#general warshower

[baredmirror]

“The work that has been done so far on genre has tended to take the various genres as ‘given’ and discrete, defining them in terms of motifs, iconography, conventions, and themes. What we need to ask, if genre theory is ever to be productive, is less what than why. We are so used to the genres that the peculiarity of the phenomenon itself has been too little noted. The idea I wish to put forward is that the development of the genres is rooted in the sort of ideological contradictions my list of concepts suggests. One impulse may be the attempt to deny such contradiction by eliminating one of the opposed terms, or at least by a process of simplification.

Robert Warshow's seminal essays on the gangster hero and the westerner (still fruitfully suggestive, despite the obvious objection that he took too little into account) might be adduced here. The opposition of gangster film and western is only one of many possibilities. All the genres can be profitably examined in terms of ideological oppositions, forming a complex interlocking pattern: small-town family comedy/sophisticated city comedy; city comedy/film noir; film noir/small-town comedy, and so on. It is probable that a genre is ideologically ‘pure’ (i.e., safe) only in its simplest, most archetypal, most aesthetically deprived and intellectually contemptible form—such as the Hopalong Cassidy films or Andy Hardy comedies.The Hopalong Cassidy films (in which Indians, always a potentially disruptive force in ideological as well as dramatic terms, are, in general, significantly absent), for example, seem to depend on two strategies for their perfect ideological security: the strict division of characters into good and evil, with no ‘grays’; and Hoppy's sexlessness (he never becomes emotionally entangled). Hence the possibility of evading all the wandering/settling tensions on which aesthetically interesting westerns are generally structured.

One of the greatest obstacles to any fruitful theory of genre has been the tendency to treat the genres as discrete. An ideological approach might suggest why they can't be, however, hard they may appear to try: at best, they represent different strategies for dealing with the same ideological tensions. For example, the small-town movie with a contemporary setting should never be divorced from its historical correlative, the Western. In the classical Hollywood cinema motifs cross repeatedly from genre to genre, as can be made clear by a few examples. The home/wandering opposition that Peter Wollen rightly sees as central to Ford is not central only to Ford or even to the Western; it structures a remarkably large number of American films covering all genres, from Out of the Past to There's No Business Like Show Business. The explicit comparison of women to cats connects screwball comedy (Bringing Up Baby), horror film (Cat People), melodrama (Rampage), and psychological thriller (Marnie). An example that brings us to my present topic: notice the way in which the Potent Male Adventurer, when he enters the family circle, immediately displaces his ‘shadow,’ the settled husband/father, in both The Searchers and Shadow of a Doubt, enacted in both cases by his usurpation of the father's chair.”

— Robin Wood, “Ideology, Genre, Auteur”

#m #ideology genre auteur

[spilledreality]

the hippie phenomenon

“The New Yorker has always dealt with experience not by trying to understand it but by prescribing the attitude to be adopted toward it. This makes it possible to feel intelligent without thinking, and it is a way of making everything tolerable, for the assumption of a suitable attitude toward experience can give one the illusion of having dealt with it adequately.”

—Robert Warshow, "E. B. White and the New Yorker"

I wanna take issue with Kerouac and Didion, not so much with their writing’s literary value but as cultural criticism. Chance aside, a prerequisite of good criticism as I see it is a penetrating, upper-percentile comprehension of the subject at hand, coupled with an epistemic humility sufficient to the task of staying open-minded. Both Kerouac and Didion, though they represent opposite sides of the cultural and political coin, seem most primarily in judgment of their subjects, rather than intrigued by them. Both their practices show a dedication to deduction over induction, which is to say the opposite of learning. There is little demonstrated effort to adequately reconcile their worldviews, motivations, and values with that of an other (in Kerouac’s case, PTA moms and nuclear families; in Didion’s, the acidfreaks of Haight-Ashbury). Any good lawyer will tell you, if you don’t adequately understand your opponent’s position, your rebuttal will follow in inadequacy, cf. Ideological Turing Tests. 

