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International Studies in the History of Rhetoric Editors
Laurent Pernot, Executive Editor, Strasbourg, France Craig Kallendorf, College Station, U.S.A. Advisory Board Bé Breij, Nijmegen, Netherlands Rudong Chen, Peking, China Manfred Kraus, Tübingen, Germany Gabriella Moretti, Trento, Italy Luisa Angelica Puig Llano, Mexico City, Mexico Christine Sutherland, Calgary, Canada
VOLUME 2
Literary Rhetoric Concepts—Structures—Analyses
By
Heinrich F. Plett
LEIDEN • BOSTON 2010
Original publication: Systematische Rhetorik. München: Fink, 2000. Enlarged version: 2009. Translators: Myra Scholz (Part I), Klaus Klein (Parts II & III) Copy editors: Myra Scholz (Part II), Fredrik Heinemann (Part III) This book is printed on acid-free paper. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Plett, Heinrich F. [Systematische rhetorik. English] Literary rhetoric : concepts-structures-analyses / by Heinrich F. Plett. p. cm. — (International studies in the history of rhetoric ; v. 2) Originally published: Systematische Rhetorik. Munchen: Fink, 2000. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-90-04-17113-8 (alk. paper) 1. Rhetoric. 2. Poetics. I. Title. II. Series. PN189.P5413 2009 808—dc22 2009039181
ISSN 1875-1148 ISBN 978 90 04 17113 8 Copyright 2010 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Hotei Publishing, IDC Publishers, Martinus Nijhoff Publishers and VSP. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill NV provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. printed in the netherlands
CONTENTS
Foreword to the English Edition of Literary Rhetoric ...................
xi
PART I
RHETORIC AND LITERATURE Chapter One
From the Decline of Rhetoric to its Revival ........
3
Chapter Two
Rhetorical Literature ...............................................
33
Chapter Three Literary Rhetoric ....................................................
39
Chapter Four
51
Rhetoric and Literary Criticism ............................
PART II
THE REALM OF RHETORIC Chapter One
Approaches to Rhetoric ..........................................
57
Chapter Two
The Domains of Rhetoric .......................................
59
Chapter Three The Rhetoric of Figures ........................................
63
Chapter Four The System of Figures ............................................ 4.1 Design of a New Model of Figures ..................................... 4.2 Model Comparison as Model Critique .............................. 4.2.1 Historical Models of Figures of Speech ................ 4.2.2 Modern Models of Figures of Speech ................... 4.2.3 Critical Synopsis ........................................................ 4.3 Pragmatic and Semantic Figures of Speech ......................
65 65 67 68 70 75 75
Chapter Five
Competence and Performance ...............................
79
Chapter Six
The Aesthetics of the Figures of Speech .................
87
vi
contents PART III
THE SYSTEM OF FIGURES Chapter One Phonological Figures ............................................. 1.1 Phonaesthetic Basic Structure: The Phonic Figures ................................................................................... 1.1.1 Figures of Phonological Deviation (Metaphonemes) ..................................................... 1.1.1.1 Addition ................................................... 1.1.1.2 Subtraction ............................................... 1.1.1.3 Permutation ............................................. 1.1.1.4 Substitution .............................................. Text Analysis: Ernst Jandl, “Etüde in F,” Verses 1–3 (in: Ernst Jandl, Laut und Luise. Neuwied/Berlin: Luchterhand, 1971, p. 14) ............................................................ 1.1.2 Figures of Phonological Equivalence (Isophonemes) ......................................................... 1.1.2.1 Position ..................................................... 1.1.2.2 Extent ........................................................ 1.1.2.3 Similarity .................................................. 1.1.2.4 Frequency ................................................. 1.1.2.5 Distribution ............................................. Text Analysis: Gerard Manley Hopkins, “The Windhover” (in: Gerard Manley Hopkins, Poems and Prose, ed. W.H. Gardner. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1961, p. 30) ................... 1.1.2.6 Digression: Semantic Aspects of Phonaesthetics ......................................... 1.2 Phonaesthetic Superstructure: The Prosodic Figures .... 1.2.1 Phonaesthetic Competence: Metre ...................... 1.2.1.1 Accent Figures ......................................... 1.2.1.1.1 Position .................................. 1.2.1.1.2 Extent ..................................... 1.2.1.1.3 Similarity ............................... 1.2.1.1.4 Frequency .............................. 1.2.1.1.5 Distribution .......................... 1.2.1.2 Pause Figures and Pitch Figures .......... 1.2.2 Phonaesthetic Performance: Rhythm .................. 1.2.2.1 Deviating Accentuation ......................... 1.2.2.2 Deviating Pausation ...............................
Homeographic Wordplay (Eye Rhyme) ......................... Text Analysis: George Herbert, “A Wreath” (in: George Herbert, The Works, ed. F. E. Hutchinson. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1964, p. 185) ..................................................
179
180
Chapter Three Syntactic Figures .................................................. 3.1 Figures of Syntactic Deviation (Metataxemes) ............... 3.1.1 Addition ................................................................... 3.1.2 Subtraction ............................................................... 3.1.2.1 Ellipsis ....................................................... 3.1.2.2 Zeugma ..................................................... 3.1.3 Permutation ............................................................. 3.1.4 Substitution .............................................................. Text Analysis: Carl Sternheim, Das Fossil I.iv (Excerpt) (source: Carl Sternheim, Dramen, ed. W. Emrich. 3 vols. Neuwied: Luchterhand, 1963, vol. I, p. 313) ............................ 3.2 Figures of Syntactic Equivalence (Isotaxemes) .............. 3.2.1 Similarity .................................................................. 3.2.2 Frequency ................................................................. 3.2.3 Extent and Position ................................................ 3.2.4 Distribution .............................................................. 3.2.5 Phonological, Morphological and Semantic Aspects ...................................................................... Text Analyses ................................................................................. Bertolt Brecht, Lob der Partei ..................................................... William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar III.ii.13–47 (the Brutus speech) .............................................................................................
183 183 184 186 186 189 192 195
210
Chapter Four Semantic Figures ................................................... 4.1 Figures of Semantic Deviation (Metasememes) ............. 4.1.1 Addition .................................................................... 4.1.2 Subtraction ............................................................... 4.1.3 Permutation ............................................................. 4.1.4 Substitution .............................................................. 4.1.4.1 Similarity Tropes (Metaphors) .............. 4.1.4.2 Contiguity Tropes (Metonymies) ......... Text Analyses ................................................................................. Johann Wolfgang Goethe, “Kennst du das Land . . .?” ............ Emily Dickinson, “I like to see it lap the Miles” ..................... 4.2 Figures of Semantic Equivalence (Isosememes) ............ Text Analyses .................................................................................
Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queene III.i.46 ........................... Andreas Gryphius, Die Hölle ...................................................... Chapter Five Graphemic Figures ................................................. 5.1 Figures of Graphemic Deviation (Metagraphemes) ...... 5.1.1 Addition .................................................................... 5.1.2 Subtraction ................................................................ 5.1.3 Permutation .............................................................. 5.1.4 Substitution ............................................................... 5.1.4.1 Substitution within the same Graphemic System ................................... 5.1.4.2 Substitution Outside the same Graphemic System ................................... Text Analyses ................................................................................. Ernst Jandl, “onkel toms hütte” .................................................. Gerhard Rühm,“schweigen” ........................................................ 5.2 Figures of Graphemic Equivalence (Isographemes) ...... Text Analyses ................................................................................. Gerhard Rühm, “die ersten menschen sind auf dem mond” A Poem by E.E. Cummings ......................................................... Václav Havel, “antreten” ..............................................................
Indices Index of Names .................................................................................. Index of Subjects ................................................................................
315 320
259
281 281 283 284
FOREWORD TO THE ENGLISH EDITION OF LITERARY RHETORIC
The basis for this exposition of rhetorical figures was laid primarily in the years 1960 to 1970, when the emergence of modern semiotics, linguistics and communication theory opened the way for a new understanding of rhetoric, particularly in the interpretation of the rhetorical doctrine of argumentation (inventio) and the rhetorical theory of style (elocutio). Beyond the linguistic plane of everyday language or everyday communication Roman Jakobson and other representatives of deviation linguistics established a plane of secondary language or secondary linguistic communication, which could be formulated in a secondary grammar of linguistic art forms, as opposed to the standard grammar of everyday language. A closer look revealed that these linguistic art forms coincided with those of the stylistic categories known as “figures” and “tropes” bequeathed by classical rhetoric. Given the results of the new methodological and semiotic-linguistic research, it was necessary to redefine and re-systematize those categories. For in the tradition of classical antiquity the definitions of rhetorical figures differed widely, a problem that even internationally renowned lexicons and handbooks like those of Henri Morier and Heinrich Lausberg could not gloss over. It was all the more important then to reconsider the rhetorical figures in the light of newer research, to define them in accordance with unified criteria and to place them in a coherent, methodologically correct system. Applying the distinction between competence and performance postulated in Noam Chomsky’s grammatical theory to rhetorical figures entailed dividing them into a rhetorical competence, which finds expression in the stasis of a secondary grammar, and a rhetorical performance, which describes their dynamization. In this respect the rhetorical system opens itself to interdisciplinary collaboration with theory of action, psychology, sociology, and other disciplines that establish the relation of rhetoric to concrete practice. This makes it possible, for example, to demonstrate the affective potential or the socio-political relevance of certain rhetorical categories. Viewed in this way, rhetoric is no longer a theory of how texts are generated, but of their hermeneutics. The term “text” here is understood in the first place as the linguistic text, particularly literature in all its manifestations. It is also conceivable,
xii foreword to the english edition of literary rhetoric however, that the rhetorical categories can be applied to nonverbal texts, for instance visual texts such as drawings, graphics, paintings, film, television. Rhetoric thus acquires a transmedial character, as it was practised by artists and art theorists of the European Renaissance and Baroque. Whether modern rhetoric as proposed in this volume is also—in the terminology of the Russian-American cultural scholar Mikhail Epstein—transcultural in character, the reader can decide for himself. The following discussion is divided into three sections, which are in turn further subdivided: I. Rhetoric and Literature II. The Realm of Rhetoric III. The System of Rhetorical Figures
The book concludes with a Bibliography and an Index divided into parts A. Index nominum and B. Index rerum. H.F. Plett
PART I
RHETORIC AND LITERATURE
CHAPTER ONE
FROM THE DECLINE OF RHETORIC TO ITS REVIVAL
In 1960 an encyclopaedic work appeared in Munich which still occupies the minds of literary scholars, though in practice rather than in theory: Heinrich Lausberg’s (1912–1992) Handbook of Literary Rhetoric (Handbuch der literarischen Rhetorik), whose ambitious subtitle “A Foundation of Literary Study” (Eine Grundlegung der Literaturwissenschaft) is nowadays often overlooked. Immediately after its publication it provoked a large number of critical responses, mostly negative ones (e.g. Dockhorn 1962). Classical scholars criticized its lack of historical accuracy, referring to its details as well as its general outline. The latter had, of course, been oriented on classical testimonies, but as far as its systematicity was concerned, this work had no predecessors, not even in Quintilian’s voluminous Institutio Oratoria. The verdict of the antiqui was quickly passed and popularized: an idealized reconstruction lacking any historical basis, an unsuccessful enterprise in historical philology. The moderni were no less critical in their comments. They complained about the work’s “technical” character, its repulsive foreign terminology, and—as the basic issue—its apparent neglect of the affective dimension of rhetoric, which seemed to disqualify it for reception theory and literary hermeneutics. Their verdict was accordingly: a “skeletonized rhetoric” devoid of any historical and hermeneutic contexts, a carefully ordered tool box containing many sophisticated instruments, but lacking only one thing (which was supposed to be everything): a description of their possible functions. Such questions have accompanied Lausberg’s rhetoric until the present day. Still, they could not prevent this work from eventually bringing about the “rhetorical turn” in German literary scholarship. Why were, and still are, the critical reactions so hostile to this book? In Germany, poetics had been separated from rhetoric since Alexander Gottlieb Baumgarten’s Aesthetica (1750–1758). Later works, like Wilhelm Wackernagel’s (1806–1869) Poetik, Rhetorik und Stilistik (1873), did not go beyond what their subtitle announced: “Akademische Vorlesungen” (Academic Lectures). Moreover, they restricted rhetoric to a “theory of prose” (Theorie der Prosa). Thus a book by
4
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the excellent classical scholar Eduard Norden (1868–1941) is significantly titled: Antike Kunstprosa (Classical Literary Prose [1898]); it traces the history of literary prose under the influence of rhetoric from its Gorgianic beginnings to the Renaissance. This focus on rhetoric, however, does not prevent its author from devaluing the Rhetorica ad Herennium: “Der Verfasser schreibt, wo er dem Vortrag seines Lehrers etwas Eignes hinzufügt, wie ein Schuljunge, indem er seine kümmerlichen Gedanken mit allen Flittern der Rhetorik behängt.” (Translation: “The author, when adding something of his own to the lecture of his teacher, writes like a schoolboy, draping his paltry ideas with all the tinsel of rhetoric.” [Norden 1958: I, 175]). In his introduction, Norden nevertheless justifies his publication by stressing the influence of rhetorical style on the form of literary representation: Die antike Literatur unterscheidet sich in formaler Hinsicht von den Literaturen aller modernen Völker dadurch, dass sie einen unvergleichlich höheren Wert auf die Form der Darstellung legt: eine antike Literaturgeschichte also, welche die stilistische Entwicklung außer acht lässt, ist ebenso unwissenschaftlich wie eine Stilgeschichte, die nicht in steter Fühlung mit der literarischen Entwicklung bleibt. (Norden 1958: I, 1). The literature of classical antiquity differs in a formal respect from the literatures of all modern peoples in that it places incomparably higher value on the form of the presentation. Hence, a history of classical literature that ignores the stylistic development is just as unscientific as a history of style that does not remain in constant touch with the literary development.
In spite of this apology of the merits of rhetorical elocutio for the understanding of classical literature, the opinio communis of his time was different. Ulrich von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff (1848–1931), the most famous German classical scholar at the turn of the 20th century, describes the beginnings of rhetoric with the emergence of Gorgias of Leontinoi in his history of Greek classical literature (1905) as follows: Er (sc. Gorgias) ging nicht auf die Gerichtsrede aus, sondern auf den Vortrag, wie ihn die ionischen Sophisten übten; aber er erstrebte geradezu die Konkurrenz mit der Poesie, von der er auch die „schönen Wörter“ und den Ersatz der schlecht und rechten Bezeichnung der Dinge namentlich durch die Metapher übernahm. Er zerlegte den Gedanken in antithetische Glieder, suchte diese so ziemlich gleichlang zu machen und womöglich durch die Assonanz oder den Reim zu verbinden. Wir dürfen solche Produkte wirklich kaum noch Prosa nennen. Diese Künste waren zuerst so mühsam und wirkten auf das Ohr so bezaubernd, daß der Inhalt zu kurz kam, aber zu kurz kommen durfte. Ein begabter
from the decline of rhetoric to its revival
5
Tragiker wie Agathon, ein Thukydides haben sich diesem Zauber nicht entzogen. Es konnte nicht ausbleiben, daß der Reiz sehr rasch verflog, sobald sich herausstellte, daß alles, was nur Mache ist, sich sehr bald lernen läßt. Aber die Anregung blieb, und immer wieder hat das Stilprinzip, statt voller Periodisierung lauter kurzatmige Glieder zu bilden, seine Verehrer gefunden (wie eben heute wieder), und die Klangwirkung statt der Quantität, der Reim als Bindemittel, ist schließlich so ziemlich in aller modernen Poesie zur Herrschaft gelangt. Denn Thrasymachos, der Dorer, und Gorgias, der Ionier, vereinigen sich, um die attische Kunstprosa zu gründen, die über alle Wechsel der Zeiten und Stile hin in ungebrochener Kontinuität herrschend geblieben ist, solange Griechisch kunstmäßig geschrieben ward, also zweitausend Jahre, die durch die lateinische Kunstprosa aber auch den Okzident reden und schreiben gelehrt hat. Frankreich hat den Primat in dieser schwersten Kunst des Prosaschreibens dadurch errungen, daß es diese Schule ganz durchgemacht hat, allerdings indem es dann die Fesseln der Imitation sprengte. (1905: 65–66). He [Gorgias] did not focus on the speech of the courtroom but on the delivery as practised by the Ionian Sophists; however, he actually strove to compete with poetry, from which he usurped the “beautiful words” and the substitution of the plain and simple naming of things with the metaphor. He dissected the idea into antithetical elements, attempted to make these approximately the same length and, whenever possible, to link them by means of assonance and rhyme. Such products can hardly still be called prose. These arts were at first so intricate and had such an enchanting effect on the ear that the content suffered—but that was permissible. A gifted tragedian like Agathon and a Thucydides were not immune to this enchantment. Inevitably, the appeal evaporated as soon as it became evident that everything which is only artful making can be learned very quickly. But the stimulus remained, and again and again the stylistic principle of composing nothing but short-winded elements instead of full periods has found its devotees (as again today); and acoustic effect rather than quantity. Rhyme, as a binding agent, has come to dominate virtually all of modern poetry. For Thrasymachus the Dorian and Gorgias the Ionian united to found the literary prose of Attica, which remained continuously dominant through all the vicissitudes of eras and styles as long as literary Greek was written, in other words two thousand years, but which also taught the occident speaking and writing through Latin literary prose. France has attained primacy in this most difficult art of prose writing by passing through the entire school, though while breaking the chains of imitation.
Wilamowitz gives a negative evaluation of the beginnings and further history of rhetoric on the following grounds: 1. He appreciates a prose style of lengthy periods in the manner of Cicero’s writings and rejects a mannerist prose style of short cola of parallelisms, as used by Seneca
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and Tacitus (cf. Croll 1966; Williamson 1966). 2. He draws a sharp line between poetry and prose, which results in an open condemnation of any “poeticizing” of prose. 3. He evidently adheres to the German idealist cult of genius, with the consequence that he casts doubt on the legitimacy of a concept defining the poet as a “maker”, even though Aristotle’s Poetics and its influence on neoclassical poetry and culture should have taught him both its validity and important reception history right into the 20th century. In a chapter on mediaeval rhetoric in his “Mittelalter-Studien. XVIII,” Ernst Robert Curtius (1886–1956) critically reports further instances of how Wilamowitz denigrated classical rhetoric in his history of Greek literature: Wenn man Wilamowitz’ Griechische Literatur des Altertums liest, muss man zu der Überzeugung kommen, dass es im alten Hellas eine Sorte raffinierter Bösewichter gegeben hat, die schon im klassischen 5. Jh. der griechischen Kultur den größten Schaden zufügten und die ihre Schlechtigkeiten bis zum Verfall des weströmischen, ja des oströmischen Reiches fortsetzen durften. Ungestraft: denn große und kleine Leute, weltberühmte Schriftsteller und weltgebietende Kaiser ließen sich von ihnen betören, gingen bei ihnen in die Schule, zollten ihnen Bewunderung. Haben wir dann die antike Kultur nicht stark überschätzt? Die Frage drängt sich dem Leser auf—nicht dem Verfasser. Und wie hat sich die Geschichte zugetragen? Ein gewisser Gorgias aus Sizilien kam 427 als Gesandter nach Athen und führte dort eine neue Kunstprosa ein, die reine „Mache“ und „sinnloser Klingklang“ war. Trotzdem ließen sich Dichter wie Agathon, Prosaiker wie Thukydides davon blenden—auch heute [1905] gilt ja sinnloser Klingklang für „stimmungsvolle Poesie“. Das Geschichtswerk des Thukydides ist leider durch diesen „Flitterkram“ entstellt. Es sind „Verirrungen“, die wir entschuldigen, weil Thukydides ein ernster Denker (freilich kein Forscher) war. Dennoch müssten wir sein Werk „erbärmlich“ nennen, wenn er es selbst in der vorliegenden Form zur Veröffentlichung bestimmt haben sollte. Der irregeleitete Autor überlädt sein Werk mit großen Reden, die „das Gefühl erkalten lassen und den Eindruck der Wahrhaftigkeit stören“. Damit war besiegelt, dass die antike Geschichtsschreibung dies „bedenkliche Schmuckmittel“ nicht mehr loswerden konnte. Aber der Mann, der „die Schuld“ auf sich lud, König der Rhetorik zu sein, und den die allgemeine Bildung als ihren Ahnherren verehren sollte, ist Isokrates (436–338). „Vor der Stärke seines Eigenlobes muss man sich die Nase zuhalten“. Er war ein geschickter „Journalist“, dem der „Ernst der Wissenschaft“ zuwider war. Die einzige Rhetorik, die wir anerkennen müssen, ist die des Aristoteles. Er hat sie wissenschaftlich fundiert, soweit sie mit der Logik zusammenhängt. Aber die Späteren! Sie gingen in ihrer „Schamlosigkeit“ bis zu dem Zugeständnis, dass der „Inhalt Nebensache sei und dass formale
from the decline of rhetoric to its revival
7
Bildung zu allem befähige“. Die ganze Arbeit, die ununterbrochen bis ins 5. Jh. n. Chr. auf den Um- und Ausbau dieser Theorie verwandt ist, darf man als „weggeworfen“ bezeichnen. (Curtius 1945: 231). Reading Wilamowitz’s Griechische Literatur des Altertums [Greek Literature of Antiquity], one must conclude that in ancient Hellas there were villains of a refined sort who brought immense harm to Greek culture as early as the classical fifth century and who were allowed to continue their villainies until the decline of the Western, and even Eastern Roman Empire. With impunity: for persons great and small, world-famous writers and world-commanding emperors all fell under their spell, attended their school, paid them homage. Have we then perhaps greatly overestimated the culture of Antiquity? This question forces itself upon the reader—but not the author. And how did this history unfold? In the year 427 a certain Gorgias from Sicily came as an emissary to Athens and there introduced a new literary prose which was nothing but “artful cobbling” and “meaningless jingle-jangle”. Nevertheless poets like Agathon and prose writers like Thucydides were dazzled by it—and today [1905], too, meaningless jingle-jangle is considered “poetry fraught with feeling.” The historical work of Thucydides is unfortunately marred by this “cheap tinsel”. They are “aberrations” that we excuse because Thucydides was a serious thinker (though certainly not a researcher). Yet we would have to call his work “wretched” if he had himself decided to publish it in its existing form. The misled author overloads his work with grand speeches that “cast a chill on feeling and disrupt the impression of veracity”. This proved fateful for classical historiography, which could no longer rid itself of such “dubious ornamentation.” But the man who incurred the “blame” for being the King of Rhetoric, and whom the general educated public supposedly revered as its ancestor, is Isocrates (436–338). “His self-praise is so penetrating one has to hold one’s nose.” He was a skilled “journalist” for whom the “seriousness of scholarship” was repugnant. The only rhetoric we should acknowledge is that of Aristotle. He gave it a scientific foundation, to the extent that it is related to logic. But the later ones! They in their “shamelessness” went so far as to admit that “content is a matter of secondary importance, that formal education provided all the competency needed”. All the effort, going as far back as the fifth century A.D., related to the adaptation or expansion of this theory can be termed “wasted”.
In Wilamowitz’s outline derogatory terms such as “reine Mache” (nothing but artful cobbling), “sinnloser Klingklang” (meaningless jingle-jangle), “Flitterkram” (cheap tinsel), “Verirrungen” (aberrations), and “bedenkliche Schmuckmittel” (dubious ornamentation) for rhetoric as a discipline of the humanities and its products demonstrate an entirely negative attitude which was nourished by the German tradition of Geistesgeschichte.
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In the 19th century the English man of letters and critic Thomas de Quincey (1785–1859), in a commentary on Richard Whately’s Elements of Rhetoric (1828), summarized what, in his opinion, represented the reasons of the negative attitude towards rhetoric: No art, cultivated by man, has suffered more in the revolutions of taste and opinion than the art of rhetoric. There was a time when, by an undue extension of this term, it designated the whole cycle of accomplishments which prepared a man for public affairs. From that height it has descended to a level with the arts of alchemy and astrology, as holding out promises which consist in a mixed degree of impostures and trifles. If we look into the prevailing theory of rhetoric, under which it meets with so degrading an estimate, we shall find that it fluctuates between two different conceptions, according to one of which it is an art of ostentatious ornament, and according to the other an art of sophistry. A man is held to play the rhetorician, when he treats a subject with more than usual gaiety of ornament; and perhaps we may add, as an essential element in the idea, with conscious ornament. This is one view of rhetoric; and, under this, what it accomplishes is not so much to persuade as to delight; not so much to win the assent, as to stimulate the attention, and captivate the taste. And even this purpose is attached to something separable and accidental in the manner. But the other idea of rhetoric lays its foundation in something essential to the matter. This is that rhetoric of which Milton spoke, as able ‘to dash maturest counsels, and to make the worse appear the better reason.’ Now it is clear, that argument of some quality or other must be taken as the principle of this rhetoric; for those must be immature counsels indeed that could be dashed by mere embellishments of manner, or by artifices of diction and arrangement (Thomas de Quincey 2004: 1–2).
According to this author, rhetoric has suffered from being no longer an art and practice of veritable importance to the commonwealth. Instead of being a method for educating future politicians, lawyers, preachers and other public figures, as it had been in former cultural periods, such as the Roman libera respublica or Renaissance humanism, it has dwindled to a stylistic theory concentrating on adding embellishments in otherwise bare texts for the sake of engendering delight with the telos of a l’art pour l’art or taking refuge to sophistic methods of making the worse appear the better reason, as it had been taught and practised by Protagoras in the first age in the history of rhetoric. In the 18th and 19th centuries the standards for a new relationship between poetry and rhetoric were set by Idealism, Classicism and Romanticism. In his Critique of the Power of Judgment (Kritik der Urteilskraft) (1790), Immanuel Kant (1724–1804) deals with rhetoric
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in § 52 under the heading “On the combination of the beautiful arts in one and the same product” as follows: Rhetoric can be combined with a painterly presentation of its subjects as well as objects in a play; poetry with music in song; this, in turn, with a painterly (theatrical) presentation in an opera; the play of the sensations in a piece of music with the play of shapes in dance, etc. Further, the presentation of the sublime, as far as it belongs to beautiful art, can be united with beauty in a verse tragedy, a didactic poem, an oratorio; and in these combinations beautiful art is all the more artistic, although whether it is also more beautiful (since so many different kinds of satisfaction are crisscrossed with each other) can be doubted in some of these cases. Yet in all beautiful art what is essential consists in the form, which is purposive for observation and judging, where the pleasure is at the same time culture and disposes the spirit to ideas [. . . . .]. If the beautiful arts are not combined, whether closely or at a distance, with moral ideas, which alone carry with them a self-sufficient satisfaction, then the latter is their ultimate fate. They then serve only for diversion, which one increasingly needs the more one uses them to banish the mind’s dissatisfaction with itself, by which one makes oneself ever more useless and dissatisfied with oneself. In general, the beauties of nature are most compatible with the first aim if one has become accustomed early to observing, judging, and admiring them. (Kant 2000: 203).
While Kant here includes rhetoric in the symmedial relationships of the beaux arts but simultaneously stresses the necessity that they represent a moral idea, he later, in a footnote to § 53, sharply contrasts his evaluations of poetry and rhetoric: I must confess that a beautiful poem has always given me a pure enjoyment, whereas reading the best speech of a Roman popular speaker or a contemporary speaker in parliament or the pulpit has always been mixed with the disagreeable feeling of disapproval of a deceitful art, which understands how to move people, like machines, to a judgment in important matters which must lose all weight for them in calm reflection. Eloquence and well-spokenness (together, rhetoric), belong to beautiful art; but the art of the orator (ars oratoria), as the art of using the weakness of people for one’s own purposes (however well intentioned or even really good these may be) is not worthy of any respect at all. Further, both in Athens and in Rome it reached its highest level only at a time when the state was rushing toward its ruin and a truly patriotic way of thinking had been extinguished. He who has at his command, along with clear insight into the facts, language in all its richness and purity, and who, along with a fruitful imagination capable of presenting his ideas, feels a lively sympathy for the true good, is the vir bonus dicendi peritus, the speaker without art but full of vigor, as Cicero would have him, though he did not himself always remain true to this ideal. (Kant 2000: 205).
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Likewise Kant vilifies rhetoric (ars oratoria) in his Critique of Pure Reason (Kritik der reinen Vernunft) as an art of deluding by means of a fair semblance and thereby depriving men’s minds of their clear judgment and reducing them to mere machines. The machine metaphor also recurs with respect to the storehouse of persuasive categories which Kant terms the “machinery of persuasion”, a prejudice taken up by 20th-century critics of the “technological” approach to rhetoric. But with regard to Kant’s debasing of rhetoric many scholars (e.g. Bender / Wellbery 1990: 3–39) have rediscovered the age-old conflict between philosophy and rhetoric that began with Plato’s dialogues Gorgias and Phaidros and continued throughout the tradition of Neoplatonism. There rhetoric is assigned to the realm of opinion (doxa) and thus is stigmatized by the qualities of deception and manipulation, whereas philosophy deals with eternal truths (ideai) and their cognition (episteme). In a passage of his De Oratore (III.57–61) Cicero eloquently criticizes Socrates “for having narrowed the conception of philosophy, a discipline which had originally included ‘the whole study and practice of the liberal sciences (omnis rerum optimarum cognitio atque in eis exercitatio).’ By his efforts, Socrates ‘separated the science of wise thinking from that of elegant speaking, though in reality they are closely linked together.’ From him, therefore, has sprung ‘the undoubtedly absurd and unprofitable and reprehensible severance between the tongue and the brain, leading to our having one set of professors to teach us to think and another to teach us to speak.’ ” From this statement Wesley Trimpi (1983: 3–4) draws the conclusion: “The separation of rhetorical from philosophical disciplines was, for Cicero, explicitly opposed to the early paideia and to the literature which transmitted its intentions.” Cicero’s ideal of rhetoric combines ratio and oratio, sapientia and eloquentia, as at the beginning of his treatise De Inventione (I.1) we read: Saepe et multum hoc mecum cogitavi, bonine an mali plus attulerit hominibus et civitatibus copia dicendi ac summum eloquentiae studium. Nam cum et nostrae rei publicae detrimenta considero et maximarum civitatum veteres animo calamitates colligo, non minimam video per disertissimos homines invectam partem incommodorum; cum autem res ab nostra memoria propter vetustatem remotas ex litterarum monumentis repetere instituo, multas urbes constitutas, plurima bella restincta, firmissimas societates, sanctissimas amicitias intellego cum animi ratione tum facilius eloquentia comparatas. Ac me quidem diu cogitantem ratio ipsa in hanc potissimum sententiam ducit, ut existimem sapientiam sine
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eloquentia parum prodesse civitatibus, eloquentiam vero sine sapientia nimium obesse plerumque, prodesse nunquam.
In the English translation by M.H. Hubbell: I have often debated with myself whether men and communities have received more good or evil from oratory and a consuming devotion to eloquence. For when I ponder the troubles in our commonwealth, and run over in my mind the ancient misfortunes of mighty cities, I see that no little part of the disasters was brought about by men of eloquence. When, on the other hand, I begin to search in the records of literature for events which occurred before the period which our generation can remember, I find that many cities have been founded, that the flames of a multitude of wars have been extinguished, and that the strongest alliances and most sacred friendships have been formed not only by the use of reason but also more easily by the help of eloquence. For my own part, after long thought, I have been led by reason itself to hold this opinion first and foremost, that wisdom without eloquence does too little for the good of states, but that eloquence without wisdom is generally highly disadvantageous and is never helpful.
It is this combination of wisdom and eloquence that Cicero sees above all embodied in the mythical figure of Hercules Gallicus. In the Renaissance humanists strove to revive this myth and to postulate that he, like other mythological figures, such as Orpheus, Amphion, and Arion, was one of the archetypal founders of human civilization. In Andrea Alciato’s Emblematum libellus (1562), Hercules Gallicus is portrayed in emblem 93 under the motto Eloquentia fortitudine praestantior in the following manner: Arcum læua tenet, rigidam fert dextera clauam, Contegit & Nemees corpora nuda leo. Herculis hæc igitur facies? Non conuenit illud Quòd uetus & senio tempora cana gerit. Quid quod lingua illi leuibus traiecta cathenis, Queis fissa fialeis allicit aure uiros? An ne quòd Alciden lingua, non robore Galli Præstantem, populis iura dedisse ferunt? Cedunt arma togæ, & quamuis durißima corda Eloquio pollens ad sua uota trahit. (Alciato 1542/1967: 206)
In English translation: Eloquence superior to strength—His left hand holds a bow, his right hand a stout club, the lion of Nemea clothes his bare body. So this is a figure of Hercules. But he is old and his temples grizzled with age—that does not fit. What of the fact that his tongue has light chains passing through
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it, which are attached to men’s pierced ears, and by them he draws them unresisting along? The reason is surely that the Gauls say that Alceus’ descendant excelled in eloquence rather than might and gave laws to the nations.—Weapons yield to the arts of peace, and even the hardest of hearts the skilled speaker can lead where he will. (Alciato 1996: 194).
As one of the founders of civilization this mythical figure occurs in numerous texts, both literary and non-literary, as well as in iconographic representations of the Renaissance (Plett 2004: 72–77, 419– 423, 535–539). In contrast to Cicero’s doctrine of rhetoric three aspects of Kant’s treatment of it deserve special attention: 1. the identification of persuasion with force; 2. the declaring of rhetorical skills as superfluous, as one only needs to speak the truth, and, as regards the arts, implanting in them moral ideas; 3. the restriction of rhetoric to style as the only positive function it can fulfil (Dostal 1980). According to Anthony J. Cascardi (2006: 296) Kant’s third Critique “salvages poetry for the enterprise of philosophy by aligning it with the work of genius. Kant’s vision of poetry as a ‘higher’ form of speech
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depends on securing its affiliation with the imaginative originality of the creative genius, while his disparagement of rhetoric depends on the identification of rhetoric as discourse that persuades by deceptive means.” To conclude: In his dissociation of the ars poetica and the ars oratoria Kant furthered a process that had begun in the 18th century and was to continue far into the 19th and even into the 20th century. In the following outline we shall sketch a few more stages in the history of this antirhetorical tradition. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749–1832), who in his negative attitude towards the ars oratoria agrees with Kant, contemptuously comments upon it in his Maximen und Reflexionen: Die Redekunst ist angewiesen auf alle Vorteile der Poesie, auf alle ihre Rechte; sie bemächtigt sich derselben und mißbraucht sie, um gewisse äußere, sittliche oder unsittliche, augenblickliche Vorteile im bürgerlichen Leben zu erreichen (no. 1029). Rhetoric relies on all the privileges of poetry, on all its own rights; it usurps them and misuses them in order to gain certain external, moral or immoral, momentary advantages in civil life (Goethe 1948–1960: XII: 511).
In the Age of Romanticism Novalis (i.e. Georg Friedrich Philipp Freiherr von Hardenberg [1772–1801]) states apodictically: “Poetry is poetry. The polar opposite of rhetoric” (Poësie ist Poësie. Von Rede(Sprach)kunst himmelweit verschieden. [Polheim 1972: 151]). Such statements announced the end of both rhetorical poetics and rhetorical poetry. During the 19th and 20th centuries, anti-rhetoric became the prevailing fashion—not only in Germany, but also in other European countries. As early as 1833, John Stuart Mill (1806–1873) formulated his famous dictum in his essay “On Poetry”: “that eloquence is heard, poetry is overheard”; its whole context reads as follows: Poetry and eloquence are both alike the expression or utterance of feeling. But if we may be excused the antithesis, we should say that eloquence is heard, poetry is overheard. Eloquence supposes an audience; the peculiarity of poetry appears to us to lie in the poet’s utter unconsciousness of a listener. Poetry is feeling, confessing itself to itself, in moments of solitude, and embodying itself in symbols, which are the nearest possible representations of the feeling in the exact shape in which it exists in the poet’s mind. Eloquence is feeling pouring itself out to other minds, courting their sympathy, or endeavouring to influence their belief, or move them to passion or to action. (Mill 1966: 422–423).
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Such a statement clearly refers to the Romantic concept of poetry as expression of the self. This has, however, no connection whatsoever with the protreptic aphorism in Horace’s Art of Poetry: “If you would have me weep, begin the strain, / Then I shall feel your sorrows, feel your pain” (Si vis me flere, dolendum est /primum ipsi tibi: tum tua me infortunia laedent [Ars Poetica, 102–103]. Tr. Ph. Francis), which is based on the rhetorical concept of affective self-affection. The Romantic concept can be illustrated by an utterance of Madame de Staël (Anne Louise Germaine de Staël [1766–1817]) in the chapter “De la Poésie” of her important book De l’Allemagne: ‘The gift of revealing by speech what one feels in the depths of the heart is very rare,’ she says, but the poet manages ‘to disengage the sentiment imprisoned in the depth of the soul; poetic genius is an interior disposition . . .’ (Abrams 1953: 91).
Such an attitude no longer adheres to the ut pictura poesis concept, the basic maxim of an imitative aesthetics which had been dominant since the Renaissance (Hagstrum 1958), but rather to the new formula ut musica poesis representing the Romantic turn towards an expressive concept of art. In the same antirhetorical mood as John Stuart Mill, but more ravingly, the French poet Paul Verlaine (1844–1896) demands in his Art Poétique: “Prends l’éloquence et tord-lui son cou!” (Verlaine 1958: 370). What Kant performs implicitly in his Critique of the Power of Judgment, namely a definition of “free” poetry by explicating its differences from oratorical prose with its practical functionality, is expressly set forth by Georg Friedrich Hegel (1770–1831) in his Lectures on Aesthetics (Vorlesungen über Ästhetik [(1817–1829]). Hegel’s treatment of rhetoric extends over three paragraphs: the first posits that compared to historiography rhetoric almost appears as a free art; the second provides arguments for the conviction that on closer inspection rhetoric is by no means a free art but is subject to the “law of practicality”; the third defines the notion of rhetoric. The first quality that bestows on rhetoric the semblance of an art is the freedom of the orator in choosing the content of his speech. In this respect rhetoric, in contrast to historiography, is not subject to the mere factuality of life. What the orator presents to his audience is not the world as it is but the world as he wants it to be. But rhetoric is not really free either, because it has no end in itself but uses its means to change a given situation. This
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prompts Hegel to draw the following distinction between poetry and oratory. The relevant passage in his Lectures reads as follows: The poetic work of art has no aim other than the production and enjoyment of beauty; in its case aim and achievement lie directly in the work itself, which is therefore independently self-complete and finished; and the artistic activity is not a means to a result falling outside itself but an end which in its accomplishment directly closes together with itself. But, in oratory, art acquires the position of being a mere accessory summoned by the orator as an aid to his purpose; his real purpose has nothing to do with art; it is practical, i.e. instruction, edification, decisions on legal questions or political affairs, etc. Consequently his intention is to serve the interest of something that has still to happen, or of some decision that is still to be reached, but that is not finalized and accomplished by the effect of oratory; on the contrary, accomplishment must be remitted to all sorts of other activities. For a speech may frequently end by producing a discord which the hearer, as judge, has to resolve, and then act in accordance with this resolution. (Hegel 1975: II, 992).
In this outline Hegel defines poetry as a self-sufficient, autotelic art, whereas oratory is a practical art that pursues an intention which lies outside itself and aims at producing an effect on the recipient in order to ensure a successful decision in social life, as on legal or political matters. In his “Outline of Classical Rhetoric” (Darstellung der antiken Rhetorik [1872–1873]) Friedrich Nietzsche (1844–1900) takes a historical stance, when he writes: The extraordinary development of the concept of rhetoric belongs to the specific differences between the ancients and moderns: in recent times, this art stands in some disrepute, and even when it is used, the best application to which it is put by our moderns is nothing short of dilettantism and crude empiricism. Generally speaking, the feeling for what is true in itself is much more developed: rhetoric arises among a people who still live in mythic images and who have not yet experienced the unqualified need of historical accuracy: they would rather be persuaded than instructed. In addition, the need of men for forensic eloquence must have given rise to the evolution of the liberal art. Thus, it is an essentially republican art: one must be accustomed to tolerating the most unusual opinions and points of view and even to taking a certain pleasure in their counterplay; one must be just as willing to listen as to speak; and as a listener one must be able more or less to appreciate the art being applied. The education of the ancient man customarily culminates in rhetoric: it is the highest spiritual activity of the well-educated political man—an odd notion for us! (Nietzsche 1989: 3).
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This is the Nietzsche who as a young professor of classical philology at the University of Basel held lectures on the history of ancient rhetoric. The information on rhetoric found in his lecture notes Nietzsche took from works of some of his contemporaries, for example, Richard Volkmann, Gustav Gerber, and Friedrich Blass (Lacoue-Labarthe 1971). As the passage quoted shows, he does not exclude aesthetic pleasure from the reception of works of oratory, but on the other hand he does not expressly tolerate the overlap of rhetoric and poetry as arts of language. His main interests seem to be focussed on rhetorical education and on political rhetoric as a characteristic feature of a republican form of government, which in Nietzsche’s lifetime did not exist in Germany. In his later writings Nietzsche’s attitude towards rhetoric turned negative. He criticizes Richard Wagner, whom he terms a “rhetor”, because his operas strive to represent the “greatest affect” (höchsten Affect); he speaks of the “vehement effects of Wagner’s rhetoric” (heftigen Wirkungen der Wagnerschen Rhetorik), of his music that “intends to be effective in the manner of oratory” (die als Rede wirken will) (Goth 1970: 53). In the following description Friedrich Nietzsche characterizes Wagner as an orator and actor: The actor Wagner is a tyrant; his pathos topples every taste, every resistance.—Who equals the persuasive power of these gestures? Who else envisages gestures with such assurance, so clearly from the start? The way Wagner’s pathos holds its breath, refuses to let go an extreme feeling, achieves a terrifying duration of states when even a moment threatens to strangle us— Was Wagner a musician at all? At any rate there was something else that he was more: namely, an incomparable histrio, the greatest mime, the most amazing genius of the theater ever among Germans, our scenic artist par excellence. [. . . . .]. Wagner never calculates as a musician, from some sort of a musician’s conscience: what he wants is effect, nothing but effect. And he knows those on whom he wants to achieve his effects.—At this point he is as free from qualms as Schiller was, as every man of the theater is, and he also has the same contempt for the world which he prostrates at his feet.—One is an actor by virtue of being ahead of the rest of mankind in one insight: what is meant to have the effect of truth must not be true. [. . . . .]. As a matter of fact, he repeated a single proposition all his life long: that his music did not mean mere music. But more. But infinitely more.—“Not mere music”—no musician would say that. To say it once more, Wagner was unable to create from a totality; he had no choice, he had to make patchwork, ”motifs,” gestures, formulas, doing things double and even a hundredfold—he remained an orator even as a musician—he therefore had to move his “it means” into the foreground as a
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matter of principle. “Music is always a mere means”: that was his theory, that above all the only practice open to him. But no musician would think that way. Wagner required literature to persuade all the world to take his music seriously, to take it as profound “because its meaning was infinite”; he was his life long a commentator of the “idea.” [. . . . .]. I have explained where Wagner belongs—not in the history of music. What does he signify nevertheless in that history? The emergence of the actor in music: a capital event that invites thought, perhaps also fear. In a formula: “Wagner and Liszt.” Never yet has the integrity of musicians, their “authenticity,” been put to the test so dangerously. One can grasp it with one’s very hands: great success, success with the masses no longer sides with those who are authentic—one has to be an actor to achieve that. [. . . . .]. Thus the golden age dawns for the actor—for him and for everything related to his kind. Wagner marches with drums and pipes at the head of all artists of delivery, of presentation, of virtuosity; the conductors, machinists, and stage singers were the first he convinced. Not to forget the orchestra musicians—these he “redeemed” from boredom. (Nietzsche 1967: 172, 173, 177, 178, 179).
Thus Nietzsche blames Wagner for being an actor and orator aiming to overwhelm the masses—above all with his repetitive leitmotif technique that according to him deprives the audience of clear insight into the authenticity and truth of things. He is, however, refuted by Theodor W. Adorno (1903–1969), who writes in his Minima Moralia: Nicht Schauspielerei hätte er [sc. Nietzsche] Wagner vorwerfen sollen—denn alle Kunst, und Musik vorab, ist dem Schauspiel verwandt, und in jeder Periode Nietzsches hallt das tausendjährige Echo der Rhetorenstimmen aus dem römischen Senat—sondern die Verleugnung der Schauspielerei durch den Schauspieler. Ja es wäre nicht erst das Unechte, das als seinshaltig sich aufspielt, der Lüge zu überführen, sondern das Echte selber wird zur Lüge, sobald es zum Echten überhaupt wird, also in der Reflexion auf sich, in seiner Setzung als Echtes, in der es bereits die Identität überschreitet, die es im gleichen Atemzug behauptet (Adorno 1969: 204). He [Nietzsche] should not have reproached Wagner for playacting—for all art, music in particular, is related to the theater, and echoing through every period of Nietzsche are the thousand-year voices of the rhetoricians of the Roman Senate—but instead for the actor’s denial of acting. Indeed, it would not in the first place be the non-genuine, that which pretends to have existence, which should be convicted of being a lie; rather, that which is genuine itself turns into a lie as soon as it becomes genuine at all, namely in reflection upon itself, in its positing of genuineness,
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chapter one whereby it already goes beyond the identity which in the same breath it maintains.
Thus Adorno in a way returns to the historical consciousness of the early Nietzsche and his lectures on classical rhetoric. In contrast to 19th-century representatives of antirhetoric the German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer (1788–1860) favoured the ars persuadendi in an extreme manner, as is shown by his posthumously published Eristische Dialektik: Die Kunst Recht zu behalten—in 38 Kunstgriffen dargestellt (Eristic Dialectic: The Art of Winning an Argument—Set Forth in 38 Stratagems), in which he lays the basis of his work as follows: Um die Dialektik rein aufzustellen, muß man, unbekümmert um die objektive Wahrheit (welche Sache der Logik ist) sie bloß betrachten als die Kunst Recht zu behalten, welches freilich um so leichter seyn wird, wenn man in der Sache selbst Recht hat. [. . .]. Man muß die Auffindung der objektiven Wahrheit rein trennen von der Kunst seine Sätze als wahr geltend zu machen: jenes ist die Sache einer ganz andern πραγματεια [Betätigung], es ist das Werk der Urtheilskraft, des Nachdenkens, der Erfahrung, und giebt es dazu keine eigne Kunst: das 2te aber ist der Zweck der Dialektik. Man hat sie definirt als die Logik des Scheins: [. . . . .] sie ist eine geistige Fechtkunst: nur so rein gefasst, kann sie als eigne Disciplin aufgestellt werden: denn setzen wir uns zum Zweck die reine objektive Wahrheit, so kommen wir auf bloße Logik zurück: setzen wir hingegen zum Zweck die Durchführung falscher Sätze, so haben wir bloße Sophistik. (Schopenhauer 2005: 15, 17). For a proper understanding of dialectics, we must view it—without any concern for objective truth (which is a matter of logic)—simply as the art of winning an argument, which is, to be sure, all the easier if one is in the right about the subject. . . . The finding of objective truth must be clearly separated from the art of making one’s assertions carry weight. The former is a completely different activity; it is the work of judgement, of reflection, of experience, and for that there is no special art. The latter, however, is the aim of dialectics. It has been defined as the logic of appearance. . . . It is intellectual fencing; and only if understood in this strict sense can it be established as a discipline in its own right. For if our goal is pure objective truth, we have to fall back on bare logic: if, on the other hand, we take the execution of false propositions as our aim, we have mere sophistics.
As stated in its subtitle, the book contains 38 eristic techniques for defeating an adversary with the power of words. The definition of this dialectic as the “logic of semblance” places this work in close proximity to Macchiavelli’s “rhetoric of concealment” (Kegl 1994), which is
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one of deceit. Schopenhauer defines it as mere sophistics, which makes its rejection by the advocates of philosophical idealism and Geistesgeschichte in the wake of Neoplatonism understandable. Strangely enough, it is precisely in his essay “Schopenhauer as Educator” that Nietzsche complains about the lack of rhetorical training in his country: “Anyone who seriously wanted to train in Germany as an orator [. . .] would find that school nowhere” (Nietzsche 1983: 131). He attributes this lack of interest in eloquence to the love of learned scholars for theory that has no connection to life. In the early 20th century the American journalist and short-story writer Ambrose Bierce (1842–1914) published his satirical prose work The Devil’s Dictionary (1911), in which the entry on ELOQUENCE offers the following witty antirhetorical definition: The art of orally persuading fools that white is the color that it appears to be. It includes the gift of making any color appear white (Bierce 1966: 63).
Two years later Alfred M. Hitchcock (1868–1941), an instructor in English of Hartford Public School, editor of Washington Irving’s The Alhambra (1904) and author of Words and Sentences, including a review of grammar (1908), A Theme-book in English Composition (1910) and Composition and Rhetoric (1917), published a long treatise entitled Rhetoric and the Study of Literature (1913), of which Chapter I (“The Study of Rhetoric”) contains the following argument: What is rhetoric? Briefly, it is the oldest and greatest of all arts, the art of communicating by means of language. A manual which points out the qualities to be desired in oral and written expression and offers suggestions in regard to how these qualities may be gained is called a rhetoric. Hundreds of such manuals have been written. The earliest take us back to the days of the ancient Greeks; indeed the term rhetoric is derived from rhetor, a name which the Greeks applied to the professional orator and likewise to one who wrote speeches for others to deliver. In a very elementary way we study rhetoric from our cradle days, through consciously or unconsciously observing how those about us make their words effective and patterning our own speech accordingly. As we become readers, we note, for the most part unwittingly, the ways of written expression and adopt such of them as appeal to us. By this natural, direct, but haphazard method many have achieved no mean degree of skill. Shakespeare, in all probability, never studied rhetoric in any other way; he simply observed and practiced till he had mastered the art. But to the average person there comes a time when he feels the need of a friendly guide to advise him what to observe, what to strive
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chapter one after and what to avoid when speaking or writing. He feels the need of a little theory to steady and direct him in his efforts to improve his powers of expression. Rhetorics are designed to furnish such guidance. Their service is a limited one, however, for of course no amount of faithful textbook study ever in itself resulted in a brilliant conversationalist, or a novelist like Thackeray, or a fascinating essayist like Lamb. It cannot supply natural ability or personal charm, nor is it a substitute for independent study of models and faithful practice long continued. It is but a staff, or at best a walking companion, not a coach-and-four. Though but a staff, it is one not to be thought of lightly. There are those, it is true, who regard rhetorical study as harmful, feeling that it checks spontaneity. But we need not share their fears. Undoubtedly it does in some cases produce temporarily an element of uncomfortable self-consciousness, an awkwardness such as children experience when their parents try to break them of unfortunate ways of holding knife and fork; or such as older people feel when, after a year or two of selfinstruction in golf, they at last are sensible enough to take a few lessons from a competent teacher. While ridding themselves of bad habits and acquiring correct form, they appear to be losing the little skill that they once fancied they possessed. “No great author,” states Alfred Hennequin in his useful little book The Art of Playwriting, “was ever hurt by the study of the principles of rhetoric, and no small author ever achieved success without such study.” The study of any art calls into use a number of technical terms. The art of communication by means of language is so very complex that its technical vocabulary is of necessity large; and since rhetoric has been an object of careful study for centuries, during which few authorities have employed precisely the same set of terms, not a little confusion has arisen. Out of this chaos of conflicting terminology have been selected five important words, more or less technical, for careful explanation: purity, clearness, force, beauty, style. These terms will serve as focus points for a very simple survey of the rhetorical field, undertaken with a two-fold purpose in mind: first, the ordinary one of gaining better powers of expression; second, the less commonly recognized purpose of opening the way for a more intelligent enjoyment of great masterpieces of rhetorical art. (Hitchcock 2009 [1913]: 3–5).
These introductory remarks on the state of rhetoric in North America in a way illustrate and supplement the respective studies on its history in the reader by Crocker and Carmack (1965) and the informative essay by Thomas O. Sloane (1996) on rhetoric in American colleges and universities. Hitchcock’s exposition of rhetoric as an art of communication may have been an impetus for a broader concept of rhetoric than that traditionally taught and practiced in Europe and, perhaps more important, for the foundation of Departments of Rhetoric and
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Communication in the United States. As concerns the concept of the rhetor or orator, Hitchcock distinguishes between such as gifted by nature (ingenium) and such as trained by art (ars). In his view the knowledge of rhetoric may further the oral practice of conversation and the written practice of essay-writing. Such practices are socially rooted in the culture of 19th-century salons and journals. As for the author’s understanding of rhetorical literature, it still adheres the Romantic idea of the original genius who receives its knowledge from a “natural, direct, but haphazard method”. Its principal representative is Shakespeare. Whereas the Bard of Avon has not been taught rhetoric by textbook, it is primarily for the poetae minores that rhetorical textbooks have been written. That with regard to Shakespeare this opinion is an historical error was after Hitchcock demonstrated by Thomas Whitfield Baldwin’s epoch-making two-volume treatise William Shakspere’s “Small Latine & Lesse Greeke” (1944). But earlier on his attention should have been roused to this insight by his citation of the passage from Alfred Hennequin’s The Art of Playwrighting (1890), where it is rigorously argued that “no great author was ever hurt by the study of the principles of rhetoric, and no small author ever achieved success without such study.” In order to propagate the knowledge of rhetoric Hitchcock’s voluminous work is divided into several parts: Part I on “Rhetoric”; Part II on “The Study of Literature”, with chapters on the literary genres: poetry, prose, drama, essays; and Part III on a “Brief Summary of English Literature”, which is followed by several appendices, one on the figures of speech and another on questions on typical masterpieces, such as John Milton’s L’Allegro and Il Penseroso and Shakespeare’s Macbeth. In short, it fulfils the didactic function of a textbook for colleges. Such an educational program is hardly to be found in antirhetorical Germany of this time. Somewhat later the poet and dramatist Bertolt Brecht (1898–1956) wrote a short article entitled “On the Rhetorical” (Über das Rhetorische). Amazingly enough, he here proclaims a renascence of rhetoric which is not manifested in textbooks or critical studies but in the poetry and drama of the Expressionist school. The entire text reads as follows: Bezeichnend für unsere Zeit ist die Renaissance der Rhetorik, das heißt der pathetischen Rhetorik. Gut zu sein ist modern, wie es zeitweise modern war, diabolisch zu sein. Sinn für Nützlichkeit wird als nützlich
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chapter one erklärt. Er gebiert unter Geschrei Leitartikel. Dem Hasenclever geht jeden Mittag einer ab. Georg Kaiser lernt gegenwärtig öffentlich das Reden. Er ist der redselige Wilhelm des deutschen Dramas. Er hat dessen Pathos, dessen Gedankenarmut, dessen Geschmacklosigkeit, dessen Sinn für Prägnanz, dessen Liebe am Theatralischen und dessen Freude daran, dass was „klappt“. Irgendwie ist er auch „schlicht“, „militärisch schlicht“ (in Generalsuniform . . .). Im übrigen ist er rührend. Sein Eifer ist geradezu lobenswert. Darin gleicht er Demosthenes. Wie jener lernte er das Reden nur sehr schwer, stottert, sagt alles zwei-, dreimal und ist bemüht, möglichst laut zu schreien. Nur geht er statt ans einsame Meer ins Theater (der Einsamen). Darin ist er bösartiger. Er sagt, er hat bei Platon gelernt, dass Reden schön ist. Bei sich könnte er das Gegenteil lernen. (Aber er hat keine Zeit, das Schreiben zu lernen, da er zu sehr mit Stückeschreiben beschäftigt ist.) (Brecht 1963: 10). Characteristic for our time is the renascence of rhetoric, that is, the rhetoric of pathos. To be good is modern, just as it was for a time modern to be diabolical. Appreciation of usefulness is declared to be useful. It gives birth, with loud cries, to leading newspaper articles. Hasenclever turns one out every afternoon. Georg Kaiser is at present learning in public how to speak. He is the talkative Wilhelm of German drama. He has its pathos, its poverty of ideas, its lack of taste, its sense of trenchant formulation, its love of the theatrical, and its joy when something “works”. In a sense he is also “plain and simple”, “militarily plain and simple” (in a general’s uniform . . .). For the rest he is touching. His enthusiasm is actually praiseworthy. On that point he resembles Demosthenes. Like that orator, he learned to speak only with great difficulty; he stutters, says everything two or three times and tries to shout as loudly as possible. Only instead of going to the lonely seashore he goes to the theatre (of lonely people). Therein he is more ill-natured. He claims to have learned from Plato that speech is beautiful. He could learn the opposite from himself. (But he has no time to learn writing, because he is too busy writing his plays.)
Brecht characterises the “new rhetoric” of his early years as pathetic and attributes it to the Expressionist plays of Walter Hasenclever and Georg Kaiser, which he heavily attacks and even satirises. From a historical point of view Brecht himself adopted the pathetic Expressionist modes in plays like Baal (1918/1923/1954), Drums in the Night (Trommeln in der Nacht [1922]), and In the Jungle of Cities (Im Dickicht der Städte [1923]). Here the rhetorical movere plays a prominent role, bringing these plays in line with those of the Demosthenes type of dramatist he condemns here. It is in his so-called epic theatre that he replaces Expressionist movere by the more rational docere, the basic attitude of theatrical didacticism.
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According to Joachim Knape and Thomas Schirren (2005), the German philosopher Martin Heidegger (1889–1976) held a series of lectures on the fundamental principles of Aristotelian philosophy at the University of Marburg during the summer semester 1924, which is about two years before the completion of Sein und Zeit. These lectures, extant in notes of attendants of these lectures, were published in 1977 and republished in 2002. In them Heidegger interprets the Aristotelian Rhetoric in the following manner: Man is a living being that has his true Dasein in conversation and speech. The Greeks existed in speech. The rhetorician is the one who has true power over Dasein: ῾Pητoρική πειθοῦς δημιουργός, the ability to speak is the possibility in which I have true control over the convictions of human beings, how they are together. In this fundamental disposition of the Greeks we find the basis for this definition of man. Even when the Greek is reading, he is listening, and it is no coincidence that all the texts we have of Aristotle are lectures, the spoken word. This state of affairs, that the Greeks lived in speech, one must fully realize and at the same time consider the following: If speech is the true possibility of Dasein, in which it unfolds, concretely and generally, then precisely this speaking is also the possibility in which Dasein allows itself to be ensnared into dissolving in immediacy, in fashion, in chatter, and to letting itself be led from there. This process of life, to dissolve in the world, in that which is usual, to surrender to its world, in which it lives, became for the Greeks themselves, through speech, the fundamental peril of their Dasein. Proof of this is the existence of sophistics. In sophistics the preponderant possibility of speaking is taken seriously. Protagoras’s statement [is telling here]: τὸν ἥττω λόγον κρείττω ποιεῖν—to discuss geometry with a geometrician even if one knows nothing of geometry; to conduct the conversation in such a way that I can win out over the other without expertise. Sophistics is the proof that the Greeks surrendered to that language which Nietzsche once called “the most speakable language of all languages.” And he must have known what Greek culture was. It should be remembered that in the fourth century the Greeks had fallen completely under the sway of language. (Heidegger 2002: 108–109).
This means that for Heidegger (persuasive) language is the basis of human existence. In language the following features are of importance: its oral character and its efficiency in exerting an influence on the recipient, but also its capability to simplify and popularise complex matters. In view of the possibilities of rhetoric to overwhelm, as it were, human beings in their established opinions and beliefs, its significance for the constitution of poetry moves into the background, which can be clarified by Heidegger’s attitude to the rhetorical figures:
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chapter one What, really, does “figurative talk” mean? We are quick to give the answer, never giving it a thought that we cannot claim to have a reliable formulation so long as it remains unclear what is talk and what is imagery, and in what way language speaks in images, if indeed language does speak so at all. Therefore we will here leave everything wide open. Let us stay with the most urgent issue, which is, to seek out the neighborhood of poetry and thinking—which now means the encounter of the two facing each other. (Heidegger 1982: 82).
All that interests Heidegger in this context is the relation of poetry to epistemology which was also for other contemporary intellectuals, such as the Polish philosopher Roman Ingarden (1893–1970), the centre of their literary theories. Heidegger’s use of the term image has no rhetorical foundation and relevance. Hence his main interest is not focused on rhetorical poetry; it is, on the contrary, focused on the esoteric Neoromantic school of Stefan George (1868–1933). In his Estetica (1902) the prominent Italian philosopher and critic Benedetto Croce (1866–1952) identified rhetoric in a restricted manner with a “theory of ornate form”, to which he opposed his own organic view of literature: La migliore critica scientifica della teoria dell’ornato è forse quella che si trova sparsa negli scritti del De Sanctis, il quale, insegnando Rettorica, esponeva invece, com’egli dice, l’Antirettorica. Ma neanche questa critica è condotta con criterio filosofico e sistematico. La vera critica, a nostro parere, deve trarsi negativamente dalla natura stessa dell’attività estetica, la quale non dà luogo a partizioni, non è attività di modo a e di modo b, e non può esprimere un medesimo contenuto ora in una forma ora in un’altra. Così soltanto si spazza via il doppio mostro della forma nuda, che sarebbe, non si sa come, priva di fantasia, e della forma ornata, che conterrebbe, non si sa come, un dippiù rispetto all’altra. (Croce 1990: 560). The best scientific criticism of the theory of ornament is found scattered throughout the writings of De Sanctis, who when lecturing on rhetoric preached what he called anti-rhetoric. But even here the criticism is not conducted from a strictly systematic point of view. It seems to us that the true criticism should be deduced negatively from the very nature of aesthetic activity, which does not lend itself to partition; there is no such thing as activity of type a or type b, nor can the same concept be expressed now in one way, now in another. Such is the only way of abolishing the double monster of bare form which is, no one knows how, deprived of imagination, and ornate form which contains, no one knows how, an addition on the side of imagination. (Croce 1978: 436).
