LITERARY UNIVERSALS WEBLOG: A series of informal observations and conjectures aimed at fostering more reflection on and discussion about cross-cultural patterns in literature. 

Patrick Colm Hogan, University of Connecticut

In previous writing, I have taken pains to stress that the Literary Universals Project concerns descriptive, not normative universals. Thus, articles on the site may discuss universals of ethics. But those universals concern the description of norms, and do not have prescriptive force—just as the articles on religion (e.g., my last blog) address features common to religions, not which God or gods are the right ones. Consistent with these points, in Literature and Moral Feeling, I maintained that different ethical attitudes may be understood first of all as the setting of parameters, regarding some fundamental ethical principles. For example, the “scope parameter” governs who our ethical concerns favor. Basically, there are two values for this parameter. They are, roughly, a setting which prioritizes ethical obligation based or not based on the target’s social proximity to us—due either to a personal bond or to an identity category (usually with a further hierarchization of the former [affection-based relations] over the latter [identity-based relations]). In other words, one fundamental orientation given by this principle would prioritize the interests of relatives and friends over those of strangers, perhaps even excluding strangers from one’s ethical universe. Alternatively, one might not have any such prioritization, treating everyone as having the same ethical worth independent of one’s own emotional or identity-based relation to them. (Insofar as one cannot benefit everyone in the world one might prioritize cases based on such criteria as the urgency of a target’s need or the degree to which one’s aid is likely to be beneficial, but I count these as pragmatic decisions, not as part of one’s fundamental, ethical orientation.) Given the set of fundamental, orientational ethical principles (given by parameter settings), one may further concretize one’s ethical beliefs by specifying those orientational principles through narrative prototypes, such as heroic or romantic narratives. These narrative prototypes include predominant emotions. These emotions also serve to specify the orientational principles and to characterize different “styles” of ethical behavior.

For example, it seems clear then my own style of ethical evaluation is attachment-based, oriented toward romantic and familial narrative prototypes (both of which centrally involve attachment bonds). I am not certain exactly how to categorize Peter Singer’s ethical orientation–either fundamentally, emotionally, or in terms of narrative prototypes. (Given the frequency with which he recurs to cases of famine, hunger may be the motivational impulse that dominates his style of ethical thought, though it may also be grief or grief avoidance, as his examples commonly concern fatalities. Both are associated with narrative prototypes.) But it is fairly clear that it differs from my own. Consider for example Singer’s discussion of what I term the scope parameter. I agree with Singer that within limits we have greater moral obligations to some of those who are close to us than to people who are comparably situated in life but who are not close to us. For example, we have greater obligations to feed our own children than to feed hungry children elsewhere who are strangers to us. Moreover, I largely agree with Singer’s reasoning on this issue. However, some years ago when I discussed this issue in What Literature Teaches Us About Emotion, I relied centrally on a rather different reason (see 236).

The point will be clearer if I return to the example that I used at the time. It’s a standard sort of ethical conundrum used by philosophers in discussing ethical issues. As such, it has the usual problems of such philosophical fictions or anecdotes (e.g., it asks us to assume certainty about outcomes when in real life we would never have such certainty–a point that renders problematic virtually all our intuitions about suitable responses in such circumstances; I have discussed this in Literature and Moral Feeling [see 16 and 53]). Specifically, I took Mengzi’s example of a child who is about to fall into a well and drown an example also taken up by Peter Singer. The dilemma in this case is that by an unfortunate coincidence my own child has fallen into a well at the same time. It is simply stipulated as part of the dilemma that I cannot save both children. The question is–which should I save? (Note that this question arises no matter how one set one’s scope parameter. I have set mine to the egalitarian value, but would favor saving one’s own child in this scenario.) The first thing to say here is that the crucial point is that one needs to save one of the children, not waste time reflecting on fine points of ethical theory. As one’s preference will lie with one’s own child it seems likely that one will be more diligent in pursuing the rescue of one’s own child and thus the one will be more likely to succeed in rescuing one’s own child. In contrast, attempting to rescue the other child may lead one to feel distracted and double-minded, which may in turn inhibit one’s efforts and result in one becoming more likely to fail. The second thing to say here is that whichever choice is better by the lights of some absolute moral theory, we should presumably not blame the parent who rescues his or her own child, especially given the division of labor that assigns the role—of protecting this particular child–to the parent. This is not to say that there are no circumstances in which a parent who saves his or her own child would be blameworthy. For example, having saved one’s own child, one should immediately try to save the other child, even if that appears impossible. A parent who did not do this would be blameworthy. (This is one place where the certainty posited in the “thought experiment” may lead us astray, for we are very unlikely to have absolute certainty that saving both children is impossible.)

