100). She is thrown into adulthood: [I]t was not the power to be tranquil which had failed me, but the reason for tranquillity was no more. My world had for some years been in Lowood: my experience had been of its rules and systems; now I remembered that the real world was wide, and that a varied field of hopes and fears, of sensations and excitements, awaited those who had courage to go forth into its expanse, to seek real knowledge of life amidst its perils. (88; vol. 1, ch. 10) The motif of restlessnesss recurs when she becomes the teacher of Morton school. At night, her dreams are “ charged with adventure ” (386; vol. 3, ch. 6). After her inheritance, St. John admonishes her to aim at higher ends than “ domestic endearments and household joys, ” and Jane expresses her reluctance to give in to her disquiet: “ I am disposed to be as content as a queen and you try to stir me up to restlessness ” (411; vol. 3, ch. 8). Glen remarks that Jane ’ s restlessness is neither pleasurable for her, nor heroic as it would be as a masculine trait, but “ tormenting, and inescapable ” (104). Of course, the alternation between stagnation and sudden action that Jane experiences drives on the reading process: “ Brontë ’ s narrative is structured in terms of strategically placed promises of release. The ray of light gleams sparingly but vitally from the end of the tunnel ” (Parkin-Gounelas 57). Beyond the parallels between Jane and Rochester in terms of biography and character traits, they are also both often characterized through reinforcement by analogy in terms of weather. These analogies can be found in Brontë as well as in Rhys. A change of weather, heralded by wind and storm, usually represents an upheaval in the characters ’ passion, whereas long periods of stagnation mirror ongoing psychological conditions. The novel Jane Eyre begins with a description of the weather, and the latter thus establishes Jane ’ s situation at Gateshead: “ [S]ince dinner [. . .] the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that further out-door exercise was now out of the question ” (7; vol. 1, ch. 1). 91 Due to the weather and due to her aunt having sent her away for reasons unknown to her, Jane withdraws to her window seat to read. While reading, she closely observes the weather “ of that winter afternoon. Afar, it offered a pale blank of mist and cloud; near a scene of 91 Obviously, these weather analogies present perfect examples of T. S. Eliot ’ s ‘ objective correlative ’ : “ The only way of expressing emotion in the form of art is by finding an ‘ objective correlative ’ ; in other words, a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which shall be the formula of that particular emotion; such that when the external facts, which must terminate in sensory experience, are given, the emotion is immediately evoked ” (48). 228 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses wet lawn and storm-beat shrub, with ceaseless rain sweeping away wildly before a long and lamentable blast ” (8). Her isolation resembles the blankness of the mist, while her discontent at the way she is being treated comes in wild blasts. At Lowood school, Jane ’ s voluntary solitude is underlined by incessant snowfall, while her sadness correlates with the moaning wind: I wandered as usual among the forms and tables and laughing groups without a companion, yet not feeling lonely: when I passed the windows, I now and then lifted a blind and looked out; it snowed fast, a drift was already forming against the lower panes; putting my ear close to the window, I would distinguish from the gleeful tumult within, the disconsolate moan of the wind outside. (57; vol. 1, ch. 6) For Jane, as opposed to Antoinette, forms, tables, and groups of people are the same. She does not need their company but is drawn towards the cold outside and identifies with the sad wind. The pureness of her friendship with Helen is symbolized by the clouds giving way to bare moonlight: “ Some heavy clouds, swept from the sky by a rising wind, had left the moon bare; And her light, streaming in through a window near, shone full [. . .] on us ” (73; vol. 1, ch. 8). Immediately after Rochester proposes to Jane, a thunderstorm sets in: “ The moon was not yet set, and we were all in shadow: I could scarcely see my master ’ s face, near as I was. And what ailed the chestnut tree? it writhed and groaned; while wind roared in the laurel walk, and came sweeping over us ” (268; vol. 2, ch. 8). The thunderstorm clearly illustrates the upheaval of Jane ’ s emotions. At the same time, lightning strikes the chestnut tree, splitting half of it off and thus foreshadowing the couple ’ s splitting up in the near future. Yet Jane is fearless: “ [J]oy soon effaced every other feeling; and loud as the wind blew, near and deep as the thunder crashed, fierce and frequent as the lightning gleamed, cataract-like as the rain fell during a storm of two hours ’ duration, I experienced no fear and little awe ” (269; vol. 2, ch. 8). Her confidence prevails. Azim (193) points out that the thunderstorm sets in shortly after Rochester ’ s words “ Jane, I summon you as my wife ” (267; vol. 2, ch. 8), which mark his dismissal of the equality principle established before his marriage proposal with the words “ equal — as we are! ” (266; vol. 2, ch. 8). Thus, the storm is also the weather ’ s response to the inequality Rochester creates by means of this imperative. When the events foreshadowed by the chestnut tree separate the couple, Jane herself describes her desperation in terms of sudden winter in the midst of summer: Jane Eyre, who had been an ardent, expectant woman — almost a bride — was a cold, solitary girl again: her life was pale; her prospects were desolate. A Christmas frost had come at midsummer: a white December storm had whirled over June; ice glazed the ripe apples, drifts crushed the blowing roses; on hay-field and corn-field lay a frozen shroud: lanes which last night blushed full of flowers, to-day were pathless with III Textual Dialogues: The Reader as a Mediator 229 untrodden snow; and the woods, which twelve hours since waved leafy and fragrant as groves between the tropics, now spread, waste, wild, and white as pine-forests in wintry Norway. (309 - 310; vol. 2, ch. 11) The switch to third-person narration intensifies the isolation Jane suddenly feels. At Morton, where Jane has found a new life as a school mistress, the weather announces a change in her life approximately an hour after St. John leaves, even before he breaks the news of her inheritance: When Mr. St. John went, it was beginning to snow; the whirling storm continued all night. The next day a keen wind brought fresh and blinding falls; by twilight the valley was drifted up and almost impassable. (396; vol. 3, ch. 7) [. . .] I heard a noise: the wind, I thought, shook the door. No; it was St. John Rivers, who, lifting the latch, came in out of the frozen hurricane — the howling darkness — and stood before me[.] (397; vol. 3, ch. 7) Not only does the incessant snowfall announce a new season in Jane ’ s life, but its effect of making the valley impassable also symbolizes the impasse she faces in her new life at Morton. St. John leaves to make sure that Jane is the heiress, owing to her having introduced herself as Jane Elliott (355; vol. 3, ch. 2): in a “ moment of abstraction, ” Jane had written her real name on a piece of paper that St. John noticed, took with him, and now returns (401; vol. 3, ch. 7). It is striking that Jane first thinks that the wind itself wants to break the news to her. When her cousin enters, she notices that the storm has intensified: the gale has now become a hurricane. This hurricane presents a first indicator of her return to Thornfield, from where she began her journey. A mood of harmony is evoked again when Jane believes she hears Rochester ’ s voice at Moor House. She is completely at rest, as her room is “ full of moonlight ” (442; vol. 3, ch. 9). Many similar moments can be found involving the character of Rochester, too, as in the following passage in Brontë, which presents a perfect example to illustrate the correlation of weather and thought in the male protagonist. It describes Rochester ’ s decision to start a new life in England and to keep secret the first wife he had when he was still in the West Indies: ‘ A wind fresh from Europe blew over the ocean and rushed through the open casement: the storm broke, streamed, thundered, blazed, and the air grew pure. I then framed and fixed a resolution. While I walked under the dripping orange-trees of my wet garden, and amongst its drenched pomegranates and pineapples, and while the refulgent dawn of the tropics kindled round me — I reasoned thus, Jane — and now listen; for it was true Wisdom that consoled me in that hour, and showed me the right path to follow. ‘ The sweet wind from Europe was still whispering in the refreshed leaves, and the Atlantic was thundering in glorious liberty: my heart, dried up and scorched for a long 230 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses time, swelled to the tone, and filled with living blood — my being longed for renewal — my soul thirsted for a pure draught. I saw Hope revive — and felt regeneration possible. (325; vol. 3, ch. 1) The storm takes place not only in the location between Rochester ’ s former present (the West Indies) and the future (England), but also in Rochester ’ s body and mind. His resolution brings calm to the sea and the land, as well as to himself: “ I gazed over the sea — bluer than the sky: the old world was beyond; clear prospects opened ” (325; vol. 3, ch. 1). In Rhys ’ text, the male protagonist describes his desperate, unchangeable condition in terms of the weather: “ I could not imagine different weather or a different sky ” (98). With the hurricane months, there also comes his decision to travel back to England and to deny his wife. He draws this analogy himself, by admitting that he “ think[s] of [his] revenge and hurricanes ” (135). 92 It goes without saying that all these correlations between emotion and weather also enhance the Gothic mood that permeates both novels. The beginning of Rhys ’ novel announces that the white people generally “ close ranks ” (15). Apparently, they also do so in the textual dialogue between the two novels, at least in terms of characterization. In the same way as Antoinette is textually muted after the failure of her marriage, she also only seemingly compares with the two English protagonists: a comparison between her and Jane usually redirects the reader to differences in character traits or to analogies between Jane and Rochester. The analogy between these two characters is created not only by means of characterization, but also by Rochester ’ s continual reassurance of their likeness. Antoinette is therefore not the centre of attention in a comparison between the two texts: she very soon slips out of focus. At the same time, it is her character that triggers the initial dialogue between the two texts. Thus, it seems that the parergonal construct is not concerned with one single character ’ s personal issues, but with the textual dialogue in general. The incongruities between the two Rochester characters simply illustrate two textual approaches to the same matter. The two texts are thus aimed at emphasizing textual negotiation rather than at rehabilitating the character of Bertha. Owing to the differences between textual setting and time between the two novels, our reading of the two texts is concerned with finding another common ground between them. It turns to the protagonists and starts reassembling familiar character traits in our conception of the main characters. This procedure, however, is fatal for the character who is most in need of defence. In the end, Antoinette (Bertha Rochester) does not become the 92 According to Le Gallez, the analogy between storm and revenge in the male protagonist ’ s utterance shows [h]is awareness of the concept of a tragic hero ” (156). He thus uses the discourse of classical tragedy for his own purposes. III Textual Dialogues: The Reader as a Mediator 231 madwoman in the attic because of her ethnicity and her past — the first characteristic is not the predominant reason