Here's Kerouac in My Woman describing a job application (one implication being that the American laborer is a drone, a zombie, whose guise Jack and his friends must take on to get hired): 

We entered [the office] with our arms stretched out in front of us [drunk] like the zombies we'd seen in a picture the other day; we made our feet go slow and automatic like the ghost of death. We asked the man for a job. The poor idiot said, 'I don't think you boys will do.' We got out of there... laughing at the top of our lungs. 

2.

As the 50s turned into the 60s, the Beat ethos into flower power, Kerouac drifted into Long Island alcoholism; Ginsberg adapted, stayed relevant. The transition between decades bridged by the Merry Pranksters’ cross-country quest to "tune out, drop out" in a refurbished 1939 school bus per Wolfe’s Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test. 

On assignment for The Saturday Evening Post, Joan Didion traveled to the Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco, where she saw posters of Ginsberg hung on the walls and devotees treated his opinions on the Krishna as of equal authority with the Swami. Didion saw a world falling apart, spiritually and socially in crisis. People forget, so it's worth reminding that Didion was not a progressive in this era. She was a National Review contributor and a Goldwater voter. And while I have no problem with her political conservatism, it’s important to link “Slouching” with the general moral hysteria over longhairedness taking place at the time, a hysteria which contributed in large part to Nixon's presidential and Reagan's gubernatorial elections.

The central argument (or assumption, or presumption of “Slouching” is that San Francisco is home to a generation of children (some literally, some relative maturity) who have embarked on an extended bad trip (either literally or figuratively) from which they may not ever return. Affectless and out-of-it, they show emotion only when discussing, acquiring, or ingesting narcotics (peyote, acid, smack, crystal, amps, and a now-mysterious “STP”).  “Pathetically unequipped" for the real world, they lack any serious political convictions or critical thinking abilities, instead swimming in self-delusion and macrobiotic diets.

I can't speak of Dideon's intent so I'll stick to her prose, sociopathic in its lack of empathy and interest. The essay’s divided into bits so that each section sports an ominous closing sentence cum punchline-zinger. Interviewees divide into strawmen or caricatures; none are depicted or explored as complex, flesh-and-blood human beings. Juvenile delinquents and drug dealers are picked as the primary representative spokespeople of a sizable neighborhood and subculture. There’s Debbie, 15, a runaway because “[her] parents said she had to go to Church.” There’s John, 16, who has left home because his mother “didn't like boots” and made him help out around the house: “Tell about the chores,” Debbie says. John: “For example, I had chores. If I didn't finish ironing my shirts for the week I couldn't go out for the weekend. It was weird, wow.” Shortly after her wide-eyed relay on chores, Didion recounts Debbie literally chipping a nail, then getting upset that the author isn't carrying extra polish on her. I'd say you can't make this stuff up, but I'm tempted to invoke Richard Bradley:

Some years ago, when I was an editor at George magazine, I was unfortunate enough to work with the writer Stephen Glass on a number of articles. They proved to be fake, filled with fabrications, as was pretty much all of his work. The experience was painful but educational; it forced me to examine how easily I had been duped. Why did I believe those insinuations about Bill Clinton-friend Vernon Jordan being a lech? About the dubious ethics of uber-fundraiser (now Virginia governor) Terry McAuliffe? The answer, I had to admit, was because they corroborated my pre-existing biases. I was well on the way to believing that Vernon Jordan was a philanderer, for example—everyone seemed to think so, back in the ’90s, during the Monica Lewinsky time.

I can't say whether Didion fabricated these stories. It doesn't matter either way. A piece which confirms existing biases of its readers, or which confirms its own initial biases at its start, doing little more than elaborate variations on a stereotype for thousands of words, is poor criticism and shoddy historiography.

A generic structure for a given section of “Slouching”: observe events unraveling around her, hazard a guess at (and editorialize heavily on) what is occurring, entertain the possibility of asking a participant or knowledgeable observer for more accurate information, and then—inexplicably—decide not to. In other words, there’s a lack of respect for her subjects’ subjectivity, or for her own ability to be wrong. Equally as incredible as this journalistic practice is Didion’s willingness to admit to it (and in the same breath berate Time and other publications for their own misunderstandings of the hippie phenomenon).