Though Singer invokes only the second reason (in an admittedly very different form of the division of labor argument, drawn from Goodin in his case), both seem to me to be the same sort of general, rational reason that Singer does invoke. In contrast, perhaps the most compelling reason for me to favor saving one’s own child in this scenario is very different. Specifically, I imagine the final moments of the two children before they drown. Both are overwhelmed with panic. But one’s own child would also feel a sort of grief at being abandoned by one of his or her primary attachment objects (i.e., his or her parents), thus a sense of rejection bordering on betrayal. When I find this concern the most compelling reason for saving one’s own child, it is an instance of my stylistic preference for attachment-based ethical reasoning. I should also point out that my reasons for preferring one’s own child in cases of this sort is generalizable and does not rely on prioritizing the near and dear over strangers, as such. Rather the reasons I have given–that one is more likely to succeed in saving one’s own child, that the social division of labor assigns one that role implicitly, and that one’s own child is likely to suffer more if one does not try to rescue him or her–do not presuppose that it is in general a superior policy to favor Individuals one likes or with whom one shares an identity category. Indeed, in other situations the same principles could favor the stranger over one’s own child.

In Literature and Moral Feeling, I draw on a range of areally and genetically unrelated literatures in making my arguments about fundamental, ethical orientation, etc. In consequence, I believe these points constitute plausible universals—first, ethical, then literary (due to the presence of ethical concerns in the literatures of various traditions). But note that they are descriptive and not normative universals. In other words, the universal principle is only that people’s moral attitudes evidence these sorts of inclination—specifically, a fundamental orientation, further specified through a preferred emotion and a prototypical narrative structure. Nothing in what I have said implies that my particular ethical preferences are right. Indeed, even if they are shared in great detail across cultures, they do not constitute a normative universal in that it would be possible for a given attitude to be shared even by all people yet still have no moral force. This can be seen by the simple fact that if Nazi propaganda had succeeded and literally everyone adopted fascist beliefs that would not make such beliefs normatively valid.

Of course, to some extent this conclusion is trivial given my contention that there are no objective facts about norms—ethical, aesthetic, or otherwise. If I’m correct, then no maxim has moral force per se. Beliefs only have motivational force for the individuals who hold those beliefs. But we can have rational dialogue about these beliefs, disputing for example the degree to which they are coherent, the degree to which they adopt factual presuppositions that are or are not plausible, and so on. Given this, it does seem possible to marshal evidence of descriptive universality toward the goal of defending a particular normative belief not as correct in and of itself but as common, as shared, across different traditions or cultures. Again, this does not give the belief in question normative force. However, it does give us a way of arguing that “cultural difference” does not constitute a definitive reason for disallowing one’s belief in a particular norm or one’s commitment to that norm. In short, it disables the cultural relativist claim that one’s ethically normative beliefs are rendered invalid by vast differences in culture. The point holds–perhaps even more strongly–if one does indeed accept the objective existence of moral norms, as does Singer (see, for example, “How”). I say this because if norms do indeed have an objective existence, then it seems plausible that there would be some way in which we could find out what those norms are. It also seems plausible that people from different traditions and cultures would all have access to those norms. Thus, the objective norms would be likely to appear among individuals—perhaps a minority of such individuals–in a variety of cultures.

In keeping with these points, then, it seems that literary, ethical, and other universals though descriptive can indeed have bearing on normative principles, whether one holds that moral norms have an objective existence or rejects that belief. Indeed, in One World, Singer does make a case for the normative value of reciprocity based in part on the cross-cultural recurrence of beliefs in the ethical value of reciprocity. Singer notes that “Some aspects of ethics can fairly be claimed to be universal, or very nearly so.” Specifically, he writes that “Reciprocity, at least, seems to be common to ethical systems everywhere” (citing Gouldner 171). He goes on to point out that “the notion of reciprocity may have served as the basis for the “Golden Rule”–treat others as you would like them to treat you [or, alternatively, do not treat others as you would not like them to treat you].” He then points out that, in the decade that preceded his writing of One World, there was “an attempt to draw up a ‘Declaration of a Global Ethic,’ a statement of principles that are universally accepted across all cultures.” As eventually approved, that declaration includes the Golden Rule, identified as “the irrevocable, unconditional [ethical] norm for all areas of life” (quoting from Swidler). This is in keeping with the fact that “the Golden Rule can be found, in differing formulations, in a wide variety of cultures and religious teachings, including, in roughly chronological order, those of Zoroaster, Confucius, Mahavira (the founder of Jainism), the Buddha, the Hindu epic Mahabharata, the Book of Leviticus, Hillel, Jesus, Mohammed, Kant, and many others” (Singer, citing Swidler 19-21).

Something along the lines of the golden rule does then appear to be at least a statistical universal. To have this status it must be in some degree convincing to a range of people across traditions. It does not seem to me however that this convincing quality is a matter of reciprocity. To my ear reciprocity recalls tit for tat behavior–doing unto others as they have done unto you whether that doing is good or ill. Indeed, it seems to me that the golden rule is directly opposed to reciprocity in this sense. (Singer briefly suggests this, when he writes that, by the golden rule, one’s behavior is “not necessarily related to how someone actually has treated you in the past.” But in the same sentence he refers to this as a form of “reciprocity,” which seems to me inconsistent with the qualification just quoted, even allowing for the weakening of that qualification via the phrase, “not necessarily.”) Rather the golden rule seems to me consistent with three inclinations that I see as fundamental to our moral sensibilities—again, across cultures. These are 1) our inclination to form ethical norms which we see as universalizable and exceptionless (ethical conflicts are a problem because both alternatives retain their moral force, so that one must act unethically, no matter what one does); 2) our inclination to empathize with others particularly in their suffering and for that empathy to give rise to motivations, specifically motivations to ameliorate that suffering (I call these “non-egocentric motivations”); 3) our inclination to identify a subset of those non-egocentric, empathic motivations with the ethical norms (of #1) at least insofar as they satisfy further cognitively specified principles of consistency, etc. (e.g., insofar as they satisfy utilitarian or Kantian requirements, depending on our preferred method of determining ethical norms).

