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It reports
to us in stories, intensities, hallucinatory jolts of uninterpreted
perceptions: smells, sights, pleasure, pain.
Its public
image, its face is a collage of stories, borrowed images, superstitions,
fantasies. We have no idea what it "really" looks
like.
Because
we have banished the body, but cannot get rid of it entirely,
we can use it to hold what we don't want to keep but can't destroy.
The real body, madcap patchwork acrobat, gets what the mind
doesn't want, the bad news, the dirty stories. The forbidden
stories get written down off-center, in the flesh. In hysteria,
the body starts to tell those stories back to us--our kidneys
become our accusers, our spine whines, our knees gossip about
overheard words, our fingers invent a sign language of blame
and pain. Of course, the more garbage we pack into that magical
body the more we fear it, and the more chance there is that
it will turn on us, begin to speak, accuse us. But that body-bag
is also a treasure-trove, like any junkyard. It knows stories
we've never told.
BOUNDARY
PLAY
We don't
think what we think we think.
It's straightforward
enough to oppose the self to the not-self and reason to madness.
It's even possible to make the leap from here to there, though
coming back presents some problems. But the borders between
are frayed and permeable. It's possible to wander that uneven
terrain, to practice slipping, skidding in the interzone. It's
possible, and maybe preferable for the self to think of itself
as a sort of practice rather than a thing, a proposition with
variable terms, a mesh of relationships. It's possible for a
text to think of itself that way. ANY text. But hypertext in
particular is a kind of amphibious vehicle, good for negotiating
unsteady ground, poised on its multiple limbs where the book
clogs up and stops; it keeps in motion. Conventional texts,
on the other hand are in search of a place of rest; when they
have found it, they stop.
Similarly,
the mind, reading, wants to make sense, and once it has done
so it considers its work done, so if you want to keep the mind
from stopping there, you must always provide slightly more indicators
than the mind can make use of. There must be an excess, a remainder.
Or an undecideable oscillation between possibilities. I am interested
in writing that verges on nonsense, where nonsense is not the
absence of sense, but the superfluity of it. I would like to
sneak as close to that limit as possible without reaching it.
This is the old kind of interactive writing: writing so dense
or so slippery that the mind must do a dance to keep a grip
on it. I am interested in writing this way for two reasons.
One, because language must be teased into displaying its entire
madcap lavish beauty. If you let it be serviceable then it will
only serve you, never master you, and you will only write what
you already know, which is not much. Two, because the careful
guarding of sense in language is not just analogous to but entirely
complicit in the careful guarding of sense in life, and that
possibly well-intentioned activity systematically squelches
curiosity, change, variety, & finally, all delight in life.
It promotes common sense at the expense of all the others.
REALITY
FICTION
It's not
what it says it is.
Reality
thinks it "includes" fiction, that fictional works
are embedded in reality. It's the boast of a bully. But just
because reality's bigger doesn't make it boss. Every work of
art is an alternate "world" with other rules, which
threatens the alibi of naturalness our ordinary reality usually
flaunts. Every fictional world competes with the real one to
some extent, but hypertext gives us the chance to sneak up on
reality from inside fiction. It may be framed as a novel, yet
link to and include texts meant to be completely non-fictional.
Thus the pedigreed facts of the world can be swayed, framed,
made persuaders of fiction, without losing their seats in the
parliament of the real, as facts tend to do when they're stuck
in a novel. Hypertext fiction thus begins to turn around and
look back on reality as a text embedded in a fictional universe.
Ironically,
that might make us like reality better: it's reality's hegemony
that strips it of charm. Reality is based on country cottage
principles: what's homey must be true. It is a tolerable place
to live. What's dreadful is the homey on a grand scale, Raggedy
Ann and Andy turned Adam and Eve, cross-stitch scenes of the
Grand Canyon, the sun cast as the flame snapping behind the
grate, the ocean our little kettle. Those goofy grins turn frightening
on a cosmic scale; the simplicity that makes it easy to pick
up a coffeecup is not suitable for managing a country, or even
a conscience. The closure of the normal is suffocating at the
very least. By writing we test the seams, pick out the stitches,
trying to stretch the gaps between things to slip out through
them into some uncharted space, or to let something spring up
in the real that we don't already know, something unfamiliar,
not part of the family, a changeling.