in Rhys ’ text, while the latter one cannot be decisive owing to its similarities with Jane ’ s — but on the basis of a character trait: her inability to determine her own fate despite all odds is the characteristic in which she differs from Jane. In this sense, the two texts negotiate strategies for a successful (and happy) life rather than the effects of origin and an unhappy past. Our bridging of all gaps by focusing on characterization illustrates how we strive for closure and homogeneity of information, especially in cases where disparities are irreconcilable. Readers want to solve the riddle of the unnamed male character, they want to know what happened to him to cause the disparity in his two representations, and they want the older text to fit into the pattern of the new one. If it were not for Brontë ’ s novel, the text complementing the ergon, we would not notice the Derridean lack in Rhys ’ text, though. Sites of friction are indicators by which we can locate the way in which our reading is channelled or manipulated. Very often, Rhys ’ text underlines elements in Brontë that, when closely scrutinized, turn out to have a greater impact on the reading process than has so far been assumed. More parallelisms can be found in the two texts ’ generic choices, or rather their lack of one single generic choice. Neither Rhys ’ nor Brontë ’ s novel presents a homogeneous generic choice. One might think that Rhys ’ text simply has to adapt to the constant generic shifts in Jane Eyre. It seems to me, however, that the generic indicators in Rhys are somewhat artificial and aim at foregrounding the lack of a homogeneous genre in Brontë. In addition, the shifting genres can be linked directly to the appearance and narration of the main characters. In the same way as the characterization of Jane and Antoinette finally direct the reading towards the character of Rochester and thus prompt a re-evaluation of his suffering, the constant reappearance of the Gothic genre is also directly linked to his character, especially in Jane Eyre, but also in Antoinette ’ s dream sequences and Rochester ’ s perception of the tropical landscape in Rhys. According to Beaty, the effect of generic shifts in general is as follows: “ The recombined conventions are defamiliarized and, paradoxically, while they are accepted and found original in their new form, they call into question the old conventions themselves ” (71). By combining elements of the Gothic 93 with epistolary moments, travelogue passages, and some features of the realist novel, Rhys ’ novel creates many cross-points between the two texts at which they can tie into each other. The fact that Rhys ’ novel underlines Brontë ’ s generic shifts by 93 For a detailed analysis of Wide Sargasso Sea as a Gothic novel, cf. Paravisini-Gebert (248 - 253) or Luengo. 232 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses mirroring them emphasizes the fact that shifting genres in general show the evasive nature of a specific text. In this sense, the shifting genres create friction in that they emphasize the need to look for a further common ground between the two texts. Paravisini-Gebert lists Rhys ’ “ use of landscape as a frightful, menacing backdrop, ” “ her appropriation of Thornfield Hall as a parallel space to the Caribbean plantation house ” as well as “ her sophisticated use of race and Obeah as sources of unease and terror ” as elements that make her text a Gothic tale (253). Spivak analyzes the unnamed male narrator ’ s various attempts at composing letters to his father — a reference to the epistolary novel — in the light of an Oedipal struggle (Critique 128 - 129). This, in line with Bloom ’ s theoretical framework, also ties in well with the overall textual constellation. In having no name, however, Rhys ’ male character is denied his patrimony. In that sense, the exchange between the two texts is shown to be not merely a struggle for power over one another (an intentional misreading), but a more humble attempt to enter a dialogue already begun much earlier in Brontë. It has been observed by many critics that Jane Eyre tries to pass as an autobiography, “ a distinctively female Bildungsroman ” (Gilbert and Gubar 339), a governess novel (Beaty 5, 77 - 78), a realist novel, 94 a detective fiction, a fairy tale and Cinderella story, and a Gothic novel at the same time. In his close analysis of the reading process of Brontë ’ s novel, Beaty argues that, as soon as readers have adjusted to one generic mode, they “ are likely to readjust the configuration of the novel as they have been piecing it together from what has already been presented and projecting it forward for what is yet to come ” (60). This continuous readjustment forces the reader into an active role during the reading process. Until Jane leaves Lowood school, the reader supposes himself or herself to be dealing with a Bildungsroman or autobiography: Hitherto I have recorded in detail the events of my insignificant existence: to the first ten years of my life, I have given almost as many chapters. But this is not to be a regular autobiography: I am only bound to invoke memory where I know her responses will possess some degree of interest; therefore I now pass a space of eight years almost in silence: a few lines only are necessary to keep up the links of connection. (86; vol. 1, ch. 10) This excerpt, as well as the fact that the first edition of Jane Eyre was published as “ An Autobiography. Edited by Currer Bell ” (Margaret Smith, Introduction vi), has led to numerous biographical readings of the novel. 95 Azim states that “ [a]s autobiography and Bildungsroman, Jane Eyre traces the development of the 94 At some point in Jane Eyre, the narrator calls the text a “ novel ” (97; vol. 1, ch. 11). For a discussion of this, cf. Azim 174. 95 For a more detailed discussion of Jane Eyre as an autobiography, cf. Azim (174) or Beaty (48). III Textual Dialogues: The Reader as a Mediator 233 central narrator from childhood to young womanhood ” (174). This basic definition of the Bildungsroman illustrates the fact that the development of the protagonist is central to the genre. According to Gemmeke, the term Bildungsroman, especially that of the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries (now called “ classical Bildungsromane, ” with Wilhelm Meister as their prime example), is marked by a number of indispensable features. The general outline of the plot is simple and straightforward: the hero sets out from home in order to travel and see the world, and records his right and wrong turns. He falls in love, and has his first sexual experiences before finding, and eventually marrying, his ideal companion. He thus gains knowledge of the world, and his experiences modify his Weltanschauung. (32) Castle claims that, in the female Bildungsroman, the questions of ‘ inner life ’ are keyed far more often to themes not typically found in the classical Bildungsroman featuring young male heroes — themes involving romantic love, domestic relationships, emotional well-being, and the potential of ‘ awakening ’ from the oppressive conditions so often found as the pervasive context for such themes. (21) Of course, the notion of Bildung includes more than school education; it also refers to the idea that the protagonist develops his or her character and ability for social interaction by means of the various encounters he or she has. The following excerpt from Jane Eyre illustrates how the two kinds of character formation are inseparable: The school [Lowood] thus improved, became in time a truly useful and noble institution. I remained an inmate of its walls, after its regeneration, for eight years: six as pupil, and two as teacher; and in both capacities I bear my testimony to its value and importance. During these eight years my life was uniform; but not unhappy, because it was not inactive. I had the means of an excellent education placed within my reach; a fondness for some of my studies and a desire to excel in all, together with a great delight in pleasing my teachers, especially such as I loved, urged me on: I availed myself fully of the advantages offered me. (87; vol. 1, ch. 10) Azim also emphasizes that it is the development of personal character and of the protagonist ’ s emotional life rather than her education that is important for the female Bildungsroman: “ Jane Eyre, written in the first-person female voice, records the growth and development of a female character. A Bildungsroman, it is based on the notion of consistency of growth and personal development ” (173). After her teacher and idol Miss Temple leaves Lowood school to get married, “ Jane ’ s adventurous spirit urges her to enter the wider world, to gain experience, whatever the danger ” (Beaty 78). At this point in the novel, Jane starts exploring the great wide world. Jane ’ s “ inner drama, ” according to Milbank, “ is put at the service of an epistemology, a means by which the world 234 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses beyond the self might be known ” ( “ The Victorian Gothic ” 152). Jane ’ s awakening from the oppressive conditions of her society takes the form of a polemic for a different position for women: Women are supposed to be very calm generally: but women feel just as men feel; they need exercise for their faculties, and a field for their efforts as much as their brothers do; they suffer from too rigid a restraint, too absolute a stagnation, precisely as men would suffer; and it is narrow-minded in their more privileged fellow-creatures to say that they ought to confine themselves to making puddings and knitting stockings, to playing on the piano and embroidering bags. It is thoughtless to condemn them, or laugh at them, if they seek to do more or learn more than custom has pronounced necessary for their sex. (115; vol. 1, ch. 12) It is matter of controversy whether Jane really follows her own calling in the course of the novel. I would argue that, at least in terms of her principles of selfreliance and independence of opinion, she does so. The beginning of chapter 10 (vol. 1) announces a generic shift: “ [T]his is not to be a regular autobiography ” (86). Not only does Jane change after Miss Temple leaves Lowood, but the text also sends a “ series of generic signals ” that force the reader “ to rapidly reassess the nature of the story, [and to] simultaneously recapitulat[e] what has gone before in order to help identify the terms and strategies of the text ” (Beaty 61). Elements of the governess novel blend with indicators of the Gothic mode, which has already been established in the red room scene. Thornfield Hall itself has an “ air of antiquity. ” The “ wide and heavy beds ” are “ shaded [. . .] with wrought old English hangings crusted with thick work, pourtraying effigies of strange flowers, and stranger birds, and strangest human beings — all which would have looked strange, indeed, by the pallid gleam of moon-light ” (110 - 111; vol. 1, ch. 11). The accumulation of the word strange, as well as its use as a polyptoton 96 — namely the combination of its positive, comparative, and superlative forms — evoke the unfamiliar and uncanny (unheimliche) nature of Jane ’ s new abode. Furthermore, in retrospect, the reader recognizes the imagery on the hangings as being related to Rochester ’ s Creole wife. There is some irony in describing Thornfield as “ a home of the past: a shrine of memory, ” considering the fact that this very past is still alive in the form of Bertha, its constant reminder (111; vol. 1, ch. 11). The evocation of exotic plants, animals, and human beings are Kristevan cross- 96 I use Lanham ’ s and Vickers ’ definitions of the term polyptoton, namely “ repeating a word in a different form ” (Vickers 497) or “ employment of the same word in various cases ” (Lanham 78). The term polyptoton thus also embraces a combination of different inflected forms of the same word in adjacent positions. This definition is needed in order to delimit the term against the figura etymologica, which is “ a special case of polyptoton: a coupling of words that are etymologically related, e. g. to give a gift, to dance a dance ” (Bussmann 164, original bold print omitted). III Textual Dialogues: The