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This statement includes almost everything which advocates of an aesthetics of organicism (Organismusästhetik) and the tradition of Geistesgeschichte have pejoratively ascribed to rhetoric: a technical, decorative conception of poetry which manifests itself in the use of tropes and figures. Some 200 years earlier Giambattista Vico (1668–1744) had praised the rhetoricity of Italian poetic mannerism of the 17th century in his Institutiones Oratoriae (1711–1741): Proposing a simple tie involves neither ingenuity nor art. But a maxim of ratiocination which contains an implicit enthymematic power, that is, a reason which mediates two diverse ideas aptly joined to each other, truly deserves the praise of acumen. Enthymematic power, while appearing in propositions which may seem simple, can also be concealed in one word as, for example, when Terence’s Parmenon referred to Thaïs as the calamity of the master’s estate. Here the enthymeme is hidden in that one word. Indeed, by the mediating reason which Parmenon himself offers—“For what should come to us she steals from those,” calamity is joined with Thaïs. If you would want to express explicitly the same with the dialecticians, it would be necessary that you reason thus—“Calamity destroys all that the farmer needs to harvest. That which is necessary for us to take, Thaïs intercepts. Thaïs, therefore, is the calamity of our estate.” Thus, Peregrini himself defines acumen, the power of ingenuity, as “the fortunate invention of a medium term which in a certain saying joins diverse things with a wonderful aptness and by the most grand of elegance.” And in this manner, acumen consists in a rare and new aptness of two extremes happily joined in a certain saying. Moreover, in Aristotle’s opinion found in the Poetics where he speaks on the topic of metaphors, this invention is quite difficult. “To use metaphor properly is exceedingly difficult and thus proper only to the versatile genius” and in the Rhetoric he adds “only creative and acute philosophers are capable of finding in things far removed from each other that similarity which can be contemplated.” (Vico 1996: 126).
Thus Vico pleads for the positive reception of poetic acutezza and concettismo, as they were discussed in the mannerist theories of Matteo Peregrini or Pellegrini (1595–1652) in Delle Acutezze (1639) and Emanuele Tesauro (1592–1675) in Il Cannocchiale Aristotelico (1654, 1670)—cf. Barilli 1969: pt. V. At the same time Croce’s negative attitude towards Vico becomes understandable, because he wished to claim for him the anticipation of Romantic aesthetics, which the latter could not bring to fulfilment because of his affiliation with the rhetorical tradition (Mooney 1985: 26–27). For nothing is more alien
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to the concept of oratory than the Romantic idea of self-expression. Persuasiveness, or audience effectiveness, however, is the fundamental point on which the ancients, and later the humanists, saw poetry and rhetoric as related. In his book Rhetoric and Poetics in Antiquity Jeffrey Walker argues that rhetoric was derived not from the usual and oft-told forensic or political sources but from an argumentative mode that came to be known as epideictic and that, long before Aristotle, included poetry. For Walker, this original epideictic mode was a broadly considered practice of artfully composed persuasive discourse: “[. . .] Epideiktikon, in sum, came to include everything that modernity has tended to describe as literature, and more, and comprised a range of genres much greater and more various than the handful of speech-types identified as pragmatika” (2000: 7). It is this “expanded, basically sophistic notion of epideiktikon” that, in keeping with his programmatic statement, Walker employs and develops throughout his book. It comprises, for instance, Gorgias’ Praise of Helen as well as the major epideictics of Isocrates, such as Panegyricus, On the Peace, and Areopagiticus. Before him E.R. Curtius postulated that from a historical perspective the epideictic genre was the origin of literary rhetoric. In his monograph The Enduring Monument, subtitled “A Study of the Idea of Praise in Renaissance Literary Theory and Practice,” O.B. Hardison, Jr. continues the same line of argument by referring to Menander’s treatise Peri epideiktikon with its classification of numerous types and subtypes of epideictic works, and concludes: In sum, epideictic theory began with a bias toward literary and poetic techniques. This bias became more pronounced as Greek and Roman cultures passed into their decadent phase. By the time of Statius—and even more by the time of Claudian, Ausonius, Fortunatus, and Sidonius—the distinction between a poem and an epideictic oration or “set piece” was often only metrical (1973 [1962]: 32).
For the Renaissance period he discusses genres and subgenres of socalled occasional poetry, such as the elegy, which manifest the idea of praise. Brian Vickers (1983) elicits the epideictic idea from concepts and manifestations of the epic in the Renaissance. And Craig Kallendorf (1989) illustrates it by an historical investigation of the ways of reading Virgil’s Aeneid in the early Italian Renaissance. Nevertheless, in the wake of Romanticism and Idealism, the concept of Geistesgeschichte dominated the theory and practice of poetry far into the 20th century. As late as 1970, Roland Barthes (1970: 192–195)
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could announce the death of rhetoric (“la mort de la rhétorique”) with the following argumentation: Cependant, dire d’une façon complète que la Rhétorique est morte, ce serait pouvoir préciser par quoi elle a été remplacée, car, on l’a assez vu par cette course diachronique, la rhétorique doit toujours être lue dans le jeu structural de ses voisines (Grammaire, Logique, Poétique, Philosophie): c’est le jeu du système, non chacune de ses parties en soi, qui est historiquement significatif. Sur ce problème on notera pour finir quelques orientations d’enquête. I. Il faudrait faire la lexicologie actuelle du mot; où passe-t-il? Il reçoit parfois encore des contenus originaux, des interprétations personnelles venus d’écrivains, non de rhéteurs, (Baudelaire et la rhétorique profonde, Valéry, Paulhan); mais surtout, il faudrait réorganiser le champ actuel de ses connotations: péjoratives ici, analytiques là, revalorisantes là encore, de façon à dessiner le procès idéologique de l’ancienne rhétorique. II. Dans l’enseignement, la fin des traités de rhétorique est, comme toujours en ce cas, difficile à dater; en 1926, un Jésuite de Beyrouth écrit encore un cours de Rhétorique en arabe; en 1938, un belge, M.J. Vuillaume, publie encore un manuel de rhétorique; et les classes de Rhétorique et de Rhétorique supérieure ont disparu depuis très peu de temps. III. Dans quelle mesure exacte et sous quelles réserves la science du langage a-t-elle pris en charge le champ de l’ancienne rhétorique? Il y a eu d’abord passage à une psycho-stylistique (ou stylistique de l’expressivité); mais aujoud’hui, où le mentalisme linguistique est pourchassé? De toute la rhétorique, Jakobson n’a retenu que deux figures, la métaphore et la métonymie, pour en faire l’emblème des deux axes du langage; pour certains, le formidable travail de classement opéré par l’ancienne rhétorique paraît encore utilisable, surtout si on l’applique à des champs marginaux de la communication ou de la signification telle l’image publicitaire, où il n’est pas encore usé. En tout cas, ces évaluations contradictoires montrent bien l’ambiguïté actuelle du phénomène rhétorique: objet prestigieux d’intelligence et de pénétration, système grandiose que toute une civilisation, dans son ampleur extrême, a mis au point pour classer, c’est-a-dire pour penser son langage, instrument de pouvoir, lieu de conflits historiques dont la lecture est passionnante si précisément on replace cet objet dans l’histoire multiple où il s’est développé; mais aussi objet idéologique, tombant dans l’idéologie par l’avancée de cet «autre chose» qui l’a remplacé, et obligeant aujourd’hui à une indispensable distance critique. (1970: 194–195).
In this statement Roland Barthes, citing historical instances of the French neglect of rhetoric, not quite justly blames Roman Jakobson for reviving only metaphor and metonymy from the broad spectrum of rhetorical tropes. Jakobson repeatedly drew attention to the rhetorical figure of parallelism, which he considered an exemplary category for the constitution of a rhetorical poetics (1961). Moreover, he inspired
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a scholar like David Lodge (1977) to further develop metaphor and metonymy as basic concepts of a typology of modern literature. In the following decades Jakobson’s semio-linguistic discussion of elocutio categories led to their application to non-verbal visual phenomena such as pictures, paintings, architecture, and even films (cf. also Kibédi Varga 1989). Furthermore Donald Rice and Peter Schofer used Jakobson’s “New Rhetoric” as the basis for a monograph entitled Rhetorical Poetics (1983), which, proceeding from his concept of tropes, offers analyses of modern French literature (e.g. Balzac, Baudelaire, Mallarmé). As early as 1960, Heinrich Lausberg’s Handbook of Literary Rhetoric did away with the long-lived antirhetorical prejudices. It found itself in good company, because two other philologists had pursued similar aims in their studies—even though they came from different backgrounds. Already in 1948 Ernst Robert Curtius had claimed in his book European Literature and the Latin Middle Ages (Europäische Literatur und lateinisches Mittelalter) that the idea of topos formed the basis of a literary tradition reaching from antiquity to modern times. He illustrates “inexpressibility topoi” in the following way: From the time of Homer onwards, there are examples in all ages. In panegyric, the orator “finds no words” which can fitly praise the person celebrated. This is a standard topos in the eulogy of rulers (basilikos logos). From this beginning the topos already ramifies in Antiquity: “Homer and Orpheus and others too would fail, did they attempt to praise him.” The Middle Ages, in turn, multiplies the names of famous authors who would be unequal to the subject. Included among the “inexpressibility topoi” is the author’s assurance that he sets down only a small part of what he has to say ( pauca e multis). The procedure is especially frequent in the vita sancti—a genre which first appeared in the fifth century and which had an enormous need for panegyrical phraseology, since the saint must have performed as many miracles as possible. Such lives of saints are frequently made up of traditional clichés. “Not only the themes of many narratives passed from hand to hand,” says Wilhelm Levison, “but very many turns of phrase were repeated word for word again and again, and more than one vita is to a greater or less extent pieced together, like a mosaic, from fragments intended for the portraits of other saints.” (Kallendorf 1999: 52–53).
Curtius, however, presented no explicit definition or theory of the topos. For this reason many debates on that subject arose in the ensuing decades (e.g., Hunter 1991; Moss 1999; Schirren / Ueding 2000).
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Four years before the publication of Curtius’s opus magnum, in 1944, Klaus Dockhorn, in a passage that went almost unnoticed, had revived the traditional rhetorical doctrine of the passions (cf. e.g. Gibert 2004: 255–261) in order to show its relevance in the work of none other than the Romantic poet William Wordsworth. Strictly speaking, these three scholars—Dockhorn, Curtius, Lausberg—shared the same goal: the renaissance of classical rhetoric in the interest of a history of poetics and literature. In the course of their work, and perhaps in contrast to their original intentions, they had become universalists: Dockhorn by raising categories of persuasive effect to a “rhetorical aesthetics”, Curtius by deriving a “historical topics” from the commonplaces of rhetorical inventio, and Lausberg by constructing a general system of rhetorical categories based on the heterogeneous approaches of Antiquity. Of these three authors, Lausberg proved the most influential in the beginning. For Dockhorn had not written a monograph on rhetoric but, owing to a series of personal setbacks, only separate essays, until in 1968 a collection of these essays, under the title Macht und Wirkung der Rhetorik (Power and Effect of Rhetoric), made him known to a wider audience. Curtius had written a monograph, but one which was, strictly speaking, a collection of essays in which the rhetorical element was not particularly prominent. Lausberg, on the other hand, presented an encyclopaedia in which rhetoric dominated per se, free of any historical modification. In retrospect, it seems that Dockhorn, the “hermeneutic”, superseded Curtius, the “formalist”. Curtius, as a scholar of topics, has moved into the background. In the meantime, a second and perhaps even a third phase in the modernization of rhetoric have come and gone. The problems inherent in such attempts, however, have remained the same. Earlier in the 20th century American scholars had endeavoured to recover the lost knowledge of the relationship between rhetoric and poetry. This was first done in historical studies on Renaissance rhetoric by such scholars as Thomas Whitfield Baldwin, Donald Lemen Clark, Hardin Craig, William G. Crane, Morris W. Croll, Marvin T. Herrick, Wilbur Samuel Howell, Sr. Miriam Joseph, John M. Steadman, Rosemond Tuve, and others. This historical dimension found an adequate summary in an anthology of essays published by James J. Murphy in 1983 under the title Renaissance Eloquence: Studies in the Theory and Practice of Renaissance Rhetoric. Many works of scholars who made substantial contributions to the historical research in rhetoric and its
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relations to poetics are bibliographically registered in English Renaissance Rhetoric and Poetics: A Systematic Bibliography of Primary and Secondary Sources (Plett 1995: C). Since the late 1950s greater emphasis has been laid on a new theoretical approach to the subject, above all from linguistics, semiotics, and speech act theory. Scholars who have advanced solutions to the question of a rhetorical poetics are Seymour Chatman, Donald C. Freeman, Samuel R. Levin, Richard M. Ohmann, and above all Roman Jakobson. An early anthology of such progressive contributions to a literary rhetoric was edited by Donald Davie and others in 1961. Towards the end of the millennium a tendency to collect the knowledge acquired in rhetoric up to that point manifested itself in encyclopaedias. In 1996 an Encyclopedia of Rhetoric and Composition was published by Theresa Enos. It was followed in 2001 by Thomas O. Sloane’s Oxford Encyclopedia of Rhetoric, which goes as far as to include territories of a comparative rhetoric (e.g. Arabic, Chinese, Indian rhetoric). In France the recovery of rhetoric for the study of poetry found several advocates. In 1970 the Romance scholar A.S. Kibédi Varga published his monograph Rhétorique et littérature: Étude des structures classiques, which describes, among other things, the changing effects of the rhetorical genres (genre judiciaire, genre délibératif, genre démonstratif ) upon literary genres (poésie lyrique, tragédie) in French literature. With their book Rhétorique de la poésie: Lecture linéaire, lecture tabulaire (1977), the Groupe Mu of Liège (Jacques Dubois et al.) approached the subject from a more general point of view. In the same year there appeared Michel Charles’s Rhétorique de la lecture (1977), which made an attempt at interpreting rhetoric as a hermeneutic theory of reading literary texts. Again from a historical viewpoint, Marc Fumaroli, in his magisterial work L’Age de l’éloquence: Rhétorique et “res literaria” de la Renaissance au seuil de l’époque classique (1980), traced the revival of rhetoric from its early humanist beginnings in Italy to the age of French Classicism. A similarly ambitious study by the classical scholar Alain Michel entitled La Parole de la Beauté first appeared in 1982; this encyclopaedic work, subtitled “Rhétorique et esthétique dans la tradition occidentale”, pursued the history of this relationship from Antiquity to the end of the 19th century. In 1993 a two-volume work entitled La rhétorique de l’éloge by Laurent Pernot offered a complex historical outline of the theoretical and practical development of rhetorical panegyric in the Greco-Roman world.
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This sequence of French publications culminated in Marc Fumaroli’s Histoire de la rhétorique dans l’Europe moderne, 1450–1950, which appeared shortly before the turn of the millennium in 1999. If we assume, with respect to the present state of discussion, that a “foundation of literary scholarship,” which Lausberg had claimed for rhetoric, is impossible, then the following questions concerning the relationship between rhetoric and literature arise: 1. Is there a rhetorical literature—and what is its character? 2. Is there a literary rhetoric—and what is its character?
The first question relates to the subject of investigation, the second to its theory. The two are mutually dependent. An answer to these questions may help to resolve a third question in a tentative way: How could or should rhetoric and literary studies be related to each other in the future? Discussion of these three issues could perhaps benefit from preceding historical and systematic studies, among others from the triad of philologists already mentioned. In the final analysis, however, they belong to the speculative domain of literary theory.
CHAPTER TWO
RHETORICAL LITERATURE
All publications dealing with literary rhetoric tacitly proceed from the premise that the corresponding subject of rhetorical literature does indeed exist. But what is to be understood by “rhetorical literature”? Or should we rather speak of “rhetoricized literature”, “rhetorical elements” in literature, or “rhetoricity” as one of several components of literature? Opinions relating to these questions have diverged to a considerable extent, and they still do. They affect the spatial-temporal, the semiotic (medial) as well as the communicative dimensions. The geographical and historical dissemination of rhetorical literature followed the paths of translatio studii, which, in the context of enkyklia paideia, were also those of rhetoric: from the Mediterranean culture of the Hellenistic Age to the remotest parts of the Imperium Romanum, from the Latin Middle Ages and Greek Byzantium to the national states of early modern Europe, from the great colonial powers of early modern Europe (England, France, Spain) to the empires which these powers had founded overseas: in North and South America, Eastern and Central Asia, in Oceania and Africa. In Rhetoric in the European Tradition (1994), Thomas M. Conley has dealt with this development of rhetoric. An earlier anthology of essays edited by Edward P.J. Corbett et al. (1990) proceeds along similar lines. Together with the system of rhetoric, Greco-Roman civilization, which we also call occidental, developed a type of literature which was shaped by rhetoric. It is true that literary scholars have postulated a historical limit for this type of literature, and some still consider this legitimate. This historical limit, still acknowledged by Curtius, is frequently given as the year 1800, representing the boundary between Classicism and Romanticism, between ars and natura, or, in other words, between the last flowering of rhetoric and its decline. Consequently, nineteenth- and twentiethcentury literature has mostly been considered unrhetorical. As regards Romanticism, this much-favoured prejudice was cleared away by Klaus Dockhorn (1944, rpt. 1968, 9–45; 1949), P.W.K. Stone (1967), Helmut Schanze (1974; 1994), Paul de Man—who published a number of separate essays on this subject that were assembled and republished
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in Rhetoric and Romanticism (1984)—, and Peter D. Krause (2001). For other periods of literature the same was accomplished by a great number of scholars, many of them North Americans (cf. chapters on 19th and 20th century in Horner 21990), who have extended the historical limit of rhetorical literature to the immediate present. The fact that literary critics have restricted rhetorical literature to specific cultural periods can be viewed as a result of the pejoratively used attributes of artificiality and insincerity, which the opponents of rhetoric have always ascribed to it. Such literature, which would deserve to be called “rhetoricized” rather than “rhetorical”, was afflicted with the odium of secondariness and, to a certain extent, it still is. Its representatives are to be found in the age of Greek Hellenism and the Silver Age of Roman culture, in Mannerism and in the Baroque Age, in Symbolism and décadence. Owing to its specific constitution, this kind of literature came to be discredited as artificial playfulness and “linguistic alchemy” (Hocke 1959). For this reason it has been denied the status of poetical classicality and has likewise not gained admission to the canon of world literature. It is possible that the literary products of Postmodernism, whose rhetorical character has been outlined by Paul de Man (1979) and others, will meet a similar fate. Which concept is to be preferred, the extensive one of “rhetorical literature” or the restricted one of “rhetoricized literature”? The answer is: neither and both. The first concept seems too broad, the second too narrow. Moreover, there is one aspect which is neglected in both concepts: the possible gradation between extreme levels. Therefore, it has been proposed to speak of rhetoricity in literature, a term coined in analogy to expressions like “poeticity”. Jacques Bessière (1988:38) defines it in the following manner: Ce néologisme, qui est aussi en parti un anglicisme, indique que la rhétorique est une manière de faire de la littérature, de la situer, et, en retour, un utile d’analyse. Il dispose que, dans le littéraire, l’hypothèse d’un partage—fût-il simplement heuristique—entre rhétorique et nonrhétorique ne vaut pas: [. . .].
This concept implies a graduated occurrence of rhetorical ars in literature, i.e. in every kind of literature. For literature is basically open to rhetoricity. The latter may be slight or complex, overtly displayed (demonstrare artem) or skilfully concealed (celare artem). (The celare artem is, for instance, emphasized in Robert Herrick’s poem Delight in Disorder, which is excellently analysed by Leo Spitzer [1962: 132– 138]).
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In summa: The spectrum of rhetoricity ranges from a minimal degree of artificiality to a “second naturalness” (altera natura), which is the triumph of all rhetorical techniques. With this description of rhetoricity in literature, its second dimension has already been alluded to: namely its semiotic or, in other words, its mediative character. So far, we have spoken of literature exclusively in terms of a linguistically coded configuration of signs. This is in accordance with the traditional concept of literature as a creative work of art. But we did not differentiate between its oral and its written manifestations, though each of these has its own kind of rhetoricity: an epic recited by a Greek rhapsode or a Germanic Skop no less than the printed pages of a novel in several volumes. Configurations consisting of verbal and non-verbal signs, i.e. mixed forms of texts, may also be rhetoricized: instances are the combinations of text and picture in emblems, of text and musical sounds in madrigals, and of text, picture and music in masques and operas. These combinations culminate in the Gesamtkunstwerk, which in its panaesthesia makes use of verbal signs as only one medium among others. Scholars of history have already developed theoretical approaches to describe such mixed forms of literature (e.g. Kibédi Varga 1989; Hoek/Meerhoff 1995; Wagner 1996). The intermedial character of these forms calls for an intermedial poetics. In a poetics of this kind, rhetoric proves to be a considerable factor (Knape 2005; Pennacchia Punzi 2007). In order to describe the role of rhetoric in this context, a construction of the history of rhetorical media would be necessary. So far it has not been written, and thus only a vague outline can be given here. In a diachronic sketch, a sequence of roughly five ages of media (Schanze 1996) may be postulated: an age of orality (i.e. of the public forum) was followed by one of literacy (Ong 1991). The latter split up into two periods, the age of manuscripts and the age of printing (Marshall McLuhan’s Gutenberg Galaxy). These were followed by the age of audiovision, which includes the phonograph as well as the radio and television. The latest age, whose outlines are currently taking shape, is that of digital simulations. This sketch is a rough one because it ignores the possibility of simultaneous occurrences of different media and the varieties of their mutual dependencies. Romanticism, for instance, brought a nostalgic restoration of a rhetoric of oral presence. On the level of literature, this manifested itself in a feigned orality which simulated a spontaneous authenticity—remote from the bookishness of rhetorical formalism. This explains why Romantic poetry has long
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been misunderstood as unrhetorical, an historical error which fails to appreciate its rhetorical idiosyncrasy. Other studies, bimedial ones in this case, investigate mixed forms of texts, or textual hybrids, which meet the twofold claim of muta poesis and pictura loquens (Simonides). Whatever the starting point, the constitution of rhetoricity in literature always presupposes a more or less explicitly circumscribed communicative perspective. The third dimension of rhetorical literature, which is also known as communication or pragmatics, is concerned with precisely these different perspectives. Basically there are two, that of the sender and the addressee. Accordingly, rhetoricity in literature can be defined in two ways: within a hermeneutics of production or a hermeneutics of reception. The hermeneutics of production, which is the older view, claimed that the poeta orator was responsible for the specific degree of rhetoricity in his works. Consequently, detailed historical research was considered necessary in order to determine a certain author’s knowledge of rhetoric as well as the overall situation of rhetorical poetics in his time. Of the publications which appeared during the renaissance of rhetoric in the 1960s and 1970s, the majority belongs to this group: Joachim Dyck’s Ticht-Kunst (1966), Wilfried Barner’s Barockrhetorik (1970), and Volker Sinemus’ Poetik und Rhetorik im frühmodernen deutschen Staat (Poetics and Rhetoric in the Early Modern German State [1978]). At the time they were published, these studies were necessary and of great value (which they still are), for they pioneered research into the foundations of rhetoricity in literature and thereby made further studies possible. Nevertheless, they often remained within the limits of a positivistic description of the relationship between rhetorical and poet(olog)ical sources. A dialectical mediation between the present and the past therefore seemed overdue. The ground for such a dialectic had already been prepared, though in philosophy rather than in literary criticism. In his Truth and Method (Wahrheit und Methode [(1960]) Hans-Georg Gadamer had already carried out the hermeneutic turn. In an exhaustive review of Gadamer’s book, Klaus Dockhorn (1966) established the connection with rhetoric which, in two subsequent studies, was taken up by Gadamer himself. In his article “Rhetoric, Hermeneutics, and Ideological Criticism” (Rhetorik, Hermeneutik und Ideologiekritik [1971: 57–82]), which forms a “metacritical” addendum to his important monograph, Gadamer aphoristically states:
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Es gibt keinen Redner und keine Redekunst, wenn nicht Verständigung und Einverständnis die menschlichen Beziehungen trüge—es gäbe keine hermeneutische Aufgabe, wenn das Einverständnis derer, die ‚ein Gespräch sind‘, nicht gestört wäre und die Verständigung nicht gesucht werden müsste. There would be no orators and no rhetoric if mutual understanding and agreement did not form the basis of human relations—there would be no hermeneutic task if the agreement of those who “are conversing” were not disrupted and understanding did not have to be sought.
And in his “Rhetoric and Hermeneutics” (Rhetorik und Hermeneutik [1976]), he points to the fact that Melanchthon had already been aware of the real benefit of the classical ars bene dicendi, namely Dass die jungen Leute die ars bene legendi, das heißt die Fähigkeit, Reden, längere Disputationen und vor allem Bücher und Texte aufzufassen und zu beurteilen nicht entbehren könnten. That young people could not do without the ars bene legendi, that is, the ability to understand and judge speeches, longer disputations, and particularly books and texts.
This is followed by the general statement: Beide [Rhetorik und Hermeneutik] haben es mit der Universalität des Sprachlichen und nicht mit bestimmt begrenzten Sachfeldern des Herstellens zu tun. Both [sc. rhetoric and hermeneutics] deal with the universality of language and not with certain limited fields of [linguistic] production.
If applied to the discovery and the interpretation of “rhetorical literature”, this means that the recipient is ascribed a predominant role. It consists in ferreting out the rhetoricity of literary texts—understood in terms of a hermeneutic inventio—and thereby verifying rhetorical elements historically. This heuresis is part of an overall communicative process which is fundamentally historical and in which the analyst himself participates. As a consequence, rhetoricity in literature cannot be determined once and for all, but is to be seen as a quantity fluctuating within certain limits. At all times, the history of literature as well as historical literary studies have given testimony to this fact in a wide variety of ways.
CHAPTER THREE
LITERARY RHETORIC
Our argument has now reached the point at which we need to discuss the theory of rhetorical literature and of rhetoricity in literature respectively. These belong to the domain of literary rhetoric, which must take into account the following three distinctions: 1. between literary and non-literary rhetoric, 2. between the possibility or impossibility of an actualization of rhetoric in literature, and 3. between literariness and rhetoricity. Taken as a whole, these three distinctions describe the spectrum of possible interrelations between literature and rhetoric. Because they are not unequivocal, but exceedingly controversial, it will be necessary to reconsider and revise one’s own position time and again. During the 1960s and 1970s, literary rhetoric was considered the primary, if not the only form of rhetorical studies. In the meantime, ancient domains of rhetoric have been restored and others have been newly developed. Once more we are speaking of the rhetoric of jurisprudence, politics, theology, stylistics, and philosophy. Innovations are the rhetoric of psychology, feminism, the media, and very recently, digital rhetoric (Plett 1996). But contrary to all expectations, rhetoric as a discipline has not been reinstitutionalized—apart from a few exceptions in Europe. Instead, rhetoric has become a multidisciplinary subject, i.e. it forms an integrative and acknowledged area of research within those disciplines which have a strong affinity with rhetoric. Initially, its traditional categories and concepts were retained. But within the framework of a “new rhetoric”, their deficiencies soon became evident. As a result, new creations have emerged, some of which have moved far from their rhetorical origins. As a consequence, literary rhetoric is no longer the prevailing kind of rhetoric but only one variant among many others. In comparison to these, literary rhetoric may be the heir to an older tradition; but this fact does not exempt it from the need for legitimation. Legitimation can only be achieved within the framework of a general poetics. Poetics is the definiens, rhetoric the definiendum. The profile of literary rhetoric varies in accordance with the particular poetological model
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which is preferred. In each specific case, a different selection is made from that which is rhetorically possible. Such a selection is responsible for the specific degree and the extent to which rhetoric participates in a literary process. Each cultural period, whether Antiquity, Humanism or Postmodernism, is characterized by similarities and differences which bring to light the historical development of rhetoricity in literature. These similarities and differences are in part rooted in a common rhetorical stock, and in part represent the extensions of that stock resulting from the literary revolution of each period. What is the constitution of the rhetorical stock which is (or is not) actualized in a literary work? Apart from Lausberg’s handbook, numerous reference works of ancient and modern rhetoric (cf. the list in Plett 1995 & 1996) describe its traditional content. These deal with the five parts of rhetoric (quinque partes artis): inventio, dispositio, elocutio, memoria, actio/pronuntiatio; the three principal functions: docere, delectare, movere; the three principal genres (genera causae): genus iudiciale, genus deliberativum, genus demonstrativum; the different parts of an oration (exordium, propositio, argumentatio, peroratio); the four principles of style (virtutes elocutionis): puritas, perspicuitas, ornatus, aptum; the different levels of style ( genera dicendi); the categories of rhetorical figures and many other subdivisions. To the adept of rhetoric, such terms and categories are well known. Moreover, this repertoire allows for a certain variability. Reductions, extensions, and overlappings are possible. The fact that there is no homogeneous terminology, only one which is partly Greek (e.g., metaphor, metonymy), partly Latin (e.g., alliteration, assonance), and partly vernacular (e.g., English similitude, pun, corresponding to German Gleichnis, Wortspiel), has had long-lasting consequences. An international norm which is compulsory, systematic, categorical and terminological is still lacking. Of course, there have been several attempts at standardization. Instances can be found in the reforms of Petrus Ramus (1515–1572), who restricted the rhetorical system to elocutio and pronunciatio and subjected its constituents to a strict dichotomic arrangement, and in George Puttenham’s efforts to thoroughly anglicize the elocutionary terminology in his Arte of English Poesie (1589). Whereas the French philosopher’s enterprise found adherents for at least a century, the English author’s experiment remained unnoticed. In the long run, however, neither of them proved successful. Consequently, the diffuse mixture of traditional systems and nomenclatures has remained a source of permanent, but at times also fruitful, misinterpretations.
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From a historical point of view all categories of rhetoric have found entrance into theories of poetry, which in turn influenced their employment in poetic works. This is true above all for the quinque partes artis rhetoricae, which can be traced in numerous poetical theories and works of the Renaissance (Plett 2004). Whether deliberately or not, the stock of rhetoric has been employed by literary theory and literature of all ages. Parts of this stock entered into literary texture, overtly displayed or artfully concealed. To list even a fraction of these applications would go beyond the scope of this chapter. This should be done within a history of rhetorical poetics. A few general hints may therefore suffice. They are confined to the quinque partes artis, the five parts of the discipline. Each of these parts may achieve a certain degree of autonomy when it is considered on its own. As regards the constitution of literature, each part of rhetoric is not equally important. The rhetorics of memory and of delivery, which were originally developed for the oral culture of public speeches, are certainly of minor importance in an age of print, unless the former is reinterpreted as “cultural memory” (Assmann/Harth 1991) and the latter as “media studies” (Lanham 1993). The classical system of dispositio does not seem to be complex enough to serve as a model for descriptions of literary structure. What remains therefore is the rhetoric of invention and the rhetoric of elocution. It is chiefly within these two branches that rhetoric has been applied for literary purposes. Research on topics had been revived even before the publication of Ernst Robert Curtius’s monograph. It had seen its first renaissance in Erasmus’s Adagia (1500) and in the commonplace books of the humanist poeta orator. From there it can be traced back to Antiquity as well as forward to the poetics of quotation in Postmodernism. What takes place in the latter is not only a formalist rhetoric of inventio, but also a fusion with memoria through the employment of the thesauri of accumulated knowledge. At all times, elocutio has, of course, constituted the very core of literary rhetoric (Gallo 1971; Müller 1981). The very fact that it has often been presented independently, without the other parts of rhetoric, testifies to its significance. At its best, it forms an elaborate system of stylistic categories, in the worst case it appears as a catalogue of tropes and figures unsystematically arranged. Whether the one or the other is the case, historical representations of tropes and figures tend to be normative in character. This is particularly evident in the prescriptions divided into “The vse of this figure” and “The Caution” which regularly appear in Henry Peacham’s treatise The Garden of Eloquence (1593). For the trope of allegory the
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procedures of definition, exemplification, and evaluation are performed in Bernard Lamy’s De l’art de parler (1676 [1998: 200–201]). In 1676 an English translation of Lamy’s work appeared under the title The Art of speaking: written in French by Messieurs du Port Royal, where the same outline of allegory reads as follows: An allegory is a continuation of several Metaphors. There is an excellent example of a perfect Allegory in the Poem of St. Prosper, Part 2. Chapter 14 where he speaks of Divine Grace. By this the Soul of Man becomes a Soil, Fit to receive the Seed of Faith, and while By this Divine Efflux, the drooping Mind Is rais’d above her self, that Plant doth find Room to take root, and largely spread, through all Those thoughts and actions, which since the Fall, Deserve the Name of Good. To thus w’are bound, That that good Fruit, for which the Saints are crown’d, Comes to maturity, and is not kill’d By th’Tares of Passions, with which is fill’d Depraved humane Nature: ‘Tis this strength By which Faith brings forth Fruit, and at the length, Maugre the desp’rate Onsets of fierce lusts, Grows up secure to Him in whom she trusts. This props up tender Faith from being struck down, ‘Till happy Perseverance gives a Crown. Great care must be taken in an Allegory, that it ends as it begins; that the Metaphors be continued, and the same things made use of to the last, from whence we borrowed our first Expressions; which Prosper observed exactly in his Metaphor from Corn. When these Allegories are obscure, and the natural sense of the words not presently perceptible, they may be call’d Enigma’s, as in these Verses, where the Poet describes the agitation and ebullition of the blood in the time of a Feaver: Ce sang chaud & boüillant, cette flâme liquide, Cette source de vie à ce coup homicide, Et son let agité, ne se peut reposer Et consume le champ qu’elle doit arroser. Dans ses canaux troubles, sa course vagabonde Porte un tribut Mortel au Roy du petit Monde. The last Verse is more particularly Enigmatical; and on a sudden we do not perceive that he intends by the word King the Heart, as the principal part by which the Blood of the whole Body passes continually: It must first be considered, that Man is called frequently a Microcosm or little World. (Lamy 1986: 216–217)
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While this rhetorical treatise can be regarded as prescriptive and normative, with exact definitions and explications, a Postmodernist approach like that of Paul de Man’s in his Allegories of Reading (1979) proceeds from a rather broad understanding of allegory which is not clearly defined in the opening chapter of this book. The following chapters suggest that the term remains rather opaque, reason for scholars to continue publishing books and articles on the topic (e.g. Greenfield 1998). A modern concept of allegory and rhetorical elocutio must, however, be based on precise definitions and strictly logical foundations. This will result in a model that can generate all possible tropes and figures. It is on such tropes and figures that literary studies concentrate almost automatically—as negative verdicts do as well, at least if the relationship between rhetoric and poetry is at stake. It is for this reason that the relationship between literariness and rhetoricity, the third subject of the present chapter, has to be considered more closely. This, however, does not mean that it can be ultimately defined or even standardized in a compulsory way. Let us take the problem of language as a starting point for the following discussion. Does poetic language differ from rhetorical language? As we have seen, Novalis most decisively affirms this. Opposing views deny the very existence of specific languages of rhetoric and poetry. They maintain that the linguistic inventory which belongs to rhetoric and poetry is also part of everyday communication. Well known is Nietzsche’s apodictic aphorism: “Die Sprache ist Rhetorik” (Language is rhetoric.), which obliterates the artificial boundaries set up between language and eloquence. The context of this aphorism reads in English translation: But, it is not difficult to prove that what is called “rhetorical,” as a means of conscious art, had been active as a means of unconscious art in language and its development [Werden], indeed, that the rhetorical is a further development, guided by the clear light of the understanding, of the artistic means which are already found in language. There is obviously no unrhetorical “naturalness” of language to which one could appeal; language itself is the result of purely rhetorical arts. The power to discover and to make operative that which works and impresses, with respect to each thing, a power which Aristotle calls rhetoric, is, at the same time, the essence of language; the latter is based just as little as rhetoric is upon that which is true, upon the essence of things. Language does not desire to instruct, but to convey to others a subjective impulse and its acceptance. Man, who forms language, does not perceive things or events, but impulses: he does not communicate sensations, but merely copies of
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chapter three sensations. The sensation, evoked through a nerve impulse, does not take in the thing itself: this sensation is presented externally through an image. But, the question of how an act of the soul can be presented through a sound image must be asked. If completely accurate representation is to take place, should the material in which it is to be represented, above all, not be the same as that in which the soul works? However, since it is something alien—the sound—how then can something come forth more accurately as an image? It is not the things that pass over into consciousness, but the manner in which we stand toward them, the pithanon [power of persuasion (plausibility; also a thing producing illusion)]. The full essence of things will never be grasped. Our utterances by no means wait until our perception and experience have provided us with a many-sided, somehow respectable knowledge of things; they result immediately when the impulse is perceived. Instead of the thing, the sensation takes in only a sign. That is the first aspect: language is rhetoric, because it desires to convey only a doxa [opinion] not an epistēmē [knowledge]. (Nietzsche 1989: 21–23).
This is not the place to interpret Nietzsche’s line of argument, as this has been done elsewhere (e.g. in Kopperschmidt/Schanze 1994). But its conclusion is clear: a rhetorical and a literary language do not exist; hence they cannot differ sub specie elocutionis. This opinion is, however, contradicted by almost the entire history of rhetoric and poetics. Aristotle had bridged the gap to rhetoric in the nineteenth chapter of his Poetics in writing on “thought” (Aristoteles 1970: 52). In chapter 21 and 22 of his Poetics Aristotle deals with lexis; of importance here is his treatment of metaphor, about which he writes: 3. Metaphor is the application of the name of a thing to something else, working either (a) from genus to species, or (b) from species to genus, or (c) from species to species, or (d) by proportion. a. I mean by “from genus to species” an expression like “my ship stands here”; for lying at anchor is one kind of standing. b. From species to genus: “Verily, ten thousand good things hath Odysseus wrought”: “ten thousand” is a large number, so it is used here in place of “many.” c. From species to species: for example, “draining off the life with bronze,” and “cutting with the unwearying bronze”; here the poet has said “draining off ” instead of “cutting” and “cutting” instead of “draining off,” for both verbs mean “take away.” d. Metaphor by proportion occurs when the second term is related to the first in the same way as the fourth to the third; then the poet may use the second in lieu of the fourth, or vice versa. And sometimes they may add the point of reference of the word that has been replaced. Thus the cup stands in the same relationship to Dionysus as the shield to Ares; hence the poet may call a cup “Dionysus’ shield” or a shield “Ares’ cup.”
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Or, as old age is to life, so evening is to day; then he may call evening the old age of the day, or Empedocles’ variant on that phrase, and old age the evening of life or the sunset of life. Some of the items in the proportion may have no special name, but they will be used analogically none the less. Thus to cast seed is to sow, while casting its flame, with reference to the sun, has no particular name; but this action stands in the same relation to sun-light as the sowing to the seed-grain; hence we find the expression “sowing the god-built flame.” There is also another way of using this kind of metaphor: after applying the strange name to it, to negate one of the things that would naturally follow; thus one might call the shield not the “cup of Ares” but a “wineless cup.” (Aristoteles 1970: 57–58).
In the further development of rhetoric and its terminology the analogical metaphor in its audacious realizations will be named concetto or conceit and become part of a mannerist or ‘metaphysical’ style. The invention of a (metaphorical) term for a thing for which no designation as yet exists (paupertas sermonis) receives the critical term catachresis (Lausberg 1998: §§ 551, 562); in so far it describes a constitutional act of meaning. In recent times it is, however, used in a more extensive manner; the sophistical readings revolve around the double-bind of catachresis between proper/improper uses of language as defined by speech act theory, and proper/improper uses of meaning as circumscribed by deconstruction theory (Clot 2003; Posselt 2005). While Aristotle inserts here, as it were, a digression on a stylistic category in his Poetics, his Rhetoric (III.11.2 [1410b 33–36, 1411b 22– 1412a20]) deals with energeia: We must now explain the meaning of “before the eyes,” and what must be done to produce this. I mean that things are set before the eyes by words that signify actuality. For instance, to say that a good man is “four-square” is a metaphor, for both these are complete, but the phrase does not express actuality [ἐνέργειαν], whereas “of one having the prime of his life in full bloom” does; similarly, “thee, like a scared animal ranging at will” expresses actuality [ἐνέργεια], and in Thereupon the Greeks shooting forward with their feet the word “shooting” contains both actuality and metaphor. And as Homer often, by making use of metaphor, speaks of inanimate things as if they were animate; and it is to creating actuality in all such cases that his popularity is due. [. . .] (Aristoteles 2000: 405–407).
In his excellent commentary on Aristotle’s Rhetoric (1973: III, 125) Edward Meredith Cope refers to Richard Whately’s work Elements of
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Rhetoric (1828, 71846), which interprets and expands Aristotle’s concept of energeia and gives it an interpretation of his own: The next quality of Style to be noticed is what may be called Energy; the term being used in a wider sense than the Ἐνέργεια of Aristotle, and nearly corresponding with what Dr. Campbell calls Vivacity; so as to comprehend every thing that may conduce to stimulate attention,—to impress strongly on the mind the Arguments adduced,—to excite the Imagination, and to arouse the Feelings. This Energy then, or Vivacity of Style, must depend (as is likewise the case in respect of Perspicuity) on three things: 1st, the Choice of words, 2nd, their Number, and 3rd, their Arrangement. (Whately 1969: 275 [Part III, Chap. II, § 1]).
What follows is the treatment of Energy under the three headings mentioned: choice, number, and arrangement of words. Energeia is often confused or collated with the term enargeia or evidentia; its importance is even heightened in the theory and practice of poetry from classical Antiquity until at least the end of the eighteenth century. François Fénelon offers an excellent exposition of this important stylistic category in his Second Dialogue of his Dialogues sur l’éloquence: To portray is not only to describe things but to represent their surrounding features in so lively and so concrete a way that the listener imagines himself almost seeing them. For example, a dispassionate historian who tells of the death of Dido, will content himself with saying that she was so overcome with grief after the departure of Aeneas that she could not bear to live; and that she went upstairs in her palace, threw herself upon a pyre, and killed herself. In listening to these words, you take in the happening, but you do not see it. Listen to Virgil, and he will put it before your eyes. Is it not true that, when he assembles all the surrounding features of her despair, when he shows you the savage Dido, the lineaments of death already etched upon her face, when he makes her speak with her eyes upon Aeneas’ portrait and upon his sword, your imagination transports you to Carthage, you believe that you see the Trojan fleet receding from the beach and the queen whom nothing can console. You enter into all the feelings which the actual spectators had as they looked. It is no longer Virgil you listen to—you are too attentive to the last words of the unhappy Dido to think of him. The poet disappears. You see nothing but that which he makes visible; you hear nothing but those whom he makes speak. There one sees the power of imitation and portraiture! Hence it comes about that the painter and the poet have so close a connection: the one paints for the eyes, the other for the ears. Both the one and the other assume the duty of carrying objects over into the imagination of men. I have given you an example drawn from a
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poet, in order to make you better understand the matter; for portraiture is still more lively and stronger among the poets than among the orators. Poetry differs from simple eloquence only in this: that she paints with ecstasy and with bolder strokes. Prose has its paintings, albeit more moderated. Without them one cannot heat the imagination of the listener or arouse his passions. A simple story cannot move. It is necessary not only to acquaint the listeners with the facts, but to make the facts visible to them, and to strike their consciousness by means of a perfect representation of the arresting manner in which the facts have come to pass. (Fénelon 1951: 92–94).
This passage is important for several reasons: 1. Fénelon shows the close connection between enargeia and ekphrasis in the enargetic description of an action. 2. He stresses the importance of this principle of style for transcending mere factography. 3. Such an enargetic representation is different from historiographic writing. 4. The enargetic representation of Dido’s grief and suicide after the departure of Aeneas is to be found not only in the history of poetry from Virgil onwards (e.g. C. Marlowe) but also in the history of western art (e.g. J. Raoux, C. Lorraine) and even music theatre (e.g. P.F. Cavalli, H. Purcell, N. Piccinni). Thus enargeia emerges as an intermedial principle bestowing lively verisimilitude on a representation which appeals to the imagination and engenders in the listener or reader the illusion of being an eyewitness. 5. Enargetic poetry emulates painting as its sister art, with which it is closely related in an age of mimetic aesthetics. 6. Fénelon articulates a difference between enargetic representation in prose and poetry, one which consists in a different degree of intensity of verbal painting and the use of passions. Because of its general importance for the history of aesthetics and the arts, numerous studies on this rhetorical-poetical term enargeia and its significance have been published from the 1970s onward (Plett 1975: passim, esp. 184–193; Cave 1972, 1979; Willems 1989; Walker 1993; Solbach 1994; Galand-Hallyn 1995; Pernot 1997; Manieri 1998; Clüver 1998; Scholz 1999; van Rosen 2000; McKeown 2000; Sharpling 2002; Wells 2002; Lunde 2004; Wimböck 2007; Gil 2008). This term and its realization has consistently proved a bridge between rhetoric and poetry and between the visual arts and music as well. Benedetto Croce tried to break that bridge, but he did not succeed. On the contrary, numerous publications on rhetoric have used literary examples in order to illustrate stylistic principles. As late as 1975 Henri Morier published a Dictionnaire de poétique et de rhétorique with the firm purpose of reuniting the sister arts:
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chapter three Puissent-ils [sc. les Académiens] donc nous pardonner d’avoir osé l’entreprendre et d’avoir versé en un seul volume, comme notions communes au métier d’écrivain, les règles de l’art oratoire et ces secrets de poésie qu’on appelait jadis la Seconde Rhétorique! (1975: 11).
And in Italy, Angelo Marchese’s immensely popular Dizionario di retorica e di stilistica even in its 12th edition of 1990 (11978) carries the significant subtitle: “Arte e artificio nell’ uso delle parole retorica, stilistica, metrica, teoria della letteratura.” In all tracts, whether ancient or modern, the artificial character of the language of orators and poets has been based on the theorem of deviation (Abweichung, écart, aktualisace), according to which rhetorical or poetical “foregrounding” stands out against the norms of everyday language, termed “backgrounding” (Mukařovský 1964; Kuentz 1970; Klinkenberg 1977; Fricke 1981). It is equipped with a rhetorical-poetical secondary grammar ( grammaire seconde), which in its syntactic semiosis is characterized by two axes. These are formed by the linguistic levels (phonological, morphological, syntactic, semantic, graphemic, textological) on the one hand and linguistic transformations (addition, subtraction, permutation, substitution; equivalence) on the other (cf. Leech 1970; Dubois et al. 1970). According to this theory, metaphor, for instance, can be defined as a semantic substitution, and parallelism as morphosyntactic equivalence. Apart from differences in terminology, the prescriptive tracts of the past and the structuralist models of the present age agree in this respect. The question concerning the relationship between literariness and rhetoricity has, however, not yet been resolved. On the contrary, the different positions seem to be fixed and rigid: one denies that there is any elocutionary difference at all, the other rigidly separates literariness and rhetoricity. In order to solve this problem, a broader perspective is needed. This can be achieved by taking into account the telos of both rhetoric and poetry. Here, a clearly marked difference can be observed. At all times, rhetoric has been governed by the practical purpose of persuasion, a term which in German is translated in two different ways: Überzeugung (convincing) or Überredung (persuading). These seem to offer two procedural alternatives: an argumentative (logos) or an affective one (pathos). Julius Caesar Scaliger (1484–1558) in Book I.1. “Orationis necessitas, ortus, usus, finis, cultus” (The Indispensability of Language, its Origin, Uses, End, and Cultivation) of his Poetices libri septem (1561) almost proclaims a kind of panrhetoric in this rhetorical question:
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An vero omnibus his, philosophicae, civili, theatrali, unus demum finis propositus sit? Ita sane est. Unus enim idemque omnium finis persuasio, [. . .]. (Scaliger 1994: 62). Now is there not one end, and one only, in philosophical exposition, in oratory, and in the drama? Assuredly such is the case. All have one and the same end—persuasion. (Scaliger 1905: 3).
and goes on to the same distinction: Est autem persuasio animi coniunctio cum oratione. Forma persuasionis veritas, sive certa sive ambigua. Finis opus vel intellectionis vel actionis. Veritas autem orationis aequatio cum re. (Scaliger 1994: 62, 64). Persuasion, again, means that the hearer accepts the words of the speaker. The soul of persuasion is truth, truth either fixed and absolute, or susceptible of question. Its end is to convince, or to secure the doing of something. Truth, in turn, is agreement between that which is said about a thing and the thing itself (Scaliger 1905: 3).
Thus Scaliger approaches the problem from an epistemological viewpoint. In Plato’s philosophical doctrine the twofold interpretation of “truth” manifests itself either in aletheia (truth proper) or doxa (opinion). On the other hand Scaliger’s term “agreement” almost anticipates Jürgen Habermas’ “consensus theory of truth”. Irrespective of the alternative chosen, rhetoric will make use of any available device to achieve its pragmatic end. Literature, on the other hand, does not lay claim to an immediate situational eloquence; its essential destination lies within its own realm, not outside of it. According to Aristotle, it is hedone, not catharsis. Friedrich Schiller (1966 II, 341–351) uses the nicely formulated paradox: “Pleasure in tragic things” (Vergnügen an tragischen Gegenständen). According to Immanuel Kant, the purpose of literature is “disinterested pleasure” (interesseloses Wohlgefallen), or, to put it with Roman Jakobson (21964: 356), “autotely”, which he defines as follows: The set (Einstellung) toward the MESSAGE as such, focus on the message for its own sake, is the POETIC function of language. [. . .] Poetic function is not the sole function of verbal art but only its dominant, determining function, whereas in all other verbal activities it acts as a subsidiary, accessory constituent. (Jakobson 21964: 356).
Such statements should not be taken as representative of an idealistic view of art, for, in the final analysis, this theorem lies at the heart of all poetics. It is differently expressed by Wilbur Samuel Howell in “Literature as an Enterprise in Communication”:
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chapter three The aesthetic factors in a poem and the rhetorical factors in a speech or piece of exposition are not to be interpreted to imply a difference between our sense of delight in the harmony of a work of art and our sense of conviction of the truth of a more practical communication. We ordinarily associate delight with a sense of harmony, and conviction with a sense of truth; but our delight is an aspect of conviction, as conviction is an aspect of delight. (Howell 1975: 230).
Which means that there is no radical cut between a poetical and a rhetorical work of art, with regard to their constitution and effect, but that there are numerous transitions across the borderlines of the two disciplines. A label specific to poetics does no more than indicate a shift in perspective. How can literariness and rhetoricity be differentiated according to this premise? In order to answer this question, the following statements are necessary: 1. The principle of autotely governs all kinds of literature, including rhetorical ones. 2. The principle of persuasion governs all kinds of rhetoricity, including literary ones. 3. There is a scale of rhetorical literariness and a scale of literary rhetoricity. Within these scales functions may vary. In the process of time rhetoric may change into literature and literature may change into rhetoric. As regards these functional shifts, a skilful oration which has lost its immediate persuasiveness may be an example of the former (poeticizing), and the line of a poem which is used in an advertisement an example of the latter (rhetoricizing). The status of elocutio in particular is affected by this scheme of fluctuating functions. Thus, rhetorical figures and tropes may change into poetical ones. Their specific value is defined by their telos. In a poet’s perspective, the rhetoric of the Holy Scriptures may appear as poetry, and the rhetorical anaphoras and parallelisms may change into poetical ones. Walt Whitman, who imitated the biblical style in his epic cycle Leaves of Grass (1855), is an example here. Analogically, this may happen to the other parts of rhetoric, and indeed, to all the different aspects of rhetoric as well. If rhetorical figures are interpreted as semiotic categories, their range of application extends even further. They gain entrance into pictorial and musical theory and practice, where they attain a new significance as constitutive categories of a pictura rhetorica (Johansen 1999; van Eck 2007) or a musica poetica (Bartel 1997; Burmeister 2007).
CHAPTER FOUR
RHETORIC AND LITERARY CRITICISM
The discussions of “rhetorical literature” and “literary rhetoric” have revealed that the treatment of rhetoric will be no easy task for literary studies in times to come. It is, of course, not the task of literary studies to define its own basis in rhetorical terms. But neither will it be possible to continue literary studies with the customary methodologies. A short, but critical survey may illustrate this point. It will deal with rhetorical positivism, structuralism, and Post-structuralism. To conclude the preceding discussion, I will suggest a proposal of my own. As recent commentaries on the rhetorical aspects of Scaliger’s Poetics (e.g. Spies 1999: 21–27) have demonstrated, rhetorical positivism has proved valuable in primarily one area, namely source research. Source research has succeeded in recovering historical references which have long been buried. As a kind of archaeology, it is of great value and yet far from being completed. In literary interpretations, however, rhetorical positivism has proved rather harmful. Most often, it amounts to a list of rhetorical figures which are stated, but not really analysed. Sometimes this results in mere indices and statistics. Such procedures have brought the rhetorical study of literature into disrepute, or worse, degraded it to a kind of philological pedantry—pointedly illustrated by Holofernes in Shakespeare’s Love’s Labours Lost, who in an attempt to analyse a literary text rhetorically asks his pupils the question: “What is the figure?” On such a procedure an adequate commentary is given by Samuel Butler’s pedagogue-rhetorician who “could not ope / His mouth but out there flew a trope”, and all of whose rules “Teach nothing but to name his tools.” (Bryant 1973: 3). The rhetorical paradigm has often been described as a storehouse of figures. This is why antirhetoric, literary antirhetoric in particular, has been able to strengthen its position time and again. Structuralism also has its advantages and disadvantages, but these are of a different nature. It has undoubtedly proved successful in the construction of rhetorical models of description, mostly elocutionary ones. The works of Lausberg, the Liège Groupe Mu (Dubois et al. 1970) and their imitators and emulators give ample testimony to this.
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Their projects were the first to include strict scholarly considerations. With the help of semiotics, linguistics and speech act theory, those models could be refined and concretised. The study of rhetoric thereby gained a scientific foundation. The shortcomings of such an approach become evident, however, if it is applied to literary hermeneutics. Even if developed with great skill, structural schemes and nomenclatures cannot compensate for historical and functional analyses of literary rhetoricity. At best, they are a prerequisite for the latter. Improvement will be achieved only if structuralism is no longer considered mere formalism but an integrative part of a functional contextualism. Finally, there is the recent approach in literary rhetoric known by the label of Poststructuralism. Jennifer Richards writes about their representatives: Post-structuralists are not interested in replacing an outdated and oppressive system with a more ‘scientific’ conception of language as a signifying practice, and thereby reducing rhetoric to an ‘ideological object’ (Barthes 1988: 47). Rather, they contribute to a new recognition of the instability of language, which ‘penetrates to the deepest levels of human experience’ (Bender and Welberry 1990: 25). Rhetoric, in a broad sense, is both the beginning of this problem and a means to focus attention on it. (Richards 2008: 130–131).
The most characteristic feature of Poststructuralist rhetoric is deconstruction. It is focused on the rhetoric of elocution, and as such it is a representative of a “rhétorique restreinte” (Genette 1970). In the Poststructuralist focus elocution has come to be considered a free play of floating signifiers. In theoria, this leads to the absence of a rigid methodology; in praxi, it amounts to a narcissistic cult of language which is interested in nothing but itself. The mysteries of this art, which consists of circular metamorphoses of tropes, are kept within the personal “cultural memory” of the interpreter. Such an attitude, however, does not reach beyond itself and proves detrimental to the public character of rhetoric, which needs the forum, the stage or—as in recent times—the Internet. Examples of the playful use of a graphostylistic rhetoric can be found in Jean Starobinski’s essay La célébration du nom (Remarques sur les anagrammes) (1997). A supplementary list of graphaesthetic examples is included in a “dictionnaire de jeux avec les mots” entitled Lettres en Folies (Duchesne / Leguay 1990). François Fénelon, in the First Dialogue of his Dialogues on Eloquence, already placed in the mouth of his speaker A a telling passage made up of borrowings from two separate chapters of St. Augustine’s De doctrina Christiana (IV.10.24 & IV.28.61):
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Then you could not convincingly prove that a speaker serves the public by teaching them eloquence, if you have not already proved that the eloquence itself serves some purpose. For what do a man’s beautiful speeches serve, if fine as they are they contribute no benefit whatever to the public? Words are made for men, as Saint Augustine says, and not men for words. As I well know, speeches serve him who makes them; for they dazzle the listeners, they create much talk about him who makes them, and some people even have the bad taste to give him money for his useless words. But should an eloquence that is mercenary and of no benefit to the public be suffered in the state which you control? A shoemaker at least makes shoes and supports his family only by money earned in ministering to the actual needs of the public. Thus, you see, the meanest occupations have a solid aim; and the art of the speaker alone has no aim but to entertain men with talk! Its whole aim, that is, boils down to satisfying the curiosity and whiling away the idleness of the listener, on the one hand, and to gratifying the vanity and the ambition of him who speaks, on the other. In the good name of your republic, sir, do not permit such an abuse. (Fénelon 1951: 72–73).
On the other hand the ultimate existence of poetic works in a labyrinth of signs (Eco) or, to put it less mildly, their confinement to a “prison-house of language” (Jameson) points ahead to a narcissistic and sometimes hermetic cult of language. The age of Baudelaire and Wilde is returning, with a vengeance—and with a différance. After such partly negative verdicts I submit the following proposal— which is, of course, open to criticism—for how literary rhetoric should proceed in the future: 1. with respect to author and recipient: hermeneutically, i.e. allowing both of them self-consciously to merge within “the one world joining past and present, owned and co-owned mutually by each other” (Gadamer 1971: 64); 2. with respect to the subject of “literature”: not only verbally, but also nonverbally and, if necessary, multimedially, which is the adequate response to the semiotic complexity of modern texts; 3. with respect to rhetoric itself: metarhetorically, i.e., critically reflecting on its own methodological foundations, being sceptical towards its own heritage and at the same time open to any possible innovations. This is, and always has been, the purpose of true scholarship.
PART II
THE REALM OF RHETORIC
CHAPTER ONE
APPROACHES TO RHETORIC
What is rhetoric? Rhetoric is an art form. “Art” stands here for technique (Greek τέχνη). The product of this technique is an artefact: something that is not subject to nature and her coincidental ways, but that arises from man’s planning rationality. In other words: Rhetoric is a process concerning an essential characteristic of humanity, namely speech. As a method, rhetoric is characterized by a corpus of rules. These rules have not been put together in an arbitrary manner but are correlated in accordance with logical consistency. In their totality they represent a complex edifice supported by struts made up of dependencies, analogies and definitions. From this we may conclude: Rhetoric has the character of a system. Even though this system, over the course of two and a half thousand years, has often been incomplete and has undergone new modifications time and again, its primary function has always remained the same, namely, to produce texts in accordance with the rules of art. However, the modern scientific notion of rhetoric is different; one could almost say an inversion of this procedure. The primary intention of modern scientific rhetoric is not the production but the analysis of texts. The introduction of rhetoric as a method of text analysis is justified for two reasons. The first reason is an historical one. We know for a fact that as long as a theory of rhetoric existed, texts of every kind (speeches, sermons, letters, poems, etc.) have been composed according to its rules. If one now applies categories of rhetoric to the interpretation of such texts, then this contributes to the elucidation of their intentional adherence to formal laws. What was conceived under the constraint of prescriptive modes of expression, now becomes accessible through its description by an analyst. Implemented in this manner, the task of the rhetorical method is fulfilled in the reconstruction process; it has its place in an historical hermeneutics. The second reason is in principle a methodological one. Over the millenia, rhetoric has shown itself to be not only durable but also sufficiently flexible to be applicable to ever new types of text. As a result, there arose subsystems such as a theory of letters, a theory of sermons, and a rhetorical
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poetics. Taken together, these constitute the “realm of rhetoric” (Perelman 1977). A modern scientific rhetoric whose aim is not the production but the description of texts, cannot simply take over the system of intended effects, nor their prescriptive assignment to specific formal rhetorical features. Rather, its task initially consists in considering the effects of texts as hermeneutical reception phenomena. These effects may be classified according to psychological and sociological aspects or interpreted in terms of ideological criticism and under certain circumstances be objectified by empirical methods of measurement. The aim of the second step of the analysis is then to relate the established effects of the text to certain structural text features as their enabling conditions. A further stage of analysis is devoted to clarifying the historicity of the text to be interpreted: the concrete social environment of the author of the text, his/her relationship to the predominant norms of argumentation and cultural environment of his/her time, and his/ her choice of medial facilities in relation to the audience addressed. Finally, the text analyst has to take into account that his/her own point of view is an historical inheritance, i.e. dependent on specific preconceptions and prejudices. In this way, prescriptive rhetoric changes into an historic-hermeneutic rhetoric.
CHAPTER TWO
THE DOMAINS OF RHETORIC
Any practical system of rhetoric starting from the speaker/author or from the recipient/analyst is based on a concept of speech situations. For historical reasons, classical rhetoric chose the juridical speech situation as its starting point: An advocate makes his appearance in a law-court where he accuses or defends, with the aim of convincing the judges of his point of view. There were two additional practical situations of speechmaking: that of a speaker addressing a legislative assembly, and that of the festive orator. The triad of speech situations thus generated was subdivided with regard to criteria of (a) thematic domain, (b) the function of the text, (c) the emotions produced, and (d) the primary time reference, and it logically yielded a triad of text genres: the judicial, the deliberative and the epideictic genre. Their respective features are listed in table 1, including (e) several illustrative model cases: Table 1 1
The judicial genre (genus iudiciale)
a) b) c) d) e)
Thematic domain: Textual function: Emotions: Primary time reference: Model cases:
2
The deliberative genre (genus deliberativum)
a) b) c) d) e)
Thematic domain: Textual function: Emotions: Primary time reference: Model cases:
Right or wrong Accusation or defence Severity or mildness Past Speech in lawsuit, socio-critical drama, pamphlet, satire, apology.
Benefit or harm Admonition or warning Fear or hope Future Political speech, advertising, didactic poetry, suasoria, utopia, sermon.
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Table 1 (cont.) 3
The epideictic genre ( genus demonstrativum)
a) b) c) d) e)
Thematic domain: Textual function: Emotions: Primary time reference: Model cases:
Honour or dishonour Praise or blame Joy or hatred Present Eulogy, defamatory pamphlet, occasional poetry: epithalamium, panegyric, encomium, epitaph.
