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Showing posts with label hermeneutics. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hermeneutics. Show all posts

Wednesday, April 1, 2026

Underdetermination in Two French Poems

 

Baudelaire’s “L’Étranger” and Verlaine’s “Art Poetique” are appended following the endnotes in new translations of my own as well as in the French originals. 

 

    Teachers of expository writing, technical writing, and journalism generally stress clarity and economy.   For such forms of discourse the language should most often be transparent with the meaning evident and the style unobtrusive.  In aesthetic genres, though, to exploit literature’s capacity for an extraordinary density of meaning, phrasing, figures of speech, tone, and sound enrich and deepen signification.  Ambiguity can convey a richer truth that reflects the contradictions, even the mystery of things, rather than a reductive simplicity. 

     Literary usage, however, differs widely in deployment of this strategy.  Some texts have what seems a unitary (or at least a rapidly decodable) signification while others are more ambiguous or unclear in meaning [1].  The distinction was recognized in medieval France in the contrast between trobar leu and trobar clus.  Either may be appropriate depending on the aims of the text.  Realistic fiction, for instance, is generally highly determined as are popular dramas like television situation comedies and folktales, while experimental and avant-garde works are more likely to be underdetermined.  Poetry that succeeds in oral performance is likely to be more immediately intelligible than written texts which the reader may ponder and review.

     Though works of both kinds may be found throughout literary history, during the last century and half underdetermined poetry has been particularly prestigious.  Since Romanticism the elevation of the individual genius and the rise of an art indifferent or even hostile to popularity has in part displaced the old emphases on art’s transmitting cultural norms while seeking to please.  Intellectuals relish complexity while the great majority of the population consumes poetry only through the medium of popular music.

    These attitudes are often quite self-conscious.  Flaubert and Baudelaire sought to distance themselves from social norms [2].  Verlaine considered the modern writers he admired to be Les Poètes Maudits and Mallarmé cultivated an obscure style. French Symbolism and Italian Hermeticism gloried in vaguer signification, while Realism, Naturalism, and Tendenzromane of both right and left strove in general for unitary, clearly prescribed meanings.   

     “L’Étranger,” one of the prose poems in Baudelaire’s Petits poèmes en prose or Spleen de Paris (1869) and Verlaine’s “Art Poétique” from Jadis et Naguère (Formerly and Recently) (1884) both promote underdetermination in service of rather different styles.  While both poets share with Gautier the view that beauty is the primary desideratum of art, Gautier’s “L’Art” promotes a Parnassian style with attention focused on form and precise concrete description.  For Gautier a poem is a cunningly crafted object like Cellini’s gold, enamel, and ebony salt cellar, its shapes well-defined, with solid heft.  Though Gary Snyder would scarcely be classed with Gautier, he expresses a similar notion in “Riprap”: Lay down these words/ Before your mind like rocks.”  Both Baudelaire and Verlaine depend on a different aesthetic, with beauty based on more elusive meaning.

     Baudelaire’s stranger prefers clouds the very excellence of which arises from their imprecise suggestiveness.  After denying that he loves what others do – family, friends, country, and wealth – the speaker hedges on beauty, saying that what is called art he finds not always beautiful or divine.  He chooses instead to celebrate the clouds.  Surely this is a manner of saying that he revels in his own imagination.  The clouds themselves bear no meaning, it is only his reception of their appearance that lends them appeal.  In other words, he is affirming his own sensibility as the source of aesthetic delight.  He follows here the Romantic celebration of genius and anticipates not only the obscurity associated with Symbolist imagery, but also the notion of idiosyncratic taste inherent in hip, camp, and kitsch appreciation.  Classical standards of beauty and monosemous theme are dismissed or ignored.

