CORRELATING COGITATIONS PT 2

Of all the concepts I correlated in Part 1, I have not previously shown reasons to bring together William James' two forms of knowledge (even when seen purely through the lens of my literary formulations) with Kant's two forms of sublimity, which I altered more extensively to meld with literary considerations. So what if any links can be found between James and Kant?

Everything I wrote about the Kantian sublimities derives from his CRITIQUE OF JUDGMENT, and in his first chapter, long before he broaches the subject of sublimity, Kant announces that he will discuss two sets of concepts:

Now there are only two kinds of concepts, and these admit as many distinct principles of the possibility of their objects, viz. natural concepts and the concept of freedom... Thus Philosophy is correctly divided into two parts, quite distinct in their principles; the theoretical part or Natural Philosophy, and the practical part or Moral Philosophy (for that is the name given to the practical legislation of Reason in accordance with the concept of freedom). 

When Kant set forth his project in 1790, I assume that he took some influence from previous philosophers in one way or another, and I similarly assume that most of the great philosophers who followed Kant were at least aware of this assertion. I do not know if Schopenhauer, reputed to have been a major interpreter of Kant, had this theme statement from JUDGMENT in mind when he distinguished between "perceptual knowledge" and "conceptual knowledge," or whether James or anyone else who discoursed on "knowledge-by-acquaintance" and "knowledge-about" and their congeners. Those matters of philosophical history don't matter; only the fact that all of Kant's JUDGMENT meditations spring from his division between natural concepts and moral concepts. In my mind the literary aspects of "knowledge-by-acquaintance" translate as the lateral meaning of any text, which is the unmediated, literal account of what happens in the narrative, while the aspects of "knowledge-about" translate as the text's vertical meaning, which is mediated by the interpretations made by the characters in the narrative, the author's observations independent of the characters, and the responses of the audience.

So even though Kant has a specific orientation in his "moral philosophy" toward his particular concept of "freedom"-- which I believe he considers essentially "a priori," as against the "a posteriori" concepts of nature-- his system is roughly in line with the later terms for the two forms of knowledge as advanced by James, Grote and others.

Now, Kant's uses examples taken from nature to explicate his twin concepts of sublimity. Here's Kant on what he terms "the mathematical-sublime:"

Examples of the mathematically Sublime of nature in mere intuition are all the cases in which we are given, not so much a larger numerical concept as a large unit for the measure of the Imagination (for shortening the numerical series). A tree, [the height of] which we estimate with reference to the height of a man, at all events gives a standard for a mountain; and if this were a mile high, it would serve as unit for the number expressive of the earth’s diameter, so that the latter might be made intuitible. The earth’s diameter [would supply a unit] for the known planetary system; this again for the Milky Way; and the immeasurable number of milky way systems called nebulae,—which presumably constitute a system of the same kind among themselves—lets us expect no bounds here. Now the Sublime in the aesthetical judging of an immeasurable whole like this lies not so much in the greatness of the number [of units], as in the fact that in our progress we ever arrive at yet greater units.

And here's some of his examples of "the dynamic-sublime:" 

Bold, overhanging, and as it were threatening, rocks; clouds piled up in the sky, moving with lightning flashes and thunder peals; volcanoes in all their violence of destruction; hurricanes with their track of devastation; the boundless ocean in a state of tumult; the lofty waterfall of a mighty river, and such like; these exhibit our faculty of resistance as insignificantly small in comparison with their might. But the sight of them is the more attractive, the more fearful it is, provided only that we are in security; and we readily call these objects sublime, because they raise the energies of the soul above their accustomed height, and discover in us a faculty of resistance of a quite different kind, which gives us courage to measure ourselves against the apparent almightiness of nature.

Probably Kant would consider all of hie examples to be "natural concepts." However, the examples of the dynamic-sublime have to do with discrete physical phenomena, which are things of which we know "by acquaintance." The perception of seemingly infinite phenomena, though, are mediated in MY opinion through the knowledge-faculty termed "knowledge-about," because the infinite-seeming phenomena come into conflict with the human desire to suss out proportions in an analytical manner.

The chances that some Kant scholar will dispute my interpretation of the "mathematical-sublime" are the opposite of infinite-- "infinitesimal." But such objections would not matter, because in this essay I translated Kant's formulation into one dealing exclusively with literary experiences of a different form of "infinity:"

it has occured to me that in literature, there are ways to express "infinity" that are not ineluctably entangled with the idea of might, and which will prove consequential for my attempt to formulate the foundations of the three worlds of artistic phenomenality.  This kind of "infinity" may have some "overwhelming" characteristics, but it is not really related to "might" as such.

It is the charm of mythic narrative that it cannot tell one thing without telling a hundred others. The symbols are an endless inter-marrying family. They give life to what, stated in general terms, appears only a cold truism, by hinting how the apparent simplicity of the statement is due to an artificial isolation of a fragment, which, in its natural place, is connected with all the infinity of truths by living fibres.
 

 The "infinity" of which Yeats speaks here-- like the "richness and profusion of images" I found in Edmund Burke-- suggests another form of the sublime with a different nature than the "dynamically sublime."  It is one that overwhelms in a manner roughly analogous to the "mathematically sublime," but the "magnitude" is one that stems not from physical size, but from the magnitude of how many conceivable connections can be made within a given phenomenality.

Hence the name I coin for this exclusively artistic property--

The COMBINATORY-sublime.

In 2013 I had not extrapolated the four potentialities from Jung's four functions; that took place the next year, in 2014's FOUR BY FOUR. Thus my word "connections" is vague at best. Still, the context, that of Yeats' "infinity of truths," aligns far more with the "knowledge-about" epistemologies characteristic of mythic narrative than with "knowledge-by-acquaintance." 

Or so it seems to me now, eleven years later. If I come across any posts of the combinatory-sublime that seem to contradict this current formulation, I reject them in advance, just for the satisfaction of having a sense of symmetry in my system.          

          

SYMBOLS, SEX AND SELECTION

 While going through books I hadn't read yet, I encountered a 1997 item by evolutionary biologist Terrence W. Deacon, THE SYMBOLIC SPECIES. This time I decided to sample a chapter out of order, to get a general idea of Deacon's approach to symbols in the context of evolution with the standard priority of organisms maximizing species survival through sexual selection. The random chapter I chose, "Symbolic Origins," happens to concretize one of Deacon's most interesting takes on the evolution of symbols in culture.

What was the spark that kindled the evolution of symbolic communication? If symbolic communication did not arise due to a "hopeful monster" mutation of the brain, it must have been selected for. But by what factors of hominid life? How can we discover the context of this initial push into such a novel form of communication?

One of the first ideas Deacon dismisses is the notion that language must have come about to optimize many of the standard societal interactions between prehistoric hominids of the Pleistocene. he points out that at a time when most animals, including hominids, communicated many day-to-day interactions with nonsymbolic strategies such as gestures and call-and-response vocal exchanges.    

 A generally less efficient form of communication could only have gained a foothold if it provided something different, a communicative function that was not available even in a much-elaborated system of vocal and gestural indices. Given these disadvantages, what other possible selective advantage of symbolizing could possibly have led a group of hominids to incur such costs? 

