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Some readings from Frederick Turner on translation, semiotics, chaos, and evolution
FROM THE CULTURE OF HOPE (The Free Press, Fall 1994)
Dissolving the Order-Disorder Dualism: Self-Ordering Chaos
Though the avant garde professes to anathematize all dualisms as leading to the hierarchical
privileging of one term of the duality over the other, it is itself just as prone to dualism as any
other system of human thought. One of its most subtly paralyzing dualisms is the apparently
harmless one between order and disorder. The idea of hope as liberation, under which we have
labored for so many years, is especially prone to the corruptions of this dualism. For instance,
if order means predictability, and predictability means predetermination, and predeterminationmeans compulsion, and compulsion means unfreedom, the only way we can be free is if we are
disordered. The failed hopes of the last two centuries have been founded upon a deep
discomfort with the idea of order, and what are taken to be its close relatives: hierarchy,
foundationalism, norms, and essences--even with value itself, if value is conceived of as being
anything other than momentary individual preference.
We have found ourselves forced by the logic of the duality to choose the random, the
disordered, the arbitrary, the acte gratuite, the unconditioned, the weightless, the unfurrowed.
What, after all, were the alternatives? We could submit ourselves to the TranscendentalSignified, the old man with the white beard, Nobodaddy Himself, the ancestral authority figure
who bars the doors against our franchise, our potential for achievement, our free play of art, our
sexuality, our political identity and self-expression. Or we could accept that the world was a
dead machine and we were merely parts of that machine, linear and deterministic. We would
thus be fated to some kind of mechanistic social order determined by our genes, by the physics
of our energy economy, by economic necessity or psychological drives.
Indeed, it began to look as if the second alternative was just a new avatar of the first, that the
scientists and psychologists and sociologists and businessmen and commissars who preachedmaterialist determinism were really just the old white-bearded patriarchs and racial oppressors
in disguise. The psychic determinism of the nineteenth century, which had proven so
convenient when we wanted to argue that we had no choice but to follow the command of
desire, could also be used to sanction sexist gender roles. The social determinism justified
oppression, the historical determinism justified war, the biological determinism justified ideas
of racial superiority.
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The ramifications of this predicament confronted us wherever we turned. For instance, the
most fundamental problem of any natural philosophy is time. We were faced with three
difficult choices in talking about the relationship between the the past and the future: one is
that some external and ineffable divine will governs the relationship and makes it partlyintelligible and meaningful; one is that the relationship is deterministic, and that the past causes
the future in a linear and mechanical way; and the third is that the relationship is essentially
random, and that any sense it seems to make is in our perception of it only.
The problem with divine will is that it simply begs the question: how does God know what to
ordain, what is good and valuable? And can God's will meaningfully be free, if its future state
is only random with respect to its past? If freedom is simply randomness, is not God's will, in
the absence of a further, superior divine guarantee of its validity (which would be subject to the
same objection), simply autocratic whim, arbitrary in the worst sense? But would it not be
worse still if God's future state were deterministically governed by His past state--how could
God be free in any sense if this were so? And should we obey a God who is less free--less,
therefore, of a person--than we are? This was Socrates' question: is an act good because the
gods will it, or do the gods will it because it is good?
Nobody wants either a random universe or a deterministic one, for freedom and value and
meaning appear impossible within them--though great philosophers in the tradition of
Nietzsche have struggled to assert them nevertheless. But given the potential for abuse inherent
in the deterministic position, it seemed safest to opt for a more or less random relationship
between the past and the future, despite the fact that if this were the case, memory and
experience would be completely useless. At least we could individually perceive events as
meaningful and valuable. One person's perception would be as good as another's, so there
could be no political repression. And then--it began to look promising--we could hold the
universe to be unknowable because inherently random, and dismiss all science and all objective
knowledge as irrelevant, or simply the means to rationalize the political interests of the
powerful. Did not quantum theory, if we squeezed it a little and did not look too closely at its
beautiful mathematics, be made to say something of the same kind? Were not the white lab-
coated ones condemned out of their own mouths? And this is more or less the present state of
deconstruction and discourse analysis, as we have already seen.
But then, the knots and toils we tied ourselves into when we tried to profess views such as
these! We had discovered a new sin: involuntary hypocrisy--hypocrisy when we were most
desperately trying to avoid it. When we opted for simple disorder and randomness, we were
faced with the problems of how to mean the destruction of meaning? how to publish the
discrediting of publication and public? how to achieve an institutional position, say in the
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University of Paris, when institutions are the legacy of the past and thus based on sadistic
repression? how to attack hierarchy in a language with a syntactical tree and grammatical
subordination? how to get paid for copyrights where payment must be in the coin of mimetic
desire and copyright is the quintessence of commodification? how, even, to act with a body
possessed of an immune system of quite military rigor, and a nervous system strikingly unifiedunder central control?
And can freedom, seriously, be the same as random or disordered behavior? According to
classical physics the universe becomes more disordered over time, that is, less intelligible and
less able to do work. Is freedom just our little contribution to the universal process of
increasing entropy? Is it our job as free beings to assist in the destruction of this beautiful
ordered universe about us? Intention takes a highly organized brain; can the only free intention
be that which would tend to disorganize that brain and disable intention itself? What becomes
of responsibility if freedom is randomness? Can we take credit for what we do that is good, if
there is no responsibility? Can there be such a thing as justice, for instance, if we cannot be
held responsible for our actions?
Until recently the best that we could do with the available intellectual tools in cobbling up some
kind of reasonable account of the universe, and of our own freedom, was to devise some kind
of combination between order and randomness, linear determinism and disordered noise. The
title of Jacques Monod's book on biological evolution, Chance and Necessity , puts it well.
Perhaps we could describe both the emergence of new species and the originality and freedom
of the human brain as a combination of random mutations and relatively deterministic
selection, the clinamen of the random swerve and the ananke of the survival of the fittest, as
mapped onto a genome that would record and reproduce the results.
But even here there were deep and subtle theoretical objections. Although evolution was
clearly a fact, its precise mechanism was under heavy debate. Several mysteries complicated
the picture. One was that evolution seemed to proceed in sudden jumps, not gradually; a new
species did not seem to emerge slowly but rather leap into being as if drawn by a premonition
of its eventual stable form. Another was the odd bootstrap logic of species and their ecological
niches; without the right suite of species, the ecological niche wouldn't exist; but without the
ecological niche, the species wouldn't. How do new niches emerge? Again, from a purelyintuitive point of view even four billion years didn't seem nearly enough to produce the
staggering variety and originality of form to be found among living species--birds of paradise,
and slime molds, and hermaphroditic parasitical orchids, and sperm whales, and all; especially
when, as was the case, the huge majority of present species only evolved in the last few tens of
millions of years, and most of the major classes and phyla in the last few hundred million.