These three rhetorical genres are often represented in Shakespeare’s plays (cf. M.B. Kennedy 1942: 103–147) and French classicist drama (cf. Forestier 1993: 45–65). They hardly ever appear in their pure form; the normal case is rather a mixture of the various thematic domains, textual functions, emotions and time references. Thus, an accusatory speech may include both deliberative elements (e.g. an appeal to the sense of justice of the judges) and epideictic elements (e.g. denigration of the accused person). Didactic poetry (dealing, for instance, with agriculture) which tries to inculcate a certain type of thinking or action, will often denounce past or present shortcomings (e.g. unjust distribution of property) and praise a certain ideal life style (e.g. praise of a simple life). The chain of examples can be continued. As a result of their thematic and functional polarities (e.g. right— wrong, accusation—defence), all rhetorical genres are subject to a law of dialectic tension. The less an opposing speaker creates an antithesis to the speaker’s thesis, the more this tension will be reduced since the task of persuasion falls away. The judge (listener, reader) is then no longer called upon to make a decision that mediates between the opposing positions. Depending on the state of tension produced by the text, the recipient will be active or passive, the author will be argumentative or aestheticizing, and the nature of the text will be “dialogic” or “monologic”. While the judicial and deliberative genres are essentially argumentative, epideixis may rather be called aesthetic in essence. It thus offers an initial approach to the rhetoricization of literature and lends itself to the entry of the poetic into oratory: The orator turns into a poet, the poet into an orator. The two are brought together by their intent to persuade by linguistic ornamentation. For a modern text theory, the typology of rhetorical genres has more than historical significance. Nevertheless a modern pragmatic
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approach to texts can quite easily adopt the rhetorical concept of textual situations and the functions determining them and introduce both into a functional text model. However, in contrast to the claim to universality of the classical theory, the hypothetical character of this model should constantly be kept in mind. Furthermore, modern scholarship can adopt the concept of functional hierarchies from the classical model, thus attaining a greater descriptive adequacy of the text-analytical apparatus. Jan Mukařovský (1967: 44–54; 1970: 113– 137), who made this suggestion in the 20th century, was not aware of its rhetorical origin at the time. And, finally, textual pragmatics can adopt the construction of text-functional binarity from rhetoric. This binarity, it is true, has the disadvantage that it reduces a complex network of relations to an oppositional and therefore simple relationship. At the same time, however, it offers an invaluable advantage, namely the resulting clarification of the dialectic, or—in the words of Mikhail Bakhtin—the “dialogicity” of the argumentative approach to texts. And that is exactly what constitutes a rhetorically interpreted pragmatics. The question as to how a text is produced rhetoric answers by proposing a five-phase model to describe the individual stages of text production in their temporal sequence. This model (see Barthes 1970: 197) takes the following form (Table 2): Table 2 1 2 3 4 5
invenire quid dicas inventa disponere ornare verbis memoriae mandare agere et pronunciare
CHAPTER THREE
THE RHETORIC OF FIGURES
In many classical and modern treatises, the rhetorical figures are considered to be an essential component of stylistics (elocutio, lexis), listed above as the third stage of the five-phase rhetorical text production model. Modern linguistic usage tends to ignore such classification; it is symptomatic that frequently the figures are completely identified with rhetoric as such. The scholarly discipline in which such identification regularly occurs is that of literature studies. This is not an accidental fact but the result of historical developments, as shown by the investigations of Genette (1970) and Kuentz (1970). A rhetoric that confines itself to elocutio could emerge at times when rhetoric was literaricized and literature was rhetoricized. For rhetoric, this meant not only a sectoral limitation but also a loss of “practical effectiveness” (Hegel). Conversely, rhetoricization for literature implied the acceptance of the figurative ideal of style and of certain concepts of effect. Thus, as a result of the mutual interpenetration of rhetoric and poetry, the elocutionary schemes acquired a double status: as rhetorical figures of speech they belonged to the rhetorical code, as aesthetic figures of speech, to the literary code. This constellation inevitably became questionable when the synthesis of rhetoric and poetry broke up. Thus, ever since the age of Romanticism, when this process was initiated, elocutio as a production theory for poetic texts was increasingly abandoned. Although it was rehabilitated in the 20th century as a theory of literary analysis by the works of Heinrich Lausberg and others, neither they nor more recent linguistic (deviation stylistic) efforts have been able to release the figures of elocutio completely from the status of a scholarly triviality. In addition, the rediscovery of the quinque partes artis and of the pragmatic dimension has brought about a certain redistribution of research interest in rhetoric, away from elocutio and towards inventio and actio: The rhetoric of figures took a back seat behind the rhetoric of arguments, of speech acts, of “persuasive communication”. An understanding of rhetoric which professes to be enlightening (“emancipatory”) further contributed to devalue the former as a mere rhetorical “technology”,
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in preference of the latter. Finally, these two positions, which view elocutio either with reservation or negatively, are being reinforced by the ranks of those who regard rhetorical figures as a rather arbitrary collection of speech patterns which are terminologically rather difficult to understand. The reservations towards rhetorical figures can be summed up in three points: 1
2
3
Lack of system: It is claimed that rhetorical style is nothing but an arsenal of figures that cannot be classified and that cannot claim any scientific character. Operating with the rhetorical figures would then betray a lack of serious scholarship. Formalism: According to this objection, rhetorical figures are equated with certain stylistic “techniques”, bloodless “schemes” or formalistic “tricks” that are used to produce or explain certain linguistic refinements. From this stems the notion of a “technological” or “instrumental” rhetoric (Kopperschmidt 1973). Artificiality: By this is meant that in linguistic aesthetics the rhetorical figures confer a highly artistic if not artificial appearance on texts, and that they then apply only to the analysis of such texts. They are not able to generate or decipher truly “imaginative” texts but only such extravagant ones as can be assigned to literary mannerism.
These three reproaches have contributed considerably to bring the rhetoric of figures, and rhetoric as a whole, into disrepute. For a scholarly approach to rhetoric, this is all the more reason to discuss them critically. The following discussion is embedded in a conceptual framework that provides for a reconstitution of the rhetorical elocutio on the basis of semiotic, linguistic, pragmatic and aesthetic insights. Three problem groups have been placed at the centre of discussion: 1) the system, 2) the pragmatics, and 3) the aesthetics of figures. The first group of problems deals with figural model formation and model critique; the second with the communicative placement; and the third with the literary functionality of the figures. The discussion of these problems will on the one hand offer an opportunity to remove the above-mentioned prejudices and, on the other hand, open up perspectives for future research activities. This is certainly true for questions regarding delimitation and application.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE SYSTEM OF FIGURES
“La rhétorique est un système des figures”—starting from this dictum by Gérard Genette (1966: 208) we shall present the draft of a model of our own in order to test various older and newer designs from its point of view, for their consistency, precision and completeness.
4.1
Design of a New Model of Figures
Our basic assumptions shall be as follows: A rhetorical figure represents a deviant unit of speech, in the words of Arthur Quinn (1993: 6): “an intended deviation from ordinary usage”. (On the problem of the deviation theorem, see Gueunier 1969 and Spillner 1974: 31–40). Thus we have to define elocutio as a system of linguistic deviations. Considered semiotically—for instance, in terms of the model of C.W. Morris (1972)—there are three classes of deviations: in the fields of syntactics (relation: sign—sign), of pragmatics (relation: sign—sender/receiver), and of semantics (relation: sign—reality/reality model). From them, a corresponding number of classes of rhetorical figures can be derived: (semio-)syntactic, pragmatic, and (semio-)semantic. The first class presupposes the existence of a grammatical model; the other two classes, a communication model and a reality model, respectively. Within each class, the category of the deviation has to be defined differently. Take as an example the class of (semio-) syntactic figures. Its specific deviational modality consists in a modification of the usual linearity (combination) of the sequence of linguistic signs. Let us assume that the latter is constituted as degré zéro by the primary language norm (e.g. standard language, everyday language) of a grammar. In contrast to this, the possibilities of deviation are described in a rhetorical secondary grammar. This also represents a norm; its object of description is— on the (semio-) syntactic level—the rhetoricity of the linguistic sign.
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A (semio-)syntactic model of the rhetorical figures consists of two components: I linguistic operations; II linguistic levels.
The linguistic operations are contained in two types of rules: those which violate the primary linguistic norm (licence: a-grammaticality), and those which reinforce it (equivalence: syn-grammaticality). The two types have been explicated theoretically by various researchers: the former type by, among others, Jan Mukařovský (1964) and Manfred Bierwisch (1969), the latter by, among others, Roman Jakobson (1968, 1969), Yurij M. Lotman (1972), Roland Posner (1971), and Daniel Delas / Jacques Filliolet (1973). The present draft therefore contains a synthesis of the two opposing approaches. The operations violating the rules consist of 1) addition, 2) subtraction (deletion), 3) substitution, and 4) permutation of signs; those reinforcing the rules, mainly of their repetition (equivalence). In addition, there are subordinate criteria such as similarity, frequency, quantity, position and distribution. Thus there are additive, subtractive, . . . figures of speech. On the other hand, one has to take note of the linguistic levels of phonology, morphology, syntax, semantics, textology and graphemics. This results in phonological, morphological, syntactical, . . . figures of speech. Here, too, the individual levels allow for further subclassifications. Now, the rhetoric model works in such a way that the various linguistic operations are projected onto the various language planes and there generate rhetorical units (figures) of speech. The operational modes act here as modes of transformation: they transform step by step the primary language norm (grammaticality) into a secondary (rhetoricity). The methodology is “generative” in two respects: phenomenologically and onomasiologically; phenomenologically, because the model drafted presents a rhetorical heuristics which on a (semio-) syntactic basis generates all conceivable deviant linguistic phenomena and makes them available for the production/analysis of texts; onomasiologically, because the model not only dismantles the redundancy of the traditional terminology or makes it more precise, but it also exposes terminological vacancies which first of all have to be given names. The generative model of figures of speech thus outlined can be visualized by means of a matrix, the coordinates of which are respectively formed by the linguistic operations and the linguistic levels (see the illustration in table 3). All figures of speech of the (semio-)syntactic
class can be entered into this matrix. Considered as a heuristic system of all possible linguistic deviations it fulfils its purpose the better, the more the linguistic levels and operations are differentiated. In this way, the rhetorical system of style becomes ever more complex. New figures which have so far hardly come into the sight of theory, can now be described (e.g. graphemic figures, text figures). A more detailed concretization of this approach will be presented in the chapters of this book.
4.2
Model Comparison as Model Critique
Our systematic investigation has led, in a first step, to an exposition of the constitution of a three-part model of rhetorical figures of which the (semio-)syntactic component has been outlined in some detail. A second stage of the investigation is devoted to a comparison with other models. This comparison is intended not only to show up specific differences but at the same time to demonstrate the advantages of the new model: a comparison of models as a critique of models. Two aspects will be excluded from the following discussion: a) Catalogues of figures of speech, i.e., collections of rhetorical schemes which do not have the character of a model and therefore do not have a scientific status in the sense postulated for the present purpose, even if they follow certain practical (e.g. alphabetical)
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divisions. The practice of cataloguing began in Antiquity and continued throughout the Midde Ages and Renaissance right into the present age. It still occurs in certain modern rhetorical textbooks, much to the damage of the discipline of rhetoric as a whole. b) The historical dimension, in the sense that various models and model proposals are compared with respect to their historical sequence and the causes giving rise to them. (Even though a history of rhetoric, that is, a history of rhetorical models—both within the framework of the five-phase concept and in the field of elocutio—is a desideratum for comparative research, it is not of primary relevance for the problems that are presently being dealt with.) Admittedly, the two exclusions should not be regarded as absolute. The first does not mean that all the approaches towards a classification of the rhetorical figures which will be referred to should already have the status of a model. The second does not imply that a paradigmatic analysis does not permit of a chronological procedure. The model critique that follows is determined by three essential criteria: consistency, precision, and completeness of the model construction. As a basis for comparison, critiques will mainly rely on the (semio-)syntactic partial model outlined above, with its specific factors of construction, viz. linguistic planes and linguistic operations. We shall discuss conceptions from Antiquity, the Middle Ages and Humanism, as well as contemporary attempts at systematization, especially those of Tzvetan Todorov, Geoffrey N. Leech and the Liège Groupe Mu. 4.2.1 Historical Models of Figures of Speech Classical antiquity did not know a well-developed system of rhetorical figures, but only some initial steps in that direction. Modern attempts at establishing a harmonizing reconstruction therefore tend to ignore the historical reality of the status of theory construction in Antiquity (e.g. the books by H. Lausberg [1960/1998, 1967], in spite of their undoubted merits). Generally, this statement of Martin L. Clarke (1996: 50) holds true: “On the whole, they [sc. the classical rhetoricians] shed little light for all their labours, and wasted much effort on introducing confusing innovations of terminology and on discovering figures in modes of thought and speech which hardly deserved to be so called.” First attempts at a classification can be found in Quintilian’s
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distinction of a quadripertita ratio that consists of adiectio, detractio, transmutatio and immutatio (Inst. Or. I.v.38), which correspond to our linguistic operations of addition, subtraction, permutation and substitution (cf. Ax 1986). However, these beginnings are not consistently pursued any further with regard to all linguistic planes, neither by Quintilian nor by other theoreticians; they remain fragmentary. The situation is similar with regard to the remaining linguistic planes. Here a distinction is generally made between figures of meaning (σχήματα διανοίας, figurae sententiarum), figures of word (σχήματα λέξεως, figurae verborum), and tropes; sometimes there are also certain subdivisions, such as that of figures of word into “grammatical” and “rhetorical”; but this division is inconsistent, defective and imprecise. Not only is there insufficient precision in the definition of the individual linguistic planes (e.g. the phonological plane), in the allocation of figures to individual classes (e.g. irony to the tropes or figures of speech), and in the terminology; there is also a lack of consistency and completeness. Hardly any attempt has been made to achieve a semiotic differentiation: the class of figures of meaning includes both (semio-) syntactic and pragmatic figures (Lausberg 1960/1998). There is no class of graphemic figures. In the description of individual figures, syntactic (combinatorial) and pragmatic (affective) aspects are mixed together. In the Middle Ages, we see no fundamental change in the situation, although the introduction of a distinction between ornatus facilis and ornatus difficilis leads to the acceptance of a bipartition of categories of style into figurae (verborum and sententiarum, respectively) on the one hand, and into tropes on the other (Faral 1971, Arbusow 1963). A further contrast, namely of amplificatio (rhetorical broadening of a topic) and abbreviatio (rhetorical constriction of a topic), is significant in so far as it probably forms the starting point for a theory of rhetorical text production. But it, too, hardly leads to a systematic arrangement of the figures of speech; rather, both their number and nature (interpretatio, expolitio, periphrasis, comparison, apostrophe, prosopopeia etc.) offer a heterogeneous scenery. The Renaissance brought a rather large spectrum of classifications of rhetorical figures. Compared to Antiquity and the Middle Ages, one can here register some real progress. This is partially shown by the fact that rhetoricians such as Petrus Ramus and the Ramists or Henry Peacham refine the classical schemata of tropes and figures. Thus the linguistic planes are differentiated more sharply: besides morphological
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(word) figures and syntactic (sentence) figures, we also find phonological and orthographic figures. Further subdivisions of the linguistic operations occur rarely, for instance, equivalence (repetition). A positive effect comes from the application of dialectic modes of operation to the subcategorization of the tropes. Particularly remarkable are the frequent instances of stemmata systematizing the rhetorical figures in the form of hierarchical dependency schemes. The Ramist school goes a step further by arranging the stemmata in a dichotomic manner throughout. Finally, one also gets a step closer to a semiotic classification of the figures, for instance by the construction of a group of figures of emotion (Henry Peacham) or of figures of dialogue (Charles Butler)—in our terminology pragmatic figures of speech. As these represent subclasses of the figurae sententiarum, pragmatics is here, quite inconsistently, a subcategory of syntactics. Analogous cases of inconsistency, imprecision, and incompleteness are also characteristic of the rhetoric of the subsequent ages, in spite of unmistakable progress in details. On the one hand this originates in the limited state of knowledge of semiotics, linguistics, and communication theory. On the other hand, the prescriptive character of rhetoric has to be held responsible for this fact. By contrast, a modern rhetoric of figures designed on the basis of a modern concept of semiotics, linguistics and communication theory can primarily be regarded as structural or generative. The efforts of this treatise aim particularly in this direction. 4.2.2 Modern Models of Figures of Speech The models drafted by Tzvetan Todorov, Geoffrey N. Leech and the Liège Groupe Mu can be considered more recent attempts at the classification of rhetorical figures. Other works either fail to attain the systematics or the thoroughness of these approaches. Besides works on individual aspects of rhetorical figures, Todorov also produced an Essai de classification, which appeared within the framework of the appendix “Tropes et figures” to his book Littérature et signification (1967). Here he discriminates clearly between rule-violating and rule-reinforcing operations. He calls the results of the former type of operation anomalies, those of the latter type (in the narrower sense), figures. Both types of deviation are subdivided according to linguistic planes and relations, respectively: son-sens, syntaxe, sémantique, signe-référent. The result is a matrix of the sort reproduced in
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table 4. The table permits of various critical remarks: The differentiation of anomalies and figures, corresponding to our figures of deviation and figures of equivalence, is fundamentally correct. The semiotic dimensions have been taken into account, albeit only syntactics and semantics (signe-référent), not pragmatics. Attention to both the referential-semantic and the relational-semantic dimensions has led to terminological doublets, as shown by the list of categories: métaphore, métonymie, synecdoque. The linguistic planes are not fully accounted for among the (semio-)syntactic figures: While the graphemic plane is missing completely, the group son-sens contains both phonological and morphological aspects, to an equal extent. Anybody looking for a further internal differentiation of the anomalies/figures will be disappointed. The resulting impression is that of a collection of figures of the old type. In addition, the semiotic perspectives have occasionally been confounded: For instance, exclamation is erroneously classified as a syntactic figure, while the syntactic figure parallèle wrongly appears under the heading of signe-référent. The list can be continued with further details. Todorov has, it is true, achieved some progress in the macrostructural organization of the figures of speech, but the absence of any consistent subcategorization looks rather like a relapse into a pre-theoretical conception of rhetoric. It was one year before Todorov that Geoffrey N. Leech already conceived a linguistic basis for possible classifications of rhetorical figures. In “Linguistics and the Figures of Rhetoric” (1966) he outlines the formal structures of rule-violating and rule-reinforcing deviation, defining the former as “a violation of the predictable pattern” and the latter as “a pattern superimposed on the background of ordinary linguistic patterning” (Leech 1966: 146). As a result there emerge two groups of figures, which he calls paradigmatic (corresponding to Todorov’s anomalies) and syntagmatic (corresponding to Todorov’s figures). This attempt at a classification is basically (semio-)syntactic. In Leech’s programmatic essay, linguistic planes are not distinguished, nor are specific deviational operations. A detailed description of this concept is given in Leech’s book A Linguistic Guide to English Poetry (1969), where a differentiated treatment of all linguistic planes, including the graphemic plane, gives rise to numerous precise descriptions of rhetorical figures on the basis of a modern understanding of linguistic structures. Unfortunately, the progress achieved here is limited to a discussion of the deviation theorem and the linguistic planes. A system of the linguistic operations is not taken into consideration; as a
result the subclassification of figures suffers from this deficit. Besides, the discussion of a register stylistics leads to an interference from elements of a linguistic pragmatics; these would have required a sharper delimitation.
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The model of the Liège Groupe Mu (Jacques Dubois, Jean-Marie Klinkenberg et al.), which has been published in their Rhétorique générale (1970), can be described as more progressive than its predecessors because it transfers the insights of structural linguistics to rhetoric in a more precise, consistent and complete manner. Initially it stays strictly on the (semio-)syntactic plane. It provides an exact definition of the concepts degré zéro and “deviation”. And it contains the four basic operations: subtraction (suppression), addition (adjonction), substitution (suppression-adjonction) and permutation (permutation); in addition, these are further subdivided. Finally, individual linguistic planes are listed. Table 5 gives more information about the combined effect of the criteria producing individual stylistic categories. The advantages of this very carefully elaborated model of figures are obvious: It combines classical approaches (e.g. the four basic operations) with a precise linguistic method, and beyond that it points to the possibilities of further refinement. Nevertheless it contains several problematic parts: It subordinates the basic operation of equivalence (= répétition) to adjection and thus mixes a rule-reinforcing deviation with a ruleviolating one. The category of métalogismes partially comprises aspects that transcend a (semio-)syntactic model. Lastly, no clear distinction is made between phonological and morphological figures; both these groups are subsumed under métaplasmes. Nevertheless, this model of figures approaches the ideals of consistency, precision and completeness more closely than others do. Moreover, it shows further possibilities of development, for instance by means of the (partially realized) rhetoricization of the relationships between the individual linguistic planes, and by the basic construction of a pragmatic component.
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chapter four Table 5 GRAMMATICALES (Code)
MÉTABOLES LOGIQUES (Référent)
EXPRESSION CONTENU A. Métaplasmes
B. Métataxes
C. Métasémèmes
D. Métalogismes
OPÉRATIONS Sur la morphologie Sur la syntaxe
Sur la sémantique Sur la logique
I. Suppression 1.1 Partielle
Synecdoque et antonomases généralisantes, comparaison, métaphore in praesentia Asémie
Synecdoque et antonomases particularisantes, archilexie néant
Syllepse, anacoluthe
Métaphore in absentia
Euphémisme
Transfert de classe, chiasme
Métonymie
Allégorie, parabole, fable
néant
Oxymore
Ironie, paradoxe, antiphrase, litote 2
néant
Inversion logique, inversion chronologique
Contrepet, anaTmèse, gramme, métathèse hyperbate
Palindrome, verlen
Litote 1
Inversion
Hyperbole, silence hyperbolique
Répétition, pléonasme, antithèse
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Critical Synopsis
In the above description, the comparison of various models of rhetorical figures gave cause for criticism in several instances. Specific queries were: a) The inconsistency of the models: This is shown e.g. by the confusion of semiotically dimensioned classes of figures (such as syntactic and pragmatic ones); by the absence of a uniform underlying model of grammar; and by the confusion of rule-violating and rule-enforcing operations. b) The incompleteness of the models: This is revealed e.g. by the absence of semiotically conceived classes of figures (e.g. pragmatic figures), of linguistic planes (e.g. the graphemic plane), and of deviational operations (e.g. equivalence). c) The imprecision of the models: This is displayed e.g. in the blurred borderline between linguistic planes and operations, also in terminological redundancy (doublets) and deficiency (vacancies). These shortcomings, which are not represented equally in all the models and model drafts, can be remedied by the model of figures presented here. Its basis is of a strictly (semio-)syntactic nature.
4.3
Pragmatic and Semantic Figures of Speech
If this (semio-)syntactic model is complemented by one of the pragmatic and another of the (semio-)semantic figures, the latter two will necessarily contain the element of deviation: in the case of pragmatics, as a deviation from the usual norm of linguistic communication, in the case of semantics, as a deviation from the usual norm of reality-relatedness. If we regard the communication relationships as structured by the model of speech act theory, we may—taking recourse to an expression by Richard Ohmann (1971)—interpret the pragmatic figures of speech as a system of “quasi speech acts” (i.e. of acts of fictitious communication). Consequently, the classical “figures of addressing the public” or “figures of appeal” have to be reinterpreted: interrogatio as a quasi-question, addubitatio as a quasi-doubt, concessio as a quasi-concession, permissio as a quasi-permission, subiectio as a quasi-dialogue, etc. A system of these figures presupposes a taxonomy of all possible
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speech acts. It can already be stated at this stage that the figures of speech generated by such a “secondary communication grammar” are likely to be more numerous than those known from normative rhetoric. The determination of the (semio-)semantic figures of speech takes place in a similar situation but is much more intricate because a reality model is presupposed as their background. Whatever it looks like—and it is probably quite complex—one has to keep in mind that the secondariness of referential speech relating to it also has a quasi character. Besides the communicative fictionality of the pragmatic figures of speech there appears the referential fictionality of the semantic figures. The feature of pseudo-referentiality serves to characterize the traditional tropes (S.J. Schmidt 1972). Thus the term “tropicity”, when interpreted (semio-)semantically, represents a mode of the modification of reality. In the semiotic dimension of semantics, it finds its systematic formulation in a “secondary reference grammar”. What all three types of rhetorical secondary grammar—linear (combinatorial), communicative, and referential—have in common is that they serve to generate a semiotic structure of the sign “speech” or “text” respectively. However, we cannot exclude the possibility that a transfer to non-verbal (e.g., visual or acoustic) signs can take place as well. We hardly need point out that the model of rhetorical figures of speech is not the only conceivable stylistic model. From the individual components of the communication process further stylistic concepts can be derived: from the sender, an expressive conception; from the recipient, an affective one; from the reality relationship, a referential one; from the communication channel, a medial one, etc. Compared with these, the rhetorico-stylistic model has two advantages: on the one hand, the older tradition and thus the concrete experience gained from working with it; on the other, its far greater explicitness and operationalizability. These two aspects ensure that it has a certain lead over more recent models (e.g. the register model). Whether, and to what extent, it can be integrated into these models is a question that still has to be dealt with. The status of the three-part model of linguistic rhetoricity outlined thus far is at first purely theoretical. That is, it has no direct relationship to concrete linguistic data uttered at any particular time and place. The model merely describes the code conditions required for the production and perception of linguistic rhetoricity. It serves to achieve the productive and receptive heuresis of figures. By performing this function it becomes descriptive of a partial sector of rhetorical competence.
argumentative partial competence (figures of argumentation) Figure 1
It represents a partial description because other forms of rhetorical competence are also conceivable, e.g. argumentative and actional ones. This correlation can be represented graphically as shown in figure 1. For each of these partial competences, rules (models) can be established. They compete; but none of these partial competences can claim the sole right of determining the field of rhetoric. Modelling them and differentiating between them is a theoretical objective of a general rhetoric.
CHAPTER FIVE
COMPETENCE AND PERFORMANCE
Those who accuse the rhetoric of figures of being formalistic usually adopt an argumentative position that they call “pragmatic”. However, in doing so, such critics overlook a fundamental difference which is expressed by a pair of opposites: competence vs. performance and model vs. implementation. The object they reject is the wrongly accused abstract model of figures that reflects the rhetorical speech competence—wrongly because the formal character of the latter lies on a theoretical plane, which is quite different from its performative implementation. While the model construction intends to describe what is general, legitimate and containable in rules, research in the field of rhetorical praxis is to ascertain what is unique, individuated and in need of a specific interpretation— in short, that practical performative positioning of the rhetoric of figures required by a rhetorical analysis. Neither one of these is possible without the other: practical analysis of figures presupposes a rhetorical model; conversely, a model without a concrete relation to reality is quite superfluous. Thus the reservation about a “technological” or “instrumental” rhetoric is reduced to a rhetorical text reception that abstracts from the performative circumstances and situational concretization and function of the τέχνη. To the latter, the criticism is in fact applicable that its processes are ahistoric, uncritical and neutral. Nevertheless, no rhetoric can do without the instrument of a τέχνη unless it is blind to a methodology. Practice-orientated concepts of rhetoric appear indeed to suffer from this shortcoming. One of their advocates is probably quite right in his regret: “[. . .] at present it is still quite difficult to do methodical justice in a concrete ‘text analysis’ to the pragmatically grounded object determination of literary science, since there is a deficit of appropriate analytical categories.” (Breuer 1974: 137). Without such categories, no hermeneutic rhetoric can progress beyond commonplaces. In the following discussion, let us assume the “rhetorical situation” to be the basic unit of the analytical-practical method of description.
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It is structured according to the Lasswell formula: “Who says what in which channel to whom with what effect?” In other words: it is a multiform construct. It is dominated by one guiding principle to which all other points of view are subordinate. Let us call this principle “persuasive purpose”. This purpose may vary, according to place, time, channel, sender and addressee. Consequently, the rhetorical situation is subject to change. This change differs according to cultural, social and historical circumstances. Now every cultural environment develops its own, unmistakable rhetorical situations which cannot easily be transposed into those of other cultural environments (Lachmann 1977, Kennedy 1998). Furthermore, every society organized in a state, and every different social stratum and group within any particular society, articulates itself differently in a different rhetorical situation. And lastly, these typical rhetorical situations vary in the course of the historical continuum and are replaced by other ones—in keeping with changes in culture and society. Culture—society—history: these three factors constitute the macrostructural context of the rhetorical situation. Of necessity this is complemented by microstructural contexts, both verbal and nonverbal. To the latter belong the immediate communicative situation, the communication partners, their social status, their cognitive ability, their psychological state, the register of style chosen, etc. The verbal context is created by the structural pattern of one or more sequential texts. Macrostructural and microstructural context together form a highly complex network of pragmatic factors which from case to case determines the specifics of the persuasive purpose and of the rhetorical communication situation (Slama-Cazacu 1961; Riffaterre 1974). After these considerations, let us turn back to rhetorical figures and ask how their rhetoricity is based on the performative reality. First, it is immediately obvious that not every linguistic deviation has the status of a rhetorical figure. For linguistic performance, especially of the oral kind, is often characterized by faulty grammaticality. This applies to almost all linguistic operations and planes so that it is quite possible to assess such cases as ellipsis, anacoluthon, antisthecon, or synecdoche as phenomena of linguistic deficiency. It is particularly people with speech impediments (e.g. aphasia) who produce such deviations, but also children or foreign language learners. The conclusion from this is that one has to distinguish between two kinds of communicative situation: a defective one and a rhetorical one.
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A further distinction is required. Rather frequently in everyday linguistic communicative situations some forms of deviation are used quite unrhetorically, i.e. with a non-persuasive intention. Besides unintended alliterations, anaphoras, and parallelisms, catachresis is of particular interest. It represents the case of the “necessary metaphor”, i.e. of a trope generated by the absence of a “direct” designation. Examples are such expressions as the foot of a mountain, the back of a book, a bottleneck. A characteristic of these cases of catachresis is the missing contrast between a secondary and a primary norm. They form part of the backgrounding themselves; instead of a semantic polysemy there exists a monosemy. This possibility can also arise when metaphors become lexicalized in the course of time (dead metaphors, ex-metaphors) and are absorbed into everyday language, e.g. guardian of the law, head of the conspiracy. Phenomena such as these require the constitution of another communicative situation. In contradistinction to the rhetorical situation, let us give it the general term “unrhetorical everyday language”. And we shall term the purposiveness dominating it information. The three communicative situations outlined above—the defective, the unrhetorical informative, and the persuasive—have certainly not yet been recorded completely with regard to the pragmatic use of the deviational schemes (figures of speech). However, it has to be emphasized that the deviant forms have the status of rhetorical figures only in a persuasive communicative situation. Outside a persuasive purpose, the formal code condition of linguistic rhetoricity may well exist; but it is not implemented performatively. This statement does not exclude the possibility that a persuasive communicative situation may also contain elocutionary elements of a non-persuasive everyday-language communicative situation (e.g., ex-metaphors or catachreses) or of the defective communicative situation (e.g. apocopes or ellipses). On the other hand, it is also possible that an elocutionary component of a non-persuasive everyday-language communicative situation, such as a lexicalized metaphor, is rhetoricized by reactivation. In other words: The communicative situations described (as well as others) are not represented performatively in a typologically pure form with respect to the interpretation of deviant forms, but as a rule it is quite permissible that they form a mixture. Thus it is possible that a concrete rhetorical text contains not only persuasive deviant forms, but also such as can
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be classified as defective; but it can only be interpreted as a rhetorical text if the persuasive purpose is dominant. In an analogous case the problem arises as to which partial rhetorical competence is the dominating one in a persuasive communication situation. It is conceivable that either the actional, the argumentative or the elocutionary code is the prevailing one—correspondingly, one would then speak of actional, argumentative or elocutionary persuasion, respectively. But it is not conceivable that one code completely excludes the others. Rather, the normal case will be that a more or less strongly developed activation of one of the available codes will occur. The occasion of a medial reduction and thus of a partial derhetoricization will arise when a text which was originally delivered orally has only been passed on in written form; the disappearance of actional performance is here identical with a loss of rhetorical energy. Such a loss can also relate to the textual figuration, for instance when the actional (e.g. kinesic) performance produces the ironical quality of some piece of text or emphasizes its parallel structure. In the former case, its persuasive character is lost completely; in the latter, it is reduced considerably through the loss of rhetorical “convergence” (Riffaterre 1974). This is the place to contradict two widespread misconceptions which suggest the ideal of a natural gift of eloquence. The first consists in the claim that the teaching of rhetorical figures is unimportant for the effectiveness of persuasion, possibly even harmful, since experience shows that an unadorned style is more effective than an artificial one. To this we reply with Walter Jens (1971: 437) that “the locutio simplex can be a rhetorical style just as well as the locutio figurata”. Indeed, it turns out that such texts as are assigned to the sermo humilis, which occurs in texts such as the Bible, are particularly characterized by the use of this locutio simplex (Auerbach 1941; Bühlmann/Scherer 1994). Therefore it is not true that figuration is totally absent from the simple style; it is merely different from the artificial style. Assuming, however, that a persuasive text really shows a very scanty presence of the elocutionary code, then its persuasiveness will possibly derive from some other rhetorical code, such as the argumentative code. A persuasive text that does not activate any rhetorical code is unthinkable. The second erroneous opinion goes further than the first. It denies not only the usefulness of the rhetorical elocutio but of rhetorical theory altogether; for—as Quintilian already declared (Inst. Or. X.vii.16)—“pectus est [. . .], quod disertos facit”, which explains why
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ordinary people who have never touched a rhetorical textbook so often act more rhetorically than a trained speaker. To this we have to reply: Apart from the fact that this opinion is a faulty interpretation of Quintilian, who by this statement never intended to declare the discipline he taught as superfluous, it is quite possible that a rhétorique du peuple (Barthes) is not based upon a production theory for persuasive texts made deliberately available; but this possibility does not relieve the scholar of his/her obligation to postulate a rhetoric as analytical theory for such texts. Otherwise rhetoricity cannot be verified. There remains the question of the quality of the persuasive purpose. Let us state right immediately that there is no generally valid definition of such purpose. Statements by theoreticians of past and present diverge on this point. Here—especially for German speakers—the dichotomy überzeugen (convince)/überreden (persuade) as alternative translations of Latin persuadere plays an important part, for one can alternatively place the emphasis either on a rational or a non-rational (e.g. emotional) target for the act of persuasion. Whatever decision between the alternative functions is made, each involves a change of mind. An even more difficult decision is involved in the question whether an act of sending a message can already claim the status of persuasion—in analogy to the docere in the classical triad of persuasive functions: docere—delectare—movere. If the persuasive purpose is defined by such an admittedly rather general description, there follows the problem of breaking it down into individual persuasive functions. A modern theory of rhetoric will certainly not be entitled to adopt grosso modo the ancient doctrine of the emotions but will aim at differentiated functional specifications, based on the research of pragmalinguistics, communication theory, and ideological criticism. One fact is clear concerning the persuasive functionalization of rhetorical figures: There is no universally applicable functional model of rhetorical figures which can be applied to persuasive text statements in any society or any time. Rather, such functions have to be determined only for the relevant macro- and microstructural context, for any performative utterance (parole) concerned. In other words: The pragmatics of rhetorical figures cannot be generalized. Any attempt to arrive at a general functional determination represents a relapse into the normative rhetoric of centuries gone by. In the second edition of his stylistic rhetoric, The Garden of Eloquence (1593), the English rhetorician Henry Peacham registers both the functional virtutes and the vitia of each individual figure of speech,
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by adding respective rubrics, “The use of the figure” and “The Caution”. This is a strictly pragmatic and prescriptive methodology, and it is not unique in the history of rhetoric. It would now be enticing, on the basis of such historical precedents, to interpret figures as “topoi of linguistic strategies of effect” (Breuer). However, it is advisable to be careful when using the term “topos”. For the constitutive essence of the topos consists in its relatively great general validity. This defining quality can, however, by no means be assumed for the assignment of figure and effect, since this procedure will only take place in the concrete act of hermeneutic text reception. Thus, any generalizing description of the effects of figures will remain subjective until supported by empirical verification. To round off this section, let us point out two concepts that make available pragmatic possibilities for the interpretation of rhetorical figures. The first is already quite old, dating back to Antiquity. The second concept is of more recent origin. a) The behaviouristic concept: In the framework of this interpretative pattern, the rhetorical figure appears as an emotional agent which serves to give manifest plausibility to a state of affairs when the audience has been psychologically conditioned in a certain manner. Conventional rhetoric in the classical tradition grouped the figures of speech according to the intensity of their effect into “ethical” and “pathetical” schemes (Dockhorn 1968). On the basis of modern psycholinguistic research, it should be possible to provide a more scientific treatment of the rhetorical emotions. b) The concept of ideological criticism: In the framework of this pragmatic perspective, the rhetorical figure appears as the persuasive form in which certain contents of societal consciousness guided by certain interests are articulated. Roland Barthes (1970) calls them “myths”. He mentions tautology as thought pattern for the “rightwing myth”, its form—the zero-content equality (x equal to x)— excluding a priori any possibility of a change of affairs. Such results of ideological criticism give rise to the demand for an increased investigation of rhetorical figures in the particular social context which generates them. This can be interpreted as metalinguistic or metarhetorical texts. Parallelism, antithesis, oxymoron, metaphor—to name but a few—seem to be especially suitable for such an interpretation (Škreb 1968; Enzensberger 1962; Kopperschmidt 1972).
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Further pragmatic concepts for an exegesis of figures of speech are conceivable—for instance, argumentative or hermeneutic concepts. All these attempts have in common that that they interpret figures of speech functionally in their respective contexts. Whenever the chosen perspective changes, the pragmatics of the rhetorical sign changes as well. For this reason there are hardly any boundaries to a pragmatic analysis. A history of rhetoric and of the figures of speech would have to take this fact into account, both with regard to the object of investigation and with regard to the point of view of the analyst.
CHAPTER SIX
THE AESTHETICS OF THE FIGURES OF SPEECH
The aesthetic use—and with it the (literary) analysis—of figures of speech has a long history. Already associated with the name of the Greek sophist Gorgias, it has left a decisive mark on the notion of a “literary rhetoric”, via the mediation of rhetorical poetics from the High Middle Ages through the Renaissance and Enlightenment until the present (Norden 1958 [1898], Rice / Schofer 1983). Ernst Robert Curtius (1991: 164 ff.) points out that the aesthetic moment of rhetoric was primarily located in the epideictic genre. This genus of speech is characterized by its particularly rich figuration. The function allocated to elocutio in this case is that of ornamentation, of an embellishing aesthetic addition, which is also expressed by appropriate metaphoric expressions of the rhetorical textbooks (e.g. precious objects, gold, silver, stars, colours, flowers) (Plett 1975: 144–154). For a modern interpretation of this historical result, the aesthetics of the figures of speech represents a specific aspect of their general pragmatization. This particularity is characterized by a change in their purposiveness. From an aesthetic point of view the purpose of figures of speech is no longer persuasive, in the sense that here the intention is a change of mind of the recipient to some specific attitude of insight and action, outside the scope of the communicative situation. If the purpose is nevertheless to be regarded as a persuasive one, then it must be in the sense that the change of mind refers to the communicative situation itself. This situation, in accordance with Roman Jakobson’s (1970: 356) definition of the “poetic function”, is determined by the “orientation of the message towards itself ”. Thus, the aesthetics of figures of speech is based upon the self-referential character of language. Its primary purpose is the end in itself (autotely). However, it would be erroneous to assume—as did some linguists for some time—that the poetic competence coincides with the elocutionary competence. Indeed, this is not the case. Just as elocutionary competence constitutes merely a part of the more comprehensive rhetorical competence, it also occurs within the poetic competence merely as one of several competing partial competences (such as the narrative,
dialogical, fictional etc. competences). A graphical representation of these relationships is given in figure 2. If we have a literary text which is the product of a poetic performance, then we shall see that the poetic partial competences (codes, figures) have been actualized in it to varying extents. Some occupy a dominant position, others a subordinate one; some are completely absent. Such variation in dominancies is not accidental but is due to conventionalization: For instance, in a novel the elocutionary component is subordinate, whereas in a lyrical poem it will as a rule dominate the other components. From a historical point of view, the aestheticity of literary texts is constituted by the varying performative actualizations of the individual poetic partial competences. This may result in displacements in the use of the poetic codes—and thus also of the elocutionary code—(e.g. by the introduction of narrative figures in the dialogicity of the drama [= epic theatre], or of dialogue figures in the narrativity of a novel [= novel of consciousness]). What all manifestations of poetic performance have in common is a poetic communicative situation and the principle of autotely dominating it. If we produce a synopsis of all the communicative situations, purposes and corresponding activatable partial competences designed with regard to the performance of figures of speech, we arrive at the model of performance shown in table 6.
The table reveals that elocutio can occur in various communicative situations, with different purposes: in CE, informatively; in CR, persuasively; in CP, autotelically. In CD, either any purposiveness falls away, or a purpose aimed at is wholly or partially prevented. The reason lies in the peculiarity of CD, namely that it represents, in principle, a possible form of realization of all other communicative situations. As far as CE is concerned, we note that it represents a delimitation from CR in a quite general and vague manner, while the possibility cannot be excluded that CE can be differentiated further (Kinneavy 1971). The other separation, that between CR and CP, is established by the opposition of purpose and end in itself, of rhetorical and poetic competence (including the respective codes/figures that are available). The scheme outlined so far may suggest a certain degree of rigidity, and we have to counter that in what follows. Of course, it is possible that any communicative situation may activate certain partial competences of some other communicative situation—for example, CP the argumentative and CR the fictional partial competence; but they are absorbed by the purpose dominating the communicative situation as a whole. The purposes, too, need not be represented in a pure form in each text perfomance. Rather, it is probably the norm that the communicative statement (e.g. a scholarly treatise in the humanities) also contains persuasive and aesthetic functional elements, and that the persuasive statement (e.g. an advertising text) also contains informative and aesthetic funtional elements. On the other hand, only an
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extremely expressive theory of literature, such as the one articulated in John Stuart Mill’s well-known dictum, “that eloquence is heard, poetry is overheard”, can largely do without informative and persuasive components. The praxis of literature of most centuries shows almost the opposite—a fact accounted for by Jakobson, Mukařovský and others by the construction of an aesthetically dominated hierarchy of purposes: Accordingly, CP will certainly permit of functional elements of CE and CR, but in a such a way that the latter have a subsidiary character. Such relationships of functional super- and subordination may shift as a result of historical, cultural and social changes. As an example for such developments we mention the emergence of poetic rhetorics and of rhetorical poetics. In cases where, owing to the strong functional and code overlap, the borderlines between CP and CR have become hardly noticeable, it will have to be the particular attitude towards production and reception which leads to a decision about the nature of the dominating purpose. We have to counter a further objection: The interpretation in terms of aesthetics and poetics just described could be accused of representing a false autonomism which has been obsolete since the days of Idealism and Romanticism. In this connection we have to clarify that end-in-itself, or aesthetic autotely, in the sense here conceived, does not imply that a literary text can be generated or received independent of social, cultural, psychological, . . . factors. Rather, “end-in-itself ” here stands for the specific intentionality of the poetic communicative situation. However, anybody using the ruling conditions with respect to elocutionary (and other) codes as a set of instructions for how to act in a given social situation, proceeds rhetorically but not aesthetically. On the other hand, aesthetic encoding or decoding tears the linguistic figures away from their direct connection with reality (Mukařovský 1967: 48; Howell 1975: 217–218). However one may define this particular approach—as hedoné, disinterested pleasure, aesthetic distance; or as a poetic matrix with the characteristic sequence [+ delay]—[+ distance]— [+fiction]—[- dialogue]—[- appeal]; concentration on the poetic sign has communicative primacy. This does not exclude the subdominance of other linguistic functions. Just as one speaks of a poetics of expression, effect or representation, one can also claim an expressive, effective and ontological aestheticity of the figures of speech. Let us illustrate this state of affairs with two concrete examples. The first example is a rhetorical text (e.g. one of Cicero’s speeches) which
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has lost its persuasive purpose because the historical CR falls away. As far as its present-day manner of communication is concerned, it has ceased to move anybody to perform certain actions since the aim of the action has already been achieved or has become obsolete. For the historian, such a text will today possibly have only a documentary function. But it could also gain an aesthetic relevance, to the extent that it participates in the currently valid poetic code. Provided the figures of speech are included in this code, they undergo a change of function; for they exchange their original rhetoricity for an aestheticity. They are no longer means to an end (i.e. persuasion) but now are an end-in-themselves. As far as one can still speak of persuasion, it has been fictionalized through the replacement of the (persuadable) primary audience through the (literary) secondary audience. The second example is taken from the workshop of a political poet. Bertolt Brecht’s use of certain figures of equivalence, especially of the parallelistic antithesis in Lob der Partei (Praise of the Party), is interpreted differently depending on whether it is received in the context of CP or CR. The CP recipient of the text, keeping an aesthetic distance, is a reader of literature. He may possibly regard the parallelistic antitheses as a harmony of contrasts, as concordia discors, and try to fathom its internal and external aesthetic motivations. The CR recipient, on the other hand, will draw a practical conclusion from the semantic discrepancy. The disharmony demonstrated will confront him or her with the necessity of establishing a harmonization, by means of party solidarity and by partisan action. By so doing he or she interprets the text as a concrete instruction for initiating an action, i.e. rhetorically. While the aestheticization of the Ciceronian oration takes place via a depragmatization of its persuasive context, the opposite takes place during the rhetorization of the Brechtian text: The poetic context is persuasively concretized with regard to a specific actional situation. Thus the literary text loses its aesthetic primacy; a subdominant function takes over the role of the dominant function. This happens easily in this case, because the code used, almost entirely figures of speech, does not belong exclusively to either CP or CR. This raises the problem of the rhetorical and poetic competences (codifications), their relationship to each other and to CR and CP, respectively. We have already mentioned the deficient approaches in which only parts of the rhetorical or of the poetic competence are claimed for a general definition of rhetoricity or poeticity. Such a definitional
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narrowing will also occur where poetic and rhetorical texts are differentiated only by means of an ontological literary term: for instance, in such a manner that—as Wilbur Samuel Howell (1975: 422) put it—the former constitute the literature of symbol, the latter the literature of statement. In the other extreme case, a complete blurring of functions takes place when—as with Kenneth Burke (1931: 265–266)—poetic texts are represented as fundamentally effect-related and thus actionally identical with persuasive texts. At the end of this section, let us point out a few functional aesthetic properties of the figures of speech. In this procedure we refer to their semiotical secondariness. As already shown, secondariness means the deviant transformation of a linguistic sign. By the process of figuration a hiatus comes into being which Gérard Genette (1966: 209) describes as follows: L’esprit de la rhétorique est tout entier dans cette conscience d’un hiatus possible entre le langage réel (celui du poète) et un langage virtuel (celui qu’aurait employé l’expression simple et commune) qu’il suffit de rétablir par la pensée pour délimiter un espace de figure.
Consequently, the discrepancy between virtual (unfigured) and actual (figured) use of the speech sign generates a spatial vacancy. To concretize it becomes the task of the recipient. It consists in an act of “back-translation” of the deviational pattern into non-deviant speech structures. Since in principle there are several (but not infinitely many) possibilities of such back-translation, a repetition of the reception process activates different versions of aesthetic secondariness. The variety of such versions accounts for the polyfunctionality of literary texts. It appears differently in each of the three classes of figures. The (semio-)syntactic figures of speech invite the recipient to create competing linguistic sequences. This gives rise to a variety of strings of pronunciation, syntax, meaning. They compete with each other; depending on which version is being preferred, one string will move to the background, another will come to the fore. Their totality forms the aesthetic potential of the recipient. The situation is different for the (semio-)semantic figures. Here, an aestheticity of the linguistic signs is constituted not by linearity but by denotation. This is because these semantic figures (tropes) produce artificial realities, i.e. fictions. Their back-translation into the context of familiar acts of experience permits of several versions. The tropes are therefore not only pseudo-referential but also poly-referential. By reading a tropi-
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cized text, the reader will activate sometimes one, sometimes another referential relationship. In this way, the text reveals several layers of reality. That is its specific semantic polyfunctionality. The aestheticity of pragmatic figures is a different case. Here, too, fictionality is generated; but this is of a communicative nature, e.g. by pretending to have a sender or recipient relationship. The vacant space to be filled in by the recipient is due to the discrepancy between normal and deviant communicativity. In this manner, the figurated speech sign in a literary text has a threefold valency: a linear one, a denotative one and a communicative one, according to the class of figures one starts from. This multivalency comes to light in the act of reception, where it manifests itself in the form of differing versions. Taken together, these versions form the aesthetic communication potential of a literary text. The potential is not a static constant but is continuously kept in motion by the succession of spatio-temporal reception processes. Also, it is not generated by figures of speech alone, but by their interaction with other figures/codes of the text. To unravel the forms, conditions and modes of action of such an interaction is the task of an integrated science of literature. The distinguishing aspect of the term science considered in such a way is that it remains open to all possibilities of a semiotic interpretation of texts.
PART III
THE SYSTEM OF FIGURES
CHAPTER ONE
PHONOLOGICAL FIGURES
Phonemes are normally subdivided into those of a segmental and those of a suprasegmental character. Among the former are consonants and vowels; among the latter, accent, pause ( juncture) and pitch. Indispensable for the phonic structure of a language, all these elements also form the basis of a phonaesthetics of the text. The form assumed by phonaesthetics in individual cases depends on the explication of the phonic deviation. The first distinction we make is between a phonaesthetic basic structure and a phonaesthetic superstructure. The former is constituted by deviations of a segmental character, the latter, by deviations of a suprasegmental or prosodic character. In the former case we speak of phonic figures of the consonantal and vowel types; in the latter case, of prosodic figures (verse figures), which include figures of accent, pause and pitch. Let us begin with the phonic figures.
1.1
Phonaesthetic Basic Structure: The Phonic Figures
The phonic figures are classified according to the criteria of rule-violating deviation and rule-reinforcing deviation. The first type of deviation is generated by adding, deleting, rearranging or substituting phonemes or phoneme combinations within a certain unit of speech (for example, a word) in violation of the rules of everyday-language grammar. The second type of deviation, however, is based upon the relationising of equivalent sound units in the text. Two groups of figures arise from this contraposition: the figures of phonological deviation, or metaphonemes, where the term “deviation” is used in the narrower (norm-destructive) sense, and the figures of phonological equivalence or isophonemes. 1.1.1
Figures of Phonological Deviation (Metaphonemes)
In classical Antiquity metaphonemes went under the name of barbarism[o]i, “offence[s] in the correct phonetic composition of a
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word” (Lausberg 1998: § 479). As a feature of poetic license, however, they were called metaplasms. They are classified according to four categories of change: addition, subtraction, permutation and substitution. Phonotactically speaking, the change can take place at the beginning, in the middle, or at the end of a morphological unit. 1.1.1.1
Addition
The addition of phonological elements can be realised: a) in the front position: b) in a middle position:
prosthesis epenthesis
c) in the end position:
paragoge
(“yclad” instead of “clad”); (“blackamoor” instead of “black-moor”); (“wingéd” instead of “winged”).
This type of metaphoneme mainly occurs—with a secondary aesthetic function—in verse texts. This is especially brought out by the diaeresis, which “increases units inside words by separating a monosyllabic phonetic series into two syllables” (Dubois et al. 1974: 89). The graphical notation of this occurrence uses a trema (for example, “generatïon” instead of “generation”). (1) By way of illustration we cite a few English and French text examples: a) The first example is taken from the poem “The Three Jovial Welshmen” (in: Edward Lear et al., A Book of Nonsense, ed. Ernest Rhys. London: Dent, 1961, p. 65) from which we quote the first two verses: There were three jovial Welshmen As I have heard them say, And they would go a-hunting Upon St. David’s Day. And all the day they hunted, And nothing could they find, But a ship a-sailing, A-sailing with the wind.
The verbs prefixed with a- (“hunt,” “sail”) represent prostheses. Their effect is to maintain the regularity of the metre. Moreover, they confer upon the text an archaic character (in historical linguistics, compositions with a- originally represented corruptions of prepositions such as on).
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b) In Edmund Spenser’s work we come across various examples of phonological additive transformation: Prosthesis: Whose pleasing sound yshrilled far about (CCCH 62) Epenthesis: whom shew of perill hard Could terrifie from Fortunes faire adward (F.Q. 4.10.17.5) Paragoge: Withouten reason or regard (F.Q. 2.8.47.6)
c) Jacques Dubois et al. (1974: 89) mention the verse taken from a sonnet in Le Chien à la Mandoline by Raymond Queneau: “Les nrous nretiennent les nracleurs,”
which admittedly is opaque in its semantics but at the same time demonstrates that the prosthesis does not have to remain an isolated morpheme-bound property, but can also be distributed over a sentence, while simultaneously developing the isophony of the alliteration. 1.1.1.2
Subtraction
Subtraction of phonological elements can be realised: a) in the front position:
aphaeresis
b) in a middle position: c) in the end position:
syncope apocope
(“’gainst” instead of “against”); (“o’er” instead of “over”); (“oft” instead of “often”).
Various special forms may occur: d) Synizesis, the opposite of diaeresis: “fusion of two vowels belonging to different syllables into a (monosyllabic) diphthong, or even into a monophthong” (Lausberg 1998: § 492): “variation” /vɛәr’jei∫әn/ instead of “variation” /vɛәeri’ei∫әn/, or “being” /biŋ/ instead of “being” /'bi:iŋ/. e) Synaloepha: contraction of the end vowel of one word with the initial vowel of the following word, as a rule with elision of the end vowel: “th’offspring” instead of “the offspring.”
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Subtraction of phonological elements is often due to the verse. Phonic figures and accent figures then form a stylistic convergence. (2) The following text examples will serve as illustrations: a) The first is a verse from the Scottish ballad “Binnorie” (in: Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. The Oxford Book of English Verse 1250–1918. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1957, p. 445): He’s ta’en three locks o’ her yellow hair, And wi’ them strung his harp sae rare.
In the first line we find a synaloepha (“he’s” instead of “he has”), a syncope (“ta’en” instead of “taken”) and an apocope (“o’ ” instead of “of ”); the second line shows another apocope (“wi’ ” instead of “with”)⎯a model accumulation of metaphonemes in a verse, at the same time an imitation of oral language usage. b) The second verse of Brecht’s poem “Der Pflaumenbaum” (“The Plum Tree”) also contains an abundance of this type of phonological figures: Der Kleine kann nicht größer wer’n, Ja, größer wer’n, das möcht er gern. ’s ist keine Red davon. Er hat zu wenig Sonn.
The tiny one can’t grow apace, Yes, bigger would he trace. Y’ must forget about it mon. He has too little sun.
Here we find aphaeresis (“’s”), syncope (“wer’n”) and apocope (“möcht,” “Red,” “Sonn”). They give a dialectal/colloquial colouring to the text. On the other hand, in the examples by August Stramm, Blüten gehren (Traum) Du breitst Reine (Allmacht)
Blossoms desire (Dream) You spread the pure (Omnipotence),
we encounter deviant speech patterns (aphaeresis in “gehren,” syncope in “breitst”), which impart a character of condensed artificiality to the texts. In an example from Laurence Sterne’s Tristram Shandy, “O my virginity! virginity! cried the abbess. -inity!-inity! said the novice, sobbing,” the phonic aphaeresis describes the “aphaeresis” of “virginity.”
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Permutation
Permutation (metathesis) of phonological elements can occur within a word or among different words. Intra-word metathesis is illustrated by examples such as the German “Schlapperklange” (instead of the lexicalised Klapperschlange [“rattlesnake”]), the English “brust” (instead of burst), or the French “hynoptisme” (instead of hypnotisme). A famous example from Shakespeare’s The Tempest is the figure of Caliban whose name originates from a phonological metathesis of /n/ and /l/ in cannibal. The syntactic variant of metathesis is formed by the so-called “spoonerism” (named after its originator, the Oxford don W.A. Spooner [1844–1930]), which consists in the interchange of initial phonemes, such as “half-warmed fish” (instead of “halfformed wish”) or “beery wenches” (instead of “weary benches”). For Spanish, Antonio Mayoral (1994: 54) cites the following word pairs: “cátedra”—“catreda”; “cocodrilo”—“crocodilo”; “mausoleo”—“mauseolo”; and “prelado”—“perlado.” (3) To illustrate permutative metaphonemes, we might look at the following poem by Ernst Jandl: lichtung manche meinen lechts und rinks kann man nicht velwechsern. werch ein illtum!
Correct: Richtung manche meinen rechts und links kann man nicht verwechseln. welch ein irrtum!
Direction some believe right and left cannot be confused what a mistake!
Here, throughout one text the phonemes /l/ and /r/ have been interchanged, both within words (“velwechsern” instead of “verwechseln”) and across words (for example, “werch ein illtum” instead of “welch ein irrtum”). The metatheses across words represent in each case a relationship of reciprocity and distance. 1.1.1.4
Substitution
Substitution of phonological elements (antisthecon) can take place: a) in vowels (“Opus in a-Müll” instead of “Opus in a-Moll”); b) in consonants (“Tristopher” instead of “Christopher”).
(4) Substitutive metaphonemes can be illustrated by means of the following examples of a type of deviation:
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a) the first is one for which Ernst Jandl has a decided preference: 1. du warst zu mir ein gutes mädchen 1. you were a good girl to me worst zo mür eun gotes mödchen were a good girl to me 2. bette stellen sie die tassen auf den 2. Please put the cups on the tesch table 3. spül düch mein künd 3. Rinse yourself my child
He sometimes implies a turn towards dialectal or colloquial language. b) Substitutive phonic figures often lead to a play on words. This occurs when the substitution of one or more phonemes is accompanied by semantic changes. In the following examples the “background” of the deviation is formed by linguistic conventions (semantic, syntactic, morphological). Thus, the title of the cabaret program Die ehrbare Birne (“The Honest Pear”) as a paradigmatic wordplay upon Sartre’s (well-known) drama title, Die ehrbare Dirne (“The Honest Prostitute”) represents a semantic deviation and, at the same time, forms a transformed semantic figure (metaphor). A further example is the name of the German cabaret group Lach- und Schießgesellschaft (lit. “the laughing and shooting society”) which, by means of phonic substitution and syncope, has been derived from Wachund Schließgesellschaft (“security company”; “armoured-car delivery”). In fact, German cabaret artists love this type of wordplay. Let us quote a final example of this type of deviation from a Punch and Judy play by Pocci where the main character quips: “Diesen guten Humor möchte ich dem hochgeöhrten Publikum mitgebracht haben.” Here, hochgeöhrt (“high-eared”) converts the conventional formula of address, hochgeehrtes Publikum (“most honorable”), to a synecdochic reference to an ass. So far we have discussed the interchange of phonemes. As an aside, let us point out allophonic substitutions (for instance, various r sounds). Their function lies in the sector of pragmasemantics. They can convey information about the social and geographic origin of the speaker or they may be parodistic in intention (Dubois et al. 1974: 83). It is possible though not necessary that they show a corresponding graphemic change, such as an additive metagraph in crritic (Beckett), to reproduce a rolled /r/. Helmut Bonheim (1977) makes the important point that for a long time in the field of metaphonemes analogies of content between gram-
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matical and rhetorical technical terms have been made, for example, for the sectors of Addition: prefix ~ prosthesis infix ~ epenthesis suffix ~ proparalepsis (paragoge)
In the past as well as in the present, this terminological redundancy has had the function of dividing those speech phenomena that are aesthetically irrelevant (grammatical) from those that are linguistically and aesthetically relevant. However, this redundancy loses sight of the fact that essentially the same basic linguistic operations are active in all the cases quoted. Anybody interested in a terminological reduction in this respect will at the same time have to enquire with what literary potency the metaphonemes should be credited. The quoted examples create a condition in which limited optimism might prevail. For Classes 1 (addition) and 2 (subtraction) tend to occur as secondary poetic factors in the framework of a verse type, which in turn means that the phonaesthetic superstructure determines the basic structure. On the other hand, permutative (3) and substitutive (4) metaphonemes tend towards playful-experimental speech formation. They are relatively rare. From these limited examples one can arrive at the conjecture that in practice the metaphonemes may have a lower aesthetic status among the phonological figures than, for instance, alliteration and verse, that is, figures of phonological equivalence.
TEXT ANALYSIS
Ernst Jandl, “etüde in f” Verses 1–3 (in: Ernst Jandl, Laut und Luise. Neuwied/Berlin: Luchterhand, 1971, p. 14) eile mit feile eile mit feile eile mit feile durch den fald
Correct: eile mit weile eile mit weile eile mit weile durch den wald
make haste slowly make haste slowly make haste slowly through the woods
durch die füste durch die füste durch die füste bläst der find
durch die wüste durch die wüste durch die wüste bläst der wind
through the desert through the desert through the desert blows the wind
falfischbauch falfischbauch
walfischbauch walfischbauch
whale’s belly whale’s belly
The most important characteristic of the three stanzas in this poem is the consequent substitution of the voiced labiodental /v/ by the voiceless labiodental /f/ in words such as feile (instead of weile), fald (instead of wald), füste (instead of wüste), find (instead of wind) and falfischbauch (instead of walfischbauch). This procedure results in substitutional metaphonemes. Their aesthetic function may be designated as the “de-automatisation” (or as it sometimes is called, the “defamiliarisation”) of customary experience. A description of the cause for this de-automatisation becomes more complicated when a comparison is made with other substitutional transformations. If we describe Eile mit Weile and so on as stage zero (0) of the text, and Jandl’s version as just a first realised transformation thereof (1), then we can proceed without difficulty to implement further possibilities of deviation; the text in each case is given in abbreviated form: 2) eile mit beile durch den bald durch die büste bläst der bind balfischbauch
3) eile mit scheile durch den schald durch die schüste bläst der schind schalfischbauch
4) eile mit keile durch den kald durch die küste bläst der kind kalfischbauch
5) . . . . .
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This procedure can be continued as long as the German language supplies consonants (or consonant groups). Are there any differences between the individual substitutional operations? In order to find this out, we have designed a matrix for the examples 0 to 4, according to the phonological aspects a) place of articulation, b) type of articulation, and c) tone:
The table shows that Jandl’s substitute /f/ retains the greatest proximity to the reconstructed basic sound /v/, since in this case two features (a, b) are identical and only one is different (c). It would therefore permit a relatively easy “back-transformation” of the present poem into an hypothetical “standard text.” In the case of transformations 2) to 4) this would be more difficult because case (2) shares only one and a half features (½ a, c) with case (0); case (3), one feature (b); and case 4, none. This whole demonstration therefore leads to the insight that different degrees of the “aggravated form” and thus of alienation occur. In Jandl’s text, the automated background is easier to establish than in the texts that we re-shaped. Thus the methodology of an “objective” science, that is, of a science operating exclusively with the facts belonging to the (semio-)syntactic dimension, is sufficient unto itself. However, among the imponderables of the analysis are to be reckoned the recipient and her or his behaviour during the process of reading. It would therefore be especially important for a literary scholar to determine a) to which extent the linguistic pattern of the proverb Eile mit Weile has been automated; b) whether different phonemic substitutions really produce different alienations in the actual reception of the poem; c) whether the initial decoding of the habitualised utterance exerts any control over the decoding of subsequent transformations. With regard to problem areas (b) and (c) it should be noted that in texts (2) and (4) lexemes that are familiar in the German language (e.g. beile, büste; keile, küste)
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emerge accidentally. The phonological deviation is thereby reduced to some extent; in compensation, one might observe, morphosyntactic deviations (for example, bläst der kind) emerge. All in all, finding answers to questions (a) through (c) appears to require an empirical reception analysis (Wolff 1977). Jandl replaces /v/ by /f/ throughout. This regularity means that in this text breaking the norm appears as a new norm, which contains a systematics that prevents the individual deviation from appearing to be a product of chance. Analogously, the graphemic text form contains numerous violations of upper-case rules, whereas in its persistent lower-case spelling it displays an extraordinary regularity. Both the deviant graphemic regularities and the deviant phonological regularities may be called “secondary equivalences.” This equivalence relation is secondary because it is not rule-reinforcing but derived from a regular rule violation. (In the written form, the secondary character of the equivalence would be lost if and when the German language should some day adopt a universal lower-case orthography.) The secondary equivalences in their turn are embedded in a complex structural pattern of primary (rule-reinforcing) equivalences: phonological ones (alliteration, rhyme, assonance); syntactic ones (parallelism); textological ones (verse-lines). The distinctness of Ernst Jandl’s poem consists to a large extent in the fact that secondary and primary equivalence structures enter into an exchange relationship.