Reader as a Mediator 235 points of Brontë ’ s and Rhys ’ texts, by means of which the texts tie into each other. Then, according to Beaty, “ Rochester himself makes a Gothic entrance ” (63): preceded by his “ great dog, ” he appears on a horse after dusk, and his appearance reminds Jane of a spirit from English mythology, namely the “ Gytrash ” (117; vol. 1, ch. 12). It is also Rochester who is associated with the protagonist of Charles Perrault ’ s “ Bluebeard, ” which, in turn, combines both the Gothic mode and the genre of the fairy tale. 97 Bertha ’ s famous first laugh heard in the corridor of the third floor, which reminds Jane of “ some Bluebeard ’ s castle, ” further adds to this combination (112; vol. 1, ch. 11). Rochester ’ s constant references to Jane as a fairy or elf (257; vol. 2, ch. 7) — “ [m]ademoiselle is a fairy ” (281; vol. 2, ch. 9) and her thoughts are “ elfish ” (132; vol. 1, ch. 13) — as well as his tale of their first encounter also underline this fact: I was writing away very fast, though daylight was fading from the leaf, when something came up the path and stopped two yards off me. I looked at it. It was a little thing with a veil of gossamer on its head, I beckoned it to come near me: it stood soon at my knee. I never spoke to it, and it never spoke to me, in words: but I read its eyes, and it read mine; and our speechless colloquy was to this effect: — ‘ It was a fairy, and come from Elf-land, it said; and its errand was to make me happy: I must go with it out of the common world to a lonely place — such as the moon, for instance — and it nodded its head towards her horn, rising over Hay-hill: it told me of the alabaster cave and silver vale where we might live. I said I should like to go; but reminded it, as you did me, that I had no wings to fly. ‘“ Oh, ” returned the fairy, “ that does not signify! Here is a talisman will remove all difficulties; ” and she held out a pretty gold ring. “ Put it, ” she said, “ on the fourth finger of my left hand, and I am yours, and you are mine; and we shall leave earth, and make our own heaven yonder. ” She nodded again at the moon. (280; vol. 2, ch. 9) This, in turn, calls to mind the fact that Jane ’ s idea of applying for a post as a governess putatively stemmed from a “ kind fairy, ” who had “ dropped the required suggestion on [her] pillow ” (90; vol. 1, ch. 10). Generally, Imlay comments, Brontë “ strews the text with elves, brownies, gnomes, sylphs, ogres, ghouls, sprites, witches and so on, and she refers either directly or indirectly to a large number of fables ” (69); among many others, Imlay names Beauty and the Beast, Cinderella, and The Sleeping Beauty (69). Thus, we recall Rochester in the guise of a fortune-teller with “ elf-locks [that] bristled out from beneath a white band which passed under [his] chin ” (206; vol. 2, ch. 4). After he proposes to Jane, she feels as if “ such a lot befalling [her] is a fairy 97 For a more detailed account of Jane Eyre as a Gothic novel, cf. Milbank ’ s “‘ Handling the Veil ’ : Charlotte Brontë ” and “ The Victorian Gothic in English Novels and Stories, 1830 - 1880. ” In both essays, she situates Brontë ’ s text within the Gothic tradition. 236 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses tale — a day dream ” (271; vol. 2, ch. 9), which reinforces the Cinderella theme, albeit with a slight flaw as, according to Rochester, Jane is “ not pretty any more than [he is] handsome ” (138; vol. 1, ch. 14). 98 In their analysis of fairy-tale elements in the novel, Gilbert and Gubar (343 - 344) comment on Mr. Brocklehurst ’ s resemblance to the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood, based on Jane ’ s musing during her first encounter with the master of Lowood school: “ What a face he had, now that it was almost on a level with mine! what a great nose! and what a mouth! and what large prominent teeth! ” (33; vol. 1, ch. 4). This, of course, like the tale of Bluebeard, suggests the victimization of the female protagonist in Brontë. John Sutherland comments pointedly that “ [i]ngenuity can find numerous [. . .] parallels ” between the novel and “ Bluebeard ” or the other fairy tales it alludes to (69). The inversion of the ending of “ Bluebeard ” is noteworthy, though: “ In Jane Eyre we are encouraged, in the last chapters, to feel sympathy for Bluebeard — a husband more sinned against than sinning ” (John Sutherland 69). Jane ’ s role, too, is striking: the second wife is in no need of her husband ’ s fortune, as she has inherited her own. Neither does she need to be rescued; on the contrary, it is the strong character of Jane that comes to the aid of her disabled master. This rehabilitation of Perrault ’ s central character in Brontë anticipates Rhys ’ ‘ rehumanization ’ of Antoinette (Bertha) in Wide Sargasso Sea. The slow unravelling of the mystery of Bertha in Brontë constitutes a generic excursus into the realm of detective fiction. According to Ronald Thomas, the terms “ detection ” and “ the Victorian novel ” increasingly become synonymous as the nineteenth century progresses. [. . .] [A]lmost every Victorian novel has at its heart some crime that must be uncovered, some false identity that must be unmasked, some secret that must be revealed, some clandestine plot that must be exposed. ( “ Detection in the Victorian Novel ” 169) Indeed, Jane asks the right questions, but unfortunately she addresses them only to herself: What crime was this, that lived incarnate in this sequestered mansion, and could neither be expelled nor subdued by the owner? — What mystery, that broke out, now in fire and now in blood, at the deadest hours of night? — What creature was it, that, masked in an ordinary woman ’ s face and shape, uttered the voice, now of a mocking demon, and anon of a carrion-seeking bird of prey? And this man [Richard Mason] I bent over — this common-place, quiet stranger — how had he become involved in the web of horror? and why had the Fury [she believes to be Grace Poole] flown at him? What made him seek this quarter of the house at an untimely season, when he should 98 Cf. Mei Huang ’ s essay on Brontë ’ s novel in Transforming the Cinderella Dream, which investigates the presence of the Cinderella theme in English novels. III Textual Dialogues: The Reader as a Mediator 237 have been asleep in bed? I had heard Mr. Rochester assign him an apartment below — what brought him here? And why, now, was he so tame under the violence or treachery done him? Why did he so quietly submit to the concealment Mr. Rochester enforced? Why did Mr. Rochester enforce this concealment? His guest had been outraged, his own life on a former occasion had been hideously plotted against; and both attempts he smothered in secresy and sunk in oblivion! ” (221; vol. 2, ch. 5). Shortly before their wedding, Rochester guarantees an answer to any question Jane might have, even though he would prefer “ that instead of a mere inquiry into, perhaps, a secret, it was a wish for half [his] estate. ” However, she (merely) asks whether he will still keep her in his confidence as soon as he admits her to his heart (274; vol. 2, ch. 9). 99 Not only does Rochester ’ s little game seem ironic with respect to the secret of his first wife, but it also scoffs at Jane ’ s future financial situation: she will, indeed, not come into half his estate on marrying him, even though the other way round, he would gain legal possession of his wife ’ s fortune through their marriage, as was the case with the thirty thousand pounds he gained when he married Bertha (322; vol. 3, ch. 1). In the Victorian period, according to Perkin, “ the husband was entitled to all his wife ’ s property, and he could claim any money she earned ” (73). Ironically, “ in the Church of England marriage service a man promised to endow his wife with all his worldly goods, yet in practice it was the wife who forfeited her property to him ” (74). The issue of money in marriage, however, is one of the main reasons for Jane to acquire financial independence before getting married. It would thus obviously be impossible for her to ask for money explicitly. Rochester thus also teases her in this respect. After a Gothic revival in the revelation of Rochester ’ s first wife and Jane ’ s ensuing Bildungsroman-style departure from Thornfield, the last part of the novel, in which Jane celebrates her family reunion without any hope of a reunion with Edward Rochester, bears the traits of “ a novel of domestic realism ” (Beaty 159). Symptomatically, St. John River ’ s pronounced rationality and lack of emotion are recurring motifs in this part of the text: he only trusts his “ calm, unwarped consciousness ” (393; vol. 3, ch. 6) and describes himself as a “ cold, hard man ” (395; vol. 3, ch. 6). At first, Jane is incredulous at this selfcharacterization of his, but when she becomes better acquainted with him, she realizes that he is, indeed, “ hard and cold ” (413; vol. 3, ch. 8). In addition, she claims that she simply cannot comprehend his “ frigidity ” (417; vol. 3, ch. 8). 99 In her answer, Jane counters by addressing Rochester as “ king Ahasuerus ” (274; vol. 2, ch. 9). Margaret Smith notes that Jane is here referring to the Biblical name of the Persian king Artaxerxes, who promised to fulfill Esther ’ s petition even “ to the half of the kingdom ” on making her his queen ( “ Explanatory Notes ” 489; King James Version, Esther 5.3). Biblical references thus permeate the novel Jane Eyre. 238 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses When Jane contemplates a possible union of herself with her cousin, she also realizes that, for her, “ it would never do ” to be his wife (429; vol. 3, ch. 8). The constant generic shifts in both texts prevent the reader from settling down in the position of a passive textual recipient. They are unsettling and pose a challenge: these are the moments of textual jouissance, the moments at which energeia propels the reading process. 100 The choice of identical genres in both texts also offers a certain closure: Rhys ’ generic shifts tie the two texts into each other. At the same time, the generic shifts also make comments on the plot level of Brontë ’ s novel: the establishment of the text as an autobiography or a Bildungsroman allows the reader to patiently follow the chronology of Jane ’ s life. Gothic elements produce suspense and form a discourse of their own; according to Milbank, they represent an externalization of Jane ’ s inner drama (Milbank, “ The Victorian Gothic ” 152) and can thus be closely associated with the character of Rochester. After the couple are united, fairy-tale moments set in. However, there are incongruities with that genre; we are not dealing with flat fairy-tale characters, nor would a fairy-tale ending correspond aptly with the realist or Gothic set-up. The Moor House part reintroduces a moment of rationality and an element of boredom, only to strengthen the impact of the Gothic fairy-tale reunion. The Gothic genre in Brontë ’ s novel usually features Rochester, and thus its reappearance directs the reader towards his character; the Gothic genre indicators in Rhys underline this: the Gothic can be read as being linked to the unnamed male character in her text. In the same way as the first part in Rhys and the first two volumes in Brontë establish the Cinderella theme for the two female protagonists, the remainder of the texts are shaped in the Gothic mood owing to the presence of the third protagonist. This means that the reader is not only directed to the character of Rochester on the level of characterization, but this channelling also occurs by means of genre indicators. Owing to the (forcefully) shifting genres in both texts, the reader has to find another source of reliability or common ground between the two. While characterization and genre have both disappointed the reader ’ s expectation of closure, the plot level seems to yield a more satisfactory result. In terms of plot, the two novels are indeed compatible. Thanks to the fragmented and subjectively coloured way in which Rhys ’ text presents the events, it assumes a measure of flexibility in responding to Jane Eyre. The texts ’ prequelsequel relationship means that they do not share many events, even