Other problems, like the fact that RNA, which can be altered by the experience of an individual
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member of a species, can play the role of DNA in determining heredity, also confused the
classical evolutionary picture. The genome, though for the most part alterable only at the level
of the gene pool of the whole species, wasn't untouched by the life of a particular organism, but
part of its reciprocal system.
Most disturbing of all, it became clear that the process of development, by which a fertilized
egg or seed multiplied and diversified itself into all the cells in all the correct positions
necessary for an adult body, was not a mere following of genetic instructions embedded in the
DNA blueprint, but was an original and creative process in itself, which produced a unique
individual out of a dynamic and open-ended interplay of cells. The miracle was that the
interplay could produce something in the end remotely resembling its twin siblings, let alone its
parents. It was as if the individual organism were drawn toward a beckoning form, and that
the genes were not so much blueprints specifying that form, as gates permitting the
developmental process to rush to its conclusion.
Further, chance and necessity, though they were the only permissible inputs to the system of
evolution, did not exhaust its description. Time, for instance, was an essential ingredient, and
what was time? In the case of biological evolution, the essence of time was that it was a
medium for iteration, for going over the same process again and again until the process itself
could alter by degrees, and cross critical thresholds into new types of process altogether; even
new types ofiteration altogether. In classical evolutionary theory time was just a sort of space
or quantity; but suppose iterative processes had laws of their own. . .? And why should not
time itself be altered by the change in the nature of the iteration, since iteration was its essence?
Why should time be a neutral metric, when all metrics seemed to be slightly pliable according
to what they measured? And those "critical thresholds"--they seemed innocent, and were
essential to all scientific theories, including biology: they determined, for instance, how big an
animal could get and still walk on land; the ratio of its volume, and thus weight, to surface area
and thermal exchange with the environment; how its digestive efficiency, the amount of forage
per square mile, and its mobility were related; but where did those thresholds come from?
Were they, before life evolved, waiting in the timeless wings of eternity to find a concrete
expression in an ecosystem? Was there not a marine airbreather archetype ready to be filled by
plesiosaurs, penguins, dolphins, whales and seals according to the available genetic material?
And the same kinds of problems arose if we tried to apply the chance-and-necessity model to
the working of the human brain. Just as with mutation and selection--which are, indeed, the
only external inputs to the biological system--we were clearly on the right track; but even more
clearly, there was something hugely missing. Maybe "nature and nurture" don't exhaust the
inputs. Can it make sense to speak ofinternal inputs, or forms which draw an appropriately
prepared human brain into a specific competence, like language? We are dangerously close to
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Plato here; and the great brain scientist Sir John Eccles has found himself compelled by his
observation of brain events that seem to anticipate the stimuli that should activate them, to
postulate a detachable human Soul. The first attempts at creating artificial intelligence used
purely deterministic programs. When these failed, researchers tried to "lighten" or free up the
system by throwing in random elements. This didn't work, either: one ended up with just a lessefficient calculator. Cybernetic neural network models of the human brain, which use iterative
and nonlinear feedback processes, and whose operations cannot really be called either
deterministic or random, seemed to show more promise; but there seemed to be a huge mass of
endogenous laws and principles in such systems that we have hardly begun to understand--and
where did they come from, all of a sudden?
The dualism of order and disorder was coming under increasing strain. But within the
humanities the traditional avant-garde hatred of any kind of essentializing, hierarchizing,
(biologically-) determinist, transcendentally significant and totalizing Order was so ingrained
that the more shaky that dualism became, the more passionately it was asserted. It may now be
obvious that the problem with which we began this chapter, of the order-disorder dualism, is
implicated in other dualisms: the dualisms of nature and humanity, of the natural and the
artificial, of animals with natures and humans without natures. The problem the avant garde
was honestly trying to solve was that the only alternative to repressive order that seemed to be
offered was random disorder, or on the psychological level, whim.
Suppose we were to try to specify what an escape from this predicament might look like
philosophically. We would have to distinguish between two kinds of order, a repressive,
deterministic kind, and some other kind that would not have these disadvantages. We would
also have to distinguish between two kinds of chaos, one which was simply random, null, and
unintelligible, and another that could bear the seeds of creativity and freedom. If we were
really lucky, the second kind of order might turn out not to be the antithesis of the second kind
of chaos; they might even be able to coexist in the same universe; best of all, they might even
be the same thing!
The extraordinary thing that has happened--an astonishing stroke of good luck, an earnest of
hope for the future--is that there really does seem to be the second kind of order, the second
kind of chaos. And they do seem to be the same thing.
This new kind of order, or chaos, seemed to be at the heart of an extraordinary range of
interesting problems that had appeared as philosophers, mathematicians, scientists, and
cybernetic technologists tried to squeeze the last drops of the imponderable out of their
disciplines. They included the biological and artificial-intelligence problems already alluded
to; the problem of how to describe catastrophic changes and singularities by means of a
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combination with time, heredity, and chance mutation, could bring about results that are
indistinguishable from originality, creativity, invention, and freedom. "Chaos" theory, then,
like evolution, is the subject of a great misprision. Evolution was falsely taken to confirm
determinism; and "chaos" is falsely taken to confirm the essential randomness of freedom.
In order to understand the deeply liberating point of chaos (or antichaos) theory, we will need
to go into the differences between deterministic linear order and chaotic emergent order, and
between mere randomness and creative chaos. Let us do so by considering an odd little thought
experiment; I heard it at a scientific conference, but am unable to attribute it to an individual,
though Manfred Eigen is a plausible candidate.
Suppose we were trying to arrange a sonnet of Shakespeare in the most thermodynamically
ordered way, with the least entropy. We cannot, for the sake of argument, break up the words
into letters or the letters into line segments. The first thing we would do--which is the only sort
of thing a strict thermodynamicist could do--is write the words out in alphabetical order: "a
compare day I Shall summer's thee to ?". As far as thermodynamics is concerned, such an
arrangement would be more ordered than the arrangement "Shall I compare thee to a summer's
day? . . . " as composed by Shakespeare. Here, in a capsule, is the difference between
deterministic linear order and chaotic emergent order.
Although this did not come up at the conference, we could even test the thermodynamic order
of the first arrangement by a further Gedankenexperiment. Suppose we coded the words in
terms of gas molecules, arranged in a row, the hottest ones corresponding to the beginning of
the alphabet, the coldest ones to the end, and so on in alphabetical order. If left to themselves
in a closed vessel the molecules would, because of the increase of entropy over time, rearrange
themselves into random alphabetical order (the hot and cold would get evenly mixed). Just as
in a steam engine, where the energy gradient between hot steam and cold steam, or hot steam
and cold air, can be used to do work, one would be able to employ the movement of molecules,
as the alphabetized "sonnet" rearranged itself, to perform some (very tiny) mechanical task.
And it would take somewhat more energy to put the molecules back into alphabetical order,
because of the second law of thermodynamics.