I should emphasize once again however that this does not provide evidence for the validity of a particular ethical norm. It merely tells us that advocates of a particular norm–the norm embodied in the golden rule—are likely to find allies in a range of other traditions. Indeed, even if one does not find allies already formed in another society, the ubiquity of the golden rule suggests that some members of other societies are likely to be open to the idea of the golden rule, to be convinced by its arguments in its favor, and so on. Finally, I should say that this does not mean that something like the golden rule is innate. Something like the notion of a moral norm–a universalizable norm that is also exceptionless (in the sense just mentioned)—may be innate, though it may be derivable from principles of rule abstraction and generalization, along with the non-egocentric, but motivated nature of ethics, which I take to be definitional; a type of act (e.g., eating an orange) may be perfectly fine, but it just is not ethics if we act out of self-interest or act randomly. I am more inclined to think that the capacity to empathize spontaneously or effortfully—indeed, the regular practice of empathizing in both ways– is part of of our innate nature. Given these two components however it seems to me that their synthesis–making ethical norms into instances of non-egocentric—thus, empathic–motivation is virtually inevitable in a certain number of cases. The fact that it does not occur in all cases is evidence that the golden rule is not innate per se. However, the components are there and are likely to be synthesized when appropriate circumstances

Future Directions

The implications of the preceding comments for a future study seem straightforward. We should seek other commonalities across genetically and aerially unrelated ethical traditions. This task was facilitated in the case of the golden rule by some close parallels in phrasing which made the commonalities more obvious. Other cases are likely to be more concealed, discoverable only after interpretation of superficially different phrases. This interpretation is almost necessarily culturally nuanced. It seems to be a common belief in culture studies today that culturally sensitive interpretation is virtually guaranteed to show great differences between cultures. I seem to be almost alone in my experience that the more I learned about a culture the more similarities I see between us and them and the fewer significant or “deep” differences I can discern. In any case, acquiring such cultural knowledge and sensitivity should not discourage us. Not only is it instrumentally valuable in revealing ethical universals; it also constitutes a worthwhile pursuit in and of itself.

I suspect that there are many different ethically normative tendencies that re-appear (with variations) across traditions, just as there are different ethically normative tendencies that appear in Western ethical tradition. But I should stress once again that, though the content of these will be normative–that is after all the point–they will nonetheless be descriptive universals. Indeed, insofar as they are incompatible with one another we could not take them all to be normative as that would lead us to commit ourselves to contradictory “ethical” behaviors. I rather suspect that we will find for the most part the usual alternatives for moral adjudication that we find in our own culture. Of course these will be formulated differently, just as different forms of consequentialism or deontology are formulated differently in the West. Moreover, those differences in formulation are likely to be significant and indeed valuable, for they are likely to give us different perspectives on fundamental issues in ethics—again, as we find with different theories in the West. But at the same time recognizing the universality of at least some fundamental beliefs about normative ethics (and, again, I suspect that “some” greatly understates the case) will reassure us that it is indeed possible to engage in productive, rational dialogue across and not only within cultural traditions. Indeed, I suspect that, if we are able to set aside our (largely content-neutral) biases derived from in- versus out-group divisions, we will find that we are no less likely to reach fundamental agreement with members of alien cultures than with members of our own. Indeed, this may ultimately lead us to realize that, in many ways, we are not  justified in our unreflective categorization of one culture as “alien” and another as “our own.”

See also Peter Singer’s response.

WORKS CITED

Goodin, Robert. Utilitarianism as a Public Philosophy. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1995.

Gouldner, Alvin. “The Norm of Reciprocity: A Preliminary Statement.” American Sociological Review 25.2 (1960): 161-178.

Hogan, Patrick Colm. Literature and Moral Feeling: A Cognitive Poetics of Ethics, Narrative, and Empathy. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2022

Hogan, Patrick Colm. What Literature Teaches Us About Emotion. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2011.

Singer, Peter. “How I Changed My Mind About Objective Morality.” Interview from The Institute of Art and Ideas. Available at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fn2dT9Lrko4&t=16s .

Singer, Peter. One World: The Ethics of Globalization. New Haven, CT: Yale UP, 2002. Unpaginated Kindle Edition.

Swidler, Leonard, ed. For All Life: Toward a Universal Declaration of a Global Ethic. Ashland, OR: White Cloud P, 1999.

LITERARY UNIVERSALS WEBLOG: A series of informal observations and conjectures aimed at fostering more reflection on and discussion about cross-cultural patterns in literature. 

