<p>Here’s a question: are the visual essays that make up almost half of <i>Ways of Seeing</i> important to <i>Ways of Seeing</i>? Fifty years ago, as the book was being made, only one person seemed to think so: Sven Blomberg, the ‘tall Swede’ brought in by John Berger as an ‘outside eye’ on the process.<sup>1</sup> An artist himself, Blomberg was the only one of the five people whom Berger credited with turning <i>Ways of Seeing</i> into a book who had neither worked on the television series nor had any experience in making books. Let’s tally the others. Mike Dibb had been the series producer and director, Chris Fox its script consultant. Richard Hollis, responsible for the book’s design (later made ‘horrible’, in Hollis’s own words, by its inclusion and redesign for the Penguin On Design series),<sup>2</sup> had recently worked with Berger on his novel <i>G,</i> and was recognised as one of the most daring graphic designers of his generation. And then there was Berger: writer and presenter of the television series and the one whose name was on the cover. As for Blomberg … Well, he certainly was close to Berger. Talking to Juliette Kristensen for an anniversary issue of the <i>Journal of Visual Design</i> dedicated to <i>Ways of Seeing,</i> Dibb described Blomberg as ‘a close friend of John’s, an impoverished artist whom John wanted to help and thought would add something fresh to the book’. Hollis recalled: ‘He was rather a confusion because he made these montages of various things. I remember Mike saying to him “Sven, I don’t quite understand what it is that this is trying to say.” And Sven just said, “It’s fucking obvious!” And then went and stood on the balcony.’<sup>3</sup></p><p>The montages were to become the book’s ‘purely pictorial essays’ <i>–</i> or as Dibb put it: ‘little visual essays that meant more, I think, to [Blomberg] than to everybody else’.<sup>4</sup> Later, Hollis said that Berger ‘more or less approved’ of Blomberg’s essays, which Blomberg brought in as large sheets of paper with reproductions pasted on them. Dibb and Hollis were then assigned the task of fitting them into the pages of the book, tidying them up and ‘maybe editing them’. But they always struggled to understand their relevance.<sup>5</sup></p><p>The pictorial essays certainly raised questions before publication. What happened next? The book’s fame and impact, taken along with the television series, grew to a level that makes it hard to measure. In the words of Berger’s biographer Joshua Sperling, <i>Ways of Seeing</i> became ‘so influential as to seem now, in retrospect, almost out of date – its influence disseminated, internalized, and since moved on from by the culture’,<sup>6</sup> but the pictorial essays tend to be acknowledged in passing rather than subjected to in-depth analysis in most discussions of the work. There is one possible explanation: while the pictorial essays were intended to raise ‘as many questions as the verbal essays’, they also raise
这里有一个问题:几乎占《观看之道》一半的视觉文章对《观看之道》重要吗?50年前，在这本书的创作过程中，似乎只有一个人这么认为:斯文·布隆伯格，约翰·伯杰带来的“高个子瑞典人”，作为这个过程的“局外人”布隆伯格本人也是一名艺术家，他是伯杰认为将《看见的方式》写成一本书的五个人中唯一一个既没有参与电视剧制作，也没有任何写书经验的人。让我们算一下其他的。迈克·迪布是该剧的制片人和导演，克里斯·福克斯是剧本顾问。理查德·霍利斯负责这本书的设计(用霍利斯自己的话说，这本书后来在企鹅设计系列中被收录和重新设计，变得“可怕”)，2最近与伯杰一起创作了他的小说《G》，被认为是他那一代最大胆的平面设计师之一。然后是伯杰:这部电视剧的编剧和主持人，他的名字出现在了封面上。至于布隆伯格……嗯，他当然和伯杰很亲近。在《视觉设计》杂志的周年纪念特刊上，迪布与朱丽叶·克里斯滕森(Juliette Kristensen)进行了交谈，迪布将布隆伯格描述为“约翰的密友，约翰想要帮助的一位贫困的艺术家，他认为这将为这本书增添一些新鲜的东西”。霍利斯回忆说:“他当时很困惑，因为他把各种各样的东西蒙太奇化了。我记得迈克对他说:“斯文，我不太明白他想说什么。”斯文说:“这他妈太明显了!”然后走过去站在阳台上。这些蒙太奇将成为这本书的“纯粹的图片散文”——或者正如迪布所说:“我认为，对布隆伯格来说，这些小小的视觉散文比其他人更有意义。后来，霍利斯说伯杰“或多或少认可”布隆伯格的文章，布隆伯格把这些文章以大张纸的形式带了进来，上面贴着文章的复制品。然后，迪布和霍利斯被分配到书中，整理它们，“可能还会编辑它们”。但他们总是难以理解它们的相关性。这些写真文章在发表前当然提出了一些问题。接下来发生了什么?这本书的名气和影响力，再加上电视剧，已经达到了难以衡量的程度。用伯杰的传记作者约书亚·斯珀林的话来说，《观看之道》变得“如此有影响力，以至于现在回想起来，几乎已经过时了——它的影响被传播、内化，并被文化所转移”，6但是，在大多数关于这部作品的讨论中，这些图片文章往往被偶然承认，而不是受到深入分析。有一种可能的解释是:虽然图画散文的目的是提出“与口头散文一样多的问题”，但它们也提出了许多与口头散文相同的问题。第一篇图片文章以一张照片开头，照片上是一个女人在某种现代的工作场所，似乎以一种模糊的维米尔式的方式忘记了她周围的环境，另一张照片是一个看起来很有魅力的女人，从一辆车里拍的，当她被站在车外的一个年长的男人抛媚眼时，她装得很酷。在接下来的展板上，软色情图片与毕加索、莫迪利亚尼和高更的裸体女性画作复制品，以及贾科梅蒂的雕像并排放置，面对着伦勃朗的芭丝谢芭。接下来的几页是女袜和除臭剂的广告;一层肉和橄榄;静物画。更多的是女人的丝袜，一个女人在化妆，最后是一个女人的背影，她面对着一堵新闻摄影师的墙，印在鲁本斯的《巴黎的审判》的复制品下面。但是，即使图画散文在很大程度上是口头散文中观点的可视化(第二和第三幅图画散文可以被视为对油画主题的即兴表演，作为炫耀财产的工具)，它们也是作品中不那么微妙的不和谐的来源。正如前言所解释的那样，“有时在图画文章中根本没有给出关于所复制的图像的信息，因为在我们看来，这些信息可能会分散我们的观点。”读者还可以确信，推动这本书的思想不仅塑造了书中的内容，而且塑造了书中的方式:“书的形式与书中所包含的论点一样，都与我们的目的有关。”然而，其“形式”最显著的特征并不是文字和图像的分离，就像图画散文所体现的那样，而是它们在书页上的融合。在设计这本书的时候，霍利斯想给图片和文字同等的权重，把图片放在文字中，因为它们是被引用的，“这样你就不会分心，只需要继续读下去”他的主要影响是克里斯·马克(Chris Marker)的书《评论》(Commentaires)，书中有电影剧照。 2006年，他对《Eye》杂志的一位采访者说:“当你阅读的时候，你就知道他们在谈论什么。”“这是描述的替代品:你展示客观的视觉证据，而不是谈论某件事。这就是我想做《观看之道》的方式，而不是在旁边放图片，或者文字后面跟着一页图片。《观看的方式》是一本关于文字和图像以及它们如何相互作用的书;这是一本改编自电视剧的书，文字和图像可以实时拼贴在屏幕上同时出现，伯杰和他的合作者抓住了这个机会。这本书也延续了伯杰的努力——由1967年的《一个幸运的人》开始，1975年的《第七个人》在很大程度上达到了高潮——消解了语言与视觉的二元对立，让文字和图像在书页上协同工作，讲述任何需要讲述的东西。那么，为什么在约翰·伯杰(John Berger)的同意下，书中的大部分内容都禁止文字与图像互动呢?这也许可以归结为让斯文·布隆伯格高兴。然而，文字可以“扰乱”甚至破坏我们对图像的欣赏的观点，并不局限于这本书的图片文章。《观看之道》这本书证明了文字和图像之间的密切关系，但它也是一个警示故事，告诉我们前者如何干扰我们对后者的理解。在这本书开篇的一篇著名文章中，梵高的一幅画被复制在“这是一片玉米地的风景，鸟儿从里面飞出来”的下面。看一会儿。然后翻过这一页。在下一页上，同样的画在下面的文字上显示:“这是梵高自杀前画的最后一幅画。”伯杰若有所思地说:《观看之道》中图像和文本的分离也有同样的道理:无论这三篇没有文字的文章是如何从文字中解脱出来的，一种挥之不去的感觉是，作者实际上是在试图——但却失败了——保护他们不受文字的影响。那么图画散文不重要了吗?在与朱丽叶·克里斯滕森的谈话中，迈克·迪布说，他认为布隆伯格的拼贴画“以一种有趣的方式帮助了这本书”。他们非正式的。它们提供了一种视觉空间和一种视觉图书馆。15《观看之道》的不拘一格——它独特的平易近人——绝不是它最不重要的品质，而图片散文则表明，《观看之道》不同于它所反对的那些古旧、神秘的艺术书籍。在1972年，视觉散文的形式是不寻常的，而且，在像《观看之道》这样流行的书籍中，几乎闻所未闻。这种方法有先例，最接近的可能是德国艺术史学家阿比·沃伯格的《记忆的Bilderatlas Mnemosyne》。这项工作始于1927年，但在1929年沃伯格去世时尚未完成，由63块木板组成，沃伯格在上面钉上了近1000幅从各种来源挑选的图片:书籍，杂志，报纸，广告。这些画按照不同的主题排列，包括“传统的载体”、“从缪斯到马奈”和“今天的古典传统”。总体目标是追溯从古代到文艺复兴，一直到当代文化的反复出现的视觉主题和模式书中没有文字说明，只有几段文字——沃伯格相信，这些图片如果并列，然后按顺序排列，可以促进“即时的、概括性的洞察力”(有人可能会说，他希望这是显而易见的。)正如马克·芬奇所指出的那样，伯杰和他的合作者都不太可能知道华伯格的Bilderatlas——华伯格的作品在20世纪70年代早期太过晦涩尽管如此，艺术史学家格里塞尔达·波洛克(Griselda Pollock)一直是那些将《观看之道》与沃伯格联系起来的人之一，通过瓦尔特·本雅明(Walter Benjamin)对Bilderatlas的债务，以及它对“迄今为止固定的艺术品图像的照相复制的新资源”的使用波洛克在2003年出版的《视觉与差异》(Vision and Difference)一书中对现代主义艺
