Josyph, Peter. “Tragic Ecstasy: A Conversation with Harold Bloom on Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian.” Southwestern American Literature. 26.1 (fall 2000): 7-20
In Peter Josyph’s conversation with Harold Bloom about Blood Meridian, Bloom discusses many aspects of the novel, emphasizing the power and originality of the narrative despite McCarthy’s indebtedness to other great American authors and to Shakespeare, the violence, the unanswered nature of the mysteries presented in the narrative, and the fallacies of some common interpretations of the kid, the judge, and the epilogue. Bloom says that the “controlled landscape” and “the Judge’s rhetoric” are the novel’s two great components, in addition to the “mad trajectory” of the plot and the final interaction between the kid and the judge (11-12). Bloom identifies the judge as “an astonishing rhetorician, the ablest in all of American literature” (11), and identifies the astonishing subtlety of the narrator’s handling of the kid’s subversion of the judge via his terseness as well as the elusive physical presence within the narrative. “McCarthy doesn’t want to show you what is developing in [the kid]” (12) for dramatic and thematic reasons, and he “does not want us to identify with him” (13) because the more important consideration than the kid’s personal journey is the significance of the kid to the judge, which is a puzzle that is not resolved by the narrator. The judge “bears out” the interpretation that he accuses the kid of not acknowledging what he is at heart (the same as the judge), but he “transcends it” (13). Because of the prophetic nature of the judge and the perseverance of the judge’s philosophy, Bloom sees a negative transcendence in the novel though there is possible transcendence of “the darkness” through the man in the epilogue who Bloom sees as a Promethean figure who may challenge the judge (16). Whether or not the judge can be challenged, Bloom sees him as the unabsorbable “bedrock” of the narrative because he never ceases to “fascinate you and horrify you” (19). Bloom also maintains that the novel as a whole transcends any allegory of the American West by remaining “a very individualized mode of perceiving carnage” and that the “total conception of the book” which “conceives of itself mystically” is what renders it so difficult to enjoy and understand and impossible to pin down.
Bloom’s interpretation of the judge as the indomitable force in Blood Meridian endows him with more agency and inexhaustible power as a figure in literature (not just in the plot of the narrative) than any other character in the book and even more than the consciousness of the narrator. If he is “the real bedrock of McCarthy’s genius” (19), and the narrator is also an aspect of this genius, then the narrator is a function or another spawn larval to the judge rather than the other way around. Whether or not Bloom intends to suggest that the judge encompasses the narrative, the judge’s relationship to the reader is identified as one of unceasing, awesome power, even after repeated readings. Bloom emphasizes the significance of the relationship between the kid and the judge but also suggests that this significance is not completely knowable by the reader, perhaps implying that the reader must form his own relationship with and stance toward the judge, especially if the kid is not meant to be sympathized with but only admired (13). Because Bloom emphasizes the challenging uncertainties inherent in the narrative, it is significant that the relationships between the narrator and judge, kid and judge, and the narrator and the reader are not completely reckonable. He proposes that each new awareness of the impact of the judge on the reader is all that is really knowable, and that this will inform the approach to the significance of the narrative as a whole.
Showing posts with label negative capability. Show all posts
Showing posts with label negative capability. Show all posts
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Interrogative Relationships: Opposition vs. Deconstruction
Holloway, David. "'A False Book is No Book at All': The Ideology of Representation in Blood Meridian and the Border Trilogy." Myth, Legend, Dust: Critical Responses to Cormac McCarthy. Ed. Rick Wallach. Manchester and New York, NY: Manchester University Press, 2000. 185-200.