Deacon then points out that "intense sexual selection" is usually the factor that causes "significant evolutionary changes in communication in other species." He references the evolutionary use of the term "ritualization" to describe lower animals taking on patterns to optimize sexual selection, whether the patterns are gestural (male and female grebes dancing together on a lake's surface or visual (the familiar example of the peacock's tail, a distinct individual disadvantage for the sake of gene transmission). These examples initially suggested to me that Deacon meant to argue that symbolic language might have evolved to facilitate sexual liaisons, but it turned out that Deacon pursued a more roundabout conclusion.

After some general comparisons to other animal species' habits of both mating and provisioning for the young, Deacon focuses on one of the distinctive provisioning strategies of hominids: the regular seeking of meat as fodder, even in times when there are not shortages of edible plant-life. Again, all or most of the hominid strategies for mating and provisioning can be handled by nonsymbolic communications.

Although there is a vast universe of objects and relationships susceptible to nonsymbolic representation, indeed, anything that can be present to the senses, this does not include abstract or otherwise intangible objects of reference. This categorical limitation is the link between the anomalous form of communication that evolved in humans and the anomalous context of human social behavior. 

The thing that hominids do, that other animals do not do (and yes, Deacon addresses so-called "pair bonding"), is the abstract system of marriage.      

Marriage, in all its incredible variety, is the regulation of reproductive relationships by symbolic means, and it is essentially universal in human societies. It is preeminently a symbolic relationship, and owing to the lack of symbolic abilities, it is totally absent in the rest of the animal kingdom. What I am suggesting here is that a related form of regulation of reproductive relationships by symbolic means was essential for early hominids to take advantage of a hunting-provisioning subsistence strategy.

In this chapter at least, Deacon does not address the social evolution of religion in detail. But he seems to imply broadly that the pressure to negotiate a non-Rousseauan "social marriage contract" came first, and therefore all other forms of ritualization utilizing symbolic constructions came later.

Deacon concludes his argument by stressing "co-evolution:"

The argument I have presented is only an argument for the conditions which required symbolic reference in the first place, and which selected for it despite the great difficulties and costs of collectively producing and maintaining it. Much of the story of this intermediate evolutionary history, extending for over 2 million years from language origins to the present, has yet to be even imagined in any clarity. But putting evolutionary causes and effects in appropriate order and precisely identifying the anatomical correlates of this transition are a prerequisite for providing anything beyond "just so" versions of the process. The key to this is the co-evolutionary perspective which recognizes that the evolution of language took place neither inside nor outside brains, but at the interface where cultural evolutionary processes affect biological evolutionary processes.  

And I conclude my argument, for now, by adding that though I agree with the basic concept of co-evolution, I don't necessarily think that marital customs alone, with their emphasis upon "social altruism," necessarily preceded religious customs, which certainly carry much of the same valence. Since according to the index Deacon does not address prehistoric religion in the rest of the book either, it would be stimulating to compare Deacon's hypothesis with those of an "evolutionary biologist" who had studied the historical manifestations of prehistoric religiosity.      

MYTHCOMICS: "ANYFACE" (LI'L ABNER, April 19-May 31, 1947)

 Rather than wasting time summing up how Al Capp's "comic-within-a-comic" FEARLESS FOSDICK evolved within Al Capp's LI'L ABNER feature, here's the Wiki writeup on the subject. 

The most interesting things about the 1942 introduction of Fosdick within the continuity of the ABNER strip are (1) the fact that what one can see of Fosdick looks almost indistinguishable from Tracy, without the pencil mustache seen on later versions, and (2) the short spoof concentrates only upon the idea that Fosdick's real-world creator "Lester Gooch" puts the fictional detective into death-traps without knowing how to extricate said hero. Jay Maeder's superlative survey of Gould's groundbreaking strip, DICK TRACY: THE OFFICIAL BIOGRAPHY, attests that on occasion Chester Gould did have to scramble to find some way to save Tracy from his final curtain. However, in retrospect the critique seems petty, given that Al Capp shared Gould's penchant for placing characters in cliffhanger situations and then getting them out with ridiculous contrivances-- probably more so than Gould ever resorted to.

Over the next four years Capp continued to develop new elements of the Fosdick character. He was just as much a moral ramrod as Tracy, but Fosdick had no brains whatever and so was incapable of anything like detection. He was sexually abstemious, telling one female pursuer that no woman's lips but his mother's would ever touch his (which would lead to some Freudian conclusions Capp might not have intended). And in one adventure, cartoonish Gooch learns that his new villain for Fosdick, a rock-headed crook named "Stone Face," actually exists in Gooch's world. The criminal wants to force Gooch to destroy the fictional Fosdick's reputation with adoring kids by forcing him to get married, a fate which particularly horrifies Fosdick's number one fan, Li'l Abner Yokum. After various contrivances, Stone Face encounters Abner and tries to kill the youth by hitting Abner with his rocky noggin-- and the hard-headed hillbilly wins the contest.

The first truly ambitious Fosdick story ran through May 1947, though it includes some setup in April within the "Abner universe." Gooch's publishers harangue the artist to create yet more grotesque villains to enthrall FOSDICK's readers, "the kiddies." (Two years later, Gershon Legman would republish some of his anti-violence essays in the book LOVE AND DEATH, saying in all seriousness the same thing Capp said for a joke.) Gooch's artistic insanity gets him put into an asylum. Further, when a rival publisher threatens Gooch's life, a certain hulking hillbilly is hired to guard the artist's welfare-- and to make sure that the strips keep coming out on time. This provided Capp with the excuse to have Abner periodically interrupt the FOSDICK continuity to remind readers, "it's only a comic strip about another comic strip."

"Anyface" seems to be the first arc in which Capp steps up the ultraviolence to epic levels, to parody DICK TRACYs legendary levels of mayhem. The detective, informed that a villain named Anyface can make himself look like anyone, comes to the random conclusion that the fiend would logically make himself look like the city's most beneficent philanthropist, so Fosdick immediately shoots the innocent man through the head. Further, the real Anyface was masquerading as the official who gave Fosdick the assignment-- though, contrary to his boast, Anyface doesn't do or say anything to the klutz-cop to suggest offing the victim. (BTW, nowhere in the narrative does Capp explain how Anyface duplicates the clothes of the people he imitates, since he can only change his physical form.)

             

Unlike the majority of ABNER villains, Anyface never seems to have any specific aim in mind. He seems to exist merely to torment Fosdick, as Mr. Mxyzptlk does Superman. Anyface hits on the idea that the best way to utterly humiliate the idiot officer is to pretend to be his long-suffering girlfriend (here named "Bess Backache" in emulation of Dick Tracy's girl Tess Trueheart) and inveigle Fosdick into marrying "her," his worst enemy. Capp does not drop even the slightest hint as to how Anyface presses his suit when the real girlfriend couldn't get Fosdick to the altar over the course of twelve years. The logical conclusion that modern audiences would make, that of premarital sex, might or might not have been an idea Capp toyed with. Still, he would have known he could not have even implied the subject in a family comic strip. So, he passed over the matter. In the "real world," Abner is deeply distressed by his "ideel" being turned into a pathetic fool. Daisy Mae and Mammy become concerned that Abner might "kill himself in grief." Mammy deduces that Gooch has come up with this "worse-than-death trap" because he's gone crazy, so Mammy lays plans to go straighten the artist out.