{"title":"“It’s Fucking Obvious!”","authors":"Maria Horvei","doi":"10.1111/criq.12698","DOIUrl":"10.1111/criq.12698","url":null,"abstract":"<p>Here’s a question: are the visual essays that make up almost half of <i>Ways of Seeing</i> important to <i>Ways of Seeing</i>? Fifty years ago, as the book was being made, only one person seemed to think so: Sven Blomberg, the ‘tall Swede’ brought in by John Berger as an ‘outside eye’ on the process.<sup>1</sup> An artist himself, Blomberg was the only one of the five people whom Berger credited with turning <i>Ways of Seeing</i> into a book who had neither worked on the television series nor had any experience in making books. Let’s tally the others. Mike Dibb had been the series producer and director, Chris Fox its script consultant. Richard Hollis, responsible for the book’s design (later made ‘horrible’, in Hollis’s own words, by its inclusion and redesign for the Penguin On Design series),<sup>2</sup> had recently worked with Berger on his novel <i>G,</i> and was recognised as one of the most daring graphic designers of his generation. And then there was Berger: writer and presenter of the television series and the one whose name was on the cover. As for Blomberg … Well, he certainly was close to Berger. Talking to Juliette Kristensen for an anniversary issue of the <i>Journal of Visual Design</i> dedicated to <i>Ways of Seeing,</i> Dibb described Blomberg as ‘a close friend of John’s, an impoverished artist whom John wanted to help and thought would add something fresh to the book’. Hollis recalled: ‘He was rather a confusion because he made these montages of various things. I remember Mike saying to him “Sven, I don’t quite understand what it is that this is trying to say.” And Sven just said, “It’s fucking obvious!” And then went and stood on the balcony.’<sup>3</sup></p><p>The montages were to become the book’s ‘purely pictorial essays’ <i>–</i> or as Dibb put it: ‘little visual essays that meant more, I think, to [Blomberg] than to everybody else’.<sup>4</sup> Later, Hollis said that Berger ‘more or less approved’ of Blomberg’s essays, which Blomberg brought in as large sheets of paper with reproductions pasted on them. Dibb and Hollis were then assigned the task of fitting them into the pages of the book, tidying them up and ‘maybe editing them’. But they always struggled to understand their relevance.<sup>5</sup></p><p>The pictorial essays certainly raised questions before publication. What happened next? The book’s fame and impact, taken along with the television series, grew to a level that makes it hard to measure. In the words of Berger’s biographer Joshua Sperling, <i>Ways of Seeing</i> became ‘so influential as to seem now, in retrospect, almost out of date – its influence disseminated, internalized, and since moved on from by the culture’,<sup>6</sup> but the pictorial essays tend to be acknowledged in passing rather than subjected to in-depth analysis in most discussions of the work. There is one possible explanation: while the pictorial essays were intended to raise ‘as many questions as the verbal essays’, they also raise","PeriodicalId":44341,"journal":{"name":"CRITICAL QUARTERLY","volume":"65 1","pages":"89-95"},"PeriodicalIF":0.2,"publicationDate":"2023-04-27","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/epdf/10.1111/criq.12698","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"46157785","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"OA","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
<p>A packet of soft brown sugar informs us that ‘Since 1878 our passionate team have been making and packing high quality sugar on the banks of the River Thames.’ There is an inadvertent touch of grotesque comedy to this: Tate and Lyle's employees seem to be Dickensian monomaniacs, kept alive by their inexhaustible enthusiasm for making and packing sugar and their sentimental attachment to the banks of the River Thames. How does this bizarre sentence come to be distributed around the supermarkets of England?</p><p>The simple answer is that ‘passionate’ is a marketing cliché. Skimming a single month of <i>The Times</i> digital archive (January 2019), one encounters people who are passionate about pizza, about challenger brands, about holidays, about motorhomes, about training pastry chefs, about ‘meaningful’ alternatives to smoking cigarettes, and about active living as a way of recovering from spinal injuries. Not to mention Staffline, an expanding recruitment agency which is reportedly ‘buying Passionate About People’. The suspicion of bathos around some of these passions suggests that the usage is hyperbolic, and this is confirmed by its ready resort to adverbial amplification: it is not uncommon to be ‘deeply’ or ‘truly’ passionate about something, and a random search indicates that ‘hugely passionate’ is almost a fossilized phrase. When postgraduate students advertising for tutoring work describe themselves as hugely passionate about reading or mathematics, it is with a dizzying implication that merely to be passionate is, already, no longer enough.</p><p>Arguably, though, these observations do no more than move the enigma a step back. Historically, being ‘passionate’ has not been an unequivocally admirable quality, certainly not in the commercial and professional contexts where the word now thrives. ‘Passion’, much more than its near-synonyms ‘emotion’ or ‘feeling’, has often connoted a disorderly motive force, diametrically opposed to ‘reason’. People who are ‘passionate’ in this sense are impulsive, unstable, sometimes violent, driven in many instances by anger or sexual desire; they do not seem to be ideally qualified for manufacturing sugar or designing motorhomes. So the question remains: how did ‘passionate’ become something that everyone in the job market would like to be perceived as being?</p><p>The first of these quotations is the ending of the stanza about Synge from ‘In Memory of Major Robert Gregory’, and the other two are the last lines of ‘The Fisherman’ and ‘A Prayer for Old Age’ respectively.<sup>1</sup> That is, in all three of them ‘passionate’ has the character of a conclusion: a tangle of images and feelings <i>comes out</i> (as one says of an equation) in that charged adjective. <i>This</i>, finally, is how the poet wants to speak, who he wants to be. The word names an ideal.</p><p>Another source of suggestion is the word's surprisingly frequent appearance in obituaries. Something like a funerary convention makes it eas