Didion gets haughty at points, seamlessly transitioning from picking on a teenager’s amateur poetry to a bout of philosophical reflection:

As it happens, I am still committed to the idea that the ability to think for one's self depends upon mastery of the language and I am not optimistic about children who will settle for saying, to indicate that their mother and father do not live together, that they come from a “broken home.”

For myself, I’m not so hot about the idea of a journalist who dedicates forty pages to belittling literal teenage runaways, especially when so many avenues of more substantial cultural interest are ignored. It’s off-handedly mentioned that McLuhan is read by many in the Haight community, as are the Hari Krishna and the writings of Zen Buddhism, but Didion never meaningfully pursues any of the community's beliefs.

3.

Some of the more interesting documents on this subject come from the exchanges between literary, Cold War liberal moderates and the generation of beatniks and hippies who were pulling the country toward a more radical vision. Adam Kirsch’s Why Trilling Matters charts the relationship between Lionel Trilling and his former student at Columbia, Allen Ginsberg. (Kirsch, drawing on Trilling, distinguishes between the Blakean and Wordsworthean impulse, Wordsworth a “representative of wisdom,” Blake as the blazing voice of passion. As Trilling writes, Blake's poetry would be one of the more significant influences on the art and voice of Sixties counterculture: “American undergraduates seem to be ever more alienated from the general body of English literature, but they have for some time made an exception of William Blake... uniquely relevant to their spiritual aspirations” and acting as a model for its “transvaluation of social and aesthetic values.”)

Equally good is the lifelong correspondence between Allen and his also-poet father Louis Ginsberg. Trilling and L.’s sensibilities are of moderation and qualification, both sure only of their own fallibility; the Blakean hubris is an ideology propping up conceits of heroism, a Manichean dualism where only the counterculture keeps it real. “Save me from that mixed-up, confused view of the Beat Generation which maintains it has a blueprint of Truth, obviously handed over to them in a mystic, blinding revelation from Heaven," Louis wrote to his son in ‘58.

An avid communist in the early-to-mid 1960s (before a trip to Cuba changed his mind w/r/t the freedom of its citizens¹) Allen berated his father in letter after letter over Lou's democratic socialist views, and got bit back:

Your holier-than-thou attitude, with your noble intentions, does not prove that you have a Heavenly blueprint of the truth. You may be a great poet, as I believe you are, but you can still have false ideas and false facts, despite your noble intentions. T.S. Eliot and Pound had Fascist ideas.

One more excerpt, for joy:

Dear Allen,

You have a right to your opinion, according to your lights; but I retain my energetic insistence to differ with you... on your whole Beat Generation's views that everything that is, to paraphrase Pope, is wrong. Everything, according to your views, is all wrong, all in ruins, all warmongering, all immoral—except you (plural; i.e., the Beat Generation). Nobody wants “beauty, poetry, freedom” but you (plural)... all is false; all civilization messed up, all progress in the wrong, false track; all doomed... (March 10, 1958)

The truth the Beats claimed to seek or else contain was partly religious, the result of chemical visions, Ginsberg hearing Blake’s voice come to him mid-orgasm, Cassady meditating. But it was also of the writers’ attempted escape from social structure, to chase an idea of the authentic self as the self unencumbered by the social. Trilling “...the idea of... surrendering oneself to experience without regard to... conventional morality, of escaping wholly from the societal bonds, is an ‘element’ somewhere in the mind of every modern person.” Hence the enormous success of On the Road, which functions as simulation, a virtual joyride for those unwilling, unable, or who know better than to take such a trip themselves.

4.

Morris Dickstein, Gates of Eden:

Postwar prosperity had provided [sixties radicals] with the freedom to protest, the freedom to run wild, and the luxury of dropping out without worrying about a job. But by the 1970s the economy turned sour and, as I wrote in [the 1977 edition of] this book, “we could see how much the rainbow colors of the culture of the sixties were built on the fragile bubble of a despised affluence, an economic boom that was simply taken for granted.”