Maintaining that the historical moment of the author as well as the reader does and should limit and shape the reader’s understanding of a work of literature, and defining the moment of the reader in part by the literary criticism written since the publication of the work, Holloway frames his discussion of Blood Meridian and the Border Trilogy in an examination of the disparate and often conflicting positions of established McCarthy criticism. Holloway discusses whether or not a synthesis is possible between these positions, connecting the fractured nature of modern criticism to the “millennial eclipse of alternative economic and ideological structures” and thus tying the reading of conflicting response to literature to the fate of writing and culture in general (187). Holloway forges a kind of synthesis of contradictions by suggesting that contradiction is essential to McCarthy’s work, and though he looks at four of McCarthy’s novels, his examination of the Judge’s language in Blood Meridian suggests that McCarthy uses (even steals) for rhetorical, revisionist purposes and thus cannot be relied upon to be straight-forward or to imply singular meaning. Holloway identifies Holden’s control of the Glanton Gang as “the expropriation and exclusion of meaning” (193), and though McCarthy attempts a “revisionist account of Western American History” as well (192), the Judge is opposed in Blood Meridian. Given this complexity of voice and language and its use and misuse, Holloway asks what the ideology of representation is in the novel (193). Holloway finds that the narrator’s construction of events and the language used to describe them question the “notions of totality, grand narrative, and determinate meaning” by implicitly criticizing manifest destiny and by meditating on the blurring of strict distinctions and binaries. Because binaries are a stabilizing force (here Holloway references The Crossing) and because McCarthy forms an incomplete binary in Blood Meridian by incompletely opposing the judge (who is left as the last one standing) (195), the narrator employs a self-conscious and precarious, even deconstructive rhetoric. Using language only plays into the judge’s hands, so Holloway suggests that the novel cannot avoid the paralysis and falsity which the judge promises all books face (194), though McCarthy’s incomplete opposition to the judge offers the possibility of opposing (and thereby confirming his “intractable presence,” 195) or dismantling the judge but not in defeating him.
Though Holloway refers to McCarthy’s use of language and handling of the judge rather than the narrator’s, his point that Judge Holden reveals or represents the “self-reflexive procedure” of Blood Meridian speaks to the relationship between the rhetoric of the judge and the voice of the narrator (191). The narrator uses the “language with which its own critique is formed” (192), and the judge’s distortion of truth and theatrical use of language present the power and thus the perils of the revisionism that Holloway sees the narrator dabbling in (by presenting a particularly violent and anti-expansionist view of the formation of the United States). Holloway’s discussion of Blood Meridian illustrates the ways in which the narrator and judge are similarly powerful, and while the judge is a more narrow-minded authority in the novel, the narrator is not necessarily a more important voice considering that Holden is the last one standing and dancing at the end of the novel, and even his proclamation that “he will never die” closes the main narrative (335). Holloway’s reading aligns the reader with the kid and the judge with the narrator by identifying that the judge’s victory over the kid (and the seemingly omnipotent narrator either unable or unwilling to pose a solution to the mystery and horror of the judge) leaves the reader questioning the limits of language. The kid’s skepticism (despite his annihilation) is the kind of questioning that the “self-reflexive,” language-obsessed narrator may invite in the reader; an awareness that the rhetorical world of the judge, which is interrogated but not denied by the narrator, is only one world of meaning.
Maintaining that the historical moment of the author as well as the reader does and should limit and shape the reader’s understanding of a work of literature, and defining the moment of the reader in part by the literary criticism written since the publication of the work, Holloway frames his discussion of Blood Meridian and the Border Trilogy in an examination of the disparate and often conflicting positions of established McCarthy criticism. Holloway discusses whether or not a synthesis is possible between these positions, connecting the fractured nature of modern criticism to the “millennial eclipse of alternative economic and ideological structures” and thus tying the reading of conflicting response to literature to the fate of writing and culture in general (187). Holloway forges a kind of synthesis of contradictions by suggesting that contradiction is essential to McCarthy’s work, and though he looks at four of McCarthy’s novels, his examination of the Judge’s language in Blood Meridian suggests that McCarthy uses (even steals) for rhetorical, revisionist purposes and thus cannot be relied upon to be straight-forward or to imply singular meaning. Holloway identifies Holden’s control of the Glanton Gang as “the expropriation and exclusion of meaning” (193), and though McCarthy attempts a “revisionist account of Western American History” as well (192), the Judge is opposed in Blood Meridian. Given this complexity of voice and language and its use and misuse, Holloway asks what the ideology of representation is in the novel (193). Holloway finds that the narrator’s construction of events and the language used to describe them question the “notions of totality, grand narrative, and determinate meaning” by implicitly criticizing manifest destiny and by meditating on the blurring of strict distinctions and binaries. Because binaries are a stabilizing force (here Holloway references The Crossing) and because McCarthy forms an incomplete binary in Blood Meridian by incompletely opposing the judge (who is left as the last one standing) (195), the narrator employs a self-conscious and precarious, even deconstructive rhetoric. Using language only plays into the judge’s hands, so Holloway suggests that the novel cannot avoid the paralysis and falsity which the judge promises all books face (194), though McCarthy’s incomplete opposition to the judge offers the possibility of opposing (and thereby confirming his “intractable presence,” 195) or dismantling the judge but not in defeating him.