一包软红糖告诉我们，“自1878年以来，我们充满激情的团队一直在泰晤士河岸边制作和包装高品质的糖。”泰特和莱尔的员工似乎是狄更斯式的偏执狂，他们对制造和包装糖有着无穷无尽的热情，他们对泰晤士河的眷恋让他们活了下来。这个奇怪的句子是如何在英国的超市里流传开来的呢?简单的回答是，“热情”是一种营销陈词滥调。浏览时报一个月的数字档案(2019年1月)，你会发现人们对披萨、挑战者品牌、假期、房车、培训糕点厨师、吸烟的“有意义”替代品以及积极生活作为一种从脊柱损伤中恢复的方式充满热情。更不用说Staffline了，据报道，这家正在扩张的招聘机构正在“收购passion About People”。对这些激情的怀疑表明，这种用法是夸张的，这一点可以从它随时使用的状语放大中得到证实:对某事“深深地”或“真正地”充满激情并不罕见，随机搜索一下就会发现，“巨大的激情”几乎是一个僵化的短语。当研究生在招聘辅导工作的广告中描述自己对阅读或数学充满热情时，这是一种令人眼花缭乱的暗示，即仅仅有激情已经不够了。不过，可以说，这些观察结果不过是将谜团向前推进了一步。从历史上看，“充满激情”并不是一个明确的令人钦佩的品质，在这个词现在蓬勃发展的商业和专业环境中，当然不是。“激情”，比它的近义词“情感”或“感觉”更多的是指一种无序的动力，与“理性”截然相反。在这个意义上，“激情”的人是冲动的，不稳定的，有时是暴力的，在很多情况下是由愤怒或性欲驱动的;他们似乎并不适合从事制糖或设计房车的工作。所以问题依然存在:“热情”是如何成为就业市场上每个人都希望被视为的东西的?这些引文中的第一句是《纪念罗伯特·格雷戈里少校》中关于辛格的那一节的结尾处，另外两句分别是《渔夫》和《为老年祈祷》的最后几行也就是说，在这三个词中，“热情的”都具有结论的特征:在这个充满感情的形容词中，出现了一团意象和感觉(就像有人说的一个方程)。最后，这就是诗人想要表达的方式，他想成为的人。这个词代表了一种理想。另一个暗示的来源是这个词在讣告中令人惊讶的频繁出现。殡葬大会之类的东西很容易让人说，死者对古代语言、枪支管制或什罗普郡充满热情。这种用法当然符合当前的营销观念，但它比现在早了几十年。它通过类型的框架力量压制了这个词的矛盾心理:我们事先知道所说的一切都会是赞美的，所以热情的积极方面自然会出现在前面。在深情的回忆中，这个词对不合理和破坏的内在指责软化了，变成了一个充满活力的个性形象。虽然这两个词的用法不同，但这两个词的运用体现了同样的举动，即通过使“激情”脱离世俗来弥补“激情”的混乱或令人厌恶的潜力——叶芝将其与文学联系在一起，而讣告作者则将其应用于死者。在远离日常生活事务的地方，这个称呼是真诚的特殊标志，是人类情感的最佳表现。当叶芝希望被视为一个愚蠢的，充满激情的人时，他提升了这个已经很高的地位:这种配对让这个充满激情的人接近了众所周知的愚人的悖论，所以这种不世俗的暗示接近于一种民间故事的圣洁。这些含义使得这个词后来在营销话语中的出现有点讽刺意味:自称“充满激情”的餐馆老板或投资顾问，其实是在推销自己的业务，却把自己说成无可救药地不讲理。然而，这种讽刺并不意味深长。毕竟，对于商品购买者来说，设想商品交换之外的额外价值边际是正常的:这才是真正好的交易的组成部分。游客寻求的是一个非旅游目的地;购物者梳理prêt-à-porter货架，寻找定制合身的感觉;招聘人员试图挑选出能够超越的申请人。 “热情的”服务提供者的形象表达了这种希望:正是当交易最明显地是一种经济交易时，人们最需要保证它根本不是经济的，而是表达了一种无端的人类冲动。纯粹作为广告人的举动，“热情”是一种承诺，买家不仅会得到比他们支付的更多的东西，而且还会得到比定价更高的东西。泰特和莱尔包的荒谬之处在于，它把这种修辞主题推到了似是而非的地步。对于制糖商的动机，另一种明显的解释是——这是他们的工作，他们这样做是为了赚钱——尴尬地与形容词的背后相矛盾。换句话说，“激情”这个词在市场营销中无处不在的使用是——不要太细致入微——一个谎言，而这个谎言是在这个词进化的连续性中被几个小而有趣的中断所揭穿的。一个是它从第三人称到第一人称的整体迁移。传统上，它一直是一种描述别人而不是自己的方式:这在讣告中是不言自明的，但它也可以被看到，例如，在一个长期存在的传统中，将“热情”的本性归因于被视为劣等的人——女人、外国人、罪人、年轻人无论是赞美、贬损，还是亲切地居高临下，这种外部性都是有道理的，因为人们理解，充满激情是一种天真:充满激情的人，被自己不知道的冲动所驱使，是最不可能退后一步描述自己的人。一个观察者可以从他们身上看到激情。然而，在市场营销中，充满激情几乎总是由说话者直接宣称的东西。名人在面试中、公司在网站上、高中毕业生在申请大学时都会这样描述自己。因此，这种主张带有一种内在的异化。就像节日自拍或Instagram派对快照的公式化姿势一样，这是一种带有隐蔽第三人称倾向的第一人称陈述，因为“我”是我在推广的一个品牌。它呈现了一个为别人设计的自我;这个“充满激情”的男人以自己的部门经理的身份说话。这个词内部的矛盾被一个残余的内涵加深了:激情的人是无助的。这一含义反映在1989年版《牛津英语词典》提供的各种定义中:“受激情或强烈情感影响的;受激情支配的;受激情支配的;情绪化的:受激情或情绪影响的;容易感动到强烈的感情;敏感的,易受影响。激情的人是受影响的、受支配的、服从的、摇摆的、感动的:与这个词与“被动”和“耐心”的古老联系一致，他们似乎没有代理，只能被无法控制的情绪大风吹动。这个词的语义维度与市场的需求完全不相容。例如，将《牛津英语词典》的术语与2016年世界经济论坛网站上出现的九分描述进行对比。根据这个由商业心理学家(而非词典编纂者)撰写的版本，“定义有激情的人”的因素包括:他们痴迷、不浪费时间、乐观、早起、敢于冒险，并且“全身心地投入到工作中”当然，令人惊讶的是，这些充满激情的人，与《牛津英语词典》中的人不同，是模范企业员工。但同样值得注意的是，他们是自己生活的主人。他们不会被动摇或轻易感动，他们将自己的时间和感情投入到一个不懈的目标中。“激情”已经悄然转化为它的对立面:曾经是一种个人的无助，现在是一种个人的力量。一言以蔽之，现在的情况是，充满激情已成为一种商品它具有交换价值，因为我们看到它所附加的有价值的品质:真实性、自发性、活力、自我遗忘等等。但进入市场改变了市场的性质。如果它是一种商品，它必须是充满激情的人拥有的东西，否则他们将无法出售它。因此，它不再是支配或推动我的力量，而是成为我支配的对象，我自我主张的载体。从这个意义上说，这个词展示了一个非常典型的过程:资本主义利用自然资源，将其物化、工具化、提炼和包装在泰晤士河岸边。
{"title":"Passionate","authors":"Peter Womack","doi":"10.1111/criq.12716","DOIUrl":"10.1111/criq.12716","url":null,"abstract":"<p>A packet of soft brown sugar informs us that ‘Since 1878 our passionate team have been making and packing high quality sugar on the banks of the River Thames.’ There is an inadvertent touch of grotesque comedy to this: Tate and Lyle's employees seem to be Dickensian monomaniacs, kept alive by their inexhaustible enthusiasm for making and packing sugar and their sentimental attachment to the banks of the River Thames. How does this bizarre sentence come to be distributed around the supermarkets of England?</p><p>The simple answer is that ‘passionate’ is a marketing cliché. Skimming a single month of <i>The Times</i> digital archive (January 2019), one encounters people who are passionate about pizza, about challenger brands, about holidays, about motorhomes, about training pastry chefs, about ‘meaningful’ alternatives to smoking cigarettes, and about active living as a way of recovering from spinal injuries. Not to mention Staffline, an expanding recruitment agency which is reportedly ‘buying Passionate About People’. The suspicion of bathos around some of these passions suggests that the usage is hyperbolic, and this is confirmed by its ready resort to adverbial amplification: it is not uncommon to be ‘deeply’ or ‘truly’ passionate about something, and a random search indicates that ‘hugely passionate’ is almost a fossilized phrase. When postgraduate students advertising for tutoring work describe themselves as hugely passionate about reading or mathematics, it is with a dizzying implication that merely to be passionate is, already, no longer enough.</p><p>Arguably, though, these observations do no more than move the enigma a step back. Historically, being ‘passionate’ has not been an unequivocally admirable quality, certainly not in the commercial and professional contexts where the word now thrives. ‘Passion’, much more than its near-synonyms ‘emotion’ or ‘feeling’, has often connoted a disorderly motive force, diametrically opposed to ‘reason’. People who are ‘passionate’ in this sense are impulsive, unstable, sometimes violent, driven in many instances by anger or sexual desire; they do not seem to be ideally qualified for manufacturing sugar or designing motorhomes. So the question remains: how did ‘passionate’ become something that everyone in the job market would like to be perceived as being?</p><p>The first of these quotations is the ending of the stanza about Synge from ‘In Memory of Major Robert Gregory’, and the other two are the last lines of ‘The Fisherman’ and ‘A Prayer for Old Age’ respectively.<sup>1</sup> That is, in all three of them ‘passionate’ has the character of a conclusion: a tangle of images and feelings <i>comes out</i> (as one says of an equation) in that charged adjective. <i>This</i>, finally, is how the poet wants to speak, who he wants to be. The word names an ideal.</p><p>Another source of suggestion is the word's surprisingly frequent appearance in obituaries. Something like a funerary convention makes it eas","PeriodicalId":44341,"journal":{"name":"CRITICAL QUARTERLY","volume":"65 2","pages":"123-127"},"PeriodicalIF":0.2,"publicationDate":"2023-04-18","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/epdf/10.1111/criq.12716","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"46675618","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"OA","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