Patrick Colm Hogan, University of Connecticut

Since we revived the Literary Universals Project in 2016, I’ve been expecting, and hoping, to receive an article on literature and religion. This is not only because the topic is intrinsically interesting, but also because the data are complicated in a way that I believe illustrates some of the challenges that face the study of literary universals. I am very far from an expert in the field. However, cognizant of the relative informality allowed by a blog post, I finally decided that I should just go ahead and treat some of the material that I am familiar with, in the hope that this will inspire other writers, with greater depth and breadth of knowledge, to extend or correct my comments. To give a rough idea of what should be included here, I count something as literary if it is read, watched, or listened to by a significant body of recipients in part for the experience of emotions, whether those be suspense, wonder at beauty, empathic love, or something else. I count something as religious if it is read, watched, or listened to by a significant body of recipients because they believe that it communicates truths—including moral truths–that transcend mundane, human life.

To Start: A Small Point About Starting Points

Writers who argue that there are literary universals are often accused of Eurocentrism. That is probably often the case, though not necessarily in the morally objectionable sense of “Eurocentrism.” For example, writers raised and educated in Western societies often start out making use of the emotion concepts of their native language. I don’t see this as a problem, as long as emotion concepts from other languages are also included in the research program eventually and as long as researchers are sensitive to contravening evidence regarding their own-language concepts. My assumption would be that, if an emotion concept names an emotion that people in one culture experience, then it is probably an emotion that some people in other cultures do—or at least could–also experience. Conversely, if the concept is problematic when a researcher seeks to apply it to other societies, that probably suggests a problem with its application to his or her own society as well. For example, a common view of romantic love in the U.S. appears to be that it is “true love” only if it is eternal. In some other societies, researchers might have difficulty finding cases of true love, conceived in this way, as common conceptions of romantic love view it as ephemeral and those conceptions are likely to affect the ways in which people report their emotions. But it would actually be difficult to find “true love” in the U.S. also. Attachment or companionate love can be enduring, and seems to occur everywhere in an enduring form (e.g., parents do not stop loving their children after a certain interval). But “romantic love lasts between twelve and eighteen months” (Fisher 100) “True love” is as non-existent in the U.S. as elsewhere. We learn this when we begin to research “true love,” rather than assuming, for culturalist reasons, that we have it and other people don’t. In this way, having multiple, (temporarily) culture-“centric” starting points should only enrich our study of universals, rather than limiting it.

In any event, whatever my unself-conscious presuppositions may be, and however European they may be, this issue does not usually arise with my self-conscious adoption of models. Specifically, my explicit model for a given form of cross-cultural literary study is more likely to be Indian than European. This is in part a result of personal interest, and in part a matter of having learned about Indian literature through explicit study, rather than implicit assimilation. What is most important, however, is that in many respects, Indian literature and Indian religion—or, perhaps, philosophy of literature and philosophy of religion—seem often more finely differentiated and more comprehensive than the parallel cultural forms in other traditions.

By “finely differentiated,” I mean having clear, systematic definitions for key concepts. By “comprehensive,” I mean having a logically complete set of key concepts. For example, in religious philosophy, Indic traditions of ontology may be organized by reference to a few basic principles, which are subjected to systematic variation, yielding a set of logical alternatives. If we begin with the distinction between spirit and matter (puruṣa and prakṛti in Sanskrit), and that between monism and dualism, the logical possibilities are as follows: Dualism: both puruṣa and prakṛti exist; in the Indian tradition, this is the Sāṃkhya school (see Grimes 282-283). Monism: only puruṣa exists; this is Advaita Vedānta (see Grimes 15). Monism: only praṛkti exists; this is Cārvāka (see Grimes 102). Monism: both puruṣa and prakṛti exist, but they are not distinct from one another (e.g., to use current philosophical terminology, they are two aspects of the same [single] reality); this is “Absolute Monism” (see Pandit 45; see also Dmitrieva). The only remaining possibility is that neither exists. I am not sure that I know what such a claim means. But it is very reminiscent of the Buddhist idea that everything is śūnyatā or the void (see Grimes 305).  In effect, this covers all the schools of early Indic metaphysics, and indeed all possible schools defined by these premises. That breadth is what makes Indian metaphysics perhaps uniquely “comprehensive,” as I just put it. The explicit, well-specified definitions of each school are what make it “finely differentiated.”

Comprehensiveness and fine differentiation as found in Indian traditions here have two consequences that are worth drawing out. First, all societies that have some practice of the relevant kind (here, they all have an ontology, or several—disputed–ontologies). As such, they must take up at least one of the possibilities set out in the early Indian scheme. Second, the existence of all the logical possibilities in India entails that there is not some general principle of cultural uniformity that prevents different people in a given society from believing distinct metaphysics or any one person from changing his or her mind. (On common assumptions about cultural uniformity, and some reasons why they are misguided–see Moody-Adams).

Actually, there is one significant aspect of ontology that is not explicitly separated out in Indian metaphysics, at least not early on. That is just where one should locate the mind. In Sāṃkhya, the mind is prakṛti. In the West, it has more usually fallen under the category of puruṣa. This is the sort of difference that can be very productive intellectually for both groups when they interact with one another and are thereby faced with contradictions between their assumptions and those common in the other society. Of course, our topic here is religious literature, not ontology, but the same basic principles apply.