THE FEMININE
She's not
what he says she is. The banished body is not female, necessarily,
but it is feminine. That is, it's amorphous, indirect, impure,
diffuse, multiple, evasive. So is what we learned to call bad
writing. Good writing is direct, effective, clean as a bleached
bone. Bad writing is all flesh, and dirty flesh at that: clogged
with a build-up of clutter and crud, knick-knacks and fripperies
encrusted on every surface, a kind of gluey scum gathering in
the chinks. Hypertext is everything that for centuries has been
damned by its association with the feminine (which has also,
by the way, been damned by its association with it, in a bizarre
mutual proof without any fixed term). It's dispersed, languorous,
flaunting its charms all over the courtyard. Like flaccid beauties
in a harem, you might say, if you wanted to inspire a rigorous
distaste for it. Hypertext then, is what literature has edited
out: the feminine. (That is not to say that only women can produce
it. Women have no more natural gift for the feminine than men
do.)
CONSTELLATION
I'm not
what you think I am. I am a loose aggregate, a sort of old fashioned
cabinet of curiosities, interesting in pieces but much better
as a composite. It's the lines of traffic between the pieces
that are worth attention, but this has been, until now, a shapeless
sort of beauty, a beauty without a body, and therefore with
few lovers. But hypertext provides a body, a vaporous sort of
insufficiently tactile body but a body, for our experience of
the beauty of relationships. It is like an astronomy of constellations
rather than stars. It is old-fashioned, in that sense. It is
a sort of return, to a leisurely old form, the sprawling, quizzical
portmanteau book like the Anatomy of Melancholy ( "a rhapsody
of rags gathered together from several dung-hills, excrements
of authors, toys and fopperies confusedly tumbled out,"
as Burton himself described it) to the sort of broad cross-fertilization
of disciplines that once was commonplace, only hypertext does
not provide so much courtly guidance across the intellectual
terrain, but catapults you from spot to spot. (The wind whistles
in your ears. It aerates the brain. You begin to feel like a
circus performer, describing impeccable parabolas in the air,
vacating every gesture before it can be fixed, wherever anyone
thinks you are is where you've just been, sloughing off afterimages.
You feel pared down, athletic, perfectly efficient.) The athletic
leap across divides has its own aesthetic, and so does the pattern
those leaps form in the air, or, to be more exact, in the mind.
People spend their lives forging such patterns for themselves,
but only the cranks and the encyclopedic generalists with vague
job descriptions, the Bill Moyerses, have the nerve to invite
others to try out their own hobby-horseride through the World
of Ideas. More often these are private pathways, possible to
make out sometimes in a novelist's ouevre (rare butterflies
turn up in Nabokov's fiction enough to make you guess that he
was a lepidopterist, if you didn't know already) as a system
of back alleys heading off from the work at hand, but not for
public transit. Until recently, that is, since the internet
seems to be making possible a gorgeous excess of personal syntactical
or neural maps, like travel brochures for the brain. What results
isn't necessarily worth the trip, but some of it will be: art
forms take shape around our ability to perceive beauty, but
our ability to perceive beauty also takes shape around what
forms become possible. Hypertext is making possible a new kind
of beauty, and creating the senses to perceive it with.
COLLAGE
We don't
say what we mean to say. The sentence is not one, but a cluster
of contrary tendencies. It is a thread of DNA--a staff of staphylococcus--a
germ of contagion and possibility. It may be looped into a snare
or a garotte. It is also, and as readily, a chastening rod,
a crutch, an IDJbracelet. It is available for use. But nobody
can domesticate the sentence completely. Some questionable material
always clings to its members. Diligent readers can glean filth
from a squeaky-clean one. Sentences always say more than they
mean, so writers always write more than they know, even the
laziest of them. Utility pretends to peg words firmly to things,
but it is easy to work them loose. "Sometimes the words
are unfaithful to the things," says Bachelard. Indeed they
are, and as writers, we are the agents of misrule, infidelity,
broken marriages. It was not difficult, for example, to pry
quotes from their sources, and mate them with other quotes in
the "quilt" section of Patchwork Girl, where they
take on a meaning that is not native to the originals. We set
up rendezvous between words never before seen in company, we
provide deliciously private places for them to couple. Like
the body, language is a desiring machine. The possibility of
pollution is its only life. Having invented an infinitely recombinant
language, we can't prevent it from forming improper alliances,
any more than we can seal all our orifices without dying.
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