<p>Before they met in 1917, Virginia Woolf envisioned a peculiar setting for her first encounter with Katherine Mansfield, the promising young writer who had ‘dogged [her] steps for three years’. Intriguingly, Woolf imagined she might glimpse Mansfield, not in the drawing-room of a mutual friend or at a literary soirée, but ‘on a rock or in the sea’ – there, ‘I shall accost her’.<sup>1</sup> Woolf pictures Mansfield in an attitude reminiscent of Frederic Leighton’s <i>Solitude</i> (1890), an allegorical painting of a ‘woman draped in white, sitting on a rock’ overlooking the sea, mentioned in Mansfield’s 1915 short story, ‘Autumns: II’.<sup>2</sup> This allusion reveals acute attention to Mansfield’s early work, as well as a tendency to imagine the New Zealand outsider in a liminal position, tricked out in classical trappings but on a promontory of her own. It seems that, for Woolf, Mansfield’s allure was mixed up with her air of solitude. Indeed, solitude would draw these writers together as a magnet, a fertile ground for ‘accost’. Woolf’s image proved strangely prescient as if, already attuned to the sound of ‘waves breaking’, she had somehow anticipated Mansfield’s declaration in her diary, ‘All that I write – all that I am – is on the border of the sea’.<sup>3</sup></p><p>If Woolf assumed she could identify Mansfield as a ‘sign’ of solitude (not merely the signature of her own work, but a citation of longstanding pictorial traditions), it is worth recognising that we, their readers, also approach these figures through the iconography of solitude developed by their contemporaries and cultural legatees. For instance, when Mansfield’s husband John Middleton Murry edited her journal for posthumous publication, he presented Mansfield as the female isolate <i>par excellence</i>, adding subheadings like ‘Femme Seule’, ‘Being Alone’, and ‘Living Alone’.<sup>4</sup> Similarly, in 1930, Cecil Beaton described Woolf as a fragile ‘sea-anemone’ that ‘curls up at contact with the outer world’, a marine image that influenced her popular representation for decades (despite her indignation), perhaps because it anticipated her suicide by drowning in 1941.<sup>5</sup></p><p>Such early depictions of the modernist isolate – embracing the deluge alone with tragic but heroic determination – seem like caricatures, especially in light of recent scholarship on modernists’ efforts to develop meaningful forms of intimacy and public engagement.<sup>6</sup> Nevertheless, in addition to complicating these stock images, we might consider how their crude outlines invite questions about the legibility and evasiveness of that ubiquitous affect we call ‘solitude’. The assumptions that colour Woolf’s imagined Mansfield – simultaneously, a distinctive body that can be recognised by virtue of her solitary position, and a generic <i>genius loci</i> – should alert us to how solitude is implicated in ‘the tension between personal expression and general convention’. Solitude is at onc
在他们1917年相遇之前，弗吉尼亚·伍尔夫设想了一个特殊的场景来描述她与凯瑟琳·曼斯菲尔德的第一次相遇，这位前途无量的年轻作家“追随了她三年”。有趣的是，伍尔夫想象她可能会瞥见曼斯菲尔德，不是在共同朋友的客厅里，也不是在文学聚会上，而是“在一块岩石上或在海里”——在那里，“我将和她搭讪”伍尔夫描绘曼斯菲尔德的态度让人想起弗雷德里克·莱顿(Frederic Leighton)的《孤独》(1890)，这是一幅寓言画，描绘了一个“披着白衣的女人，坐在一块俯瞰大海的岩石上”，曼斯菲尔德在1915年的短篇小说《秋天:II》中提到过这一暗示揭示了人们对曼斯菲尔德早期作品的敏锐关注，以及人们倾向于想象这位新西兰外来者处于一个边缘位置，穿着古典服饰，但却站在自己的海角上。对伍尔夫来说，曼斯菲尔德的魅力似乎与她的孤独交织在一起。的确，孤独会像磁铁一样把这些作家吸引到一起，成为“搭讪”的沃土。伍尔夫的形象被证明具有奇怪的先见之明，仿佛她已经与“海浪破碎”的声音合拍，不知怎的，她已经预料到曼斯菲尔德在她的日记中宣称:“我所写的一切——我所存在的一切——都在大海的边缘。”如果伍尔夫认为她可以将曼斯菲尔德视为孤独的“标志”(不仅是她自己作品的标志，而且是对长期图像传统的引用)，那么值得认识的是，我们，他们的读者，也通过他们同时代人和文化遗产所发展的孤独形象来接近这些人物。例如，当曼斯菲尔德的丈夫约翰·米德尔顿·默里编辑她的日记准备在她死后出版时，他把曼斯菲尔德描述为杰出的孤独女性，并在副标题上加上了“Seule女性”、“孤独”和“独自生活”同样，在1930年，塞西尔·比顿(Cecil Beaton)将伍尔夫描述为一个脆弱的“海莲花”，“与外部世界接触时卷曲起来”，这个海洋形象影响了她几十年的流行表现(尽管她很愤慨)，也许是因为它预示了她在1941年溺水自杀。这种早期对现代主义孤立的描绘——以悲剧但英雄的决心独自拥抱洪水——看起来像漫画。特别是考虑到最近关于现代主义者努力发展有意义的亲密关系和公共参与形式的学术研究然而，除了使这些图片变得复杂之外，我们还可以考虑它们粗糙的轮廓如何引发了关于我们称之为“孤独”的无处不在的影响的易读性和隐蔽性的问题。伍尔夫想象中的曼斯菲尔德——同时，一个独特的身体，可以通过她孤独的位置来识别，以及一个普遍的天才位点——应该提醒我们，孤独是如何牵连到“个人表达和普遍惯例之间的紧张关系”的。孤独是一种充满激情的(或声称)独特的感觉，一种不妥协的孤独，一种文化编码的“动作和陈述[…]姿势和符号的保留”，可以唤起真正的兴奋之热，也可以看起来像不温不火的陈词滥调在挑出“一”的过程中，孤独指向了普遍的、隐含着意义的岛屿和“大陆”，一个曼斯菲尔德站在大海中，“孤独地生活在没有海岸的汪洋荒野中的千百万凡人”孤独似乎是我们独自旅行的风景，但它的特点是话语地标和他人的脚步。因此，本文不仅追溯了曼斯菲尔德和伍尔夫关于孤独的思想之间的联系，而且从更广阔的文化和文学视野来追溯他们的历程。孤独作为一种流动的感觉网络出现，其特征是表达规范和情感协议，这些规范和协议“反复被其起伏的野性所破坏”。在西方文化的想象中，孤独和文学已经深深结合在一起，因为孤独通常被认为是创造力的必要先决条件，标志着作家对其艺术的投入。例如，我们可能会想到亨利·詹姆斯(Henry James)的一句名言，他建议有抱负的作家在你的横幅上写上“一个词”，“那个词就是孤独”撇开詹姆斯的自我宣传口吻不谈，伍尔夫经常赞同这一观点，他说“独处对一本新书有好处”，因为“最好的(短语)很可能是在独处中创作出来的”此外，她的开创性论文《一间自己的房间》认为，纵观历史，很少有女性有不受打扰的独处的特权，也很少有500英镑的收入可以用来逃避那些“永恒的”男权“教育者”的声音，这些声音“不能让女性独处”尽管曼斯菲尔德没有明确地从性别角度来定义独处的必要性(而且，作为一个永久的寄宿生，她知道自己的房间可以租得更便宜)，但她也重视空间隐私。 “一个人呆着”，她写道，“是我写作的两大要素之一——没有无尽的时间，没有人等……我最好尽快在伦敦找到一个房间——还有5英镑来布置房间。伍尔夫和曼斯菲尔德将孤独作为一个独立、个性化和个人成长的空间的努力，一直是文学、社会学和哲学研究的永恒试金石，这些研究强调了孤独作为振兴社会批判和创造性资源的积极作用。这个条目在欣喜若狂和拒绝之间摇摆不定，因为凯瑟琳反复地说法语表达“la solitude est la reine de mon cœur”，选择了不太准确的翻译，“孤独”在两位作者关于孤独的作品中，我们发现他们在同源词之间徘徊，在陈词滥调之间徘徊，以表达他们自己情感的波动。事实上，有些段落给读者留下了一种深刻的孤立感，根本没有说出任何感觉，而是依靠同时空洞但充满意义的呼喊——“哦，哦，哦”这种为了寻找“更合适的谓词”而“移动”甚至放弃“名称”的倾向表明，用Charles Altieri的话来说，情感表达的特点是“在不成熟的感觉和社会语法提供的可理解性形式之间不断斗争”。我们可以大胆地说，独处揭示了这种斗争的一个独特方面。表达孤独的困难不仅在于不充分或凌乱的方言，还在于这样一个事实，即方言必然起源于一个社区，而孤独似乎是一种距离的暗示，或与其他人不同，渴望自己的方言。孤立者可能会发现自己与布赖恩·马苏米(Brian Massumi)等理论家的处境相同，马苏米试图开发一种语言，将注意力引向不符合“社会公认的行动和反应路线”或限制情感类别的经验“过剩或剩余”。因此，Massumi著名地区分了“对体验质量的社会语言固定”，一种将感觉“拥有并被认可”为情感的命名过程，以及他称之为“影响”的“指定”强度Massumi的区分可能有点过于简洁;正如Sianne Ngai所观察到的那样，“情感和情感之间的差异”很可能是“强度或程度的模态差异，而不是质量和种类的形式差异”然而，它表明了一种区分情感的无序性和情感的规范模型的愿望，这些模型是在对诊断标准的长期历史斗争中出现的，这些诊断标准使我们不仅能够识别，而且能够将自己投入到可以被他人识别和评估的情感状态中。我想知道，说话的孤立者是否不是唯一能够观察到情感和情感之间的差距(在我看来，这比安全更发人深省)，以及它们是如何相互渗透的。孤立的人可能会觉得他们生活在“剩余”中，而情感的概念指向的是“意想不到的、独特的或古怪的”经验方面，而不是“普遍适用的”然而，如果他们要表达并拥有孤独，他们必须参与到特定自我的情感框架中，无论是孤独的还是其他的。如果他们有些局促不安，这也不足为奇，因为关于孤独的论述往往被浓缩成格言和陈词滥调，在公众传播的过程中，这些格言和陈词滥调已经失去了大部分的精髓和活力。面对一种过度确定的方言，被孤立的人被迫在难以言喻的孤独感和这些独特的强度与社会摩擦的棘手的地方导航。因此，就像情感一样，孤立存在于公共和私人、个人和社会之间不稳定的边界上(尽管有一些既得利益在保护它)。如果被孤立的人倾向于用社会语法来测试他们的感受，并寻找自我的参数，那是因为孤独与真实性的观念密切相关。我的意思并不是说孤独可以不受技巧的影响，也不是说孤独比其他感觉更真实、更纯粹，但它常常让人感觉像是自我的一个格外真实的部分，
{"title":"‘We Talked about Solitude’: Katherine Mansfield, Virginia Woolf, and Affective Bonding","authors":"Melissa Alexander","doi":"10.1111/criq.12715","DOIUrl":"10.1111/criq.12715","url":null,"abstract":"<p>Before they met in 1917, Virginia Woolf envisioned a peculiar setting for her first encounter with Katherine Mansfield, the promising young writer who had ‘dogged [her] steps for three years’. Intriguingly, Woolf imagined she might glimpse Mansfield, not in the drawing-room of a mutual friend or at a literary soirée, but ‘on a rock or in the sea’ – there, ‘I shall accost her’.<sup>1</sup> Woolf pictures Mansfield in an attitude reminiscent of Frederic Leighton’s <i>Solitude</i> (1890), an allegorical painting of a ‘woman draped in white, sitting on a rock’ overlooking the sea, mentioned in Mansfield’s 1915 short story, ‘Autumns: II’.