The Mimetic Square

February 21, 2011

There’s something strange going on with Plato’s divided line. It is a complicated “something strange,” as it often is with Plato, and requires some elucidation. There is an analogy going on between shadow, thing, idea, and form. If we call these S, T, I, and F, we are told, “S:T::I:F::(S:T::I:F)”—that is, that not only do shadow and thing bear the same relationship to each other as idea and form, but that this is the same relationship as between the sensory and the intellectual. That “S:T::I:F” I can accept, but why must the parts of this equation be proportionate to its whole? It results in a number of odd claims, foremost, that T=I. In what sense are things and ideas the same?

Let us leave aside this question for a moment. The above equations allow us to construct another geometrical shape, not a divided line but a divided square, which will serve much the same purpose. Plato actually does this, in the Laws, when talking about things divine, images of things divine, things human, and images of things human. As examples of these, he gives mountains, shadows of mountains, houses, and pictures of houses, but it is easy to see how they could be reinterpreted to be analogous to form, idea, thing, and shadow. So let us look at this square:

FORM THING

 

IDEA SHADOW

We can see that S:T::I:F::(S:T::I:F). Additionally, T=I, insofar as the area of the rectangle THING equals that of the rectangle IDEA. Granted, this portrayal ignores the human half of the divided line—noesis, dianoia, pistis, eikasia—for to include those would require a divided cube. But for our purposes it is enough. The geometric reason for T=I is more clear now; S:T::I:F, but also S:I::T:F. S is two steps removed from F either way. One wonders, what are the philosophical implications of this?

The concept of mimesis, seems to recur here as well—as should perhaps not surprise us, for Plato was discussing art when he described the square in the first place. Recalling earlier, when mimesis was divided into reflection and representation, it seems that we can associate each with one of the two identical elements, T and I. Reflection seems associated with T; a mirror attempts to show us things, and Plato’s complaint is that it does a poor job of it. Representation, on the other hand, can be associated with I; a representation of a separate reality, a heterocosm, can offer nothing to our understanding of reality save general laws that we infer from our comparison of the world portrayed with our own, and Plato’s complaint is that the laws inferred are false. Mimesis begins in SHADOW—in fictions—and tries to bring us into THING and IDEA; Plato says that, without the guidance of philosophy at least, it fails. But worse, it seems, is that it cannot bring us from THING or IDEA towards FORM. Even when mimesis works perfectly, reflection can only bring us from the top of the bottom, and representation from the right to the left; it is not clear that they can build on each other, that together they can bring us from SHADOW to FORM.

Because I enjoy diagrams, and because I like to play with words, I like to label the rows and columns in this divided square. I do so as follows:

TRUTH FACT
FACT FORM

 

THING

 

FICTION IDEA SHADOW

But, of course, I could not defend the claim that FACT=FACT.


Having Been, Being Then

February 14, 2011

I’ve been listening recently to Sufjan Stevens’ album Illinois (yeah late to the party I know). I particularly like the song “They Are Night Zombies!! They Are Neighbors!! They Have Come Back From The Dead!!” But I’m not here to talk about the music; once again, I want to think briefly about misheard lyrics.

In one repeated phrase, Sufjan talks about “having been, at last, forgot.” But my mind often substitutes for “having been” the similar phrase “being then.” The line would mean something very similar, given that substitution, but not exactly the same; there is a difference between having been forgot and and being then forgot. The former places the emphasis on the event of the forgetting; the latter on the state of being forgotten. I think both would be appropriate for a song about the end of the world and the Last Judgment, but I find it interesting that Sufjan chose the event rather than the state. I’m not sure what to make of that.


The Question of Blood Meridian

February 10, 2011

(This is something I wrote at the beginning of the semester explaining why I chose Blood Meridian for my senior novel project.)