     Verlaine’s “Art Poetique” advocates a similar aesthetic, though with considerably more elaboration.  In fact his “nuance” (also nuance in English) shares an etymology with Baudelaire’s ”nuage” (cloud).  Like Baudelaire he condemns traditional eloquence using vivid terms, even saying it should be throttled).  Like Pater in The Renaissance saying that all art aspires to the condition of music, he declares that music, the most abstract of the arts, must rule [3].  His enemy is the obvious: a cheap laugh, too much garlic, showy costume jewelry.  For him beauty lies in the subtlety of a scent in the breeze, a musical phrase, the flight of a bird.  Equivocation becomes a part of charm.

   Baudelaire’s “L’Étranger” used the open form of the prose poem, employed by Aloysius Bertrand in Gaspard de la nuit (1842) and later to shattering effect by Rimbaud in in Illuminations (1886).  Though Verlaine inveighs against rhyme, he rhymes nonetheless (sometimes in slant rhymes such as midi/attiédi, énergie/assagie, and matin/thym).  The eight syllable lines are not entirely predictable, as they are varied without pattern with seven and nine syllable lines, and one of ten [4]. 

     This freedom is consistent with the expression of novel content and the elevation of art to a quasi-religion.  The appeal of the poets’ underdetermination arises in part from its suggestion that the artist is a kind of shamanic conjurer dealing in spells, but the reader, too, shares in the creation of meaning not through mechanical decoding but in a kind of collaborative construction of signification.  By violating conventions and establishing new ones, the poets help bring to birth new forms of literature.

      

 

 

1.  Roland Barthes’ S/Z distinguished between readerly (lisible) texts and writerly (scriptable) ones   Since for him certain further assumptions and value judgements are associated with these terms, underdetermined and highly determined are preferred here.  (Overdetermined should be reserved for cases in which too much information is given resulting in potentially tiresome replication.)

2.  Flaubert ridiculed the bourgeois, for instance, in Bouvard and Pecuchet and the Dictionary of Received Ideas, and Baudelaire praised the “dandy” whose style indicates his aesthetic concerns.  In another clear sign of transgressive intent, both were prosecuted for obscenity.

3.  Pater in 1873 was far from alone in his sentiment.  In Poe’s “The Poetic Principle” (1850) he said "It is in Music perhaps that the soul most nearly attains the great end for which, when inspired by the Poetic Sentiment, it struggles -- the creation of supernal Beauty.”  Verlaine had described Poe as malin though naïf and even puéril in a letter of May 16, 1873 to Edmond Lepelletier.  Many others have voiced similar ideas.  For instance, Susan Sontag in Reborn: Journals and Notebooks, 1947-1963 says “Music is at once the most wonderful, the most alive of all the arts— it is the most abstract, the most perfect, the most pure— and the most sensual. I listen with my body and it is my body that aches in response to the passion and pathos embodied in this music.”

4.  I find two lines of seven syllables, ten of eight, twenty-three of nine, and one I count as ten: 8899 8899 8998 9979 10998 9999 9898 9997 9989.

 

 

 

 

The Stranger

 

 

     “Whom do you love better, mystery man, tell me: your father, or mother, your sister or brother?”

    “I have no father, mother, sister, or brother.”

     “Your friends?”

     “You are using a word the meaning of which has always been unknown to me.”

     “Your country?”

     “I don’t even know its latitude.”

     “Beauty?”

     “I would gladly love her as an immortal goddess.”

     “Gold?”

     “I hate it just as you hate god.”

     “So, what then do you love, you extraordinary stranger?”

    “I love the clouds – the clouds which drift by – like there – and there! The marvelous clouds!”

 

 

L’Étranger

 

— Qui aimes-tu le mieux, homme énigmatique, dis ? ton père, ta mère, ta sœur ou ton frère ?

— Je n’ai ni père, ni mère, ni sœur, ni frère.

— Tes amis ?

— Vous vous servez là d’une parole dont le sens m’est resté jusqu’à ce jour inconnu.

— Ta patrie ?

— J’ignore sous quelle latitude elle est située.

— La beauté ?

— Je l’aimerais volontiers, déesse et immortelle.

— L’or ?

— Je le hais comme vous haïssez Dieu.

— Eh ! qu’aimes-tu donc, extraordinaire étranger ?