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Figures of Phonological Equivalence (Isophonemes)
Phonological equivalence means that two or more phonemes in a sequence of signs are equal or similar. According to Lotman (1972: 16), the repetitions thus generated form “the lowest structural limit of a poetic text.” The individual phoneme by itself does not have aestheticity, since it is constitutive to the occurrence of any linguistic expression. It only gains phonaesthetic significance when involved in equivalence relationships, that is, when it occurs in a certain (phonotactic) position, to a certain extent (quantity), a certain number of times (frequency), and when it is repeated partially or completely after a certain interval (distribution). Phonological equivalence figures (isophonemes) of the segmental and suprasegmental types implement these structural aspects in the same manner. Both are found in verse, which Gerard Manley Hopkins aptly describes as a recurring figure of sound. Here, it would seem, maximal phonological equivalence and at the same time maximal euphony can be attained. Nevertheless, for reasons of clarity, we shall first discuss the aspects of segmental isophony and only then, those of suprasegmental (prosodic) isophony. We shall begin this presentation with the following condition: Let the monosyllabic sound sequence C-V-C (consonant-vowel-consonant) be given. This combination of phonemes is to be repeated in such a way that each phoneme in a certain phonotactic position is given the same sound quality. 1.1.2.1
Position
The possible phonotactic positions for phonological repetition are the beginning, the middle and the end of the sequence C V C: CVC/CVC CVC/CVC CVC/CVC
Further possibilities arise if other sound combinations are chosen as the basic unit (such as, CV, VC, (C) VCVC). For some of these figures no names exist as yet. 1.1.2.2
Extent
The extent of the repetition in our sound structure CVC can comprise one, two or three phonemes. Single-phoneme repetition has already
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been illustrated in 1.1.2.1. The two-phoneme repetition has the following appearance: CVC/CVC
Here, too, other sound combinations result in further possibilities for equivalences. Total sound equality (= identical rhyme) belongs to the area of morpho(phono)logical equivalence. The terminology used here follows essentially the description by Geoffrey N. Leech (1969: 89–90). This gives rise to divergences from the usual terminology, such as in the case of alliteration that traditionally is taken to be valid only for stressed syllables, consonants alliterating with themselves, the consonant combinations sk, sp and st only with themselves and, finally, all vowels with each other. Further, in the “rhyme” the prosodic characteristic of accent is not taken into account. The article “Sound Repetition Terms” (1961) by David I. Masson represents an important contribution to the systematisation of repetition phenomena in the phonological field. There, we have the following terminological parallels to Leech: alliteration assonance consonance rhyme reverse rhyme pararhyme
= = = = = =
start echo or onset echo crest echo or fluid echo end echo or closure echo rear echo or outflow echo van echo or inflow echo frame echo or containing echo
Masson introduces many other newly coined terms that deliberately ignore the then existing but often imprecise terms. By contrast, Seymour Chatman’s (1968: 152) taxonomy of repetition schemes looks much more conventional. 1.1.2.3
In all four cases an additional consonant has been introduced into the second repetition term. If the sequence of the structures is reversed, a deletion transformation is obtained: C V C C / C V C. A second example illustrates affinity by means of substitution: C V C / C V C’
semi-consonance
(bad/let)
Here, /d/ and /t/ in the end-sound position are joined by the dental closure but separated by the contraposition lenis:fortis. We therefore have here another semi-consonance that we will call “substitutive semi-consonance” in order to mark its transformation type. (Thus the terms “additive semi-consonance” and “subtractive semi-consonance” have to be used with regard to the two cases dealt with so far.) A final example will serve to illustrate permutative semi-consonance: CVC/VCC
permutative semi-consonance
(den/and )
All these additional transformations represent “deviations from the deviation” and thereby a type of secondary deviation. Their aesthetic function may consist in counteracting the total uniformity of the equivalence relationship in the sense of a de-automatisation. 1.1.2.4
Frequency
Phonological recurrence can be measured, on the one hand, with respect to the language as a whole and, on the other, with regard to one or more texts. The first case is what Mukařovský has in mind when he writes that “the euphonic validity of a given sound is dependent not only on the number of repetitions but also on its relative frequency compared to its normal frequency” (cited by Levý 1969: 214). It is therefore a valid statement to make that in the verse Wir singen und sagen vom Grafen so gern, the g-alliteration stands out more than the s-alliteration because the consonant g occurs less frequently in German. The restriction “in German” is important since the measured relationships in various languages differ considerably. The reason lies in the various linguistic structural differences. Jiři Levý (1969a) explains this
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fact in terms of the rhyme. He states as a fact that the synthetic (that is, highly inflected) languages (such as Russian, Italian, German) exhibit a much larger store of rhymes than the analytic (that is, less inflected) languages (such as English). He accounts for this as follows: Every inflectable word in poetry appears with many phonetically different endings and thus adds a whole set of units to the dictionary of rhymes. The Italian word amare, for instance, adds some 40 to 50 units to the repertoire of Italian rhymes . . . By contrast, the English word love—which moreover carries out the simultaneous functions of verb, noun and adjective—has only four forms: love loves loved loving (Levý 1969a: 216).
As a result, lexical rhymes in English carry more weight than do grammatical rhymes. Consequently, we have a larger number of fixed rhyme groups with fewer items and—following from this—a higher predictability of English rhyme (as opposed to, for instance, French rhyme). So far we have considered the textual recurrence of phonemes in relation to their total recurrence in a language. The same phenomenon can, however, also be seen within any given text. Here the following points are of importance: the absolute frequency of the phonological repetition unit; the extension of the context in which the equivalence concerned makes its appearance; the frequency compared with that of other phonological units in the text. As regards the first question, it certainly makes a difference whether a sound unit in a text is repeated once or a hundred times. For instance, the much-quoted verse by the Roman poet Ennius, (5) O Tite tute Tati tibi tanta Tyranne tulisti,
shows nearly the maximum possible recurrence of the alliterative /t/ (quite apart from other forms of equivalence). This kind of phonological repetition—called paromoiosis in classical rhetoric—is of course an extreme case. The Ennius-example also serves to underscore the relevance of the extent of a text in which the sound figure of equivalence is located. If, for example, seven words beginning with the same consonant occur in a three-hundred line poem, then this phonological equivalence has less aesthetic significance than the sevenfold alliteration in the Ennius-verse. Statistically speaking, a solution to the problem suggests itself in this case that can be tested intersubjectively and consists—following the example of the type-token analysis by G.A. Miller—in determining the numerical ratio of the equivalence type concerned to its non-identical textual environment. Proceeding
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analogously with each type of occurrence of equivalences in one or more texts, we can then derive a frequency table which shows not only the textual frequency of each type of equivalence but also its quantitative relation to the other linguistic signs in the text. By postulating a certain aesthetic norm (for instance, highest frequency = highest poeticity), we can then convert the scale of frequencies into a scale of values. 1.1.2.5
Distribution
When dealing with the aspect of frequency we ignored one important factor almost completely: the distribution of the phonological equivalence in the text. Yet this factor is of crucial relevance to the determination of the structural aspect of linguistic phonaestheticity. For instance, one distributional observation one could make is that in the Ennius verse quoted (5), each of the eight words except the first has a t as initial consonant; the result is a sevenfold alliteration. If we mark equivalence classes such as alliteration, assonance, rhyme, pararhyme and so on by capital letters A, B, C, D… and the corresponding members of an equivalence class (such as alliteration on /l/, /b/, /k/, /s/) by lower-case letters a, b, c, d…, then the following combinations become possible, if we postulate an equivalence class A and a and b as two equivalence types of this class: 1) 2) 3) 4) 5) 6)
Aa Ab Aa Ab Aa Ab
Aa Ab Ab Aa Ab Aa
Ab Aa Aa Ab Ab Aa
Ab Aa Ab Aa Aa Ab
With every additional member of the equivalence class A, the number of optional arrangements increases (for example, for Aa, Ab, Ac, Ad, or for Aa, Ab, Ac, Ad, Ae). In addition, various equivalence classes, such as A and B (for example, alliteration and assonance), can be combined in one text; as illustration we quote the cases: 7) Aa 8) Aa
Ba Ba
Aa Aa
Ba Ba
or Ab
Ab
If one further includes the factor of frequency, there arise so many possible combinations that it would be difficult to name and describe them all. A point that is not unimportant should be mentioned here:
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it is quite possible that in between the individual representatives of equivalent relationships others of non-equivalent provenance and of varying type and length are inserted, so that constructions such as 9)
Aa
X
Ba
Y
Z
Aa
Ba
Ab
Ab
are a normal phenomenon. Thus it turns out that the textual distribution of phonological equivalences may assume rather divergent and complex forms. Another complication of this equivalence type follows when prosodic and syntactic equivalences are added and, together with the sound repetitions, form stylistic convergences. For the case of a rhyme, such a convergence might lead to each end rhyme being at the end and each internal rhyme in the middle (with at least one term) of the prosodic unit “verse line.” If we assume two different species of rhyme, a and b, we may then find that, in accordance with the tabulated structural schemata (1) to (6), the end rhyme becomes one of the well-known possibilities, the rhyming couplet [schema (1)–(2)], the cross rhyme [schema (3)–(4)], and the enclosing rhyme [schema (5)–(6)]. For instance, the notation for the rhyming couplet would be as follows: 10)
__________ __________ __________ __________
Aa Aa Ab Ab
or in abbreviated form:
10)
__________ __________ __________ __________
a a b b
In the internal rhyme, for a given rhyme species a, the following possible positional variants result: _____ 11) a) _____ Aa Aa _____ b) _____ Aa Aa c) _____ Aa Aa _____ d) Aa _____ Aa _____
_____
or or or or
_____ _____ _____
a a a a
_____ _____
_____
a a a a
_____ _____ _____
middle rhyme inner rhyme Schlagreim alliteration
These convergences may vary according to type and extent of metre and verse line. It is also conceivable that such a synchronicity is called into question by the phonological equivalence relation extending in some items beyond the end of the verse line, which would constitute a case of “deviation from a deviation” (phonological enjambement). Finally, further occasions for convergence formation result from the interaction of syntax and phonology. The syntactic end rhyme was termed homoioteleuton by the classical rhetoricians.
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113
How can one objectivise the phonaesthetic equivalence structure of a text? The adequate form of representation is a “text score” in which the complete acoustic structure or “orchestration” (René Wellek) of the text is made visible, but especially the structure of its phonological correspondences. Wilhelm Fucks (1968: 45 ff.), who probably was the first to use this term, sees it as a system of notation that imitates the method of musical description, and one that represents the length and the rank of syntactic constructions. Harald Weinrich, whose text score is also exclusively based on syntactic parameters, calls for additional phonological and semantic text scores “which are in the course of the analysis taken into account (‘copied upon each other’) together with the text score” (1976: 157). However, prior to Fucks and Weinrich there had already been a demonstration by Thomas A. Sebeok (1968 [1958])—on occasion of his analysis of a Cheremis text—of what such a score can look like, especially in the phonological field. Interesting aspects of a phonological text score are also offered by James L. Kinneavy (1971: 364–382) in a detailed interpretation of Gerard Manley Hopkins’ poem “That Nature is a Heraclitean Fire and of the Comfort of the Resurrection.” Frequency and distribution of figures of phonological and morphological equivalence can even be described for the Egyptian Great Hymn of Aton (Kahl 1995). With this, we have mentioned but a few examples. The concrete problems encountered when creating a phonological text score will be demonstrated below, by way of a text analysis.
TEXT ANALYSIS
Gerard Manley Hopkins, “The Windhover” (In: Gerard Manley Hopkins, Poems and Prose, ed. W.H. Gardner. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1961, p. 30) THE WINDHOVER: To Christ our Lord I CAUGHT this morning morning’s minion, kingdom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing, As skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of, the mastery of the thing! Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume here Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier! No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear, Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion.
The poem, which Hopkins himself called “the best thing I ever wrote,” activates the potential of elocutionary structuring to a high degree. This has always provided its esotericism as well as its fascination. Although this elocutionary element has been generally recognised, only a few analyses choose linguistic methods as a basis for decoding the stylistic figures. One of the first is by A.A. Hill (1955). Whereas his exposition only touches peripherally on the sound texture of “The Windhover,” this texture will be placed at the centre of the following observations. Hopkins himself serves as a crown witness for the relevance of this aim of the investigation, because he defines verse as “speech wholly or partially repeating the same figure of sound.” By “repetition of the same figure of sound,” he refers precisely to what in our terminology are the figures of phonological equivalence. If for the time being we
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115
ignore the prosodic figures, this equivalence addresses sound patterns such as alliteration, assonance and rhyme. We shall pay special attention to these patterns in what follows. It is immediately clear that our analysis cannot take into account all aspects of the phonological texture of the poem, since this would require an extensive investigation. We therefore limit ourselves to selecting various aspects and representing them in partial scores. The methodology is abstract in the sense that it activates certain perspectives but accounts for others scarcely or not at all. This also holds true, inter alia, for the criteria “position,” “similarity,” “frequency” and “distribution” that play a partly dominant, partly negligible role. The methodology is further designed in such a way that it can be carried out on different levels of generality. With increasing generalisation, the concreteness of the text moves to the background. If we synthesise the different stages of generality of a phonological partial score, we obtain an inductive (or deductive) stemma of generalisations (or concretisations). On the other hand, if we co-ordinate the different partial scores we obtain a synopsis of the phonological equivalence structures dealt with.
A. First Phonological Partial Score: The Structure of the Alliterations Alliteration means consonantal equivalence at word beginnings. Before examining this equivalence in our text, we will first make use of a first general parameter to elucidate the frequency and distribution of the contraposition consonant:vowel (C:V). This results in a partial score by means of which one can explore its potential frequency of occurrence in “The Windhover.” Parameter 1: Consonant:Vowel Preliminary remark: It should be pointed out that in the Hopkins text some of the /h/ sounds are not realised because they occur in “unaccented, non-initial, situations in connected speech” (Gimson 21970: 192).
C C C C C C C C C C C C V V C C V C V C V C V V C C C C C V C C C C V V C C V V V C V V V C C C C C C C C V C V V C C C C C V V C C V C C C
C V V V V C C V V V C V C C C C C V V C C C C V C C C C C
C C
C
C
C
C C C
C
V
C
6C 8C 5C 8C 3C 9C 7C 8C 6C 9C 7C 8C 5C 6C 95 C
: : : : : : : : : : : : : : :
1V 3V 5V 4V 6V 5V 1V 4V 5V 2V 1V 2V 3V 1V 43 V
Consonant (C)- and vowel (V)-initiated words in “The Windhover.” It turns out that 68.8% of the word beginnings consist of consonants and 31.2% of vowels. Verses 7 and 10 show the highest, verse 5 the lowest, consonantal frequency in relation to the total volume of initial phonemes per verse line. As regards their distribution, the number of combinations of two or more consonants per verse is rather high. This is shown by the following table: Frequency
With these results, favourable conditions exist for possible alliterations. How to actually exploit these possibilities will be depicted in a further step. The statistical results obtained by utilising the first parameter can only be fully evaluated when exact reference material is available for the frequency and distribution of initial consonants in everyday
It turns out that the number of alliterations is extremely high. Relative to the total number of consonantal word beginnings, it comes to 60%. And if one adds together consonantal and vowel word beginnings in the poem, it still works out as a total of 41.3%. It would be tempting to compare this percentage with that of other poems by Hopkins or by other authors (for example, Old Germanic authors). Also, the distribution of alliterations in the text is of interest under this aspect. As a brief glance shows, it is highly variable. Verse 4, which consists almost completely of alliterations (8), is followed by verse 5, with none. Furthermore, verses with alliterative consonants (aC) and non-alliterative consonants (naC) in (approximate) balance, alternate with those with a preponderance in one direction or the other. Almost throughout the poem one can observe a continuous pendulum swing between increasing and decreasing alliteration. Whether this is for semantic reasons
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has to remain an unanswered question at this stage. Having discussed frequency and distribution of alliteration fairly thoroughly, we must now bring into play the aspect of similarity. For this, another parameter is required. Parameter 3: Types of Alliteration In the following table, head vowels are symbolised by (–) and nonalliterative consonants by (+). The place of the C in parameter 2 is taken by the alliterative consonants themselves.
1. –
c
+
m
m
m
c
2. d
–
d
d
d
d
d
+
–
–
3. –
+
r
+
–
–
st
–
–
st
4. h
ð
h
–
r
–
ð
r
–
–
w
w
5. –
–
–
+
–
–
+
–
+
6. –
–
s
h
s
s
–
–
b
b
+
h
7. +
+
+
+
+
h
–
h
8. +
+
–
+
ð
–
–
ð
+
–
ð
θ
9. b
b
–
+
–
–
–
–
p
p
+
10. b
–
ð
+
ð
+
+
ð
ð
–
b
11. t
t
+
+
+
–
+
+
12. +
+
–
–
∫
pl
+
pl
+
+
13. ∫
–
bl
bl
–
–
+
+
14. +
g
+
–
g
g
+
r
–
+
phonological figures
119
a) Frequency of alliterations 1. Relative to the text as a whole The following frequencies can be summarised on the basis of the above diagram: ð/θ h b r d
2. Relative to individual occurrences Here the most striking alliteration is the six-digit /d/-alliteration which occurs in one verse line only (2). Most alliterations consist of twodigits. b) Distribution of alliterations There are two distribution types: alliterations with and without nonalliterating intermediate terms. In the first case (pattern: /st/ + /X/ + /st/ as in verse 3) the alliterating words may even be found in two different verse lines (2/3: /r/ + /X/ + /r/, 12/13: /∫/ + /X/ + /∫/). In the second case, maximally represented by verse 2, there is a possible connection with Hopkins’ prosodic conception of sprung rhythm. c) Similarity of alliterations The alliterative consonants are identical throughout. The one exception is that of the sequence /ð/+/θ/ in verse 8, where commonality is based on the shared features dental + fricative, their difference on the opposing features voiced:voiceless.
B. Second Phonological Partial Score: Structure of the Assonances In the following we present a vowel score of the complete text of the poem, in which assonances have been identified by additional characteristics:
ai
:c
i
e
i
v
e e
i
æ e
e
ei
eз
5.
i
i
e
e
i
6.
æ
e
ei
i:
i:
u:
7.
i
v
e
i
i
ai
8.
ә:
ә
ә
ә:
i
ә
9.
u:
ju:
i
e
æ
10.
v
æ
11.
ai
ou
12.
ou
13.
ai
v
e
i
i
i
ai
i
i
i
i
i
c
:c
c
e
e
:e
e
α:
i
ai
i
i:
c
ә
α:
ә
i
ә
ә
e
e
æ
ou
eз
ai
u:
iә
ei
e
i:
e
e
i
jә
ou
ai
e
e
iә
au au
i
jә
iә
:e
i
c
e
e
e
v
:c
e
e
iә
c
ei
e
α:
ai
e
æ
ou
v
e
e
e
e
e
i
ai
ei
e
ai
e
iә
i:
i
ou
ai
u:
i
c
:c
:c
14.
c
au
i
e
e
e
ai
i:
e
e
4.
:c
ou
i
:c
3.
i
iә
eз
e
ei
i
i
e
i
:c
:c
i
:c
2.
ai
:c
1.
chapter one
e
120
jә
Only the most important equivalence relations have been marked in the vowel score. For their analysis we once again proceed by the aspects of frequency, distribution and similarity: a) Frequency of the assonances The share of assonances in the total number of vowels is very high— at least 40%. Among them, the phoneme /i(:)/ has the highest frequency—almost 50%. If we add in the diphthongs with /i/, such as /ai/ and /iә/, the percentage is even higher. There is a striking contrast between the high front vowel /i/ and the low back vowel /ɔ:/, which with its tenfold recurrence takes second place in the scale of frequencies among the assonance structures. Especially in verses 1 and 2 this contraposition leads to sharply profiled structural patterns of light-
phonological figures
121
dark. Overall, we can state that the frequency of assonances decreases towards the end of the poem. b) Distribution of the assonances Various combination patterns of assonance can be observed. One is the type of assonance which arises from two directly consecutive placements of the same vowel (for example, /au/ + /au/ in verse 12). Then there is the type of assonance “at a distance” (e.g. /ai/ + /X/ + /ai/ in verse 13). The two types can also show a larger frequency than 2 (for example, /ɔ:/ in verse 2 and /i/ in verse 8). However, the problem of distribution only becomes more interesting when two or more types of assonance are combined. This is where Hopkins’ mastery in producing sound patterns becomes evident. The following assonances can be established in the text: 1. double assonance (pair pattern) (with twofold interpolation of /X/) Verse 8: /ә:/ + /X/ + /ә:/ + /i/ + /X/ + /i/
Two special cases of the mirror pattern are notable: Verse 7: /i/ + /i/ + /ai/ + /α:/ + /i/ + /ai/ + /i/
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Here the centre of the structure is formed by /ɑ:/, flanked outside by two /i/, while the enclosed combination /i/+/ai/ in the mirror-image repetition appears as a phonological permutation (chiasm). Notation I Verse 3/4: /i/ + /εә/ + /ә/ + /ai/ + /i/ + /ai/ + /εә/ + /au/ + /i/
Notation II
Here /i/ forms the centre of the structure, flanked on the inside by two /ai/, on the outside by two /i/, while the inserted combination /εә/ + /X/ in the mirror-image repetition appears as a phonological permutation (chiasm). The centre and the periphery of the mirror structure consist of the same vowel /i/. We note as a peculiarity that a prosodic break (figure of pause) occurs following the structural centre. In this manner, a tense interrelationship is created between phonic continuity and metrical break. It might be revealing to follow up the semantic correlates of this phenomenon (relationship to the bird’s flight?). c) Similarity of the assonances Generally, identical sounds in the vowel score have been marked as assonances. Of the cases of phonic affinity, only a few were taken into account (for example, /i/—/i:/ in verse 8, /u/—/ju:/ in verse 9). The examination of the lines of the score reveals further possibilities for assonance. Thus, the diphthongs /iә/ (verse 1), /ei/ and /ai/ (verse 6) might form additional equivalences with the monophthong /i/. Another question would be whether accumulations of weak tone vowels (for example, /ә/ in verses 6 and 9) could be classified as assonances. In theory, this question could be answered in the affirmative; in practice, however, this would hardly be justifiable. For if one considers that the stylistic convergence arising from additional figures of accent emphasises some assonances more than others, then right from the beginning the unaccentuated schwa-sound will have little chance of performing a meaningful function in poetic performance, unless possibly as a bridge between the convergences.
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C. Third Phonological Partial Score: Structure of the End Rhymes Now let us turn to the end rhymes of “ The Windhover.” End rhymes are phonic and prosodic equivalences that here form a stylistic convergence. The partial score has the following structure: As the poem contains four kinds of end rhyme: a, b, c, d, one of these being male (a), the others female (b, c, d), their distribution is as follows: 1.
kíng-
a
2.
ríding
b
3.
stríding
b
4.
wíng
a
5.
swíng
a
6.
glíding
b
7.
híding
b
8.
thíng
a
9.
hére
c
10.
bíllion
d
11.
chevalíer
c
12.
síllion
d
13.
déar
c
14.
vermílion
d
1) Two occurrences of enclosing rhyme (abba/abba) in the two quatrains of the sonnet; 2) three-digit cross-rhyme (cdcdcd) in the two tercets. We observe a striking similarity between a and b, on the one hand, and c and d, on the other. In the first case it turns out that the phoneme sequence of a (= /iŋ/) is contained in the phoneme sequence of b (= /diŋ/). The same applies to the relation of c to d: /iә/—/iljәn/. Both phenomena therefore have to be regarded as exemplary cases of
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partial equivalence. In this way the sequence of end rhymes shows a high degree of structural uniformity. It is underscored by the fact that all the end rhymes contain /i/. Apart from end rhymes, internal rhymes—complete and incomplete ones—also occur. They are especially conspicuous in the first quatrain, in the form of middle rhymes. Verse 1: mórning/kíng-; verse 3: rólling/ stríding. Verse 4 contains a middle consonance: rung/wing. Apart from that, there is a Schlagreim in verse 2: dáwn/drawn; a middle rhyme in verse 11: lóvelier/chevalíer; and an Anreim in verse 14: fall/gall. All these patterns of equivalence have the function of tonally subdividing the wide swing of the verse line.
D. Synopsis of the Partial Scores: Alliteration, Assonance, End Rhyme The partial scores dealt with can be synthesised into a more comprehensive partial score. This synthesis offers the advantage that phonic condensations and henceforth focal points of the phonaesthetic structuring become more visible. For this procedure we choose two modes of representation: a ray diagram, and a matrix (with plus and minus poles). The phonological equivalence classes will be marked by A (alliteration), B (assonance) and C (end rhyme). We illustrate the procedure by means of the first two verse lines. Line 1: 1.a) ray diagram: caught
this
morning
Am B
Bi
Am
B Bi :c
Ak
morning’s
(Ciŋ)
B
:c
:c
I
Bi
minion
king-
Am
Ak
Bi (Biә)
Bi Ciŋ
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125
1.b) matrix representation:
1
I
caught
this
morning
morning’s
minion
king-
A B C
– – –
+ + –
– + –
+ ++ (+)
+ ++ –
+ + (+) –
+ + +
Line 2: 2.a) ray diagram
Ad
Ad
B
Ad
Bi
Falcon, in
his
riding
Bi
Bi
Ad B
B
(C n)
(C n)
B
Bi
Ciŋ
:c
Ad
dapple-dawn-drawn
:c
Ad
dauphin,
:c
daylight’s
:c
dom of
:c
:c
2.b) matrix representation
2 dom of daylight’s dauphin dapple- dawn- drawn Falcon in his riding A B C
+ – –
– – –
+ – –
+ ++ –
+ – –
+ + (+)
+ + (+)
– + –
– – + + – –
– + +
The two lines of the score reveal that, with regard to the equivalence classes A, B, C, the speech units morning, morning’s, minion, king-, dawn-, drawn and riding possess the highest density of features (internal rhymes have been bracketed: (+)). Since not all conceivable types of tonal equivalence have been included in our score, taking them into consideration could result in minor distortions in the total picture, but they need not concern us here.
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Let us just note a few of the other tonal equivalences that occur in “The Windhover”: Verse Verse Verse Verse
It is clear that precise technical terms for these (and further) phenomena do not always exist. Reference is here made once more to Masson’s attempt at a taxonomy (1961); in addition, to two further (text-analytical) publications by the same author (1953; 1960) and two articles by A. Oras (1956) and D. Hymes (1968).
phonological figures 1.1.2.6
127
Digression: Semantic Aspects of Phonaesthetics
On the relation between sound and sense, Lotman writes as follows: “It is obvious that no sound taken on its own from poetic speech has any independent meaning. The meaningfulness of the sound in poetry does not result from its specific nature but is guessed at deductively” (1972: 161). This statement means that a semanticisation of phonaesthetic text qualities is embedded in a pragmatics of poetic communication. This pragmatics can be habitualised so strongly that it becomes a convention in the aesthetic repertoire of a linguistic community. This applies above all to the various manifestations of onomatopoeia and sound symbolism. Onomatopoeia or sound imitation is based on the fact that in any language there are certain sounds and sound combinations that are thought by native speakers as a matter of convention to denote certain acoustic phenomena of the concrete world in an imitative manner, such as English cock-a-doodle-doo, French cocorico, and German kikeriki for the cock’s call. Further, there are sound-imitating verbs such as, in English, hoot, crash, rattle, tinkle, neigh, bleat; in French, claquer, cliqueter, craquer, croasser, siffler, toquer; in German, krachen, rasseln, klirren, blöken, miauen. A literary example can be found in Detlev von Liliencron: (6) Quer durch Europa von Westen nach Osten rüttert und rattert die Bahnmelodie,
Right across Europe from West to East shakes and rattles the track’s melody,
where the morphological neologism rüttert (substitutive metamorpheme, from rüttelt) supports the onomatopoetic property of rattert. The pragmatic relativity of such expressions becomes visible in that they are not identical in, but differ among, all languages, for the same acoustic reference object. A similar situation exists in sound symbolism, which consists in the combination of sounds and certain semantic features that are thought to carry meaning. It has been the object of experimental investigation, too (cf. Peterfalvi 1970, Anderson 1972). Results obtained include the fact that a connection is made between the vowels /i/ and /ε/ and the features (+happy), (+bright), (+beautiful) and (+fragrant), whereas the opposite takes place for the vowels /a/, /o/, and /u/. A quick glance at some poetic examples confirms these results. Thus, the dark vowels in Matthias Claudius’ poem “Der Tod” (“Death”),
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Ach, es ist so dunkel in des Todes Kammer . . .
Alas, it is so dark inside Death’s chamber . . .
signal darkness and mourning, whilst the bright vowels in the line of the poem, (8)
O Mädchen, mein Mädchen, wie lieb’ ich dich!
Oh girl, oh my girl, how I do thee love!
express happiness and pleasure. It is revealing that for /i/ the features (-happy), (-bright), (+beautiful) and (+fragrant) are noted (Anderson 1972: 166) if one draws on the example of the false enticing words of Goethe’s ballad Erlkönig: (9) Du liebes Kind, komm, geh mit mir! Gar schöne Spiele spiel’ ich mit dir.
You dearest child, come, go with me! You’ll like the games I play, you’ll see.
Here the deceptive ambivalence of the beautiful illusion can be seen not only in the accumulation of the /i/ but also in the dark vowel sprinkled in between the dominant /i/-sounds. In such cases of soundsense coupling Firth (1964) speaks of a phonaestheme. As suggested by the transposition of the results of English investigations, phonaesthemes possess a constancy that goes beyond the individual text and the individual language. This is confirmed by none other than Josef Weinheber’s “Ode an die Buchstaben” (“Ode to Letters”) quoted by Ulrich Gaier (1971: 24–25): (10) Dunkles, gruftdunkles U, samten wie Juninacht! Glockentöniges O, schwingend wie rote Bronze: Groß- und Wuchtendes malt ihr: Ruh und Ruhende, Not und Tod.
Dark, tomb-dark U, velvety as a night in June! O of the bell’s sound, ringing like red bronze, You paint what is large and powerful: Rest and the resting, hardship and death.
Zielverstiegenes I, Himmel im Mittagslicht . . .
I that has climbed past its aim, sky in midday’s light . . .
The similarity to Anderson’s and Peterfalvi’s research results is striking. A comparison with Arthur Rimbaud’s well-known sonnet Voyelles leads to similar results. While we have dealt with reference-semantic aspects of sounds so far, we shall consider in what follows those of an internal-semantic
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type. For we cannot overlook the fact that phonological equivalence also evokes semantic equivalence. This equivalence can even go so far that alliterating phrases such as mit Kind und Kegel/with bag and baggage/with kit and caboodle or Haus und Hof/hearth and home have lost the individual meanings of their terms (especially “Kegel,” “caboodle” and, to a lesser extent, “hearth”) at the expense of a collective meaning (“totality”), which in rhetoric is known as hendiadyoin. A particularly attractive semantic structural relation is that of end rhymes which are coupled by a twofold (segmental and suprasegmental) equivalence. Such a phonological similarity practically cries out for a similarity of contents, as suggested by the following example from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet: (11) But old folks, many feign as they were dead— Unwieldy, slow, heavy, and pale as lead. (II.v.16–17)
Here the rhyming words dead and lead are coupled to each other by semantic aspects they have in common (for example, the aspect of paleness). As documented by another rhyming couplet from the same drama, the opposite may also occur: (12) The earth that’s nature’s mother is her tomb; What is her burying grave, that is her womb. (II.iii.5–6)
Here the end rhymes tomb:womb represent an antonymy that by its phonic similarity practically assumes features of an oxymoron. Another term for the same phenomenon would be “phonological irony”—an expression coined by Anderson (1972: 164) for the reference-semantic analogue.
1.2
Phonaesthetic Superstructure: The Prosodic Figures
In the field of suprasegmental phonemes, metaphonemes are difficult to find. It is only the permutation of accent which could be of importance here, such as suggested—as pointed out by Geoffrey Leech (1969: 47)—by several poetical permutations of accent, as with Alfred Lord Tennyson (balúster instead of báluster) and Dante Gabriel Rossetti ( Júly instead of Julý). In the following discussion we shall not pursue this topic any further and instead favour the aspect of suprasegmental equivalence (isophony).
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Many details of the exposition so far have been based, tacitly but persistently, on a prosodic norm, the verse. Phonological figures, it is true, can do without it, but it is only within its framework that they attain their full aesthetic realisation. Verse may be defined as an aesthetic linguistic superstructure constituted of the suprasegmental phonemes of accent, pause and pitch and whose specific character is to subdivide the phonic continuum of the text into equivalent segments. If we apply the term “figure” to this phenomenon, in analogy to the segmental field, then we can here speak of “prosodic figures” and their three species, “accent figures,” “pause figures” and “pitch figures.” Which of the prosodic figures determines the verse form in the first place depends on the particular language used for the verse (Lotz 1968). While Chinese verse, for instance, depends on a specific sequentiality of pitch figures, English and German verse are characterised by a “dynamic metre,” in other words, by the dominance of accent figures, although pause figures and pitch figures are not excluded. The definition, “verse is rhythmic speech” (E. Standop), is valid only on the basis of this premise. However, “rhythmic” has another meaning, too. In almost any handbook on verse, one will find the statement that metre represents the schematic aspect, but rhythm the individual aspect of accent distribution within the verse. This can also be explained linguistically using the contrasting pair langue/competence and parole/performance, so that rhythm depicts an aspect of phonaesthetic performance. This fundamental assumption serves as a basis for the attempts to arrive at a structural and a generative-transformational prosody. In the following outline, we shall draw on works in either direction for various insights, but otherwise we shall remain with the conceptual frame of prosodic (metrical) figures. We shall first deal with phonaesthetic competence, then with performance. At the centre of the discussion are accent figures. Obviously this procedure can only represent the first beginnings of a system of verse rhetoric, not a detailed exposition. The development of a linguistically inspired prosody took place mainly in the realm of the English language. G.L. Trager and H.L. Smith’s An Outline of English Structure (1951) is the starting point for a number of structuralist works that have appeared since the middle of the twentieth century (see the bibliography in Fowler 1971: 172– 173). The most prominent representative of this direction is Seymour Chatman, who together with others published the new insights in the
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American journal Kenyon Review in 1956. A year after the structuralist metrics had found its most detailed exposition in Chatman’s main work, A Theory of Meter (1965), Halle’s and Keyser’s generative-transformational analysis of Chaucer’s prosody appeared in College English; this was fiercely discussed in the subsequent numbers of that journal and in other contributions (cf. Freeman [ed.] 1970: 366–426 [491]; Ihwe 1972: III, 86–119). 1.2.1
Phonaesthetic Competence: Metre
In his well-known Glossary of Literary Terms (61993), M.H. Abrams writes under the headword meter: In all sustained spoken English we sense a rhythm, that is, a recognisable though variable pattern in the beat of the stresses in the stream of sound. If this rhythm of stresses is structured into a recurrence of regular—that is, approximately equivalent—units of stress pattern, we call it meter.
Thus metre represents a recurrent sequence of equivalent prosodic units. It is an abstraction, that is, it is detached from the concrete speech act. Its description may take place in a metrical grammar or “grammetrics” (Wexler). It is based on a prosodic competence. This competence is able to produce all imaginable metrical structures. In these, the factor of stress (accent) is of special importance. 1.2.1.1
Accent Figures
In a schematic view, the concept of accent figure involves the equivalence of a sequence of stressed and unstressed syllables in a text. “Equivalence” here means, for instance, the alternating occurrence of (13) a) one stressed and one unstressed syllable, or ó o ó o ó o ó (o) b) one unstressed and one stressed syllable, or oóoóoóoóoó c) one stressed and two unstressed syllables, or ó o o ó o o ó o o ó o o ó o o ó o (o) d) two unstressed and two stressed syllables o o ó ó o o ó ó.
and so on. If we interpret the repeating units ó o, o ó, ó o o, o o ó, and o o ó ó as prosodic figures, then we can base their further analysis on the same criteria as in the case of the phonic figures, viz., position, extent, similarity, frequency and distribution.
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1.2.1.1.1 Position As the prosodic repetition patterns listed under (13) show, accent figures are metrical units in which (14) a) b) c) d)
stressed and unstressed syllables unstressed and stressed syllables stressed and stressed syllables unstressed and unstressed syllables
(pattern: ó o) or (pattern: o ó) or (pattern: ó ó) or (pattern: o o)
follow each other. Essentially we thus have to do with a binary system that admits of four sequential possibilities for its elements. 1.2.1.1.2 Extent Accent figures have a certain amount of stressed and unstressed syllables distributed over a certain number of syllables. The larger the number of syllables on which the accent figure is based, the larger the number of possibilities of combining stress and non-stress. Whereas a two-syllable accent figure has only four variants, viz., ó o, o ó, ó ó and o o, a four-syllable figure permits of far more variants, altogether sixteen: (15) a) b) c) d)
oooo óooo oóoo ooóo
e) f) g) h)
oooó óóoo óoóo óooó
i) k) l) m)
oóoó ooóó oóóo óóóo
n) o) p) q)
óóoó óoóó oóóó óóóó
Various figures of accent have already been familiar and terminologically determined under the name of “metrical foot” (or “metre”) since the period of classical antiquity, for example, (16) a) ó o trochee d) ó o o dactyl g) ó o o ó choriamb b) o ó iamb e) o o ó anapest c) ó ó spondee f) ó o ó cretic
Even though the theoretical potential of accent figures is quite extensive, the pragmatics of the history of verse shows that the number of types actually realised is relatively small. Various possibilities have a priori a rather low degree of probability; for instance, in the paradigm (15), the variants a) and q). Furthermore, more complex types of combination can be reduced to simpler ones, for example, the four-syllable accent figures of (15) g) and (15) i) can each be reduced to two two-syllable ones, ó o + ó o and o ó + o ó, respectively. Under these circumstances accent figures comprising more than four syllables can be expected to be extremely rare indeed.
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1.2.1.1.3 Similarity Among the prosodic patterns listed in (13), the outstanding feature of possibilities b) and d) is that they consist of identical repetitions of certain accent figures—in b), a fivefold repetition of o ó;—in d), a twofold repetition of o o ó ó. Beside this total equivalence of repeat segments, there are cases of partial equivalence. Examples are (13) a) and (13) c) where in each case the last syllable is omitted. Such phenomena are termed “catalectic” in classical theory. If we can assume a deletion transformation as a procedure for this case of partial equivalence, then other possible cases are imaginable in which addition, substitution and permutation suspend the total identity of the repeating units. If we take the following series of accent figures as our norm: (17) ó o / ó o / ó o / ó o /,
then we can construct the following secondary deviations: (18) a) b) c) d)
As shown by these examples, the distribution of such deviations may take place in various places of the prosodic equivalence structure. 1.2.1.1.4 Frequency The exemplary cases in (13) display a varying repeat frequency of the accent figures. The frequency values are 2, 4, 5 and 6. Following classical custom, we call them dimeter, tetrameter, pentameter and hexameter, respectively. A sequence of accent figures or metres constitutes a verse. Verse (13) b) consists of five accent figures of the type “1 nonstress + 1 stress” or, in different terminology, of iambic pentameter. Again, verse (13) c) consists of six accent figures of the type “1 stress + 2 non-stresses,” with a defective sixth accent figure or, expressing it differently, of a catalectic dactylic hexameter. Theoretically, the frequency of accent figures in a verse is almost unlimited; the pragmatics of most norms, however, shows that, on the contrary, frequency is subject to very strict constraints. Larger prosodic repeat units arise from a sequence of several verses. By tradition, any sequence that constantly repeats the same accent pattern is called “stichic.” One generally distinguishes between the monostichon (one verse line), the distichon (two verse lines), the
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tristichon (three verse lines), the tetrastichon (four verse lines), and so on. A more complex equivalence structure is shown by the strophe; it is determined not only by the varying lengths of the verse lines and the variation of the accent figures, but partly also by the many varieties of rhyme. As an example, we cite the Sapphic strophe: (19) ó o / ó o / ó o o / ó o / ó o / óo/óo/óoo/óo/óo/ óo/óo/óoo/óo/óo/ óoo/óo/
Its metrical equivalence structure can be notated as follows: (20)
Verses 1 through 3 are therefore identical with respect to length and accent structure (that is, stichic), while verse 4 differs in length. By means of an extension transformation, the combination (1S 2N) can be derived from (1S 1N) and shown to be a partial prosodic equivalent to (1S 1N). Any rhymes occurring have here been disregarded. In classical terminology, the Sapphic strophe consists of three Sapphic eleven-syllable lines and an adoneus. The next larger metrical unit is the text of the verse. It may be constructed strophically or non-strophically. In the strophic structure there are again two possibilities, monostrophic and polystrophic. This structure will not be further analysed here. What has been said so far suffices to indicate the extreme complexity of the frequency problem. Its cause is an important aspect that has been playing a role all the time but was hardly ever called by its name: the distribution of the accent figures. 1.2.1.1.5 Distribution Several examples have shown that the distribution of accent figures in verse, strophe and text may be even or varying. In simple cases this means that in these prosodic units (for example, verses) the same accent figure is set throughout. The opposite case is much more com-
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plicated. When accent figures of different structures are combined, the principle of equivalence tends to be pushed into the background by the principle of artistic variation. On such occasions it frequently happens that equivalence is displaced towards another prosodic unit (for example, from verse to strophe). If not, the accent figure construction is lost, and the place of verse is taken by prose. 1.2.1.2
Pause Figures and Pitch Figures
Both these prosodic types of figures are always tied to the occurrence of accent figures, both in English and German. If one keeps this restriction in mind, each of them is undoubtedly relevant and should not be underestimated, but in fact it is often ignored, especially in the case of pitch figures. In the case of pause figures, their aesthetic value alone is immediately obvious since no subdivision of verses and strophes would be possible without them. Just as obvious is the structural difference that separates strophic pause figures from verse pause figures and the latter from the accent-figure pause figures. Following Trager/ Smith (1951), we will make use of the following symbols: | denotes an accent-figure (metrical, intralinear) pause; || denotes a verse (interlinear) pause; # denotes a strophic (multilinear) pause. We then use these symbols correspondingly in the notation of the Sapphic strophe (19): (21) ó o | ó o | ó o o | ó o | ó o || ó o | ó o | ó o o | ó o | ó o || ó o | ó o | ó o o | ó o | ó o || óoo|óo#
In a case like this one the pause figures reinforce the pattern of the accent figure equivalence (a phenomenon of convergence). But they can also “cut up” the accent figures—for instance intralinearly—as demonstrated by the following pause possibilities of the dactylic hexameter: 1 2 (22) ó o o ó |
3 ooó|o|
4 5 6 o ó | o o ó o o ó o (o)
||
These intralinear pause figures, traditionally called caesuras, do not represent equivalences since they fall after the second, third and fourth stresses (trithemimeres, penthemimeres, hephthemimeres) and, in addition, after the first non-stress of the third dactylic accent figure (katà tríton trochaîon). They rather represent a decided counterpoise to these, which has the character of a secondary aesthetic deviation.
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The considerations so far can be summed up in three points: 1. Pause figures (aesthetic junctures) are an essential regulator of the poetic text, particularly in coexistence with accent figures. In this combination they can both reinforce the equivalence of metrical units (verse line, strophe) or—for the sake of variation—destroy it. In either case, pause figures have to be regarded as part of an aesthetic text phonology. 2. As components of a prosodic grammar, pause figures can be hierarchised. The reference quantities marked by them are, starting with the smallest unit, accent figure (metre), verse and strophe. 3. Pause figures, just like accent figures, are subject to an act of pragmatic standardisation. The pattern used in (22) is of Greco-Roman origin and was later adopted by the European verse languages. Such norms may undergo change for which the history and the theory of verse supply a variety of examples. Hardly any rules have been formulated so far about the precise prosodic status of pitch figures. Although one can assume that their status is connected with the distribution of accent figures and pause figures, such an assumption can at present only lead to new ones. Such assumptions could, for instance, posit that the stressed syllable of an accent figure will always show a relatively high pitch, or that a significant pause figure (at the end of the verse or strophe) will always cause a drop in pitch. However, hypotheses such as these depend on too many variables to be stated with confidence at this stage. As a transcription mode, we suggest for our purposes the numerical system 1, 2, 3, 4 used by Trager/Smith (1951), where 1 stands for the lowest, 4 for the highest pitch. 1.2.2 Phonaesthetic Performance: Rhythm If metre has been called a “concept” and rhythm a “percept,” the following was meant: metre is a thought construction, a system of regularities without reality. It is not in vain that Wimsatt and Beardsley gave an article on the concept of metre the title “An Exercise in Abstraction” (1959). This abstraction may take place either by way of the generalisation of empirically gained data or it already consists in the idea of a hypothetical design. (Various theories are reported by Küper 1988: 102–151.) Whatever this concept may look like, in each case the degree of idealisation has been carried so far that ultimately the concept may exist without a linguistic reality. Its first scientific
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postulate is consistency, and its second is applicability to the realm of concrete rhythmic occurrences of language. What we call rhythm or rather prose rhythm is to the prosodic grammar designed above (section 1.2.1) as performance is to competence. This prosodic performance expresses itself in accent patterns, pause patterns and pitch patterns that are peculiar to the words, sentences and texts concerned. If we now bring together the metrical scheme with the prose rhythm of actually uttered speech, then according to Hopkins a “counterpoint” is created, which means nothing but a deviation from the principle of equivalence or a secondary poetic deviation. That of course only happens where it derives from an active creative intention. This realisation of aestheticity would hardly occur if some verse metres were not adaptable to a given language, for instance, the dactylic hexameter to the English language, or if the author turned out to be incapable of producing a meaningful “counterpoint” (Thompson 1961). A counterpoint becomes meaningful when it has a semantic or a pragmatic function. The poetological decision is thus made not only in the realm of text syntax, but also “from outside.” Before we go deeper into the rhythmic counterpoint of verse, let us consider the following problem. If we assume that no explicit difference between “natural” and aesthetic prosody exists, then different degrees of fulfillment for the metrical schema nevertheless remain. For illustration, take the well-known verse from Rainer Maria Rilke’s poem “Das Karussell” (“The Carousel”), (23) Und dànn und wânn ein weîßer Èlephánt
And now and then a white elephant,
then the notation indicates that the iambic pentameter has been reinforced rhythmically by as many as three levels of stress: the primary accent /´/, the secondary accent /`/, and the tertiary accent /ˆ/ (following Trager/Smith [1951] who also list a fourth weak accent /ˇ/). However, if we retain this system of transcription, the following verse analysis would also be possible: (24) und dânn und wànn ein weißer Èlephánt.
Seymour Chatman (1968: 160) uses a verse by Alexander Pope to demonstrate to what extent interpretations of accent, pause and pitch may differ in the phonetic realisation:
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chapter one (25) Thus much I’ve said, I trust without offence a) 3Thús mûch2→2Ì’ve 3saíd1 ↓ 2I 3trust3→2withoùt of 3fénce1 ↓ b) 2Thûs mùch Ì’ve 3said1 ↓ 2I 3trúst2→2withoùt offénce ↓ c) 2Thûs mùch Ì’ve 3saíd2→2I 3trúst3–2withoùt of 3fénce2→
From these transcriptions, in which the symbols /→/ and /↓/ replace the Trager/Smith (1951) pause phonemes (junctures) /|/ and /#/, it becomes clear that in principle any abstract metrical concept admits of fundamentally different performances. From these explications two conclusions can be derived: 1. The metrical schematics rests on the binary opposition of stress and non-stress. However, the reality of rhythmic stresses in a verse is much more complex. It can be expressed by a fourfold accent parameter which, however, in its turn represents an abstraction from the multitude of its suprasegmental variants. The situation is analogous for pause and pitch relationships. Here, experimental phonetics offers more precise ways of making recordings by means of a sonogram, which promises to come up with an “objective” (i.e. subject-independent) registration of acoustic differences (Lindner 1969). 2. The analyses of the two texts show that the distribution of the accents can be interpreted differently by different recipients. Individual interpretations range from complete congruence with the underlying metre to far-reaching deviations from it. A highly informative contribution in this context is Seymour Chatman’s analysis of Shakespeare’s sonnet no. 18, which for the first two syllables in verse 1 alone contains three alternative possible interpretations (1965: 182): (26) Shall o ó ó
I | compare | thee to | a sum | mer’s day? ó o ó ó o o ó o ó o ó
Scholarly discourse has not yet reached any ultimate clarity on whether verse accent exerts a modifying influence on the natural accent of words and sentences or whether it is only “monitored” internally, that is, exists merely on the psychological plane. Whatever the outcome of this argument may be—something that will have to be decided empirically—it is a fact that each prosodic pattern establishes a field of tensions that is particularly attractive for the aesthetic character of a text. In the following discourse, we shall record some of these secondary deviations.
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Deviating Accentuation
Possible modifications in the field of accent figures have already been discussed in 1.2.1.1.3. Here we shall only illustrate the frequent case of individual accent shifts or (in Andreas Heusler’s musical terminology) Taktumstellungen (“displacements of bars”). An accent shift breaks up the balance of the metrical equivalence and causes rhythmic variation. Its origin can be explained with the aid of the concept of permutation: a stress replaces a non-stress, and vice-versa, a non-stress replaces a stress. As an example, consider the famous first line from Hamlet’s well-known soliloquy (“To be or not to be”). Its metrical analysis can be described as follows: (27) To bé or nót to bé that ís the quéstion.
By contrast, its prose rhythm appears as follows: (28) To bé or nót to bê thát is the quêstion.
As a result, a discrepancy arises between /ðǽt íz/ and /ðæt iz/. It does not arise from stylistic inability but from the pragmatic aspect of emphasis. Other functional interpretations suggest themselves for further phonaesthetic deviations of the kind described [for example in (26)]. 1.2.2.2
Deviating Pausation
A verse line is strongly ruled by the equivalence principle if not only the prose and verse accent coincide but the junctures of prose and verse text as well. If the latter case does not exist, that is, if the textual pause placement differs from the metrical one, this is called enjambement or a run-on line. The opposite case occurs when the pauses of verse and text coincide over a sequence of verse lines. This possibility is called line style. An enjambement, which is defined in Joseph T. Shipley’s Dictionary of World Literature (1960: 139) as “the carrying of sense (grammatical form) in a poem past the end of a line or (in heroic couplet) past the end of the couplet,” originates—according the concept presented here—from a functional deviation from the uniformity of the metrical pause sequence. It can be morphological or syntactic in kind. (29) Examples of morphological enjambement:
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chapter one a) Some asleep, unawakened, all unwarned, eleven fathoms fallen (Gerard Manley Hopkins, The Loss of the Euridice) Roger Fowler (1966a: 89) quotes the following patterns: b) the hay/Fields, the coal-/Black night (Dylan Thomas) king-/dom of daylight’s dauphin (Gerard Manley Hopkins) this blind-/nesse too much light breeds (John Donne) to warb-/le those brave bravuras (George Gordon Lord Byron) (30) Examples of syntactic enjambement: a) Du stiller Äther! Immer bewahrst du schön Die Seele mir im Schmerz, und es adelt sich Zur Tapferkeit vor deinen Strahlen Helios! oft die empörte Brust mir. (Friedrich Hölderlin, Die Götter)
O silent aether! you always keep the beauty Of my soul in sorrow, and ennobled To fortitude by your radiation, My oft incenséd breast becomes.
b) Zwei Becken, eins das andre Two basins, one arising from übersteigend the other aus einem alten runden out of an old round Marmorrand marble edge (Rainer Maria Rilke, Römische Fontäne)
Morphological enjambement implies a stronger deviation than the syntactic one, since a morphological unit has stronger coherence than a syntactic one. Roger Fowler surmises that the deviating pausation could be hierarchised according to its degree of intensity: One might construct a scale for enjambement, ranging from cases where the greatest grammatical break (between sentences) coincides with the firmest metrical rest (end of a set of rhymed lines) to cases where the smallest grammatical juncture (between the components which make up words, morphemes) is forced to coincide with a compelling metrical break (e.g., between stanzas) (1966a: 88).
This sentence has to be understood as saying that the structure and— we add—the frequency of conflicts between grammatical and metrical pausation is responsible for the stylistic quality of this secondary deviation. A special case with regard to frequency is presented by so-called straddled lines (Frank Kermode): verses of such sentence construction that their pauses regularly lie in the middle of the verse line. They are
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particularly numerous in Old English poetry, but can also be found in modern poetry as shown by the beginning of T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land: (31) April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain
Here, the repeated phonic figure of the female rhyme ending in -ing is of less interest than the recurrence of a grammatical pattern with junctures that always deviate from the grammatical junctures in the same place. The regularity with which this happens allows one to conclude that in this case the secondary deviation of the syntactic enjambement has itself assumed the character of a (secondary) norm, partially repealing the primary norm of the interlinear pause.
TEXT ANALYSIS
William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream (V.I.108–117) The burlesque interlude in A Midsummer Night’s Dream begins with a prologue that partly manages to say the opposite of what the actors— simple mechanicals—intended to say. In the punctuation of the Riverside Shakepeare the text runs as follows: Pro. If we offend, it is with our good will. That you should think, we come not to offend, But with good will. To show our simple skill, That is the true beginning of our end. Consider then, we come but in despite. We do not come, as minding to content you, Our true intent is. All for your delight We are not here. That you should here repent you, The actors are at hand; and, by their show, You shall know all, that you are like to know.
This delivery is commented on by the members of the audience Theseus and Lysander: The. This fellow doth not stand upon points. Lys. He hath rid his prologue like a rough colt; he knows not the stop. A good moral, my lord: it is not enough to speak, but to speak true.
In other words: The speaker of the prologue, in the recitation of his text, wrongly inserts pauses, pitches and (partly) accents; “speak true” means something like “utter one’s lines correctly.” This causes semantic inversions which turn the true meaning of the text upside down. G. Wilson Knight tries to reverse the phonological indecorum of the reproduction as follows (New Variorum Edition, p. 213): Pro. If we offend, it is with our good will That you should think we come not to offend; But with good will to show our simple skill. That is the true beginning of our end. Consider then. We come: but in despite We do not come. As, minding to content you, Our true intent is all for your delight.
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We are not here that you should here repent you. The actors are at hand; and, by their show, You shall know all that you are like to know.
The representation of the respective text differences was in both cases realised graphematically, not phonologically, which would have been the correct way. If we call Shakespeare’s text Version I and Knight’s restituted text, Version II, then we can—retaining the written form— transcribe the pause, pitch and accent relationships as follows: Version I If we of3fénd2 ǁ 2it is with our 2goôd 3wíll1 # Thát2 you should 3thínk2 ǁ 2we còme 3nôt2 to of3fénd2 | 2 But with goòd 3wíll1 # 2To show our 2sìmple2 3skíll2 ǁ 4 Thát2 is the 2trûe be3gínning2 of our 3énd2 # 2 Con3síder2 thèn ǁ 2we 3côme but in de3spíte2 # 2 We do 3nót 2côme | 2as 3mînding2 to con3tént 2you2 | 2 Our trùe in3tént 2is1 # 3Âll2 for your de3líght2 2 We are 4nót 3hère2 # 2That you should here re3pént 2you2 | 2 The 3áctors2 are at 3hánd1 ǁ 2and | by their 3shów2 | 2 You shall 2knôw 3áll2 ǁ 2that you are 3lîke2 to 3knów1 # 2 4
Version II If we of3 fénd2 ǁ 2it is with our 2goôd 3wíll3 ǀ That you should 3thínk2 ǀ 2we còme nôt to of3fénd2 ǀ 2 But with goòd 3wíll3 ǁ 2to show our 2sìmple 3skíll1 # 3 Thát2 is the 2trûe be3gínning2 of our 3énd2 # 2 Con3síder 2thèn1 # 2We 3cóme2 ǁ 2but in de3spíte3 | 2 We do 3nót 2côme1 # 2As | 2mînding to con3tént 2you2 | 2 Our 3trûe 2in3tént 2is 3âll2 for your de3líght1 # 2 We are 3nót 2hère ǁ 2that you should here re3pént 2you1 # 2 The 3áctors2 are at 3hánd1 ǁ 2and by | their 3shów2 | 2 You shall 2knôw 3áll2 ǁ 2that you are 3lîke2 to 3knów1 # 2 2
Here a detailed registration of the different suprasegmental text phonemes in the two versions will not be carried out; the differences are obvious. An enquiry after the aesthetic function of the phonological “misdemeanour” produced by the speaker of the prologue can be answered without difficulty. That function obviously consists in inverting the conventional rhetorical exordial topos of the captatio benevolentiae into its farcical converse (captatio malevolentiae). Considered as a mere phonetic substrate bare of prosodemes, Shakespeare’s text contains both semantic possibilities, the affirmative one and the negative one—a state of affairs one could describe as concordia discors,
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using a term from poetics. While Version II is “true,” Version I forms a deviation from it—phonologically and semantically. Whilst we can speak here of a first type of prosodic deviation, there is a second one which appears when we compare the basic metrical pattern of the verse—iambic pentameter—with its actual rhythmic realisation. More than once it turns out that text accent and verse accent cannot always be matched, either because the degrees of strength differ or (as, for example, in verse 4) because an accent shift occurs. Here, too, the aesthetic function is one of creating certain semantic emphases that, however, do not in this case represent any inversion of meaning. While the latter type of deviation is primarily based upon a change of accent figure, the former derives from a change of pause and pitch.
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The Interaction of Phonic and Prosodic Figures
If we consider the phonological figures as a whole, we discover a revealing interplay of the individual groups. Although each one on its own is capable of being the source of poeticity, it is only their combined effect that produces the “density” that is a hallmark of fulfilled phonological literariness. When we go through two possible combinations, the following picture results: a. Phonic deviation and prosody Metaphonemes (apocope, prosthesis . . .) frequently occur in the forms of oratio ligata (verse) and reinforce its poeticity. A typical example of the intertwining of the two types of deviation is the following: (32) Dämmrung senkte sich von Dusk was low’ring down its oben, mantle, Schon ist alle Nähe fern . . . Nearness is already far . . . (Johann Wolfgang von Goethe),
where the trochaic tetrameter enforces the deletion of the internal /e/ sound in Dämmerung (syncope). Prosodic figures cause deviations not only in the case of metaphonemes but also for metamorphemes and metataxemes. We shall come back to these latter in the following chapters. b. Phonic equivalence and metrics Although figures of phonic equivalence can be generators of poeticity without being embedded in a relationship of prosodic equivalence, the potential of metrical figures heightens their aesthetic capacity decisively. This is shown not only by the Old Germanic alliterative verse, but also by the rhyming poetry of subsequent centuries. Indeed, the popularity of the end rhyme is not least explainable by the desire to reinforce the prosodic equivalence by an equivalence of vowels and consonants. This reinforcement comes to a head in the following rhyming couplet of Alexander Pope: (33) True wit is Nature to advantage dress’d: What oft was thought, but ne’er so well expressed. (Alexander Pope, An Essay on Criticism, vv. 297–298)
Such a convergence—prosodic, phonetic and syntactic—at the end of the verse does not always occur. Rather “impure” rhyme, enjambement and accent shifts result in the coincidence of phonological equivalences being cut back in favour of variation.
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Let us draw some conclusions from the above discussion: a survey of the phonological figures shows that they represent a rather differentiated instrument for “orchestrating” a text. In contrast to figures that violate grammar (metaphonemes), we have those that make full use of the possibilities of repeat equivalent phonemes and phoneme combinations. Where the phonological equivalence figures (isophonemes) meet somewhere in a text, this creates a texture of high poetic density that can even be further intensified by graphemic, morphological, syntactic and semantic factors. Admittedly, the possibility that continuous repetition of the same equivalence classes can lead to a structural monotony that threatens the recipient with fatigue also exists. That is counteracted by secondary deviation as a principle of variation. If pursued consistently, it offers a basis for a change of the phonaesthetic norm. The best proof of this claim is offered by the innovation of vers libre (Hrushovski 1968). In chapter 37, “On the Aesthetics of Poetry,” of his great work The World as Will and Representation (Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung) the German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer (1788–1860) gives what can be regarded as another summary of the present chapter on phonological figures: Metre and rhyme are a fetter, but also a veil which the poet casts round himself, and under which he is permitted to speak as otherwise he would not dare to do; and this is what delights us. Thus he is only half responsible for all that he says. Metre and rhyme must answer for the other half. Metre or measure, as mere rhythm, has its essence only in time, which is a pure intuition a priori; hence, in the language of Kant, it belongs merely to pure sensibility. Rhyme, on the other hand, is a matter of sensation in the organ of hearing, and thus of empirical sensibility. Therefore, rhythm is a much nobler and worthier expedient than rhyme, which the ancients accordingly despised, and which found its origin in the imperfect languages resulting from the corruption of the earlier languages of barbarous times (Schopenhauer 1958, II 427–428).
This explication on the sound structure of poetry can be termed a brief contribution to its pragmatics.
CHAPTER TWO
MORPHOLOGICAL FIGURES
Morphemes are usually classified as either free or bound morphemes. Free morphemes, such as house, good, and today, have a lexical meaning; bound morphemes, such as inter-, -ish, and -s, have predominantly grammatical significance. Since bound morphemes occur only in combination with free morphemes, free morphemes are here more important for our purposes. By identifying a free morpheme with a word, we can also follow classical terminology and speak of word figures ( figurae verborum). Word figures are subject to the processes of amplification, deletion, shifting and substitution, which bound morphemes are not. The results are figures of morphological deviation or metamorphemes and a class of repetitive word figures or isomorphemes. Both these groups will be dealt with in detail below.