This is not to invalidate the legitimacy of radicals’ complaints, but to complicate the picture of inheritance in dissent.

It’s no secret the Beats were a stretch short of sainthood. Cassady and Kerouac were philanderers, promising women marriages only to subsequently abandon them (illegitimate children included). Cars were stolen only to be drunkenly totaled. And Carr, of course, infamously knifed an overly attached romantic pursuer in Manhattan's Riverside Park, dumping his body in the Hudson River under conditions still unclear today.

Tied up in this transgressiveness is the question of privilege, a critique which Diana Trilling, wife of the famous Lionel, launches in her essay for Partisan Review, “The Other Night at Columbia”:

I had heard about [Ginsberg] much more than I usually hear of students for the simple reason that he got into a great deal of trouble which involved his instructors, and had to be rescued and revived and restored; eventually he had even to be kept out of jail. Of course there was always the question, should this young man be rescued, should he be restored? There was even the question, shouldn’t he go to jail? We argued about it some at home but the discussion, I’m afraid, was academic, despite my old resistance to the idea that people like Ginsberg had the right to ask and receive preferential treatment just because they read Rimbaud and Gide and undertook to put words on paper themselves.

Alexander:

The “heroes” of On The Road consider themselves ill-done by and beaten-down. But they are people who can go anywhere they want for free, get a job any time they want, hook up with any girl in the country, and be so clueless about the world that they’re pretty sure being a 1950s black person is a laugh a minute. On The Road seems to be a picture of a high-trust society. Drivers assume hitchhikers are trustworthy and will take them anywhere. Women assume men are trustworthy and will accept any promise. Employers assume workers are trustworthy and don’t bother with background checks. It’s pretty neat. But On The Road is, most importantly, a picture of a high-trust society collapsing. And it’s collapsing precisely because the book’s protagonists are going around defecting against everyone they meet at a hundred ten miles an hour.

I would hesitate to agree that America in the early 20th century was markedly higher-trust than modern times. Rates of violent crime in the interwar period are comparable to the highs of the 70s crime wave, and despite sagging post-1945, were only slightly lower in Kerouac's time than our own. (Trust != crime, I know.) But the mechanisms of opportunity and exploitation remain in play. It is a phenomenon in which transgressive parties advocate for their transgressive way of life as a replacement to the present social order, without realizing or acknowledging that their transgressions are logistically possible through this very structure. Behavior is advocated as moral in Beat writing which would fall apart as a Kantian imperative.

In Kerouac this is both identitarian and pragmatic; J.K.’s lifestyle is possible because it exploits a trusting industrial society and its hard-earned resources. But in Maggie Nelson’s queer theory, it’s primarily a matter of identity and spirituality, where transgression is an end (autotelic) in itself. This is the paradoxical relationship of hegemony to the queer: it is at once mortal enemy and dearest ally, struggle’s basis in every sense of the word.  

The Argonauts is frequently brilliant; its idea of flux (“a constant becoming which never becomes”) is infinitely valuable. But Nelson condemns at every turn the category, the pigeon-hole, the label. Words to her are cages which imprison minds and bodies. And yet both Nelson and Kerouac seem not to acknowledge that the lifestyles and self-images they hold so valuable—the rebellion, transgression, and self-elevation practiced by Kerouac; the queerness valued by Nelson—are possible only through the existence of a majority body or structure from which to self-elevate and self-other. They are advocating for identities of negation as if they were autonomous.

[1] Ginsberg was expelled from Cuba in February of 1965 for "talking too much about marijuana & sex & capital punishment"; he traveled from there to the less oppressive Czechoslovakia.

#jack kerouac #joan didion #allen ginsberg #william blake #adam kirsch #lionel trilling #maggie nelson #scott alexander #slate star codex

[valiantlytinybouquetlove-blog]

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