In spring of junior year, I took two classes focusing on specific novelists: one on Herman Melville and one on William Faulkner. By the end of the semester, I knew that I would have loved to do Moby-Dick or The Sound and the Fury for Senior Novel, but, of course, having already studied those novels, it would have been almost cheating to do so. Instead, I began considering what aspects of these novels appealed to me, eventually settling on three characteristics which I would insist be present in any other novel I might consider:

  1. An eccentric prose style. I wanted prose that overflowed with a “meaning” which could not quite be grasped (e.g. Melville’s Biblical cadences or Faulkner’s page-long sentences).
  2. Complex structural properties. I wanted a disorderly novel that could not be fully understood, but which could be placed in some order through quantifiable schemata (e.g. the nine gams, three mates, and five-act structure, or the parallels with the Passion week).
  3. The philosophical located above the social. I wanted a novel that had the power to bring the reader himself into (and, perhaps, out of) a spiritual crisis, and which would consider the social only in terms of that crisis (e.g. Melville’s Ishmael, Faulkner’s Quentin).

Given these requirements, several candidates came to mind. I first considered James Joyce’s Dubliners, which had the experimental style, the progression through various points of view, and the cityscape as soulscape. Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter, too, had a style much like Melville’s, a 24-chapter epic structure, and an exploration of American religion through one man’s sin. But I ultimately turned against both, for much the same reason, I think: they were too tame. Both were stylistically excellent, but not stylistically violent; both had interesting structures, but neither seemed complex, needing to be sorted out; both seemed focused on the political, even if they did have spiritual aspects. The deciding factor, though, was that both stayed too much “in the drawing room,” one might say, finding their life mainly in conversations, avoiding the harsh physicality of Melville and Faulkner’s worlds.

I eventually read Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian, and immediately knew I had found my novel. Its style is a mix of the Faulknerian and the Biblical. Its structure, a failed epic, with 23 chapters and a bizarre one-page epilogue, and consciously Melvillean, explicitly paralleling Moby-Dick. Its content, apocalyptic, a world of violence and despair seen through the eyes of one man—the kid—who stands for all of us, with a secondary focus on the specifically American sin of the rape of the West under the banner of Manifest Destiny. One might say I fell in love with McCarthy because he is to the West what Faulkner was to the South or Melville to the Northeast—if “love” is the right word. I find it strange to love Blood Meridian, for I am not sure it is a novel anyone should really enjoy. Perhaps this is the true reason I have chosen it—that in a way, I hate it, or, rather I hate its violence, and cannot explain it, but neither can I dismiss it. I think about it constantly, two aspects in particular:

  1. Judge Holden: Is he Death incarnate? Why is he a scientist? Is rational inquiry an inherently destructive act, an act of war upon the world, ultimately unjustifiable? And if McCarthy believes this, what does he see as the role of reason in human life?
  2. The man digging holes: Is he the artist? Why does he appear so briefly and vatically? If rational inquiry is unethical, is art a valid alternative? And how can this be the message of Blood Meridian when the novel itself is so grotesque, so senselessly violent, as to make the very act of writing it seem a perversity?

Self-Image

February 6, 2011

For the last three years I had been growing my hair out. By a week ago it was maybe a foot long, kept tied back in a ponytail. Then last Saturday I got a haircut.

Almost immediately, my head felt lighter, and I felt naked. But that went away soon. It took longer to adjust to seeing myself. For several days it was jarring to see myself in the mirror–who is that person with short hair? Ah, right, it’s me. Even when I got used to mirrors, though, my shadow confused me, I think because it was just as different as my reflection but having less detail and so with a less obvious explanation.

This has all gotten me thinking about how one visualizes oneself in one’s memory. One doesn’t see oneself from a third-person perspective in real life, but many memories, I have found, are in fact from a third-person perspective (just another indication that memory is extraordinarily unreliable), and the person appearing in the place of the main character, so to speak, doesn’t always look as one did when one was the age one was in the memory. Often one sees oneself in one’s current appearance, even if one’s physical appearance has changed radically.

For example, I know that, when I had long hair, my memories from back when I had short hair would show me having long hair, despite that being impossible. Or, when viewing a memory from recent years but in which I considered myself to have done something immature or childish, I would often (unconsciously) fill in the me with short hair, rather than the me that actually was at that point in time.

At this point I wonder two things. 1) How long will it take me to adjust my “default” self-image to be short-haired me, rather than long-haired? The instinct is to say “a long time,” but I suspect that somehow it won’t be that long–it takes the human brain a surprisingly short time to form new habits. 2) Once I have done so, will I now have three self-images, younger-short-hair, long-hair, and older-short-hair, and choose one for each memory based on some more complex criteria than simply “immature” and “mature”? Will it perhaps be “childish,” “adolescent,” and “adult”?


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