— J’aime les nuages… les nuages qui passent… là-bas… là-bas… les merveilleux nuages !

 

 

 

The Art of Poetry (Paul Verlaine)

 

Before all else the verse must swing,

so build a rhythm just off-beat,

dissolved in air and not too neat,

no weighty or prescriptive thing.

 

You must not choose your words without

allowing polysemy in. 

Grey songs have aways finest been

where certainty contends with doubt.

 

Behind a veil a lovely eye,

or noonday trembling in the sun.

Blue stars arrayed when day is done

across the mild autumn sky.

 

Nuance alone is what will suit

No color, just nuance alone!

For only by nuance is shown

The links of dreams or horn to flute!

 

Fly far then from the deathly spot,

the cruel shade, the laugh so cheap

which makes the very sky to weep

like too much garlic in the pot.

 

Take eloquence and twist its neck! 

A little work and you’ll do well

To calm the rhymes for a short spell

If we don’t curb them, there’s no check!

 

Why, who rhyme’s wrongs can ever know?

And what deaf child or crazy slave

to us this shoddy jewel gave

which proves so false when studied close.

 

It’s music always wins the prize!

Your verse must be a thing in  flight,

an active soul alone can write

which takes to other loves and skies.

 

So may your verse fly with the birds,

and swim in morning’s breeze so chilled,

with mint and thyme aromas filled

and all the rest is only words.

 

 

Art Poetique

 

Paul Verlaine

De la musique avant toute chose,

Et pour cela préfère l’Impair

Plus vague et plus soluble dans l’air,

Sans rien en lui qui pèse ou qui pose.

 

Il faut aussi que tu n’ailles point

Choisir tes mots sans quelque méprise :

Rien de plus cher que la chanson grise

Où l’Indécis au Précis se joint.

 

C’est des beaux yeux derrière des voiles,

C’est le grand jour tremblant de midi,

C’est, par un ciel d’automne attiédi,

Le bleu fouillis des claires étoiles !

 

Car nous voulons la Nuance encor,

Pas la Couleur, rien que la nuance !

Oh ! la nuance seule fiance

Le rêve au rêve et la flûte au cor !

 

Fuis du plus loin la Pointe assassine,

L’Esprit cruel et le Rire impur,

Qui font pleurer les yeux de l’Azur,

Et tout cet ail de basse cuisine !

 

Prends l’éloquence et tords-lui son cou !

Tu feras bien, en train d’énergie,

De rendre un peu la Rime assagie.

Si l’on n’y veille, elle ira jusqu’où ?

 

Ô qui dira les torts de la Rime ?

Quel enfant sourd ou quel nègre fou

Nous a forgé ce bijou d’un sou

Qui sonne creux et faux sous la lime ?

 

De la musique encore et toujours !

Que ton vers soit la chose envolée

Qu’on sent qui fuit d’une âme en allée

Vers d’autres cieux à d’autres amours.

 

Que ton vers soit la bonne aventure

Éparse au vent crispé du matin

Qui va fleurant la menthe et le thym…

Et tout le reste est littérature.

Wednesday, November 1, 2023

Uses for a Dead Child in Chaucer, Livy, and Ancient Israel

 

     Like most of his fellow-pilgrims’ narratives, the Physician’s contribution to the Canterbury Tales is a retelling based on a written source.  Far from simply repeating an earlier version, though, Chaucer’s revisions express meaning absent from his source.  The anecdote from Livy [1] the Physician relates has quite a different meaning on the road between London and Canterbury than it did in ancient Rome.  Much significance arises from context and explicit cues apart from the implications of the plot.  The incident is sensational enough to guarantee readers’ attention in any era: in mythic, elemental terms it tells of a loving father who kills his daughter to save her from sexual exploitation.  Yet the significance is altogether different in the two versions and these meanings are also at variance with an earlier story of a sacrificed daughter and with the contemporary reader’s likely reaction.