From the Vedas to the Rāmāyaṇa and the Purāṇas

The most ancient, sacred texts of Hinduism are the Vedas. The first part of the Vedas, called “Saṃhitā,” meaning “collection” (Feuerstein 254), includes a range of hymns or poems. Within the Indian tradition, these are exemplary cases of religious literature. As such they have a number of characteristics that suggest possible candidates for universals of religious literature. Here are some:

• A religion will frequently include a body of literary works—often, poems—as central, canonical texts (thus as scriptural).
• These scriptural literary works typically are or come to be part of religious rituals.
• Such works frequently include allusions to myths, legends, and/or historical events.
• These canonical literary works become the objects of extensive interpretation. Such interpretations sometimes involve scholarly background (e.g., filling in mythological stories to which some verses allude elliptically), sometimes textual explication, sometimes explanation of the rituals.
• The collection of such works includes praise of deities and petition for benefits from them (e.g., adequate, but not excessive rainfall; see 5.83, pp. 172-174 of O’Flaherty).

Of these, petitionary prayer and hymns of praise are the functionally-defined categories of religious verse or, more broadly, religious literature that are most obviously candidates for universality. They are both pervasive in Christianity. Thus, we find both in such standardized prayers as the “Our Father.” Poems of praise are to be found throughout the psalms, which are Jewish in origin, but have become part of Christian religious literature as well. These functions are clearly not confined to the verses that are themselves part of the religion’s textual canon (parallel to the Vedic hymns). They appear also in works written by later authors in a literary context that is not specifically religious. For example, John Donne’s “Batter my heart, three-person’d God” is a (highly innovative) petitionary verse. As to presence in ritual, even a cursory look at the Catholic mass shows the presence of both types of literary speech (i.e., celebratory and petitionary). There has certainly been interpretive and scholarly commentary on the parts of the bible that we are likely to count as literature, though such attention is hardly confined to the poetic parts of that book.

Beyond Hinduism and Christianity, Gerstenberger discusses the presence of both forms of poetry in Sumerian, Akkadian, and Hebrew verse. Moreover, he connects these functions with religious ritual (see 86-87). In addition, he isolates further characteristics of some religious literature, such as “confession of guilt” (83). This is of course an important feature of Christian tradition, and appears as part of the sacrificial story structure (see “Story”), which I will leave aside, having discussed story genres at length elsewhere (see chapter six of The Mind and Its Stories and chapter three of Affective Narratology). Gerstenberger goes on to refer to ritually-embedded petitionary prayer in the Americas as well, citing Navajo practice (85).

In Orthodox Islam, the Qur’ān is seen not only as the divinely revealed truth, but as the ne plus ultra of aesthetic excellence–thus, in effect, the greatest poetry (though believers would not phrase it this way). For example, Allen notes that “miraculous qualities” were “attributed to its style” (52). Despite this, for historical reasons, one of its surahs (the twenty-sixth) treats poets as deceptive and dangerous enemies of Islam. This makes the nature and use of poetry in Islam particularly complex. At the same time, however, I believe the aestheric status of the Qur’ān gives us license to count virtually any part of it as literature, as marked by the aesthetic qualities of verbal art. This, in turn, suggests a small but significant revision of the first candidate universal, which should now read as follows:

• A religion will frequently include a body of literary works—often, poems—as central, canonical texts (thus as scriptural). Sacred texts may also incorporate the sorts of aesthetic features that are prominent in verse.

This makes sense in part because there is no clear reason why, as a general rule, religions would canonize a particular body of verse. The revised version indicates that a spiritually elevated text would be associated with various sorts of excellence, including aesthetic excellence, and that there are different ways of accomplishing this—through a focally aestheticized part or through a more diffusely aestheticized whole. This also suggests a revision of our second possible universal, which might now read as follows:

• Scriptural literary works typically are or come to be part of religious rituals. Alternatively, rituals adopt some of the same aesthetic principles, thereby producing further scriptural literary works.

Here, too, the most obvious reason for the connection is that ritual—like canonical texts—is pre-eminent for its spiritual and moral excellence. As the most excellent of all excellences (from the religious point of view), one might reasonably view it as subsuming other excellences, including those that are aesthetic.

Continuing for the moment with Islam, it is unsurprising that praise of Allāh is pervasive in the Qur’ān. Petitionary appeals seem to be infrequent, perhaps due to the philosophical problems with petitionary prayer in monotheisms (see, for example, Davison). Even so, requests aimed at God are not absent. The Qur’ān begins “Praise be to Allāh, the Lord of the worlds” (Ali 1.1). It continues, “Thee do we beseech for help/Guide us on the right path” (Ali 1.4-5). Given that the Qur’ān, even more than the Vedic hymns, constitutes the centerpiece of its religion, it is unsurprising that it has been subjected to widespread analysis. This prominently includes the presentation of background, completing stories that are presented in only fragmentary, elliptical, allusive fashion, as with the Vedic hymns. It is also unsurprising that the Qur’ān figures in Islamic ritual—most obviously in the profession of faith and in the daily prayers required of Muslims (though, again, it is not so much the specific text as the broader aestheticization that seems crucial here).