Unfortunately for Abner, Insane Gooch finishes one more insane set of strips before Mammy makes the scene and scrambles his brains back into normalcy. Abner is initially exultant to see that Fosdick, his brain possibly prompted into something like thought by his mortification, lay a trap for Anyface, though of course it's one that shows the super-cop's utter disregard for collateral damage. Fosdick forces 69 persons suspected of being Anyface (why?) into a single room and cranks up the heat to 500 degrees, believing that the heat will melt the fiend's taffy-like features. But in the last strip produced by Insane Gooch, Fosdick's features begin melting, revealing that he, the incorruptible lawman, is actually Anyface. Abner confronts Gooch and demands a rational explanation. But Gooch has had his brains "normalized," and now he has no idea what he was thinking while insane. Capp leaves his hillbilly star on the horns of an insoluble dilemma, implying the complete identity between good and evil--

--Well, for roughly two months. Capp probably never devised an escape-hatch at all but instead exploited the situation by encouraging his readers to invent some solution that would "save" Fearless Fosdick. Capp chose a suggestion that he printed in a single strip on June 28, 1947, and that was technically the end of the "Anyface" arc. Said solution was worse than anything either Gould or Capp had ever devised. While Anyface-Fosdick's face is melting, the real Fosdick walks into the hotbox-room and captures the felon. So-- if Anyface was just masquerading as Fosdick, why did he participate in Fosdick's trap, knowing that his face would melt in front of all those witnesses? It might've made a little sense if Anyface had caught and tied up the klutz-cop, planning to kill all of the suspects in the hotbox and blame the deed on Fosdick. But I doubt that Capp cared about anything but keeping Fosdick in play, and most of the readers who liked Fosdick probably held the same opinion.

Since Capp didn't really provide the lame solution, I'd argue that the Anyface arc really does end with the revelation that hero and villain are one, even though throughout the story they've been repeatedly seen as separate beings. These fourth-wall shenanigans remind me of the overpraised Berthold Brecht, but Capp was no Brechtian ironist, just a joke-teller who felt like taking shots at any target. If I had to choose which artist, Capp or Gould, devised the greater number of lame cliffhanger resolutions, I'd choose Capp. So it's puzzling that he would jab Gould over the practice of improbable death-traps. Capp was actually more on target in his implication that the world of DICK TRACY was one in which innocents were getting killed as Tracy pursued his crusade for justice, and thus all the gags about hecatombs of dead citizens make a much better spoof on Chester Gould. Finally, when it comes to strip-artists whose "insanity" allowed them to spawn innumerable grotesques, Capp and Gould are probably roughly equal-- which is a subject worth pursuing in a separate essay.

ADDENDUM: Though Capp wasn't shy about dealing out dire fates to his villains-- at least, no more so than Gould-- Anyface is still alive by the end of the story. Not only did Capp continue to use him in comic-book ads for a hair cream Fosdick shilled for, in the 1960s the villain somehow showed up in the LI'L ABNER strip, without even the piddling explanation given in the "Stone Face" arc. That arc had not been reprinted, but I recall that Anyface pops up in Dogpatch and impersonates Daisy Mae Yokum. I don't recall what becomes of the villain in that story.   

 

 

    

EMINENCE AND STATURE

Technically, "eminence" and "stature" are the same words with which I characterize the significant value of centricity in literature, but each one was reached by a different path, so I'll probably keep using both in their respective contexts.

Though I wrote four essays here in which "charisma" was the term I applied to superordinate icons and "stature" to all subordinate icons, I reversed this terminological use in the 2020 essay EQUAL AND UNEQUAL VECTORS OF AUTHORIAL WILL PT. 2. That formulation of both "stature" and "charisma," then, was tied to my effort to finding a broad terminology for all the icons in a given narrative.

"Eminence," though, was an attempt to find a structural metaphor that described how centricity looks when one focuses only upon a given centric icon, in comparison to everything else in the narrative. As my most recent essay on the topic specifies, "eminence" is more explicitly linked to what sort of "master-trope" dominates the author's propositional conceptions. Thus, for example, no individual character dominates either Pierre Boulle's PLANET OF THE APRES novel or any of the film versions, for the icon of the environment is the star of the show. Wells' TIME MACHINE depicts a similar situation, though the nameless time-traveler visits two distinct time-periods. I tend to think both of them share eminence because they share a common purpose in Wells' proposition: to show the complete irrelevance of human ambitions and priorities in the face of a universal principle of entropy.   

MYTHCOMICS: "THE GREAT OXYGEN THEFT" (THE MARVEL FAMILY #41, 1949)

 For a change, here's a Golden Age story in which the name of its artist is lost to time, but GCD attests that the writer was Otto Binder, known to Fawcett fans as having been responsible for a great quantity of stories about Captain Marvel and his kindred. "The Great Oxygen Theft" is not one of Binder's more celebrated stories, but it merits a little notoriety for rendering elementary-school environmental science into a decent cosmological myth.

  

THEFT wastes no time in setting up the action of this 10-page tale. A radio summons from the evil Doctor Sivana lures the Marvel Family to an unnamed, inhabited world in the star-system of Sirius. Sivana gives the heroes a story about his having reformed and directs their attention to the fact that the world's plant life is almost gone thanks to a plant-killing blight. The inhabitants haven't noticed this mass extinction, but they start paying attention when they start finding it hard to breathe, due to the lack of plants generating oxygen. Sivana then leaves the good guys to sort things out while he jets back to Earth, revealing that he created the blight just to keep the Marvels out of his non-existent hair.

   The Marvels' first task is to save the populace. Mary Marvel purifies the soil of Sivana's poison, Captain Marvel Jr disperses the excess carbon dioxide that has built up in the absence of plant life, and Captain Marvel brings in a glacier of frozen oxygen to give the air-breathers temporary relief.

The Marvels then play Johnny Appleseed, transporting Earth-plants to the Sirius-world. Naturally, Binder doesn't trouble with ALL the scientific niceties regarding the practicality of one world's vegetation adapting to a totally different environment. However, on one of the heroes' trips to Earth, they find that certain areas of their own world have been hit with the plant-blight. Before they even have to wonder if the blight might have travelled back to Earth on their boots or capes, Sivana announced that he's responsible, and that he wants supreme power to keep Earth's plants healthy.

  Since THEFT is as I said just a ten-page story, Binder needed a quick wrap-up, so he cheats a little. Captain Marvel gets the bright idea that just as miners had used canaries to test for bad air inside mines, he and the other Marvels can just pick up a random potted plant and use it to "detect" the presence of plant-poison in Sivana's ship. It would probably made just as much sense for the Marvels to race all around the world until they made a visual sighting of the ship-- which, after all, they all got a look at, back on the unnamed planet. But Binder also knew his audience would like a little ironic touch at the end, in which a villain who poisoned a world's plants gets defeated by the use of another plant. The unknown artist even shows, in the penultimate panel, Sivana "wearing" the potted plant atop his bald head, leading one to assume that some hero "crowned" him with it. THEFT probably violates as many scientific principles as those that it gets right, but the payoff at the end, with the Marvels expressing their appreciation for plants and the order of nature, is not diminished by said violations.    
  