though they 100 For a more detailed account of the connection between desire and bliss and energeia and parergonal intrusions, cf. section “ Mechanisms, Functions, and the Effect of the Parergonal Framework ” above (57 - 59). III Textual Dialogues: The Reader as a Mediator 239 run a parallel course over quite a long time span; rather, they complement each other in that Rhys ’ novel adds a past sub-plot to Brontë ’ s and lets us experience the fire at Thornfield Hall. In Brontë ’ s novel, this fire is only present as an account by Rochester ’ s father ’ s butler. The two novels start at a similar point during their female protagonists ’ childhoods. After Antoinette ’ s failed marriage and the couple ’ s return to England, Rhys ’ novel leaves out quite a lot of information and ends shortly before the setting of the fire at Thornfield. In Brontë, this time span is covered by an account of Jane ’ s stay at Moor House. In addition, Brontë ’ s text tells its readers of the events after the fire. Whereas Brontë ’ s text — even though the story is told in retrospect — follows more or less the chronology of the eponymous heroine ’ s life and accompanies her quite steadily, Rhys ’ text is characterized by fragmentation. Yet, apart from some incompatibilities in the overall time structure of the two novels, they tie in well with each other on the plot level. One needs to remember, though, that subjectively coloured first-person accounts of events always allow more freedom in their telling than do (putatively) objective third-person accounts. Hence, narration deserves closer scrutiny. Not only are there breaches in the succession of events in Wide Sargasso Sea, but there is also discontinuity on a level of narration. Even though the firstperson narration and the fact that the events are being told in retrospect initially present a parallel between the two texts and thus offer closure, narration turns out to be varied in terms of person in Rhys and unreliable in both novels. Whereas Brontë ’ s text is told by the first-person narrator Jane, Rhys ’ novel is told by two first-person narrators, Antoinette Cosway and her unnamed husband. In addition, the beginning of the third part of the novel is told by an unnamed heterodiegetic third person and presents Grace Poole ’ s account of the whole affair. Interestingly, the revelation of unreliable narration in Rhys has a direct impact on the reader ’ s conception of narration in Brontë: even though Jane conveys the impression of being a reliable narrator, she is not. Melikoglu notes that the mere length of Brontë ’ s novel “ provokes the idea of continuation and some kind of stability ” (130). Beaty remarks that, in Jane Eyre, “ [t]he narrator knows what will happen next, or, more accurately, what has already happened in the narrational past that is in the fictional future ” (86). It is therefore the narrator who chooses what information is conveyed and when. By this means, the narrator takes “ advantage of the convention of the narrative past tense to give the illusion that the action is unfolding even as we read ” (Beaty 86). This sort of manipulation produced by the narrative strategy obviously also functions parergonally, in that it imperceptibly influences our perception of what we are told. This has a direct impact on our reading of Rochester in Brontë: obviously, a subjectively coloured account such as Jane ’ s would emphasize the similarities between herself and her future husband, since 240 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses her greatest desire is to be his equal in marriage. Thus, her perception already functions as a filter. In this sense, the foregrounding of narration in Rhys effects a re-evaluation of narration in Brontë. This, in turn, directs the reader towards Rochester once more. The alternating narration in Rhys also reflects the fact that her text needs to break apart in order to be complemented by Brontë ’ s: its fragmented nature provides it with the versatility it needs to interact with the older text. The choice of unsettling narrative strategies in Rhys complicates the evaluation of information even more and adds to the friction: as readers, we have difficulty in uniting the two representations of Rochester in one character. One reason for this is certainly the constellation of three different first-person narrators. In Jane Eyre, it is mainly Jane who directly defines Rochester; even when she indirectly presents his speech or action, the wording remains hers. In Rhys ’ text, the first-person narration alternates between Antoinette and her unnamed husband: while Antoinette narrates the first part of the novel, which describes her childhood up to her marriage, the man who is presumably Rochester tells the reader about their marriage and Antoinette ’ s descent into madness in the second part. This male narrator admits the “ blanks in [his] mind that cannot be filled up ” (64), caused by tropical fever and the foreign climate. This image of blanks symbolizes the motivation for Rhys to convey textual information in general. At the same time, it bears witness to the fact that the male narrator is highly unreliable, not only because of his recent illness, but also owing to his uncontrolled consumption of alcohol: “ It was rum I chose to drink. Yes, it was mild in the mouth, I waited a second for the explosion of heat and light in my chest, the strength and warmth running through my body ” (119). The book offers no resort for a reader in search of a more reliable account of the same events. Antoinette ’ s point of view during their marriage is only given in a very short account. The switching of narrative points of view in general suggests a change of view in the characters: throughout the text, these points of view often change. Thus, we are indeed dealing with round characters, not only in terms of characterization. Both the narrational shifts and the unreliability of the narrators complicate the reading process. If we as readers trust the male narrator, we have to assume that Antoinette is already mad when she tells us about her life in England in the third part. Her account and her actions thus present a dilemma for the reader: on the one hand, one can believe her husband and accept her account as unreliable because of her madness. If we choose to believe her, on the other hand, we consequently have to distrust her husband ’ s tale. Harrison comments that this process of evaluation is essential: it “ emphasizes the importance of our reading of ourselves and others on which the difference between the two texts [Antoinette ’ s and her husband ’ s] turns ” (194). This means that our evaluation III Textual Dialogues: The Reader as a Mediator 241 of textual information depends on our own decisions. In this way, we read ourselves into the text and affect our reading of others through this process. The textual constellation within Rhys ’ novel thus stands in a mise-en-abyme relationship with the constellation of Brontë ’ s text and Rhys ’ own. The dialogue between narrators and reader in Rhys mirrors the dialogue between narrators and reader in Rhys and Brontë. More importantly, the constellation triggers the reader ’ s awareness of textual structure and interaction. In his or her search for textual compatibility, the reader is directed from one narratological field to the next, always tempted by an offer of closure and always disappointed by being redirected. The path taken in my analysis to illustrate this procedure has led from characterization to genre indicators to narration. Overall, the reading experience of Rhys ’ text is an unsettling one. Certainly, its close relationship to one of the great classics initiates a first mental dislocation in the reader, who constantly consults the information from the original source in order to assess the new data. However, wherever there is hope of compatibility and settling down, Rhys ’ text forcefully unsettles the reader and thus comments on an ideal reading experience as such. In the case of Brontë and Rhys, the prequel, functioning as the ergon, illustrates the fragmented and one-sided nature of textual information in general, whereas the reading of the sequel written earlier — the parergon — strives to effect closure with regard to disparate pieces of information, e. g. concerning narrative strategies or character information. This enterprise obviously never comes to an end. This is exactly what the parergonal constellation implies: rewritings and existing texts enter a complementary relationship. In so far as Rhys ’ text contains various gaps that are also partly caused by the plurality of narrators, it clearly adopts great versatility. This creates the impression that instead of simply yielding rather artificial generic indicators, the text tries to evade all classification. By this means, the text is able to complement the various potential genres in the original text. Both the generic shifts in Jane Eyre and the narrative strategies chosen in Rhys ’ text resemble the ones in Tom Jones: narration forces the reader to constantly make decisions. Beaty comments that “ it is characteristic of the structure of expectations in this novel [Jane Eyre] that readers are never left fully certain for long of just what specific species of novel they are reading ” (46). What Beaty terms an “ epistemological experiential ambivalence ” inherent in Brontë ’ s narrative (48) makes the reader aware of the fact that he or she is “ as inexperienced as Jane ” (53). In so far as the two texts sometimes work against each other and sometimes try to complement each other, the reader is challenged to leave the role of a passive recipient and to enter the role of a dynamic mediator. This is caused by the friction between the two main texts, which is in turn the consequence of generic choices (or the lack thereof) and 242 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses narrative strategies and effects a re-evaluation of the truthfulness of disparate accounts. As with all texts, this is the condition of writing and interpreting in general: it is and has to be a never-ending process. In the same way as the truth in history cannot be established merely by opting for one specific account, new texts cannot simply un-write previous texts. The reader ’ s function in this mechanism is one of constant re-evaluation. In addition, all interpretation also leads to a critical view of the previously accepted evaluation of the text under scrutiny. Many critics, amongst whom Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak (Critique 125 - 126) figures prominently, have argued that presenting Bertha ’ s failure in marriage and life as the result of a character flaw, of “ bestiality in herself, ” makes Brontë ’ s text “ complicit with colonial discourse ” (Melikoglu 128). Her presentation in Rhys as a character who has a similar past to Jane ’ s and therefore embodies a sort of emulation that has undergone a transformation constitutes an equal treatment of two characters that is independent of their (colonial, historical) background. In this sense, Antoinette is rehabilitated and given back her humanity in terms of equality. At the same time, the character of Rochester in both texts also undergoes a struggle with his past and present condition that is similar to that faced by both of the female protagonists. If one wants to inquire into the equality of characters, one should also include the male character in a discourse of suffering. Rochester has very often been cornered and pressed into the mould of the white patriarch. This is not what gender discourse or postcolonial discourse should ideally be doing, however; ideally, it should aim at a recovery of ethical values rather than produce written counterattacks. In my opinion, this is what Rhys ’ text forces critics to do. Indeed, “ [t]here is always the other side, always ” (Antoinette in Rhys 106). In addition, a narratological analysis of characterization, genre, plot, and narration also shows on a structural level how we need to deal with various (partly incompatible) sources of information. Rhys ’ text makes the reader carry out an ideal evaluation of two disparate sets of information, especially by creating moments of friction that force the