Chapter 5 of Book I must be the most readable (in the everyday, non-Wakean, dull sense of that word) in the entire thing. In essence, it is a parody (maybe not the best word, but I'll leave it...) of a scholarly treatment of a manuscript (based on a well-known edition of the Book of Kells which JJ knew and loved), in this case about ALP's letter, which exhaustively examines it from every angle, from the outer (findspot, envelope, paper) to the inner (scribal hand, vocabulary), to the speculative (the identity of the author and copyist, the date of its production)---everything except its content.
As I'm writing through my reading of FW, in the evenings after I spend my day writing through an early career as an academic inching closer to the precipice of a still-inchoate "plan B," this chapter hits me from two sides. The subject matter and discourse form of this chapter is, in essence, that of my professional endeavor in interpreting difficult texts and writing about my interpretations. It also speaks to my own struggles in general to write in a way that reflects something about me, is part of my journey of understanding and my effort to come to terms with my past and with my experience of the world. In my profession, becoming a better writer could make me a better provider for my family. In my personal life, it could be part of my self-realization.
At the very end of the chapter, the scholarly investigator (who may be a form of Shaun) deduces who the scribe of the document is: Shem the Penman. The letter itself, however, is ALP's. This makes Shem her amaneunsis, and raises the question of what hand he had in the creation of its text.
I felt disappointment when I realized the disjoint between author and scribe in this chapter. The scholar is confident in identifying the unique ductus of the script, and for each letter of the alphabet can list peculiarities: "every word, letter, penstroke, paperspace is a perfect signature of its own." Even in the spaces, the voids between letters. But we don't have an understanding of the author yet. Did she write to be understood? Was her letter wholly meant for the other, or was she seeking self-expression and -knowledge? What does it mean to write something that not only survives but generates and re-generates itself through commentary and analysis, but to still be unknown? What is the point?
It is the scribe---the hand behind the ink shapes on the surface of the page---that remains knowable, to some extent, but the author is lost behind the words, and is not even able to have her voice preserved, for as soon as her text is read, her voice is replaced with another's.
Everything I write will necessarily be an imperfect expression of who I am and will ultimately conceal me, whether it is read (less likely) or not (seems to be what will happen). Constantly faced with texts that are constantly receding out of my grasp, like in a dream where you are running to catch something or arrive somewhere but the harder you exert yourself the slower you go, I realize that what I write is just as fraught with unknowing as what I write about. Even my mother tongue is elusive to me as I write with phrases cobbled together from books and articles and conversations, melted together in an uneasy whole, a strange unity (as Derrida calls it) that is no less refractory as the ancient text fragments in lost languages or sacred scriptures in frozen holy tongues.
It is clear to me that I am still doing the negative work. What good comes from this? How can I change the way I write, and change my life?
No comments:
Post a Comment