EMINENT ICONS AND PROPOSITIONS PT. 3

 

So if centric icons within a narrative are "organizational matrices," is there a better term to assign to the organizing principle? Astute readers of this blog (are there any other kind?) will guess that the previously unused term of "eminence" will now assume that position...-- EMINENT ICONS AND PROPOSITIONS.

Looking over this essay and its companion from last July, I don't think I adequately defined the organizational interactions of icons and propositions, which takes place through the agency of a master trope, rather than just tropes in general, as I said here.

I offered a definition of tropes long ago, back in 2018, but the best breakdown is that tropes describe actions: "orphan must learn the secret of his birth," "hero may refuse the call to adventure but must in time answer said call and do heroic things." In contrast, icons are like "solidified" tropes, concretized into particular entities, forces, or settings in order to invite the identification of a work's audience. --MY SHORTEST POST YET. 

The one thing I left out in the above formulation is that any professional author decides in advance what sort of proposition will govern his narrative, and this means becoming more specific as to what sort of icons will work best for his master trope. Charles Dickens can't just put "orphan must learn the secret of his birth" out there; he must decide who the orphan is-- Oliver Twist-- and what the secret is; that Oliver still has a living relative from whom he and his mother got separated. 

Thus, there's an operative difference between a "generalized trope," which can be applied to many works, and a "specialized trope," which applies only to a particular work, or a particular linked set of works. Other aspects of the work will include "bachelor tropes" that are not nearly as important as the master trope. Oliver must meet some opposition so that his discovery of his secret heritage doesn't seem to be too easy. That opposition doesn't have to be Fagin and his faux-family of thieves, so that part of the proposition comprises a bachelor trope in relation to the master trope.  

OLIVER TWIST is a monadic work with no further iterations, so its proposition is unitary. Serial works are cumulative, given that even the most stereotypical serial-- I might cite my earlier example of the Golden Age BLUE BEETLE from a related essay-- may have a specialized trope (Blue Beetle protects his city from crime) that is barely distinguishable from a generalized trope ("hero protects his city from crime.") 

However, in cases where the cumulative narratives of the series are not broadly stereotypical, the specialized trope must be refined. Will Eisner's SPIRIT varies between direct confrontations with evildoers and indirect encounters with either human error or simple fallibility. In the cover Will Eisner prepared for a Kitchen Sink reprint of the 1940s SPIRIT stories, the artist depicts a scene that doesn't literally transpire in the story "Gerhard Shnobble," but one which symbolizes a key moment in the tale. The Spirit's crimefighting activities take second place in "Shnobble" to the tragic end of the title character, which the Spirit doesn't even personally witness. Nevertheless, even in stories where the dominant action takes place in the life of a one-shot character, the Spirit still provides a moral compass for Eisner's implied reader, even when he has no impact upon the one-shot character's life. So even though the SPIRIT series started out with a specialized trope like "The Spirit protects his city from crime," that master trope became in time inaccurate because of changes in the propositional priorities. Thus a more appropriate specialized trope, capable of taking in all of the propositions Eisner offered to readers, would be something more like, "The Spirit bears witness to the many manifestations of human fallibility."  

 

CORRELATING COGITATIONS

I formulated the literary "word pair" of the ontocosm and the epicosm back in this May essay, and so far it's lasted. I have overturned a few neologisms in the space of a few days, while other formulations have lasted a few years before I abandoned them. So I may or may not keep these two terms in the distant future. However, for now I'm moved to correlate various past dichotomous cogitations under the aegis of each category, if only to keep them all straight in my head.

THE ONTOCOSM of a literary work includes:

All LATERAL meaning, relating to both the KINETIC and DRAMATIC elements of a narrative. These are the elements that tell the reader, "WHAT THINGS HAPPEN."

All FUNCTIONALITY, which appeals to the reader's need for a fictional analogue to real PERCEPTUAL KNOWLEDGE.  

All PRE-EPISTEMIC ways of knowing, which are known through the process of "knowledge-by-acquaintance."

All modalities of THE DYNAMIC-SUBLIME, also synonymous with MIGHT.

THE EPICOSM of a literary work includes:

All VERTICAL meaning, relating to both the MYTHOPOEIC and DIDACTIC elements of a narrative. These are the elements that tell the reader, "HOW THINGS HAPPEN."

All SUPER-FUNCTIONALITY, which appeals to the reader's need for a fictional analogue to real CONCEPTUAL KNOWLEDGE. 

All EPISTEMIC ways of knowing, which are known through the process of "knowledge-about."

All modalities of THE COMBINATORY-SUBLIME, also synonymous with MYTH.

 

I may develop some or none of these correlations in future. But for the time being, I'll content myself with noting the essays in which each paired cogitation appeared.

I first mentioned "lateral meaning" in RETHINKING THE UNDERTHOUGHT, which contains one of those word pairs I abandoned ("underthought and overthought"). And later I perfected the application of both lateral and vertical meaning in THE LATERAL AND VERTICAL MEANINGS OF LIFE.    

The duality of "what things happen" and "how things happen" is discussed in WHAT VS. HOW.

"Functionality" and "super-functionality" are first discussed in the 2014 essay A QUICK ASIDE ON FUNCTIONALITY.

Perceptual knowledge and conceptual knowledge appear in the works of both Arthur Schopenhauer and William James.   

Assorted essays on William James discuss the Two Forms of Knowledge, while Alfred North Whitehead is my source of the terms "epistemic" and "pre-epistemic."

The terms "might and myth," a slight play on the standard phrase "might and main," appears in MIGHT AND MYTH. The somewhat more involved cogitations concerning the "dynamicity mode" and the "combinatory mode" of sublimity are explored in the series TWO SUBLIMITIES HAVE I, beginning here. 

ON POSTWAR MASCULINITY

 Another day, another messboard topic...

________

With respect to post-WWII gender roles, the first thing I think of is that when the war ended, the surviving American men returned home expecting to return to their status as family breadwinners, while women who had substituted for them in factories et al would return to being homemakers. Some contemporaneous women expressed the same sentiment. Some, like Betty Friedan, did not, and so we got the rise of second-wave feminism. 

How did that affect depictions of men and women in postwar movies? I agree with the general proposition that one major trope to come out of the changes was "men have become weak and there's nothing that can be done about it." That's where your example of INCREDIBLE SHRINKING MAN (and the Matheson novel published the previous year) belongs, and there are surely others in the same vein.

However, we also get the trope "men have become weak but with the right approach they can re-assert themselves." I don't recall the specifics of REBEL WITHOUT A CAUSE, but it's strongly suggested that James Dean is messed up due to his mother, and near the end the father puts his foot down and reasserts his authority. HILDA CRANE (1950) spends most of the movie with Joan Crawford manipulating her husband, but then he walks out on her at the end. You can also see this type of trope in a fair number of stories predating America's entry into the second world war, not least the 1936 GONE WITH THE WIND novel.

The movie we're discussing, DAUGHTER OF DARKNESS, is a little different, and it's also not precisely "postwar" since it's based on a play performed the year before Britain entered the war against the Axis powers. It's not that the men in the DOD movie are weak, but they're unable to deal with the ways women think and interact, which constitute a separate social world. You see the same ethos in the 1939 Bette Davis weepie THE OLD MAID, which came out the same year as the GWTW adaptation. The world of men there just barely impacts on that of women, even though the story takes place against the backdrop of Civil War violence. 