2.1
Figures of Morphological Deviation (Metamorphemes)
Word figures belonging to this class are determined by four categories of change: addition, subtraction, permutation, and substitution. They are based on a morphological norm that includes both the existing word forms and their distribution in the sentence. In the case of a norm we want to ascertain the extent to which a morpheme deviates from all morphemes occurring in the language; distribution deals with the grammatical phenomenon that morphemes appear to be deviant within their syntacto-semantic context. We will take these up in order, but first a few words on intra-word changes. 2.1.1
Intra-word Deviation
Here the problem is to classify the word forms that constitute the innovative or derivational elements of a language. The question is whether they merely serve to further exploit existing morphological possibilities of the language or whether they are generated in opposition to these possibilities. In the former case the measure of norm violation
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would be the degree of lexicalisability; in the latter the task is to establish what possibilities of word formation are permissible in a language. Geoffrey N. Leech (1969: 42, 44) cites as an example for the former phenomenon T.S. Eliot’s foresuffer, a hapax legomenon but one that does not violate the morphological rules of English, that allow the formation of verbs with the prefix fore-, as shown by the examples foresee, foreknow, foretell and forewarn. In contrast, Ernst Jandl’s schtzngrmm is not supported by any of the handbooks on German word formation since they do not recognise words consisting of consonants only. Both possibilities of morphological deviation will be taken into account in what follows. 2.1.1.1
Addition
Morphological expansion takes place along several routes, each of which can effect an enrichment of the poetic vocabulary. Among these we have the formation of unusual composites, such as Lustentzücken (lit. ‘lust-rapture’), Weltentrücken (lit. ‘world rapture’) (Wagner); Kunfttag (George); Samson-syrup-gold-maned, thunderbolt-bass’d and barnacle-breasted (Dylan Thomas), all of which originated from combining free morphemes. Other neologisms arise from affixing bound morphemes, such as the prefix un- in the unchilding unfathering deep (Hopkins), or the suffix -someness in the hearsomeness of the burger (Joyce), or the infix -ar- in cursorary (Shakespeare). Morphological change—by analogy to metaphonemes derived by addition—can thus take place in initial, medial or final position of a word. A special form of the type of metamorphemes discussed here is represented by hybrid word combinations, those morphological components resulting from different languages forming composite units. Many such compounds are found in James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake, of which only two will be mentioned here: fishnetzeveil, where a German morpheme (netze) is interpolated between two English morphemes, and miserendissimest, where a Latin superlative (miserendissime) is given the additional English superlative suffix -est. 2.1.1.2
Subtraction
“Subtractive derivations” (Ernst Leisi) are known to be a phenomenon specific to the history of the English language. This is illustrated by examples such as ad (instead of advertisement), fan (instead of fanatic), pop (instead of popular) and pub (instead of public house)—phenomena
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that are known as clippings. Here, removal (subtraction) of a morphological component takes place at the end of a word (back clipping). As a poetic clipping, Gerard Manley Hopkins’s the achieve (instead of achievement) from “The Windhover” is well known. But subtraction can also occur at the beginning of a word ( fore-clipping), as shown by James Joyce’s under her brella (instead of umbrella), Richard Wagner’s schlagen (instead of erschlagen) and Virgil’s temnere (instead of contemnere). While no semantic alteration takes place in these cases, one certainly is intended—as an inversion—in Matthias Zschokke’s drama title, Die Alphabeten (1990). A special case is that of haplology, the contamination of two (or more) words accompanied by the loss of individual elements of at least one word. Hans Marchand (1969: 451) describes the generating process of such word hybrids (“blends”) concisely as “compounding by means of curtailed words.” This paves the way for a broad range of variations of these linguistic phenomena which—as coined by Lewis Carroll—are also called portmanteau words. Well-known representatives are found in English everyday language in Oxbridge (〈Ox( ford) + Cam(bridge), smog (〈sm(oke) + ( f )og) or brunch (〈br(eakfast) + (l)unch)—metamorphemes that owe their generation in each case to the clipping of initial and final elements of their original constituents. While these haplologies have managed to become lexicalised, others—such as the German Kurlaub (〈Kur + (Ur)laub)—have not caught on, perhaps because their frequently motivated ironic genesis is not widely shared. This underlying character is usually retained in their functionalisation as figures of style, such as in German wachäugte (from Wache = ‘watch’ and äugen = ‘look’), beargobachtete (from beobachten = ‘observe’ and argwöhnen = ‘suspect’) or belechzgiertrachtete (from betrachten = ‘look at’, lechzen = ‘lust’ and Gier = ‘greed’)—all neologisms from Arno Holz’s Phantasus. Such examples show that haplology can be treated both as a subtractive and an additive metamorpheme. The decisive factor in each case is which viewpoint dominates. 2.1.1.3
Permutation
A reshuffling of morphological units can take place by chance. Particularly interesting are “permutations” where separate morphemes are simultaneously fused together or morphemes that belong together are separated. The first case is illustrated by an example from Spenser’s The Faerie Queene:
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where upbrought takes the place of brought up. In modern literary prose exactly the same phenomenon occurs: upjump instead of jump up (Joyce, Finnegans Wake). The opposite phenomenon is described by the term tmesis, i.e. the “cutting up” of a composite into its morphological components while simultaneously interpolating one or more words, e.g. that man—how dearly ever parted (Shakespeare, Troilus and Cressida III.iii.96), where however has mutated to how (M) ever. Beside this, we have the chiastic reordering of the components of two words, as demonstrated by James Joyce’s Gentes and laitymen (instead of ladies and gentlemen) and Hans-Magnus Enzensberger’s Manitypistin Stenoküre (instead of Stenotypistin Maniküre) in the poem “Bildzeitung.” These are merely a few cases of permutative metamorphemes; their complete development would have to take into account aspects of the syntax as well. 2.1.1.4
Substitution
The process of morphological replacement enables the formation of a whole series of rare, sometimes hybrid word compositions that frequently present a complex puzzle to the interpreter. Many of them can be found in James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake. By way of explanation, let us quote a few: almonthst (almost/month), prapsposterous (perhaps/ preposterous) and ehrltogether (ehrlich/altogether). Often these are portmanteau words. Changing the observational perspective can in such cases also lead to the discovery of different types of (e.g. subtractive, additive) transformation.
TEXT ANALYSIS
Lewis Carroll, Jabberwocky (The Annotated Alice) Ed. Martin Gardner. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1966, p. 191 In Through the Looking-Glass, Alice comes across a poem with the title “Jabberwocky,” one of the most famous nonsense poems of the English language. Let us quote the first stanza and then interpret it: ’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.
This stanza contains a number of words that are not listed in any English dictionary, which accounts for why we have so much difficulty in giving the verses much sense. Alice has the same experience but nevertheless finds—like many literary experts after her—that the poem is very pretty, and she also surmises: “Somehow it seems to fill my head with ideas—only I don’t exactly know what they are” (p. 197). C.C. Fries (1967: 70–71) offers an explanation for Alice’s feelings by pointing out that it is not the lexical but the structural meanings which make the morpheme structure of the first strophe appear acceptable. What this suggests is that Alice’s sense of the poem is that it is grammatical on the structural/syntactic level even if she cannot assign it any meaning on the semantic level. Let us try to account for how this works. The structural frame can be seen from the following graphical reproduction of the first four lines: 1 2 3 4
‘Twas a , and the b y Did a and b in the All a y were the b s, And the a b s c .
c c
s ;
From this table it emerges that the individual grammatical positions can be occupied only by the following word types: 1 a noun or adjective 1 b adjective 1 c noun
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a b c a b a b c
verb verb noun adjective noun adjective noun verb
The following criteria for these structural statements are: a) The syntactic environment. In position 1a only a singular noun or an adjective fits; and for position 3b, only a plural noun. The proof for such claims can be carried out by the substitution test. For positions 2a and 2c this works out as follows: *2 a *2 a *2 a 2a *2 c *2 c *2 c 2c
(*Did idea (*Did silly (*Did dreamily ( Did turn (*Did_____ (*Did_____ (*Did_____ ( Did_____
and_____in the_____) and_____in the_____) and_____in the_____) and_____in the_____) and_____in the silly) and_____in the dreamily) and_____in the go) and_____in the round)
The results from the substitution checks are thus that in position 2a only a verb, and in position 2c only a noun will guarantee the grammaticality of the sentence. For 2b, the same holds as for 2a since the two are connected by the equalising conjunction and. b) The bound morphemes. Together with the syntactic context, they indicate the word-class and the number to which the positions denoted by 1a, 1b, 1c, 2a, etc., belong. The method of determination is the same as the one used under (a), that is, substitution tests. In this manner the suffix {-y} (or: {/-i/}) in 1b and 3a is seen to be an indication of the word-class “adjective” (example: oil-y), while the suffix {-s} (or: {/-z/}) in 1c and 3b indicates the plural morpheme of nouns (example: dove-s). The remaining nonsense words of the present text can be dealt with similarly. The result of such considerations is that these words, as a result of their structural criteria, appear to be quite familiar items, but that, due to their lack of lexicalisation, they are identifiable as deviations. We can term them substitutive metamorphemes, implying that they represent deviant word-forms generated by partial replacement transformations (usually of the word stem) of the vocabulary of daily life. That is
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why they appear so familiar and yet so strange to Alice. It is tempting to “rearrange” the text (W.A. Koch 1972), that is, to return it to the level of everyday norms by back-transformation, which would at the same time be a decision for a particular possible solution and would therefore—again in the words used by Koch—be an overall analysis. The result might look as follows: ’Twas morning, and the sunny rays Did twirl and tumble in the oak: All hazy were the mountain-ways, And the young girls awoke.
This would be a text free of Carroll’s metamorphemes. It now contains not only structural meanings but lexical meanings as well. The latter produce a semantic isotopy, that is, a continuous, closed and meaningful whole. A meaningful whole, too, is what Humpty Dumpty tries to produce in Through the Looking-Glass by explaining the origin of the words in Jabberwocky to Alice. Thus he says: Well, “slithy” means “lithe and slimy.” “Lithe is the same as “active.” You see, it’s like a portmanteau—there are two meanings packed up in one word (p. 271).
So here we have the origin of the term portmanteau word (= haplology), that is, of subtractive word formation with the merger of two independent morphemes. In the same way, the terms wabe (〈way + before [or behind, beyond]), mimsy (〈miserable + flimsy) and mome (〈 from + home) are treated by Humpty Dumpty as haplologies. In another case denominal conversion (with deletion) is held responsible for the origin of gyre (〈gyroscope). There are more word explanations, both motivated and unmotivated. Thus a meaningful text is reconstructed, which is supported by possible word formations that are unusual but latently extant in the English language. While in this approach the deviation takes place predominantly on the synchronic language level, Carroll in another edition of the first strophe of Jabberwocky shifts the problem to the diachronic level. As early as 1855, long before the publication of Through the Looking-Glass (1872), he already published these four lines, but under the title Stanza of Anglo-Saxon Poetry and in a (pseudo-)archaic typeface, adding numerous (pseudo-) etymological explanations which are supposed to clarify the semantics of the text (e.g., GYRE, verb, [derived from GYAOUR or GIAOUR, ‘a dog’]. To
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scratch like a dog.). The result is that yet another meaning of the text has been created. More recent research has performed its own magic on this stanza and the whole poem by invoking word-borrowings from other languages (for example, Gaelic) as causes of the morphological deviations (cf. ed. cit., p. 192 et seq.). Such a hypothesis was proposed quite early, first by Robert Scott’s claim in 1872 that Jabberwocky was a translation from German. The “original” he published looks as follows: Der Jammerwoch Es brillig war. Die schlichten Toven Wirrten und wimmelten in Waben; Und aller-mümsige Burggoven Die mohmen Räth’ ausgraben.
The similarities between Toven and toves, Waben and wabe, mümsig and mimsy and others are immediately obvious. If we review what has been presented so far, it is clear that the metamorphemes in Carroll’s first Jabberwocky stanza may be interpreted variously. The first interpretation operates with the concept of synchronic deviation—that is, what we ourselves did following the example of Humpty Dumpty. The second interpretation, offered by Carroll himself at an early stage, stresses historical deviation as the underlying explanation. Finally, a third exegesis, originating from a family friend of the real Alice, recurs to the hypothesis of foreign language deviation. (The second and third types of deviation will still occupy us in what follows [see 2.1.2]). All three modes of explanation have in common that they strive to cancel the deviation by back-transformation and to reduce the text to a normal language level. Thus they represent three possible morpho-semantic interpretations of the stanza. We should briefly mention a final point. As mentioned initially, Alice finds the poem “pretty.” We might ask why so many readers, especially so many who would claim to be much more sophisticated in their literary taste than this young fictional girl, agree with her. What are the aesthetic criteria which are undoubtedly real and so impressive that the poem has enjoyed such a rich history of interpretation? One can of course hold the particular nature of the morphemes responsible, but surely not exclusively so. Comparable nonsense words have been coined by others as well (for example, Ogden Nash in “Geddondillo”), but without finding the same degree of resonance. As an explanation for this phenomenon we might point out that Carroll’s meta-
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morphemes form additional equivalences such as semi-consonance (mimsy/mome) and end rhyme (toves/borogoves, wabe/outgrabe), leading to stylistic convergences. In addition, we have a prosodic equivalence in the modified form of the ballad stanza which in England can look back to a long poetic tradition. Finally, the parodistic element plays an important part, as shown by the further course of the poem. All these aspects should be taken into account in a more comprehensive literary analysis of the complete poem.
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Context-bound Deviations
The choice of words of a text takes its cue from the linguistic norm recognised at any time as binding by all members of a language community, irrespective of their social or regional origin. Such norms would be Standard English and Standard German. Adhering to them results in the structured character of the vocabulary in a text. Violating them leads to text-morphological deviations which might on occasion be referred to by a prescriptive grammar variously as “stylistically infelicitous” or even “ungrammatical”, but which would have to be accepted by a deviational stylistics into its framework of argumentation as possible poetic licenses. Essentially, the deviations from the standard language code with which we have to deal are a) b) c) d)
diastratic (layer-specific); diatopic (regional); bi- or multilingual; diachronic (historical).
In cases a), b) and d), activation of possible subcodes takes place. If they are text-dominant, they can manifest themselves poetically in class-specific literature (e.g. courtly poetry, workers’ literature), dialect poetry and historicising poetry. If foreign-language morphemes (c) are incorporated into the text production, so-called macaronic poetry (for example, the heavy mixture of Latin and English verse throughout the Middle English period, Byron’s Maid of Athens, ere we part [1810, in English, with a Greek refrain], Pearsall’s translation of the In dulci jubilo carol [1837, in mixed English-Latin verse]) may be the result. Two further text-morphological forms of deviation, reaching into syntax and semantics, need to be mentioned: grammatical and lexical tropes which respectively derive from morphological conversion and semantic deviation. They will be dealt with in a digression in this chapter (2.1.2.5) and in the chapter on semantic figures (Chapter 4), respectively. 2.1.2.1
Diastratic Deviations
This type of deviation is characterised by two different norms conflicting within the same text: the norm of standard language and the norm of the language of some social stratum, the standard language norm being superordinate because of its general validity, whereas the stratum-specific (diastratic) norm is the subordinate one. Each norm has a specific vocabulary. One poet might write in a sociolect that moves
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rather far away from standard language; another one might just use a few diastratic particularities. A text that shows several sociolects in competition with each other is of special interest. This case is well known to arise several times in Shakespeare’s dramas (for example, Henry V) where the main plot is dominated by the language of court, but the side plot, by the language of the plain people. Sudden crossovers from a high sociolect to a low one can effect an ironic contrast; for instance, in the second part of T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land entitled “A Game of Chess,” in which the mannerist diction of the mythological sphere is confronted by the low language level of the demimonde. Another (pragmatic) cause of irony is present when persons of low standing speak in the vocabulary of a higher class, as do, for instance, the mechanicals in the burlesque of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream or the figures in John Gay’s Beggar’s Opera. Here and elsewhere it is difficult to establish whether the author is indeed copying an existing sociolect or merely giving the impression of one. Whatever the result, however, the fact of a deviation remains. 2.1.2.2
Diatopic Deviations
Standard languages usually originated in a certain part of the language region concerned: Standard Italian in Tuscany; Standard French in the Îsle de France; Standard English in the environment of the LondonOxbridge triangle; Standard German in Electoral Saxony. The dialects of those areas were raised to become the coded norm of a common language, while the remaining dialects, originally on the same cultural footing, deteriorated to subcodes. If now such subcodes undergo literary activation, they acquire the character of the unusual and rare, whether as texts in local idiom as distinct from other literary texts or as dialect inclusions in a general standard-language context. Authors who have become known for their writing in dialect are, in Germany, Johann-Peter Hebel (Alemannische Gedichte), Raimund and Nestroy (Vienna Volkstheater), Fritz Reuter (Low German storytelling) and Franz-Xaver Kroetz (Bavarian folk plays) and, in Britain, Robert Burns (Scottish lyrics) and Thomas Hardy (Wessex Ballads). Shakespeare’s Henry V uses Welsh dialect alongside Standard English; Gerhart Hauptmann’s naturalistic play Die Weber (‘The Weavers’) uses the Silesian dialect alongside the standard language in order to achieve a realistic characterisation of persons. All these examples show that pragmatic aspects play a considerable part in regional linguistic deviation.
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In some translations, diatopic distinctions in the original are ignored. This happens, for instance, in Johann Gottlieb Herder’s rendering of the Scottish folk ballad Edward, Edward, as may be seen from contrasting the very first lines: (35) a) Why does your brand sae drop wi’ blude b) Dein Schwert, wie ist’s vom Blut so rot.
Herder’s translation, almost unanimously praised by critics as a brilliant equivalent of the English ballad, fails to reproduce the distinctive dialectal features of this poem, which for some readers represents a loss in poetic power. Similarly, in translations of Greek tragedies it is often forgotten that the choral songs are cast in the Dorian dialect and thereby differ from the Attic of the dialogues. It is equally impossible to reproduce the Old Ionian dialect of the Homeric epic adequately and to distinguish the New Ionian dialect of the historian Herodotus from the Attic dialect of the historian Thucydides. In such cases and others, one tacitly operates with the assumption of a common linguistic standard that, however, did not exist when the texts were written. A modern effort to do justice to the dialect of a work of literature is shown by the attempts to transcribe the London slang of the flower girl Eliza in the musical My Fair Lady (based on G.B. Shaw’s drama Pygmalion) into the local dialect of the region wherever the play may be staged (e.g., in Berlin, Cologne, or Bavaria). But such a diatopic transfer, however indispensable for dramaturgical reasons, is nevertheless unable to mirror one component of English regional dialects, their reflection of social class; by definition no member of the middle class and upwards in England speaks a regional dialect. This is a sociolinguistic circumstance missing from German dialects. 2.1.2.3
Bilingual or Multilingual Deviations
Foreign language expressions in a text violate the morphology of the language code in which it is written. In a poetic context such “barbarisms” (Lausberg 1998: I: §§ 479–495) are not considered primarily as factors of linguistic obstruction, but rather are subordinate to certain pragmatic functional aims (irony, humour, characterisation): the Latin spoken by the protagonist of Christopher Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus confers dignity and poetical elevation on the scholar; the Latin technical terminology of Molière’s doctors pokes fun at the whole profession. A complex role is played by foreign imports in James Joyce’s
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Finnegans Wake, in which sentences such as the following are not infrequent: (36) a) Eins within a space and a weary wide space it was wohned a Mookse. b) What a zeit for the goths. c) He proved it well whoonearth dry and drysick times, and vremiament, tu cesses, to the extinction of Niklaus altogether . . .
The sprinklings of foreign language expressions consist of bound morphemes (prefixes, suffixes)—e.g. wohned (German root morpheme plus an English preterite suffix)—individual words (zeit) or syntagms (tu cesses). But they might even comprise complete text parts or longer digressions (for example, in Ezra Pound’s Cantos, Riccaut in Lessing’s Minna von Barnhelm). A special case is presented by macaronic poetry, which is composed of foreign language words and suffixes and normally aims at comical effects, such as the following excerpt from an 18th-century wedding song entitled Rhapsodia Versu Heroico-Macaronico ad Brautsuppam in Nuptiis Butschkio-Denickianis praesentata a Scholae Dresdensis Petri Alumno: (37) Lobibus Ehstandum quis non erheberet hochis Himmlorum Sternis glänzentium ad usque Gewölbos? [. . .] Quod superest, Glasum magnum Weinoque gefülltum Rhenano laeti in sponsique suaeque salutem Brautae ausstechamus! De Tischo surgite, Pfeifri! Blasite Trompetas et Kessli schlagite Paukas! (Wackernagel 1873: 376). To those praising matrimony. Who would not lift matrimony with high words of praise up to the firmament shining with bright stars? . . . What remains to be done: let us joyfully empty a large glass filled with Rhine wine in alternating salutations of both the bridegroom and his betrothed bride! Rise from the tables, pipers! Blow the trumpets and beat the kettle drums!
There are numerous sources from the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries which could be added to this quotation. 2.1.2.4
Diachronic Deviations
We have to do with an historical word deviation when a morphological unit no longer forms part of the current morpheme inventory of a language. Another term for this phenomenon is “archaism.” In German, freislich (instead of schrecklich), Mage (instead of Verwandter), sehren (instead of beschädigen), Minne (instead of Liebe), (er) stund (instead of (er) stand), es ward (instead of es wurde) gesagt are considered to
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be archaisms; in English, thou, thee, ye (instead of plural you), certes (instead of surely), sheen (instead of brightness), elf (instead of knight), thou lookest (instead of you look). Archaisms have the pragmatic function of poetically elevating the embedding context. They are therefore regarded as poetic words par excellence, not least because the qualities of being customary, venerable and time-honoured attach to them (Leech 1969: 14). They are especially frequently represented in works that underline the retrospectiveness of the content by means of restorative stylisation, for example, in chronicle-novellas (Theodor Storm’s Renate), historical novels (Gustav Freytag’s Ahnen), translations of classical authors (Rudolph Alexander Schröder’s translations of Virgil) and in nineteenth-century poetry (Clemens Brentano, Alfred Lord Tennyson). Let us illustrate what has been said so far by three examples. Richard Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde, like the composer’s other librettos, is full of pseudo-archaisms. An example would be an excerpt from Isolde’s tale in Act I of the opera: (38) Ich pflag des Wunden,
pflegte den
dass den Heilgesunden rächend schlüge der Mann, erschlüge der Isolden ihm abgewann. Isolde
I nursed the wounded man, that he became healthy the man slayed in revenge him who took Isolde from him
(The current standard German forms are located in the middle column.) In order to archaise the text, Wagner chose the strong verb form (pflag) instead of the weak form (pflegte), the simple word (schlüge) instead of the composite word (erschlüge), the inflected proper name (Isolden) instead of the uninflected name (Isolde), the genitive case instead of the accusative case as attribute (pflegte des Wunden instead of pflegte den Wunden). Percy Bysshe Shelley begins his poem To a Skylark thus: (39) Hail to thee, blithe Spirit! Bird thou never wert, That from Heaven or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
you/gentle you/were pours/your
(As in (38), the standard forms are located to the right of the verse.)
Edmund Spenser is regarded as the prototype of the archaising poet in England. His The Shepheardes Calender (1579) shows such a richness
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of archaic words and word forms that an unidentified “E. K.” was able to assume the role of their commentator. Thus, the beginning of the February eclogue is cast as follows: (40) Ah for pittie, will rancke Winters rage, These bitter blasts neuer ginne tasswage? The kene cold blowes through my beaten hyde, All as I were through the body gryde.
E. K.’s commentary on the last word in the quotation is as follows: “Gride) perced: an olde word much vsed of Lidgate, but not found (that I know of ) in Chaucer.” Thus Spenser deliberately included this archaism in his text merely to call attention to it with his pseudocommentary. Further archaisms in the present excerpt are, for example, the aphaeresis in ginne, the synaloepha tasswage (〈to assuage), the lexeme perce (instead of pierce, ‘commentary’) and the obsolete typeface. The distinction between artificial archaisms (deliberately used) and natural archaisms (arising from the diachronic text progression) is not always an easy one; it requires a study of historical grammar and of the historical vocabulary. The appearance of ever new “natural” archaisms causes texts to gain in poeticity as they become older. From this point of view, the works by Shakespeare, Racine and Goethe are more poetic nowadays than they were at the time they were produced (Klinkenberg 1970). 2.1.2.5
Digression: Deviations of Word-class (Conversion)
It is a typically English linguistic phenomenon that words change from one class to another; it is also known as “conversion” (Marchand 1969: 359 uses the term “zero derivation”). It is furthered enormously by the onset of the decay of inflectional forms that has been taking place since Early Modern English. In this way a multitude of denominal, deverbal and similar conversions has come about that hardly attract any attention in a Modern English text grammar because of their habitualisation (Quirk et al., 1980: 1009–1019). The resulting morphological polyfunctionality or “grammatical homonymy” (Herbert Koziol) is illustrated by words such as like with 6 functions (noun, adjective, adverb [arch.], preposition, conjunction [dialect], verb) and round with 5 functions (noun, adjective, adverb, preposition, verb). If such conversions are to be generative of poeticity, they must not yet be grammaticalised, that is, not yet adopted by everyday language. For instance, the deverbal conversion swim in Let’s go for a swim has already become part
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of the grammatical order. The situation is different for the following examples, all taken from Shakespeare: (41) a) I’ll devil-porter it no further (Macbeth II.iii.17). b) Lov’d me above the measure of a father, Nay, godded me indeed (Coriolanus V.iii.10–11). c) Lord Angelo dukes it well (Measure for Measure III.ii.94).
In all these cases (devil-porter, god and duke) original neologisms have been produced by conversion from the class of nouns to the class of verbs. Similar occurrences, though to a smaller extent, are found in German literature. For example, a few conversions are to be found in August Stramm’s poem Abendgang: (42) a) Durch schmiege Nacht schweigt unser Schritt dahin Die Hände bangen blass um krampfes Grauen. ... Die schlafe Erde armt den nackten Himmel
Through snuggling night our steps move silently. Our pallid hands pale at cramps of horror The sleeping earth hugs the naked sky
In the first three italicised word creations we have adjectives formed by deverbal conversion (schmiege, schlafe) or by denominal conversion (krampfes). The verb form armt derives from a denominal conversion. b) In Walter Höllerer’s Gaspard we find the following lines: Goliardenbrücke—so sage Das Du deiner Stadt Es will dir nicht entgehn Flügelt laternengefangen ...
Goliardian bridge—you must say “you” to your own town It will not escape you Flutters its lantern-lit wings
Here, too, in flügelt we encounter a verb form with its origin in a denominal conversion. c) More extravagant conversions occur from adjective to verb: Und nächtens nackte ich im Glück. (Gottfried Benn, Synthese)
And nights I nuded in joy.
or from finite verb to noun, and from pronoun to verb: Ein Blick Hat
In view of the increasing number of conversions (Barber 1964: 91–94) it is not likely that this source of poeticity will dry up.
TEXT ANALYSIS
E.E. Cummings, “anyone lived in a pretty how town” In: E.E. Cummings, Selected Poems 1923–1958. London: Faber & Faber, 1970, pp. 44–45. 1
anyone lived in a pretty how town (with up so floating many bells down) spring summer autumn winter he sang his didn’t he danced his did
5
Women and men (both little and small) cared for anyone not at all they sowed their isn’t they reaped their same sun moon stars rain
9
children guessed (but only a few and down they forgot as up they grew autumn winter spring summer) that noone loved him more by more
13
when by now and tree by leaf she laughed his joy she cried his grief bird by snow and stir by still anyone’s any was all to her
17
someones married their everyones laughed their cryings and did their dance (sleep wake hope and then) they said their nevers and slept their dream
21
stars rain sun moon (and only the snow can begin to explain how children are apt to forget to remember with up so floating many bells down)
25
one day anyone died i guess (and noone stooped to kiss his face) busy folk buried them side by side little by little and was by was
29
all by all and deep by deep and more by more they dream their sleep noone and anyone earth by April wish by spirit and if by yes
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33 Women and men (both dong and ding) summer autumn winter spring reaped their sowing and went their came sun moon stars rain
This poem is one of the most popular demonstration objects in the canon of a linguistically orientated theory of literature. The reason is that it contains a strikingly large and varied number of linguistic deviations. These have been marked in the text by italics. Here we are dealing with both morphological and syntactic deviations, not all of which will be discussed. Instead, we refer to the following works which analyse either individual items or extensive passages of the poem: Levin (1964), Thorne (1965, 1969), Fowler (1969, 1971: 219–237), Butters (1970), Aarts (1971), Koch (1972), Delas/Filliolet (1973: 80). Among these publications, the most thorough one is that by Koch (1972), which deals with line by line of the poem in minute detail. It thus seems reasonable to add only a few supplementary remarks. But first we will briefly survey the variety of deviations present in the poem, an undertaking aided by the account given by Fowler (1971: 230–231): The presence in the poem of so many lexical items which can be, according to the circumstances, either noun or verb, tends to make more acceptable extravagant shifts of word-class of the type represented by didn’t. But the verb-noun shift is not the only one found among the complements, nor do shifts occur among the complements only. Their same is an unusual version of the same; his joy, his grief and their dream are made complements of verbs which do not normally have complements; their everyones is unusual in its plural inflexion and in the qualification by their; cryings is an unaccustomed plural; nevers involves a shift from adverb to noun; their sleep is provided as a new complement to a verb which has a very limited range of complements (dream a dream, dream that . . .). These unorthodox complements are just one prominent part of a more widespread indeterminacy of word-class encountered throughout the poem. More examples are to be found highlighted in the adverbial phrases “x by y” noted earlier. In some cases “x” and “y” are filled from an unconventional sub-class of nouns: tree by leaf, bird by snow, earth by April, wish by spirit; in the rest there is a more radical unorthodoxy with the selection of the “wrong’ word-class altogether: more by more, stir by still, was by was, all by all, deep by deep, if by yes. There are one or two other peculiarities of word-class: e.g. use of anyone and noone as proper names (in part; there is the possibility of ambivalence every time they occur), how as an adjective.
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This description of the agrammaticalities is by no means complete, but it nevertheless conveys a number of important points of view. The first of these is the realisation that a significant part of the poetic deviations is reducible to a change of word-class. The number of conversions of the conjugated verb is particularly striking: V. 4 V. 7 V. 28 V. 35
he sang his didn’t he danced his did they sowed their isn’t was by was (–) went their came
Other conversions occur, for example, adverb → adjective (V. 1: “in a pretty how town”) or adverb → noun (V. 20: “they said their nevers”). Several of these instances show another deviation: intransitive and semitransitive verbs (sing, dance, go . . .) are used like transitive verbs, for example: (–) went their came (V. 35). Examples such as bird by snow (V. 15) and only the snow can begin to explain (V. 22) show that beside morphological and syntactic rules, semantic rules can be violated as well. Finally, it is a peculiarity of the poem that anyone and noone are used both as indefinite pronouns and—indicated by the contextual anaphorica he and she—as masculine or feminine proper names. This blending of the general with the particular endows the text with an allegorical status, analogous to the Everyman drama. At the same time, it is the source of a subtle irony (vv. 25–26). Moreover, the use of indefinite pronouns is symptomatic for Cummings’ poetic technique of leaving semantically underdetermined whatever topics he is dealing with. This technique is also shown for instance by the insufficient content determination of the “converted” language units: didn’t, did, isn’t, was, how, nevers, if, yes. . . . (By comparison, the cases of semantic overdetermination—metaphors—are rather rare.) The intention thus pursued consists in allowing readers the largest possible scope in their determination of meaning, which also implies the solution of the linguistic deviations. Several resolutions of its deviational structure of the text have been suggested. They all make use of the four basic operations we have so far become acquainted with: addition, subtraction, permutation and substitution. By means of “back-transformations” of this kind a normalised text that is morphologically, syntactically and semantically consistent is then arrived at. Such a normalised text or, in his own
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words, “rearranged” text, is presented by W.A. Koch (1972). Its first strophe runs as follows (1972: 444): Any Anyone lived in a pretty nondescript town (With many bells going up and down) spring summer autumn winter he did his song he did his dance
The italicised parts of the text have each been rearranged, for example, in verse 1 by addition (anyone → any anyone) and substitution (any anyone → Any Anyone), and in verse 4, by permutation (sang didn’t → did his song), subtraction (didn’t → did) and substitution (sang → song). Other possibilities of rearrangement are conceivable here but, as shown by Koch’s experiments, only to a limited extent. A shortened normalised text might then look as follows: Once upon a time there was a man living in a certain place where people went about their ordinary duties in an ordinary way; one woman grew to love him, although few noticed this; she shared his passions; they married; time passed; he died, she died subsequently or consequently, and they were buried together; they were dead, but life went on (Fowler 1971: 222–223).
This prose text has abandoned not only all the violations of grammatical norm but also a second source of poeticity: linguistic recurrence as manifested in metre, strophic structure, rhyme and refrain-like repetitions of words. It is an impressive witness to the aesthetic loss experienced by a poetic text on its way to becoming a normalised text.
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chapter two Figures of Morphological Equivalence (Isomorphemes)
Morphological equivalence implies equality or similarity of two or more morphemes in a text. Put differently, we might say that repetitive word figures are classifiable—like the corresponding phonic figures— according to position, extent, frequency, distribution and similarity. An additional factor that plays a rather peripheral role in phonological equivalence is, of course, semantics. All these aspects will be taken into account below. 2.2.1 Position In a text continuum, words may be repeated at various places. If the repetition lacks differentiation of the textological reference background, then the morphological equivalence relationship is insufficiently structured. Such differentiation can be given when word repetitions occur in certain positions of a sentence sequence, a sentence, or part of a sentence. We have a higher degree of structuring and hence a higher degree of poeticity when prosodic equivalence and morphological equivalence converge, that is, when word repetitions are localised in verse positions that are identifiable in greater detail. In the following outline, the possibilities resulting in such cases are described for a twodigit morphological equivalence relationship. The underlying prosodic unit of measure will first be a single verse, then two verses. 1. Word repetition in one verse (monostichon) If the unit of a single verse is assumed to be the reference frame for a word repetition, two fundamental possibilities emerge: repetition in contact and repetition at a distance (Lausberg 1998: §§ 608–664). In the former case, the repeating terms follow each other immediately: M1M2; in the second case, a variable text-length T is interpolated in between M1 and M2, interrupting the sequence of morphological equivalences: M1TM2 or M1–M2. Direct contact, or contiguity, of the repeat terms is called geminatio (epizeuxis) in classical rhetoric. A schematic arrangement of the contiguity types looks as follows: (43) a) M M ________ Geminatio in front position Example: William Blake, The Tiger: Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night.
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b) _____ M M _____ Geminatio in middle position Example: Friedrich Nietzsche, Um Mitternacht Doch alle Lust will Ewigkeit—, But all desire craves eternity— —will tiefe, tiefe Ewigkeit! Craves deep, deep eternity! c) _________ M M Geminatio in end position Example: William Shakespeare, Cymbeline II.ii.51 (Clock strikes). One, two, three: time, time!
On the other hand, distance types lead to the following systematics: (44) a) M _____ M _____ Example: Wilfrid Scawen Blunt, The Desolate City Dark to me is the earth. Dark to me are the heavens. b) _____ M _____ M Example: Robert Herrick, To Anthea Bid me to live, and I will live Thy Protestant to be. c) M ________M Example: Sir Philip Sidney, Astrophel and Stella, 63 Sing then, my Muse, now Io Paean sing. d) ____
M ____
M ____
Example: William Butler Yeats, The Lake Isle of Innisfree I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree.
Classical terminology exists only for part of these repetition structures. Thus, the pattern of c) is known as kyklos. For the other patterns new technical terms have to be found. 2. Word repetition in two verses (distichon) The following repeat patterns can arise in a two-liner: (45) a) M __________ M __________ Example: Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Love She wept with pity and delight, She blush’d with love and virgin shame.
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M ____________
Example: Sir Philip Sidney, Astrophel and Stella, 104 Ah, is it not enough that I am thence, Thence, so far thence, that scantly any spark Of comfort dare come to this dungeon dark . . . e) ______ ______
M M
______ ______
Example: William Blake, Songs of Innocence, Introduction Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe; Sing thy songs of happy cheer. f ) M __________ _____ M _____ Example: Anonymous, Love will find out the Way Over the mountains And over the waves, Under the fountains And under the graves. g) _______ _____ M
M ______
Example: Edgar Allan Poe, The City in the Sea There shrines and palaces and towers (Time-eaten towers that tremble not!) Resemble nothing that is ours.
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h) _____ M _____ __________ M Example: William Butler Yeats, Aedh wishes for the Cloths of Heaven I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams. i) _____ M ________ M _________ Example: Anne Bradstreet, Upon the Burning of our House, July 10th, 1666 And, when I could no longer look, I blest his Name that gave and took.
For these types of word equivalence, too, adequate names in classical rhetoric do not always exist. What is clear is that type (a) corresponds to anaphora, type (b) to epiphora, and type (d) to anadiplosis. However, we have to ask ourselves whether, for instance, types (c), (f ) and (i) could still fall under the category of anaphora or whether one should not, for the sake of precision, adopt new terminology. Greater exactness than in the preceding description can be attained, for example, by also taking into account the relationship of any particular word repetition to the relevant accent and pause figures as well as to the embedded syntactic structure. However, that would require too complex a taxonomy to be carried out here. 2.2.2 Extent The size of the repeated morphological unit may vary. It ranges from a monosyllable to a polysyllabic composite. More extensive morphemes bring out the momentum of linguistic repetition to better advantage than shorter ones. But the latter, too, are capable of attracting strong attention, especially when they occur in larger numbers or in a syntactically exposed position (e.g. at the beginning or end of a syntagma), or if—in a verse—they team up with an accent figure. The equivalence of larger units, such as prepositional expressions, will already touch on the realm of syntax.
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Frequency
In order to comply with the principle of equivalence, a word has to be repeated at least once. At the most a word could be repeated ad infinitum. With every additional recurrence the textological distribution of the individual word becomes more complicated. At the same time, the information flow in the text is retarded. This can be seen in the following examples: (46) a) Singt leise, leise, leise. (Clemens Brentano, Wiegenlied) b) And when I have stol’n upon these son-in-laws, Then kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill! (William Shakespeare, King Lear IV.vi.186–187) (47) Weg Welt! Weg Erden! Nichtige Phantasie! Weg Stand! Weg Ehre, flüchtiger itzt als ie! Weg, was mein Geist zuvor geliebet! Weg, was mein schlechtes Herz betrübet!
Away world! Away earth! Vain phantasy! Away high rank! Away honour, more volatile than ever! Away what my spirit loved before! Away what saddens my simple heart!
(Andreas Gryphius, Manet unica virtus, str. 7)
In (46) a) and b) we have contiguity types; in (47), we find “repetition at a distance.” Each time, the pragmatic function of the word repetition insists on the basic semantic information. Within the spectrum of effects, numerous shades are possible. They range from the harshness of agitation to a soothing monotony. 2.2.4
Distribution
An enquiry into the distribution of the morphological equivalences entails questions regarding position, extent, frequency and the similarity of word repetitions. A synopsis of these viewpoints provides information about the form of the morphological repetition pattern of a given text. Of course, we cannot list all the conceivable patterns, and we here limit ourselves to three types of distribution to which classical rhetoric has already paid particular attention. They are known by the terms of gradatio (klimax), symploke (complexio), and antimetabole. Gradatio results from successively applying anadiplosis:
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/ ____ M1 / M1 _____ M2 / M2 _____; by way of illustration we quote from Richard Wagner’s opera Siegfried: (48) Mein Schlaf ist Träumen, mein Träumen Sinnen, mein Sinnen Walten des Wissens.
My sleep is dreaming, my dreaming musing, my musing rules my knowledge.
(Richard Wagner, Siegfried)
On the other hand, symploke represents a combination of anaphora and epiphora (45 a + 45 b): (49) Ich schenke Blumen. Ich streue Blumensamen aus. Ich pflanze Blumen. Ich sammle Blumen. Ich pflücke Blumen. Ich pflücke verschiedene Blumen.
I give flowers as presents. I scatter flower seeds. I plant flowers. I gather flowers. I pick flowers. I pick various flowers.
This excerpt from Hans Magnus Enzensberger’s Das Blumenfest (‘Feast of Flowers’) is notable not only for the specific location and high frequency of its repeated segments but also because of their varying distance (see the additional insertion of verschiedene in v. 6) and difference in similarity (total: Blumen; partial: Blumensamen). Antimetabole signifies the repetition of two words in inverse (chiastic) order. Shakespeare’s Macbeth (I.i.11) offers a famous example: (50) Fair is foul, and foul is fair.
Beside the morphological and syntactic equivalence in this example, semantic deviation (oxymoron) also plays a decisive role. 2.2.5 Similarity While almost all the examples quoted so far tacitly displayed total morphological equivalence (= morphological identity), it is also quite conceivable that equality of the repetition segments should only be partially realised. This possibility arises in the various types of wordplay. The most important ones will now be discussed. 2.2.5.1
Polyptoton
A polyptoton (traductio) is a case of inflective change in a repetition. The nominal polyptoton includes mainly case alterations, “but also the gender and number alterations, as well as the adverbial formation
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of adjectives and pronoun stems” (Lausberg 1998: § 640). The verbal polyptoton concerns the conjugation forms of active and passive, the various tenses, singular and plural, and participle formation. In principle, the rule applying to the polyptoton is that it must fulfill all the criteria identified so far for word figures. Let us illustrate it by means of two examples. (51) In Nietzsche’s Um Mitternacht we find a nominal polyptoton: Die Welt ist tief, Und tiefer, als der Tag gedacht.
The world is deep, And deeper than the day had thought. (Equivalence: partial [adjectival comparison]; spacing: distance; position: /_____ M / _____ M _____/; frequency: 2)
(52) Two verbal polyptota occur in Shelley’s To a Skylark: And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. (Equivalence: partial—1) present participle / 2nd person sing. pres. (arch.), 2) infinitive / present participle; spacing: distance; position: / ___ M1 ___ M2 / ___ M2 ___ M1 /; distribution: antimetabole; frequency: 2 × 2)
2.2.5.2
Paronymy
Paronymy represents a derivational change in a repetition in which derivational affixes determine the change in the repeated word-segment that thus belongs to a different word-class. The best known is the so-called figura etymologica, that is, the coupling of a (usually intransitive) verb and a noun derived from the same root (to sing a song, ein Leben leben). Another possibility of derivational equivalence exists in the combination of equal-root adjective and noun (most beautiful beauty/schönste Schönheit). Conversions of the types But me no buts! (de-adverbial conversion) and Father me no fathers! (denominal conversion) also belong here. Polyptoton and paronymy are combined in the following sonnet (no. 129) by Shakespeare who incidentally makes frequent use of both these word-figures of partial equivalence: (53) Th’expense of spirit in a waste of shame Is lust in action . . . ... Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme, A bliss in proof, and prov’d, a very woe.
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The text segment quoted shows the following equivalence figures: a) Verbal polyptoton: had, having, have; equivalence: partial; spacing: contiguity, distance; position: / M M ___ M ___ /; frequency: 3; extent: 2 monosyllables, 1 polysyllabic segment. b) Paronymy: proof, proved; equivalence: partial; spacing: distance; position: / ___ M ___ M ___ /; frequency: 2; extent: monosyllables.
The extraordinary frequency of the polyptotic/paronymic repetition figures (five within only two verses) is proof of the high artificiality of the language. It expresses itself in an ongoing metamorphosis of the word, manifested in a play with inflectional forms and etymologies. Its functional intention is variatio delectat. 2.2.5.3
The Ambiguity of Wordplay
The identity of a word-repetition can be disturbed not only by morphological deviations. The reason is that any word has phonological, graphemic and semantic aspects. If one or more of these aspects change and the others remain constant, then the morphological equivalence contains a wordplay. If we designate word aspects that remain the same by the prefix homo- (or iso-), and those that are altered by the prefix hetero-, then we obtain the following possibilities: (54) a) homo-phonic
Stein [∫tain]/[stain] Donne [dɔn]/[dʌn] bon [bɔ͂/[bɔŋ]
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The structural patterns of (c) and (d) are also known by the names synonym and homonym or polyseme (Ullmann 1968). Whereas (f ) is relatively irrelevant, (c) and (e) belong to the realm of semantic and graphemic figures, respectively. In cases (a), (b) and (d) we speak of homophonic (isophonic), homographic (isographic) and homonymous or polysemic wordplay; here we have to do with repetition-forms with different meaning in each case. As a result these plays on words display different kinds of ambiguity. The context in which equivalent word-forms are embedded performs a signal function. The description that follows is devoted to an explication of this and other significant types of wordplay. First the following distinction is necessary. So far, when wordplay and ambiguity were mentioned, we were referring to the repetition of equivalent words. This means that the wordplay finds its realisation in the sequence of the textual succession. An example would be Antony’s lament over Caesar in Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar (III.i.207–208): (55) O World! thou wast the Forrest to this Hart, And this indeed, O World, the Hart of thee,
where the first Hart is the male deer, while the second is “heart”—in the Folio edition here quoted this is an homonymous wordplay but in modern editions, with the printed rendition hart/heart, a homophonic wordplay. Along with this successive equivalence a simultaneous equivalence appears in the following example, the words of mortally wounded Mercutio in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet: (56) Ask for me to-morrow, and you shall find me a grave man. (III.i.97–98),
where grave has two meanings: 1) solemn, 2) in, or ready for, a grave, which are inferable from the textual and situational context. While in the first example two different contexts activate two different meanings of hart, here the polysemy of a single context achieves the same effect. The one wordplay is syntagmatic, the other, paradigmatic. The latter could also be called a tropic wordplay, since it implies a semantic substitution. 2.2.5.3.1 Homophonic Wordplay Homophonic plays on words are abundant in English literature. That is because due to its historical development English has acquired many words that sound the same. Walter Fischer’s book Englische Homophone (Munich 1961) lists more than a thousand, without even taking
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into account word groups such as taught us/tortoise, or they’re sent/ they assent. A few instances are earnest/Ernest; [dai] die/dye; [ɔ:] awe, oar, or, ore, o’er; [ti:z] teas, tease, tees, Tees, t’s. These last examples demonstrate that highly frequent homophonic words permit of a broad range of wordplays of the kind described. (57) In Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar a shoemaker replies to the people’s tribune Marullus, when asked about his trade: A trade, sir, that I hope, I may use with a safe conscience, which is indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles. (I.i.13–14)
The word [soulz] means either soles or souls; the latter meaning is suggested by the first part of the sentence (safe conscience). The paraphrase mender of bad soles for “shoemaker” has as its only function the creation of wordplay. That is confirmed by the subsequent text which contains a number of further plays on words. The example of soles/souls belongs to the group of paradigmatic wordplay. 2.2.5.3.2 Polysemic and Homonymic Wordplay A homonymic wordplay is created when the meanings of two words diverge while phonetics and spelling remain the same. This kind of wordplay has to be distinguished from a polysemic wordplay. Polysemy means—in contrast to homonymy—that a single word has two or more meanings that have at least one semantic feature in common. However, the difference is mainly one of perspective: “Homonymy is said to occur when the speaker is not aware of any connection between the meanings; polysemy, when the speaker can recognise such a connection” (Bergmann 1977: 35–36). Of the two types of wordplay, the homonymic offers the more interesting aesthetic aspects because of its stronger semantic deviation. A polysemous play on words is contained in Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar (I.i.17) in the shoemaker’s reply when he is asked by the people’s tribune about his trade: (58) I can mend you,
where mend carries the meanings 1) “repair” and 2) “improve” (morally). Since Marullus recognises only the second meaning, he regards the reply as insulting: “What mean’st thou by that? Mend me, thou saucy fellow!” (I.i.18) The name of the common potential of semantic features in this case is to repair damage. The key differentiators are the two respective properties (+physical) and (+psychological).
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The rhyming couplet of Shakespeare’s Sonnet 138 contains a homonymous wordplay on lie (rest) and lie (speak untruth): (59) Therefore I lie with her, and she with me, And in our faults by lies we flattered be.
These are lexical representatives of polysemic and homonymic wordplay. Leech (1969: 206–207) goes beyond this and distinguishes a grammatical variant of either type of wordplay. Thus, he quotes as a sample of a grammatical homonymy: (60) moving gates = 1. attributive participle + nominal construction (= gates which move) = 2. participle + object construction (= causing gates to move)
Presumably, the grammatical variant is less frequent than the lexical variant—in spite of the fact that generative grammar subsisted for years on examples of the type “visiting relatives can be boring.” 2.2.5.3.3 Homoeophonic Wordplay (Paronomasia) Both homophonic and homonymic wordplay presuppose the phonetic (sometimes even graphical) identity of words while they are semantically different. In the wordplay known as “paronomasia” (pun, annominatio) phonological equality is only partial, so that the term “homoeophonic wordplay” appears to be appropriate. Phonological identity is reduced by the categories of change: addition, subtraction, permutation and substitution. The phonetic similarity of the repeating segments creates a pseudo-etymological relationship which is refuted by the semantic discrepancy. Let us consider two examples. (61) The first example is from Kleist’s Der zerbrochene Krug (‘The Broken Mug’) where the magistrate, Adam, says: Ja, seht. Zum Straucheln brauchts doch nichts als Füße. Auf diesem glatten Boden, ist ein Strauch hier? Gestrauchelt bin ich hier; denn jeder trägt Den leidgen Stein zum Anstoß in sich selbst.
Well, look. To stumble, one needs only feet. On this slippery floor, is a shrub [stumbling block] here? Stumbled, here I did; for everyone has the wretched bone of discord [stumbling block] in himself.
Here, we have not only a paronomasia (straucheln/Strauch) but also a polyptoton (straucheln/gestrauchelt).
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(62) The second example comes from Shakespeare’s Henry IV Part I (I.ii.57–58): . . . were it not here apparent that thou art heir apparent . . .,
where the pun of here and heir represents the paronomasia. Because of its manifold combinatorial possibilities, the paronomasia is one of the most popular types of wordplay. 2.2.5.3.4 Homoeographic Word Play (Eye Rhyme) Eye rhyme implies graphemic similarity with phonetic and semantic divergence: for example, done/gone, watch/catch, misery/eye and move/ love. As a poetic example, three verses from John Masefield’s The Passing Strange will illustrate the type: (63) Fashion an altar for a rood, Defile a continent with blood, And watch a brother starve for food.
[ru:d] [blʌd] [fu:d]
In the second line, although we have a homoeographic equivalence of “blood” with “rood” and “food” there is also a heterophony of [blʌd] against [ru:d] and [fu:d], to which is added a heterosemy. Whereas here the secondary deviation may be caused by a functional moment, such a motivation is absent in the end couplet of Shakespeare’s wellknown Sonnet 116: (64) If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
Here we have good reason to assume that the optical rhyme was originally also an acoustic one. The cause for the phonemic difference today lies in the historical development of English, so that one quite justifiably speaks of a “historic rhyme.” As it does elsewhere, language diachrony offers the possibility of additional aesthetic text structuring. Let this end our consideration of the phenomenon of wordplay. Completeness, in any event, was not the goal but rather textual relevance. For more on this topic, see J. Brown (1956), William Empson (1961 [11930]), F.J. Hausmann (1974), L.G. Heller (1974), W. Redfern (1984), Jonathan Culler (1988) and W.G. Müller (1996). All of them take initial steps towards a typology of the wordplay.
TEXT ANALYSIS
George Herbert, “A Wreath” In: George Herbert, The Works, ed. F.E. Hutchinson. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1964, p. 185. Among the texts in world literature that most artfully make use of the technique of morphological equivalence is George Herbert’s poem “A Wreath.” In the following version the words in italics have relevance for the discussion that follows: 1 A Wreathed garland of deserved praise, 2 Of praise deserved, unto thee I give, 3 I give to thee, who knowest all my wayes, 4 My crooked winding wayes, wherein I live, 5 Wherein I die, not live: for life is straight, 6 Straight as a line, and ever tends to thee, 7 To thee, who art more farre above deceit, 8 Then deceit seems above simplicitie. 9 Give me simplicitie, that I may live, 10 So live and like, that I may know, thy wayes, 11 Know them and practise them: then shall I give 12 For this poor wreath, give thee a crown of praise.
A first glance at the poem reveals that the end of each verse line is very similar to the beginning of the next one. This similarity is called anadiplosis, and as a recurrent structural tool for a text it is called climax or gradatio in classical terminology. The function of this rhetorical figure in the present poem appears to be unambiguous, to reproduce in verse form the intertwinings of a garland. Semiotically speaking we have here a semantic (depicting) function of this repeating figure. The structure of the morphological equivalence needs to be brought out more precisely. The best approach will be to proceed line by line. Verse 1b/2a contains a complex repetition: (A) (A’)
of of
(B) (C’)
deserved praise
(C) (B’)
praise deserved
The extent of the repetition is rather large; it comprises three words: A, B, C. Of these, deserved and praise are arranged chiastically: B—C /
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C’—B’. A remarkable feature is the syntactic permutation occurring in 2a (praise deserved): postposition of the attribute. The cross-position has the overall semantic function of mirroring the garland-like intertwining. Verse 2b/3a contains an even more extensive (four-part) repetition: (A) (C’)
unto I
(B) (D’)
thee give
(C) (A’)
I to
(D) (B’)
give thee.
Here the distribution is also such that a chiasmus arises: (AB)—(CD) / (C’D’)—(A’B’). Here, too, there is a syntactic permutation but, in contrast to verse 1b/2a, occurring in the first repeating segment (2b: unto thee I give), so that verse 2 contains altogether two syntactic permutations. It should also be noted that the preposition in 2b is unto, but in 3a we find to. The equivalence here is therefore not total but partial; we have a (secondary) subtraction: unto→to. Verse 3b/4a contains a repetition of two words: (A) my (B) wayes (A’) my / crooked winding / (B’) wayes,
where the second repeating segment is broken up by an insertion of the words / crooked winding /. Semiosemantically, this faulty equivalence can be motivated with the content of the unlawful (“crooked”) action. Verse 4b/5a contains a three-digit repetition: (A) wherein (B) I (C) live (A’) wherein (B’) I/die, not/(C’) live.
Once again, there is an insertion in the second part of the repetition of linguistic units, destroying the exact symmetry of the syntax. This insertion consists in a correctio, that is, a correction of the contents, performed in the form of an antonymy (die/live). Verse 5b/6a contains the following equivalence: (A) straight (A’) straight.
This anadiplosis marks a break in the repetition sequence. While verses 1b through 5a are characterised by complex equivalence patterns, the remaining ones are relatively simpler:
The simplicity of the word figures here originates from the fact that almost all of them comprise a single word, show total equivalence (identity) and almost always occur in the same verse position (Type: 45 g). The semantic justification for this striking change lies in the expression straight forming the anadiplosis 5b/6a. Before that, the confused life of the speaker was described; from this turning point onwards, approximately at the centre of the poem, the straight path and the simple life are being talked of: he wants to strive for positive goals. Thus it is no accident that in the first part of “A Wreath” we find syntactic permutations and partial equivalences, that is, primary and secondary deviations. The primary deviation mirrors the psychological one. This claim is confirmed by the first three lines of the poem showing a great syntactic inversion. The normal form would have been: “I give a wreathed garland of deserved praise unto thee, who knowest all my wayes.” This kind of style no longer occurs in the subsequent text. We have shown that the gradatio is not just an imitation of an intertwined wreath. Rather, it is also a symbol (an emblem) of the path of a soul striving to find God. Both—poor wreath and crown of praise—are inseparably connected in this poem. The author himself refers to this connection, by bringing in wreath and praise both in the first and in the last line. Moreover, verses 1 and 12 (praise), 2 and 11 ( give), 3 and 10 (wayes), 4 and 9 (live) each form identical equivalences at their ends, which correspond to each other at-a-distance. Thus the circle of the wreath is closed in several ways.
CHAPTER THREE
SYNTACTIC FIGURES
Syntactic figures are based on the sentence as the underlying linguistic deviational unit. The sentence as a grammatical norm represents a combination of morphological constituents (noun, verb and so on) which are linked together functionally (for example, as subject, predicate or any of their subunits) in accordance with certain distributive rules. An aesthetics of syntax therefore also has morphological and, in addition, semantic aspects which, of course, have always to be considered in the light of their syntactic functions. Often enough the literariness of texts results from the artistic cooperation between, or the contrast in, syntax, morphology, and semantics. The possibilities arising here have only been discovered, quite likely only in part, by the willingness of twentieth-century authors to experiment. This willingness coincides with a refinement of grammatical thinking in the field of syntax introduced by structuralism (for example, C.C. Fries) and finally reached its peak with Noam Chomsky and his school. In the following discussion we shall, therefore, make use of the technical terminology of transformational grammar whenever applicable.
3.1
Figures of Syntactic Deviation (Metataxemes)
Sentence figures belonging to this class owe their existence to the transformational operations of addition, deletion, rearrangement and replacement of syntactic components. M.D. Kuznec and J.M. Skrebnev (1968: 76) have emphasised these various operations when they distinguish between absence, excess, unusual arrangement, and interaction of syntactic components. Their work permits us to postulate a basic norm for possible aesthetic deviations, namely the sequence subject (S)—predicate (P)—object (O). It can also be expressed in terms of the categorical symbols NP1 (= nominal phrase) + VP (verbal phrase) + NP2 (nominal phrase). If NP2 is a direct object, the verb has to be characterised further as transitive: Vtr (for example, “The hunter is stalking a deer.”) If the verb has the feature (+alive), then the same property
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has to be ascribed to the subject noun. In the last two examples, rules of strict and selective subcategorisation were illustrated (Bechert et al. 1974: 82–89). Just as in the categorical rules, they guarantee adherence to the syntactic norm. Among these we also have to include rules regarding the arrangement of the clause components; for instance, for a declarative sentence they provide the sequence NP1 + VP + NP2, but for an interrogative sentence, VP + NP1 + NP2 (for example, “Is the hunter stalking a deer?”). These are some of the aspects that have to be taken into account in a discussion of the syntactic deviations. 3.1.1 Addition A sentence can be amplified by the insertion of another sentence or clause into it. The syntactic insertion can be made in various places. Its classical name is parenthesis. If we call the parenthesis “X” and if the insertion basis “S” consists of the sequence NP1 + VP + NP2, then the following possibilities are imaginable: NP1 + X + VP + NP2 and NP1 + VP + X + NP2. The deviation achieved is stronger if the subject consisting of article (Art) and noun (N1) is separated: Art + X + N1; it is weaker if the adverb initiating the sentence (Adv) is separated from the remaining sentence by the same insertion X: Adv + X + NP1 + VP + NP2. Similarly, different degrees of agrammaticality are achieved if the insertion takes place between adjective and noun, participle and main clause, independent clause and subordinate clause, respectively. This diversity depends upon the differentiated hierarchy formed by the syntactic functions. On the other hand, the degree of deviation is measured not only by the type of suspension of grammatical functionality, but also by the nature and length of the insertion. The insertion may be short or it may be so extended that it displaces the original sentence structure, which then assumes an elliptical form. Conversely, the insertion itself may be elliptical, so that there results a broad spectrum of syntactic insertion variants. From the semantic point of view, the inserted sentence may have either numerous, few, or, indeed, no points of contact with the embedding sentence. The smaller the number of common semantic features, the stronger the deviation of content and the weaker the coherence of the two sentences. Text pragmatics offers another perspective. It interprets a parenthesis as a possibility of establishing a second level of communication that can be used by the speaker with an expressive, reflective, persuasive, or commentarial intention (see Kuznec/Skrebnev
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1968: 91–92). In this way the communication differential between the first and second communication levels becomes what is normally called tension. No small contribution to this is made by the “information jam” in the embedding sentence, caused by the parenthesis. Let us analyse two illustrative texts: (65) When Gregor was already sticking out of the bed more than halfway—the new method was more play than effort; all he had to do was rock backwards and forwards intermittently [P1]—it suddenly struck him how simple everything would be if somebody came to help him. Two strong people—he was thinking of his father and the servant girl [P2]—would have been quite enough. . . . (Franz Kafka, “The Metamorphosis”)
This excerpt has two parentheses; the first, P1, separates a temporal subordinate clause from the main clause and the second, P2, a nounsubject phrase from the predicate belonging to it. P1, consisting of two independent clauses, is more extensive than P2, which consists of just one, but both are semantically linked to their respective preceding texts: in P1, he is a pronominal substitute for Gregor while the new method refers to the macrocontext; in P2, he replaces the proper name Gregor, and father and the servant girl is a variation of the noun-phrase two strong people. Both parentheses represent breaks in the continuity of the main text. As “paratext” each of them produces a tension in the recipient that is only resolved by the syntactic completion of the embedding sentence. From the narrator’s point of view, both P1 and P2 form augmenting comments which amplify the main text by making it concrete. (66) He never knew what people thought. It became more and more difficult for him to concentrate. He became absorbed; he became busied with his own concerns; now surly, now gay; dependent on women, absent-minded, moody, less and less able (so he thought as he shaved [P1]) to understand why Clarissa couldn’t simply find them a lodging and be nice to Daisy; introduce her. And then he could just—just do what? just haunt and hover (he was at the moment actually engaged in sorting out various keys, papers [P2]), swoop and taste, be alone, in short, sufficient to himself; and yet nobody of course was more dependent upon others (he buttoned his waistcoat [P3]); it had been his undoing. (Virginia Woolf, Mrs Dalloway)
In this excerpt from a novel we have three parentheses; each originally enclosed in curved brackets in the novel and here, in addition, labelled P1, P2, and P3 in square brackets. Let us call them P1, P2, P3, in order.
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Each consists of a single independent clause, and their insertion occurs respectively at syntactic synapses: for P1, as a separation of the components of an adjective+infinitive construction; for P2, as a separation of equivalent syntagms; and for P3, at the boundary between two independent clauses. Thus in proceeding from P1 to P3, the syntactic deviation becomes increasingly reduced. Each parenthesis is connected to the embedding context by the pronoun-subject he as substitute for the proper name, Peter Walsh. The parenthesis looks different from a pragmasemantic point of view. This latter perspective explains the expression so he thought (P1) as a metacommunicative indicator of the fact that the parentheses describe a real action (getting dressed in the morning) communicated by an auctorial narrator while the surrounding text reproduces Peter Walsh’s “stream of consciousness.” Thus the actual function of this threefold recurrent syntactic deviation of the parenthesis is fulfilled in the double communicative perspective of the personal and the auctorial narrative situation. 3.1.2 Subtraction Subtraction, which comes in two variants, describes the shortening of a sentence in breach of the grammatical norm by eliminating one or more syntactically required components. The first variant, zeugma, affects the combinatorics of the sentence, whereas the second, ellipsis, does not. 3.1.2.1
Ellipsis
If in the sentence The man hits the dog the definite articles are eliminated, the result is an ellipsis. The deletive transformation can be represented as follows: (67) S (Art + N) + P (Vtr) + O (Art + N)→ The man hits the dog→
S (N) + P (Vtr) + O(N) man hits dog
Such an ellipsis is context-free, that is, it can be completed by the syntactic context (here: on the basis of the word order). A similar situation arises in Goethe’s poem “An den Mond” (‘To the Moon’): (68) Füllest wieder Busch und Tal Still mit Nebelglanz, Lösest endlich auch einmal Meine Seele ganz.
