Habit
cuts a trench; or so it seems—a channel coordinating conduct of the
subject. Having certainty that trees
deaden in the winter or that the sun will rise tomorrow depends, according to
David Hume, on the habitual recognition of like causes preceding like effects. To
repeat is to condition propensity as such. But if custom is “the great guide of human
life,” what possibilities remain for opposing the transformation of formal repetition
into force? (§5, 1, 6,) If resisting that force sets the stakes for agency, what does it mean to resist? For
Catherine Malabou, resistance is isomorphic to explosion. The brain not only receives form through
experience; it shifts the very conditions of experience itself. The brain, in
other words, is plastic.
According to Malabou, “Plasticity unfolds its
meaning between sculptural molding and deflagration…to talk about plasticity of
the brain means to see in it not only the creator and receiver of form but also
an agency of disobedience to every
constituted form.”(6) The dialectic of reinscription and radical difference in
the brain is not only biological, “it is
a history.”(1) That is, “the structural bond [between history and the brain] is
so deep that in a certain sense it defines an identity.”(1) But how can changes within consciousness, that is, changes
in history, unveil themselves within a discursive field that is itself
historically conditioned? How can “the
new world” express itself in “the old world?”
I
want to take a closer look at the relation of plasticity and the problem of a
discursive limit by examining the possibility that language, in this case
poetry, can upset the apparent mutual exclusivity of totality and the new. Ben
Lerner’s Mean Free Path explodes the conceptual syntax of its own theme—motion is more primary than the bare
difference between disruption and continuity—by establishing a steady and
reliable refrain of phrases throughout the text. Rather than building structure, the refrain
marks the cancelling of structure. It marks motion that frustrates the category of
difference between disruption and continuity. By going two ways at once Mean Free Path gets close to expressing an
“agency of disobedience to every
constituted form.”
To comprehend the conceptual connections across the patchwork
phrasing of Lerner’s stanzas while simultaneously acknowledging the separation of those
phrases amounts to reading two things at once. Perhaps, this is precisely the phenomenon
that occurs upon a fourth or fifth reading of the book, and, perhaps, that operation collapses the difference between order and continuity.
Try reading the following lines straight through, and then mix them around
to connect the phrases: “It’s autumn.
Foils are starting to fall/ There are three hundred sixty-thousand/ And
that’s love. There are flecks of hope/ Eight hundred eighty ways to read each stanza/
Deep in traditional forms like flaws.” (43) Now attempt to do both steps at
once. Achieving the third
step, reading outside of a difference between disruption and continuity, exposes, I suggest, an analog to
the explosive reinscription of form that neural plasticity produces in the
brain.
But
in this very respect, discursive limit presents a problem. The conditioning one goes through to develop
a double reading seems to bring to the fore the very differences between
disruption and continuity that such a reading means to obliterate. When one considers the text as a whole,
however, repetition puts this problem in check. Learning to “double read” erases, or forgets,
the difference between local ruptures
and global repetitions in the text. When the phrases “night vision green,”
“surface effects,” “wave,” “fascism,” “there in the trees,” and “to the pathos,”
become the Mean Free Path’s refrain,
movement itself overcomes the category of difference between disruption and
continuity. Through this dialectical
process, we experience something like the text as being “situated between two
extremes: on the one side the sensible image
of taking form (sculpture or plastic objects), and on the other side that of
the annihilation of all form (explosion).” (5)
Tom--your writing is scary complicated and interesting. I'm not entirely sure I have as firm a grasp on the theoretical material as you do, and so it also makes it difficult for me to completely comprehend your application to the text. However, with that disclaimer out of the way, I will set out to make a fool of myself and question your assertion that "motion is more primary than the bare difference between disruption and continuity—by establishing a steady and reliable refrain of phrases throughout the text. Rather than building structure, the refrain marks the cancelling of structure. It marks motion that frustrates the category of difference between disruption and continuity." I guess what I'm wondering is whether your idea of the repetitive reading that creates this effect is necessary for the plasticity of the text. In other words, if I only ever read the text once, rather than several times, does the poetry work in the same way? Is this conclusion contingent upon multiple exposures to the material, or am I way off base and just not understanding?
ReplyDeleteIF your conclusion relies on this multiple-exposure idea, then doesn't that have more to do with the reader than with the text, itself? Or, does that in a lovely way mime the idea that the text and the reader have a similar relationship as the neuronal and mental selves that Malabou discusses (or perhaps that was your point, all along...)? Does the reader create the text just as the text creates the reader?
P.S. I mean "scary complicated and interesting" as a compliment! :D
ReplyDeleteThanks Stephanie! I think the manuscript and the reader cooperate to produce the text. The manuscript is static; the text is fluid. The idea of thinking about this process as miming the relationship of the neuronal and the mental sounds fantastic! That never crossed my mind, but it seems like a great model for what is happening.
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