reader into an active role. The moment in Jane Eyre when Jane answers Rochester ’ s call that transgresses all laws of physics and reason presents a telling image for this textual dialogue. The rewritten text constantly communicates with the original text, even though their respective publications lie more than a century apart. According to Paravisini-Gebert, Wide Sargasso Sea serves as “ proof of a continuing dialogue through which Caribbean writers seek to reformulate their connections to and severance from a European language and tradition ” (248). I contend that the textual interaction proves even more than that: it shows at what price we strive for compatibility and a functioning dialogue. At the same time, it makes us aware of our precipitate acceptance of congruities at the expense of a remaining III Textual Dialogues: The Reader as a Mediator 243 amount of incongruous information. The textual dialogue has to overcome moments of rational incompatibility and of immense friction. Yet when tracing this dialogue, readers need to be aware of how they are bridging the gaps. Apparently, many potential parergonal frameworks can also be located around Brontë ’ s text: for example, the editorial pose in the preface to Jane Eyre resembles the translator ’ s pose in the preface to the first edition of Walpole ’ s Castle of Otranto. Azim comments that the first edition of Brontë ’ s text “ was presented as somebody else ’ s document, over which the author (the fictional Currer Bell), had only editorial control ” (Azim 174). By analogy with “ The Custom-House, ” the introductory chapter of Hawthorne ’ s Scarlet Letter, the motivation for such an editorial pose could also have been the need for verisimilitude: it might have been designed to make the supernatural Gothic scenes and the fairy-tale quality of the main plot more readily acceptable. Moreover, “ [t]he editorial fiction was discarded in the second edition, when Jane Eyre appeared only with its title and as written by Currer Bell ” (Azim 174). This is reminiscent of Walpole ’ s procedure as well. At the same time, the choice of the pseudonym Currer Bell reminds us of George Eliot in Middlemarch (Beaty 2). Beaty argues that, thanks to this unknown authorial name, the work “ enters fictional discourse without the context of the author ’ s previous work ” (2). Even more: the author of the fiction is himself or herself the progeny of imagination. By assuming a male pseudonym, the author adopts a position of safety concerning the work ’ s reception. Thus, all of these parerga also have individual functions. Since these parerga interact with Jane Eyre on its own, not with both novels, and since similar kinds of possible parergonal frames, which mainly belong to the first part of my analysis, have already been introduced and illustrated, this section has concentrated entirely on the intertextual parergonality between Rhys ’ and Brontë ’ s texts. However, recourse to the parergonal functions introduced at the very beginning of my analysis might provide a sort of closure that the dialogue between the two hypertextual novels did not yield. 244 3. Derrida ’ s Parergon in Literature: Model Analyses 4. Conclusion: Parergon versus Ergon: Interplay or Powerplay? As we have seen, Derrida ’ s concept of the parergon can be applied to literary writing, with the frame mediating between the surrounds of a work and the work itself in various ways. The passe-partout, a concept borrowed from the visual arts that, as indicated by its name, designates the location of interaction, is set between the parergon and the ergon. The parergon always serves at least one function: it has an impact on the work; if the frame does not interplay with the work, it is, according to Derrida and Kant, mere adornment. The function of a parergonal framework is closely connected with what Derrida calls the lack in the work: the parergon ties into this lack and thus complements the work. Various types of lacks have been discussed: the unconventionality of a work or its author, the radical nature of the work, or the potential for political provocation are characteristics of a written work that may need to be mitigated by a frame in order not to cause offence. Friction as the result of parergonal interaction has come to figure as the symptom of parergonality. On the basis of this symptom, the parergon can be used as a methodological tool. In addition, I have attempted to set up a tentative and certainly not exhaustive model of parergonal functions. Three types of parergonality have been distinguished and illustrated by examples from literature. The distinction between these three types was made according to the origin of their oscillating interaction with the work. This oscillation can be prompted either on the part of the work, or it may be prompted on the part of the surrounds or the parergon. The question of origin is a critical one and is open to some dispute; however, this notion of origin mainly serves to establish a structural link between the various analyses presented in this study and has no impact on the analyses themselves. The latter focus on the mechanism of interaction between frame and work. Thus, the tripartite structure established in the theoretical part of my study serves to guide the reader through my analysis, beginning with the rather elementary kind of interaction, and leading towards the final part, which deals with more complex communicational structures between ergon and parergon. This third type of communication is intertextual in nature: the negotiation between two works, one functioning as the ergon and the other as the parergon, is realized in and by means of the reading process. Hence, the interaction between the two works is only made possible by active participation on the part of the surrounds, in this case the reading process undertaken by the reader. The parergonal constellation can be imagined as the work bordering upon the framework and both entities being embedded within the surrounds. This image allows for the fact that the parergon occurs in various guises. It may take the form of a classic frame by either appearing before the work, as in The Scarlet Letter, or after the work, as in A Room with a View, or both. It can, however, also appear throughout the work in the form of a narrative strategy, for instance, as in Tom Jones or Moll Flanders. George Eliot ’ s novel Middlemarch contains two interacting frameworks that negotiate the same issue, while The Castle of Otranto contains two prefaces which both serve the same parergonal function. Shakespeare ’ s A Midsummer Night ’ s Dream ends with an epilogue that interacts with the work ’ s historical surrounds, the Elizabethan conventions of drama, as well as with the play within the play. A parergonal constellation can also take the form of an intertextual relationship, in which case the communication between work and frame is a rather complicated process; basically, however, it takes the form of a dialogue between two works and their surrounds, as is the case with Rhys ’ Wide Sargasso Sea and Jane Eyre. This dialogue can grow into negotiation or dispute. Roth ’ s Everyman, for instance, negotiates certain values promoted in the original morality play Everyman. Thus, parergonal structures can be extremely complex and may function in various different ways at the same time. A considerable time-span is covered by the works chosen for analysis, which range from the fifteenth to the twenty-first century. The first and the last of these works, chronologically speaking, are an original morality play and its rewriting with the same title, Everyman, which I chose, among other reasons, for the fact that they create a neat time frame around the other works discussed in this study. Thus, an Elizabethan play — A Midsummer Night ’ s Dream — comes after the medieval one; then follow a journalistic novel (Moll Flanders 1 ), a satirical novel (Tom Jones) and a Gothic novel (The Castle of Otranto) — all from the eighteenth century; next, there is a female Bildungsroman — or Gothic novel, or autobiography, or fairy tale (Jane Eyre) — which communicates with its prequel written in the mid-twentieth century (Wide Sargasso Sea), an American romance (The Scarlet Letter) and a classic nineteenth-century novel (Middlemarch); finally, and before the overall frame closes in the twenty-first century, the age of Modernism is represented by Forster ’ s A Room with a View. On the level of content, the parergonal structures inherent in the abovementioned literary works all serve individual purposes. The two Everyman texts uphold a necessary negotiation of cultural values, A Midsummer Night ’ s Dream plays with the conventionalized boundary between fiction and reality in drama, Moll Flanders is stripped of its hypocrisy, and Tom Jones succeeds in making its readership experience the same hardship as its eponymous hero. Whereas the parergonal structure of The Castle of Otranto fails terribly in justifying the work ’ s 1 Moll Flanders was written in 1722. Thus, Defoe is considered one of the pioneers of novelwriting. 246 4. Conclusion: Parergon versus Ergon: Interplay or Powerplay? existence and in attempting to increase its value, Jane Eyre will never be the same again after Wide Sargasso Sea ’ s interference. The introductory chapter of The Scarlet Letter aims to increase the core text ’ s believability, but it also represents a stylistic clash with the latter. Finally, whereas Middlemarch is framed by a specific discourse and shows that new ideas need patience, the future of A Room with a View distorts its past and leaves no hope to the reader. In all of these works, the parergon refers to the ergon and vice-versa. Referentiality is one of the central notions that distinguish modernist from postmodernist works (of art and literature). Self-referentiality, which often occurs in postmodernist works of literature, has not been considered in this study, owing to the great complexity of such a parergonal construct. In cases like these, the ergon and the parergon are highly interdependent and intertwined in such a way that it becomes almost impossible to disentangle the construct. Spike Jonze ’ s film Adaptation, which is based on Charlie and Donald Kaufman ’ s script, for instance, would reward close analysis aimed at finding out how the intrusion of the narrator becomes self-referential, in so far as the movie writes itself as we watch it. As Linda Hutcheon puts it in A Theory of Parody, [a]rt forms have increasingly appeared to distrust external criticism to the extent that they have sought to incorporate critical commentary within their own structures in a kind of self-legitimizing short-circuit of the normal critical dialogue. (1) In this sense, they “ refer to themselves in an unending mirroring process ” (1). Such parergonal systems become immensely complex, and their internal parergonal communication would be extremely difficult to trace. For this reason, my main focus has been on parergonal interaction that yields a specific function, not on the complexity of interaction as such. If the focus were on the mere tracing of interaction, the interpretative process might suffer. It is this latter process, however, which is central to this study. In my introduction, I announced that my study joins the tradition of transposing the parergon from one field to another on the basis of its structure. In The Truth in Painting, Derrida makes the following claim (already quoted in part at the beginning of my study, on page 11 - 12 above): The parergon, this supplement outside the work, must, if it is to have the status of a philosophical quasi-concept, designate a formal and general predicative structure, which one can transport intact or deformed and reformed according to certain rules, into other fields, to submit new contents to it. (55) This comment refers to the fact that Derrida takes the concept from Kant and transports it into a different context. The structure of the parergon, however, “ is analogous and just as problematical ” in Kant as it is in Derrida (55). In my study, the concept of the parergon has been transported to the field of literature, 4. Conclusion: Parergon versus Ergon: Interplay or Powerplay? 