Once more you fill bush and dale With still shining fog Once more you again release My soul entirely
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where the personal pronoun du (you) acting as subject has to be inferred from the title of the poem and the verb inflections. However, difficulties arise in a language like English with its “morphological poverty” (inflections have fallen away in the course of history), where there the likelihood of arriving at misunderstandings is more pronounced. This is shown by the well known example of C.C. Fries (1967: 62): (69) Ship sails today,
which allows two completion transformations: (70) a) The ship sails today. b) Ship the sails today.
(70) a) is a declarative utterance, (70) b) an imperative. To resolve such an ambiguity, a textual context (for example, a newspaper article) or a situative context (for example, a commercial scene in an office) is required. As a result, the transitions from context-free to contextsensitive ellipsis are often rather fluid. A co-textual ellipsis thus exists when an element essential for understanding has been deleted from a syntactic construction and has to be provided from the surrounding speech context. It is, therefore, only localisable within a context grammar (Gunter 1963: 140) or a “context theory” (Isačenko 1965: 163). If in the sample sentence The man beats the dog the sequence SPO is the basis, then the following textdependent ellipses can be derived: (71) a) when deleting one essential element of the sentence: 1 SPO → SP The man beats (the dog) 2 SPO → SO The man (beats) the dog 3 SPO → PO (The man) beats the dog b) when deleting two essential elements of the sentence: 1 SPO → S The man (beats the dog) 2 SPO → P (The man) beats (the dog) 3 SPO → O (The man beats) the dog.
Without context, these sentence fragments are ungrammatical because they lack one or two essential grammatical functions, which can only be restored if the preceding text supplies the possibilities for completion. A favourite case is the question to which an ellipsis follows as an answer. Applied to the current example, such answers might be: (72) a) What does the man do? Answer: Beats the dog b) Who beats whom? Answer: The man the dog c) What does the man do with the dog? Answer: Beats.
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Other preceding sentences could have taken over the task of explaining the ellipsis. A third form of syntactic deletion exists in the form of the situative ellipsis, which consists of a fragmentary sentence that requires completion from the situational context. Gunter (1963: 141) who draws upon texts from traffic signs and the like, quotes the following examples and adds the corresponding explications of the relevant situations: (73) a) No outlet (a road sign) b) No credit (a shop sign) c) No waiting (a shop sign)
There is no outlet from this street. We don’t give credit. You don’t have to wait here.
One-sentence texts of this kind are subject to pragmatic definitions, those that add a situational element to the semantic definition. They refer to a habitualised sender-addressee relationship in the communicative situation concerned. Fundamentally, it is text pragmatics that decides upon the aesthetic quality of an ellipsis. Whatever the judgement may be in any individual case, ellipsis in each of its three forms leads to a reduction of textual redundancy or, put positively, to linguistic economy. The linguistic message is reduced to its essential information content. Stylistic ellipsis appears wherever brevitas is the supreme aesthetic principle. If we regard the text as a whole, an ellipsis may be the cause of a fragmentation also known as “telegram style.” Kuznec/Skrebnev’s category of “nominative sentences” (1968: 80–81) is a case in point: (74) London. Michaelmas Term lately over, and the Lord Chancellor sitting in Lincoln’s Inn Hall. Implacable November weather. (Charles Dickens)
The example, which we can call an elliptic nominal style, demonstrates the extreme reduction of the verb in predicate function. Conversely, there is an elliptic verbal style which does away with the subject function (partly also with the object function). Both styles call upon the reader to fill in such gaps and thereby to grammaticalise this syntactic form of deviation. As an example, consider the title of Hans Magnus Enzensberger’s poem, (75) Ein letzter Beitrag zu der Frage ob Literatur? (‘A final contribution to the question whether literature?’),
where the subsequent text permits various ways of completing the elliptic indirect interrogatory sentence, such as
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(76) a) whether literature (demands conformists); b) whether literature (is worth the trouble of a critical author); c) whether literature (is supposed to reflect our own time), etc.
The recipient’s creativity here results in a variety of possible meanings. Or, viewed differently, Enzensberger’s ellipsis is textualised in a polyfunctional manner. This polyfunctionality—intended and controlled ambiguity—is the basis of its literariness. The following text sample is taken from the Nestor episode in James Joyce’s Ulysses: (77) —I don’t mince words, do I? Mr. Deasy asked as Stephen read on. Foot and mouth disease. Known as Koch’s preparation. Serum and virus. Percentage of salted horses. Rinderpest. Emperor’s horses at Mürzsteg, lower Austria. Veterinary surgeons. Mr. Henry Blackwood Price. Courteous offer a fair trial. Dictates of common sense. Allimportant question. In every sense of the word take the bull by the horns. Thanking you for the hospitality of your columns. —I want that to be printed and read, Mr. Deasy said. . . .
The text excerpt describes the act of reading a letter (Letter to the Editor). The act of fragmentary understanding of the contents is illustrated by an elliptic reproduction of the text. It consists almost exclusively of nouns that are given cohesion by the unity of the topic, and it is almost impossible to complete the individual fragments of sentences from the co-textual elements alone. In fact, this was probably not the author’s intention. More significant is the pragmasemantic function of the nominal style thus attained, which contains not only a portrayal of the perception process when recording the language segments, but also an imitation and parody of the properties of a newspaper headline. This surmise is confirmed by various investigations⎯for example, by H. Straumann (1935), B. Sandig (1971), H. Maurer (1972) and J. Dubois et al. (1974: 144–151). 3.1.2.2
Zeugma
Zeugma occurs when, as a result of the deletion of relevant syntactic units, the remaining elements of the sentence are combined in a grammatically deviant manner and are thus “short-circuited.” In such a case the resulting deviation affects not only the construction of the sentence in the stricter sense but also its morphological and semantic aspects. We therefore have to distinguish the variants of purely syntactic, morphosyntactic and semantosyntactic zeugma. In addition, depending on
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whether the zeugma occurs at the beginning, in the middle or at the end of the sentence, a further distinction is made between prozeugma, mesozeugma and hypozeugma, respectively. Syntactic zeugma (in the stricter sense) can be illustrated by the so-called apo koinu-construction, which involves the loss of a relative pronoun while simultaneously a phrase belonging to both clauses occupies an intermediate position and thus fulfils a syntactic double function (such as that of subject and object, in the case of a noun). Two examples will illustrate this phenomenon: (78) a) Gedicht für die [, welche] Gedichte nicht lesen (H.M. Enzensberger, title of a poem); b) A daring fellow is the jewel of the world, and a man [who] did split his father’s middle with a single clout should have the bravery of ten. (J.M. Synge, The Playboy of the Western World)
In each case, the relative pronouns put in square brackets mark the constructive boundary between main clause and subordinate clause. Their deletion means that there is a seamless transition between the two syntactic units; they are “telescoped” into each other. Another case of syntactic zeugma is the so-called “anacoluthic subject” (nominativus pendens), illustrated by the following syntactic construction in Shakespeare’s Richard III: (79) That they which brought me in my master’s hate, I live to look upon their tragedy (III.ii.58–59).
Here the subject they is left without a predicate; the construction is elliptic, but in such a manner that another (complete) syntactic sequence brings the semantic content to a conclusion without change. The grammaticalised version in this case runs as follows: (80) That I live to look upon the tragedy of them (those) which brought me in my master’s hate.
The restitution of syntactic grammaticality also reveals the pragmatic function of this violation of the rule: the emphatic stress on the slanderers. A morphosyntactic zeugma is created by the syntactic coordination of a superordinate and several subordinate clauses, of which only one enters into a morphological congruence relationship with the superordinate clause. Thus in the Shakespearean sentence,
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(81) Nor God, nor I delights in perjured men (Love’s Labour’s Lost, V.ii.346),
the relation God-delights is correct, but the relation *I/-delights is not. The restored grammatical form of (81) is (82) Nor God delights nor I delight in perjured men.
Here delight is elided, which causes the morphosyntactic deviation. Further possibilities of morphosyntactic zeugma are deviations with respect to gender, person and number of nouns. The semantosyntactic zeugma, also simply called semantic zeugma, is a “figure of word saving” that gives rise to a polysemous wordplay. Its cause lies in the differing semantic dependence of two or more clauses on a dominant clause, for instance, of two unequal objects of a single transitive verb. Alexander Pope is, of course, the past master in the ironic use of this type of zeugma (The Rape of the Lock): (83) Whether the nymph shall break Diana’s law, Or some frail china-jar receive a flaw; Or stain her honour or a new brocade; Forget her prayers, or miss a masquerade; Or lose her heart, or necklace, at a ball. . . . (II.105–109)
In each of the verses 107 and 109 the verbs carry both a literal and a figurative meaning: “to stain someone’s honour” (that is, ‘to insult somebody’) and “losing one’s heart” (‘to fall in love’) lie on a different level⎯a spiritual one⎯from that of “staining the brocade” and “losing a necklace.” The syntactic equalisation of the (trivial) material with the (essential) spiritual produces an ironic contrast. That contrast also shows in verses 105–6 and 108, although there synonyms (break/receive a flaw, forget/miss) take the place of zeugmas and thus do not have the pointedness of a semantosyntactic deviation. In German literature one finds such cases, for instance in the following sentence by Jean Paul: (84) Als Viktor zu Joachime kam, hatte sie Kopfschmerzen und Putzjungfern bei sich, (When Viktor arrived at Joachime’s place, she had a headache and [she had] dress maids with her])
where bei sich haben (‘have with’) can have a positive and a negative meaning (as help or as nuisance), thereby showing a divergence of contents while retaining formal commonality.
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Beside the types of zeugmatic deviation just dealt with, conventional rhetoric also knows congruent zeugma, the combination of several similar morphosyntactic and semantosyntactic units with a superordinate clause that does not require repetition. An illustration of such a hypozeugma is Edmund Spenser’s verse line from The Faerie Queene: (85) For bloud can nought but sin, and wars but sorrowes yield (I.x.60.9),
where (can) yield acts simultaneously as predicate for the subjectobject relations bloud-sin and wars-sorrowes. 3.1.3 Permutation An important stylistic device, anastrophe or grammatical inversion, consists in changing a sentence’s syntax. If we take as a grammatical norm a sentence like (86)
SPO
The hunter stalks the deer,
then the following deviations can be obtained: (87) a) b) c) d) e)
SOP OSP PSO OPS POS
The hunter the deer stalks The deer the hunter stalks Stalks the hunter the deer The deer stalks the hunter Stalks the deer the hunter
Let us illustrate some of these syntactic permutations by means of examples from literature: (88) a) Sah ein Knab’ ein Röslein stehn (Goethe) (= 87c) b) The soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings (Henry Howard) (= 87a) c) Der Berge Rücken Eis, die Täler Schnee bedeckt (Albrecht von Haller) (= 87b) d) Chutes à terre elles fussent demain (Pierre de Ronsard) (= 87b)
More permutations are generated if other aspects (for example, their feasible deviations) of the syntactic structural norm are considered. Just a few, particularly characteristic ones, are selected from among the large number of anastrophes.
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a) Preposition of the genitive attribute (N + Ngen → Ngen + N) (89) a) Treu berat’ner Wotan cut runes of treaties faithfully Verträge Runen deliberated into the shaft of the spear. schnitt Wotan in des Speeres Schaft. (Richard Wagner, Götterdämmerung, “Vorspiel”) Restored grammatical form: “Wotan schnitt die Runen treu berat’ner Verträge in den Schaft des Speeres.” b) But of this frame the bearings and the ties, The strong connections, nice dependencies, Gradations just, has thy pervading soul Look’d through? (Alexander Pope, Essay on Man I.29–32) Restored grammatical form: “But has thy pervading soul look’d through the bearings and the ties . . . of this frame?”
b) Postposition of the attributive adjective (Adj + N → N + Adj) (90) Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye. (George Herbert, Virtue) Restored grammatical form: “Sweet rose, whose angry and brave hue bids the rash gazer wipe his eye.”
c) Postposition of the auxiliary verb after the full verb (Aux + V → V + Aux) (91) The longest fire ever known . . . Discovered is without surprise. (Emily Dickinson) Restored grammatical form: “The longest fire ever known . . . is discovered without surprise.”
d) Postposition of “be” after the predicate noun (be + PN → PN + be) (92) Jove’s lightning, the precursors O’ th’ dreadful thunder-claps, more momentary And sight-outrunning were not, (William Shakespeare, Tempest I.ii.201–203)
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e) Separation of two syntactically closely related units by insertion of a unit alien to the construction (A + B + C → A + X + B + C) (93) Zwei starke Leute—er dachte an seinen Vater und das Dienstmädchen—hätten vollständig genügt (= 65) (Franz Kafka, “Die Verwandlung”) Two strong people—he was thinking of his father and the servant girl—would have been quite enough.
Here, in a rhetorical figure known as hyperbaton, subject and predicate are separated by an inserted sentence. But if one starts from the assumption that in this case a syntactic unit has been added, one can also call it a parenthesis or Lat. interpositio (cf. 3.1.1; Lausberg 1998: §§ 860, 1245; Dubois et al. 1974: 139). f ) “False” syntactosemantic attribution of an adjective (hypallage adiectivi) ([Adj + N1] + N2 → N1 + [Adj + N2]) In this case of syntactic permutation an adjective is allocated to the semantically wrong noun in a sentence, so that a syntactosemantic deviation is produced and a rule of selectional subcategorisation is violated. An example would be: (94) a) With rainy marching in the painful field (William Shakespeare, Henry V IV.iii.111) Restored grammatical form: “With painful marching in the rainy field”
The deviating word order can lead to tropisation of the combination Adj + N: (94) b) . . . my only son Knows not my feeble key of untun’d cares? (William Shakespeare, The Comedy of Errors V.i.310–311) Restored grammatical form: “. . . my only son knows not my untun’d key of enfeebling cares?”
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Numerous further examples are found in Shakespeare’s works (see Alexander Schmidt, Shakespeare-Lexicon, 3rd ed., 2 vols. Berlin 1902, vol. II, Appendix I). Syntactic re-ordering is also found to play a part in the rhetorical figures of prólepsis and hýsteron próteron, although here the semantic deviation carries a greater weight. In hýsteron próteron the causal or the chronological sequence, respectively, of a context of meanings or events is reversed: (95) Ihr Mann ist tot und lässt Sie grüßen. (Goethe, Faust)
Your husband is dead and sends his regards.
In the prolepsis a sequential relationship is anticipated by an attributive adjective, the adjective functioning as stand-in for a consecutive sentence: (96) To break within the bloody house of life. (William Shakespeare, King John IV.ii.210) Restored grammatical form: “To break within the house of life, that is, the body, and make it bloody, shed its blood.” (A. Schmidt, Shakespeare-Lexicon II, 1420).
These are just a few permutative figures occupying a borderline position between syntax and semantics. 3.1.4 Substitution The question of syntactic substitution is closely linked to the question of degrees of grammaticality. It is impossible here to go into all its ramifications (see for instance Steube 1968). For the following presentation let a three-level scale of grammaticality suffice. In this we follow the work by H. Burger on “Stil und Grammatikalität” (1972). There a distinction is made between three levels on a scale of types of rules and, analogously, deviations. a) “Level 1: Rules that concern syntactic categories (noun, adjective, verb, determiners, etc.)” Specimen rule I In an English (German) sentence, the position of the object must not be occupied by finite verb forms.
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Deviation: (97) he sang his didn’t he danced his did (E.E. Cummings)
(The poem by E.E. Cummings was analysed in 2.1.2.6.) Specimen rule II In a German (English) sentence, the position of the predicate must not be occupied by a conjugated noun form. Deviations: (98) a) Denken schicksalt. (August Stramm, Abend) Thinking fatisises. b) Es musikt It musics durch die wand. (Ernst Jandl, im) through the wall.
Since the deviations occurring on this syntactic level also concern the morphology of words, they can also be listed under the heading of metamorphemes. There, the applicable type is “deviation of the wordclass (conversion)” (2.1.2.5). b) “Level 2: Rules that concern subclasses of syntactic categories.” Specimen rule I In German (English), there exists a congruence relationship between subject and predicate with respect to person and number. Deviation: (99) Du steht! Du steht [stand]! (August Stramm, Wunder)
Compare Burger’s (1972: 248–249) observations regarding this poem, quoted by him. Specimen rule II In German, intransitive verbs do not allow an accusative (direct) object. Deviation: (100) Du stehst Mut! . . . You stand courage Du lachst Recht! . . . You laugh justice Du siegst Gott! . . . (A Stramm, Allmacht) you overcome (intrans.) God
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c) “Level 3: Rules that concern lower subclasses of syntactic categories” (“selection rules” or “semantic congruence”). Specimen rule I An English (German) verb with the semantic feature (+lively) requires a noun with the same feature as a subject. Specimen rule II English (German) nouns, verbs and other categories in the same syntactic function exclude each other if two or more of them are simultaneously characterised by opposing features [e.g. (+alive):(-alive)]. (101) Noam Chomsky’s famous specimen sentence, colorless green ideas sleep furiously, contains infractions of both rules: the construction ideas sleep, of I; the phrases colorless green and sleep furiously, of II, since they show respectively the opposition of semantic features, (+colorless):(-colorless) and (+quiet):(-quiet). These two examples of semantic incongruence also have established terms in conventional rhetoric. They belong to the class of metasememes and are called metaphor and oxymoron respectively. They will be dealt with in detail in the following chapter. The high frequency of tropification in one sentence indicates a high degree of poeticity. But any judgment in this connection has to be left to the pragmatic context; this is clear from the fact that Noam Chomsky declares this sentence to be grammatically “not well-formed,” whereas the linguist Dell Hymes demonstratively makes it the starting point of a poem authored by him.
While the discussion so far has been limited to intra-sentence deviation, there is another complex of questions regarding syntactic deviation from a textual norm. Such a deviation, for instance, is quantifiable if in a poem that consists of a series of declarative sentences, there appears a single imperative or interrogative sentence or if a change of tense takes place in such a manner that an ongoing series of preterites is interrupted by a single occurrence of a praesens historicum. What is important in these cases is the number and distribution of those sentences that constitute the intra-textual syntactical norm. Pragmatically speaking, they represent an “expectation pattern” for the recipient, which is broken with the appearance of a contrary case. Already in classical rhetoric, a jump in tense (translatio temporum [Quintilian, Inst.Or. IX.ii.4]) was a popular device (Lausberg 1998: § 814).
TEXT ANALYSIS
Carl Sternheim, Das Fossil I.iv. (excerpt) Source: Carl Sternheim, Dramen, ed. W. Emrich. 3 vols. Neuwied: Luchterhand, 1963, vol. I, p. 313. The following excerpt is an example of the “telegram” style cultivated by Carl Sternheim. URSULA: Du warst krank? AGO: Dreimal schwer. URSULA: Hergestellt? AGO: Auf meine Weise. URSULA: Sehr als Mann! AGO: Sehr als Mensch. SOFIE zeigt auf Ursula: Und sie? AGO: Sehr als Weib. SOFIE: Schöner doch? AGO: Reifer—weiß nicht. URSULA: Hoffentlich. OTTO: Meine Assistentin. Zur Chemie berufen. AGO: Neigung zur Analyse? URSULA: Synthese. URSULA: You were ill? AGO: Three times, seriously. URSULA: Recovered? AGO: In my way. URSULA: Very well, for a man! AGO: Very well, for a human being. SOFIE pointing at Ursula: And she? AGO: Very well, for a woman. SOFIE: More beautiful, surely? AGO: More mature—don’t know. URSULA: Hope so. OTTO: My assistant. With a talent for chemistry. AGO: Inclined to analysis? URSULA: Synthesis.
A number of completion transformations will change the grammatically deviant text into one with restored syntax: (1) URSULA: Du warst krank? (2) AGO: (Ich war) dreimal schwer (krank). (3) URSULA: (Bist du wieder) hergestellt? (4) AGO: Auf meine Weise (bin ich wieder hergestellt). (5) URSULA: (Du bist) sehr als Mann (wiederhergestellt). (6) AGO: (Nein, ich bin) sehr als Mensch (wiederhergestellt). (7) SOFIE zeigt auf URSULA: Und (ist) sie (auch wiederhergestellt)? (8) AGO: (Sie ist) sehr als Weib (wiederhergestellt). (9) SOFIE: (Ist sie) schöner doch (geworden)? (10) AGO: (Ich meine, dass sie) reifer (geworden ist, doch) weiß (ich es) nicht (genau). (11) URSULA: Hoffentlich (bin ich reifer geworden). (12) OTTO: (Sie ist) meine Assistentin. (Sie ist) zur Chemie berufen. (13) AGO: (Hat sie eine) Neigung zur Analyse? (14) URSULA: (Nein, ich habe eine Neigung zur) Synthese. (1) URSULA: You were ill? (2) AGO: (I was) (ill) three times. (3) URSULA: (Have you) recovered? (4) AGO: In my fashion (I have recovered). (5) URSULA: (You have) (recovered) very well for a man. (6) AGO: (No, I have) (recovered) very well for a person. (7) SOFIE points at URSULA: And (has) she (also recovered)? (8) AGO: (She has)
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(recovered) very well for a woman. (9) SOFIE: (Has she) (become) even more beautiful? (10) AGO: (I think that she) (simply has become) more mature—(I) don’t really know (for sure). (11) URSULA: Hopefully (I have become more mature). (12) OTTO: (She is) my assistant. (She has) a talent for chemistry. (13) AGO: (Is she inclined) to analysis? (14) URSULA: (No, I am inclined to) synthesis.
The completions reveal that the fully grammaticised text surpasses the elliptic basis by more than twice its length. The many repetitions reveal its redundancy. In Sternheim’s drama this has been reduced by syntactic deletions. What remains are nominal, verbal and adverbial sentence fragments. They have to be filled in from the co-textual and the situational context. For instance, a co-textual ellipsis is found in (2) where the restitution of subject and predicate presupposes a knowledge of the preceding sentence. (1) also serves as a substituendum for (3)⎯after a change of tense⎯and for (4) et seq.⎯after modifying the relevant pronoun and verb forms. However, the deictic element contained in the paratext (stage direction) of (7) indicates that here the situational completion is added to the co-textual one. In (12), the same procedure appears to be happening. Sometimes, the substitution of the omissions from sentences can only be undertaken intuitively since the situation is not unambiguous (polysemous) and the last complete reference sentence lies too far back. Hardly a really context-free ellipsis occurs in the text quoted, but rather every occurrence of this syntactic form of deviation can only be interpreted within the whole chain of deviations. Sternheim possibly employs the ellipsis as a recurrent stylistic trait to imitate military language and thereby to describe⎯this is a pragmasemantic interpretation⎯the soulless automatism shown in human behaviour.
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Figures of Syntactic Equivalence (Isotaxemes)
The figures of syntactic equivalence are subsumed under the designation of parallelism. According to Gerard Manley Hopkins, parallelism—which he also calls a recurrent “grammatical figure”—together with the phonological figures represents the fundamental principle of poetry. At the same time parallelism is an extremely complex aesthetic phenomenon. For it implies “the meshing of syntactic, morphological and lexical equalities and dissimilarities; it implies the various types of semantic contiguities, similarities, synonymities, antonymities, and finally the various types and functions of ‘isolated’ lines.” Roman Jakobson, who offers this explanation (1969: 24), has dealt repeatedly in his theoretical and interpretative works with this stylistic manifestation, in particular detail in a study of Russian parallelism (1966). Others followed him (Lotman 1972, Levin 1962; Hammond 1961, Ruwet 1975). All these authors have in common that in the case of parallelism they reject total equivalence (= identity). Austerlitz (1961: 439) writes: “Two segments (verse lines) may be called parallel when they are identical except for one of their components which has to occupy the same position in both segments.” And J. Lotman (1972a: 97), quoting Austerlitz, makes these observations more precise by adding: Parallelism represents a binomial in which one of its parts is recognised with the aid of the other, which acts as model with regard to the first: It is not identical to, but also not isolated from the first. It is in a state of analogy—it possesses general features, indeed those features which are highlighted for the purpose of recognising the first member.
Thus, parallelism presents a peculiar state of hovering between, on the one hand, total identity with regard to syntactic, phonological, morphological and semantic aspects and, on the other hand, complete separateness of these aspects. It should be clear at a first glance that here the result is a broad range of nuances of possible similarities. The more the equivalences pile up, the stronger Levin’s (1962) coupling becomes. In the following discussion, we shall deal with various aspects and forms of parallelism. 3.2.1 Similarity Syntactic units as structures can be repeated completely or partially. That was already well known in the world of classical antiquity, which is why it made the distinction between isocolon and parisosis. Fontanier
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(1977: 430) in Les figures du discours illustrates this syntactic equivalence, inter alia, with two examples: (102) Corneille nous assujettit à ses caractères et à ses idées: Racine se conforme aux nôtres. Celui-là peint les hommes comme ils devraient être: celui-ci les peint tels qu’ils sont. Il y a plus, dans le premier, de ce qu’on admire et de ce qu’on doit même imiter: il y a plus, dans le second, de ce qu’on reconnaît dans les autres, et de ce qu’on éprouve en soi-même. L’un élève, étonne, maîtrise, instruit: l’autre plaît, remue, touche, pénètre. Ce qu’il y a de plus grand, de plus impérieux dans la raison, est manié par celui-là; par celui-ci, ce qu’il y a de plus tendre et de plus flatteur dans la passion. Dans l’un, ce sont des règles, des préceptes, des maximes; dans l’autre, du goût et des sentiments. L’on est plus occupé aux pièces de Corneille: l’on est plus ébranlé et plus attendri à celles de Racine. Corneille est plus moral; Racine plus naturel. Il semble que l’un imite Sophocle, et que l’autre doit plus à Euripide. (La Bruyère)
The second example, too, is about Corneille and Racine: (103) Des deux souverains de la Scène L’aspect a frappé nos esprits: C’est sur leurs pas que Melpomène Conduit ses plus chers favoris. L’un plus pur, l’autre plus sublime, Tous deux partagent notre estime Par un mérite différent: Tour-à-tour ils nous font entendre Ce que le cœur a de plus tendre, Ce que l’esprit a de plus grand. (La Motte)
These two examples illustrate, on the one hand, the rhetorical procedure of distributio, that is, the amplifying dissection of a situation into its components; on the other hand, beside the distributive possibilities the various semantic possibilities which a syntactic equivalence (“parallèle”) offers according to Fontanier (1977: 429): “Le Parallèle consiste dans deux descriptions, ou consécutives, ou mélangées, par lesquelles on rapproche l’un de l’autre, sous leurs rapports physiques ou moraux, deux objets, dont on veut montrer la ressemblance ou la différence.” The possibilities of excluding a complete syntactic symmetry result from the subtraction and permutation of units of speech. For the former, let us quote the first two lines of Brecht’s poem Wir sind sie: (104) Wer aber ist die Partei? Wer ist sie?
But who is the Party Who is it?
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The second manifestation may be illustrated with a verse by Erich Kästner: (105) Die Stadt ist groß, und klein ist das Gehalt.
The city is large, and small is the salary.
Here, the members of the syntactic parallelism (well known as chiasmus) have been permuted in such a way that a crossover takes place. 3.2.2 Frequency Syntactic parallelism also has to be considered with regard to its frequency of occurrence. If it appears in isolated places of a text, it will have a limited structuring capacity. However, what equivalence theoreticians regard as their favourite field of interest is stylistically dominating manifestations of parallelism. This is evidenced by Jakobson’s (1965–1971) analyses of poems by Shakespeare, Sidney, Baudelaire and Brecht. In the context of the Brecht lines he quite rightly refers to parallelism in the Bible (in Hebrew), which has always been considered a model example of aesthetic verse syntax (Bühlmann-Scherer 1994: 36–42). Bishop Robert Lowth (1710–1787) in his Praelectiones Academicae De Sacra Poesi Hebraeorum (Lectures on the Sacred Poetry of the Hebrews [1753]) refers to the parallelism in the following context of Lecture XIX: From the Jewish, the custom of singing in alternate chorus was transmitted to the Christian church, and was continued in the latter from the first ages: it was called “alternate or responsive,” when the whole choir, separated into two divisions, sung the psalm alternately by strophes; and when this was done by single verses or lines, that is, when the same division of the choir always sung the latter part of the distich, they were said to sing the choral response. Now, if this were the ancient and primitive mode of chanting their hymns, as indeed appears highly probable, the proximate cause will be easily explained, why poems of this kind are disposed in equal stanzas, indeed in equal distichs, for the most part; and why these distichs should in some measure consist of versicles or parallelisms corresponding to each other. And this mode of composition being admirably adapted to the musical modulation of that kind of poetry which was most in use among them from the very beginning, and at the same time being perfectly agreeable to the genius and cadence of the language, easily extended itself into the other species of poetry, though not designed for the same purpose: in fact, we find that it pervaded the whole of the poetry of the Hebrews, insomuch that what was said of the Heathen Muses may still
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more strictly be applied to those of the Hebrews,—“they love alternate song.” On this occasion also it may not be improper to remark, that the word gnanah, which properly signifies to answer, is used more generally to denote any song or poem; whence we can only infer, either that the word has passed from particular to general use, or that among the Hebrews almost every poem possesses a sort of responsive form. Such appears to have been the origin and progress of that poetical and artificial conformation of the sentences which we observe in the poetry of the Hebrews. That it prevailed no less in the Prophetic Poetry than in the Lyric and Didactic, to which it was, in the nature of things, most adapted, is evident from those very ancient specimens of poetical prophecy already quoted from the historical books; and it only remains to show, that it is no less observable in those which are contained in the volumes of the prophets themselves. In order the more clearly to evince this point, I shall endeavour to illustrate the Hebrew parallelism according to its different species, first by examples taken from those books commonly allowed to be poetical, and afterwards by correspondent examples from the books of the prophets. The poetical conformation of the sentences which has been so often alluded to as characteristic of the Hebrew poetry, consists chiefly in a certain equality, resemblance, or parallelism, between the members of each period; so that in two lines, (or members of the same period,) things for the most part shall answer to things, and words to words, as if fitted to each other by a kind of rule or measure. This parallelism has much variety and many gradations; it is sometimes more accurate and manifest, sometimes more vague and obscure: it may, however, on the whole, be said to consist of three species. (Lowth 2005: 203–205).
The first species is the synonymous, the second the antithetic, and the third the synthetic or constructive parallelism. As evidence of the synonymous parallelism Psalm 114 is presented, which reads as follows in the translation of the Authorized Version: (106) 1 When Israel went out of Egypt, the house of Jacob from a people of strange language; 2 Judah was his sanctuary, and Israel his dominion. 3 The sea saw it, and fled: Jordan was driven back. 4 The mountains skipped like rams, and the little hills like lambs. 5 What ailed thee, O thou sea, that thou fleddest? thou, Jordan, that thou wast driven back? 6 Ye mountains, that ye skipped like rams; and ye little hills, like lambs? 7 Tremble, thou earth, at the presence of the Lord, at the presence of the God of Jacob;
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Which turned the rock into a standing water, the flint into a fountain of waters.
In this example parallelism is represented in almost every verse; one could even say that it is the structurally determining factor of the whole text (Molino 1981: 79–83). In his work The Spirit of Hebrew Poetry: An Instruction for the Lovers of the Same and the Oldest History of the Human Spirit (1782–1783), the German theologian, poet, and literary critic Johann Gottfried Herder (1744–1803) in a similar manner stresses the importance of the parallelism for Hebrew poetry but at the same time gives it a rhetorical interpretation: Poetry is not addressed to the understanding alone but primarily and chiefly to the feelings. And are these not friendly to parallelism? So soon as the heart gives way to its emotions, wave follows upon wave, and that is parallelism. The heart is never exhausted, it has forever something new to say. So soon as the first wave has passed away, or broken itself upon rocks, the second swells again and returns as before. This pulsation of nature, the breathing of emotion, appears in all the language of passion . . . (Herder 1833 I: 41).
The parallelism has a similar significance in the artistic prose of the Greek sophist Gorgias of Leontinoi (c. 483–375 B.C.) and, after him, in European Mannerism (Norden 1958). Parallelism in Finnish-Karelian popular poetry was thoroughly investigated by Wolfgang Steinitz (1934). 3.2.3 Extent and Position The example of the psalm shows that both paratactic and hypotactic sentence constructions as well as parts of these can be repeated. The same example also shows that the equivalent segments can be extensive and less extensive. Greater lengths offer the possibility of greater complexity. It is also important whether the syntactic parallels follow each other immediately (contiguity position) or are separated by other text units (position at-a-distance). The direct succession of parallel sentence segments can be emphasised by asyndetic and polysyndetic sequencing. By asyndeton we mean the conjunctionless combination of equivalent sentence segments: (107) Veni, vidi, vici;
whereas a polysyndeton is a construction whose parts are joined by conjunctions:
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(108) To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow . . . (William Shakespeare, Macbeth V.v.19).
Parallelism at-a-distance is exemplified by a refrain. It usually appears at the end of a strophe, e.g. in the following poems: (109) Vienne la nuit sonne l’heure Les jours s’en vont je demeure (G. Apollinaire, Le Pont Mirabeau) (110) Morte est la Seine Mort est Paris (R. Queneau, Tuileries des mes peines)
While the refrain remains identical in these cases, it may be slightly modified for the various strophes in other texts (partial equivalence), for example, in Wolf Biermann’s Ballade vom preußischen Ikarus (Ballad of the Prussian Icarus): (111) a)
Da, wo die Friedrichstraße sacht Den Schritt über das Wasser macht da hängt über der Spree Die Weidendammer Brücke. Schön Kannst du da Preußens Adler sehn wenn ich am Geländer steh dann steht da der preußische Ikarus mit grauen Flügeln aus Eisenguss dem tun seine Arme so weh er fliegt nicht weg—er stürzt nicht ab macht keinen Wind—und macht nicht schlapp am Geländer über der Spree.
The refrain in the third strophe assumes a slightly modified form: (111) b) dann bin ich der preußische Ikarus mit grauen Flügeln aus Eisenguss dann tun mir die Augen so weh dann flieg ich hoch—dann stürz ich ab mach bisschen Wind—dann mach ich schlapp am Geländer über der Spree.
Here, while the second and sixth lines are respectively identical with the corresponding lines of the first and second strophes, the respective first, third, fourth and fifth lines show variation. The fact that complete syntactic equivalence does not exist, apart from short syntagms such as “der preußische Ikarus,” is due to the change of subject from third
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person singular to first person singular. By means of the communicative role-figure of prosopopoeia an iron statue is anthropomorphised and becomes capable of speech. In this way the message of the ballad becomes more direct. The alteration of total syntactic equivalence, by addition, subtraction and substitution of morphological units, brings out the deviancy of this communicative change. 3.2.4 Distribution This term addresses the textual distribution of parallelism. The refrain in (109) serves as an example. Its antipode is the “counter-refrain,” that is, a syntactic recurrence at the beginning of strophes. (Example: “Dein Lied erklang” in Brentano’s Als mir dein Lied erklang.) Both types of refrain are found in Jules Laforgue’s Complainte: Variations sur le mot “Falot, falotte” (counter-refrain: “Falot, falotte!”—refrain: “Falot! falot!”). There is another form of verse-syntactic repetition, namely when each last line of a poem appears as the first line of the following poem, as happens in John Donne’s cycle of sonnets, Corona. A special case of artistic distribution of parallelism is represented by the versus rapportati that are found especially in the literature of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries (Curtius 1993: 290 et seq.; Hocke 1959: 25). A well-known example is due to Opitz (Epigramma, XIV): (111) (c) Die Sonn’, der Pfeil, der Wind, verbrennt, verwundt, weht hin, Mit Feuer, Schärfe, Sturm, mein Augen, Herze, Sinn. The sun, the arrow, the wind, burns, wounds, blows away, with fire, sharpness, storm, my eyes, heart, mind.
Here we have a series of hyperbatic parallelisms or, expressed differently, a combination of syntactic equivalence and syntactic permutation. Opitz brings out the parallelism in his resolution (back-transformation) of the blockage: (112) Die Sonn’ verbrennt mit Feuer meine Augen, Der Pfeil verwundt mit Schärfe mein Herze, Der Wind weht mit Sturm meinen Sinn hin.
The sun with fire scorches my eyes, the arrow with sharpness wounds my heart the wind with storm wends away my sense.
One can think of numerous further distribution types of syntactic repetition, but there seems to be little point in giving here more than an
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indication of this wealth. The criteria and patterns listed allow one to extend the insights gained to other text relationships, in an analogous manner. 3.2.5
Phonological, Morphological and Semantic Aspects
The aspects mentioned above are secondary with respect to syntactic equivalence, that is, they may or may not occur. There are two extreme poles of secondary equivalence formation conceivable in parallelism: 1) the level of total (“saturated”) recurrence comprising all the linguistic planes (example: the identical refrain); 2) the level of equivalence comprising the syntactic structure that can do without any additional (phonological, morphological and semantic) forms of equivalence. In the first case linguistic recursivity has been raised to its maximum possible potency; the second case, by comparison, forms a starting basis that can be extended by “aestheticisation” of the other linguistic planes. This is how parallelism joins up with phonological, morphological and semantic figures. For instance, there are parallelisms with rhyme: (113) The mountains skipped like rams, and the little hills like lambs;
parallelisms with polyptoton: (114) Which turned the rock into a standing water, the flint into a fountain of waters;
and parallelisms with periphrastic synonyms: (115) When Israel went out of Egypt, the house of Jacob from a people of strange language.
All these examples have been taken from Psalm 114 quoted under (106). Let us finally mention two rhetorical figures that build on the basis of parallel syntactic coupling: antimetabole and antithesis. Antimetabole (see 3.4.2.4) as a rule consists of a syntactic parallelism (xy/xy) and a lexical chiasmus (ab/ba); its formula is (Kopperschmidt 1972: 66): (116) (ax by) ↔ (bx ay) .
An illustrative example is found in Shakespeare’s Winter’s Tale (I.ii.315): (117) Plainly as heaven sees earth and earth sees heaven,
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where the syntactic coordination (S-P-O/S-P-O) makes the reversal (mirror symmetry) of the word order stand out more clearly. On rarer occasions, a variant of antimetabole is found which provides for a syntactic chiasmus (xy/yx) and a lexical parallelism (ab/ab). The construction of an antithetic parallelism is documented by a line from Schiller’s Freund und Feind (‘Friend and Foe’): (118) Zeigt mir der Freund, was ich kann, lehrt mich der Feind, was ich soll while a friend shows me what I can do, a foe shows me what I should do,
where the syntactic equivalence is in contrast with two pairs of semantic opposites (Freund [‘friend’]: Feind [‘foe’], kann [‘can’]: soll [‘should’]). Such pairs of opposites are also known as antonyms. Škreb (1968) and Kopperschmidt (1972) try to determine its origin from logical and socio-theoretical (ideo-critical) considerations. We shall go into this more thoroughly when discussing the semantic figures of style. For the time being it will suffice to recall what Kopperschmidt (1972: 63) postulated as essential components of an antithesis. According to him, it can be defined “as the —syntactic coordination of —semantic antonyms —acting as constitutive elements of a logical construct incorporating them, —carried out on a high linguistic level.”
The third point addresses the “fictionalisation of correlated antonyms which creates meaning” (58). It will also be given due attention in the following text analyses.
TEXT ANALYSES
Bertolt Brecht, “Lob der Partei” In: Bertolt Brecht, Die Stücke in einem Band. Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1978, pp. 265–266. In Brecht’s didactic play, Die Maßnahme (‘The Measures Taken’), the syntactic arrangement of the chorus in scene 6, on the theme “Lob der Partei” (‘Praise of the Party’), is of some interest (see the discussion by Jakobson 1965). The first four lines are (118) Der Einzelne hat zwei Augen Die Partei hat tausend Augen. Die Partei sieht sieben Staaten Der Einzelne sieht eine Stadt.
The individual has two eyes The Party has a thousand eyes. The Party sees seven states The individual sees a town.
The structure of these lines is a sequence of parataxes. According to Mac Hammond they deserve the designation “poetic syntax” in a special way: “Syntax is poetic when grammatically equivalent constituents in connected speech are juxtaposed by coordination or parataxis or are otherwise prominently accumulated” (1961: 482). The syntactic structural formula for the four sentences above is the same: SPO or, more exactly (Artdef + N1) + Vtr + (Num + N2). An even more precise definition is supplied by Roland Posner (1971: 244) when he respectively combines in one list two equivalence criteria which divide the first two lines into “co-extensional component classes”: a) Class of words or word groups characterised by the syntactic function: [subject phrase] [object phrase] [predicate nucleus]
b) Class of words or word groups which are characterised by the feature: [expression describing a number of people] [expression designating a number of human attributes] [expression designating the possessive relationship]
According to Posner, the equivalence is marked by the fact that the segments Der Einzelne (‘the individual’)/Die Partei (‘the Party’) and zwei Augen (‘two eyes’)/tausend Augen (‘a thousand eyes’) form a parallelism in respect to both the syntactic functions and the semantic
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features mentioned in addition to the morphological equivalence hat (‘has’)/hat (‘has’). Nevertheless, the equivalence is not total. In both the subject phrase and the object phrase, in verse 1/2 (and 4/3) a semantic opposition of quantity, (small number):(big number), occurs. This causes an attractive interplay between complete syntactic uniformity and semantic contrasts. The statement holds true for the first four lines of the chorus. The next four lines of the same text look somewhat different: (119) Der Einzelne hat seine Stunde aber die Partei hat viele Stunden. Der Einzelne kann vernichtet werden aber die Partei kann nicht vernichtet werden.
The individual has his hour but the Party has many hours. The individual can be destroyed but the Party cannot be destroyed.
Here the syntactic equivalence is no longer total but merely partial. The secondary deviation is produced in the second and fourth lines of the strophe, by addition of text elements, of the adversative conjunction aber (‘but’) and (in line 8) of the negation nicht (‘not’). “Lob der Partei” is part of the epideictic genre of rhetoric; it has both poetic and persuasive qualities; the balance of the syntax is an aesthetic phenomenon which in the context of the drama has a decidedly appealing character. It is an exhortation to join the party and support its agitation.
William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar III.ii.13–47 (the Brutus speech) In her essay “Antikes Gedankengut in Shakespeares Julius Caesar,” Shakespeare-Jahrbuch, 82/83 (1948), 11–33, Maria Wickert presents the first convincing historical analysis of the Brutus speech. In the following interpretation we adopt almost completely the graphical prestructuring she carried out (p. 17): I
Romans, countrymen, and lovers, A hear me for my cause, and be silent, that you may hear. B Believe me for mine honour, and have respect to mine honour, that you may believe. C Censure me in your wisdom, and awake your senses, that you may the better judge.
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II
A 1 If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of Caesar’s, to him I say that Brutus’ love to Caesar was no less than his. 2 If then that friend demand why Brutus rose against Caesar, this is my answer: Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more. 3 Had you rather Caesar were living, and die all slaves, than that Caesar were dead, to live all free men? B 1 a) As Caesar loved me, I weep for him; b) as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; c) as he was valiant, I honour him; d) but, as he was ambitious, I slew him. 2 a) There is tears, for his love; b) joy, for his fortune; c) honour, for his valour; d) and death, for his ambition. C 1 a) Who is here so base, that he would be a bondman? b) If any, speak; for him I have offended. 2 a) Who is here so rude, that would not be a Roman? b) If any, speak; for him I have offended. 3 a) Who is here so vile, that will not love his country? b) If any, speak; for him I have offended. III I pause for a reply . . . Then none have I offended. I have done no more to Caesar than you shall do to Brutus. The question of his death is enrolled in the Capitol; his glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy; nor his offences enforced, for which he suffered death. ... With this I depart, that, as I slew my best lover for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger for myself, when it shall please my country to need my death.
According to Wickert, the plan of the Brutus speech reflects the structure of the classical oratio: I = prooemium (introduction); II = argumentatio (main part); III = peroratio (conclusion). At the beginning it is necessary to “arouse the attention, trust and mental readiness of the audience.” Then, in the main part, the justification of the murder of Caesar follows, by contraposition of the views pro and con. The conclusion (III) consists of a brief summary of the facts and a retreat to the speaker’s ethos. The overall impression is that of a jury summation in a court of law. Brutus tries to convince his audience, the Roman plebs, of the justness of his cause. The people are judge and imaginary prosecutor in one. The object of the trial is Caesar, rather his ambition, in contrast to the idea of republican freedom. On the one side there are Caesar’s successes in life; on the other side, his alleged betrayal for
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which he suffered death. All these are oppositions which are suitable to provoke the persuasive art of a pointed antithetic style. It is impossible to overlook the syntactic parallelisms and their respective triadic and tetradic structures. A syntactic triad occurs in the introduction (address and I.A, B, C) and in main part II.C of the oration, whereas II.A.3 does not fulfill the expected norm of syntactic parallel movement established in 1–2. At the centre of the main part, in II.B.1 + 2, we have two four-digit syntactic parallels. We shall come back to their peculiarity. What is also conspicuous is that some of the parallel constructions pointed out display further internal symmetries, and with increasing clarity, the sequence II.A.1 to 3. Overall, we get the impression of a high frequency of syntactic equivalence of varying extent (from the syntactic construction of many members through to the syntagm), distributed over the whole text right into the final passage of the speech. This syntactic equivalence is further supported by phonological, morphological and semantic equivalence: by rhyme in II.C.1.a/2.a (bondman: Roman); by a twofold kyklos in I.A + B (hear: hear; believe:believe); by anaphoras heading sentences in II.A.1 + 2 (if: if ) and in II.C.1.a) + 2.a) + 3.a) (who is here so); by paronymies in II.B.1.a)/2.a), 1.b)/2.b) etc. (loved/love, fortunate/fortune etc.); by morphological and textological synonyms in II.C.1.a) + 2.a) + 3.a) (baserude-vile) and II.B.1 + 2; and, finally, by a refrain in II.C.1.b) + 2.b) + 3.b) (if any, speak; for . . .). This accumulation of repeated patterns in turn forms a basis for secondary deviations. Oddly enough, these occur respectively at the end of a triadic or tetradic group of syntactic equivalence structures where they produce variation and tension by contrasts of form and content. To demonstrate this point we might begin with the introduction. Although there exists an ongoing syntactic parallelism in I.A to I.C, the kyklos that is simultaneously present in A and B is not continued in C but is substituted by a pair of synonyms (censure:judge). A similar situation is found in the first section of the main part (II.A) where the parallelism of A.1 to A.2 is not continued in A.3; its place is taken by a parallelism inherent in the sentence with both members in turn containing a chiastic antithesis. In I.C, the central part is taken by the theme of the judgment by, and wisdom of, the audience; in II.A.3, however, by the dialectic of “life of the individual”/“slavery of all” and “death of the individual”/“liberty of all”; in the middle part of the argumentatio (II.B) by the double tension between Caesar’s success
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and glory, on the one hand, and Caesar’s ambition and death, on the other. This state of affairs appears to be of such central importance to the speaker that he raises it in a very complicated stylistic situation. For one thing sentences B.1 and B.2 each form a fourfold parallelism; secondly, B.2 is a synonymous formulation of B.1; thirdly, 1.a)– 2.a), 1.b)–2.b), 1.c)–2.c) and 1.d)–2.d) are tied together by paronymy and chiasmus; fourthly, B.1a) to 1.d) are almost identical in sentence length (a : c = b : d), whereas B.2.a) to 2.d) are structured differently, namely, on the one hand, from the point of view of secondary deletion [deletion of there is in 2.b) to 2.d)] and, on the other, from the point of view of secondary addition (an increase by one syllable for each syntagma). Finally, each of the two sentence constructions culminates in an antithesis that marks a sharp break of content between the first three segments and the fourth segment of the sentence. The abrupt semantic turnabout has the purpose of steering the emotional powers of the audience directly to the decisive point of the whole argumentation: “Death to the tyrant!” The subsequent text can only insist on this point. That explains in part C the parallel structure of rhetorical questions and exhortations that take into account the reaction of the public. The syntactic inversion in C.1.b) + 2.b) + 3.b) ( for him have I offended) bestows vigorous emphasis on the listener’s person, giving all powers of decision into his hands. A (fictive) vote is performed, with a positive result for the speaker Brutus. After the public vote, Brutus formulates the conclusion to his speech. Here again we find the stylistic devices of parallelism and antithesis. The peroratio (III) identifies both the listeners (as possible murderers of Caesar) with Brutus and Brutus (as a possible representative of tyranny) with Caesar. Thus we have a summary of the argumentation both in II.A and II.C. Furthermore, the peroratio sums up the themes “merit”/“glory” and “misdemeanour”/“destruction”; this summary recapitulates the argumentation in II.B. Consequently, the end itself is designed chiastically with respect to what was before. The final sentence can be regarded as a summary of all these themes. Let us address, finally, the pragmatic functions of parallelism and antithesis in Brutus’ speech. As far as parallelism is concerned, it is a suitable stylistic means of suggesting identifying relationships in the speech’s contents. It achieves this identification more strongly by being supported by phonological, morphological and, particularly, semantic equivalences. Two places in the text will illustrate this. In II.C an
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equivalence leads to the identifying relationship between bondman (1.a), not . . . a Roman (2.a) and (someone) that will not love his country (3.a). Here slavery and a lack of national pride are equated: tertium non datur. The concluding remark works similarly (I have done no more to Caesar . . .) where parallelism already achieves the above-mentioned role identification (public = Brutus, Brutus = Caesar) so that the public ultimately has no other choice but to accept the role of murderer offered by the speaker. In cases such as this one, parallelism shows not only aesthetic qualities but also traits of a “thought pattern.” As such, it performs the task of constructing equations that completely prevent alternative choices (such as dissent between plebs and Brutus) from becoming visible. Its function is to obscure. What we can say about antithesis (= antonymous parallelism) under this aspect differs to no great degree. Its intention is a polarisation that excludes all other possibilities. This exclusion happens, for instance, in II.A.3 where the potential variety of aspects is reduced to the alternatives Caesar = alive / all = dead slaves and Caesar = dead / all = free people. It is made clear which possibility is to be preferred since one of them is earmarked negatively (e.g. “slave” in II.A.3 and II.C.1.a]). This antonymous reductionism becomes even clearer in II.B.1.d) + 2.d) where, after the triplet of positive attributes (of Caesar) and positive ways of reacting (for Brutus), the quintessential negative attribute (ambition) and the quintessential negative reaction (death) are set down as antithetic opposite poles. The listener is not told whether ambition really is a crime worthy of death or whether death really is the only possible punishment for ambition. For him, his perspective is directed from the beginning exclusively and relentlessly towards this sole choice. It may, therefore, be concluded that the antithesis here obscures the complexity of the factual situation. Thus, this figure has not only an aesthetic dimension, namely pleasure in the reversal of meaning, but it also has an affective dimension, that of stirring up public emotion. Its cognitive component is equally important. Here its function is to propagate an ideology—the “republican” ideology.
CHAPTER FOUR
SEMANTIC FIGURES
The aesthetics of semantic figures depends upon a deviation of meaning. If we call the standard grammatical unit a sememe, then a semantic deviation—by analogy to the other linguistic deviations already discussed—constitutes a metasememe, while semantic equivalence constitutes an isosememe. Each sememe consists of a complex of semantic features, or semes, for example (+animate), (+abstract), (+fluent) and so on. A semaesthetics requires semantic features, or complexes of features, to be transformed in accordance with the known categories of change. This transformation can occur on the linguistic levels of morphology, syntax and text. In this respect the present model clearly differs from the approach of the Liège Groupe Mu (Dubois et al. 1974), which limits metasememes to semantic word-substitutions (= tropes) while introducing the category of metalogisms (“figures of thought”) for transverbal changes of meaning. Against such a conception one comes to the conclusion that the authors of this group—like many others—have left the field of linguistics, because of their inconsistency within the system they themselves devised. A second possible error in their approach consists in the hypothesis that figures of meaning are identical with tropes or with metaphor in the broadest sense. This opinion can even at this stage be countered by pointing out, for instance, that from a theoretical basis the figures of semantic equivalence open up many other, often atropic possibilities. A final remark on the semiotic status of figures of meaning as they are here being dealt with is to recall that there are two kinds of semantics: reference semantics and relational semantics. The subject of the former is the relationship between the linguistic sign and the denotatum (or designatum); of the latter, the relationships among the designata. Reference semantics analyses the correlation between signs and the real world and, as such, offers a model of reality (on ontology see Ricœur 1975: 384ff.). In this study we shall henceforth ignore reference semantics and focus on the interaction of elements of meaning on the plane of sign combination, that is, within the semantics of words, sentences and texts and, specifically, on their possible deviations from the norm.
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Priority will be given to the semiosyntactic aspects of the figure of meaning. The aspects of its “reality” and its communication will be omitted or deferred.
4.1
Figures of Semantic Deviation (Metasememes)
Figures of meaning in this category are generated by the addition, deletion, rearrangement or substitution of individual semantic features or bundles of features, contrary to the semantic limitations on cooccurrence (Bickerton 1969). The most significant ones are the figures of semantic substitution, the tropes, which include, inter alia, metaphor, metonymy, synecdoche and allegory. Other figures of meaning dealt with here are by no means unknown; but, within the framework of the present categorisation, they can be expected to acquire a new perspective. 4.1.1 Addition Simple additive serialisation of semantic units is not enough to produce a semantic deviation. It is necessary that a qualitative aspect should be added to the quantitative one. Violation of a semantic rule is, for instance, obtained by a combination of signs of which one contains all the semes of the other, for example [(+x)] + [(+x) + (+y) + (+z)]. An illustration of this statement is the combination female woman, whose component woman already entails the feature female. The same observation holds true for expressions such as small dwarf, tall giant, human boy and so on. Traditional rhetoric in such cases speaks of pleonasm; a more general appropriate term is “semantic redundancy” (Leech 1969: 136). A tautology can be interpreted as a syntactic variant of pleonasm: (118) a) The woman is female. b) This boy is human.
Such a speech phenomenon is contained in Hamlet’s statement when, following his encounter with the ghost, he replies to Horatio’s question: “What news?,” (119) There’s ne’er a villain dwelling in all Denmark But he’s an arrant knave (Hamlet I.v. 122–23).
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Here the equation villain = arrant knave is tautological, that is, there is no progress of information, so that Horatio justly comments: (120) There needs no ghost, my lord, come from the grave to tell us this (Hamlet I.v.124–25).
While tautology in this case serves to obfuscate, it is used to achieve a stylistic tour de force in Hamlet’s abbreviated lamentation for his father: (121) He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again (Hamlet I.ii.187–188).
Here the semantic features of man, (+human), (+male) and (+adult), are already contained in father, so that this seems to be a faulty and redundant addition of a sememe. However, if one regards man as a substitute for ideal man, then we have an augmentation of the semantic features of the inserted sememe: the semantic error of a tautology is tranformed into the trope emphasis. Something similar happens when in the pleonasm, The Female Woman, the book title by Arianna S. Huffington, the component female possesses the additional seme (+attractive) or (+of a definitely female shape). In particular cases the pragmatic context will decide on the literary functionalisation of pleonasms and tautologies. 4.1.2 Subtraction Complete deletion of semantic features leads to asemy or meaninglessness. Partial deletion of elements of meaning involves the syntactic figures of ellipsis and zeugma. As shown by Dubois et al. (1974: 221–222), it is also possible to treat a break-off in speech (aposiopesis) or even silence as figures of meaning. They represent semantic blanks which the recipients have to fill in for themselves by inserting sememes. Another type of semantic deletion takes place where the semes of expressions exclude each other. Examples of this phenomenon include: (122) a) b) c) d)
a living death felix culpa a tall dwarf a thundering silence
In each case an attributive coordination of semantic antonyms is generated. Their logical form is that of contradiction (Kopperschmidt
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1972: 45–50). Classical rhetoric calls it oxymoron. A typical example is Sir Philip Sidney’s (123) O absent presence! (Astropil & Stella 106.1)
A better known case is the sequence of oxymora in the words of Shakespeare’s Romeo: (124) Why then, O brawling love! O loving hate! O any thing, of nothing first create! O heavy lightness, serious vanity, Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms, Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health, Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is (Romeo and Juliet I.i.176– 181)!
All these oxymora are similar in that they can be reduced to a common semantic denominator, which will here be called hypersememe. The hypersememe has a higher degree of generality than the antonymous sememes forming the oxymoron. Thus the hypersememe of heavy lightness would be weight: heavy (125)
weight light
The same operation can be performed on the other oxymora. Presumably this interrelationship between the oxymoron and its respective superordinate (normally unnamed) hypersememe is part of this metasememe’s charm. In (124) this attraction is heightened further by chiasms, metaphors (V. 177ff.) and other figures. Oxymora disclose the contradictions in human existence. They especially expose the discrepancy between reality and appearance. For instance, “a living death” (122.a)) is based on the underlying assumption that life on earth is ultimately an unreal reality (= death), while life in the hereafter (= death) represents true existence (= life). The phrase felix culpa (122.b)) articulates the basic theological idea that the guilt of original sin has brought to humanity not only evil but also the fortunate salvation through Christ. Example 123 (“O absent presence!”) contrasts the physical absence with the imaginary presence of the beloved person. And Romeo’s listing of oxymora (124) characterises the double face of a passion that had been expressed in Catullus’
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Odi et amo in its inimitable manner. In all the cases mentioned an additional feature (+apparent) or (+real ) has to be introduced into the semantic deep structure in order to resolve the contradictions. This addition is also well demonstrated by a paradox, the familiar witches’ line in Shakespeare’s Macbeth: (126) Fair is foul, and foul is fair (Macbeth I.i.11).
A back-transformation to normalised grammar would result in the following sentence: (127) The seemingly fair is the really foul, and the seemingly foul is the really fair.
An exact knowledge of the pragmatic context—as it is for additive metasememes—is a precondition for this form of discovered meaning. Example (126) is an illustration of a paradox. In stylistics (for example, in Leech 1969: 142–143) the tacit assumption is that such cases involve a syntactically “relaxed” form of oxymoron. Thus one allocates the structure A (Adj) + Not-A (N) to an oxymoron, and the structure A(N) is Not-A (Adj) or A (V) and Not-A (V) to a paradox. But it is doubtful whether such a vague distinction can be maintained. Systematic research into the syntax of semantic contradiction might well prove beneficial, but, apart from everything else, paradox has a more comprehensive significance. Its potential force develops especially in a rhetoric of argumentative and stylistic inversion that deconstructs established habits of thought and speech (Plett 1992). Thomas De Quincey in his Autobiography goes even further: “No man needs to search for paradox in this world of ours. Let him simply confine himself to the truth, and he will find paradox growing everywhere under his hands as rank of weeds.” In contrast to paradox and oxymoron, antithesis does not represent a semantic infraction of norms but—as a variant of semantic equivalence—a secondary deviation (see 4.2). In his article “On the Structure and Understanding of Poetic Oxymora” Yeshuyahu Shen distinguishes the following three types of oxymora (1987: 109–110): 1. The “direct oxymoron” structure which consists of two terms which are antonyms, namely, whose only difference consists of a change in the “+/−” sign of their lowest, distinctive, feature, all others being identical. Examples of this structure are “a feminine man,” “living death” etc.
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chapter four 2. The “indirect oxymoron” structure in which one of its two terms is not the direct antonym of the other, but rather the hyponym of its antonym. Consider, for example, the phrase “the silence whistles” (taken from the Hebrew poet Nathan Altherman’s Summer Night) which is usually considered by Israeli critics as a prototypical oxymoron in Hebrew poetry. Its two terms are “silence” and “whistle.” The feature list of the first term, “silence,” can be defined as (this is only a partial list): “+noun, +sensual, -count, . . . -sound.” The antonym of “silence” is lexically realized by the word “sound,” whose feature list consists of the same features for “silence” save for the replacement of the “+” sign of the distinctive feature “silence” (namely “-sound”) by the “−” sign. Note, however, that the second term of the oxymoron is not “sound” but its hyponym, i.e., “whistle”; the feature list of this latter term adds the feature “+sharpness” to those of “sound,” and this addition turns “whistle” into a hyponym of “silence.” Other examples from the Hebrew as well as [the] English corpus are: — “sacred garbage” (taken from the Israeli poet Gabriel Preil 1978). In this case the second term, “garbage,” is a hyponym of the category “defile entities,” which is the direct antonym of the first term “sacred.” — “cold fire” (Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet). “Fire” is the hyponym rather than a direct antonym of the category “warm entities,” which is the antonym of “cold.” — “bright smoke” (Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet). In this case the second term “smoke” is the hyponym of “dim” which is the direct antonym of “bright.” — “sweet sorrow” (a typical oxymoron mentioned in Preminger 1975). Here the second term, “sorrow,” is conceived of as an example (that is, a hyponym) of the category “bitter entities”; the term “bitter” is the antonym of the first term “sweet.” — “traitorous trueness” (Francis Thompson, The Hound of Heaven). Here, the second term, “trueness,” is not the direct antonym of the first term antonym, “faithful,” but rather its hyponym. 3. The “metaphor” structure, since it is, roughly, common to all metaphors. Here the two terms which comprise the phrase do not differ in the sign “+/−” of the distinctive feature, or in an additional feature, but in their “upper,” that is, their “less” distinctive features. Thus, one of the differences between “silence” and “going” in the phrase “the silence goes” lies at the upper level of the feature list: a higher level feature of the term “going,” “+movement,” is not shared by the term “silence.”
This refined taxonomy of the oxymoron does not, however, solve the problem of the poeticity of the poetic oxymoron for which we refer to section II.6 in this book.
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4.1.3 Permutation The semantic figure of permutation consists in a violation of the chronologically or logically correct sequence of semantic units. The best known example from German literature is Goethe’s (128) Ihr Mann ist tot und lässt Sie Your husband is dead and sends his grüßen (Faust) regards,
where the chronology of tot sein (‘to be dead’) and grüßen (‘send his regards’) has been inverted. Another semantic inversion is found in Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra: (129) Th’ Antoniad, the Egyptian admiral, With all their sixty, fly and turn the rudder (III.x.2–3).