Of the major written traditions, I have not yet mentioned those in China. China is an unusual case as the dominant belief systems in the society have downplayed ideas of divinity, relying principally on the relatively abstract and impersonal ideas, such as Tiān or Heaven. In some ways, Heaven has the same functions as the concept of God in the monotheistic religions. For example, the Tiāndào or Way of Heaven is the morally right path. That morally right path underwrites the sorts of social hierarchy that are often underwritten by “divine command” elsewhere, as when the Tiāndào is invoked to support filial piety (xiào), just as divine command is invoked to support “Honor[ing] thy father and thy mother” in the Judeo-Christian Ten Commandments.

More precisely, the dominant religious orientations in China have been, first, Rú Jiā (“Confucianism”), associated with the sage, Kǒngzǐ (“Confucius”), followed by Dàoism, associated with the sage, Lǎozǐ. These are later joined by Buddhism. The foundational text of Dàoism is the Dàodéjīng, a highly poetic work, which certainly satisfies our aesthetic hypothesis (#1). It has also generated a sizable set of explications, along the lines suggested by other traditions. (For example, influential commentaries by Heshang Gong [2^nd Century C.E.] and Cheng Xuanying [7^th Century C.E.] are readily available in English.)

As to petitionary prayer, the different religious schools are not so mutually exclusive as the Middle Eastern monotheisms. In consequence, “According to individual needs and circumstances, lay persons may . . . address prayers and petitions indifferently to Dàoist, Buddhist, or popular deities” (Pregadio). On the other hand, neither petitionary prayer nor praise of a deity appears to be a common use of Dàoist or Confucian literature. Indeed, it does not appear to be a common use of religious literature in much of Buddhism either. This relative paucity of both genres seems likely to be a function of the degree to which the religions teach that important goals can—indeed, must–be achieved by the efforts of individual aspirants alone, as opposed to those that assert the centrality of something along the lines of divine grace. The Chinese religious philosophies tend to stress individual effort. Something like divine grace does become more prominent with Mahāyāna Buddhism, where the need for the beneficence of a bodhisattva is evident. This is particularly salient in Pure Land Buddhism, which is important for us as it guides a number of Chinese and Japanese literary works that are religious in their themes, though they are not themselves scriptural. A striking example is Zeami’s Atsumori in which the main character calls on the Amida Buddha to bring him and his enemy into the Pure Land where they may overcome their antipathy and reach enlightenment together. Even so, Mahāyāna Buddhism does generally maintain a commitment to personal effort as a key factor in achieving enlightenment. Perhaps in consequence, it seems fairly common for Buddhist literary works to suggest the benefits of Buddhist equanimity—rather than, say, appealing to a bodhisattva for spiritual aid. For example, a Buddhist poet, such as Wáng Wéi (8^th-Century China), may seek to convey the emotional results of a Buddhist sensibility through the depiction of the peacefulness of the speaker’s relation to nature. Other prominent examples of this sort may be found in the poetry of Bashō (17^th-Century Japan).

Of the East Asian religions, perhaps the most interesting, for our purposes, is Rú Jiā, due to the unusual way in which it conforms to these cross-cultural patterns. First, it does develop a central canon of religious poetry. Indeed, the Classic of Poetry (Shījīng) is so important to Rú Jiā that Confucian scholars were expected to memorize the 305 poems it contains. What is surprising here is that so many of the poems evidently deal with secular matters, such as love affairs. These are recruited to religious purposes through the extensive commentaries that turn evidently irreligious or at least non-religious poems into coded treatments of religious topics, principally morals. Thus, the Classic of Poetry includes the features we have been considering. However, it shapes this collection of poetry into a religious canon, not only—perhaps not even primarily–through the straightforward, intuitive meanings of the poems, but through self-consciously counter-intuitive reinterpretations of these poems.

As to the genres of the poetry, praise appears often enough. However, it is not praise of Heaven, but praise of morally exemplary individuals. This is what one would expect from a tradition that depersonalizes the usual, anthropomorphic divine beings. Tiān is, after all, a somewhat odd target for eulogizing. On the other hand, the narratives of exemplary individuals constitute another cross-cultural pattern in religious literature. We might then formulate a sixth candidate universal as follows:

• Stories of morally exemplary figures, often life stories, are frequently part of the set of sacred writings or at least have a sort of semi-canonical status for the religion. (In referring to “semi-canonical” works, I have in mind the model of śruti and smṛti in Hinduism; the former comprises eternal, revealed works, while the latter includes the most highly regarded, but still corrigible texts that originated at a particular time and place as the product of a human author.)

When possible, the morally exemplary subjects of such biographies are both divine and human or, if only human, are uniquely associated with the divine world. Thus, another Hindu scripture—more popular and more widely revered than the Vedas—is the Rāmāyaṇa, the exemplary life of the incarnation of the god, Viṣṇu, as Rāma. The point is no less obvious in the case of Christianity, where each gospel is a life of the morally exemplary divine incarnation, Jesus. The attention to the culminating prophet, Muḥammad, in Islam is similar. While not divine, Muḥammad is as close as a human comes to that status. For believers, his life represents the Sunnah or correct path; it stands as “the authoritative example of the way a Muslim should live” (Waines 288). This path (of Muḥammad’s life) appears somewhat elliptically in the canonical Ḥadîth and more fully in ibn Isḥâq’s (8^th-Century C.E.) Life of God’s Messenger, a work of nearly scriptural status. The life of the Buddha is exemplary also, without there being any particularly canonized or near canonized version, as far as I am aware—though there are works esteemed as part of the relevant literary canons, such as Aśvaghoṣa’s Sanskrit drama, The Life of the Buddha. We also find exemplar-defining works recounting the lives of the Christian saints and lives of the Jain Elders (e.g., by Hemacandra).