As arranged in Sonnet 18 those words are already in more or less "random" alphabetical order.Yet most human beings would rightly assert that the sonnet order is infinitely more ordered
than the thermodynamic, linear, alphabetical one. The information-theory definition of a
system with high thermodynamic order (low entropy) is that it takes as few bits of information
as possible to specify it, while it takes many bits to specify a high-entropy, low-order system.
Indeed, it would take few bits to specify the alphabetical order, and many to specify the sonnet
order: hundreds of books have been written about Shakespeare's sonnets, and they are not
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exhausted yet. But this, for a reader of poetry, is not a sign of the poem's randomness but of its
exquisite order. And in other respects the poem does seem to exhibit the characteristics of
order. It could, if highly damaged by being rearranged, be almost perfectly reconstituted by a
person who knew Shakespeare's other sonnets, and the rules of grammar, logic, and especially
poetic meter; one would need only perhaps a fragment of the lost original, showing its meterand a rhyme, and this, together with a syllable-count of the whole, would be more than enough
to reconstruct the sonnet. The sonnet can "do work:" it has deeply influenced human culture,
and has helped to transform the lives of many students and lovers. It is an active force in the
world precisely because it does not have the low-entropy simplicity of the alphabetical order
that might enable it to do mechanical work. Here, in the most primal sense, lies the distinction
between "power" in the mechanical, political sense, and the mysterious creative influence of
art.
Another way of describing this distinction is in terms of determinism and freedom. The old
avant garde paradigm could distinguish only two alternatives, deterministic order and random
freedom. The extraordinary thing about many nonlinear self-organizing systems, like living
organisms or read sonnets, is that though in theory their next state might be exactly computed
and thus predicted, there is not enough computing power in the physical universe to do so. The
system thus essentially chooses, or even creates, its own next state, within the parameters of an
infinitely rich attractor. This description is fully coterminous with the fullest possible
definition of freedom. Thus there is deterministic order and free order; and the latter is the way
out of the avant garde bottle.
But though we have distinguished between the two kinds of order, it is equally necessary to
distinguish between the two kinds of chaos. Otherwise we would be in the predicament of
someone like Stanley Fish, the "reader response" theorist, who has been forced by the "order-
disorder" dualism into asserting that any random sequence of words, chosen perhaps by
flipping the pages of a dictionary, would possess a richness of interpretive potential equal to
that of the sonnet; and thus that the very idea of text is either meaningless or extensible to
everything in the universe.
If reader response theorists understood information theory, it would be enough to show that
their mistake is to confuse "white noise" with "flicker noise." White noise is made up ofrandom amounts of energy at all frequencies. One could certainly imagine that one was
listening to the sea when one heard acoustic white noise; there are even devices that make
white noise to soothe people to sleep. But there is nothing there to understand or interpret. On
the other hand, flicker noise, which does not at first sound very different, is the "sound" that a
system makes that is ordered in itself and at the same time highly unstable and going through
continuous internal adjustments by means of feedback: a good example is a pile of sand onto
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whose apex new grains of sand are being dropped one by one. There are many one-grain
avalanches, fewer multi-grain avalanches, fewer still mass avalanches, and only the occasional
collapse of a whole slope. The sequence of these avalanches, though still statistical and
probabilistic rather than deterministic, obeys laws and forms an elegant fractal pattern when
plotted on a graph. What one hears when one hears flicker noise is the combination of theseevents; and if one analysed it carefully, one might be able to work out the size of the grains, the
interval of their deposition, and so on. There is real meaning to be extracted. Our reader-
response theorist refuses to extract it.
But this example is perhaps rather abstract. Flicker noise is not just the "sound" made by piles
of sand. It is also what we get when we "listen" in a crude way to highly complex organic
systems. For instance, suppose we take the temperature of an animal: that reading is flicker
noise. The temperature is made up of a combination of fantastically organized and intricate
metabolic processes; yet it is indistinguishable from the "same" temperature taken of a simple
chemical reaction, or of a random mixture of unrelated processes, which would be white noise.
The problem is that a thermometer is a very crude instrument; but it is not enough to do what
reader-response theorists would do, that is, to accept its crudity as accuracy, and to make up for
it by imagining all kinds of exotic meanings for the animal's temperature that had no necessary
connection with its organic metabolism. What makes it a crude instrument is precisely that it
makes no allowance for the nature of what it is measuring; and this is the problem also with
interpretative theories of literature, the arts, or history, which discount the inner personal
intentions and meanings of the author, whether the author authorizes a poem, a piece of music,
a painting, or an historical act. By discounting those personal meanings, and perhaps
substituting the crude statistical measures (the "temperature") of gender or race or class
interest, we may avoid the bugbear of Authority, but we lose any understanding of what it is we
are dealing with: we cannot distinguish a living organism from a stone, and are in grave danger
of treating them the same.
Another example of flicker noise is what you would "hear" from a set of electrodes applied to
someone's skull if the electrical signal were translated into sound. Just because one could
imagine that the squeaks and booms and whistles one would hear resembled perhaps the song
of humpback whales, this does not mean that the sound "meant" humpback whales, or that the
person was not actually thinking something, or that one could never know what he or she wasthinking, or that it was meaningless to seek for some absolute meaning, or that it is quite
legitimate for us to interpret it as thoughts about humpback whales.
Let us return to the sonnet. Like the strands of DNA that specify a living animal or plant, it
somehow has the power to express itself, repair itself, edit itself, and reproduce itself (in
memory or print). It even feeds, in a curious sort of way, by focussing current linguistic
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energies through its hot matrix in such a way as to take on renewed relevance. It is antichaotic,
not random; yet it is not a deterministic (for instance, alphabetical) order either. To deconstruct
the sonnet is to break it down to a uniform consistency so that one can then take its
"temperature" or hear its white noise; and one is then quite free to interpret that noise in gender
or race terms, or however one wishes. It would be like boiling the DNA of a live animal orplant into a soup of simple organic molecules, and claiming one had thereby got down to the
reality of the living organism. The tragedy is that in the course of its metabolism and
reproduction a living creature will briefly "boil" very precisely specified parts of its own
structure, for instance the weak hydrogen bonds that hold the DNA zipper together; it is always,
in a controlled way, on a kind of continuous light boil. But there is a cruel literalism in
extending the boiling process to the destruction of the whole delicate hierarchical structure.
"How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower?"
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A New Semiotics
What would an evolutionary theory of value and meaning look like? Value evolved slowly in
the universe, increasing with each access of reflexivity and level of feedback, complex entities
conferring value upon each other and upon the less complex by sensitively registering theirpresence, perceiving, eating, mating with, desiring, or loving them; and conferring value upon
themselves by their increasingly intentional and planned attempts to survive and reproduce.
More intense and more universal values evolved with increasing ecological interdependence,
whether among whole populations of species or in those fantastically complex and swiftly-
evolving inner ecologies, the nervous systems of higher animals. Human beings represent the
most elaborated and reflexive stage of this process that we are aware of.