247 also on the basis of its structure. Literary writing constitutes its new contents. Rules have been set up in order to distinguish it from mere adornment, as well as to assign a function to it. The form of the parergon in literature varies from simply paratextual to interstitial. In the latter case, the parergon is characterized by a high degree of flexibility as well as an ongoing formal deformation. This means that the parergon has, in Derrida ’ s terms, been shown to have the status of a philosophical quasi-concept. Furthermore, the concept and the rules connected with it can be instrumentalized in order to approach and interpret literary frameworks. In so far as this study has applied Derrida ’ s quasi-concept to some of the classics of English literature, it has, in Ž i ž ek ’ s terms, performed a short circuit: A short circuit occurs when there is a faulty connection in the network — faulty, of course, from the standpoint of the network ’ s smooth functioning. Is not the shock of short-circuiting, therefore, one of the best metaphors for a critical reading? Is not one of the most effective critical procedures to cross wires that don ’ t usually touch: to take a major classic (text, author, notion) and read it in a short-circuiting way, through the lens of a “ minor ” author, text, or conceptual apparatus ( “ minor ” should be understood here in Deleuze ’ s sense: not “ of lesser quality, ” but marginalized, disavowed by the hegemonic ideology, or dealing with a “ lower, ” less dignified topic)? If the minor reference is well chosen, such a procedure can lead to insights which completely shatter and undermine our common perceptions. (ix) This is, indeed, not to say that Derrida is a minor author in the common sense of the term; in the section “ The Parergon Today, ” however, it has become clear that his parergon is still rather a marginalized concept. In the same way, the concept certainly offers new insights, even though they might not be as unsettling as postulated by Ž i ž ek. My analysis of Jane Eyre and Wide Sargasso Sea, however, has shown that such a short-circuiting procedure can indeed undermine critics ’ common perceptions of classic literary works. Even though post-structuralists have always famously claimed that textual meaning is not simply available, and hence not graspable, due to the dynamic nature of signifying systems, Derrida ’ s playfully associative concept of parergonal working offers a tool which opens new doors for literary criticism. I argue that it is not necessary to fix meaning in texts in order to reach a valid interpretation; it can also be reached by understanding the textual mechanisms at work. The description and evaluation of such a mechanism creates interpretative meaning in itself. In this study, the fruitful outcome of an endless parergonal oscillation has been shown to be critical pluralism rather than abyssal aporia. The inherent nihilism in Miller can be overcome by instrumentalizing the mechanisms which, at first glance, seem so threatening. Such oscillations also serve as images for endless textual negotiation. This negotiation is necessary to keep cultural discourse alive and topical. 248 4. Conclusion: Parergon versus Ergon: Interplay or Powerplay? Owing to their position at the periphery of a work, paratexts have often been perceived as subordinate to the texts they frame. In this study, a special kind of frame threatens to undermine the work it surrounds and thus occupies a coordinate and ostensibly superordinate position in relation to that work. After analyzing literary works by means of Derrida ’ s concept, one could assume that the parergon is a more powerful entity than the work itself, since it has the potential for overthrowing it. The parergon seems to be plotting against the ergon and finally frames it up (OED 6: 142, def. 8.e.). This, however, only describes one moment of parergonal working. In the section on Tom Jones, I argued that there is a “ pathology of the parergon ” (Derrida 64) at work. This means that the parergon unites different conditions within itself. These range from passive supplement to active complement. When one slows down the process of oscillation between work and frame, the parergon can be seen to efface itself at the very moment when it exerts most power (Derrida 61; section “ A Usurped Autobiography: Defoe ’ s Moll Flanders ” of this study, 165 above). It formally falls back into the status of a mere supplement (Derrida 54, 55), immediately after having given rise to the work (Derrida 9 and section “ Derrida ’ s Parergon and Kant, ” 31 - 32 above). When starting to deploy energy once again, the parergon assumes the status of a complement (a formal supplement which adds something to the work, namely that which the work lacks) and builds up its force. Thus, the parergon is most powerful when its energy is deployed in the work. Paradoxically, when the parergon is at work, it has the power to undermine the ergon, but simultaneously effaces itself and becomes a supplement. The parergon has the potential to make the work ’ s lack manifest. Without the parergon, however, the lack does not show, and the ergon apparently does not deconstruct itself. Power is thus only executed in interaction and is not simply a resource either of the two entities have access to. According to Derrida, the frame labours. By analogy with childbirth, frame and work cooperate; they do not work against each other. The friction they cause is not violent, but it is absolutely necessary in order to achieve a certain aim or function. The image of two entities so tightly interrelated necessarily invites an analysis of their internal power structures. In a reference to Foucault ’ s Discipline and Punish, Terry Eagleton comments that “ power is not something confined to armies and parliaments: it is, rather, a pervasive, intangible network of force which weaves itself into our slightest gestures and most intimate utterances ” (Ideology 7). This statement aptly summarizes the inconspicuous workings of a parergonal structure. A driving force, energeia, is at work at the site of the passe-partout. Energeia is not set free, however, but is levelled within the self-contained parergonal system. Frow analyzes the notion of power in relation to discourse as follows: 4. Conclusion: Parergon versus Ergon: Interplay or Powerplay? 249 If power is no longer thought simply as a negative and repressive force but as the condition of production of all speech, and if power is conceived as polar rather than monolithic, as an asymmetrical dispersion, then all utterances will be potentially splintered, formally open to contradictory uses. Utterance is in principle dialogic. ( “ Discourse and Power ” 206) This is exactly what is exemplified in the interaction between the two discursive entities in the parergonal constellation: the entirety of utterances in a work can be undermined, channelled, or manipulated by another set of utterances that frame this work. This represents the dialogic principle of utterance. The most important aspect of Frow ’ s notion of power is its underlying dynamic: power is productive, not repressive. Even though discursive power is characterized by initial instability, asymmetry, and contradiction, its inherent dialogic function gives the entire system stability as soon as an oscillating mechanism has set in. The frame might indeed splinter and be deformed by the work ’ s reaction to its action, but it will reassemble itself and find another form more apt for negotiation. Mills points out that Foucault describes power in terms of a “ range of practices, ” actions upon actions (17), not a possession of certain groups within rigid constellations. There are notable parallels between Foucault ’ s description of power relations within groups of people and the workings of the parergonal construct. In “ The Subject and Power, ” Foucault claims that “ a relationship of power is [. . .] a mode of action. ” He argues that power does not act immediately upon other subjects, but that it “ acts upon their actions: an action upon an action, on existing actions or on those which may arise in the present or the future ” (789). When we describe the parergonal mechanism, this is exactly what happens: if the oscillation is initiated by the work, the frame reacts to it in that it gathers all of its potential force. In contemporary societies, power is institutionalized. There are many forms that such institutions of power can assume, one of which is “ the form of an apparatus closed in upon itself ” (792). A parergonal constellation resembles such an apparatus, and energeia is the type of drive which is at work within the self-contained system of parergonality. Generally, the exercise of power “ is elaborated, transformed, [and] organized ” (792) in the same way as parergonality is when we trace its movements. Power manifests itself in the form of action, not simply in a fixed constellation of potential adversaries who are in possession of it. Consequently, a “ relationship of confrontation reaches its term, its final moment [. . .] when stable mechanisms replace the free play of antagonistic reactions ” (794). This is what happens in a parergonal confrontation: the oscillation between ergon and parergon might make an impetuous start, but will, at some point, even out without coming to a halt. In this sense, parergonality does not serve as a pattern by which one can make out which of the adversaries is more powerful, but it 250 4. Conclusion: Parergon versus Ergon: Interplay or Powerplay? incessantly negotiates the notion of power in its oscillating mechanism. This ceaseless movement is responsible for the system ’ s stability. At the same time, the inherent power of this system is a productive, not a repressive force: parergonal interaction in itself serves as a ground for interpretation. The execution of power in a relationship between work and frame is not a violent one, even though the frame might undergo a certain distortion when executing its full power upon the work. The frame creaks and cracks when at work, but it does not break. From the point of view of a witness to this spectacle, the two entities only grant access to their all-pervasive network of force at moments of intimate utterances, namely at moments of friction. This means that, even though the construct is in constant metamorphosis below the surface, this is hardly perceptible from the outside. Since power is constituted by action, the system of ergon and parergon cannot be broken down into two power potentials which are measured against one another. Even though one might be tempted to consider the parergon the more powerful entity of the two, its force is utterly dependent on its interaction with the work. In addition, power is not a possession (Mills 17), but a mode of action. The entities involved in parergonal interaction gain their power from each other, and lose it in isolation. With regard to their potential, parergonal paratexts are not to be underrated. Any decision to regard them as subordinate to the core work constitutes a truncation of interpretative possibilities. In this sense, this study rehabilitates specific types of frames and potentially places paratexts on a par with the works they refer to. The concept of parergonality in literature provides a methodological tool for literary criticism that can be applied to a range of related phenomena: it allows the critic to tackle paratextual as well as intertextual constellations, narrative and discursive frames, and any kind of fruitful interference in the reading process. In addition, the concept is not only applicable on a structural level; if applied to an investigation of the frame ’ s discursive interaction with the core text, it allows comments to be made on the purpose or motivation of a parergon. Furthermore, there is usually more than one parergon that interacts with a single literary work. In this study, the various texts for analysis were chosen to illustrate the specific functions I established. The sections on A Midsummer Night ’ s Dream and on Jane Eyre and Wide Sargasso Sea show, however, that more than one parergonal frame can be allotted to each single work and yield fruitful interpretative results. In the context of Shakespeare ’ s play, the problem of emendation and critical reception as two possible frames was briefly discussed. With Jane Eyre, I touched upon possible parallel readings of the preface: on the one hand, the assumption of the male pseudonym Currer Bell obviously performs a similar task to the one discussed in the context of Middlemarch. The publication of Brontë ’ s novel as “ An Autobiography. Edited by Currer Bell ” (Introduction vi) reminds us of the editorial pose assumed in 4. Conclusion: Parergon versus Ergon: Interplay or Powerplay? 