     The plot elements of the story follow closely the spirited account in Livy, seizing the reader’s attention with lurid sex and violence.  A father finds his lovely and virtuous fourteen-year-old daughter fraudulently claimed as a slave by a lecherous judge.  Rather than let his Virginia (with her sprechende Name) fall to Appius’ lust, the father kills her.  She is a virgin sacrifice, offered up for the ideal of female sexual purity and dependence.

     Yet the first reaction of the modern reader must be shock at Virginius’ filicide, an issue that does not exist in Livy but which by the Middle Ages had become sufficiently important that in Chaucer’s telling, unlike in the Latin, Virginia consents willingly to her own murder.  Thus her end approaches the hagiographic pattern set by the many female saints who are said to have died willingly rather than accept a pagan or otherwise unacceptable lover.  While embracing her own death, she asks only for a brief delay, referring to the respite given Jephthah’s daughter in the Hebrew scriptures. 

     What follows Virginia’s death in Chaucer’s account has no hint of criticism of her father’s brutal deed.  After she dies at his hands, an aroused mob exacts revenge, imprisoning Appius who then commits suicide, hanging his partisans, yet Virginius requests that Claudius, whose false testimony was the excuse for Virginia’s abduction, be only exiled.  The reader hears another Christian grace-note there, surely, in a glimpse of a divine glow of the about such compassionate mercy.

     The reaction to this story in Chaucer is dramatic and has nothing to do with either praising or blaming the father.  The host is overcome with pathos, with such strong feelings of indignation at the malefactor and sympathy for the poor daughter that he acts as though he were crazy (287).  So distressed by the “pitous” (302) narrative is he that he insists he must have a remedy, either medicine or “corny ale” or a “myrie tale.” (316)  The Pardoner, who is to go next, insists on the second of these alternatives, and they stop into a tavern for a drink.  The excuse is presumably welcomed by others among the travelers. 

     The father’s act is not questioned, but rather presented as an extreme example of paternal love, forced on Virginius, like Oedipus the victim of a terrible fate.  Appius is an obvious villain, by pagan or by Christian standards, and his wickedness makes Virginia and her father shine forth the more brightly with their virtue. In a brief coda (277-286) the physician glosses his own story, providing an unlikely version of the story’s instructive value.  Rather than, like the Host, considering Appius a model of extreme sin and Virgina exemplifying the polar opposite, an all-but-impossible saintliness, the Physician identifies with Appius as a fellow sinner and takes the tale as a warning to forsake sin while one still may, bearing in mind that none can tell when God might bring hidden deeds to light.  There is no mention of the evil-doer’s victims, only the pain of the “worm of conscience” and his constant fear, knowing that in the end there must inevitably be an accounting for sin. 

     Presented in the context of the pilgrimage the Physician’s Tale seems, in spite of its shocking content, a diverting tale, a potent emotional experience suited for passing an idle hour, the medieval version of a late show horror movie.  The motif of a lovely and innocent heroine in danger is universally popular, and here its sensationalism is heightened by the horrific act of the father.  In spite of this potent, highly-colored material, though, the stated theme is generic, the most commonplace of medieval Christian formulae, encouragement toward salvation, to avoid sin and embrace Jesus. 

     The primary source for the Physician’s Tale is Livy (III, 44ff.) who tells the story in a leisurely and lively manner, clearly exploiting the sex and violence that make the story of Appius and Verginia (Livy’s spelling) attractive to readers.  The context and the stated significance of the account in Livy, however, is quite distinct from those of Chaucer’s story.   The Roman historian’s goal was to trace the founding of his city and the tale of Verginius marks a transition from the second decemvirate to the second plebeian succession.  Even apart from the intrusion of legends like that of Verginius, Livy’s presentation of such change is often based as much on tradition and literary models as on historical fact.  For him Appius’ attempt to rape Verginia is representative of his generally vicious rule.  Thus Livy includes a lengthy explanation of the strengthening of plebian power in the aftermath of Appius’ crime.  For him the political issue was leading the people’s reaction.  “The people were excited partly by the atrocity of the deed, partly by the opportunity now offered of recovering their liberties.”  The ordinary Romans “talked of nothing but the abolition of the tribunitian power and the right of appeal and loudly expressed their indignation at the condition of public affairs.” 