Given this view of the universe, various candidates for a good definition of such terms as
meaning, reference, representation, and value emerge without strain.
It is clear that a word occupies the last and most temporally complex milieu in the evolutionary
series I have described--the human--and that later and more advanced milieux embrace and
include earlier ones, though with all the tragic strains and paradoxes and existential tensions
they have accrued in the process. Thus we could well define the relationship of reference or
representation, for the kind of word that refers to a non-human object, as constituting one of
containment or inclusion--even if the containment is not entirely successful and the inclusion is
procrustean in the ways characteristic of a temporal universe. The fact that the operation of
reference or meaning is not always successful--Priestley's word "phlogiston" is much less good
at including and exemplifying its chemical ancestors than the word "oxygen" that supplanted
it--does not mean that the operation itself is intellectually incoherent or so compromised by
internal contradiction as to be infinitely deconstructable.
In this analysis we will find again and again that the claims of the poststructuralists, exciting
and apocalyptic as they sound at first, are really rather wild and hysterical--perhaps because
they originated in the overheated atmosphere of denied shame, opportunistic ambition, and
intellectual and sexual display that was characteristic of postwar Paris. It is only if utterly
unrealistic claims of perfection are attributed to human language that words will fail the test of
referring, fairly reliably, to a real world in which they themselves have an existence no less real.We should not allow ourselves to be confused by the relationship of containment, as
humanistic intellectuals often are. Local indeterminacy can coexist in a perfectly rational way
with global coherence; and the fact that an element of something--a discourse, a text, a society,
a human body, a world--requires a context should not be cause of astonishment or skepticism
about their reality. They themselves help to create their context, and contexts are the more
robust and substantial, the more inclusive they are. Nor should this idea lead us to conclude
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that society alone, being the "largest" context, has the exclusive power to construct reality. For
society, as we have seen, only imperfectly contains its individual members; and it is not, in any
case, the largest context, since it itself exists, as the environmentalists remind us, within a
much larger context of natural history and ecology. Society will only come to include that
context to the extent that we come to understand the universe through science--so that largerparts of nature get the vote, so to speak--and to the extent that scientific knowledge really
becomes disseminated through the population, including its scientifically-illiterate cultural
critics.
We can picture the relationship of containment that is proposed here for certain kinds of
signification, in terms of those remarkable fractal images that are now being generated by the
iterative self-including algorithms of the new mathematicians. A word is like a shape--say, the
radiant snowman of the Mandelbrot Set, the flying scud of the logistical equation, the twisted
butterfly of the Lorenz attractor--which, when blown up to show its inner detail, reveals
miniature, simpler versions of itself at an infinite variety of scales. The process of "blowing
up" corresponds to our inspection of the world for examples of the meaning of a word. In other
words, a word is not just the thing on the page or the sound in the air, but includes, though only
with the labor of iteration, part of the physical world as its microstructure. This description
obviously works best for ordinary concrete nouns. But in fact, since every fractal is really a
process of continuous internal articulation, it works for verbs on a much subtler level. And any
study of etymology will show that other parts of speech are derivable by metaphor--itself an
iterative process of self-inclusion--from nouns and verbs. Again, gramatically, this description
can be extended beyond the indicative to other moods--it is really just a matter of pulling the
camera back a little from the fractal, and seeing what its shapes are the microstructure of.
An even richer way of thinking about the problem of meaning, which we have already glanced
at in our examination of chaos theory, is in terms of the relationship of strange attractors to the
physical processes they describe. Any nonlinear dynamical system, when triggered by a
stimulus, will generate a sequence of unpredictable events, but those events will nevertheless
be limited to their attractor, and further iteration will fill out the attractor in more and more
detail. The brain itself holds memories in the form of such attractors, the dynamical feedback
system in this case being circuits of Hebb cells. Thus we can picture the relationship of a word
to its meaning as the relationship of a given trigger to the attractor that is traced out by thefeedback process it initiates. When the word "refers" to a perceived object--say, a smell or a
sight--that object is one which can trigger a subset of the full attractor, as a Julia Set is a subset
of the Mandelbrot Set. Thus a single word can trigger a "meaning-attractor," sections of whose
fine detail can also be triggered by various sensory stimuli. This description rather nicely
matches with our Proustian experience of connotation and poetic evocation, and with the
logical form of generalization. It accords with the results of liguistic experiments concerning
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the relative strength by which a given example--say, a duck, an ostrich, or a sparrow--is
recognized by a speaker as belonging to the meaning of a word ("bird"). It also explains the
difference between ideas and impressions, that exercised the philosophical imaginations of
Locke and Hume: the richly-detailed subset evoked by the sight of an object would certainly
make the general sketch of the whole set evoked by the word look somewhat pale bycomparison.
Since the trigger--whether the word or the sensory stimulus--is itself part of the feedback
system, it is encompassed by its description, which is the attractor proper to it when it is
allowed to iterate its effects upon a complex neural network. Thus the represented, the
representation, and the experiencer of the representation are all part of the same physical
system. The usual critique of physical descriptions of representation--for instance, John
Searle's Chinese Room analogy for artificial intelligence--is that however a given object is
represented inside the physical system, it requires a smaller system inside the system to see it
and know it, or, as John Eccles believes, a detachable non-physical soul. The chaotic-attractor
theory of meaning holds out the promise of an intelligible physical description of meaning that
does not require an inner homunculus or the intervention of a metaphysical deus ex machina,
with further attendant problems of infinite regress--how does the god in the machine perceive
and know the representation?--to make it work. One way of putting this is that the issue of
reflexiveness, of self-reference or self-inclusion, has been transferred from the metaphysical
level where it can only be interpreted as a barren infinite regress or reductio ad absurdum, to
the physical realm where it can be studied as we study turbulences of other kinds, with their
own emergent properties and self-generated orderliness. The reflexiveness, we feel intuitively,
should be there in any account of meaning; the trick is to keep it from messing up our own
thinking about it, and place it where it belongs, in the operation of the brain itself!
It remains to suggest how this "attractor theory" of signification might work itself out in the
etymological history of a language, and express itself in terms of phonology, morphology, and
metaphor. Here we may recall our discussion of sacrifice and commutation in chapter four. I
argued that every sacrifice was an expiation of the crime of a previous sacrifice, though with
the penalty commuted, refined, and abstracted. Sacrifice itself is necessary in order to render
the shame of our condition as evolved and self-reflexive animals over into the epiphany of
beauty. It is related to the whole history of the universe as a cumulative and nested set ofcontradictions solved at each higher level at the cost of new, emergent contradictions. Those
existential tensions express themselves at the physical level in the turbulences and bifurcations
of nonlinear dynamical systems, and at the psychological level as shame, the fear of death, and
beauty. The commutative history of sacrifice recapitulates this recursive and tragic process. In
chapter four I suggested that human signification itself might have developed through the
commutation of sacrificial cost.