ANGEL AND THE BADMAN is a different trope still. John Wayne's bandit character is never weak at any point in the story, but he's a creature that needs to be civilized by the gentle Quaker girl, who takes him off the path of doom. That too is a very "woman-centered" ethos, though it doesn't depend on nullifying masculinity, as does HILDA CRANE and maybe REBEL.

There probably are other movies, not least SF-genre films, that get into the trope of men falling victim to either too much or too little masculinity. You mention NEANDERTHAL MAN, and MONSTER ON THE CAMPUS might be another example of the latter. But I find it interesting that in the late forties and fifties we start seeing a fair sampling of low budget "action girl" (often swashbucklers) and "monster girl" films, far more than I think one can demonstrate from the beginning of sound films through the end of WWII-- and DAUGHTER OF DARKNESS is one of these. But whether that indicates a real shift in genuine gender roles would be food for a second discussion.                            

   

THE READING RHEUM: HELL'S SALES MANAGER (1940)

 

I could never attempt a "1001 myths" project with prose pulp magazines and their kindred, even though in many ways those periodicals primed the pump for superhero comics. In the time it takes me to read one book-length pulp novel, I can read (say) ten horror stories in search of the mythopoeic. In prose pulps, I can find particular authors who were great at bringing the touch of the mythic to their stories, such as Rohmer, Burroughs and Howard. But it takes too damn long to search for myths in the hero pulps. Still, I did locate one by sheer chance-- even though both its title and its cover illustration have nothing to do with the story inside. 

Norvell Page wrote the vast majority of SPIDER adventures credited to house-name "Grant Stockbridge," and ever since I first encountered pulp heroes in comics and paperback reprints, I've always favored Page's frenetic SPIDER over the faux-cerebral SHADOW. The SPIDER stories are justly mocked for being wildly over the top in terms of all the chaos and destruction the villains would unleash upon New York City, and all the violence the city's arachnid defender would commit to bring down said villains. But MANAGER shows Norvell Page being a bit more-- dare I say it-- "cerebral" in terms of bringing his myth-materials into a whole greater than the sum of its parts.

This time the Spider's other self, heroic Richard Wentworth (as well as his aides, principally his valiant girlfriend Nita Van Sloan) encounter menaces on two fronts. On the mundane front, Wentworth's police commissioner buddy Kirkpatrick has been assigned to help a deputy from the French Surete, Raoul Chartres, who's been instructed to bring down The Spider. Of course, this late in the game-- MANAGER was the seventy-seventh novel in the series-- Kirkpatrick had frequently suspected Wentworth's double identity but has arguably let his long friendship with Wentworth cloud his judgment, even though he firmly believes that the Spider should be jailed for his reckless vigilantism. Page may have brought Chartres in to freshen up the old formula with a new face. In addition, though the United States would not enter World War II for two more years, the spread of fascism on the European continent would have a French copper like Chartres sympathetic by reason of his allegiance to his embattled country-- even though the events of the war are only briefly touched upon in MANAGER.

In any case, Chartres is given a feisty, demanding character, and he has no doubt from his studies of the case that Wentworth is the Spider. There are a lot of good tense scenes between Chartres and Wentworth, and even between supposed allies Chartres and Kirkpatrick. But the primary menace is yet another dire super-villain determined to wreak chaos on New York for the sake of profit. I'm not entirely sure why Page named this fiend "The Brand." At first I thought it was because the red-clad evildoer initially bites the Spider's style by leaving sigils of his deeds on the bodies of his victims, the same way the Spider does to conquered criminals. But this brand-motif is quickly dropped. Once or twice the Spider thinks of his foe as a "firebrand" he means to extinguish, and I guess that's the most likely association, since the Brand's distinguishing gimmick is a special weapon, "the Bolt," that can spew forth lightning-like effects. But this power doesn't operate like conventional lightning, but has more the effect of a super-hurricane, inducing "implosions" that can devastate physical objects and kill people by exploding their heads. The descriptions of the weapon's devastation are much better than Page's logic as to how the Brand got hold of such a device. As pulp-scholar Will Murray has warned, no one should expect an ingenious surprise at the revelation of any SPIDER master villain's true ID. 

The super-science of the Bolt doesn't resemble anything in real science, but Page's imaginative extrapolation of the way implosions work in his world endow MANAGER with its most potent mythicity. It's also of interest that the Spider also tries to bite the Brand's style by joining his gang under his underworld alias of "Blinky McQuade, safecracker." This leads to a scene in which "McQuade," along with several thugs, must don imitation Brand robes to join his gang, and this leads to a tense scene when the Brand detects the Spider among his auditioning minions. Eventually, the Brand imprisons Wentworth and sends out thugs dressed as the Spider, so that the hero will die with the reputation of being a cop-killing crook like those on whom the hero preyed. So I assign some mythicity to the trope of hero and villain assuming one another's guises for this or that advantage.

Girlfriend Nita acquits herself well here, dressing up as the Spider when he's caught, and shooting it out with the phony Spiders, even though Page is careful to note that this level of violence does not come naturally to the heroine. I also give Page props for some very cinematic writing that goes a little beyond simple purple prose. Here's a scene told from Nita's POV, one that explains much of the perennial appeal of the superhero:

"Wentworth looked so small against the bulk of the building-- small, yet the dance of his shadow stretched out hugely across the barren field. It was enormous, dominant, a black silhouette of unconquerable power-- the will of The Spider!"

                    

UP AND DOWN THE PATHOS PATH

 I proposed the theory of "gravity" and "levity" in 2012's GRAVITY'S CROSSBOW. This was one of my many attempts to suss out how categories of "the serious" and "the ludicrous," as Schopenhauer called them, impacted the NUM system that I extrapolated from Northrop Frye's theory of mythoi and finessed with considerations of phenomenality with which Frye was not concerned. 

In my previous post I decided that speaking of these categories as "tonal" in nature was too vague. My new solution for this problem was to import two terms I recorded here in 2013: "sympathetic affects" and "antipathetic affects," my substitution for Aristotle's (inadequate in my view) terms "pity" and "terror." Further, these can also be dovetailed with the assertions I made in the four-part FOUR AGES OF DYNAMIS, concluding here. I emphasize the conclusion of that series because that's close to being the only other time, outside of the CROSSBOW series, that I applied the levity/gravity idea to another domain within my theoretical universe. I sorted out the relations of the two "literary forces" to the four mythoi thusly:

COMEDY-- plerotic and oriented on light levity
ADVENTURE-- plerotic and oriented on light gravity
DRAMA-- kenotic and oriented on high gravity
IRONY-- kenotic and oriented on high levity

At the time I couldn't think of any better way to characterize the variations in levity and gravity than with a faux-quantitative metaphor. But I should have been focused on the qualitative difference that are served by the two forces as they meld with the two forms of affect. Putting aside the plerosis/kenosis dyad as having been adequately defined by Theodor Gaster, now the four mythoi look like this:

COMEDY-- the emphasis upon "the jubilative," on things that seem funny because of their positive incongruity, results in a surfeit of *sympathetic levity* 