<sup>2</sup> This allusion reveals acute attention to Mansfield’s early work, as well as a tendency to imagine the New Zealand outsider in a liminal position, tricked out in classical trappings but on a promontory of her own. It seems that, for Woolf, Mansfield’s allure was mixed up with her air of solitude. Indeed, solitude would draw these writers together as a magnet, a fertile ground for ‘accost’. Woolf’s image proved strangely prescient as if, already attuned to the sound of ‘waves breaking’, she had somehow anticipated Mansfield’s declaration in her diary, ‘All that I write – all that I am – is on the border of the sea’.<sup>3</sup></p><p>If Woolf assumed she could identify Mansfield as a ‘sign’ of solitude (not merely the signature of her own work, but a citation of longstanding pictorial traditions), it is worth recognising that we, their readers, also approach these figures through the iconography of solitude developed by their contemporaries and cultural legatees. For instance, when Mansfield’s husband John Middleton Murry edited her journal for posthumous publication, he presented Mansfield as the female isolate <i>par excellence</i>, adding subheadings like ‘Femme Seule’, ‘Being Alone’, and ‘Living Alone’.<sup>4</sup> Similarly, in 1930, Cecil Beaton described Woolf as a fragile ‘sea-anemone’ that ‘curls up at contact with the outer world’, a marine image that influenced her popular representation for decades (despite her indignation), perhaps because it anticipated her suicide by drowning in 1941.<sup>5</sup></p><p>Such early depictions of the modernist isolate – embracing the deluge alone with tragic but heroic determination – seem like caricatures, especially in light of recent scholarship on modernists’ efforts to develop meaningful forms of intimacy and public engagement.<sup>6</sup> Nevertheless, in addition to complicating these stock images, we might consider how their crude outlines invite questions about the legibility and evasiveness of that ubiquitous affect we call ‘solitude’. The assumptions that colour Woolf’s imagined Mansfield – simultaneously, a distinctive body that can be recognised by virtue of her solitary position, and a generic <i>genius loci</i> – should alert us to how solitude is implicated in ‘the tension between personal expression and general convention’. Solitude is at onc","PeriodicalId":44341,"journal":{"name":"CRITICAL QUARTERLY","volume":"65 2","pages":"38-57"},"PeriodicalIF":0.2,"publicationDate":"2023-04-18","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/epdf/10.1111/criq.12715","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"45113272","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"OA","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
{"title":"Berger and the Dissapointment of Zoos","authors":"H. Mance","doi":"10.1111/criq.12699","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1111/criq.12699","url":null,"abstract":"","PeriodicalId":44341,"journal":{"name":"CRITICAL QUARTERLY","volume":" ","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":0.2,"publicationDate":"2023-04-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"48512746","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
<p>Like many Consortiumites of my generation, I joined the London Consortium under the spell of Steve Connor. I made my way down Malet Street from UCL, where I was studying for an MA in English Literature, to Steve’s office in Birkbeck College. It was Jane Lewty who had pointed me in Steve’s direction. ‘He’s a sound guy’, she said. I only later realised that she was referring to his interest in sound studies, but the warmth of her recommendation had made an impression on me.</p><p>The two immediately striking aspects of the London Consortium, as Steve described it to me during my admissions interview, were its commitment to interdisciplinarity and its unusual meta-institutional shape. Interdisciplinarity was not quite, in 2004, the near-mandatory AHRC and REF buzzword it has since become. It appealed to me as a student who loved novels and films and philosophy and history and sociological theories, and who was turned off by a strand of Eng. Lit. piety that made literature into a holy object. I had enjoyed my time at UCL, and the tutorial system gave me the freedom to write essays on Public Enemy, <i>Back to the Future</i>, Marxism and so on – though of course these were hardly the set texts on UCL’s BA in English Language and Literature. It was only during my PhD that my supervisor Colin MacCabe would introduce me to the work of Raymond Williams, but that ‘culture is ordinary’ I knew instinctively.<sup>1</sup> And at its best the Consortium lived out the promise of that ambiguous phrase.</p><p>The tone was set by the courses which each cohort of Consortium students took together, whether enrolled on the PhD or the MRes.<sup>2</sup> That was a group of somewhat over thirty students in my year. Each course was co-taught by (at least) two people, normally with different disciplinary formations. On ‘Metamorphosis from Ovid to Cronenberg’, taught by Steve and Colin, we’d study <i>A Midsummer Night’s Dream</i> one week (the Shakespeare play and the Britten opera), because culture – including the ‘high’ or difficult culture which English studies said was good for us, if approached with the appropriate degree of moral seriousness – was ordinary and available for analysis without the need for prior induction into Shakespeare Studies or opera criticism. Another week, we’d study <i>The Fly</i> because horror films are culture too and warrant attention. Now, you face obvious limitations, when you’re called to an analysis of Britten’s opera, if you know nothing about the history of opera and its criticism. But I remember Steve emphasising that this ignorance also gave you a special kind of epistemological advantage over opera specialists: someone trained in film studies would be able to see things that might pass a musicologist by. If this seems dilettantish, it wasn’t meant to be: the Consortium ethos was always to follow the defamiliarising effect of that initial encounter with a deeper engagement with specialised knowledge. Interdisciplinarity was too ofte