Though Holloway refers to McCarthy’s use of language and handling of the judge rather than the narrator’s, his point that Judge Holden reveals or represents the “self-reflexive procedure” of Blood Meridian speaks to the relationship between the rhetoric of the judge and the voice of the narrator (191). The narrator uses the “language with which its own critique is formed” (192), and the judge’s distortion of truth and theatrical use of language present the power and thus the perils of the revisionism that Holloway sees the narrator dabbling in (by presenting a particularly violent and anti-expansionist view of the formation of the United States). Holloway’s discussion of Blood Meridian illustrates the ways in which the narrator and judge are similarly powerful, and while the judge is a more narrow-minded authority in the novel, the narrator is not necessarily a more important voice considering that Holden is the last one standing and dancing at the end of the novel, and even his proclamation that “he will never die” closes the main narrative (335). Holloway’s reading aligns the reader with the kid and the judge with the narrator by identifying that the judge’s victory over the kid (and the seemingly omnipotent narrator either unable or unwilling to pose a solution to the mystery and horror of the judge) leaves the reader questioning the limits of language. The kid’s skepticism (despite his annihilation) is the kind of questioning that the “self-reflexive,” language-obsessed narrator may invite in the reader; an awareness that the rhetorical world of the judge, which is interrogated but not denied by the narrator, is only one world of meaning.
The Conscious Complexity of the Narrator-Reader Relationship
Schopen, Bernard A. “‘They Rode On’: Blood Meridian and the Art of Narrative.’” Western American Literature 33.3 (1995): 179-194.
Bernard Schopen considers the captivating and profoundly disturbing effects of Blood Meridian in terms of its formal elements, and the “manifold but integrated artistry” (188) of the narrative in particular. Though he sees the narrator as exploring “the mystery of evil in human hearts” (191), Schopen is interested not so much in the themes of Blood Meridian as the way in which those themes are constructed and conveyed, and how the construction is in itself central to the meaning of the novel. The “literariness” of the narrator, his direct addresses, his acknowledgements of uncertainty, and his alienation from the world that he describes (the rarity of internal glimpses) create a sense that the narrator is “a consciousness in search of meaning” (181-182). “Far from formless” (184), Schopen finds that the narrative, this search for meaning, is embedded in the complex structure of the story which is in fact imposed by the narrator (186). This control is exemplified by textual and structural patterns such as repeated images and phrases, recurring shifts in tense and tone, and nesting and echoing dramatic frames. Through “repetition-within-variation” (188), the narrator poses his troubling vision and questions from many angles. Thus the narrative, the great art of Blood Meridian, has such a powerful effect because its language and composition have multidirectional force, ensuring that the reader feels the “recognition” that Schopen asserts is “effected by all great literature” (191), and that this recognition is the awareness of a shared uncertainty rather than some absolute truth.