ADVENTURE-- the emphasis upon "the invigorative," on things that portray positive success in the battles of sex and violence, results in a surfeit of *sympathetic gravity* 

DRAMA-- the emphasis upon "the purgative," on things that connote the expulsion of negative elements, results in a surfeit of *antipathetic gravity*  

IRONY-- the emphasis upon "the mortificative," on things that demonstrate a general state of increasing degradation, results in a surfeit of *antipathetic levity"

This formulation means that I have to dump all the Schopenhauerean arguments I made in DYNAMIS PT 4, wherein I was trying to meld his observations with those of Gaster re: plerosis and kenosis. Now I forswear the idea that "levity" lifts one away from being invested in the fictional characters in comedy as it does in irony, and that "gravity" causes one to be just as invested in the characters of drama as one is in those of adventure. Since ancient times comedy and adventure have been more broadly popular than the other two mythoi because they encourage audiences to identify with the characters, promising for the most part that the sympathetic characters will be vindicated. This makes those mythoi "plerotic" because they're all about incorporating positive energies into the lives of favored characters. In contrast, drama and irony discourage direct identification with the characters as they struggle with, and often lose to, forces antipathetic to them or even to the audience members. They are both "kenotic," as they are focused upon expelling or sublimating negative energies from characters who are not so much "identified with" as "studied" from a distanced view of things. "Levity" encourages positive energy and rising upward, "gravity" encourages negative energy and falling downward.   

There's a bit more to come, but that's a good stopping place.               

TONE POETICS

 In the first installment of 2012's GRAVITY'S CROSSBOW, I sought to find some way to categorize the four literary mythoi of Northrop Frye according to how each related to dominant modes of "being serious" or "being ludicrous," more or less following Schopenhauer's distinctions between the two. I was also involved in sussing out the manifestation of "the sublime" in all four mythoi, but that's not germane to this issue. My terminological conclusion for the categorization was as follows:

Works in which the reader's identificatory investment seems entirely congruous with the "interests" that the fictional characters have in their own fictional lives, are governed by the principle of *tonal gravity* in that the reader feels himself "drawn down" into the characters' interests.

Works in which the reader's identificatory investment becomes at odds with the "interests" of the fictional characters are governed by the principle of *tonal levity* in that the reader "floats free" of that investment and is moved away from "concern and sympathy" and toward a humorous or at least distanced response.

Since I have a new concept for levity and gravity now, I decided to expend some time figuring out why I focused upon "tone." I don't think I'd written much about tone before, but I feel sure that even in 2012 I'd seen dozens of film reviews in which critics either praised or slammed a filmmaker's ability to control the emotional tone of the story. This spoke to my concept of literary activity as a constant battle to prioritize different human affects as they relate to the narrative. HAMLET is not a comedy, but it can use a few moments of comedy in the "gravedigger scene" to give the audience temporary relief from all the heavy dramatics.

Now I think "tone" is too vague to lay out my current thoughts on levity and gravity. My next essay will put forth the revised terms. However, I don't plan to rework or eliminate the current terms, "tonal levity" and "tonal gravity," in my subject headings here, because I'm hoping that the next essay will be my last word on this abstruse matter.     

THE READING RHEUM: THE MYSTERY OF THE SINGING MUMMIES (1936)

 

Though I'm a fan of (and maybe an apologist for) Sax Rohmer's works, I'd never visited either of the two "Yellow Peril pulps" produced by Popular Publications. In 1935 Popular launched THE MYSTERIOUS WU FANG, and the magazine lasted into 1936 for a total of seven issues. Popular pulled the FANG (sorry) and almost immediately issued another Yellow Peril series, DOCTOR YEN SIN. But the SIN came to an end that same year after just three issues. An essay on Pulp.Net alleges that Sax Rohmer's lawyers may have sent Popular a letter of restraint for both serials, claiming that the pulp publisher was stepping on the Fu Manchu brand.

It should be kept in mind that Rohmer's Devil Doctor was doing pretty well in the 1930s. Rohmer revived the Fu series in 1931 and prior to the publication of WU FANG, the British author had produced the seventh in the series, THE TRAIL OF FU MANCHU, which first saw serialization in 1934 within the "slick" upscale magazine COLLIER'S. I've no information about how well either FANG or SIN sold, but if FANG had been selling badly, why bring in a second Asian villain to take his place? One Wiki quote asserts that SIN might have been less "juvenile" than FANG, but without reading the source material I can only note in passing that FANG's heroic opponents included one teenaged boy, whereas there are no juvenile characters in the third and last SIN novel, MYSTERY OF THE SINGING MUMMIES.

Arguably the title is the best thing about the story. Like a lot of pulp titles, the creator seems to be jamming together disparate subjects to make the reader curious enough to wonder, "How the heck can mummies sing?" The explanation for the phenomenon that causes living human beings into mummified creatures, and the auditory sound associated with the phenomenon, is pretty inventive.

Not so much the title character. Author Donald Keyhoe (best known today for UFOlogy books) copies all the dominant surface characteristics of Fu Manchu. He's a polymath who can speak several languages, can master all of the sciences, and can hypnotize almost anyone. According to an article by a Wold Newton writer, the other two issues don't seem to have given Yen Sin any background at all, and he barely has any character beyond being an Asian mastermind. He commands a criminal organization called the "Invisible Empire" (though the cover uses the term "Invisible Peril").Which begs the question-- how "invisible" can your empire be when most of your henchmen are savage "Yellow" brutes, who might find it hard to blend into even a big metropolis in the US.

Possibly Yen Sin gets short shrift because Keyhoe put his greatest effort into the doctor's opponent Michael Traile, "the Man Who Never Sleeps." Due to a failed brain operation, Traile loses the capacity to sleep normally. Only a special yoga technique of relaxation allows Traile to keep from going mad, and not sleeping makes him something of a polymath who fills the late hours with esoteric studies. That said, he's just as flat a character as Yen Sin, and so are all of the supporting characters.       

Keyhoe certainly does not stint on the action; everywhere Traile goes he gets into some running gun-battle. But his crisp prose is somewhat mechanical. I wasn't expecting any of the moodiness of Sax Rohmer here, but I also didn't get the sort of fervid verbal poetry one finds in the purple pen of Norvell "The Spider" Page. In true Fu Manchu fashion Yen Sin gets away in the pages of his final adventure, though probably Keyhoe wrote the story long in advance of the decision to cancel the magazine.

The pulps also had a genius for capturing the uncensored attitudes of the writers and the readers at whom they aimed. But there are no insights here about why there's an eternal race war between Occidental and Oriental-- though Yen Sin's only moment of individuality Yen Sin is a claim that he hates the Japanese as much as the Caucasians. Japanese fifth-columnists play a minor role in MUMMIES, and there are nodding references to the activities of the Axis powers. For what it's worth MUMMIES' antipathy to Germany and Japan is one of the earliest expressions of anti-Axis feeling I've come across in American pop culture. I wasn't really expecting anything on a par with the best of Sax Rohmer, and in a way I'm kind of glad that he's not as easy to emulate as a lot of critics might suppose.                          