马克思主义提供了许多有价值的分析工具(当我在那里的时候，一个联盟阅读小组也在阅读《资本论》)，但我们被要求对《资本论》的不足保持清醒的头脑。对马克来说，大屠杀是一个拒绝马克思主义解释的决定性事件。“康德的伦理学和现代邪恶经济学”是马克与帕尔文·亚当斯和萨姆·阿森登共同教授的一个模块，该模块追溯了从康德到阿伦特再到巴迪欧的邪恶思想，大屠杀是一个关键的例子。马克关于普里莫·列维的讲座我迟到了，他在讲座中哭了。我正好赶上帕索里尼(Pasolini)的《Salò》(又名《索多玛120天》(120 Days of Sodom)在ICA的放映。帕尔文希望大家一起看这部电影，以防有人被屏幕上的虐待狂吓到。马克在看电影的时候睡着了，然后顽皮地打趣道:“睡觉是防御;打鼾是一种批评。”在联盟中，喜剧和情节剧并不是知识探索的外部，而是其合法的变种。这种情绪在2022年的当代大学里是找不到的。正如我们经常提醒自己的那样，我认为2005年的大学里也不容易找到这样的东西。一个人在联盟中遇到了不同程度的对大学的敌意，这在一定程度上取决于你与谁交谈。这可能是该财团不同寻常的多机构结构的必然结果，它在某种程度上是在大学之外独立于大学之外的，即使是寄生地依赖于大学。从某种意义上说，联合会是一个反机构。教学在四个组成机构中的任何一个进行:伯克贝克学院、英国艺术学院、建筑协会或泰特美术馆(英国艺术学院已经离开，科学博物馆尚未加入)。许多教过我的人(包括丹尼斯·莱利、帕特里克·赖特、菲利普·多德、帕尔文·亚当斯)都曾在不同的职业生涯中进进出出大学。科林似乎同时在几个地方工作——我想当我入学的时候，他是埃克塞特大学和匹兹堡大学的教授，仍然在为联盟寻找大量的时间和精力。他在伦敦没有办公室，所以监督是在格劳乔俱乐部、斯特尔街的天堂披萨店或伊斯灵顿他的厨房餐桌上进行的。有一个关于博士导师在一辆黑色出租车后座上督导的轶事:即使这被证明是杜撰的，也很难想象有什么比这更能雄辩地象征伦敦财团的教育方法了。学生们定期抱怨学校没有固定的办公地点。大学的走廊上没有一排门，后面没有教职员工。但没有实体家也被视为一种资产。我们被鼓励把自己想象成一个游牧的学生群体，在一个分散的网络节点之间脉动，从建筑协会酒吧的民主角度批评大学的等级制度和官僚主义，穿过贝德福德广场回到伯克贝克，对泰特美术馆最新的品牌推广活动持怀疑态度(所有营销材料中都禁止有明确的文章)。我很自豪地说，我们还是伯克贝克学院的学生。在所有的老师中，史蒂夫是大学里最自在的人，也是最不可能对高等教育缓慢的官僚化提出尖锐批评的人。正如我现在更充分地了解到的那样，史蒂夫在学位授予机构和教育学生的松散而异构的知识分子协会之间发挥了至关重要的中介作用。他掌管着指导委员会，让伯克贝克高兴，让财政车轮运转。这个联盟的存在是因为伯克贝克学院的想象力和慷慨，这一点现在已经很清楚了:一个激进的教育实验催生了另一个。我不知道财务运作的所有细节，但我记得的是这样的:伯克贝克学院拿走了收费收入的20%，把80%交给财团，后者实际上是一家小企业。伯克贝克学院还从HEFCE的资助中向该财团转移了大笔资金，这笔资金跟踪了每个家庭博士生。另一方面，该财团租用了一处行政办公空间，向伯克贝克学院支付了一名(资历较低的)学术主任替补的薪水，并聘请了一名管理人员和一名兼职招生主任(从2008年我成为第一个担任该职位的人开始)。每年向每个合作机构支付5000英镑。基础设施的开销就到此为止了。监事、研讨会领导和指导委员会成员按自由职业者的方式支付报酬。我们受益于免费使用可预订的房间在大多数合作机构，在伯克贝克图书馆和参议院的借阅权，并充分获得学生支持和培训提供伯克贝克。剩下的钱用于举办许多精心准备的聚会。(“由当事人指导”是联合会的另一个口号，尽管我认为这个口号来自伯克贝克学院。 )在其全盛时期，该财团在每个学生身上的花费可能比英国任何其他研究生项目都要多。现在我已经加入了副院长的行列，我可以自信地说，在我的大学里，任何提出这种计划的学者都不会成功。我可以想象自己会提出某些反对意见。我们当时听到了一些这样的说法，比如伯克贝克学院的博士生，他们支付了同样的费用，但没有获得泰特学院或ICA的会员资格，而且宴会的供应越来越少。(和我们一样，他们也从优秀的学者和友好支持的院系那里学习，而且——如果这是你喜欢的那杯茶——这些院系牢牢地坐落在可识别的大学建筑里。)在当前的政治气候下，在高等教育的困难时刻，我开始为大学辩护，其方式可能会让25岁的我感到惊讶。我担心大学基础设施的成本、维持一个像样的图书馆的成本、为养老金缴款和与通胀同步的薪酬协议提供资金的成本。我想知道，财团反体制言论中的某些元素现在听起来是否有些空洞。我不想细谈2012年财团的痛苦消亡，尽管我近距离见证了这一切:我毕业了，辞去了招生导师的职务，但仍是指导委员会的成员，并以该身份参加了多次令人毛骨悚然的危机会议。联盟建立在友谊的基础上，这一事实让分手变得更加困难——我看着我最崇拜的老师陷入相互指责。对于那些还在攻读博士学位的学生来说，这一定是难以忍受的困难，因为他们报名参加的这个蓬勃发展的项目在完全消失之前实际上已经分崩离析。关于财团灭亡的原因有不同的说法，我就不一一赘述了。史蒂夫的离开，去剑桥大学担任教授，是(我想每个人都同意)一个促成因素——我们失去了我们最雄辩的发言人和最熟练的管理者——但正如他们所说，根本原因是结构性的。也许，从10年的历史角度来看，高等教育不断变化的财务状况以及其他制度因素使得很难以一种让学生和员工满意的形式维持联盟，这就足够了。我非常感谢伦敦财团，感谢我的导师和老师，感谢我在那里遇到的朋友。我很高兴，我的职业生涯要求我成为中层管理者，我不得不偶尔与内心那个厚颜无耻、好斗的无政府主义者进行谈判。我认为我是一个更好的学者，因为我曾经是一个财团。科林喜欢说，财团就像加州酒店:“你可以随时退房，但你永远不能离开”。我从未离开过。
{"title":"The London Consortium and Me: Memoir of an Experiment in Doctoral Education","authors":"Matthew Taunton","doi":"10.1111/criq.12694","DOIUrl":"10.1111/criq.12694","url":null,"abstract":"<p>Like many Consortiumites of my generation, I joined the London Consortium under the spell of Steve Connor. I made my way down Malet Street from UCL, where I was studying for an MA in English Literature, to Steve’s office in Birkbeck College. It was Jane Lewty who had pointed me in Steve’s direction. ‘He’s a sound guy’, she said. I only later realised that she was referring to his interest in sound studies, but the warmth of her recommendation had made an impression on me.</p><p>The two immediately striking aspects of the London Consortium, as Steve described it to me during my admissions interview, were its commitment to interdisciplinarity and its unusual meta-institutional shape. Interdisciplinarity was not quite, in 2004, the near-mandatory AHRC and REF buzzword it has since become. It appealed to me as a student who loved novels and films and philosophy and history and sociological theories, and who was turned off by a strand of Eng. Lit. piety that made literature into a holy object. I had enjoyed my time at UCL, and the tutorial system gave me the freedom to write essays on Public Enemy, <i>Back to the Future</i>, Marxism and so on – though of course these were hardly the set texts on UCL’s BA in English Language and Literature. It was only during my PhD that my supervisor Colin MacCabe would introduce me to the work of Raymond Williams, but that ‘culture is ordinary’ I knew instinctively.<sup>1</sup> And at its best the Consortium lived out the promise of that ambiguous phrase.</p><p>The tone was set by the courses which each cohort of Consortium students took together, whether enrolled on the PhD or the MRes.<sup>2</sup> That was a group of somewhat over thirty students in my year. Each course was co-taught by (at least) two people, normally with different disciplinary formations. On ‘Metamorphosis from Ovid to Cronenberg’, taught by Steve and Colin, we’d study <i>A Midsummer Night’s Dream</i> one week (the Shakespeare play and the Britten opera), because culture – including the ‘high’ or difficult culture which English studies said was good for us, if approached with the appropriate degree of moral seriousness – was ordinary and available for analysis without the need for prior induction into Shakespeare Studies or opera criticism. Another week, we’d study <i>The Fly</i> because horror films are culture too and warrant attention. Now, you face obvious limitations, when you’re called to an analysis of Britten’s opera, if you know nothing about the history of opera and its criticism. But I remember Steve emphasising that this ignorance also gave you a special kind of epistemological advantage over opera specialists: someone trained in film studies would be able to see things that might pass a musicologist by. If this seems dilettantish, it wasn’t meant to be: the Consortium ethos was always to follow the defamiliarising effect of that initial encounter with a deeper engagement with specialised knowledge. Interdisciplinarity was too ofte","PeriodicalId":44341,"journal":{"name":"CRITICAL QUARTERLY","volume":"64 4","pages":"20-26"},"PeriodicalIF":0.2,"publicationDate":"2023-01-25","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/epdf/10.1111/criq.12694","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"41788898","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"OA","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
<p>Some years ago, at a point when the category of ‘lyric’ had, as it spasmodically does, become a source of academic controversy, it became increasingly prevalent to define lyric by way of a distinctive form of temporality.<sup>1</sup> This started from the basic intuition that poems we call ‘lyrics’ tend to be short. Brevity seems a reassuringly neutral criterion, at once minimal and capacious; yet one can derive from this many of the qualities that have come to be considered characteristic, even definitive, of the genre. Goethe once wrote that ‘[t]he pull of a deep intuition demands the laconic’ [<i>Der Drang einer tiefen Anschauung fordert Lakonismus</i>].<sup>2</sup> That the history of lyric is replete with poems that do not fit the criterion of shortness – ‘lyrics’ have at times been said to encompass anything from <i>The Prelude</i> to <i>Citizen: An American Lyric</i> – need not discourage the lyric theorist unduly. Such an objection is anticipated in Edgar Allen Poe’s assertion that ‘what we call a long poem is, in fact, merely a succession of brief ones – that is to say, of brief poetical effects.’