Schopen’s reading of Blood Meridian offers insights into the power that the narrative exerts over the reader, as well as the effort required by the reader to understand the complexities of the narrative. By stating that “recognition” on the part of the reader is one of the greatest achievements of powerful literature (191), Schopen identifies the reader-narrator relationship as difficult to forge but essential. “Carefully controlled,” the language employed by the narrator “carefully controls the reader’s response, producing contextually appropriate effects ranging from the horrific to the humorous” (181). But if the form of Blood Meridian “nearly becomes” its meaning (183), the reader must not just be controlled but also attend to intricate detail and be comfortable with a large degree of uncertainty in order to understand the narrator’s preoccupations. To think outside of the facts of the story to the method of its telling, the reader must be aware of but avoid intoxication with the language, just as the kid (to some extent) sees through Judge Holden by maintaining a wariness of the judge’s rhetoric. Although Schopen does not discuss the rhetorical power of the judge, dismissing him (or the kid) as a protagonist because of his "lack of agency in the narrated events" (185), Schopen's exclusion of the judge’s worldview from the complexities of the narrator’s voice, and especially his evaluation of the narrator as an authoritative seeker, establish the narrator as distinct and even in opposition to the judge. Schopen asserts that the narrator poses fundamental questions and rejects traditional answer systems (191), but in the “inexorable onwardness” of his inquiry does not try to replace such systems. The judge lacks the negative capability of the narrator, maintaining an uncompromising philosophy of war and destiny (Blood Meridian 248-249) and using his breadth of knowledge and command of language to convert his listeners to submission rather than to convince and confront them into questioning. Schopen’s positing of the narrator as “an atemporal observer of a world gone horribly wrong, a world populated by a species grown so alien to him that their inner existence he cannot assess and so does not access” (182) emphasizes that the relationship between the narrator and reader may be more ethically significant than any existing between characters or between the reader and a character.
Bernard Schopen considers the captivating and profoundly disturbing effects of Blood Meridian in terms of its formal elements, and the “manifold but integrated artistry” (188) of the narrative in particular. Though he sees the narrator as exploring “the mystery of evil in human hearts” (191), Schopen is interested not so much in the themes of Blood Meridian as the way in which those themes are constructed and conveyed, and how the construction is in itself central to the meaning of the novel. The “literariness” of the narrator, his direct addresses, his acknowledgements of uncertainty, and his alienation from the world that he describes (the rarity of internal glimpses) create a sense that the narrator is “a consciousness in search of meaning” (181-182). “Far from formless” (184), Schopen finds that the narrative, this search for meaning, is embedded in the complex structure of the story which is in fact imposed by the narrator (186). This control is exemplified by textual and structural patterns such as repeated images and phrases, recurring shifts in tense and tone, and nesting and echoing dramatic frames. Through “repetition-within-variation” (188), the narrator poses his troubling vision and questions from many angles. Thus the narrative, the great art of Blood Meridian, has such a powerful effect because its language and composition have multidirectional force, ensuring that the reader feels the “recognition” that Schopen asserts is “effected by all great literature” (191), and that this recognition is the awareness of a shared uncertainty rather than some absolute truth.
Schopen’s reading of Blood Meridian offers insights into the power that the narrative exerts over the reader, as well as the effort required by the reader to understand the complexities of the narrative. By stating that “recognition” on the part of the reader is one of the greatest achievements of powerful literature (191), Schopen identifies the reader-narrator relationship as difficult to forge but essential. “Carefully controlled,” the language employed by the narrator “carefully controls the reader’s response, producing contextually appropriate effects ranging from the horrific to the humorous” (181). But if the form of Blood Meridian “nearly becomes” its meaning (183), the reader must not just be controlled but also attend to intricate detail and be comfortable with a large degree of uncertainty in order to understand the narrator’s preoccupations. To think outside of the facts of the story to the method of its telling, the reader must be aware of but avoid intoxication with the language, just as the kid (to some extent) sees through Judge Holden by maintaining a wariness of the judge’s rhetoric. Although Schopen does not discuss the rhetorical power of the judge, dismissing him (or the kid) as a protagonist because of his "lack of agency in the narrated events" (185), Schopen's exclusion of the judge’s worldview from the complexities of the narrator’s voice, and especially his evaluation of the narrator as an authoritative seeker, establish the narrator as distinct and even in opposition to the judge. Schopen asserts that the narrator poses fundamental questions and rejects traditional answer systems (191), but in the “inexorable onwardness” of his inquiry does not try to replace such systems. The judge lacks the negative capability of the narrator, maintaining an uncompromising philosophy of war and destiny (Blood Meridian 248-249) and using his breadth of knowledge and command of language to convert his listeners to submission rather than to convince and confront them into questioning. Schopen’s positing of the narrator as “an atemporal observer of a world gone horribly wrong, a world populated by a species grown so alien to him that their inner existence he cannot assess and so does not access” (182) emphasizes that the relationship between the narrator and reader may be more ethically significant than any existing between characters or between the reader and a character.
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