THE VIRTUES OF THE UNOBVIOUS PT. 3

 

I offered a definition of tropes long ago, back in 2018, but the best breakdown is that tropes describe actions: "orphan must learn the secret of his birth," "hero may refuse the call to adventure but must in time answer said call and do heroic things." In contrast, icons are like "solidified" tropes, concretized into particular entities, forces, or settings in order to invite the identification of a work's audience. -- MY SHORTEST POST YET.

...I don't even expect plots to be fresh.  They are like skeletons.  I think one skeleton looks more or less like the others, but when they are fleshed out, you get a unique person.  So with movie plots. -- poster "atenotol" on Classic Horror Film Board (quoted with permission) 

 I doubt that I'll ever again use the terms "obvious" and "unobvious," given that I only did so in response to my having read George Orwell's 1942 essay on Rudyard Kipling. Though in part 2 I disagreed with many of Orwell's criteria for evaluating Kipling, I must admit that his calling Kipling's works "a monument to the obvious" is almost as quote-worthy as many of the familiar phrases of Kipling. Indeed, the fact that Kipling's "gnomic" utterances were so eminently quotable was the main reason for Orwell to call him "monumental"-- though if familiarity of quotes were the sole measure of one's obviousness, then Shakespeare would outdo Kipling there by that appeal to across-the-intellectual-spectrum familiarity.      

It was also mostly a coincidence that I happened to have read Orwell's online essay a few days before the end of October, which is also when I re-screened, for the first time in perhaps 30 years, the famous "bad movie" BLOODY PIT OF HORROR. Thus I began thinking about what elements of PIT were or were not "obvious," not so much in the specific way Orwell used the word but in the general sense. I noted how much PIT owed to many other Gothic narratives before it, stating, "BLOODY PIT is really not very different from dozens of other Gothic stories in which travelers show up at an old castle or manor and fall afoul of the malefic entity therein." The unobvious element, though, was the idea that said entity "looks like a cross between a masked wrestler and the hero of an Italian muscleman movie." I was of two minds on the effects of the scripters' plunge into unpredictability. On one hand, it caused a lot of viewers to make fun of the film, though on the whole PIT has more mythopoeic content than the average "so bad it's good" flick. On the other hand, PIT's foray into a very unobvious type of menace made a lot of people watch the film who would not have watched the similarly themed PLAYGIRLS AND THE VAMPIRE. 

Now, in the terms I've established in my above definitions of the terms "trope" and "icon," the basic setup for PIT would be the master trope of the story. But no audience can relate just to a trope, which is just a base description of plot, sometimes with a smattering of a character-arc. Tropes must be "solidified" into icons to make them relatable. If one boiled Orwell's screed down into a trope-icon argument, then Orwell would be saying that Kipling was popular because his tropes were so simple and direct that anyone, no matter how intellectual or non-intellectual, could relate emotionally to them, so in that sense, Kipling's tropes would be appeals to the obvious.

But in my disagreement with Orwell in Part 2, I stressed that emotional appeal was not enough; that Kipling was celebrated because he was a master of literary myth. No matter how improbable intellectuals might deem the author's Cockney soldiers or talking animals, they succeeded because Kipling had an "unobvious" approach to such material. If there was an "obvious" appeal to one of his tropes, like that of a common British soldier seeking to profit from the Raj's presence in India, Kipling was capable of "fleshing out" that trope. His fiction, then, might be considered more of a "monument to the unobvious," since he radically reinterprets the basic structure of the trope he emulates and puts a personal spin of some sort upon it. The same is true of the writers behind BLOODY PIT OF HORROR, though they did not receive, and probably will never receive, much credit for their relative innovation. (I add that being innovative alone is not my sole criterion for distinction. BLOODY PIT and TROLL 2 are both "unobvious" transformations of familiar tropes, but PIT carries an abstract meaning and TROLL 2 does not.)

I also find the poster atenotol's metaphor of skeletons and flesh persuasive. Tropes may not all be alike in design-- and indeed, all human skeletons aren't exactly the same, either. But tropes are always structuring principles, just as skeletons provide scaffolding for all the rest of the human body's organs. Human flesh, particularly with respect to countenances, provides social relatability in the real world, while in the literary world, we need icons-- even when they may be as far from flesh as Lovecraft's "Colour Out of Space"-- in order to make the power of the trope come alive.

     

                 

THE VIRTUES OF THE UNOBVIOUS PT. 2

 I didn't mention, in the course of Part 1, that my use of the word "unobvious" was derived from a famous essay by George Orwell, in which he defended Rudyard Kipling from a scathing critique from T.S. Eliot. To be sure, the way Orwell defended Kipling might be deemed a "left-handed compliment," since Orwell defined the author's work as a "graceful monument to the obvious."

The fact that such a thing as good bad poetry can exist is a
sign of the emotional overlap between the intellectual and the ordinary
man. The intellectual is different from the ordinary man, but only in
certain sections of his personality, and even then not all the time. But
what is the peculiarity of a good bad poem? A good bad poem is a graceful
monument to the obvious. It records in memorable form--for verse is a
mnemonic device, among other things--some emotion which very nearly
every human being can share. The merit of a poem like 'When all the world
is young, lad' is that, however sentimental it may be, its sentiment is
'true' sentiment in the sense that you are bound to find yourself
thinking the thought it expresses sooner or later; and then, if you
happen to know the poem, it will come back into your mind and seem better
than it did before. Such poems are a kind of rhyming proverb, and it is a
fact that definitely popular poetry is usually gnomic or sententious.

Orwell's 1942 essay may not be the earliest example of someone bracketing the words "good" and "bad" as if they were strangely complementary rather than exact opposites, but it's the earliest known to me. Therefore, I deem Orwell the unintentional ancestor of the whole idea of "good bad" entertainment, probably most popularized by the 1978 book FIFTY WORST FILMS OF ALL TIME.

Now, Orwell's criterion hinges entirely upon the distinction he makes between the tastes of "the intellectual" and "the ordinary man," though the essayist is not entirely clear about what that distinction entails. Clearly Orwell deems himself to be an intellectual, and from that the closest thing one can come to a definition from this essay alone is the idea that intellectuals alone are discriminating enough to know when poetry (which I assume should include all fiction-making endeavors, not just verse) is "sentimental" or "sententious." The ordinary man implicitly does not possess such discrimination, and yet, because both ordinary man and intellectual are human beings, they can share an "emotional overlap." At the same time, in other sections of the essay, Orwell seems to admit that having artistic discrimination can deceive its owner as to aesthetic perspicacity.

Kipling is a jingo imperialist, he is morally insensitive and
aesthetically disgusting. It is better to start by admitting that, and
then to try to find out why it is that he survives while the refined
people who have sniggered at him seem to wear so badly.

And yet, having said this, Orwell also criticizes those who jump to erroneous conclusions:

And yet the 'Fascist' charge has to be answered, because the first clue
to any understanding of Kipling, morally or politically, is the fact that
he was NOT a Fascist. He was further from being one than the most humane or the most 'progressive' person is able to be nowadays.  

It would appear from this essay that Orwell serves two masters. On one hand, he tends to judge Kipling in terms of intellectual verisimilitude, as to whether the author has, say, correctly reported on the power politics of the British Raj. Yet he appreciates Kipling's ability to come up with highly memorable "gnomic" assertions, which is something not all artists can do.