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In other words, the social and cultural dimension of language, like the neurosensory dimension,
has the form of a nonlinear dynamical system with strange attractors pulling it toward certain
"archetypal" forms. Those forms could be seen in the odd "targetedness" of the great sound-
shifts that periodically convulse a language; they can also be observed in the way thatmetaphorization will take parallel paths in different languages, so that when a colorful idiom
from another language is presented to us, we can almost always find an equivalent in our own.
Thus the words "spirit" in English and "Atman" in Sanskrit have identical metaphoric histories,
as do the words "kind," "nature," and "genus," all of which came together again in English,
having led separate lives in Germanic, Latin, Greek, and other tongues for thousands of years
since their original common root in Indo-European. Metaphorization and sound-changes are
every new human generation's way of committing a sacrificial impiety against the tongue of its
ancestors, an impiety that commutatively atones for the crime of the ancestors themselves in
similarly appropriating the language for themselves from their own mothers and fathers. And
since meaning dies the moment it ceases to cut slightly against all previous usage--another
valuable if over-emphasized and not entirely original contribution of Deconstruction--it is
constituted by this continual low-level feedback between the language and the world it
contains.
Such might be the rudiments of a new, evolutionary poetics and a new nonlinear theory of
meaning and representation. Obviously I have only scratched the surface here; the point is that
we do not need to sit helplessly in the morass of late poststructuralist despair and misologism,
and that there are still worlds for the literary humanities to conquer.
And there are practical implications of this model of meaning. (By now such phrases as
"model of meaning," with their invitations to further reflexive iteration, should hold no terrors
for us, since we hold a clue to the labyrinth, a clue whose own windings are equal to the
windings of that dark place we would discover.) One implication is that many of the
characteristics of the relationship of word and meaning are already present in the relationship
between a percept and the experience of it. If a sense-perception can generate a sort of "Julia
Set," then in a way a sense perception is like a word. That is, we share with other higher
animals the elements of a sensory language which preexisted the more encompassing kind of
language that uses words. Or we could put it the other way around, and say that language is just a larger kind of sensing, using internal triggers to evoke larger attractor-sets than any
percept could. Obviously we have here a further reason for exploring our relationship with our
animal friends: it is a way of understanding the fundamentals of our own language, of
discovering that ur-language we share with other parts of nature than ourselves. One huge
advantage of that ur-language is that it is not riven by the linguistic boundaries that divide the
more fully human languages like English and French from each other; and if we learn to speak
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it better, we may find more common ground with cultural Others as well as with biological
Others.
In one sense, of course, we already possess such ur-languages, in the shared imagery of the
visual arts and in the "universal language" of music. But the theory of meaning proposed heresuggests that there is something analogous to music and visual imagery that underlies language
itself, obscured by its more recent evolutionary achievements, to be neglected only at the cost
of a vitiation and greying of our expression and understanding. I came to this conclusion by an
entirely different route a few years ago, while translating the poetry of Miklos Radnoti with my
remarkable colleague Zsuzsanna Ozsvath. In the following section I shall discuss the
discoveries we made together, and in this way give body to the critical and linguistic theory
proposed here, especially to the concept of the ur-language. Suffice it to say here that poetic
meter turns out to be a sure road to the ur-language, or to change the metaphor, meter is the
lyre or golden bough or magic flute that enables us to enter the underworld of that language
and to return with intelligible gifts for the community. Meter, like music and visual imagery, is
an ancient psychic technology by which human nature and human culture are bridged;
appropriately, and as we might imagine from our discussion of the fractal harmonics of Hebb-
cell circuitry, meter is a rhythmic and harmonic system in itself, a way of inducing the wave
functions of the brain. The lyre through which Rilke traces Orpheus in the Sonnets to Orpheus
is the poetic form of the sonnet itself.
If the words of a poet can induce in one brain the same strange attractor that they proceeded
from in the poet's brain, an extraordinary possibility presents itself. This possibility is that
when those harmonics are in our heads we are actually sharing the thoughts, and indeed the
subjectivity, of the poet, even if he or she is dead. The poet lives again when his or her
attractors arise in another brain. Poetry, then, is a kind of artificial intelligence program, that
springs into being when booted correctly into any good human meat-computer. Thus poetry is
indeed a journey to the land of the dead. This view of reading is profoundly different from that
of deconstruction and reader-response theory, as the reader of this can surely see! In the next
section I shall give an example of how such an ecopoetics might be applied.
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FROM FOAMY SKY: THE MAJOR POEMS OF MIKLOS RADNOTI(Princeton
University Press, 1992)
The Journey of Orpheus: On Translation
The cast of the ghostly and beautiful mythic drama in which we, the translators, have become
involved, includes as the hero Radnoti himself, his twin brother who died as he was born, his
mother who also died in childbirth, his wife, for whom he lived, and ourselves. Zsuzsanna
Ozsvath is a native speaker of Hungarian who, rescued by a series of miracles from the
Holocaust in Budapest, shared some of Radnoti's experiences; I am a English/American poet
with no knowledge of Hungarian but with a devotion to the ancient forms and meters of poetry
which resembles Radnoti's.1
In the course of translating Radnoti we have made what we believe to be some valuablediscoveries, both about poetry and about the art of translation.
Our actual method of translating is as follows. Each week Zsuzsanna Ozsvath selects a poem
to translate, a selection based partly on its thematic connections to the ongoing discussion of
Radnoti which continually accompanies our work together. At a weekly meeting, between
three and four hours long, she and I go over the poem in three stages. The first stage is
constituted by two readings of the poem in Magyar by Zsuzsanna Ozsvath, one as she would
read it at a poetry reading, the other giving greater emphasis to the verseform. From these
readings I am able to ascertain the meter, tone, cadence, and often the emotional color of the
original. The rhyme-scheme is established, and any internal rhymes, assonances, alliteration,
etcetera, are noted. If the verseform is a classical one, either in the Hungarian tradition or in
some other tradition, such as the German, the Latin, or the French, or is for instance in Magyar
folk-ballad meter, the implications for the tone and mood of the poem are discussed.
The second stage is a word by word oral translation of the poem by Dr. Ozsvath, which I write
down. Here the first priority is the word order and idiom of the original, even when they make
very strange sentences in English. Only later does she clarify the grammar, if that is necessary.
The third stage is an exhaustive analysis of the connotations, derivations, cognates, and
synonyms of the words of the poem, together with an analysis of its lexical and syntactical
peculiarities--archaisms, neologisms, compound words, slang, folk-language, dialect, and
foreign words. Significant facts about references in the poem, its date relative to political and
biographical events and to the composition of other Radnoti poems, and other relevant matters,
are raised now if they have not been already. I frequently quote analogues from English,
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American, Latin, and European poetry, ranging from Chaucer, Shakespeare, and Milton to
Blake, Wordsworth, Keats, Hopkins, and Yeats, from Dickinson to Stevens and Eliot, and from
Virgil to Baudelaire and Pasternak; and Zsuzsanna responds by pointing out the similarities and
differences of tone, and with quotations from her own favorite German, French, or Hungarian
poets. There is a continuous interaction between my own poetic work and the work oftranslation, so that a poem of mine will sometimes gloss or anticipate a poem of Radnoti's. Dr.