Here, turn the rudder is actually the logical-chronological precondition for fly, not its consequence. Classical rhetoric called this semantic inversion hysteron proteron. 4.1.4 Substitution The central part of semantic deviation is constituted by those figures of meaning that are created by an exchange of semantic units. Kuznec/ Skrebnev (1968: 23) thus call them “figures of replacement”; their traditional term, tropes (originally, “turns”), takes account of the same fact. A trope thus consists of two elements: (1) a substituting expression (substituens) S2, which represents the specific manifestation of the trope, metaphor, metonymy, synecdoche, and so on; and (2) a substituted expression (substitutum) S1. In conventional rhetoric, S2 and S1 are also known, respectively, as nomen improprium/nomen proprium or as improper/proper expression. Ricœur (1975: 30) extends this twopart relationship to a triad, with reference to Aristotle: . . . L’idée aristotélicienne d’allotrios tend à rapprocher trois idées distinctes: l’idée d’écart par rapport à l’usage ordinaire; l’idée d’emprunt à un domaine d’origine, l’idée de substitution par rapport à un mot ordinaire absent mais disponible. . . . The Aristotelian idea of the allotrios brings together three ideas of similar tendency: the idea of deviation in relation to ordinary language usage; the idea of borrowing from a field of origin; that of substitution with respect to an absent but available common word.
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A point little reflected in classical tradition is that of the signal context C that indicates the presence of a trope. Harald Weinrich (1976: 317– 327) explicitly draws attention to this point, declaring metaphor to be a component of text semantics and pinning down its cause as counterdetermination—a concept he also explicates pragmatically as a process of breaking down the anticipated expectation of the recipient. Here we shall be content with providing a semiosyntactic understanding of counter-determination. In this endeavour, assistance is obtained from the three-digit relationship S2, S1, C. A well-known passage from T.S. Eliot’s poem “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” will demonstrate this relationship: (130) hands/That lift and drop a question on your plate.
It is immediately clear that a question represents the trope S2, signalled by the sentence of the surrounding context C as a semantic deviation. How can this initially intuitive observation be verified? Lift and drop are transitive verbs requiring an object in the sentence, with the semantic features (+physical object), (+concrete), (+extended), (+firm), (+having weight), (+tactile). The noun a question violates the collocation conditions in all these points, since its semes are diametrically opposite: (–physical object), (–concrete), (–extended) and so on. The phenomenon is well known in rhetoric textbooks. Accordingly, a concrete entity is here replaced by an abstract one. The concrete entity in this case is the substitutum S1, which has to be found in accordance with the co-occurrence limitations mentioned. To begin with, let us carry out a few further substitution tests using Eliot’s context pattern. The purpose of this substitution exercise is to demonstrate the semantic deviation in various ways. The following examples are relevant here: (131) a) b) c) d) e) f) g)
hands / That lift and drop
a question on your plate a cookie a never a planet a wine an odour a Ceres
Of these substitutes, only (b) fulfils all the semantic context conditions; (c) violates the rule of nominal categories by de-adverbial conversion and is a case of morphosyntactic deviation; (d) to (g) are, for various reasons, semantically incongruent to the preceding and to the subsequent text; (d) because of the feature of oversize (the size of a planet
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vastly exceeding that of a plate); (e) because of the features (–solid) and (+fluid); (f ) because of the features (–solid ), (–tactile) and (+olfactory); finally, (g) due to its features (+personative) and (+divine). All these are possibilities of semaesthetic deviation. The questions whether there are greater and lesser deviations, and consequently higher and lower degrees of poeticity, can be answered in this case that on the basis of the context limitations it is possible to hierarchise determinable semantic object features. The rule would then be that the higher in the hierarchy of features the rule violation takes place, the higher the deviation and thus the higher the literariness. Unfortunately, linguistics has so far been unable to provide a final answer regarding a hierarchy of semantic features. Even if it were possible to construct a general pyramid of semes for all possible meanings of a language, from a pragmatic point of view it would remain an unresolved problem whether recipients might not have established quite a different scale of poeticity on their own. Thus Harald Weinrich (1976: 295–316) makes the bold claim (still to be verified) that in a smaller “image span” (that is, the relation S2-C) the semantic deviation is perceived more vividly than in a larger one, and he supports his assertion, inter alia, on the basis of the “distance metaphor,” love triangle, and the “proximity metaphor,” triangle of the quadrangle. While this discussion, in making use of the terms “contradiction” or “contradictory predication,” assumes the synchronicity of the text-semantic combination, a historical pragmatics would proceed according to a scale of the habitualisation of a trope. Even the largest deviation can pale beyond recognition by continued usage, so that eventually the deviation will no longer be noticed by the recipient. In this way, a bold metaphor turns into a dead metaphor. As a result of the discussion so far, we can say that the quality, number and possibly degree of generality of the deviating semes play a part in the constitution of tropes. The complete extent of the problem has as yet been inadequately explored. Opinions about details diverge widely. Only such theoreticians as stand firmly in the classical tradition are agreed that tropes represent a relationship involving semantic substitution. Other authors (for example, Ingendahl 1971) disagree. In their opinion S1 does not exist and is quite impossible to explore, for, they argue, tropes and, particularly, metaphors are something “original” that cannot be reduced to a substitutum (or substituendum). One must reply that the signal context C already imposes a selection limitation on the place of the deviation S2; in the case of our Eliot
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quotation (130), this limitation allocates to the noun as object the semantic features (+physical object), (+concrete) and so on. The more concrete the context, that is, the more features it yields, the closer the selection limitation becomes and the more unambiguously one can determine the substitutum S1. If in the Eliot quotation we substitute a question by S1: (132) hands/That lift and drop S1 on your plate,
then the expression hands/That lift and drop narrows down the meaning of the object S1 to a body of a certain weight and density. The expression on a plate provides an additional limitation on the content, now with regard to the size of the body, so that the sememe S1, beside the properties named so far, also has the features (+portable by hand), (+having plate size), (+density), and so on. If one also takes into account the macro-context of the quotation—the description of a dinner party in Boston—then the feature (+part of a dinner party) is added. Therefore, semantic back-transformations of (130) such as (133) hands/That lift and drop a cookie (a bun, a napkin . . .) on your plate
have a fairly high degree of probability. In examples with a lower context determination, finding S1 becomes considerably more difficult. If we want to arrive at a classification of the tropes, we have to use the relationship of S2 to S1 as a basis. In (131) this relationship can be explained as the semantic opposition of abstractness and concreteness (a), of largeness and smallness (d), of content and container (e), of olfactory and tactile impressions (f ), of human and non-human items (g). Such substitutional relationships and others might serve as the starting basis for a classification of the tropes. To date, the classification has not been carried out with the necessary rigour. For one thing a failure to consider all semantic substitution possibilities available is apparent. For another the Greco-Latin nomenclature is still preferred although, contrary to this habit, it is clear that most of the usual terms lack precision—a fact which applies particularly to the metaphor. Finally, the inadequacy can also be ascribed to several substitution forms that are subsumed under one designation, for example, under “synecdoche,” the substitutions of a part-whole, species-genus, singular-plural, finished product-raw material, and vice versa in each example (Lausberg 1967: 69–71). This deficit can only be remedied if it becomes possible to find points of view that enable us to form larger
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categorical groups. Such groups are, for instance, suggested by Lausberg (1967: 64) in his distinction between jump tropes (for example, metaphor, irony) and boundary-shift tropes (for example, metonymy, synecdoche). Not greatly differing from this classification is Roman Jakobson’s differentiation of two fundamental semantic operations: the similarity operation and the contiguity operation, which can also be called metaphoric and metonymic ways, respectively (1971: 323–333). In the case of similarity semantically equivalent parts are replaced; in the case of contiguity a predicative relation between S2 and S1 obtains. Such a division was first suggested by Wellek/Warren (1956: 183). Here we shall not further discuss Jakobson’s bold hypothesis that the metaphoric mode of description should be regarded as constitutive for the literary schools of Romanticism and Symbolism and the metonymic mode for Realism (see Lodge 1979: 73–124). Nor can we here go more closely into the result (Edeline et al. 1992)—valuable for a general semiotics—that the two starting assumptions can be transferred to other systems of signs (for example, to painting). However, two aspects appear to be worth considering: 1) the process character ascribed to the technique of tropisation, and 2) the universality claim for the two modes of operation. For these two reasons we shall subsequently postulate only two categories of substitutional change for the field of semantics, a metaphoric and a metonymic category (see also Henry 1971, Le Guern 1973). This postulate means that we suspend the pluralism of concepts for the field of tropes in favour of just two basic categories which are both more precise and more flexible because they can be systematically extended. We shall speak of similarity tropes, or types of metaphor, and of contiguity tropes, or types of metonymy. Examples of the former would be the above-mentioned relations “largeness-smallness” and “olfactory-tactile”; contiguity tropes would be represented by the substitutional relations “content-container” and “cause-effect.” The view taken here is characterised by the fact that it interprets the semantic substitution figures, or tropes, as a three-digit relationship: S2-S1-C. In this respect the postulate contrasts with a familiar view according to which tropes would have to be regarded as paradigmatic relations, the other figures as syntagmatic relations. However, for every rhetorical figure both aspects have to be taken into account. Sir Randolph Quirk puts this quite clearly with regard to metaphor: “A metaphor involves simultaneously a paradigmatic relation between the literal element it replaces and the figurative one it introduces, and
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a syntagmatic relationship between the literal and metaphorical elements in the linguistic environment” (quoted by Chapman 1973: 84). Even before that, Jerzy Pelc (1961) in an excellent linguistic study constructed a “metaphorical triangle” with components that resemble our chosen aspects very closely. 4.1.4.1
Similarity Tropes (Metaphors)
So much has already been written about the metaphor and its forms that reference can be made to only a small portion of the relevant literature for information about the current state of research. An indispensable working tool is still the bibliography with commentary on the metaphor presented by Shibles (1971). Van Noppen/de Knop/ Jongen (1985) and Van Noppen/Hols (1990) have added extensive supplements. Representative contributions of international metaphor research (approximately 1950–1980) are contained in an anthology compiled by Haverkamp (1996). A fairly comprehensive linguistic presentation is the treatise by Hugo Meier (1963). The discussion that follows is distinguished by its extension of the concept of metaphor to all similarity tropes and its interpretation of hyperbole, irony and allegory as specifically metaphoric aspects. These metasememes have in common that S2 and S1 (the latter still to be determined) exist in a similarity relationship due to a common semantic feature even though they belong to different word fields. The types of semantic difference result in a broad spectrum of possible substitutions, some of which will now be listed. − a) Substitution of (±abstract):(+abstract) When an expression with the property (+abstract) is replaced by one with the property (+concrete), a concretising metaphor is produced; in the opposite case, an abstracting metaphor. The latter is found in the Eliot example previously given (130 “hands/That lift and drop a question on your plate”), whereas the (much more frequent) concretising metaphor is represented in John Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress: (134) And he said unto me: “This miry slough is such a place as cannot be mended. It is the descent whither the scum and filth that attends conviction for sin doth continually run; and therefore it is called the Slough of Despond.”
Here the abstract concept, Despond, is concretised by Slough. Quite frequently we find a certain closeness of the concretising to the ani-
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mating metaphor, particularly so when—as happens in medieval morality plays—abstract virtues and vices are equipped with human properties. − b) Substitution of (±animate):(+animate) If the feature (+animate) is exchanged for the feature (–animate), this substitution results in a de-animating or reifying metaphor, such as: (135) a) at thy soul’s sunsetting (Algernon Charles Swinburne, Ave atque Vale) b) die Asche meiner Freuden (‘The ashes of my joys’) (Friedrich Hölderlin, Palinodie).
If the opposite type of substitution occurs, the metaphor is called “animating,” “animistic,” “kinetic” or, if the seme (+human) is added, “anthropomorphising,” such as: a) die Bächlein von den Bergen springen (‘The brooks from the mountains jump’) (Joseph von Eichendorff, Der frohe Wandersmann [‘The Happy Wanderer’]) b) Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own (William Wordsworth, Intimations of Immortality)
Both types of metaphor have a long tradition, reaching from the substitution paradigm animate/inanimate of classical rhetoric to its restoration in Hermann Pongs’ Beseeltypus (‘animating type’) and Erfühltypus (‘empathic type’). − c) Substitution of (±visual):(+visual) Expressions with the feature (+visual) are replaced by expressions with the feature (-visual) if they also have a feature such as (+acoustic), (+tactile), (+gustatory) or (+olfactory). This is the case in the following examples: (137) a) (+visual) ¤ (+acoustic) I see a voice (William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream V.i.190) b) (+visual) ¤ (+tactile) Von kühnen Felsen rinnen Lichter nieder From hardy rocks lights run down die Täler zu ergründen the valleys to explore (Clemens Brentano, Der Abend [The Evening])
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In operation here is the semantic exchange of sensory impressions in the form of synaesthetic (intersensory) metaphors. Just like the seme (+visual), the semes (+acoustic), (+tactile), (+gustatory) and (+olfactory) can also be replaced by the semes of the corresponding contrasting sensory perception, so that a closed paradigm of synaesthetic metaphors is produced (Stanford 1942; Ullmann 1967: 245–267). An item from the spectrum of these possible substitutions, (138) Thy voice was a censer that scattered strange perfumes (Oscar Wilde, Salome).
shows how the semantic feature (+acoustic) is replaced by the feature (+olfactory). Another example even demonstrates a double substitution (139) Stimmen, ins Grün der Wasserfläche geritzt (Paul Celan, Stimmen [Voices])
Voices, into the green o’ the water etched
The place of the feature (+acoustic) in the participle clause is taken by the features (+visual) and (+tactile). Leech (1969: 159–160) calls this phenomenon, which can occur in any semantic substitution form, a “compound metaphor.” This possibility makes a paradigmatics of synaesthetic metaphors appear to be extremely complex. A final example will be taken from The Rose of Persia, an opera by Sir Arthur Sullivan (composer) and Basil Wood (librettist): Let Adulation’s pleasant breeze His Royal nostrils reach Perfumed with spice of similes And fragrant flowers of speech! Let dull and leaden-coloured clouds Of ordinary crowds Before the Sun of Royal Pride Respectfully Divide!
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This passage is characterised by a complex density of metaphorical substitutions: of (–sensory) by (+gustatory) and (+olfactory), of (+abstract) by (+animistic). The density of intersensory and animistic metaphors is typical of the nineteenth-century fin de siècle literature of décadence. − d) Substitution of (±positive):(+positive) When a sememe with the feature (+positive) replaces another one with the feature (–positive), then we have an ironic metaphor or—in a pragmatically more precise term—a simulation-ironic metaphor. For here the surface structure simulates an affirmative evaluation whereas the signal context exposes it as negative. Possibly the best known example for such a semantic inversion is taken from Marc Antony’s speech in Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar: (140) He [Caesar] was my friend, faithful and just to me: But Brutus says he was ambitious; And Brutus is an honourable man (Julius Caesar III.ii.90–92).
The adjective honourable, appearing to be positive in the surface structure, is here inverted into its opposite (dishonourable) by a contrasting signal context which is much reinforced in the subsequent lines. The converse case of metasemic transformation, which exchanges the feature (+positive) for the feature (–positive), produces a dissimulative-ironic metaphor. This designation refers to the hiding of an affirmative evaluation behind an apparently negative one. This includes not only the so-called Socratic irony (“One thing only I know, and that is that I know nothing”), but also the topos of self-belittlement or affective modesty (mea parvitas), which can be found in introductions to literary works since classical times (Curtius 1993: 413–414; Arbusov 1963: 104–106). Dissimulative metaphors can be found for instance in the opening poem of the cycle by the Roman poet Catullus: (141) Carmen I Cui dono lepidum novum libellum arida modo pumice expolitum? Corneli, tibi: namque tu solebas meas esse aliquid putare nugas,
To whom do I give this pleasant new booklet, just polished up with dry pumice-stone? To you, Cornelius: because you used to like my trifles somewhat
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chapter four iam tum, cum ausus es unus Italorum when you were heard as the only Roman omne aevum tribus explicare cartis, to explicate our whole age in three volumes, doctis, Iuppiter, et laboriosis. scholarly and difficult ones, by Jupiter. quare habe tibi, quidquid hoc libelli, Therefore take whatever this booklet is qualecumque; quod, o patrona virgo, for what it may be worth; which, o patroness Virgin, plus uno maneat perenne saeclo! may last for more than just one century!
The terms “booklet” (libellus) and “trifles” (nugae) affect a disparaging attitude that, however, is belied by the signal context of the subsequent poems: they are not in the least literary nonentities but an artistically designed collection of highly sophisticated poetic texts. Libellus and nugae are ironic metaphors belonging to a specific exordial situation of literary communication; the signal context is not only textual but also of a conventional pragmatic nature. This last example demonstrates the importance of the pragmatics of sign communication in recognising occurrences of irony. Categories that rely completely on the pragmatic aspect are, for instance, asteïsmus (‘urbane irony’), charientismus (‘charming irony’), diasyrmus (‘derisive irony’), mycterismus (‘scornful irony’), and sarcasmus (‘bitter irony’)—figures that each imply a certain attitude adopted by the speaker. Dramatic (tragic) irony, too, touches on the pragmatic, since a discrepancy between the unwitting dramatic figure and the informed audience, corresponding to the difference between negative and positive evaluation, arises. Which of the two is valid is decided (usually negatively) by fate itself. Finally, Romantic irony probably also has deep roots in a pragmatic or pragmasemantic question: the problem of the ego in relation to itself and the world. In this sense the results of Muecke (1969), Behler (1981) and other researchers should be reinterpreted semiotically. Admittedly, such an undertaking reaches beyond the borders of linguistics (Lapp 1992) and of rhetoric (Booth 1975). The complexity of irony as distinct from related phenomena is dealt with thoroughly by W.G. Müller (1988). − e) Substitution of (+large):(±large) If a linguistic unit with the feature (–large) is replaced by one with the feature (+large), this results in a hyperbolic (exaggerating) metaphor.
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If the converse occurs, this is called a meiotic (understating) metaphor. Two hyperbolic metaphors occur in the second stanza of Richard Crashaw’s The Weeper: (142) Heavens thy fair eyes be; Heavens of ever-falling stars; ’Tis seed-time still with thee, And stars thou sow’st whose harvest dares Promise the earth to countershine Whatever makes Heaven’s forehead fine.
Eyes/heavens and tears/ever-falling stars are semantic substitutions with the same opposition of features (–large):(+large). Here hyperbolic metaphors are further complicated by a second semantic substitution (stars/seed ), resulting in a “compound metaphor.” On the other hand, T.S. Eliot’s The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock displays a meiotic metaphor in (143) To have squeezed the universe into a ball,
where the universe is reduced to the size of a ball. Hamlet, too, when he “crawls between heaven and earth” (III.i.131) refers to himself in a disparaging manner (crawls), as if he were not fully mature. Here the close relationship between meiotic and dissimulatory metaphor can be seen, the only difference being that the former lays greater emphasis on the quantitative aspect of semantic substitution, whereas in the second the evaluative aspect predominates. The metaphoric types (a) through (e) are only a few of the best known. Quite certainly, many other kinds of similarity of substitution are conceivable. For all of them the rule prevails that they are localised on different linguistic levels: the morphological, the syntactic and the textological. On the morphological level one can distinguish, inter alia, between nominal, verbal, adjectival and adverbial metaphors. The syntax of metaphor (Brooke-Rose 1958) comprises the genitive combination (sea of life), the “is” predication (he is a lion in battle), and the causative connection with “make” (his courage made him a lion in battle). Metaphors acquire heightened poeticity if they coincide with morphological or syntactic forms of deviation, for example, wordplay or parallelism. The designation “textological metaphor” is used for allegory, which since Antiquity has been known as “continued metaphor” (continuata translatio). Its essential characteristic is that it extends over several sentences. According to this view, it can occur in varieties
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of anthropomorphic, ironic and hyperbolic allegory. It is not very surprising then that it approaches, inter alia, the terminological vicinity of irony (Lausberg 1998: §§ 895–901; MacQueen 1970: 49–50) and personification. Numerous anthropomorphic allegories were known in medieval times—from Prudentius’ Psychomachia to the Roman de la Rose and Everyman. If the signal context is slightly concretised, then a large number of substitutes S1 occur. The result is a “dark allegory.” If the signal context has a great semantic density, then the possibilities for substituting S1 are increasingly reduced; the allegory becomes transparent or shallow, for example, in animal fables where the “key” to the fabula docet provided at the end clearly brings out the meaning S1. Finally, the possibility should be mentioned that the signal context may have a highly complex semantic form. Complexity occurs when a text offers a multiple allegorical transformation—for instance, in the fourfold interpretation of Scripture (Ohly 1977: 1–31). A linguistic description of this phenomenon would have to start from the fact that here the problem is a specifically textological variant of the “compound metaphor” touched on earlier. A few short remarks shall be dedicated to the aesthetic pragmatics of similarity tropes. More than once their history has shown both in theory and practice that three of them are not to be regarded as lending themselves to the creation of poeticity: the necessary, the mixed and the dead metaphor. The necessary metaphor, or catachresis, occupies the place in everyday language of a semantic shortfall and is not felt to be a metasememe. Examples are: (144) a) ein Bergrücken b) the foot of a hill c) la tête d’un pont
(a mountain ridge, literally: the back of a mountain) (the head of a bridge)
The mixed metaphor (kakózelon) is felt to be ridiculous, being a violation of literary decorum, since it scrambles several semantically incompatible fields. An example is quoted by Chapman (1973: 77): (145) I smell a rat, I see it floating in the air, but I hope to nip it in the bud.
The dead metaphor or “ex-metaphor” has lost its stylistic potency, because a discrepancy between S1 and S2 is no longer noticed, owing to the age-old habitualisation of S2. The state that prevails is one of monosemy; the relation S2-S1 has attained a single meaning. The examples
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(146) a) custodian of the law = police b) killing time = wasting time c) sudden death (football, basketball) = first team to score (overtime) wins
are specimens of the lexicalisation of such metaphors. They show clearly that the historical development of a language not only produces poetic deviations—as is the case in archaism—but can exhaust them. Whereas a glance at metaphorical pragmatics finds a relatively evenhanded assessment of the three types of metaphor we have discussed, the evaluation of the metaphor types (a) through (e) has differed at various times. This difference is shown by the discussion of the ironic metaphor and its variants (Muecke 1969). Along the way a notable difference of opinion regarding the bold metaphor can be observed. It is also known by the name of concetto (‘conceit’). Its peculiar property is that it carries out a connection of semes that strike the recipient as highly strained or incompatible (Ruthven 1969, Van Hook 1986). Disputes about this topic have been so varied and fruitful for the determination of literariness that their historical description is practically an ideal training ground for rhetorical pragmatics. 4.1.4.2
Contiguity Tropes (Metonymies)
Tropes of this kind are based on the semantic closeness (contiguity) of the substitution elements. It occurs when S2 and S1 are in a predicative relationship. Jakobson (1971: 328) presents the example of the word “hut” and, as metonymic reactions to this stimulus, the terms “thatch,” “litter” and “poverty.” Contained in these are the contiguities whole-part; container-content; and effect-cause. In these relational forms, thatch, litter and poverty can become predicative statements about hut: (147) a) A hut has a thatch. b) The floor of this hut is strewn with litter. c) Poverty compels people to live in huts.
In normative stylistics, a number of contiguity substitutions are bundled together under such terms as synecdoche (part-whole, speciesgenus, singular-plural), antonomasia (proper name-appellativum) and metonymy (cause-effect, space-spatial content, time-temporal content). We shall simplify this partly rather inconsistent subdivision by interpreting all contiguity substitutions as types of metonymy. Some
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of them will be illustrated in the following description. As in the case of metaphor, the context carries a signal function. a) Substitution of (+general):(+particular) / (+particular):(+general) When a semantic unit with the feature (+general) is replaced by one with the feature (+particular), the result is a particularising metonymy. The reverse substitution results in a generalising metonymy. The former type of metonymy is produced by the addition of semes, the latter by their deletion. Both these semaesthetic transformations, which till now have been allocated terminologically to synecdoche (Dubois et al. 1974: 170–173), permit further subclassifications: (+total):(+partial), (+genus):(+species), (+plural): (+singular), (+nomen proprium):(+nomen appellativum). As an example of a particularising metonymy in which the feature (+total) is exchanged for the feature (+partial), a passage from Michael Drayton’s Agincourt poem will suffice: (148) Fair stood the wind for France, When we our sails advance.
Here the part (sails) replaces the whole (ships). Another particularising phrase is taken from Georg Trakl’s poem Stundenlied, (149) . . . reif ist die Traube Und festlich die Luft in geräumigen Höfen,
ripe is the grape and festive the air in spacious courtyards,
where the singular die Traube (grape) stands for the plural. Conversely, we find a generalising metonymy in Shakespeare’s King John: (150) Pour down thy weather (IV.ii.109),
where the genus weather is a substitute for the species rain. Finally, the (frequently misunderstood) metonymy Denmark in Hamlet also performs a generalising function: (151) Something is rotten in the state of Denmark (Hamlet I.iv.90).
Denmark, of course, refers to King Claudius, not to the country. The more general proper name takes the place of the specific one. In the final example the semantic figure goes by the term of antonomasia in traditional rhetoric. Its special feature is that a well known proper name is represented by a prominent characteristic of its bearer or an appellative by the proper name of a distinguished representative. The first type of antonomasia provides for, inter alia, the following substitutions of the proper name by:
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a) the patronymicum (or matronymicum): “faire Venus sonne” (Spenser) = Cupid; b) the ethnicum: “Der Nazaräner” (‘the Nazarene’) (Klopstock) = Jesus; c) the etymologicum: “stony name” (Southwell) = Peter; d) the appearance: “der Ritter mit der eisernen Faust” (‘the knight with the iron fist’) (Goethe) = Götz von Berlichingen; e) the activity: “the great Proclaimer” (Milton) = John the Baptist.
The second type of antonomasia, so-called Vossian antonomasia, is represented by the examples: a) “ein Lohengrin” (Brecht) = “ein edler Ritter” (‘a noble knight’); b) “some mute, inglorious Milton” (Gray) = “some . . . poet”; c) “you dread Hectors” (Cleveland) = “you dread warriors.”
Le Guern (1973: 35) doubts whether in this case one can still speak of a contiguity relationship S2-S1 and considers its possible classification as a similarity trope (metaphor). b) Substitution of (+causative):(+induced) / (+induced):(+causative) If in a semantic unit we replace the feature of cause by that of effect and vice versa, we obtain a semantic shift determined by the principle of causality. As in the case of the contiguity relationship (a), here subclassifications are also possible, for example, those of inventor-invention; author-work; deity-field of responsibility; and raw material-finished product. They are illustrated by expressions such as (152) a) to know one’s Racine (instead of the works of Racine) by heart; b) to drink the Bacchus (instead of wine) (cf. 131.g); c) to buy a Porsche (instead of a car made by the Porsche company).
While in each of these examples a noun exercises the function of causative metonymy, in the following example an adjective assumes this role: (153) der bleiche Tod (‘pale death’).
Death is called pale not because that is a colour pertaining to death, but because death causes the dead to pale. The reversal of the causeeffect relationship is demonstrated by a sentence from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet: (154) We see the ground whereon these woes do lie (V.iii.179).
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Here instead of woes one would have to substitute something like these dead who cause our woes to produce a semantically correct construction. c) Substitution of (+substantial):(+accidental) / (+accidental): (+substantial) If the feature (+substantial) is replaced by the feature (+accidental ), and conversely, a semantic shift based on the principle of attribution results. This shift is manifested, inter alia, in the subordinate contiguity relations person (object)-attribute and property carrier-property. Kuznec/Skrebnev (1968: 27) offer an apt example for the attainment of independence by the attribute: (155) “Good morning, sir.” Authority has suddenly changed into subservience. “I hear you had some trouble with the turnstiles this morning,” said Evelyn benevolently.—“Trouble, sir? Turnstiles?” replied subservience, as if quite at a loss to understand the sinister allusion. “They’ve told you wrong . . .” Subservience sprang round the counter.
In this Bennett quotation the expression subservience takes the place of the semantically correct subservient man. By analogy the same goes for authority. The change between (arrogated) authority and subservience is thus presented as the totally dominant feature in the character of this man who, as it were, is absorbed in these characteristics. The same abstraction takes place when in Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night Viola takes leave of Olivia with the words: (156) Farewell, fair cruelty (Twelfth Night I.v.307)!
Grammatical correctness would here require the sentence to be: Farewell, fair and cruel lady! d) Substitution of (+content):(+container) / (+container):(+content) The two aspects of this metonymy, which can be called internalising and externalising, respectively, are expressed, inter alia, in the contiguity substitution of space-space content and time-time content. For the externalising variant the following examples can be offered: (157) a) to drink a glass (instead of the liquid contained in a glass); b) to study the Middle Ages (instead of the history of the Middle Ages).
Internalising metonymy is represented by examples such as
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(158) a) to hold the brandy (instead of the glass filled with brandy) in your hand (see 131 e)); b) to vanish for the length of a cigarette (instead of for the time it takes to smoke a cigarette).
Such examples demonstrate that this type of metonymy also exists in everyday language. However, it only attains aesthetic significance in, for example, the Eliot line (The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock): (159) I have measured out my life with coffee-spoons,
where the contiguity trope coffee-spoons substitutes the time interval during which one normally uses this kitchen utensil (“coffee time”). A specially noteworthy case arises when a part of the body replaces a property localised in it (or thought to be localised in it), and vice versa. We find an illustration of this replacement in the third strophe of Hoffmann von Fallersleben’s Deutschlandlied: (160) Danach lasst uns alle streben Let us all strive for that, brüderlich mit Herz und Hand. brotherly, with heart and hand.
Here, heart and hand are metasememes for patriotism and energy. In these examples the contiguity relationship assumes symbolic meaning. e) Digression: Pragmasemantic or Symbolic Metonymy This type of metonymy, regularly called a “symbol,” signifies a particularising contiguity substitution that is subject to habitual strengthening by the communication process. Deciphering it is not always easy since it requires a knowledge of the pragmatic context. In principle symbolic metonymy can be realised in all the forms presented so far. But a particularly well-developed form is the substitution relation (+substantial):(+accidental), which can be demonstrated by an example from James Shirley: (161) Sceptre and Crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Sceptre and crown here stand for kings, and the poor crooked scythe and spade for the expression “poor farmers.” Understanding these symbols presupposes the knowledge that sceptre and crown are the traditional insignia of the king and that when the poem was composed scythe and spade were the typical working tools of peasants. Other metonymic
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symbols are weapons (instead of war), pen (instead of scholarship), toga (instead of peace, used by Cicero), hourglass (instead of time), eye (instead of God, as in The Great Gatsby), the letter A (instead of adultery, as featured so prominently in Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter), and so on. As some of the listed examples show, the roots of the symbol do not lie exclusively in linguistic facts but rather language here is merely—in the words of Le Guern—“la traduction dans le langage d’un rapport extralinguistique qui pourra être exprimé dans une autre langue naturelle sans subir de modification perceptible” (1973: 40). The contiguity tropes dealt with, (a) through (e), are only a few out of many possibilities. Like the metaphor, they can be realised on different linguistic levels, so that, for example, we have a subject metonymy and an object metonymy. A textological metonymy can be named periphrasis. This terminological definition represents a refinement of the term often used very widely for many opaque stylistic phenomena (Lausberg 1967: 67–69)—a refinement that is nevertheless anchored in its origin (Quintilian, Inst. Or. VIII.vi.59ff.). Briefly, it implies that a textological sememe replaces a smaller one, where as a rule the larger sememe carries such features as (+particular), (+accidental ), (+caused ), and the smaller one such features as (+general), (+substantial), and (+causative). As a result of such a procedure, a semantic text nucleus is split up into a multitude of details. Roman Jakobson (1971) surmises, as has been mentioned above, that realistic prose descriptions are the breeding ground for the increased appearance of metonymies. Semantic anomalies, such as those represented by tropes, can have their deviational character pared down. This reduction is achieved by the means of “modalisation” (Todorov 1971: 368). Such means could be syntactic “precautionary formulas” (Lausberg) such as ut ita dicam, as it were, sozusagen, dirait-on, or graphemic signals such as italics, inverted commas and capitals. Their functional position is a metapragmatic one. They point to the trope as an anomaly and thereby deprive it of its direct effect. What they produce is aesthetic distance.
TEXT ANALYSES
In the following discussion two lyrical texts will be shown to illustrate various structural patterns and functions of literary tropisation.
Johann Wolfgang Goethe, “Kennst du das Land . . .?” In: J.W. Goethe, Wilhelm Meisters theatralische Sendung. Frankfurt/ M.: Fischer, 1960, p. 155. At the beginning of the fourth book in Goethe’s Wilhelm Meisters theatralische Sendung, we find the well-known poem “Kennst du das Land,” the first strophe of which is as follows: 1 Kennst du das Land, wo die Zitronen 2 3 4 5 6 7
Do you know the land where the lemons blühn bloom, Im grünen Laub die Goldorangen glühn, Oranges glow gold in leafy gloom, Ein sanfter Wind vom blauen Himmel weht, A gentle wind wafts from the blue sky Die Myrte still und froh der Lorbeer steht, The myrtle silent and the laurel glad Kennst du es wohl? Do you know it? Dahin! Dahin To this place, then, Möcht’ ich mit dir, o mein Gebieter, Would I ever with thee go, my dearest ziehn! love!
This strophe of the poem consists of two sentences, the first of which contains a periphrasis that finds its continuation in the second and third strophes. The country referred to, as we find out later, is Italy. In the song its properties replace its name, and the semantic figure employed here is an antonomastic periphrasis. The whole (Italy) is resolved into its components (lemons, leafy gloom, golden orange trees . . .) and thereby presented in a concrete but at the same time riddling form—as the questions emphasise. The amount of detail becomes particularly striking when one reduces the initial complex sentence to a series of simple declarative clauses:
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chapter four There is a land. The land has lemons. The lemons bloom. The land has golden oranges. The golden oranges glow. The golden oranges glow through the foliage. The foliage is green. The land has wind. The wind is gentle. The wind blows. The wind blows from the sky. The sky is blue. The land has myrtle trees. The myrtle trees are still. The land has laurel trees. The laurel trees are glad.
The analysis reveals that the periphrasis consists of five individual metonymies. Part of these in turn are again metonymies. In die Zitronen blühn (the lemons bloom) the effect (lemons) replaces the cause (lemon tree). In verse 4 a singular twice replaces a plural (synecdoche). Moreover, there are metaphors, mostly of an anthropomorphising kind (v.3: sanft [‘gentle’], v.4: still [‘silent’], v.4: froh [‘glad’]). Accordingly in verses 1–4 two tropic orders of magnitude can be recorded: a framing textological trope, the periphrasis of the name “Italy,” and several internal morphological tropes that are partly metonymic, partly metaphorical. The augmented tropisation is accompanied by a series of other figures: prosodic (verse), phonic (rhyming couplets) and syntactic (parallelism, chiasm), which all intensify the aesthetics of the text. In addition, the text of the strophe is embedded in a lyrical communication situation taking place in the interaction of two pragmatic figures: question and exclamation. The exclamatio remains the same in strophes 1 and 2; in strophe 3 it is slightly varied. It represents the refrain of the poem—a form of textological repetition. The question has to be considered as quite “rhetorical” in all strophes (interrogatio); a reply is superfluous since the components of the periphrasis are concrete enough to identify Italy with great certainty. In the same way the substitutes S1 in strophes 2 and 3 are comparatively easy to deduce: they are: classical (Italian) villa and Alpine pass.
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Emily Dickinson, “I like to see it lap the Miles” In: The Poems of Emily Dickinson, ed. T.H. Johnson. 3 vols. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1955, vol. II, pp. 447–448 (No. 585): 1
I like to see it lap the Miles— And lick the Valleys up— And stop to feed itself at Tanks— And then—prodigious step
5
Around a Pile of Mountains— And supercilious peer In Shanties—by the sides of Roads— And then a Quarry pare
10
15
To fit its sides And crawl between Complaining all the while In horrid-hooting stanza— Then chase itself down Hill— And neigh like Boanerges— Then—prompter than a Star Stop—docile and omnipotent At its own stable door—
One of the best known of Emily Dickinson’s poems, it has received an excellent interpretation by Hans Galinsky in Wegbereiter moderner amerikanischer Lyrik. Heidelberg: C. Winter, 1968, pp. 61–67. My additional remarks here are made in the context of the metasememes dealt with in this chapter. The poem consists of a single sentence. Subject and object are personal pronouns: I and it. The latter represents the “logical subject” of the text, that is, its topic. It requires—as all pronouns do—a semantic concretisation. In this case, however, the concrete is not achieved by the insertion of a lexeme as substituendum but by ascribing a whole series of activities to it: lap the Miles, lick the Valleys up, and so on. The semanticisation of it thus takes place “indirectly”—by means of contiguity substitution; a substance is replaced by its accidentals. Therefore, it is a periphrasis that represents the framing trope of this text. A few components of this periphrasis (tank, hooting) indicate that the personal pronoun it should be identified with the lexeme (railway) train. Since the concrete clues in the text are comparatively sparse, such an identification can ultimately be realised only in a text-external manner,
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that is, by means of the present knowledge of the state of technological development in the United States at the time the poem was composed (ca. 1862). So far it has become clear that the poem was conceived as a semantic riddle (aenigma). Adding to this character is the fact that within the periphrasis the tropisation is continued. Its basis is a series of metaphors. They originate from two sectors, animal and human. Their function is to alienate the object of description, “train,” even further. A closer consideration of the types of metaphor and their distribution throughout the text will demonstrate how this alienation is achieved. 1. Animistic metaphors: This term signifies the replacement of semantic units with the feature (–animate) by those with the feature (+animate). Such units are found in the expressions lap the Miles (1), lick the Valleys up (2), feed itself at tanks (3) and crawl between (10). These metaphors give life to the machine (“animate” it), make it a living being. Remaining indeterminate is whether the poem is about man or animal, since the activities of licking up, feeding, and crawling can be ascribed to either. 2. Animal metaphors: This term signifies the replacement of semantic units with the feature (–animate) by those with the feature (+animate) + (+animal ). A metaphor of this kind is found in neigh (14). Here the action of the machine is equated to the action of a horse (such expressions as iron horse or Dampfross are almost dead metaphors). Again, the expression stable door (17) represents the sphere of an animal. If one interprets animistic metaphors such as lick up (2) or crawl (10) as animal metaphors, then one can differentiate further. Then the train appears not only to be a horse but also, perhaps, a cat or snake, animals to which the properties of licking up (2) or crawling (10) are ascribed as specific to their species. The semantic description of these relations is such that to the seme (+animal) further semes are added: (+belonging to the horse) and so on. 3. Anthropomorphising metaphors: This term signifies the replacement of semantic units with the features (–animate) + (–human) by those with the features (+animate) + (+human). This category comprises such expressions as step (4), supercilious (6), peer (6), pare (8), to fit its sides (9), complaining (11). They endow the machine with human characteristics and activities. It becomes arrogant, it complains, looks out curiously, walks about, cuts, fits. The striking aspect of the distribution of these metaphoric types is that they are blended in the text. At the beginning of the text the ani-
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mistic imagery predominates whereas the middle section of the text is characterised by the dominance of anthropomorphising metaphors. Animal metaphors form the conclusion of the text. The result of such a blend is semantic instability. The train appears as animate, animal, human. The recipients’ reaction to such a description is uncertainty, astonishment. We are especially unsure ourselves at the beginning of the poem where we search in vain for substitutive lexemes for it. The subsequent metaphoric jumps leave us unclear which tropic identification is really valid. Further metasememes reinforce this impression of oscillation even further. Hans Galinsky points out that the final lines (15–17), Then—prompter than a Star Stop—docile and omnipotent At its own stable door—
contain two paradoxes: firstly, no star stops its movement; secondly, two properties are ascribed to the machine which exclude each other: obedience clashes with omnipotence. Both semantic deviations have the function of immersing the essence of the machine into an oscillating light. Not the least aspect of this movement is the ambivalent appearance of technology: the possibility of being dominated by man or—conversely—of dominating man. Moreover, an additional semantic aspect is apparent. The metaphors of this poem are characterised not only by the exchange of the inanimate and the animate but frequently also by the substitution of small and large. Thus the train appears, by means of a metaphoric trait called hyperbole, as an over-dimensional living being that eats up the miles, licks up valleys, strides along mightily, gazes arrogantly and cuts stone quarries into two. Later on, two comparisons continue this exaggeration: And neigh like Boanerges Then—prompter than a Star.
Boanerges is of Biblical origin, meaning Sons of Thunder (Marc. 3, 17). The example is symptomatic for the “semantic revaluation” which the train undergoes at the hands of the hyperbolic language. The machine is raised into the mythical and cosmic sphere. As such, it evokes admiration if not love in the observer: “I like to see it . . .”. The verse line in horrid-hooting stanza
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adapts to this imagery, possibly even enriching it by a nuance of the terrible-comical, which would harmonise with the semantic ambiguity described above. This analysis can be summarised as follows: we know that metasememes are generated by a substitutive transformation of units of meaning. Here such a transformation first takes place in the form of a periphrasis occupying the whole of the text, the first step of the semantic riddling. The second step concerns the metaphorisation of the periphrastic details. In both steps the object of the text, a train, is elevated to the status of a living being, part animal, part human, of mythical dimensions. Throughout, it maintains the double face of that which is both potentially dangerous and at the same time pleasantly familiar. The cause for the metasememic change is the I quoted in the first sentence: I like to see it. . . . The I completes the transformation of the sensual world into an imaginative one. From that point of view, the see even acquires metaphorical qualities: it changes from a verb of optical perception to a verb of mental vision.
4.2
Figures of Semantic Equivalence (Isosememes)
Figures of meaning that follow the principle of the equivalence of repeat terms are isosemic or nearly isosemic (Pelc 1961: 307), where isosemy means that the type and number of semantic features of a linguistic unit are equal. Complete identity of the semes is probably the case if the member of a word class is repeated with equal sound, form, syntactic and semantic environment, unless some emphasis changes the seme content of a word repetition. The situation is less definite in the case of synonymy, which is characterised by a difference of the “word bodies” (their vehicles) while their contents are equal (see Chapter 4.2.5.3.). However, there is no unanimity in linguistics whether this equality should be regarded merely as a similarity. Synonymity is of great importance in the listing of linguistic units whose seme structures are related, for example, in Andreas Gryphius’ (162) Der Fürst der Finsternis mit Weh, the Prince of Darkness deep with grief, Ach, Angst und Leid, woe, fear and pain
where the features (+belonging to a living being), (+emotional), (+negative), (+painful ) and so on form the common denominator of the
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synonymous expressions Weh, Ach, Angst, Leid. A special part in this context is played by hendiadys (‘one through two’), for example, in George Herbert’s poem The Rose (163) judge and sentence,
that links together two semantically equivalent expressions by means of the conjunction and in order to bestow even greater emphasis on the common seme potential. Beside these forms of synonymous equivalence a place belongs to poetic comparison (similitudo). Its syntactic structure is that of asas; its semantic structure consists of two (or more) semantic units (sememes) joined together by a common set of semantic features (semes), the so-called tertium comparationis. Thus in the example (164) Peter is as tall as his brother,
the semantic units Peter and his brother are coordinated by the common feature of size. Further, in the sentence, (165) Peter fights like a soldier,
the fighting represents the common semantic denominator of Peter and soldier. In the first case the vehicle of the common semic potential is an adjective, but in the second, a verb. Now nobody would seriously claim that the two sentences are poetic, since in this or similar forms they occur quite frequently in everyday language. In order to attain poetic quality comparisons have to comply with additional requirements. Such is the case, for instance, when the two members of the comparison show semantic divergence. We call this phenomenon a secondary deviation. To explain it, let us remind ourselves that ever since classical antiquity the definition of the metaphor as an abbreviated comparison has become a topical component of rhetoric. When we then reverse this equation and call the comparison an expanded metaphor, the second member of the comparison (the component following the second as) appears to be the result of a similarity substitution. The oppositions of features are the same as for the metaphor, so analogous comparison types do exist. Thus for instance in the examples, (166) a) Peter fights like a titan b) Peter walks like a snail c) The skyscraper points to the sky like a threatening fist,
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a hyperbolic, an ironic and a kinetic comparison, respectively, exist. Here, too—in analogy to the metaphor—dead comparisons do occur, such as (167) Peter fights like a lion.
This comparison has become so hackneyed by continued use that it has lost its poetic energy. The textological extension of a comparison can be named parable. In a parable the first as component is often brief, but the second as component is then frequently extended. If we call the first component S1 and the second S2, then obviously there are too few seme correlates in S2 for S1. In other words, S2 possesses a semantic surplus (redundancy). We are thus forced on our own to supplement the corresponding sememes in S1. For some parables (such as Homer’s) this is scarcely possible any longer, since there S2 has become so separate from S1 that a general semantic equivalence—lacking details—can only be established on many subjects. If S1 is missing completely—frequently as a result of the excessive length of S2—then a text break (ellipsis) occurs. Parables can be found in epic poetry, in fables and the Bible. A secondary semantic deviation of a special kind is represented by antithesis. It creates a syntagmatic relation not between synonyms but between antonyms; this normally takes the form of a parallelism in sentences. Škreb (1968: 51) mentions correlative, contradictory and contrary terms that contribute to the formation of antitheses. But in terms of the nomenclature used so far it seems better to speak here of the constitution of a minus opposition in the supply of semes, for example (+large):(–large). The larger the built-up of such oppositions in syntactically equivalent units, the stronger the antithesis. A twodigit word antithesis is to be found in Georg Büchner’s slogan: (168) Friede den Hütten! Krieg den Palästen!
Peace to the huts! War to the palaces!
This text that represents a strict syntactic equivalence—its structural formula is S (Nsing.) + O (Artplur. dat + Nplur. dat)—displays the antonym pairs Friede/peace:Krieg/war and Hütten/huts:Paläste/palaces that contrast by means of numerous semic oppositions. This may be demonstrated by an example: (169) Huts (+poorly) (+wooden)
Palaces (–poorly) (–wooden)
Place of Residence value assessment building material
semantic figures (+low) (+unstable) (+narrow)
(–low) (–unstable) (–narrow) etc.
247 height strength extent
The individual seme oppositions are tied to each other through common hypersememes: value assessment, building material, and so on. Together, they represent the generic term that—usually not named—as tertium comparationis creates the unity of the antithesis. This generic term (hypersememe) is specified, for instance, in (169) as place of residence; in the pair of antonyms, Friede/peace: Krieg/war, as form of behaviour. A schematic representation of these relations (170) forms of behaviour
Peace
War
places of residence
Huts
Palaces
shows that the antithesis has to be counted among the figures of semantic equivalence and here again as belonging to the extreme form of secondary deviation. What is true for the relation of comparison and metaphor is equally valid for the relation of antithesis and oxymoron. While in the case of metaphor and oxymoron a primary semantic norm violation can be stated, the other two figures are such that they give a special profile to the text-semantic standard. That is why Shibles (1974: 7) commits a double fault when in an essay on metaphors, he devotes part of the discussion to “oxymoron or antithesis” [sic]. In the first place neither of these figures can be subsumed under the category “metaphor”; in the second, oxymoron is not in name and essence identical with antithesis. A greater differentiation in the treatment of antithesis comes from Kopperschmidt (1972), who also illuminates other figural aspects of the Büchner quotation (168). It is Škreb’s (1968: 52) merit to have pointed out that the anthithesis represents not only a synchronic but also a diachronic phenomenon. By way of illustration he quotes the following verse lines by Friedrich Schiller:
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chapter four (171) Zwischen Sinnenglück und Seelenfrieden Bleibt dem Menschen nur die bange Wahl.
Between senses’ joy and peace of the soul People are left with an anxious choice.
A contemporary will not necessarily see a contradiction in the pair of lexemes, Sinnenglück/senses’ joy:Seelenfrieden/peace of the soul. “But for Schiller—the historical Schiller—ideal and life, happiness of the senses and peace of the soul, were genuine antitheses” (Škreb 1968: 52). Such a statement also raises the question whether all semantic units, through their embeddedness in history, are not continuously exposed to mutations—mutations that can lead both to gain and loss in poeticity. With regard to loss of poeticity, the problem of the dead metaphor can be transferred to all other metasememes.
TEXT ANALYSES
Edmund Spenser, The Fairie Queene III.i.46 In: Edmund Spenser, The Poetical Works, ed. J.C. Smith & E. de Selincourt. London: Oxford University Press, 1960, p. 145. In Spenser’s The Fairie Queene (III.1.46), Britomart is described as follows:
A1
A2
{
1 2 3 4 5
For she was full of amiable grace, And manly terrour mixed therewithall That as the one stird vp affections bace, So th’other did mens rash desires apall, And hold them backe, that would in errour fall;
{
6 7 8 9
As he, that hath espide a vermeill Rose, To which sharpe thornes and breres the way forstall, Dare not for dread his hardy hand expose, But wishing it far off, his idle wish doth lose.
The strophe of the poem consists of a single sentence which is arranged in two semantically equivalent partial sentences. Of these, the first (1–5) contains the “first as” component A1, the second (6–9), the “second as” component A2 of the comparison. A1 contains the subject she, to which two antithetic properties are ascribed: amiable grace (1) and manly terrour (2), which respectively stir up (3) and rein in (4, 5) passions. A2 inverts the syntactic arrangement of A1 diametrically (chiasm). The she that in A1 is the subject now assumes as vermeill Rose (6) the position of an object, whereas the bearers of the passions in A1, men (4) and them (5), change from the position of object into the position of the subject he in A2. Britomart and her attributes are compared to a beautiful rose but at the same time one whose thorns repel the attentions of an unsolicited suitor. This comparison is determined by semantic equivalence relations between A1 and A2: a) amiable grace (1) and vermeill (Rose) (6); b) manly terrour (2) and sharpe thornes and breres (7); c) affections bace (3), rash desires (4), errour (5) and hardy hand (8), idle wish (9); c) apall (4), hold backe (5) and forstall (7).
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There is a contiguity relationship between the comparison terms in (a) and (b), just as between rash desires (4) and hardy hand (8) in (c). The other relations are of a synonymous kind. In this way a densely woven structure of seme-equivalence relations is created. But there is more. Beside phonaesthetic figures such as accent (iamb) and rhyme (rhyme royal), we also find word figures in the form of the polyptoton wishing/wish (9) and sentence figures in the form of parallelisms (1–2, 3–4) so that the strophe shows a multiple coupling of equivalence figures. Their task is to bring out Britomart’s appearance, especially the double aspect of the beautiful-fearful. The whole is resolved in a decorative-rhetorical amplification of this theme.
Andreas Gryphius, Die Hölle In: Andreas Gryphius, Dichtungen. Reinbek/Hamburg: Rowohlt, 1969, p. 64. Die Hölle ACh! und Weh! Mord! Zetter! Jammer/Angst/Creutz! Marter! Würme! Plagen. Pech! Folter! Hencker! Flamm! Stanck! Geister! Kälte! Zagen! Ach vergeh! Tiff ’ und Höh’! Meer! Hügel! Berge! Felß wer kan die Pein ertragen? Schluck Abgrund! ach schluck’ ein! die nichts denn ewig klagen. Je und Eh! Schreckliche Geister der tunckelen Hölen/ihr die ihr martret und Marter erduldet Kan denn der ewigen Ewikeit Feuer/nimmermehr büssen diß was ihr verschuldet? O grausamm’ Angst stets sterben/sonder sterben! Diß ist Flamme der grimmigen Rache/die der erhitzete Zorn angeblasen: Hir ist der Fluch der unendlichen Straffen/hir ist das immerdar wachsende Rasen: O Mensch! Verdirb/umb hir nicht zu verderben. Woe! and alas! Murder! Crying out! Woe/Fear/Cross! Torment! Worms! Miseries! Pitch! Torture! Executioner! Flame! Stench! Ghosts! Cold! Fright! Oh perish! Depth and height! Sea! Hills! Mountains! Rock/who can bear the anguish? Swallow, abyss, o swallow up! those who do nothing but wail. Ever and before!
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Terrible ghosts of the dark caves/you who torture and suffer tortures Cannot the eternal eternity’s fire/ever atone for what you have become guilty of? Oh cruel fear always to die/without dying! This is flame of the grim revenge/which heated anger has blown to life: Here is the curse of the infinite punishments/here is the raging that keeps on growing: O man! Perish in order not to perish here!
The poem offers a vivid description (descriptio, ekphrasis) of a terrible place (locus terribilis) in an abundance (copia) of topographic detail. Following an exordium that lists the affects of terror (“Ach, Weh, Zetter, Jammer, Angst . . .”), the description of Hell in a sequence of topographic synonyms and antonyms occurs. The antonymic tension is generated by the contrasts of high and deep, which in turn are amplified in semantic equivalences. This contrast can be observed in the following isosemic series: HÖHE/HEIGHT: Hügel/hill, Berge/mountains, Felß/rock. TIEFE/DEPTH: Meer/sea, Abgrund/abyss, Hölen/caves.
Also, the torments expecting the damned in this hellish landscape are articulated in an isosemic series from the beginning to the end of the poem: ACH/WEH: Zetter, Jammer, Angst, Marter, Plagen, Zagen.
Expressions such as Mord, Creutz, Würme, Pech, Folter, Hencker, Stanck, Geister, Kälte, are in a relationship of metonymy or synecdoche to this series. The isosemic series HÖHE/HEIGHT and TIEFE/DEPTH together with the affective isosemic series form a complex structure of meanings that not only averts boredom (taedium) but also presents an impressive word painting that affects the reader emotionally. This intention becomes evident in the apostrophe of the final verse: “O Mensch! Verdirb/umb hir nicht zu verderben.” The apostrophe represents the logical reaction to a visio of the terror generated by the affective evidence of the description of the hellish landscape. The stylistic principle underlying this description is semantic equivalence. It is intensively utilised by Gryphius and other Baroque poets in their works to produce pathetic images of phantasy (visiones) with the means of language. The theoretical foundations for such an affective methodology are created by the rhetoric and poetics of their time.
CHAPTER FIVE
GRAPHEMIC FIGURES
The field of graphemics, the linguistics of written characters, has for many reasons long been neglected by linguistic scholars. This neglect perhaps explains, at least in part, why graphemic deviations as aesthetic factors have not attracted the attention of literary scholars, although this omission is perhaps even more surprising in the light of figure poems (Adler/Ernst 1990) and other mannerisms of written character formation (Hocke 1959, Grümmer 1985). Following the research in the past century (Hall 1952, Mountford 1969, Venezky 1970, Althaus 1980) there is no longer any doubt that the written characters of a language are subject to grammatical conventions that can be formalised as rules. These rules can be formulated in such a manner as to clarify the relationship of the written medium to various linguistic levels. Thus it is possible to distinguish between graphophonological, graphomorphological, graphosyntactic and grapho-textological units. On this basis, the criteria by which it is possible to produce written figures, that is, metagraphemes and isographemes, are the same as those valid for the other figures discussed in this book: addition, subtraction, permutation, substitution and equivalence. They represent the foundation of a graphaesthetics which can only be sketched here in its initial outlines.
5.1
Figures of Graphemic Deviation (Metagraphemes)
The operational basis for graphemic deviations is formed by the following elements: 1. segmental graphemes (such as letters) and 2. intersegmental or suprasegmental graphemes (punctuation and diacritical marks such as period, comma, accent, trema), in their various combinations. For instance, segmental graphemes in the graphophonological field are realised as single characters (,
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, ) or as digraphs (
and in English), where in the case of the digraph one has to distinguish between a continuous variant (
in ) and a discontinuous one ( in ). Intersegmental and suprasegmental graphemes function as structuring signals in the fields of graphophonology (accent, trema), graphomorphology (hyphen), graphosyntax (comma, semicolon, full stop) and graphotextology (paragraph mark, clause). Another member of this class is the blank space, produced by the space-bar on the typewriter, typesetting machine or computer keyboard. Free variants (allographs) of the two types of graphemes that we can mention are, for instance, the typeface, size and colour of the font. In this way a large bandwidth of possible graphemic deviations is possible. It was Rosemarie Gläser (1972) who drew careful attention to them, basing her evidence on a text corpus drawn from American advertising language. Her categories “grapheme deletions” and “grapheme substitutions” harmonise with the terminology chosen in this book; moreover, we add to them the categories of addition and permutation. 5.1.1 Addition The addition of characters can take place in a graphophonological initial position: (172) a) The Ffinest Ffamily in the Land (Henry Livings) b) la ffine efflorescence de la cuisine ffransouèze (Raymond Queneau)
But addition is not limited to segmental graphemes; it can also be realised by means of intersegmental additions. As noted by Rosemarie Gläser (1972: 193) a particularly striking feature of American commercial advertising consists in “trademarks whose lexemes are divided by hyphens into syllables that in turn appear in a completely arbitrary spelling.” Among the examples mentioned are (173) a) Flu-Id-Deth (insecticide), b) De-solv-al (a metal-cleaning agent), and c) Rub-Er-Red (“red iron oxide; rubber compounding”),
which, apart from the addition of graphemes (hyphens) also display changes by means of substitution (small and capital letters), subtraction (for example, <death>¤<deth>) and equivalence (for example,
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the mirror symmetry in ). Beside the insertion grapheme of a hyphen, other diacritical or punctuation marks can lead to the creation of artificial words. One of the many examples of this technique favoured by E.E. Cummings is the line (174) again slo-wly; bare, ly nudg. ing (my
which, in graphematic standard grammar, has the form (175) again slowly, barely nudging my (lever).
Thus, here it is not only the hyphen but also the semicolon, the full stop, the opening parenthesis and, finally, the contingent of blank spaces that serve to break up the morphosyntactic sequence of combinations by insertion in the “wrong” place. Cummings uses this deviational technique in his attempt to portray some desperate driving strategies with a newly purchased automobile. What is the pragmatic or semantic function of such deviations? In (172) all the insertion graphemes have the task of imitating the mannered (and exaggeratedly clear) pronunciation affected by pretentious Englishmen or Frenchmen. In (173) the aim is to produce an alienating “graphemic wordplay” between proper name (product description) and nomen appellativum. Dubois et al. (1970: 108) and Leech (1969: 52) report literary embodiments of such metagraphemes (for example, in Balzac’s Contes drolatiques and in T.S. Eliot’s East Coker) that are intended to suggest an impression of the archaic (such as instead of ). A further illustrative example is from Ernst Jandl’s Laut und Luise: (176) pssnt es pssniest ein psnychologe.
Here in verses 2 and 3 the addition of graphophonological units (, : graphophonological haplology) imitates the process of sneezing which is already indicated in the graphemic onomatopoeia of the first verse. 5.1.2 Subtraction The following are examples of grapheme deletions in English advertising language:
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Day-Glo (instead of Day-Glow) KANTWET FLORA-LAM (instead of FLORA-LAMB) Blu-Check (instead of Blue-Check) TYMETER (instead of time-meter) Weedone (instead of weed + done)
Further material is found in Rosemarie Gläser (1972: 189–191). Special attention has been paid to the subtractive metagrapheme since Leo Spitzer in his essay “American Advertising Explained as Popular Art” analysed the trademark Sunkist and the slogan From the sunkist groves of California with respect to the pragmatics of their effect: [. . .] the word sunkist comes to us with its range calculated and delimited, with its impact of reality reduced; this word is noncommital of reality; it transports the listener into a world of Arcadian beauty, but with no insistence that this world really exists. Of course, the beautiful groves of California which produce excellent oranges do exist, but a world in which they may really be called “sun-kist” does not. And everyone knows that, while the advertised goods may be quite first-rate, the better world which the advertiser evokes is a never-never land. Nonetheless, the idealizations of advertising are not wasted upon the listener: though he cannot take up forthwith his dwelling in the paradisaic world filled with fragrant groves where golden fruit slowly ripen under the caress of the sun, his imagination has made the detour through this word-paradise and carries back the poetic flavor which will season the physical enjoyment of the orange-juice he will drink for breakfast the next morning. Here, in an unexpected corner of our technicologically organized age, and in the service of the most highly rationalized interests, poetry has developed its most miraculous quality: that of establishing a realm of pure, gratuitous, disinterested beauty, which has existence only in the imagination. And the poetic achievement is presented to the public with all sincerity—and with all cautiousness: with overtones of irony which preclude any too-serious commitment (Spitzer 1962: 264–266).
Similar remarks may well also be applied to the first strophe of a poem by Gerhard Rühm: (178) berühren erühren rühren ühren hren ren en n
touch
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Here, a step-by-step deletion of a grapheme reduces a graphomorpheme to a “monograph” (single character) and finally a zero grapheme. Perhaps this stylistic device is meant to describe the real or imaginary attempt at a tactile approach, but such speculation may be mere guesswork. Let us also as an aside mention the possibility of intersegmental grapheme deletion. It occurs, for instance, in many poems by Emily Dickinson where it becomes the cause of textual polysemy. Another well-known example is the complete absence of punctuation marks throughout Molly Bloom’s interior monologue at the end of Joyce’s Ulysses; its function is to exemplify the flow of the stream of consciousness. 5.1.3 Permutation Graphemic rearrangements can occur on all linguistic levels, especially on the graphophonological. We find examples of a permutation of letters in Jandl’s “ode auf N” with its segments and , as well as in Samuel Butler’s Erewhon, which is derived from <nowhere> by graphemic inversion. If within a word or word group, letters are turned in such a way that they constitute a new unit of meaning, we have an anagram (in German also called “Letterkehr” [‘letter reversal’]), sometimes used by authors as a pseudonym. Thus the name is anagrammatised from , the author’s birth-name. The German novelist Grimmelshausen invented seven different name anagrams behind which to hide his identity. André Breton makes very ironical use of this convention by producing a letter shuffle with <Salvador Dalí> by changing the name into . As early as 1648, Georg Philipp Harsdörffer in his Poetischer Trichter (1648: II.viii) emphasises the playful function of such language alchemy: Die Letterwechsel / wann sie nach der Kunst geschlossen / oder mit einem Sinnbild artig verknüpffet / belustigen meines Erachtens vor allen andern. In my opinion the exchanges of letters, if performed according to the rules of art, or if well tied in with an emblem, gives the most enjoyment of all.