251 the first preface to The Castle of Otranto. In addition, the novel ’ s generic shifts leave the reader with no guidance with regard to his or her expectations. In this respect, the reader has similar experiences as in the reading process of Tom Jones. Finally, the amount of metatextual data (criticism) available on Jane Eyre and Wide Sargasso Sea — as opposed to, for instance, Roth ’ s Everyman — unavoidably plays a major part in the discussion of the two hypertextually related texts. All of these alternative parergonal readings are well possible and illustrate the fact that, usually, more than one parergonal frame is at work with each single literary ergon. Thus, parergonality accounts for structural, discursive, and context-related factors in textual analysis and lays the ground for fruitful interpretation of parergonally framed literary works. 252 4. Conclusion: Parergon versus Ergon: Interplay or Powerplay? Works Cited Primary Sources Brontë, Charlotte. Jane Eyre. Ed. Margaret Smith. World ’ s Classics. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1980. Defoe, Daniel. The Fortunes and Misfortunes of the Famous Moll Flanders &c.: Written from Her Own Memorandums. Ed. David Blewett. Penguin Classics. London: Penguin, 1989. Eliot, George. Middlemarch. Ed. 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Other Sources 267 Index Abrams, M. H., 16, 59, 60n, 125n, 127n, 167 - 168, 183, 190, 205 Acquah-Dadzie, Kofi and Gabriel G. Adeleye, 98 adaptation, concept of, 144, 178 - 179, 200 - 201, 208 - 209 Adaptation (film by Spike Jonze), 247 Adeleye, Gabriel G. and Kofi Acquah- Dadzie, 98 adornment (ornament), 36 - 40, 49, 55, 60, 64 - 66, 68, 98, 109, 216n, 245, 248 Adorno, Theodor W., 11, 11n aesthetic judgment. See aesthetics aesthetics (aesthetic judgment), 33, 36n, 37, 37n, 42, 155, 162n, 192, 192n alienation effect (Verfremdungseffekt), 64, 127, 127n allegorical. See allegory allegory (allegorical), 77, 184, 184n, 186, 189, 192, 197n, 200 - 201, 206 Allen, Graham, 173 Allmer, Patricia, 41 - 42, 41n Altman, Rick, 14 - 15, 15n, 199 American Romanticism, 112 - 114 aporia, 16, 248 Apostle, Hippocrates George, 51, 53n, 54n appropriation, 11, 21, 144 - 145, 178, 184, 201, 212, 219, 233 architextuality, 181 Aristotle, 51 - 56, 51n, 53n, 55n Ash, Susan, 47 Ashton, Rosemary, 86, 90 - 94, 91n Austen, Jane, 94 Austenfeld, Thomas, 192, 192n, 199, 202n - 203n author, concept of the, 30, 36, 57 - 60, 60n, 62 - 64, 66, 69, 71 - 77, 97 - 98, 99n, 125 - 126, 128n, 137, 141 - 142, 142n, 147 - 149, 151, 154, 157, 161, 165, 172, 178, 201, 244 - 245, 248 authorial narrative. See authorial narrator authorial narrator (authorial narrative), 129, 131, 134, 138. See also authorial pose authorial pose, 66, 107, 127, 138. See also authorial narrator autobiography (autobiographer, autobiographical), 101n, 108, 162, 166, 171, 211, 233, 233n, 235, 239, 246 autobiographer. See autobiography autobiographical. See autobiography Azim, Firdous, 210, 210n, 216, 220, 229, 233 - 234, 233n, 244 Baer, Elizabeth R., 209, 209n, 210n, 212n, 213, 215 Bakhtin, Mikhail, 152, 175 Bal, Mieke, 21 - 22 Baldick, Chris, 25, 86, 106n, 121, 125, 172n, 181, 184n, 201 Barber, C. L., 154n Barroll, Leeds, 152 - 153, 158 Barry, Peter, 56n Barthes, Roland, 35 - 36, 37n, 57 - 60, 106, 128, 128n, 139, 139n, 173 - 175, 177 - 180, 182 Barton, Anne, 153n Barzilai, Shuli, 42 Bath, Michael and Tom Furniss, 142n, 144, 146, 174, 178 - 179, 198 Baym, Nina, 107 - 108 Beaty, Jerome, 232 - 236, 233n, 238, 240, 242, 244 Beauty and the Beast (fairy tale), 236 Bedient, Calvin, 122 - 123 Beebe, Maurice, 111 Bell, Ian A., 169 Bender, John, 135 Bennington, Geoff and Ian McLeod, 30 - 31, 30n Bercovitch, Sacvan, 101, 101n, 106 Bernstein, J. M., 42 Bevington, David, 184n Bildung (Bildungsroman), 117, 136, 136n, 138, 141, 220, 233 - 234, 238 - 239, 246 Bildungsroman. See Bildung Blair, George A., 52 - 53 Blewett, David, 162, 165, 167 bliss. See jouissance Bloom, Harold, 173, 177, 179 - 180, 182, 233 Bluebeard (fairy tale and fairy-tale character), 213, 236 - 237 Boumelha, Penny, 88, 96 Bradbrook, M. C., 86 breaking of the fourth wall, 150, 159 Brontë, Charlotte, 244 Jane Eyre, 25, 62, 64, 68, 178, 181, 183, 208 - 244, 209n, 210n, 212n, 216n, 217n, 222n, 226n, 233n, 236n, 237n, 238n, 246 - 248, 251 - 252 Burke, Edmund, 77 - 79 Bussmann, Hadumod et al., 235n Buzard, James, 119 Carey, George, second Lord Hunsdon, 153n carnival, 152 - 153, 157 carnivalesque, 152 Carroll, David, 93 - 95 Castle, Gregory, 234 Caws, Mary Ann, 22 censorship, 62, 73, 150 - 152, 151n, 154, 160 Chase, Richard, 212n Childs, Peter and Roger Fowler, 159 chorus, 130 - 131 Cinderella (fairy tale and fairy-tale character), 233, 236 - 237, 237n, 239 Clare, Janet, 151 Clery, E. J., 73 - 82, 74n, 75n, 76n, 81n, 84 - 85 closure, 42, 93, 146, 211, 223, 232, 239 - 240, 242, 244 Cohen, S. Marc, 51 Colacurcio, Michael J., 101n, 104 - 108 Cole, William, 74, 81, 84 Colmer, John, 118 Combe, George, 226n comedy, narrative genre, 94 - 95, 140, dramatic genre, 82, 142, 145, 154n, 156, 161 comic(al), 79, 81 - 83, 129, 158, 189 - 190 comic relief, 73, 190 complement (complementary), 20, 29, 31 - 32, 49 - 51, 56 - 57, 61, 69 - 70, 98, 131, 137, 139, 149, 173 - 174, 176, 181, 232, 240 - 242, 245, 249. See also supplement and lack complementary. See complement context, 12, 20 - 22, 24 - 26, 42, 62, 69, 73 - 74, 73n, 85, 95, 98, 106, 109, 127, 132, 141 - 142, 146, 154, 161, 165, 174 - 178, 185, 244, 252. See also surrounds court masques (mask), 151n, 152, 153n court revels (revelries), 152 - 153, 153n critical pluralism, 17, 144, 180, 180n, 248 Culler, Jonathan, 12, 16 - 17, 21,25, 33, 41 - 43, 140 Currie, Mark, 15, 137, 185n Cusset, Catherine, 38 cut. See interstice Davis, Robert Con and Ronald Schleifer, 21 deconstruction, 17, 38, 43 - 44, 96 dedication, concept of the, 13, 38 - 39, 60, 65 - 66, 65n, 68 Defoe, Daniel, 124, 161 - 162, 172, 246n The Fortunes and Misfortunes of the Famous Moll Flanders &c.: Written from Her Own Memorandums, 32, 64, 68, 142, 161 - 172, 246, 246n, 249 Robinson Crusoe, 162 The Shortest Way with Dissenters, 161 - 162 Deleuze, Gilles, 206n, 248 Dentith, Simon, 69, 206 - 207 Derrida, Jacques, 146 “ Biodegradables: Seven Diary Fragments, ” 160 - 161, 173 - 175, 182 Dissemination, 57, 59, 126 Of Grammatology, 207 “ Structure, Sign, and Play in the Discourse of the Human Sciences, ” 44, 44n The Truth in Painting (La vérité en peinture), 11 - 13, 15, 26 - 51, 26n - 27n, 30n, 37n, 48n, 56, 59, 61, 64, 69, 92, 127, 127n, 138, 140, 144, 146n, 164 - 165, 200, 200n, 216n, 245 - 249 detective fiction, 233, 237 270 Index Down by Law (film), 139n diegesis, 25, 126, 184. See also mimesis discourse (discursive), 25, 27, 34 - 36, 34n, 37n, 41 - 42, 41n, 47, 57, 59, 61, 63, 73, 85 - 86, 97, 104, 172 - 173, 175, 212, 220, 231n, 239, 243 - 244, 247 - 252 discursive. See discourse Drake, Sandra, 212n dunamis (potency), 51, 53 - 56, 54n Dünkelsbühler, Ulrike, 45, 45n Eagleton, Terry, 146, 152, 178, 220, 224, 227, 249 editor, concept of the (editorial pose), 65 - 66, 102 - 103, 108, 110 - 114, 113n, 142 - 143, 146 - 150, 147n, 148n, 162 - 172, 244, 251 - 252 editorial pose. See editor Ehrismann, Dieter, 162 - 165 Elam, Helen Regueiro, 174 Eliot, George (Mary Ann or Marian Evans), 86 - 89, 97, 244 Middlemarch, 63, 68, 72 - 73, 85 - 97, 109, 129, 129n, 244, 246 - 247, 251 “ Silly Novels by Lady Novelists, ” 86 - 87 Eliot, T. S., 228n Elizabeth I. See Queen Elizabeth I Elizabethan Age, 152, 156 - 157, 160 - 161, 246. See also Renaissance Period Emerson, Ralph Waldo “ The American Scholar, ” 112 - 114 Empson, William, 124 energeia, 50 - 59, 61, 97, 211, 239, 239n, 249 - 250. See also entelecheia Enlightenment, Age of, 73, 79 entelecheia, 51 - 52, 51n, 56. See also energeia epilogue, concept of the, 39, 60, 64, 97 - 98, 150 - 152, 155, 161 epistolary novel, 78, 232 - 233 ergon, 12, 14, 17, 18n, 28 - 29, 34 - 40, 43, 44n, 46, 48 - 51, 48n - 49n, 54 - 56, 61 - 62, 64, 67, 71 - 72, 92, 97 - 99,103 - 104, 109, 112, 114 - 115, 124, 127, 145, 161 - 162, 165, 171 - 172, 175 - 176, 180, 182 - 183, 185, 206 - 208, 211, 232, 242 - 252 Evans, Mary Ann (Marian). See Eliot, George Everyman (morality play), 64, 68, 178 - 179, 181, 183 - 209, 184n, 246 fairy tale, 103 - 104, 108, 156, 233, 236 - 237, 239, 244, 246 feminism (feminist), 35, 47, 63, 72, 85 - 90, 90n, 93, 95, 97, 211 - 212. See also gender feminist. See feminism Fernando, Lloyd, 87, 95 fiction (fictional status), 21, 57, 64 - 67, 102 - 104, 107, 126, 133, 137, 141, 150, 155 - 158, 200, 218, 246 fictional status. See fiction Fielding, Henry, 74 Tom Jones, 15 - 16, 22n, 25, 60, 64, 68, 72, 74, 98, 124 - 141, 125n, 147n, 242, 246, 249, 252 Fish, Stanley, 56n, 144 - 145 Fludernik, Monika, 23 Foakes, R. A., 158 footnote, concept of the, 13, 23, 149 - 150 Forster, E. M. A Room with a View, 64, 68, 72, 98 - 99, 109, 114 - 124, 246 - 247 “ A View without a Room, ” 68, 114n, 115, 122 Foucault, Michel, 41, 41n, 59, 117, 139n, 249 - 250 Fowler, Roger and Peter Childs, 159 fracture. See interstice frame-breaking, 22 - 23 frame, generic (generic, genre), 21, 73 - 74, 79 - 81, 84, 105, 132, 141, 145 - 146, 168, 178, 181, 184 - 185, 200, 211, 232 - 239, 242, 252 frame narrative (frame story), 11, 19, 25 - 26, 43, 137n frame of reference, 19 - 21, 25 - 26, 33, 44 frame story. See frame narrative Freedman, Barbara, 142n, 151, 159 - 160 Freud, Sigmund, 37n, 159 - 160, 179, 179n, 196, 196n, 219 friction, 11 - 12, 11n, 12n, 22, 33 - 34, 47, 65 - 67, 70, 85, 90, 143, 178, 184 - 185, 200, 210 - 211, 220, 223, 232 - 233, 241 - 245, 249, 251 Index 271 Frow, John, 21, 34, 43 - 44, 146, 155, 249 - 250 Fuchs, Barbara, 106n function (parergonal function), 12, 14, 18, 25 - 26, 32, 38n, 39 - 40, 44n, 45 - 50, 52, 55 - 57, 60 - 64, 66 - 71, 84 - 85, 87, 97 - 99, 102 - 104, 108 - 109, 114, 124 - 127, 127n, 133, 140, 142, 149 - 150, 161 - 162, 165 - 166, 168, 171, 173 - 174, 182 - 183, 185, 200, 243 - 251 Furniss, Tom and Michael Bath, 142n, 144, 146, 174, 178 - 179, 198 Gemmeke, Mascha, 234 gender, 85, 88, 157, 243. See also feminism Genette, Gérard Palimpsests, 24, 24n, 69, 144, 172 - 173, 181 - 182, 186, 205 Paratexts: Thresholds of Interpretation, 24, 24n, 66 - 69, 67n, 181 generic. See frame, generic genre. See frame, generic Gilbert, Sandra M. and Susan Gubar, 212n, 217, 220, 226, 233, 237 Ginsburg, Michael Peled, 88 Glen, Heather, 228 Goffman, Erving, 19, 21 - 22, 155 Goldknopf, David, 124, 131, 135, 140, 162 - 163 Gothic, 73 - 81, 73n, 231 - 233, 232n, 235 - 236, 236n, 238 - 239, 244, 246 Grazia, Margreta de and Peter Stallybrass, 147 - 148, 148n Greenblatt, Stephen, 145 - 147 Greenfield, Thelma N., 160 Gregg, Veronica Marie, 212n, 224n Grimal, Pierre, 121, 197n Groom, Nick, 46 Grudin, Peter, 212, 212n Gubar, Susan, 209, 209n Gubar, Susan and Sandra M. Gilbert, 212n, 217, 220, 226, 233, 237 Hanks, Patrick, Kate Hardcastle, and Flavia Hodges, 118n, 222n Hardcastle, Kate, Patrick Hanks, and Flavia Hodges, 118n, 222n Hardy, Barbara, 93 Harrison, Nancy R., 217, 241 Harvey, Irene E., 42 Hawthorn, Jeremy, 38, 172 Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 101n, 104, 106 - 107, 112 - 114 “ Rappaccini ’ s Daughter: From the Writings of Aubépine, ” 65 The Scarlet Letter, 26, 63, 68, 72, 98 - 114, 113n, 126, 244, 246 - 247 Heidegger, Martin, 28, 40, 160n, 207, 207n Hodges, Flavia, Patrick Hanks, and Kate Hardcastle, 118n, 222n Hogle, Jerrold E., 73, 76 - 77, 79, 81 Homan, Sidney, 156, 158 Homer The Iliad and the Odyssey, 181 Horace, 76 hors d ’ oeuvre. See surrounds Huang, Mei, 237n Humboldt, Wilhelm von, 54 Hunter, J. Paul, 78n Hurley, Jennifer A., 112 Hutcheon, Linda, 69, 185, 201, 205 - 207, 206n, 247 hybris, 121 hypertext, 181, 183, 185, 200, 