It seems to be the case that the exemplary biographies must frequently resolve moral inconsistencies, conflicts between the way people act—or even the way gods are imagined to act—and the moral idealization demanded by the genre. As Barrett points out, we imagine gods  in much the same way we imagine people, though we may deny this when asked (see chapter eight of Barrett). Barrett does not extend this to our moral imagination, but the stories themselves would seem to suggest that such an extension is warranted. Consider the Fall of humankind. Referring to Paradise Lost, the esteemed literary critic, William Empson, observed that God “kills Adam and Eve and all their descendants for eating an apple,” which is the sort of behavior we would expect from “a merciless tyrant” (Leonard xxv, summarizing Empson), not the morally ideal agent. Of course, Milton’s poem is non-canonical (i.e., not part of scripture). But parallel points apply to many acts in canonical scriptures as well. Religious authorities must in some way deal with this problem. Sometimes, the canonical version just eliminates the offensive act (though we can know this only if an original including the act has been preserved). In narratological terms, this would involve rectifying the ethics of the work at the level of the story. When present in the story, the problematic act may be backgrounded, perhaps recounted diffusely, so that it requires effortful, self-conscious inference. In this way, a sort of ethical resolution is produced through discourse, the way the story is told. The Confucian approach accomplishes its purposes a bit differently, altering the standard interpretation rather than the story or the discourse (for examples, see Cai; actually all traditions adopt a number of strategies, but in varying proportions). Hindu traditions offer yet another another form of this ethical rectification by in effect placing an interpretation of the act in the story (through a character) or by way of discourse (through a narrator). For example, this occurs with some of Rāma’s more morally objectionable acts, such as abandoning his wife. In the context of the Rāmāyaṇa itself, it is clear that the mistreatment of Sītā has its source in patriarchal structure. In consequence,  the ethical contradictions that concern this mistreatment are not simply character flaws in Rāma, but are a reflection of the patriarchal structure and associated sexism and misogyny of the society. In this way, the ethical contradictions in any religious literature may derive from the politics of the society, rather than the psychology of the hero or heroine.

Leaving aside Gerstenberger’s reference to Navajo religion, the preceding comments have been confined to major world religions. Nonetheless, the cases we have considered do suggest the plausibility of a claim that the following tendencies are at least statistical universals of religious literature.

• A religion will frequently include a body of literary works (often, poems) as central, canonical—thus scriptural–texts (oral or written). Sacred texts also tend to incorporate the sorts of aesthetic features that are prominent in verse. (These scriptural works of verbal art should be distinguished from religious works of verbal art that have no scriptural status.)
• Scriptural literary works typically are or come to be part of religious rituals. Alternatively, rituals adopt some of the same aesthetic principles, thereby producing further scriptural literary works.
• Religious literary works frequently allude to myths, legends, or historical events, in effect presupposing the reader’s or listener’s familiarity with those works.
• Canonical, literary works become the objects of extensive interpretation. Such interpretations sometimes involve scholarly background (e.g., filling in mythological stories to which verses allude elliptically), sometimes textual explication, sometimes explanation of the rituals. In other words, the scriptural works of verbal art come to be embedded in traditions of commentary. Moreover, the commentaries may be incompatible with one another and with the most obvious, literal interpretation of the texts.
• Scriptural, literary works—and, to a great extent, non-canonized religious literary works also—often praise deities and petition them for benefits (e.g., adequate, but not excessive rainfall). While the praise is usually explicit, the petitionary purpose may be expressed indirectly, unless it is aimed at specifically spiritual or moral benefit (thus, some version of grace).
• Canonical religious story literature commonly recounts a religion’s myths.
• One particularly important genre of scriptural or near-scriptural story literature recounts the life of some moral exemplar.
• The fashioning of morally exemplary lives often involves reconciling human fallibility with the idealization that is required by the genre. In addition, it is likely to require the reconciliation of an unethical, ideological bias with moral or religious principles that contradict it (see, for example, the arguments used in the Bhagavad Gita in support of war). Such reconciliation may be achieved by changing (bowdlerizing) the relevant texts, changing the interpretation of those texts, or rationalizing the moral failings of the exemplar.

I imagine that some of these points (e.g., the importance of praise and petition) carry over to a range of orally transmitted religions, while others (e.g., the expanding corpus of commentaries) might be confined to highly literate societies. But I will have to leave those issues for another time (and probably another author).

Bhakti

It is important to turn now to a form of religious feeling that has been highly productive and is one source of much literature that has been both popular for spiritual reasons and esteemed for its aesthetic accomplishments. In an Indian context, this is referred to as literature of “bhakti,” which is usually translated as “devotion.” Bhakti is not the emotion of the poet who petitions Indra, an anthropomorphic deity who rules over the anthropomorphic Hindu pantheon and who might be prevailed upon to produce rain. Rather, it is a feeling of intense longing, a feeling that one’s well-being is wholly dependent on achieving and sustaining a close connection with the object of devotion—whether Viṣṇu as the warrior Rāma, or Viṣṇu as baby Kṛṣṇa, or the Goddess as a protective slayer of demons. In short, it is love. The bhakta or devotee may love the deity as one loves a romantic partner—as is most common in literature–or as one loves a parent, or one’s child, or a dear friend.  We find examples of each sort in Indian literature.