But they can also assume a symbolic function, especially in the field of religion. Thus rearrangements of the letters of the Hail Mary (Ave Maria, gratia plena! Dominus tecum) have resulted in, altogether, 1200 songs of praise to the Virgin Mary. And from George Herbert we
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have a poem entitled Anagram, with the components and <MARY> between which the author constructs a (pseudo)semantic (emblematic) relation: “How well her name an Army doth present,/in whom the Lord of Hosts did pitch his tent!” A special form of the anagram, the palindrome, is constituted by the inversion of segmental and intersegmental graphemes. In the English example by Edward Philips, “lewd did I live & evil I did dwel,” the & sign represents the central axis in between mirror-symmetrical equivalences with the same sequence of words, blanks and meanings. On the other hand, the German example, “Ein Neger mit Gazelle zagt im Regen nie,” shows deviations from this type, namely by the permutation of blanks and the substitution of capital and small letters. Other variants of the palindrome are conceivable. They can, for instance, involve a change of semantics, as in the pair of words -. A more complex case is the inversion of free morphemes in the text, a phenomenon that accounts for the rareness of the word-palindrome (Grümmer 1985: 109–110). Gustav René Hocke (1959: 24) refers to the following complex permutation with the following explanation: “The mysterious ‘magic square’ combining anagrams and palindromes is the famous A R E P O SATOR-AREPO formula. A brief explanation: The farmer (sower) Arepo (proper name) with T E N E T his hands steers (works) the plow (wheels). Religious interpretation: God (Sator) rules O P E R A (tenet) over the creation (rotas), over man’s R O T A S works (opera) and over the products of the earth (arepo = plow). The first thing one can do is read the words four times, horizontally and vertically. Further, from the few letters thirteen anagrammatic (Latin) sentences have been formed. The union of the two centre words tenet forms a cross. Performing knight’s moves, one arrives at the words Pater noster and A O = Christ’s monogram. And so on. The square was therefore regarded as magic.” An interpretation of this kind implies numerous pragmatic and semantic preconditions. Finally, let us point out a specifically graphemic type of permutation of word parts, here employed by Gerard Manley Hopkins in various poems: S
A
T
O R
graphemic figures (179) a) b) c) d)
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air-/built thoroughfare (That Nature is a Heraclitean Fire) when we delve or hew-/Hack (Binsey Poplars) king-/dom of daylight’s dauphin (The Windhover) hardy-/handsome (Felix Randal)
This graphomorphological reordering is due to prosodic expediency, which allows it therefore to be classified as a morphoprosodic graphemic deviation. It is quite frequently found—without any compelling prosodic cause—in Jandl, Rühm and Cummings, where the hyphen is usually dropped as a permutation signal, leaving merely a line shift (down, up, to the right or to the left). 5.1.4 Substitution A graphematic substitutional deviation is a highly complex phenomenon. Therefore it will be explained with reference to several guiding aspects. 5.1.4.1
Substitution within the same Graphemic System
The English and the German writing systems are of an alphabetic kind, that is, they are based on the combination of letters which in turn represent certain phonetic values. The two systems of writing agree closely with regard to their graphemic inventories although, for instance, the graphomorphological structures show typical differences: in German all nouns and words with a nominal function are written with initial capital letters; in English, only proper names are. Such divergencies will have to be kept in mind when considering the deviational patterns illustrated by the examples below. The individual deviant substitution forms dealt with are: a) Substitution of capital or small letters In his poems E.E. Cummings regularly writes in lower case, . Conversely, he often capitalises the lower case: , (), <what was Disappeared>, and so on. In these examples the violations of written English grammar rules occur at the beginning, in the middle and at the end of words. Something analogous is found in Ernst Jandl’s poems, and a particularly strikingly example is found in dER RITTER:
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chapter five (180) EIn woRT adElT sEInE buchsTabEn sIE dEn RITTER mIT IhR fahREn bITTE sIE ER jETzT schlafEn odER RodEln gEhE ER . . .
In the work of these two poets the rules of English or German orthography are violated occasionally or quite frequently; for example, in , the rule that capitalisation is limited to word-beginning (position rule); in , the norms that German orthography prescribes initial capitals for nouns and that it does not allow multiple alternation of capital and small letters within the same graphomorpheme. The situation is slightly different when authors such as Stefan George and, sometimes, E.E. Cummings prefer to abolish all capital letters, for example, at the beginning of a sentence, for proper names and so on. Here a fundamental graphemic opposition having grammatical signal-value in both German and English is suspended. b) Substitution of vowel and consonant graphemes American advertising language is particularly creative in this branch of graphemic exchange. Rosemarie Gläser (1972: 191–192) quotes the following examples: (181) a) BABI-DRI (replacement of by ); b) More-Kleen (replacement of <ea> by <ee> and of by ); c) Silver-Kote (replacement of the continuous digraph by the discontinuous digraph and of by ); d) AVON KLEAN-AIR (replacement of by ); e) KWICK KRISP (replacement of by and of by ) etc.
In this way a graphosemantic ambiguity is often produced, since on the one hand the written neologism denotes a brand, while on the other hand—due to the graphic similarity—it designates what was originally meant. c) Substitution of segmental by intersegmental graphemes This phenomenon represents a significant structural feature in Laurence Sterne’s novel Tristram Shandy where the asterisk or hyphen often takes the place of segmental grapheme combinations. Take an example from Book VII Chapter 29: (182) ’Tis enough, Tristram, and I am satisfied, saidst thou, whispering these words in my ear,**** ** **** *** ***** **;—**** ** **—any other man would have sunk down to the centre—. . . .
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The mimetic point of view—since what no listener to the conversation could know should, in turn, not be known to the reader—has here resulted in the deletion of the communicated message. Nevertheless, its graphic extent is conserved, although the place of segmental graphemes is taken by diacritic signs as placeholders. While in this case we can speak of a graphosyntactic substitution, in other parts of the novel we have textual graphemic substitutions. Thus we find that Sterne leaves out a paragraph in Chapter 22 of Book IX (“And accordingly *** . . .”) and that chapters 18 and 19 of the same book consist of nothing but the headings “Chapter Eighteen” and “Chapter Nineteen” and blank white paper. A functional explanation of such modes of demonstration might be that Sterne is here parodying, by reductio ad absurdum, contemporary fictional conventions of the use of writing to express communicative modes. d) Substitution of historical graphomorphemes The historical deviation of morphemes has already been dealt with earlier. While it was there a question of archaic words or word forms, the deviation envisaged now concerns only the obsolete spelling of words, whether adopted in quotations from historical texts or produced artificially. A case in point for the former is in an archaising passage from T.S. Eliot’s East Coker, which has the following shape: (183) The association of man and woman In daunsinge, signifying matrimonie— dancing, matrimony A dignified and commodious sacrament, Two and two, necessarye coniunction, necessary conjunction Holding eche other by the hand or the arm each Which betokeneth concorde. (betokens), concord
The archaisms in this passage, largely fractional quotations from Sir Thomas Elyot’s The Governor, are primarily of a graphemic kind, with the exception of betokeneth. As such, they deviate not only from the written norm of contemporary English but also from the further written context of this poem. According to Leech (1969: 52) their function is to indicate the cyclical structure of time and hence the ultimate coincidence of past and present. Compared to this specimen, substitutional graphemic deviation in dialectal and foreign language texts plays a lesser role. Most often, authors here make use of the possibility of additional intersegmental graphemes (such as inverted commas) or of another font. For instance,
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in the first part of Eliot’s The Waste Land it is a striking fact that all foreign-language deviations but two have been integrated into the typographic pattern of the English text. The exceptions are quotations in italics from Richard Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde; they obviously deserve a special aesthetical and structural value. Quite a different situation arises when in a poem by Ernst Jandl the pronunciation of various English words is transcribed into the German text: (184) ich was not yet in brasilien nach brasilien wulld ich laik du go
wer de wimen arr so ander so quait ander denn anderwo
ich was not yet in brasilien .....
This poem, entitled “calypso,” belongs to the tradition of macaronic poetry. Its graphemic corruption of the English language aims at ironising the tendency towards the Anglicization of the German language. 5.1.4.2
Substitution Outside the same Graphemic System
The well-known historical systems of writing orientate themselves by the linguistic units of word, syllable and sound and have therefore been called “logographic” (unit: logogram or word-sign), “syllabic” (unit: syllabogram or syllable-sign) or “alphabetic” (unit: letter or phonetic sign). These systems, designated “phonographic,” are in turn subdivided into subsystems, for instance, the alphabetic system into the variants of the Greek, Latin, Runic and Cyrillic alphabets (Gelb 1969). If therefore in the Roman graphic system—to which the English and German orthographies belong, with the modifications mentioned— parts of other systems are inserted (substituted), then the result is system-extraneous deviations. This can be clearly seen in Ezra Pound’s Cantos in which the author quotes not only Greek symbols but also Chinese ideograms because they fit into his concept of image. Instead of the complex examples we might readily cite from Pound’s work, a simple example from English nonsense literature will illuminate the present argument: (185) a) YY YY IC YY
U U U for
R B R me
b) 2 2 I 2
Y’s Y’s C Y’s
U U U 4
R B R me
c) Too wise you are Too wise you be I see you are Too wise for me
Columns (a) and (b) show two possibilities of textological metagraphemes, transliterated into (c) the alphabetic writing system of English.
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The enigmatic and comic character of (a) derives from the fact that here capital letters of the English alphabet are used logographically. This use is made possible by the phonological identity of these letters with the identity of morphological units in English. At the same time the combination certainly represents a morphosemantic uncertainty in that it could also be read as why why. This ambiguity has been removed in version (b) which offers both letter and number logograms: = “two” coincides with “too” because of its identical phonological representation; = “four” with “for,” due to their phonological identity. In (a) and (b) the alphabetic transliterability of the letters and numbers used logographically is indicated by the graphomorphemes and <me>, respectively. They each form key signals to poems that could be called morphosemantic script games. American advertising language sometimes makes use of comparable grapheme substitutions, as is shown by the examples (186) a) Soap-S-Ences (instead of soap essences) b) Spray-S-Ences (instead of spray essences).
While here the letter <S> is regarded as a logogram for <ess>, a multiple substitution can be observed in the well-known (187) Xmas (instead of Christmas).
The Roman letter <X> replaces the Greek letter (“chi”), which in turn functions as a logogram for “Christ” (Greek ), due to the symbolic (pragmasemantic) tradition of Christianity. If characters from the graphemic system of one language are transliterated into another system, then a levelling-off (neutralisation) of the graphic deviation takes place and it falls away as a graphaesthetic device. Such a case is represented by E.E. Cummings’ line (188) its hoi in its polloi
where the Greek morphemes (, ) have been transcribed into Roman letters. On the other hand, one can try to counteract the neutralisation by activating the deviational possibilities of the borrowing system of writing. Ezra Pound’s (189) All passes, ANANGKE prevails (Mauberley, II),
with its use of Roman majuscules instead of Greek characters (), will here serve as a good example, taking the place of many variants (such as inverted commas, wide spacing, change of font).
TEXT ANALYSES
The two following analyses of specific examples of verse will demonstrate various graphaesthetic procedures and in addition will try to reveal pragmatic and semantic implications of the poems.
Ernst Jandl, “onkel toms hütte” In: E. Jandl, Laut und Luise. Neuwied/Berlin: Luchterhand, 1971, p. 47. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14.
onkel nkel kel el l
toms toms toms toms toms toms ssssssssss aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa t o t o m t
hütte hütt hüt hü h
The poem has a tripartite structure: lines 1–6, lines 7–8, and lines 9–14. Thus it forms a triptych with identical line numbers in parts I and III, while the middle part has merely two lines. The first part, composed of a three-digit syntagm, remains identical in its middle graphomorpheme () while the two flanking graphomorphemes gradually lose a grapheme in each succeeding line (the first in the front position, the second at the end) until and have shrunk to a single grapheme and finally lose that in line 6 (zero grapheme). This graphemic reduction can be interpreted semantically as Tom’s gradual losses, first of his role as uncle and finally of his cabin. In the third part of the poem, the graphomorpheme is itself destroyed. Its fragments are arranged in such a way that, read in a zig-zag way (boustrophedon), it also gives the grapheme combination (as a “graphemic play” on ). On the other hand, it could be that the multiple attempts to preserve the proper name and its final breakdown (into , ,
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) denote the fight to preserve his personal integrity. A more difficult task is set by the analysis of the high repetition frequency of and <s> in the middle section of the graphic configuration. Possibly the repetitions are meant to describe the turn from external to internal destruction. The repeated <s> could be a visual explanation of the drastic effect of the loss of <s> from or, semantically speaking, his eventually having to abandon his ownership (in German, = genitivus possessivus) or it could represent (as a phonetic symbol) the interference of a destructive power. The structural significance of this grapheme is demonstrated by its being placed exactly in the middle of the 14-line poem, in verse 7 (the number “7” in popular German belief signifies bad luck). Then, in verse 8, the grapheme follows, repeated more than twice as often (22 times) as <s> (10 times). Its meaning is also not quite clear. It could depict the interjection “ah!,” which in turn may indicate Tom’s death cry. Lines 7 + 8, with their high frequency of identical single characters, represent a horizontal axis separating two vertical axis-segments that taper down toward the centre. We may, finally, assert that the stepwise graphemic decomposition (subtraction) along the vertical axis is probably in correlation to a process of the disintegration of Tom’s human status: his loss of his uncle role, his property, his personality. Thus Ernst Jandl’s poem can be regarded as a masterly graphosemantic abridged version of the problems depicted in Harriet Beecher Stowe’s novel Uncle Tom’s Cabin.
Gerhard Rühm, “schweigen” In: Gerhard Rühm, Gesammelte Gedichte und visuelle Texte. Reinbek/ Hamburg: Rowohlt, 1970, p. 219. I 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9
sch schw sch sch schw sch
II schweigen wiegen eigen wiegen schweigen wiegen eigen wiegen schweigen
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9
(Roman and Arabic numbers have been added to facilitate the following discussion.)
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The arrangement shows two graphical blocks, I and II, of which I is again subdivided (I 2–4, I 6–8). I and II consist of 6 and 9 lines of graphemic combinations, respectively, which, when added horizontally, result in the infinitive form <schweigen> occurring five times (lines 1, 3, 5, 7, 9) and the preterite form <schwiegen> four times (lines 2, 4, 6, 8). The tmesis caused by the insertion of blank spaces produces new words (wiegen, eigen) which, on the one hand—from the point of view of coordination—are contained in the words previously given, but on the other hand—adopting the point of view of the tmesis—are in opposition to them. The simultaneously inclusive and exclusive character of and produced by this change of perspective is typical for the graphemic wordplay and its semantic implications. The latter can here be only vaguely determined. The graphomorphemes in II have semantic meaning per se, but the cut-off grapheme combinations in I do not, unless one interprets them, say, as graphical illustration of the command for silence. In that case perhaps the letter combination I + II, including the interpolated blank space at the beginning, signify the “essence” and the end of the silence. The tmesis then may have the function of representing the breaking-off of communication to the senses. This consideration and others are at present surmises that will have to be verified in the concrete performance of the visual text reception. Incidentally in this context, a mirror-symmetric equivalence of individual line groups (for example, I 2–4 = I 6–8, II 1–5 = II 5–9) may be noted; this topic will, however, be resumed in the next chapter.
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Figures of Graphemic Equivalence (Isographemes)
Graphemic figures based on the principle of equivalence exist in large numbers, depending on the respective criterion under consideration: type, extent, position, frequency or spacing, to name but a few important aspects. A prominent aspect is the relationship to the other linguistic levels, since in this manner various kinds of compression or deviation become possible. Moreover, the general question may be asked why just these graphemic figures determine the aestheticity of texts in a decisive manner. All these aspects, aside from those already touched upon, will now be discussed. Prosodographic equivalence shall be chosen as a model case for isographemes, that is, all those graphemic similarities and equalities observable in the reception of a poem. Features of the immediately evident prosodographic equivalence are: equal numbers of lines per strophe, marked by blank spaces above and below; comparable lengths of the verse lines emphasised by an equal or almost equal number of blank spaces up to the page margin; capital letters at the beginning of each verse line; and the graphophonological similarity of end rhymes. Such equivalences aid recognition of a poem as such. Some graphemic feature or other may well be missing (for instance, the rhyme), but as a rule a sufficient number of prosodographic equivalences remain to signalise the poetic character of a text. A rather extreme example of this type of isographemes is presented by Christian Morgenstern’s poem Fisches Nachtgesang (Fish’s Night Song): (190) _ ∪
_ ∪
∪
_ ∪
_ ∪
_ ∪
_ ∪
∪
∪
∪
_ ∪
_ ∪
_
∪
_
_
_ ∪
_ ∪
∪
_ ∪
_ ∪
∪
_
∪
_
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In this configuration the graphic elements have not been taken from the alphabetic but rather from the metrical system of notation, which uses the conventional symbols for long and short. Both horizontally and vertically, the text consists of many prosodographic equivalences. Various interpretations have been suggested: The symbols signify the metre of silent song; the alternation of symbols indicates a fish mouth opening and closing; together, they resemble the frontal view of a choir of fish; they represent water; they resemble the shape of a fish without head or tail. These as well as other interpretations of the poem are quite permissible. Thus we have, in the framework of “nonsense literature,” a new type of visual poetry: a poem of figures that does not imitate any particular form, the abstract figure poem (Adler / Ernst 1990: 231).
Or, expressed differently: the referentiality of this isographemic configuration is polysemous.
TEXT ANALYSES
Gerhard Rühm, “die ersten menschen sind auf dem mond” In: G. Rühm, Gesammelte Gedichte und visuelle Texte. Reinbek/Hamburg: Rowohlt, 1970, p. 299 (from: dokumentarische sonette [1969]). montag, 21. 7. 1969 die ersten menschen sind auf dem mond 1 am sónntag, dém dem zwánzigsténsten júli neunnéunzehnhundertnéunundséchzig, úm um éinundzwanzig úhr uhr áchtzehn úm sind sínd die béidendén améri- júli
monday, 21.7. 1969 the first people are on the moon on súnday, thé the twéntiéthst júly nine níneteen hundred níne and síxty, át at twenty-óne hóurs hours éighteen át are áre the twó thé améri- in Júly
5 kánischen ástronáuten néil neil júli neil ármstrong únd und édwin áldrin úm an bórd bord íhres ráumraumschíffes úm um “ádler” áuf dem mónd gelándet júli.
cán ástronáuts néil neil in júly neil ármstrong ánd and édwin áldrin át on bóard board théir rócket rocket shíp át at “éagle” ón the móon lánded in júly.
in dér gebórgenhéitheit íhrer lánde10 dekápsel lágen étwa nóch fuenf stúnden vor íhnen bís bis síe als érste lánde bewóhner dés planéten érde stúndenden íhren fúss auf éinen frémden lándede hímmelskóerper sétzen sóllten stúnden.
in thé secúritynéss of théir lánding cápsule láy ábout five hóurs remáining ahéad of thém úntil théy as thé first land-dwéllers of thé planét éarth did stánd with théir fóur féet on the fóreign lánd of the héaven’s bódy wére déstined to stánd.
The fourteen-line poem in the traditional form of a sonnet originated from a prosodographic rearrangement of the text of a newspaper article taken from the Nacht-Depesche (Berlin). This rearrangement strictly observes the point of view of equivalence: two pairs of strophes of 2 × 4 and 2 × 3 lines each; lines of equal length (10 syllables each); small letters throughout; identical rhymes in the sequence abba abba cdc dcd. Special attention should be paid to the transposition of the iambic accent figures into the graphic medium. Their visualisation, as well as that of the remaining prosodic equivalences, is proof of a graphaesthetic literary concept for which the expression “visual poetry” is an apt though unspecific description. Other equivalences are subordinated to this concept and reinforce it. Among these morphological equivalences to be found in almost each verse line are: (1) dém dem,
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(2) neunnéunzehnhundertnéunundséchzig, (2/3) úm/um, (3) úhr uhr, (4) sind sínd, (1/4) júli/júli and so on. Their special character consists of their complete infraction of grammatical rules: deviations and equivalences coincide. Overall, the poem thereby acquires an astonishing degree of poeticity, not least contributed to by isophonemes (alliteration) and metataxemes (prosodo-syntactic deviations: enjambements). What is missing completely is metasememes (that is, tropes). Critics taking issue with this lack may suffer from an over-developed semantic concept of poeticity. But even they would still have to recognize the high fulfilment of non-semantic stylistic criteria. A few general remarks on graphemic equivalence will conclude the discussion. In an earlier section (2.2.5.3) reference was made to the complex relationship between spelling, sound and meaning. There we also introduced a morphology of multiple equivalences and deviations that in the case of word repetition can determine its properties as a phonological, written and symbolic sign. In this context particular attention was paid to homeographic wordplay or eye rhyme (2.2.5.3.4). We may assume that related graphaesthetic forms will easily fit into the systems already outlined. Our analysis of the poem by Gerhard Rühm has suggested that graphaesthetic means on their own suffice to guarantee the poeticity of texts. The literary function of written characters is even more evident when it becomes significant in a semiosemantic sense, that is, with reference to figure poems, a tradition reaching from the times of Hellenism to the present (Adler/Ernst 1990). Their referential mode of existence consists in imitating objects of the world of our senses (that is, a pyramid, an altar, a pillar, a wing, a heart, a funnel and so on) by the way in which the verses are formatted. Here, too, there are graphaesthetic equivalences (such as parallelism, mirror-symmetrical arrangements) determining the distribution patterns of these constructs. Furthermore, primary and secondary deviations that can be described as fitting the deviation categories of addition, subtraction, permutation and substitution occur. For an in-depth treatment of figure poems, a general theoretical precondition would probably be the reference frame of a pictorial semiotics (Edeline et al. 1992).
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A Poem by E.E. Cummings In: E.E. Cummings, 95 Poems. New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1958, n.p. This first poem from E.E. Cummings’ anthology of lyrics, 95 Poems (1958), is an example of a text that employs graphaesthetic deviations and equivalences in a highly complex manner as a form-giving device. The poem reads as follows: 1
l (a
2 3 4
le af fa
5
ll
6 7 8
s) one l
9
iness
The poem represents a complicated construct of aesthetic phenomena of language that will be revealed, it is hoped, in the following systematic analysis. I. The most striking aspect is the deviational type of permutation occurring in these variants: 1. Morphological permutation: The blocking (tmesis) of loneliness following the first segment , which enables the insertion of the sentence a leaf falls to be carried out—and at the same time of a graphomorphological permutation, as indicated by the intersegmental signal of the two round brackets; 2. graphomorphological permutation: The division of words (le/af, fa/ ll/s; l/one/l/iness), effected by the insertion of intersegmental zero graphemes (line shifts, blank line, right/left displacement); 3. graphosyntactic permutation: The separation of a sentence, in the case of a/leaf/falls, where the rearrangement of the parts of the sentence has a syntacto-prosodic correlate in the enjambement. II. Partially due to the individual permutations, the following prosodographic equivalences arise:
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1. Identity of line lengths: Lines 2–6 Combination of two graphemes each; Lines 1 + 7 Combination of three graphemes each.
We thus have mirror symmetry of prosodographically equivalent lines. Only line 8 (one grapheme) and line 9 (five graphemes) are deviant. 2. Identity of line combination: The prosodographic identities concerned can be termed strophic and a-strophic: a) strophic: Blank lines have been inserted in between individual lines, leading to the formation of line blocks (strophes). The line combinations thus generated in relation to each other show a mirror-symmetric equivalence of 1:3:1:3:1. b) a-strophic: This prosodographic form of equivalence becomes evident when one considers the grapheme sequences interpolated and extrapolated by the bracket. It then turns out that lines 1 and 6 have the identical number of interpolated graphemes. Another equivalence that becomes evident is the combination of extrapolated lines (or line elements) 1 and 7–9: l one l iness,
where the two elements each alternate with a non-equivalent line. III. The arrangement of written symbols, which is already a complex one, appears even more differentiated when one investigates the distribution of the grapheme types. Then one finds in line 5 (the middle strophe, that is, the hinge point of the strophic arrangement) an identical repetition of grapheme . In lines 2–4 one observes the phenomenon of repeated permutation of the sequence of consonant (C) and vowel (V) graphemes, which in lines 3/4 even has identical graphemic values: , , . In the enveloping lines 1 and 6 the permutation of the bracket provides a phenomenon that, like the others, can be classified as a secondary deviation. In the second part of the poem, too, there are structural grapheme distributions. The <ss> of the last line not only resumes the <s> of line 6 while doubling it, but also corresponds to the digraph , which is located
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in a similarly exposed position: the one at the centre, the other at the end of the poem, which is additionally emphasised optically by an overly long line. Preceding the final verse are two lines (7/8) whose possible graphomorphological equivalence requires additional discussion. The result of these observations is that the distribution of graphemic types forms structural patterns identified by the features of identity, doubling, reversal. Their underlying principle is unity-in-change, or change-in-unity, where sometimes the one aspect and sometimes the other is more strongly stressed. IV. The hypothesis of deviant equivalence or equivalent deviation as the forming principle of the poem is reinforced by a graphomorphological wordplay. In the arrangement previously listed, l one l iness,
the alphabetic grapheme , as far as the typewriter or typesetting machine permits, is identical with or at least similar to the numerical grapheme for “one.” Such a graphosemantic ambiguity is made possible by the interchangeability of two graphemic systems. A numerical interpretation of is made possible by its morphological identity with “one.” The resulting sequence one-one-one-iness is a neologism which clarifies the semantics of loneliness. If in addition one interprets the in as an equivalent to the lower case Roman numeral “one,” another graphemic wordplay appears: one-one-one-one-ness. V. A pragmasemantic exegesis of these combinatorial possibilities of language would, most likely, arrive at something like the following results. Hardly any single line on its own in the poem makes any sense. Sense is only given as a whole to the verses when they are read vertically. Readers assume the role of interpreter of the individual word and sentence elements; that is, we alone determine meaning. For instance, we discover the morphosyntactic interlacing of a leaf falls and loneliness and arrive at the conclusion that that is possibly an enunciation of the metaphorical interlocking between the sensual perception of the falling leaf and the abstract idea of “loneliness.” Any further reading reveals additional, detailed aspects of the structure of meanings. Thus, for instance, the vertical arrangement of the letters can be interpreted as a referential correlate for the steep movement of the falling leaf. The equivalences inside and outside the brackets and
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the simultaneous deviations imply the structural similarity between falling leaf and loneliness. It consists in the identity of the variant or in the variation of the identical—a feature which is very aptly expressed by the graphemic wordplay loneliness: one-one-one-one-ness. While a leaf falls, it does present different views to the eye of the beholder but it remains the same. Much of this is true also of loneliness: in spite of all the variety of its realisations, it remains identical to itself. From this point of view one can also explain the relative insignificance of the individual parts of the poem. No phase of the falling motion of the leaf can be isolated; it has to be seen as a whole, including its finally hitting the ground. It is the same with the “particles” of loneliness: they only make sense in view of their end: the one-one-one-one-ness. With such an observation, we have arrived at a point in our investigation where we are, actually must be, in want of an “objective correlative” for further interpretation. In its specific sign structure the present text makes a highly polysemous communicative situation possible. While the verifiability of postulates in this field is complex, the description of a syntactic structure of signs will more easily stand up to a rational check. It results in this case in an initially rather inconspicuous poem that, finally, displays a finely spun filigree of aesthetic structural relationships. They represent a multitude of the possibilities of linguistic codification, so that E.E. Cummings’ little verse simultaneously represents a concrete summary of the insights gained in this essay.
Václav Havel, “antreten” In: Václav Havel, Das Gartenfest et al. [Antikoden]. Hamburg: Rowohlt, 1991, p. 203. Included in the collected typograms that Havel entitles Antikoden is the following poem: ; 1
“ 2
= 3
% 4
& 5
( 6
) 7
8
_
§ 9
/ 0
: ß
` ´
Q q
W w
E e
R r
T t
Z z
U u
I i
O o
P p
Ü ü
* +
A a
S s
D d
F f
G g
H h
J j
K k
L l
Ö ö
Ä ä
£ $
Y y
X x
C c
V v
B b
N n
M m
? ,
! .
‘ -
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275
The typogram displays a clear graphoprosodic regularity. It consists of four strophes of two verse lines each. Graphemic equivalences determine the complete body of the poem: suprasegmental and intersegmental as well as numerical graphemes determine the first strophe of the poem. Segmental graphemes primarily determine strophes 2 and 3. The latter two strophes are distinguished by the equivalence phenomenon that in each second line the capital letters of the first line have been replaced by the corresponding lower case letters. Strophe 4 represents a synthesis of strophe 1 and strophes 2 and 3 in that here segmental graphemes are followed by suprasegmental and intersegmental graphemes. The isographies of the typogram optically symbolize the title of the poem, antreten (a military order, “fall in”), by the regular arrangement of the print characters. It is possible that Havel’s use of these equivalences expresses the idea that in a dictatorship linguistic signs and therefore communication take place by commands. In this typogram the medium is also the message; in this respect, considered from the semiosemantic point of view, it also forms part of the tradition of the carmen figuratum (Adler/Ernst 1990). It reflects, of course, the keyboard of a typewriter and the arrangement on it of the print symbols. However, the code thus made available is not utilised to form artistic and meaningful linguistic figures but is simply reproduced in its mechanical dispositio: a symbol of linguistic and therefore mental rigidity. In its way the typogram therefore justifies the title of the collection, Antikoden, and by the graphaesthetic medium expresses the same ideas that are more explicitly and conventionally developed in many of Havel’s speeches and essays.
CHAPTER SIX
TEXTOLOGICAL FIGURES TEXT FIGURES
Constituted by transformations of the deviation or the equivalence beyond the norm of the (primary) text grammar, these figures in their totality comprise the norm of a secondary text grammar.
6.1
Figures of Textological Deviation (Metatextemes)
This category of text figures is produced by the transformation types of addition, subtraction, substitution or permutation. In the tradition of classical rhetoric this category does not play any explicit theoretical role although allegory and periphrasis as theoretical phenomena have always been important for literary theorists. As shown in Chapter 4, the subject at hand in both cases is text tropes. 6.1.1 Addition The insertion of trans-sentential and at the same time semantically diverging segments (chapters, paragraphs, sections and so on) into a text continuum produces a clearly recognisable deviation that has long been called digression (Greek parekbasis). Relevant examples of this rhetorical phenomenon begin to appear in the literature of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, so that Jonathan Swift, a virtuoso in its use, parodies it as “A Digression in Praise of Digressions” in A Tale of a Tub. Another example for the literary use of the technique of digression is Laurence Sterne’s Tristram Shandy, which justifies Uncle Toby’s digressions on the grounds of associative psychology and raises them to an essential structural principle of the novel. Further literary examples are to be found in Michael von Poser’s study Der abschweifende Erzähler (‘The digressing narrator’) (1969).
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chapter six 6.1.2 Subtraction
Deletion of trans-sentential segments will lead to the fragmentation of textual contexts, challenging recipients to fill in the created gap with their own imaginative efforts. Such gaps may be marked graphemically: intersegmentally, by means of inserted lines, dots or simply by blank paper; segmentally, by word signals such as “gap” or “desunt cetera,” indicating missing text. In Tristram Shandy Sterne indulges in the joke of indicating missing text by insertion of black printing blocks. The use of subtractive figures of text is indicated when the author wants to employ his text to imitate a defective classical manuscript or—like Jonathan Swift in The Battle of the Books—to parody it. 6.1.3 Substitution If a larger segment of text is replaced by another, the result could be an allegory. The allegory has from time immemorial been defined as a continued metapher (continuata translatio); in present terminology, however, it is defined as a substitutive semantic text figure or as a textological trope or text trope (see Chapter 4). That is, a larger text segment is allegorised if by substitution a further, secondary level of meaning M2 is created that in turn acts upon the primary level of meaning, M1, of context C1. M2 can in turn be transformed back into M1 but will then lose the additional semantic value generated by tropisation in the text. Allegories of this type are found in large numbers in mediaeval literature: for instance, in Chrétien de Troyes, Geoffrey Chaucer and Walter von der Vogelweide, and even into the early modern age, in a religious author such as John Bunyan in The Pilgrim’s Progress. 6.1.4 Permutation Analogous to the other deviant text figures, permutation of transsentential text segments implies that a homogeneous text continuum is broken up into a fragmented one. Thus a new configuration is generated. Classical tradition is especially familiar with the inversion of the chronological continuum, under the names of ordo naturalis and ordo artificialis, an often quoted example being Virgil’s Aeneid. This epic does not begin ab ovo, that is, at the chronological beginning of the events described (in Virgil the destruction of Troy), but mediis
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in rebus, which means that the hero first lands in Carthage where he then proceeds to relate, in a retrospective manner, to Queen Dido the events since the fall of Troy. A more modern form of this device is the collage, such as produced by Dadaist Tristan Tzara by cutting up and remounting lines of a Shakespearean sonnet. While chronological inversion still is a relatively easy-to-follow reconstitution of a text sequence, this task becomes notably more difficult in the modern arts with the decoding of textological permutations. The collage as a permutative text figure is increasingly enriddled semantically, becoming an index of a time that has been inverted and shredded. Analogous procedures are used in modern cinema, for instance in Sergei Eisenstein’s silent film Battleship Potemkin of 1925.
6.2
Figures of Textological Equivalence (Isotextemes)
These figures encompass the repetition of both an extensive text segment and a complete text. The repetition may be stretched from once to an infinite number of times of a perpetuum mobile. Samuel Beckett’s drama Play permits repetitions ad infinitum, making its playfulness even more manifest. In general, isotextemes are phenomena of the modern age, sometimes adopting childlike procedures when dealing with texts and text segments (for example, “A dog came in the kitchen” in Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot).
CHAPTER SEVEN
INTERTEXTUAL FIGURES
While the figures dealt with so far refer to individual texts, intertextual figures thematicise relationships between two or more texts. This category of figures was still unknown to the classical tradition of rhetoric, intertextuality being an invention of the twentieth century (Bakhtin, Kristeva; Plett 1991). To be sure, the classical concept of imitatio auctorum, which recommends copying exemplary models (for example, Cicero’s style → Ciceronianism), does represent a normative precursor to intertextuality, the more so since in this way generic and stylistic textual continuities are created. Anybody talking about intertextuality starts from the fact that texts do not occur in isolation but rather are engaged in a multiple “dialogue” with each other. Any analysis of such an intertextual relationship starts off from the fact that some text T1 must in some way or other refer to a pre-text T2. This reference may have a deviant or an equivalent character. Thus we have to distinguish between figures of intertextual deviation and figures of intertextual equivalence.
7.1
Figures of Intertextual Deviation (Meta-Intertextemes)
Figures of this kind consist in accepting segments from a precursor text into a text and reconfiguring it. Instead of working through the individual transformation types, we shall now discuss two specific intertextual figures, quotation and cento. 7.1.1 Substitution (Quotation) A quotation existing in two or more texts presupposes a (primary) text T1 and a (secondary) pre-text T2 as a basis for its constitution. The characteristics of such a quotation are:
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a) It represents a text segment S2 taken from T2 and inserted into T1. b) As text segment S2, it replaces a virtual text segment S1 assumed to have been part of the text continuum T1. c) Thus the quotation forms a substitutive intertextual figure, on the analogy to semantics. This means that the quotation can be transformed back into a text segment S1 that “properly” (that is, as proprium) fits into T1, thereby making the quotation superfluous. d) The relationship of S2 to S1, from the side of S2, consists in an added semantic value entering T1 from T2. This added value is given up when the quotation is replaced by a non-quotation S1 segment. Finally, we can define a quotation as follows: it forms an improper segment S2 inserted into a coherent text T1 instead of a proper segment S1—in the manner of a mise en abîme. How can a quotation be signalled by authors and recognised as such by readers? Quotation signals are, inter alia, a change of languages and language levels (diastratic, diachronic, diatopic) as well as graphemic signals such as change of font or typeface, italics and, of course, quotation marks. When quotation segments S2 in text T1 are not specially designated by signals, their absence becomes a challenge to the intertextual competence, or to the general literary expertise, of the recipient—the only means for her or him to recognise an intertextual figure as such. Paratexts such as commentaries, for instance on T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land, will provide assistance. Where such assistance is lacking, text T1 assumes an increasingly elitist or erudite character. A complex example of a quotation is found in Ezra Pound’s Hugh Selwyn Mauberley: (186) Died some pro patria non dulce non et “décor.”
These two lines quote the well-known verse by Horace, “Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori” (od. III.2.13). However, they vary it significantly in several ways: by permutative fragmentation of the syntax of the pre-text; by replacing the Latin verbal phrase “est . . . mori” by the English verb “died” and by the subtraction of the Latin end morpheme {-um} in “decorum”; by the addition and repetition (equivalence) of the negation non which Horace does not use. The quotation-signals, with the exception of the quotation marks, are exclusively interlingual, that is, due to the linguistic change from English to Latin. A quotation has several unmistakable identifying properties that identify it as such. Its most striking feature is probably intertextual repetition: an earlier text (pre-text) appears again in a later one (quoted
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text). Secondly, a quotation possesses a fragmentary character: as a rule, only part of the pre-text is reproduced in the quotation. Thirdly, it follows that the quotation lacks independence, comprising simply a segmental derivative. Fourthly, as such it does not represent an organic component but a separable foreign body or, expressed differently, an improprie segment replacing an original proprie segment. Finally, the quotation is the repetition of a segment derived from a precursor text in a subsequent text where it substitutes a proprie segment. The extent of a quotation can vary. In the normal case it consists of morphological or syntactic units, but, in rarer cases, also of larger sections of text. Well-known titles of literary works contain word quotations or sentence quotations: John Barth’s The Sot-Weed Factor repeats the title of a satirical poem by Ebenezer Cooke, Aldous Huxley’s Eyeless in Gaza refers to a verse segment from John Milton’s Samson Agonistes (v. 41), and Tom Stoppard’s Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead is a quotation from Hamlet (V.ii.376). But more extensive text segments, too, are reproduced, thus from Goethe’s Die Leiden des jungen Werthers in Ulrich Plenzdorf ’s Die neuen Leiden des jungen W. Probably the shortest length is claimed by the morphological quotation of the English suffix {-iad} in proper names of book titles. Thus, following the pattern of Iliad, word creations such as Christiad, Jeremiad, Dunciad or even Anonymiad abound. They all refer to the heroic epic, either to its serious imitation or its comic parody. In German this leads analogously to expressions such as Jeremiade, Jobsiade or Dummkopfiade (as a translation of Dunciad). Insinuation or allusion has a profile of features different from that of a quotation. The intertextual reference of this figure is reduced to semantics; that frequently leads to its vagueness or lack of precision. 7.1.2 Permutation (Cento) Intertextual montage, also called cento (Verweyen/Witting 1991), differs from textual montage in that here one finds alien materials from various texts being mounted so that from various text segments S1–Sn a new text is constituted. A cento from 1885, put together from various Goethe quotations by Edwin Bormann, runs as follows: (187) Goethe-Quintessenz (Allen citatenbedürftigen Gemüthern gewidmet) Ihr naht euch wieder? In die Ecke, Besen!
(Devoted to all quotation-needy souls) You again draw closer? In the corner, broom!
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chapter seven Luft! Luft! Klavigo! Meine Ruh’ ist hin. Der König rief: Ich bin ein Mensch gewesen: Das Ewig-Weibliche, das war mein Sinn. Ein deutscher Mann mag keinen Franzen leiden, Der and’re hört von allen nur das Nein. Ich weiß nicht, nur die Lumpe sind bescheiden, Ein Werdender wird immer dankbar sein. ...
Air! Air! Clavigo! My piece of mind, destroyed The king calls: I used to be a person The eternal feminine, that was my raison d’être. A German cannot stand a Frenchman, The other hears only others saying no. I don’t know, only the rascals are modest, A new-comer will always be grateful. ...
This new text does not form a coherent whole in the sense of the Aristotelian one and whole (hèn kai hólon) but rather a fragmented assortment. The individual quotations of the cento do convey a kind of sense, each for itself; in a few lines one even has the vague impression of some semantic coherence. But for a complete understanding of the cento one needs to take into account the context of the pre-text quotations: that is, Faust, Der Zauberlehrling, Clavigo and so on. The new configuration entered into by the quotations creates a secondary level of meaning with a semantics that shows an ironical bivalency, specifically because of the synchronous mental co-presence of the primary level of meaning. Something similar is found in the visual and tonal media. Examples would be the photo-montages by John Heartfield, Hannah Höch or Klaus Staeck, as well as the quotation-montages in the compositions by Eric Satie, Luigi Nono or John Cage. In these cases, too, the permutative intertextual or, more precisely, intermedial process is a frequent source of irony.
7.2
Figures of Intertextual Equivalence (Iso-Intertextemes)
Intertextual equivalence occurs wherever a verbal (or nonverbal) texture from one text is repeated in one or more other texts in an identical or similar manner. The equivalence texture is then not a quotation but part of a common verbal or nonverbal store from which the author may draw at will when producing a text. A common feature of all
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these equivalences is their high familiarity. They represent commonplaces (Latin: loci communes, German: Gemeinplätze, French: lieux communs), habitualised formulas that have acquired the character of “eternal verities.” As such, they can be actualised while arbitrarily constituting many texts. As long as they are not actualised, they remain in a state of virtuality. This property is illustrated in a particularly apt manner when commonplaces are displayed in a certain type of book publication: the anthology, the florilegium or—in the English-speaking world—the commonplace book. The first significant collection of this kind were the Adagia (1500) by Erasmus of Rotterdam. Later successors were Büchmann’s Geflügelte Worte and the Oxford Book of Quotations. The actualisation of commonplaces and “winged words” makes not only for high intertextual but also for high intercommunicative equivalence, which means that a common reservoir of opinions makes mutual communication easier if not actually possible to begin with (Plett 1999). If one interprets both anthologies of “winged words” and wellknown texts as inventories of commonplaces, then figures of intertextual equivalence can become parodies. An English commonplace of the first order, widely known beyond the English-speaking world, exists in the form of the first verse of Hamlet’s famous monologue, “To be or not to be, that is the question.” There could scarcely be any utterance in world literature that has been parodied more often. A lower rank as an iso-intertext is occupied by the parody of Goethe’s well-known poem Heidenröslein, the anonymous spoof Das Seidenhöslein. For comparison sake, both poems—the original and the parody—are reproduced below in full, including translations (In: Deutsche Lyrik— Parodien aus drei Jahrhunderten, eds. T. Verweyen and G. Witting. Stuttgart: Reclam, 1983, p. 157 [Goethe], p. 120 [Anonymus]): (188) a) Johann Wolfgang von Goethe Heidenröslein
(188) b) Anonymous Das Seidenhöslein (Chanson nach Goethe)
Sah ein Knab ein Röslein stehn, Röslein auf der Heiden, War so jung und morgenschön, Lief er schnell, es nah zu sehn, Sahs mit vielen Freuden. Röslein, Röslein, Röslein rot, Röslein auf der Heiden.
Sah ein Knab’ ein Höslein wehn, —Höslein unterm Kleide! War so weiß und blütenschön, Knisterte beim Gehn und Drehn, War von feinster Seide! Höslein, Höslein, Höslein weiß! Höslein unterm Kleide!
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chapter seven Knabe sprach: Ich breche dich, Röslein auf der Heiden! Röslein sprach: Ich steche dich, Dass du ewig denkst an mich, Und ich wills nicht leiden. Röslein, Röslein, Röslein rot, Röslein auf der Heiden.
Und der Knabe lief hinzu— —Höslein unterm Kleide! Höslein machte leis’: Frou frou! Sei nur nicht zu schüchtern, du, Denn ich bin von Seide! Höslein, Höslein, Höslein weiß! Höslein unterm Kleide!
Und der wilde Knabe brach ’s Röslein auf der Heiden; Röslein wehrte sich und stach, Half ihm doch kein Weh und Ach, Musst es eben leiden. Röslein, Röslein, Röslein rot, Röslein auf der Heiden.
Und dem Knaben ward so bang, —Höslein unterm Kleide! Höslein wehrte sich nicht lang, Rauschte, flüsterte und—sank! Seligkeit und Freude! Höslein, Höslein, Höslein weiß! Höslein unterm Kleide! Und der Knab’ nahm sie zur Frau! —Höslein unterm Kleide! Doch nach Wochen—schau, schau, schau— Trug die holde Ehefrau, Dem Gemahl zu Leide: Höslein, Höschen, Hosen grau!! Barchent und nicht Seide—!!
Once a boy a Rosebud spied Heathrose fair and tender, All array’d in youthful pride,— Quickly to the spot he hied, Ravished by her splendour. Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red, Heathrose fair and tender!
Once a boy some bloomers spied, —Bloomers under petticoats! Like a blossom soft and white, Swishing with each carefree stride, Silk of finest kind Bloomers, bloomers, bloomers white Bloomers under petticoats.
Said the boy, “I’ll now pick thee, Heathrose fair and tender!” Said the rosebud, “I’ll prick thee, So that thou’ll remember me, Ne’er will I surrender!” Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red, Heathrose fair and tender!
That young lad then ran to see Bloomers under petticoats! Bloomers rustled stealthily, “Shy is what you shouldn’t be, For this silk’s top quality!” Bloomers, bloomers, bloomers white Bloomers under petticoats.
Now the cruel boy must pick Heathrose fair and tender; Rosebud did her best to prick, Vain ’twas gainst her fate to kick, She must needs surrender. Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red, white Heathrose fair and tender!
The lad was full of trepidation —Bloomers under petticoats! Bloomers didn’t fuss for long, Rustled, whispered—and were down! Joy, exhileration! Bloomers, bloomers, bloomers Bloomers under petticoats.
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He married her right then and there! —Bloomers under petticoats! But just a few weeks later— where, where, where— Was all that silk so soft and rare!! For all that lad saw every day Was bloomers, pants, no, trousers gray!! And heavy cotton underwear!
The parody, with reference to its pre-text, represents a complex isointertexteme. Here the equivalence is not total but partial. Its nature results from a repetition of the precursor text, with various modifications. These are generated by phonological or morphological substitution transformations which here assume the status of secondary intertextual figures: for example, the replacement of /h/ by /z/ or /k/ and of /r/ by /h/ in the transformation “Heidenröslein” → “Seidenhöslein”, or the replacement of /h/ by /k/ in the transformation {Heiden} → {Kleide}. They convert the canonical authority of Goethe’s poem into a trivialising version of its components. This trivialisation on the way to parody would not be possible if Goethe’s Heidenröslein, by constant wear, had not already sunk to the triviality of a quotable commonplace. The parody repeats the commonplace in the changed form of a secondary equivalence. By this process one succeeds in defamiliarising the semantic decline of the precursor text and revitalising the latter in the distorting mirror of parody. In this way iso-intertextemes not only provide confirmation of the literary convention, but they also effect its continuation under the aspect of innovation. Put differently, here the new arises from the intertextual equivalence transformation of the old.
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INDICES
INDEX OF NAMES
Aarts, J. 165 Abrams, Meyer Howard 14, 131 Adler, Jeremy 268 Adorno, Theodor W. 17–18 Agathon 5, 7 Alciato, Andrea 11–12 Althaus, Hans Peter 253 Amphion 11 Anderson, G.L. 127, 129 Apollinaire, Guillaume 205 Arbusow, Leonid 69, 229 Arion 11 Aristoteles 6, 23, 26, 44–46, 49, 221 Assmann, Aleida 41 Aton 113 Auerbach, Erich 82 Augustinus, Aurelius 52 Austerlitz. R. 200 Ax, Wolfram 69 Bacon, Francis 228 Bakhtin, Mikhail 61, 281 Baldwin, Thomas Whitfield 29 Balzac, Honoré de 28 Barber, Charles 163 Barilli, Renato 25 Bartel, Dietrich 50 Barth, John 283 Barthes, Roland 26–27, 52, 61, 83, 84 Baudelaire, Charles 28, 53, 202 Baumgarten, Alexander Gottlieb 3 Beardsley, M.C. 136 Beckett, Samuel 102, 279 Behler, Ernst 230 Benn, Gottfried 162 Bessière, Jacques 34 Bickerton, D. 216 Bierce, Ambrose 19 Biermann, Wolf 205–206 Bierwisch, Manfred 66 Blake, William 168, 170 Blunt, William Scawen 169 Bonheim, Helmut 102–103 Booth, Wayne C. 230 Bradstreet, Anne 171 Brecht, Bertolt 21–22, 91, 100, 201, 209–210
Brentano, Clemens 160, 172, 227 Breton, André 257 Breuer, Dieter 7, 84 Brooke-Rose, Christine 231 Brown, J. 179 Bryant, Donald C. 51 Büchner, Georg 246–247 Bühlmann, Walter 82, 202 Bunyan, John 226–227, 278 Burger, H. 195–197 Burke, Kenneth 92 Burmeister, Joachim 50 Butler, Charles 70 Butters, R.R. 165 Byron, Lord, see Gordon, Georg, Lord Byron Byzantium 33 Cage, John 284 Campbell, George 46 Carmack, Paul A. 20 Carroll, Lewis 149, 151–155 Cascardi, Anthony 12 Catullus, C. Valerius 218–219, 229–230 Cavalli, Francesco 47 Cave, Terence 47 Celan, Paul 228 Chapman, Raymond 232 Charles, Michel 30 Chatman, Seymour 108, 130, 131, 138 Chaucer, Geoffrey 130, 278 Chomsky, Noam xi, 183, 197 Cicero, Marcus Tullius 10, 11, 90–91, 281 Clark, Donald Lemen 29 Clarke, Martin L. 68 Claudius, Matthias 127 Clot, Yves 45 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor 169 Conley, Thomas M. 33 Cooke, Ebenezer 283 Cope, Edward Meredith 45 Corbett, Edward P.J. 33 Corneille, Pierre 201 Craig, Hardin 29 Crashaw, Richard 231
316
index of names
Croce, Benedetto 24–25 Crocker, Lionel 20 Croll, Morris W. 6, 29 Culler, Jonathan 179 Cummings, Edward Estlin 164–167, 196, 255, 260, 263, 271–274 Curtius, Ernst Robert 6–7, 28, 29, 33, 41, 87, 229 Davie, Donald 30 Delas, Daniel 66, 165 Demosthenes 22 Dickens, Charles 188 Dickinson, Emily 193, 241–244 Dockhorn, Klaus 3, 29, 33, 36, 84 Donne, John 140, 170 Drayton, Michael 234 Dubois, Jacques 30, 48, 51, 68, 70, 73–74, 98, 99, 102, 189, 215, 217, 234, 255 Duchesne, Alain 52 Dyck, Joachim 36 Eck, Caroline van 50 Eco, Umberto 53 Edeline, Francis 225 Eichendorff, Joseph von 227 Eisenstein, Sergei 279 Eliot, Thomas Stearns 141, 157, 222, 223–224, 231, 237, 261, 262, 282 Elyot, Sir Thomas 261 Empson, William 179 Ennius, Quintus 110, 111 Enos, Theresa 30 Enzensberger, Hans Magnus 85, 150, 173, 188, 190 Epstein, Mikhail xii Erasmus, Desiderius 41 Ernst, Ulrich 268 Fallersleben, Hoffmann von 237 Faral, Edmond 69 Fénelon, François de Salignac de la Mothe 46–47, 52–53 Filliolet, Jacques 66, 165 Fischer, Walter 176 Fontanier, Pierre 200–201 Fowler, Roger 130, 140, 165, 167 Francis, Ph. 14 Freeman, Donald C. 30, 131 Fricke, Harald 48 Fries, Charles Carpenter 183, 187 Fucks, Wilhelm 113 Fumaroli, Marc 30, 31
Gadamer, Hans-Georg 36–37 Gaier, Ulrich 128 Galand-Hallyn, Perrine 47 Gallo, Ernesto 41 Gay, John 157 Gelb, Ignace Jay 262 Genette, Gérard 52, 65, 92 George, Stefan 23, 148, 260 Gibert, Balthazar 29 Gläser, Rosemarie 254, 256, 260 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von 13, 128, 145, 161, 186, 221, 235, 239–240, 283–284, 285–287 Gordon, George, Lord Byron 140, 156 Gorgias of Leontinoi 4, 5, 6, 7, 26, 87, 204 Goth, Joachim 16 Greenfield, Sayre N. 43 Grimmelshausen, Hans Jakob Christoffel von 257 Grümmer, Gerhard 258 Gryphius, Andreas 172, 244, 250–251 Gueunier, N. 65 Gunter, R. 187, 188 Habermas, Jürgen 49 Hagstrum, Jean 14 Hall, R.A. 253 Haller, Albrecht von 192 Hamlet 139 Hardenberg, Georg Friedrich Philipp, Freiherr von 13, see Novalis Hardy, Thomas 157 Harsdörffer, Georg Philipp 257 Harth, Dietrich 41 Hasenclever, Walter 22 Hauptmann, Gerhart 157 Hausmann, Franz Josef 179 Havel, Václav 274–275 Haverkamp, Anselm 226 Hawthorne, Nathaniel 238 Heartfield, John 284 Hebel, Johann Peter 157 Hegel, Georg Friedrich 14–15 Heidegger, Martin 23–24 Heller, L.G. 179 Hennequin, Alfred 19, 21 Henry, Albert 225 Herbert, George 180–182, 193, 245, 257–258 Hercules Gallicus 11–12 Herder, Johann Gottlieb 158, 204 Herrick, Marvin T. 29
index of names Herrick, Robert 34, 169 Heusler, Andreas 139 Hitchcock, Alfred M. 19–21 Hocke, Gustav René 206, 258 Höch, Hanna 284 Hölderlin, Friedrich 140, 227 Höllerer, Walter 162 Hofmannsthal, Hugo von 228 Hols, E. 226 Holz, Arno 149 Homer 158 Hook, Leo H. 35 Hopkins, Gerard Manley 107, 113, 114–126, 140, 148, 149, 200, 258–259 Horace (i.e. Quintus Horatius Flaccus) 14, 282 Horner, Winifred Bryan 34 Howard, Henry, Earl of Surrey 192 Howell, Wilbur Samuel 29, 49–50, 90, 92 Hrushovsky, B. 146 Hubbell, M.H. 11 Huffington, Arianna S. 217 Hunter, Lynette 28 Huxley, Aldous 283 Hymes, Dell 126 Ingarden, Roman 24 Ingendahl, Werner 223 Irving, Washington 19 Isocrates 6, 7, 26 Jakobson, Roman xi, 3, 27, 49, 66, 87, 200, 202, 225, 238 Jameson, Fredric 53 Jandl, Ernst 102, 104–106, 148, 196, 255, 259–260, 264–265 Jens, Walter 82 Johansen, Troels Degn 50 Jongen, R. 226 Joseph, Sr. Miriam 29 Joyce, James 148, 150, 158–159, 189, 257 K., E. 161 Kästner, Erich 202 Kafka, Franz 185 Kahl, J. 113 Kaiser, Georg 22 Kallendorf, Craig W. 26, 28 Kant, Immanuel 8, 9, 10, 12–13, 14, 49, 146 Kegl, Rosemary 18 Kennedy, George 80
317
Kennedy, Milton Boone 60 Kermode, Frank 140–141 Kibédi Varga, Á.S. 28, 30 Kinneavy, James L. 89, 113 Kleist, Heinrich von 178 Klinkenberg, Jean-Marie 48, 68, 70, 73–74, 98, 99, 161 Klopstock, Friedrich Gottlieb 235 Knape, Joachim 23, 35 Knop, S. de 226 Koch, Walter A. 153, 165, 167 Kopperschmidt, Josef 44, 85, 207, 208, 217–218, 247 Koziol, Herbert 161 Krause, Peter D. 34 Kristeva, Julia 281 Kroetz, Franz Xaver 157 Kuentz, Pierre 48, 62 Kuznec, M.D. 183, 184, 185, 188, 221, 236 La Bruyère, Jean de 201 Lachmann, Renate 80 Lamy, Bernard 42 Lanham, Richard 41 Lapp, Edgar 230 Lasswell, Harold D. 80 Lausberg, Heinrich xi, 3, 12–13, 28, 29, 31, 40, 51, 62, 68, 69, 98, 158, 168, 174, 194, 197, 224, 225, 238, 279 Lear, Edward 98 Leech, Geoffrey N. 48, 68, 70, 71, 108, 129, 148, 160, 178, 228, 255 Leguay, Thierry 52 Le Guern, Michel 225, 235, 238 Leisi, Ernst 148 Levin, Samuel R. 30, 165, 200, 261 Levý, Jiři 109, 110 Liliencron, Detlev von 127 Lindner, Gerhart 138 Lodge, David 28 Lotman, Yurij M. 66, 107, 127, 200 Lotz, J. 130 Lowth, Robert 202–203 Lunde, Ingunn 47 Lydgate, John 161 MacQueen, John 232 Mallarmé, Stéphane 28 Man, Paul de 33–34, 43 Manieri, Alessandra 47 Marchand, Hans 149, 161 Marchese, Angelo 48 Marlowe, Christopher 158
318
index of names
Masefield, John 179, 283 Masson, David I. 108, 126 Maurer, Hanspeter 189 McKeown, Adam 47 McLuhan, Marshall 35 Mayoral, Antonio 101 Meerhoff, Kees 35 Meier, Hugo 226 Melanchthon, Philip 37 Menander Rhetor 26 Michel, Alain 30 Mill, John Stuart 1, 14, 90 Milton, John 8, 21 Molière (i.e. Jean-Baptiste Poquelin) 158 Mooney, Michael 25 Morgenstern, Christian 267–268 Morier, Henri xi, 47–48 Mountford, J. 253 Muecke, D.C. 230 Müller, Wolfgang G. 41, 179, 230 Mukařovský, Jan 48, 61, 66, 90, 109 Murphy, James J. 29
Plett, H.F. 30, 39, 40, 41, 47, 87, 219, 281 Pocci, Franz Graf von 102 Poe, Edgar Allan 170 Polheim, Karl Konrad 13 Pongs, Hermann 227 Pope, Alexander 137–138, 145, 191, 193 Poser, Michael von 277 Posner, Roland 66 Posselt, Gerhard 45 Pound, Ezra 159, 262, 263 Protagoras 23 Prudentius, Clemens Aurelius 232 Purcell, Henry 47 Puttenham, George 40
Nash, Ogden 154 Nestroy, Johann 157 Nietzsche, Friedrich 15–17, 19, 43–44, 169, 170, 174 Nono, Luigi 284 Noppen, J.-P. van 226 Norden, Eduard 4, 87 Novalis 13 see Hardenberg, Georg Friedrich Philipp, Freiherr von 13
Racine, Jean 161, 201 Raimund, Ferdinand 157 Ramus, Petrus (i.e. Pierre de la Ramée) 40, 69–70 Redfern, Walter 179 Reuter, Fritz 157 Rice, Donald 28, 87 Richards, Jennifer 52 Ricœur, Paul 215, 221 Riffaterre, Michel 80, 82 Rilke, Rainer Maria 137, 140 Rimbaud, Arthur 128 Ronsard, Pierre de 192 Rossetti, Dante Gabriel 129 Rühm, Gerhard 256, 259, 265–266, 269–270 Ruthven, K.K. 233
Ohly, Friedrich 232 Ohmann, Richard M. Ong, Walter J. 35 Opitz, Martin 206 Orpheus 11
30, 75
Paul, Jean 191 Peacham, Henry 42, 69, 70, 84 Pearsall, Robert Lucas de 156 Pelc, Jerzy 226 Pellegrini (or Peregrini), Matteo 25 Pennacchia Punzi, Maddalena 35 Perelman, Chaïm 58 Pernot, Laurent 30, 47 Peterfalvi, J.M. 127 Philips, Edward 258 Piccinni, Nicola 47 Platon 10, 22, 49 Plenzdorf, Ulrich 283
Queneau, Raymond 99 Quincey, Thomas de 8, 219 Quinn, Arthur 62 Quintilian (i.e. Marcus Fabius Quintilianus) 3, 68–69, 83, 197, 238 Quirk, Randolph 161
Sandig, Barbara 189 Scaliger, Julius Caesar 48–49, 51 Schanze, Helmut 33, 35, 44 Scherer, Karl 82, 202 Schiller, Friedrich 16, 19, 49, 247–248 Schmidt, Alexander 195 Schmidt, Siegfried J. 76 Schofer, Peter 28, 87 Schopenhauer, Arthur 18, 146 Schröder, Rudolf Alexander 160 Sebeok, Thomas A. 113
index of names Seneca, Lucius Annaeus 5 Shakespeare, William 21, 60, 101, 129, 138, 142–144, 148, 150, 157, 162, 169, 172, 173, 177, 178, 179, 190, 193, 194, 195, 207, 210–214, 216, 218, 219, 221, 227, 229, 234, 235, 236 Sharpling, Gerard 47 Shaw, George Bernard 158 Shelley, Percy Bysshe 160, 174 Shen, Yeshuyabu 219–220 Shibles, Warren A. 226, 247 Shipley, Joseph T. 139 Shirley, James 237 Sidney, Sir Philip 169, 170, 218 Simonides 36 Sinemus, Volker 36 Škreb, Z. 85, 208, 246, 248 Skrebnev, J.M. 183, 184, 185, 188, 221, 236 Slama-Cazacu, Tatiana 80 Sloane, Thomas O. 20, 30 Smith, H.L. 130, 135, 137, 138 Socrates 10 Solbach, Andreas 47 Spenser, Edmund 99, 149–150, 160–161, 249–250 Spies, Marijke 51 Spitzer, Leo 34, 256 Spooner, W.A. 101 Staeck, Klaus 284 Staël, Anne Louise Germaine de (Madame de) 14 Standop, Ewald 130 Stanford, W.B. 228 Starobinski, Jean 52 Steadman, John M. 29 Steinitz, Wolfgang 204 Sterne, Laurence 100, 260, 261, 277 Sternheim, Carl 198–199 Stone, P.W.K. 33 Storm, Theodor 160 Stramm, August 100, 162, 196 Sullivan, Arthur 228–229 Swift, Jonathan 277 Synge, John Millington 190 Tacitus, Cornelius 6 Tennyson, Alfred Lord 12, 160 Tesauro, Emmanuele 25 Thomas, Dylan 140, 148
319
Thompson, John 127 Thrasymachos 5 Thucydides 5, 158 Todorov, Tzvetan 68, 70, 71, 238 Trager, G.L. 130, 135, 137, 138 Trakl, Georg 234 Trimpi, Wesley 10 Troyes, Chrétien de 278 Tuve, Rosemond 29 Tzara, Tristan 279 Ueding, Gert 28 Ullmann, Stephen
176, 228
Van Hook, J.W. 233 Venezky, Richard L. 253 Verlaine, Paul 14 Verweyen, Theodor 283 Vickers, Brian 26 Vico, Giambattista 25 Virgil (i.e. Publius Vergilius Maro) 26, 278 Voltaire (i.e. François Marie Arouet le jeune) 257 Wagner, Richard 16–17, 148, 160, 173, 193, 262 Walker, Jeffrey 26, 47 Warren, Austin 225 Weinheber, Josef 128 Weinrich, Harald 113, 222 Wellek, René 113, 225 Wells, Marion A. 47 Wexler, P.J. 131 Whately, Richard 8, 45–46 Whitman, Walt 50 Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, Ulrich von 4, 5, 6, 7 Wilde, Oscar 53, 228 Willems, Gottfried 47 Williamson, George 6 Wimböck, Gabriele 47 Wimsatt, William K. 136 Witting, Gunther 283 Wolff, Reinhold 106 Wood, Basil 228–229 Woolf, Virginia 185 Wordsworth, William 29, 227 Yeats, William Butler