209 hypertextual. See hypertextuality hypertextuality (hypertextual), 68, 181 - 182, 209, 244, 252 hypotext, 181, 183, 185, 200 ideology (ideological), 69, 106, 109, 113, 116, 122, 149, 153, 212, 248 ideological. See ideology Imlay, Elizabeth, 236 imperialism, 212 Ingram, W. G., 65 - 66, 65n interstice (cut, fracture, interstitial site), 28, 35 - 36, 37n, 40, 48, 57 - 59, 106, 108, 114, 125, 127 - 128, 145, 164, 182, 248 interstitial site. See interstice intertext. See intertextuality intertextual. See intertextuality intertextuality (intertext, intertextual), 21, 24 - 25, 62 - 64, 68 - 69, 101n, 172 - 182, 172n, 185, 197n, 208 - 209, 244 - 246, 251 272 Index introduction, concept of the, 13 - 14, 17, 23, 32, 46, 143 intrusive narrator, 26, 55, 57, 125, 127, 131, 134, 136 - 138, 140 - 141, 172 invagination, 140, 165 Iser, Wolfgang, 56n, 57, 130n, 136 - 137, 136n, 200 James I. See King James I Jenkins, Hilary, 210, 221 Johnson, Barbara, 44 Johnson, Samuel, 147 Johnson, Stephanie L., 46 - 47 Jonze, Spike, 247 jouissance (bliss), 36, 36n, 58 - 59, 239, 239n Joyce, James Ulysses, 181 Juvan, Marko, 17, 175 - 177, 179 Kant, Immanuel, 11, 34, 36, 149, 247 Critique of (Aesthetic) Judgment, 14, 30, 30n, 32 - 34, 36n, 37 - 38, 37n, 43, 48n - 49n Religion within the Limits of Reason Alone (Die Religion innerhalb der Grenzen der blossen Vernunft), 14n, 28 - 32, 30n, 37n, 92n Kaplan, Carla, 138 Kaufman, Charlie, 247 Kaufman, Donald, 247 Keane, Patrick J., 113 Keats, John, 115 Letters of John Keats: A Selection, 36n - 37n negative capability, 36n - 37n “ Ode to a Nightingale, ” 198, 200, 202n Kettle, Arnold, 124 Khanna, Ranjana, 42 kinêsis (movement), 51, 53 King James I, 151, 153, 153n King ’ s Men, 153n Knights, L. C., 154, 156 Krieger, Joan and Murray Krieger, 56 Krieger, Murray and Joan Krieger, 56 Kristeva, Julia, 175 - 178, 180, 182, 235 lack, concept of the, 29, 31, 33 - 34, 33n, 38, 43, 44n, 47 - 51, 48n - 49n, 55 - 58, 61 - 63, 67 - 72, 74, 78, 83, 85, 95 - 97, 99, 103, 124, 141, 143 - 145, 161, 185, 200, 209, 232, 245, 249. See also complement and supplement lacuna (lacunae), 48n - 49n, 209 lacunae. See lacuna Lanham, Richard A., 235n Lanser, Susan S., 99n Le Gallez, Paula, 223, 224n, 225, 231n Lerner, Laurence, 222 Lester, G. A., 184n Lewes, George, 88 liminal space, 15, 24, 34, 39, 48, 135, 174 Little Red Riding Hood (fairy tale), 237 Lord Chamberlain, 151n, 153n Lord Chamberlain ’ s Men (Lord Chamberlain His Servants), 153n Lord Chamberlain His Servants. See Lord Chamberlain ’ s Men Lotman, Jurij, 15n, 22, 43 Luengo, Anthony, 232n Macksey, Richard, 67 mad. See madness madness (mad), 212n, 213, 220, 223 - 225, 241 Malinowska, Barbara, 47 manipulate. See manipulation manipulation, textual (manipulate), 11, 17, 21, 23, 46, 55 - 57, 74, 98, 130, 159, 164, 166 - 167, 178, 182, 232, 240, 250 Martin, Richard, 117, 120 mask. See court masques Master of the Revels, 151 - 153, 157 Maurel, Sylvie, 219 McHale, Brian, 22 - 23 McLeod, Ian and Geoff Bennington, 30 - 31, 30n mechanism. See oscillation Melikoglu, Esra, 209, 213, 224, 240, 243 Mendelsohn, Daniel, 187, 201, 203 metafiction (metafictionality), 22, 22n, 25, 55, 126, 137 - 138 metafictionality. See metafiction metatextual. See metatextuality metatextuality (metatextual), 144, 181, 209, 211, 252 Michael, Steven C., 170 Index 273 Middle Ages, 73, 76, 84, 115, 208 Milbank, Alison, 234, 236n, 239 Miller, D. A., 95 - 96 Miller, J. Hillis, 16, 23 - 24, 42, 143, 149 Miller Budick, E., 104 Mills, Sara, 250 - 251 Milne, Peter, 42 Milton, John, 148 “ Lycidas, ” 145 mimesis, 184. See also diegesis mise-en-abyme, 16, 89, 112, 157, 200, 242 misreading, 47, 179 - 180, 233 Modernism (modernist), 22, 114, 246 - 247 modernist. See Modernism Montrose, Louis Adrian, 151, 154 - 155 moral, 29, 31, 76, 86, 125, 135, 161, 163 - 172, 183, 184n, 206 - 207 morality play, 64, 178, 181, 183 - 184, 184n, 206 - 207, 246 Morse, David, 111, 113 - 114 movement. See kinêsis Napier, Elizabeth, 79 - 80, 82 - 84 Nas, Loes, 47 negative capability. See Keats, John Neoclassicism (neoclassical), 76 - 77, 84 neoclassical. See Neoclassicism Neumann, Birgit and Ansgar Nünning, 21, 56 Newman, Beth, 11, 78 Nünning, Ansgar and Birgit Neumann, 21, 56 objective correlative, 228n Oedipus (Oedipal struggle), 131, 179, 179n, 233 Oedipal struggle. See Oedipus origin, question of (originality), 28, 63 - 65, 93, 142, 147, 173, 178 - 180, 245 originality. See origin ornament. See adornment oscillating mechanism. See oscillation oscillation (mechanism), 11, 16 - 17, 20, 25, 27 - 29, 32, 34, 36, 39, 44 - 45, 44n, 47 - 48, 50 - 51, 55 - 58, 60, 61n, 62 - 66, 71 - 73, 85, 88, 96 - 98, 127, 136 - 139, 139n, 141 - 142, 145, 159, 173, 176, 178 - 179, 182 - 183, 193, 200, 208, 211, 243, 245, 248 - 251 Ovid Metamorphoses, 158 - 159 Owens, Craig, 42 palimpsest, 101, 181, 185 Paravisini-Gebert, Lizabeth, 209, 232n, 233, 243 paratext (paratextual), 17, 19 - 20, 23 - 24, 24n, 26, 39 - 40, 43, 55, 57, 59, 65 - 69, 97, 99, 103, 109, 127, 143, 148, 153, 165, 172 - 173, 181 - 182, 248 - 249, 251 paratextual. See paratext parergon, concept of the (parergonal, parergonality), 11 - 12, 14, 14n, 17 - 21, 18n, 23 - 32, 34 - 51, 36n, 38n, 41n, 44n, 45n, 55 - 76, 55n, 79 - 80, 83 - 86, 89, 92, 92n, 95 - 99, 103 - 104, 108 - 109, 112 - 115, 124 - 127, 127n, 131, 137 - 146, 146n, 148 - 151, 153, 157, 159, 161 - 162, 164 - 165, 168, 171 - 177, 180 - 185, 197, 200, 204, 206 - 208, 210 - 211, 216n, 231 - 232, 240, 242, 245 - 252 parergonal. See parergon parergonal function. See function parergonality. See parergon Parkin-Gounelas, Ruth, 228 parodic. See parody parody (parodic), 69, 174, 176, 182 - 183, 185 - 186, 190, 201, 204 - 208. See also satire Parry, Benita, 212, 212n Partridge, Eric, 118n, 125 passe-partout, 12, 14, 27 - 28, 34 - 35, 39 - 40, 48, 51, 61, 92 - 93, 103 - 104, 155, 245, 249 Patterson, Annabel, 151, 154 Perkin, Joan, 238 Perrault, Charles, 236 - 237 personification (prosopopeia), 100, 184 Peters, Francis, 51, 55 - 56 Phiddian, Robert, 207 phrenology, 226n picaresque (picaro), 167 - 168, 171 - 172 picaro. See picaresque Pinion, F. B., 86 pluralism. See critical pluralism 274 Index Poe, Edgar Allan, 44 “ The Oval Portrait, ” 202n political (political aspects, political context, political impact, political programme, political propaganda, political provocation, political purpose, politician, politics), concepts, 21, 35, 44, 50, 61 - 62, 64, 141 - 142, analyses, 42, 46, 73n, 74 - 75, 74n - 75n, 77, 79, 84, 90, 102, 109, 113, 116 - 117, 122, 142, 150 - 157, 161, 164, 172, 174, 245 political censorship. See censorship political unconscious, 79 politician. See political politics. See political Pope, Alexander, 147 Posnock, Ross, 186n, 188, 196 post-colonial (post-colonial criticism, postcolonial discourse), 35, 90n, 211 - 212, 212n Postmodernism (postmodernist), 22 - 23, 142n, 247 postmodernist. See Postmodernism post-structuralism (post-structuralist), 16 - 17, 38, 56n, 96, 144, 147, 174, 179, 248 post-structuralist. See post-structuralism potency. See dunamis power, concept of (powerplay), 17 - 18, 24, 32, 37, 51, 55n, 57 - 58, 65, 159, 161, 180, 182 - 183, 233, 249 - 251 powerplay. See power preface, concept of the, 20, 27, 38 - 39, 49, 60, 64 - 68, 74 - 85, 127, 162 - 167, 171 - 172, 244, 246, 251 - 252 Preston, John, 125, 135 - 136 Prince, Gerald, 60n prosopopeia. See personification Queen Elizabeth I, 151, 153, 153n, 155. See also Renaissance Period and Elizabethan Age Queen Victoria, 116 Quendler, Christian, 103 Raiskin, Judith L., 217 ranking, textual, 19, 23 - 24, 66, 149, 183 Reader-Response Theory or Criticism, 21, 56, 56n, 137, 144 reading process, 13, 20, 22, 46, 55, 57 - 58, 102, 125 - 126, 130n, 135 - 136, 138, 144, 149, 167, 200, 202n, 211, 228, 232 - 233, 239, 241, 245, 251 - 252 realist novel, 86, 232 - 233, 239 Renaissance Period, 73, 115, 148, 150 - 153, 202n, 206. See also Elizabethan Age revelries. See court revels rewriting (rewritten text), 21, 25, 57, 69, 175 - 176, 181 - 182, 184 - 185, 187, 201, 204, 207 - 209, 211 - 212, 214n, 242 - 243, 246 rewritten text(s). See rewriting Rhys, Jean Wide Sargasso Sea, 25, 64, 68, 178, 181, 183, 208 - 244, 209n, 210n, 212n, 214n, 216n, 222n, 224n, 231n, 232n, 246 - 248, 251 - 252 Rich, Adrienne, 212n Rimmon-Kenan, Shlomith, 21, 25, 51n, 60n, 128, 134, 213, 223 Riss. See stroke Rodgers Jr., Bernard F., 183, 197n romance, narrative genre, 74 - 77, 81, 83, 104 - 106, 106n, 166, 172, 246, dramatic genre, 145 Romantic Period, 42 Romanticism, 112, 113n, 198, 202n Ross, Michael L., 119 Roth, Philip Everyman, 64, 68, 178 - 179, 181, 183 - 209, 186n, 187n, 188n, 190n, 192n, 197n, 202n - 203n, 246, 252 Rowe, Nicholas, 147 Royal, Derek Parker (in Rodgers and Royal), 188, 197n Rudd, Niall, 76n Sachs, Joe, 51 - 53, 51n Sanders, Julie, 178, 219 satire (satirical), 64, 126, 128n - 129n, 130, 132, 159, 161 - 162, 168, 171 - 172, 176, 182, 185, 200 - 201, 206, 208, 246. See also parody satirical. See satire Saussure, Ferdinand de, 54 Scarry, Elaine, 186, 195 Schabert, Ina, 151n Index 275 Schleifer, Ronald and Robert Con Davis, 21 Schubert, Leland, 108 - 109 Shaffer, Elinor S., 42 Shakespeare, William, 82 - 83, 145 - 149, 147n, 153 - 154, 153n, 154, 158 Cymbeline, 145 Hamlet, 178, 197n Macbeth, 148n A Midsummer Night ’ s Dream, 22, 62, 64, 68, 142, 150 - 161, 154n, 246, 251 Pericles, 145 Romeo and Juliet, 145 Sonnets, 65 - 66, 202n The Tempest, 145 The Winter ’ s Tale, 145 Shaw, Philip, 38, 38n, 43 Shelley, Mary Wollstonecraft Frankenstein: The 1818 Text, Contexts, Nineteenth-Century Responses, Modern Criticism, 78, 78n Shelley, Percy Bysshe “ A Defence of Poetry, ” 113n “ Ozymandias, ” 202n Sherman, William H., 24 Shostak, Debra (in Rodgers and Royal), 192, 196 Simpson, Anne B., 213, 214n, 218, 221 Singh, Avtar, 120 Sisson, C. H., 76n The Sleeping Beauty (fairytale), 236 Smith, Hallett, 158 Smith, J. F., 129, 140 - 141 Smith, Margaret, 210n, 226n, 233, 238n Snyder, Susan, 145 sous rature (under erasure), 160, 160n, 207 space. See liminal space Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty, 207, 207n, 212, 212n, 216, 233, 243 Stallybrass, Oliver, 114 - 115, 114n, 119, 121, 124 Stallybrass, Peter, 147 - 148 Stallybrass, Peter and Margreta de Grazia, 147 - 148, 148n Stallybrass, Peter and Allon White, 152 Stam, Robert, 125, 144, 201, 208 - 209 Stanzel, Franz, 128 - 130, 133 - 134 Stepto, Robert B., 138 Stevenson, Randall, 151n stroke (Riss, trait), 28 sublime, 38n, 43, 45, 73, 77 - 79, 82 Suerbaum, Ulrich, 151n supplement (supply), 12, 29, 31 - 32, 32n, 37 - 38, 42, 44n, 45, 45n, 49 - 51, 61, 131, 138 - 139, 180, 247, 249. See also complement and lack supply (a lack). See supplement surroundings. See surrounds surrounds (hors d ’ oeuvre, surroundings), 12 - 14, 12n, 21 - 22, 24, 27, 29, 34 - 35, 34n, 39, 48, 61 - 64, 69, 72 - 73, 79, 97 - 100, 104, 126, 141 - 142, 176 - 177, 185, 200, 208, 245 - 246. See also context suspension of disbelief, 63, 102, 140, 155, 159 Sutherland, James, 162 Sutherland, John, 237 Tennenhouse, Leonard, 156 - 157 Tennyson, Alfred Lord, 116 Thanatos, 196, 196n - 197n, 219 Thomas, Ronald, 217n, 237 Thomas, Sue, 210n, 227 Thorpe, Michael, 213, 215 Thorpe, Thomas, 65 trace, 16, 28, 32, 48 - 49, 56, 177 - 178, 180, 185, 204, 211, 247, 250 tragedy, dramatic genre (tragic), 45, 45n, 82, 130 - 131, 145, 231n tragic. See tragedy trait. See stroke transtextual. See transtextuality transtextuality (transtextual), 172, 181 truth (truthfulness), 44, 47, 65 - 67, 87, 93, 101 - 102, 105 - 106, 117 - 118, 122, 133, 140 - 141, 162 - 163, 197n, 211, 224, 243 truthfulness. See truth Tucker, Thomas Deane, 46 typology, 24 - 26, 66 - 69, 142n, 149 Umland, Sam, 46 under erasure. See sous rature Verfremdungseffekt. See alienation effect Vickers, Brian, 235n 276 Index Victoria. See Queen Victoria Victorian Period, 86, 114, 117, 237 - 238 Wagner, Peter, 45 - 46 Walpole, Horace, 74 - 75, 74n - 75n, 77, 79 - 82, 84 - 85, 172, 244 The Castle of Otranto: A Gothic Story, 63, 68, 71 - 85, 75n, 81n, 127, 132, 172, 246, 252 The Letters of Horace Walpole, Fourth Earl of Oxford, 74 - 75 Warburton, William, 147 Watt, James, 73n, 79 - 81, 83 - 84 White, Allon and Peter Stallybrass, 152 Wolf, Werner, 19 - 20, 22, 24 - 26, 142, 142n, 149, 182 Ž i ž ek, Slavoj, 248 Index 277