     Livy emphasizes the role of sexual offenses against women as a sign of decadent leadership and the marker of institutional change by referring to the earlier rape and death of Lucretia which had preceded the overthrow of the monarchy and the original founding of the senate.   Clearly, violence to respectable women is the hallmark of misrule, allowing a political struggle to be accompanied (or, perhaps, masked) as moral outrage.  In Chaucer the sin is personal or spiritual whereas here it is socio-political.   

     In Chaucer’s version Virginia’s daughter refers to another story that in part resembles her own when she asks for some brief respite before her death like that afforded Jephthah’s daughter in the book of Judges.  Though she also is killed by a loving father, this ancient Hebrew episode includes no lascivious and unjust judge.  Jephthah, despite being the son of a “harlot” and practicing banditry, defeats the Ammonites as a Jewish general and becomes then a respected “judge,” ruling Israel for six years.  He finds himself sacrificing his own daughter as the result of a rash vow.  There is no question of his failing to carry out his contract with the divine.  His daughter was, like Agamemnon’s, the price of military victory.

     Once again female blood accompanies a regime change.  The putative theme is, as so often in the Hebrew scripture, the ups and downs of the Jews interpreted as the result of either cleaving to pious rules or flirting with non-Jewish practices.  Israel had been losing its battles because they “did evil again in the sight of the Lord, and served Baalim, and Ashtaroth, and the gods of Syria, and the gods of Zidon, and the gods of Moab, and the gods of the children of Ammon, and the gods of the Philistines, and forsook the Lord, and served not him.” (Judges 10)  Oddly, though, Israel’s champion Jephthah endears himself to God with a vow that echoes the human sacrifice of the Jews’ neighbors.  His prayer must have pleased Jehovah since victory in battle follows.  Far from deserving censure for killing his daughter, Jephthah was originally, like Abraham, whose case turned out somewhat differently, a type of the believer who demonstrates virtue by submitting his will to the divine.

     The archaic ritual character of this sacrifice is evident in the fact that Jephthah’s daughter’s death was remembered in an annual observance.  “And it was a custom in Israel, that the daughters of Israel went yearly to lament the daughter of Jephthah the Gileadite four days in a year. (Judges 11, 39-40)  This custom suggests that the story is a descent into legend of what was once a divine myth about a female vegetation spirit similar to Ishtar or Persephone.  Here the context is wholly mythic.  Such actions occur on a cosmic stage.  Jephthah’s actions have no moral content any more than those of Oedipus, though later priestly commentators including the Jewish B'reshith Rabba and (much later) Rashi and the Christians Ambrose and John Chrysostom made him an example of error for the same actions that had been consdiered praiseworthy.

     The righteous killing of one’s child so outrages ordinary expectations that stories of such deeds will excite interest in any human society.  Yet the themes implied by the stories of Jephthah and Verginius (and Virginius) vary widely.  The Hebrew version has origins in the cycle of the natural year and the observation that life lives only on life and the hard insistence that the life of the community supersedes personal grief.  Later, Livy’s Latin anecdote about another father’s sacrifice continues the notion that the father’s individual loss is justified by a social gain, in Jephthah’s case the military victory over the Ammonites and in Verginius’ the assertion of the power of the commons, but the mythic and ritualistic associations are muted in favor of proto-democratic political values and individual ethical choice.  Finally, in Chaucer, the story is told for the fun of it, and the putative theme urging the reader to gain salvation by avoiding annoying God seems tossed into the text as an afterthought.      

     Using the violation of the strongest taboos, with the shedding of female blood marking historical change, stories of this type exercise a strong narrative appeal.  The Verginius anecdote appeared in The Romance of the Rose, was depicted by Botticelli, and was retold by later authors, including John Webster and Thomas Heywood in Appius and Virginia and Thomas Babington Macaulay in Lays of Ancient Rome.  In every instance the story’s meaning is a unique compound of plot and context, complicated by what the text says about itself and what the reader makes of it.