<sup>3</sup> Wordsworth's ‘spots of time’ are characterised, after all, by moments where narrative progression gives way to the temporal condensation of an epiphany, just as Rankine's ‘American lyrics’ turn on particular instances where the microaggressions she documents expand to encompass and render legible a social totality.<sup>4</sup> ‘Laconic’ lyric incorporates a poem's condensation of linguistic materials, intensity of emotion, directness of address, resistance to narrative, memorability, and a programmatic desire to speak into eternity.</p><p>The purpose of the current essay is not to reopen the recent controversy with its own attempt at a definition, but rather to think through, and <i>parse</i>, the different modes of temporality at play in poems we habitually call ‘lyric’. It is striking that the definition of lyric that Jonathan Culler gives in his <i>Theory of the Lyric</i> – ‘a Western tradition of short, nonnarrative, highly rhythmic productions, often stanzaic, whose aural dimension is crucial’<sup>5</sup> – at each stage characterises lyric through temporal qualities.<sup>6</sup> Yet the temporalities to be parsed extend further. In addition to poems' prosodic, syntactic, and stanzaic organisation in time, their disruptions of and deviations from narrative time, and the temporalities of address, we will want to attend to the temporal dynamics of citation and allusion, of sonic and rhetorical effects of echo and repetition, or archaism and neologism as backward-looking and forward-looking attitudes towards diction. One can understand a lyric poem as a kind of textual object that interiorises so many different temporal vectors, yet poems are also experienced in time: whether performed or read and re-read, they unfold in and across time. As W. S. Graham once wrote, ‘the eye reads forward as the memory reads back:’<sup>7</sup> e
{"title":"Parsing Time in the Lyric","authors":"David Nowell Smith","doi":"10.1111/criq.12689","DOIUrl":"10.1111/criq.12689","url":null,"abstract":"<p>Some years ago, at a point when the category of ‘lyric’ had, as it spasmodically does, become a source of academic controversy, it became increasingly prevalent to define lyric by way of a distinctive form of temporality.<sup>1</sup> This started from the basic intuition that poems we call ‘lyrics’ tend to be short. Brevity seems a reassuringly neutral criterion, at once minimal and capacious; yet one can derive from this many of the qualities that have come to be considered characteristic, even definitive, of the genre. Goethe once wrote that ‘[t]he pull of a deep intuition demands the laconic’ [<i>Der Drang einer tiefen Anschauung fordert Lakonismus</i>].<sup>2</sup> That the history of lyric is replete with poems that do not fit the criterion of shortness – ‘lyrics’ have at times been said to encompass anything from <i>The Prelude</i> to <i>Citizen: An American Lyric</i> – need not discourage the lyric theorist unduly. Such an objection is anticipated in Edgar Allen Poe’s assertion that ‘what we call a long poem is, in fact, merely a succession of brief ones – that is to say, of brief poetical effects.’<sup>3</sup> Wordsworth's ‘spots of time’ are characterised, after all, by moments where narrative progression gives way to the temporal condensation of an epiphany, just as Rankine's ‘American lyrics’ turn on particular instances where the microaggressions she documents expand to encompass and render legible a social totality.<sup>4</sup> ‘Laconic’ lyric incorporates a poem's condensation of linguistic materials, intensity of emotion, directness of address, resistance to narrative, memorability, and a programmatic desire to speak into eternity.</p><p>The purpose of the current essay is not to reopen the recent controversy with its own attempt at a definition, but rather to think through, and <i>parse</i>, the different modes of temporality at play in poems we habitually call ‘lyric’. It is striking that the definition of lyric that Jonathan Culler gives in his <i>Theory of the Lyric</i> – ‘a Western tradition of short, nonnarrative, highly rhythmic productions, often stanzaic, whose aural dimension is crucial’<sup>5</sup> – at each stage characterises lyric through temporal qualities.<sup>6</sup> Yet the temporalities to be parsed extend further. In addition to poems' prosodic, syntactic, and stanzaic organisation in time, their disruptions of and deviations from narrative time, and the temporalities of address, we will want to attend to the temporal dynamics of citation and allusion, of sonic and rhetorical effects of echo and repetition, or archaism and neologism as backward-looking and forward-looking attitudes towards diction. One can understand a lyric poem as a kind of textual object that interiorises so many different temporal vectors, yet poems are also experienced in time: whether performed or read and re-read, they unfold in and across time. As W. S. Graham once wrote, ‘the eye reads forward as the memory reads back:’<sup>7</sup> e","PeriodicalId":44341,"journal":{"name":"CRITICAL QUARTERLY","volume":"64 4","pages":"138-154"},"PeriodicalIF":0.2,"publicationDate":"2023-01-25","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/epdf/10.1111/criq.12689","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"45179564","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"OA","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
{"title":"So What: Musings about the Method","authors":"Bartek Dziadosz","doi":"10.1111/criq.12686","DOIUrl":"10.1111/criq.12686","url":null,"abstract":"","PeriodicalId":44341,"journal":{"name":"CRITICAL QUARTERLY","volume":"64 4","pages":"27-35"},"PeriodicalIF":0.2,"publicationDate":"2023-01-25","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"43728615","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
{"title":"From The Far Side of Paradise","authors":"Sarah Joshi","doi":"10.1111/criq.12687","DOIUrl":"10.1111/criq.12687","url":null,"abstract":"","PeriodicalId":44341,"journal":{"name":"CRITICAL QUARTERLY","volume":"64 4","pages":"36-40"},"PeriodicalIF":0.2,"publicationDate":"2023-01-25","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"48312955","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