Ozsvath points out certain special moments in the original and guides me through their feeling;
it is like the way Helen Keller's tutor guided her pupil through the reality of language. Such
moments include the "great cold ferns, that slowly stir and bow" of "Letter To My Wife," the
prune marmalade of "Forced March," the "somber-gonging tongue" of "Skin and Bone and
Pain," the loony rhymes of "In the Gibbering Palm Tree," the simplicity of "world is but
wormeatenness" in "Root," the "fuzzy-wuzzy" green stems of the poppies in "Steep Road," and
the cluster of "au" sounds in "October" (in "Calendar"):
All is golden-yellow, where
yellow corn does not yet dare
pawn the cornsilk gonfalon:
so it flaunts its golden awn.
This process is a highly interactive one, and there are often differences of interpretation
between the two translators, which must be fully resolved or, better still, incorporated as
tensions in the translation. For instance, in "Root," "Like Death," and "Two Fragments," one of
us felt more strongly a flavor of darkness and horror, the other the mysterious power of poetry
which flourishes even in those realms of darkness. The translations reflect this ambivalence.
At this point I work with the several pages of translation and notes to produce by word
processor a tentative verse translation, which I read to my co-translator some time during the
following week (usually on the phone). If the tone and music sound right, the result is polished
according to her advice and printed up. Some time during the next few weeks, after both
translators have lived with the poem for a while, we take a look at it again and correct any
problems that remain. We correspond with Mrs. Radnoti, the poet's widow, and her very
perceptive suggestions and criticisms also result in changes in the text.
What is significant about this method is, we believe, a combination of three factors. One is the
highly oral nature of the process; the poem never feels like just words on a page, but like a
living communication between persons. This applies even before the translation process
begins; Zsuzsanna knows most of the poems by heart, in part or whole. As for me, I first
encounter each poem simply as a set of verbal/musical sounds. The second factor is related to
the first: the process is highly interactive, with a feedback of understanding taking place
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between the two translators and our dead master. The third factor is the role of interpretation:
we are interpreting the poem from the moment we begin, even before one of us has a literal
understanding of it. This could only occur through the lingua franca of meter.
Radnoti's own metaphor for the process of translation was the myth of Orpheus. Though hehimself left tacit some of the ramifications of that metaphor, we believe that an exploration of
them may be valuable in this time; valuable not only for the reader but also for other translators
who may find themselves in the dark wood of the translator's task and feel the need, as we did,
for a guide.
Radnoti died in a strange lonely place, a sort of marshy delta-land where one of the Danube's
tributaries, the Rabca, winds under leaning willows and high circling birds to join the great
river. When we went there, and later when Fanni Radnoti put into our hands the notebook
containing her husband's last poems, exhumed with his body from their mass grave, we felt as
many did who knew him: that there must be some reason, some solid historical account, some
humanly-comprehensible explanation of his death. But the more we sought it among his
friends and among various literary, religious, and political survivors, the more it fled away
before us, or diverged into contradictory accounts, like a river losing itself in the tangled web of
its distributaries.
Yet his own work contains a triumphant and tragic myth of his death, which, if we followed it
carefully, pointed to an entirely different kind of meaning than that of the various political and
religious worldviews--Hungarian Nationalist, Christian, Communist, Jewish, Modernist,
Socialist--that can claim him. But to follow that myth was to follow him into the land of
shades, the underworld of roots and burial where he himself had his great adventure. A myth is
a clue given us by a wise witch to find our way out of a labyrinth; a severe but trustworthy
guide; or perhaps also the hope and promise of Mercy Herself, that there is a way back up into
the light.
These are not just metaphors. The problem with translation is that, on the everyday surface
level, there is no equivalent at all in another language for the words of a poem. The words of
another language do not know the words of a Hungarian poem, and they are as incapable of
understanding them as is someone who knows no Hungarian, or as rocks and trees and animalsare. If translation is a matter of finding equivalents in a horizontal, one-to-one way--idioms in
English that map the Hungarian idioms, grammatical ingenuities that preserve the ambiguities
of the original, parallel puns, and so on--then perhaps translation should not even be attempted.
Radnoti would remain dead to us and to the English-speaking world--and the metaphors that
Hungarians persistently use to describe the isolation of their language are of being buried,
imprisoned, on an island, cut off from the mainstream: the mainstream being English.
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"Twenty-Nine Years," and "Hexameters in Late October;" the sense that death will not stop his
song ("In a Troubled Hour," "Neither Memory Nor Magic"); perhaps even the persistent sense
that the poet brings sentient life to all of the animate and inanimate creation. We may even find
the snake that poisoned Eurydice in such poems as "Twenty-Eight Years" and "While Writing."
In the second of the "Razglednicas" the tiny shepherdess stepping into the lake catches in oneimage that peculiar combination of the pastoral and the Hadean that informs this theme of
poetic death-transcendence. And Radnoti's prophetic fury against the blood-orgies of his
persecutors in "Fragment" and "The Eighth Eclogue" recalls the reason for the dismemberment
of Orpheus.
For the translator the myth holds special gifts. In order to recover the life of the dead poet the
translator must follow him into the land of the dead, must go underground with him and be
reborn with him in his apotheosis. Our work as translators is, as it were, to find Radnoti's
unburied body and give it fit burial where, like those of the dead helmsmen Baios and
Palinurus, he will become a beneficent genius loci. To translate is to die to one's own language
as the dead poet died to his, and to go back to their common source. The poet, as in "Root,"
lives underground, nourishing the branches of the flowering tree. Every poem is a flowering
branch; to translate is to retrace the source of that branch's vitality down to where the other
language branches off from the common root and to follow it up into a new bough of blossom.
The tree of life is the tree of tongues; and under every poem's words are an ur-language in
which it was spoken before the poet himself translated it into Magyar or Latin or English. The
"original" has never been written down, and every poem is an approximation to that orphic
song which comes from the land of the dead, of the ever-living. Translation is not between leaf
and leaf, flower and flower, but a descent through the fractal cascades of the twigs, the forked
branches, to the root where the original poem issues, and then, by the power of song, to
reascend along another branch.
By the "ur-language" we do not mean some actual prehistoric language, like Indo-European.
One of the emphatic features of Hungarian is that it has no linguistic relationship to the Indo-
European languages. The ur-language is the deep language that we share to some extent with
other higher animals, the language of childhood, the words we sometimes speak in dream and
which dissolve when, having awoken, we try to remember them. The world itself speaks a sort
of objective poetry, formed out of the harmonious relations of all registerings, sensations, andperceptions of it; and this poetry is the scaffolding of its next leap of growth. It is that poetry
which poets hear, and which is the inner melody of their poems. The history of the evolution
of perception and finally of esthetic perception is the history of the evolution of the universe
into concreteness and time, and into that densest and deepest kind of time we call eternity. The
reason the rocks, trees, and beasts come to listen to Orpheus is because they want to hear how
their own story comes out; for the ur-language that they speak is unconscious of itself and does
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not know its own meaning. The poet is the womb of that meaning, and needs the historical
language of his or her culture to embody it.