So Orwell offers, as a left-handed compliment to Kipling, the observation that Kipling could speak to the emotions shared by both intellectuals and ordinary people. This is a familiar contrast between intellect and emotion-- one might almost call it a standard "trope" of basic philosophy. But I don't think it helps to see Kipling's genius-- even if it was confined to gnomic assertions, which I don't think to be the case-- as purely "emotional" in nature.

Without going into a diatribe about my formulation of "the four potentialities," I certainly think that Kipling is more important for his skills with mythopoesis than with purely dramatic emotion. Orwell barely discusses anything but verse poetry in the essay, and that's to be expected as Orwell was reacting against the Eliot polemic on Kipling's verse. But of course, everything Kipling wrote-- verse, novels, short stories, and non-fiction essays-- proceeded from the same source. Thus he's tapping into deeper sources than simple emotional oppositions when he imagines how animals might speak to one another if they were capable of so doing, as in THE JUNGLE BOOK, or imagining the entire history of "The Female of the Species."

But it's perhaps pointless to critique Orwell for not being aware of mythopoetic dimension of art, for he was, in keeping with his own self-identification as an intellectual, his primary concern was with didactic thought, and this shows in the two books for which he's most remembered: ANIMAL FARM and 1984. These are largely didactic presentations of ideas, while THE JUNGLE BOOK, though it like ANIMAL FARM personifies lower animals, is far more about understanding what each animal means as a mythic presence.

So, since I disagree with Orwell defining "the obvious" purely in terms of some common "emotional overlap" between ordinary people and intellectuals, I have a different take on what is "obvious" in literature vs. what is "unobvious"-- which I'll address in Part 3.           

  

  

MYTHCOMICS: ["KAGOME'S HEART"] INU-YASHA (1998?)

 I won't devote any time in this essay to detailing the basic setup of Rumiko Takahashi's INU-YASHA serial. I outlined those basics in both of the other essays on this property: THE BLACK PEARL and SECRET OF THE TRANSFORMATION. Further, the long arc I've chosen to label as "KAGOME'S HEART" commences only a handful of installments after TRANSFORMATION, so the INU-YASHA status quo remains largely the same, at least in terms of who's chasing who and the stakes of the seesaw battles of good and evil. 

In my analysis of TRANSFORMATION, I noted that it was made up of two long arcs-- each labeled according to one of the story-titles (according to the Viz translated editions), "The Third Demon" and "Secret of the Transformation." These two had in common Inu-Yasha's progress toward mastery of the magical sword Tetsusaiga, though they were interrupted by three other story-arcs only tangentially related to that theme. I simply chose to use the title of the concluding arc as an umbrella-title for both.

An additional complication is that the story translated "Kagome's Heart" is one of the installments present in the intervening arc "Kikyo's Crisis," in which, to repeat myself, concerns how "Kagome is tormented by seeing Inu-Yasha's feelings for his former lover," i.e., the dead priestess Kikyo, restored to a semblance of life by magic. Takahashi does not devote a lot of space to this "Crisis" arc, for she chose to let the emotions invoked in "Heart" simmer for quite some time, coming to a boil a little while after Inu-Yasha passed one trial by fire, only to face another with regard to the human girl he loves. Below are three illustrative pages from the "Heart" story:

The culmination of the "Crisis" arc is that Kagome tries to resign herself to Inu-Yasha's divided heart, obliging him to love both a living woman and a dead one. HEART-the-long-arc then comes back to this psychological conflict and combines it with the five heroes' efforts to destroy their nemesis Naraku and to gather together all of the shards of the Shikon Jewel. The group's sometimes allies-- Sesshomaru, the wolf-demon Koga, and Kikyo-- also have reasons for pursuing Naraku, though predictably enough Kikyo's entrance will unleash emotions that Kagome has tried to tamp down. As the arc begins, however, the five heroes only know that Naraku has somehow secreted himself so that they cannot find him, either to kill him or to take possession of his stolen Shikon shards. Their only clue seems to lead them to the legendary Mount Hakurei, alleged to have been the dwelling-place by a great monk, Hakushin. But Hakurei is so pervaded with spiritual energy that both Inu-Yasha and Shippo are adversely affected when they come close. So how can the evil Naraku be concealed therein?    

In addition, it's quite evident that Naraku has been busy, for seven dead mortal mercenaries have been restored (via Shikon shards) to undead status, implicitly to run interference for Naraku. Though Takahashi devotes a lot of space to Inu-Yasha's group battling the seven revenants-- each of whom has a deadly specialty-- I'll pass over them quickly, since the warriors are just there to keep up the needed level of spectacle for a shonen series. The revenant who has the most personality is the perverted Jyakotsu, who forms a homoerotic desire for Inu-Yasha, a desire that will only be satisfied when he cuts off the dog-demon's head. However, arguably the dog-demon really gets curbed by Kagome.

For some readers, it might be easy to mistake this scene for just another of Takahashi's many "irate-female-clobbers-insensitive-male" schticks. But there's a deeper dynamic here. In the short tale "Heart," Kagome confesses that she'll try to put aside her negative feelings toward her competition just to remain in Inu-Yasha's presence. But the rash hero wants to be held blameless for any pain he causes her, and that's what unleashes Kagome's ire. She's a woman in love who wants her loved one to be true only to her, and when he reacts to her sublimated resentments as if she had found fault with him, she uses her "sit command" power to punish him.     

 

 Takahashi eventually parallels Kagome's attempts at self-sacrifice with those of the Buddhist monk Hakushin. Once Kikyo manages to access Mount Hakurei, she meets Hakushin, who sought to become a "living Buddha" in order to help others after death. However, self-doubt infected the monk's resolve, and later Naraku suborned him, persuading him to let Naraku stay within the holy mountain. But Kikyo is able to assuage the monk's weakness, so that he's able to find peace.   

However, though the spiritual shield around Hakurai dissolved, Naraku accomplishes his purpose there: splitting off a part of himself, a sort of demon-baby. The baby, later named Hakudoshi, then seeks to take control of Kagome in order to utilize her ability to sense Shikon shards. The evil infant at first can't find darkness within the young girl's heart, until Kagome's negative feelings toward Kikyo come forth. However, even though Kagome feels resentment that Inu-Yasha left her side to search for a missing Kikyo, she successfully resists the demon-baby's spell with her love for Inu-Yasha, moments before he arrives on the scene. 

The spawn of Naraku escapes the hero's retribution, and once he's alone with Kagome, Inu-Yasha swears to never again leave Kagome for Kikyo. However, she realistically judges him to be incapable of deserting his former love-- who of course has further appearances to make in the ongoing series-- but the heroine manages to negate her natural irritation with her complete conviction in her own love. 

The INU-YASHA series takes place in a fantasy-version of Sengoku Japan, where Shinto gods and demons (or fictional versions thereof) intermingle with Buddhist monks seeking to transcend the physical world. I suspect that Takahashi's primary interest was the conflicts of the human heart. This is why, though she's respectful to Buddhist precepts, the artist is more concerned with Hakushin's failure than with his ascension to nirvana. But this is the core of her art, for in the words of G.K. Chesterton, Takahashi is, first and foremost, a poet who's in love with the finite, rather than a philosopher, whose abiding love is the infinite.