<p>Towards the end of her short-lived premiership, Liz Truss did a sixteen-minute television interview in the course of which she said ‘deliver’ thirty-three times.<sup>1</sup> It was as if she believed that she could dispel the evidence of failure, and reassert a lost sense of business as usual, by merely uttering the word. It didn't work; the iterations became more frequent and desperate as the conversation went on. But it gave an otherwise bland performance a weird Gothic undertone; this was the part of the story when the elixir is losing its efficacy, and the luckless magician resorts to more and more swigs just to keep going. What is it about this rather colourless verb that suggests such a promise of power?</p><p>As well as the repeated incantation, this passage performs an interesting slippage. At first ‘deliver’ is, as in ordinary language, a solidly transitive verb: ‘I will deliver a plan’. Almost at once, however, this gives way to a more elusive construction: not to deliver something but to deliver <i>on</i> something. This is still a predicate of sorts, but its relationship with the verb is vague: the proposed delivery is in the general area indicated by the noun, but there is no way of telling what it contains. This attenuated transitivity is a halfway house; in the third stage the object vanishes altogether, so that we no longer deliver anything, or even deliver on anything, but simply deliver. Finally, in a twist which is as close as the speech comes to wit, the evaporated direct object suddenly returns: we will deliver victory in the 2024 general election. So it <i>was</i> a transitive verb, all along! The surprise gives the last sentence the character of pulling a semantic rabbit out of an increasingly empty-looking syntactic hat, and it got the round of applause the trick was evidently seeking.</p><p>Of course these transitions are not an original invention on the part of Truss's speechwriters. Rather, the speech is sleepwalking through some passages in the word's modern history. Its use in contemporary politics is essentially as a metaphor drawn from the sphere of business. A prospective government undertakes to deliver the policy you voted for in the same way that Amazon delivers the article you ordered. This basis in commercial practice is what then licenses the emergent preposition: through the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, as markets became more complex, and transactions more standardised, delivery became less commonly a simple face-to-face conveyance, and more often the execution of a contract – that is, the vendor was delivering ‘on’ a pre-existing agreement.</p><p>What might be called the moral dimension of this commercial usage is that it turned the handover of the physical item into the fulfilment of a promise. This principle then informed the colloquial metaphor ‘to deliver the goods’. <i>OED</i> traces this in US political discourse as far back as the 1870s, usually in a negative sense (that is, a public figure
{"title":"Deliver","authors":"Peter Womack","doi":"10.1111/criq.12690","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1111/criq.12690","url":null,"abstract":"<p>Towards the end of her short-lived premiership, Liz Truss did a sixteen-minute television interview in the course of which she said ‘deliver’ thirty-three times.<sup>1</sup> It was as if she believed that she could dispel the evidence of failure, and reassert a lost sense of business as usual, by merely uttering the word. It didn't work; the iterations became more frequent and desperate as the conversation went on. But it gave an otherwise bland performance a weird Gothic undertone; this was the part of the story when the elixir is losing its efficacy, and the luckless magician resorts to more and more swigs just to keep going. What is it about this rather colourless verb that suggests such a promise of power?</p><p>As well as the repeated incantation, this passage performs an interesting slippage. At first ‘deliver’ is, as in ordinary language, a solidly transitive verb: ‘I will deliver a plan’. Almost at once, however, this gives way to a more elusive construction: not to deliver something but to deliver <i>on</i> something. This is still a predicate of sorts, but its relationship with the verb is vague: the proposed delivery is in the general area indicated by the noun, but there is no way of telling what it contains. This attenuated transitivity is a halfway house; in the third stage the object vanishes altogether, so that we no longer deliver anything, or even deliver on anything, but simply deliver. Finally, in a twist which is as close as the speech comes to wit, the evaporated direct object suddenly returns: we will deliver victory in the 2024 general election. So it <i>was</i> a transitive verb, all along! The surprise gives the last sentence the character of pulling a semantic rabbit out of an increasingly empty-looking syntactic hat, and it got the round of applause the trick was evidently seeking.</p><p>Of course these transitions are not an original invention on the part of Truss's speechwriters. Rather, the speech is sleepwalking through some passages in the word's modern history. Its use in contemporary politics is essentially as a metaphor drawn from the sphere of business. A prospective government undertakes to deliver the policy you voted for in the same way that Amazon delivers the article you ordered. This basis in commercial practice is what then licenses the emergent preposition: through the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, as markets became more complex, and transactions more standardised, delivery became less commonly a simple face-to-face conveyance, and more often the execution of a contract – that is, the vendor was delivering ‘on’ a pre-existing agreement.</p><p>What might be called the moral dimension of this commercial usage is that it turned the handover of the physical item into the fulfilment of a promise. This principle then informed the colloquial metaphor ‘to deliver the goods’. <i>OED</i> traces this in US political discourse as far back as the 1870s, usually in a negative sense (that is, a public figure","PeriodicalId":44341,"journal":{"name":"CRITICAL QUARTERLY","volume":"64 4","pages":"155-159"},"PeriodicalIF":0.2,"publicationDate":"2023-01-25","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/epdf/10.1111/criq.12690","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"137546322","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"OA","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
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