To translate Radnoti is only possible because he never cut himself off from the living tradition
of poets and prophets. Like Dante and Blake and Rilke and Yeats he conversed on equal termswith the spirits of the dead from the past, and the angels of the unborn future; and the piety that
enabled him to do that also renders him available for conversation with other poets, even
though the earth of the grave divides us. In the Eighth Eclogue he speaks with Nahum; and
Nahum's home is not just ancient Israel but the primeval dustcloud out of which the Universe
evolved.
To be a part of that tradition is to have mastered, and to have kept the faith with, certain ancient
magics, one of the greatest of which is metrical form. In "O Ancient Prisons," a perfect sonnet,
we see that faith and mastery. The poet teaches how to know; and he does this only by
speaking in measure and in form. Perhaps the deepest element of the conversation between the
translator and the dead poet is mediated by the struggle to resurrect the meter of the original.
In "A la Recherche," which, as its title implies, is itself an attempt to resurrect the dead poets
who were the friends of his youth, Radnoti describes the adjectives as dancing on the froth and
comb of the meter; in other words, images come alive only when embedded in a metrical
cadence that holds them in the correct, vital position with relation to each other. Images are
like the bases of an enzyme, that are effective in their work of cutting, joining, and catalysing
only if the molecular structure--or verse form--of the enzyme presents them at the right angle
so as to form an "active site." Radnoti can only remember and preserve his dead friends when
he remembers the measure of their poetry; and for him the pressure of their hands in their last
handclasp is the same thing as their characteristic "hand" or handwriting in meter. In his great
elegy for Mihaly Babits, again it is the Measure (capitalized as in Radnoti's poem to suggest
Babits' initial) that preserves the inner life of the poet.
The struggle to resurrect Radnoti's meter in another language results in a terrifying revelation,
and demands an absolute faith. The revelation is of Radnoti's almost inhuman, his Mozartian
virtuosity with meter. Consider, for instance, the meter of "Twenty-Nine Years"--which even
Radnoti himself confesses, in the poem, to have found horribly difficult--with its regular
pattern of tetrameters and pentameters, its "nines and twenties" as he punningly puts it, itsfiendish system of feminine rhymes. Every poem he wrote is metrically unique, and he was in
his brief time (again like Mozart) divinely prolific. (Like Mozart too his artistic joy seems to
rise to an angelic shriek the grimmer his existence becomes and the closer he gets to death;
Radnoti's friends were scandalized by the fact that he found the activities of Herr Hitler and
company of secondary interest to the sweet wrestle with poetic form. But Radnoti was right.
One day Hitler will be known as a tyrant who lived during the time of the poet Radnoti.) To
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render Radnoti's delicate interference between a meticulous and complex verseform, and an
infinitely various cadence, seems simply impossible; a blank wall.
But there is also the faith; for after all the cadence of poetry is already prior to and in common
between all languages. One of the unnoticed peculiarities of the Orpheus myth is that thoughOrpheus is described as a poet rather than as a musician, it is the sweetness of his song, of his
lyre, of his music that persuades the masters of the Underworld to release Eurydice. We think
the problem can be resolved by interpreting music in the myth as poetic meter: Minos and
Rhadamanthos might not understand the surface language of a particular national lexicon and
syntax, but recognize, as the root recognizes the sap, the ur-language of measure and cadence.
So if the translator has faith in the ur-language--one might almost say, if he does not once look
behind to check whether the "literal" sense is following--he may yet lead the redeemed meaning
up into the light. In other words, since English is descended from the same deep root as
Magyar, any music of which Magyar is capable exists also in English. To recover it is like, as
Michelangelo put it, cutting away the stone to reveal the statue; the statue is waiting in the
stone, if one has faith that it is.
Translating metrically one must be prepared to give up everything, to sacrifice everything to the
meter. Only after that kenosis, that descent and submission, is everything miraculously
restored, not always where it was lost, and sometimes in a form which is not at once
recognizable--in the connotation of another word, or in a grammatical ambiguity enforced by
the meter--but without loss. Of course some Radnoti lines simply write themselves in English:
And in the brilliance, bold calligraphy
Is idly, glitteringly, written by
a boastful, diamond-budded dragonfly.
("Calendar:" "June")
But elsewhere, as in the tiny "Ikon" of Mary, the meter will not allow enough room and the
pillows on which the doves rest in the original have to be sacrificed.
Look at her hands! they're a flower
slain by the snow. In her hair,
loosening, nestles a dove.
But the pillows return in the word "nestles," and as the dove now nestles in her hair, it has
become her bosom, and so the pillows both of the infant Jesus and of the lover have reappeared
in another form, as the doves themselves, but chastened by being in the singular--another shift
demanded by the meter. In "A Pink Unveils," faith to the meter demands a straining of the
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language, so that the cicadas "flirt their hips;" but this usage might well be the discovery of an
English or American poet: the poet that Radnoti might have been if his mother tongue were
English. (Radnoti sometimes jokingly referred to himself as the English poet Eaton Darr, a
phonetic reversal of his own name.) The same recovery of the original intensity of the image,
through faith in the measure, can be found in the line about the "pales of grey" in "Paris," andthroughout such poems as "Floral Song," "In Your Arms," and "Dreamscape;" and the
Hopkinsian wordleaps that occur in our translation of "Hexameters in Late October" were
forced on us by the rigors of the hexameter.
Now these observations about the recovery of the original are not the translatorial self-
congratulation that they may appear. The point is that these things happen through the force of
Radnoti's own genius, given the deep affinities between all languages, and the blind faith of the
translators that the original cadence lies buried in English, just as it did in the Hungarian. This
faith is absolutely essential; the translator must reject every half-way acceptable rhyme or
metrical solution, until the right words are found. Those words are at the same time utterly
unforced (though they may sound very strange, expanding the very notion of what is "natural"
in English) and utterly in the spirit of the original. Without that faith one would not know that
one had not yet reached the answer, because one would not believe that the answer existed.
This faith requires the translator to jettison many old and new superstitions about what is
metrically possible in a given language. Such superstitions include the belief that English does
not take kindly to feet that begin with a strong stress (the dactyl or trochee, for instance); that
feet with two light syllables (dactyls, anapests, amphibrachs) necessarily result in an unpleasant
gallop in English verse; and that lines longer than the pentameter--especially the hexameter--
will not work in English. All these problems are matters of technique. Chiefly the answer lies
in a consideration of the length as well as the stress of the English syllables. Few poets who
work in English meter pay the conscious attention they should to syllabic length, though if they
have good ears they will generally opt unconsciously for a safely pleasant pattern of syllable
lengths. If the heavy and light stresses in the English hexameter are patterned against a
harmonious counterpoint of syllables of greater and lesser duration, many of the problems of
this long line disappear. Another recourse is alliteration, which wonderfully ties the line
together. In all of these matters Radnoti was our teacher, as he himself was a faithful servant of
the classics whom he translated. Our experience with Radnoti encourages us to believe thateven tonal meters, like those of classical Chinese poetry, could be made to work in English,
even though tone is used grammatically in English rather than lexically, as it is in Chinese.
Magyar, we feel, once possessed a systematic lexical/tonal element, which still surfaces
sometimes in poetry.
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The uniqueness of each of Radnoti's poems has much to do with the different mood and
mindset that is generated by a given meter, and to which the imagery, wordplay, logic, and
degrees of grammatical licence and semantic ambiguity are tuned. In "Hymn to the Nile," for
instance, the short lines and heavy rhymes are tuned to the repetition of words and whole lines
to produce an incantatory or invocatory effect. This in turn contrasts with the exotic subjectand the compounded neologisms to create a strange ritual chant, the aural equivalent of
Egyptian hieroglyphics; while the light dancing energy of the rhythm makes the poem into a
celebration. Meanwhile the playful paradoxes, expressionistic diction, and grammatical
freedom set the poem loosely within the symbolist movement and thus suggest a more
immediate relevance. Take the meter out of this complex system, and the meaning of the poem
disappears, like the colors of a tropical fish when it is left to gasp in the bottom of a boat. "In
Your Arms" is an even more telling example. It would be quite lifeless without the lullaby
meter. More subtly, the epic/pastoral hexameters of the first and eighth eclogues are
fundamental to their meanings, recalling the power of Homer, the moral complexity of Virgil,
and that strange Hadean combination of the arcadian with the heroic that we associate with the
descent to the land of the dead.
The chief superstition that we found we must give up was the superstition that "free verse" is an
adequate or acceptable way of translating a metered original. And our experience with
translation confirmed our growing suspicion that by abandoning metered verse the modernists
were abandoning the very heart of poetry itself. In translating Radnoti we hope that his spirit
will be released into the English language, released from that marshy delta-land beside the
Rabca and into the freedom which Radnoti always envisioned beyond the dreadful
foreshortening of his own life and fate. The poetic stagnation which has occurred since the
second world war, partly as a result of the terrible events of that war and partly because of the
modernist mistake of giving up poetic meter, may thus give way to a new freshening and
opening of poetry, so that the spiritual Nile may once more flow unimpeded:
All hail, thou greenglowing!
O Nilus, sweetsmelling,
thy cisterns thou breakest,
thy pastures sunglowing
thou floodest with growing,
thou, overflowing!
Note
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1. The following poem conveys one dimension of my personal relationship as a poet with
Radnoti:
On the Pains of Translating Miklos Radnoti
And now I too must wrestle with a brother
Whose dead limbs cumber me within the womb,
Whose grief I pity, but whose cord of nurture
Glides dreadful and unseen in this blind gloom.
That angel, who is Michael in my language,
Knew how to die, knew how to share a grave;
Sometimes he almost overcrows my spirit,His great feathered wings beating in the cave--
My elder brother died as I first opened
My lips in speech instead of in a scream;
Now he returns to claim the voice I borrowed,
Now he returns, the hero of my dream.
How can I share the lifeblood of our mother?
How can I let his dead voice steal my breath?
But how indeed could I deny my brother
Who, reckless, bought my birthright with his death?
For all alone among that generation
He kept the faith that I have made my name,
That ancient grace, that hard emancipation,
The love of form that touches us like flame.
What can I do but open to his service
The pulse and wordstream of the mother tongue?
Thus I subdue myself and hear him singing
Out of the land of shades where none have sung.
Could I, the western democrat, professor,
Father, essayist, of middle age,
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Be given any greater gift than this is,
To share the passion of his vassalage?
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From BEAUTY: THE VALUE OF VALUES (University Press of Virginia, 1991)
The rituals of sacrifice, and their later and more subtle developments as tragedy or eucharist,
are the human way of rendering this ancient horror into beauty. Sacrifice has a peculiar
element, which we might call "commutation": every sacrifice commemorates a previoussacrifice, in which some much more terrible act of bloody violence or costly loss was required.
Abraham is allowed to sacrifice a ram instead of his son, who was due to the Lord; the Greeks
can burn the fat and bones and hide of the bull to the gods, and eat the flesh themselves.
Instead of a whole firstborn son, only a shred of flesh from the foreskin need be given. When
the process has been going for a long time, the sacrificed object can become apparently rather
trivial. Cucumbers are sacrificed in some African tribal societies; Catholics and Buddhists
burn candles; almost all Christians break bread. Thus every sacrifice is an act of impurity
which pays for a prior act of greater impurity, but pays for it at an advantage, that is, without its
participants having to suffer the full consequences incurred by its predecessor. The
punishment is commuted in a process that strangely combines and finesses the deep
contradiction between justice and mercy.
The process of commutation also has much in common with the processes of metaphorization,
symbolization, even reference or meaning itself. The Christian eucharistic sacrifice of bread
not only stands in for the sacrifice of Christ (which in turn stands in for the death of the whole
human race); it also means, and in sacramental theology is the death of Christ. The Greek
tragic drama both referred to, and was a portion of, the sacrificial rites of Dionysus--both a use
and a mention, as the logicians say, or both a metaphor and a synecdoche, in the language of
the rhetorician. The word commutation nicely combines these senses: in general use it means
any substitution or exchange, as when money in one currency is changed into another, or into
small change, or when payment in one form is permitted to be made in another; in alchemy it
can be almost synonymous with transmutation, as of one metal into another; in criminal
jurisprudence it refers to the reasoned lightening of a just punishment to one which is less
severe, but which is juridically taken as equivalent to it; in electrical engineering it is the
reversal of a current or its transformation between direct and alternating current; in
mathematical logic it refers to the equivalency of a given operation, such as A multiplied by B,
to its reverse, B multiplied by A.
Shakespeare's The Merchant of Veniceis a profound meditation on the nature of commutation
in all these senses: on the commutative relationships between the three thousand ducats, the
friendship of Antonio and Bassanio, the pound of flesh, the life of Antonio, the livelihood of
Shylock, the wedding-ring of Portia, and the body of Portia in marriage; between the ducats
and the daughter, between inanimate metal, dead meat, live flesh, and the living spirit. The
play is most deeply about how sacrifice is the meaning of meaning. What it implies for our
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own time is that the death of sacrifice is the death of meaning; that the crisis in modern
philosophy over the meaning of the word "reference"--and this is the heart of it--has its roots in
the denial of shame and thus the denial of commutativeness; and that for reference and
meaning to come back to life, some deep sacrifice is required.