This is not unique to South Asia, though the emphasis on romantic love is even more pronounced in other traditions. Most obviously, we find it in the mystical poets of Christianity and Islam. The former include such figures as Saint John of the Cross and Saint Teresa of Ávila. Lamenting the relative neglect of these writers today, Housden pleads that “we [Christians] too have our great love songs to God, our cries of longing, our sorrows of separation, our bliss of union” (xvii; see Housden for a selection of Christian mystical poetry also). In the mystical branch of Islam, Ṣūfī writers sometimes employed allegory to convey their unorthodox views. The allegory was regularly one of romantic love. For example, Nizami’s great narrative poem, Layla and Majnun, represents Majnun’s passionate longing for spiritual union with Allāh indirectly as Majnun’s passionate longing for romantic union with Layla.

But there is a difficulty here. The clear cases of religious bhakti literature are found almost entirely in Hinduism, Islam, and Christianity. Perhaps the earliest examples of such poetry are to be found in Judaism (“The Song of Songs”) and Hinduism (e.g., in the Kṛṣṇabhakti sections of the Bhagavad Gītā). Ṣūfism was influenced by Hinduism, and Christian mysticism was influenced by Ṣūfism. Due to such influence (“areal contamination,” as it is sometimes called), we cannot feel confident that these three cases point to a universal feature of religious literature (in the technical sense of universal). On the other hand, we almost certainly need to loosen this linguistic criterion in the case of literature (see the section on areal contact in “What are Literary Universals?”). In any event, given the degree of contact between these three religions and other religious traditions, we are left to wonder why a form of sacred poetry so enthusiastically embraced from India to Spain seems not to have inspired similar devotion on the part of Confucians, Buddhists, and others.

One possible explanation begins with the nature of the emotion at issue. No matter which analogy best fits the poet’s feelings—spousal, parental, or filial love or close friendship—a central component of those feelings is attachment care. Though prototypically associated with the bonding of parents and small children, attachment is a key component of romantic love and deep, enduring friendship as well. One peculiarity of attachment as an emotion system is that it takes individual persons as its targets. Most emotions are elicited by any member of a class of objects. While it is possible to be afraid of one particular wolf and not others, we are usually wary of all wolves. In contrast, a toddler is likely to be attached to his or her own mother, not everyone who shares the property of being a mother, and similarly the mother is attached to her own child.

Understanding this fact about attachment might lead us to hypothesize that attachment relations to a deity would be marked by two features. First, the attachment object should be singular. Second, that target should be distinguished by individuating characteristics. After all, the toddler identifies his or her mother, and rejects substitutes; he or she must be able to distinguish one from the other—by scent, voice, and so on. These two features of attachment would seem to suggest that the members of monotheistic religions might be more open to a bhakti orientation, at least insofar as that religion imagines the deity to be distinctively personified. In the technical terminology of the study of universals, this would constitute an hypothesis of a typological and statistical universal (see “What are Literary Universals?”), an hypothesis that literatures of a certain type—here, religious literatures associated with a monotheistic religion–are (statistically) more likely to develop works expressing a bhakti-like passionate emotion for God, modeled particularly on romantic love.

At least, as a simple, first approximation, this seems to fit the data reasonably well. Various forms of Christianity clearly share these characteristics. In consequence, it is unsurprising to find an emphasis on devotional love in some of its literature and at least lip service to love in its general teaching. Islam too fits here in being monotheistic. In orthodox Islam, Allāh is rather minimally personified, but He is given a voice and some traits through the Qur’ān. On the other hand, Ṣūfī mysticism—often considered heretical in orthodox Islam—is perhaps the form of bhakti-based religious poetry and prose that involves the most elaborate creation of individual characters to allegorize the mystic’s relation to God. We see this in, for example, Niẓāmī’s development of the spiritual allegory of Laila and Majnun, or in some elements of ‘Aṭṭār’s Conference of the Birds (also mystical allegories), and in the dense metaphors of Rūmī’s poetry. We find a similar situation in Judaism—a monotheism with a rather minimally personified deity. Jewish tradition does include the early “Song of Songs,” a love poem commonly interpreted as an allegory for the relation between the Jewish people and God (see Jerusalem 991). In keeping with this, Harold Bloom sees the poem as influencing St. John of the Cross (see 221-222). Still, given the way in which Ṣūfī mystical poetry  developed, we might expect to find more bhakti-like literary work in unorthodox writings of Judaism—perhaps, for example, those influenced by Kabbalah.

Given that the other clear cases are all monotheisms, one might wonder how India became such an important source of bhakti-based literature. But, in fact, Hinduism has a monotheistic structure, albeit of an unusual type. It refers to an array of “gods.” However, the anthropomorphic court of Indra is not of the same ontological type as the “Trinity” of Brahma, Viṣṇu, and Śiva. Moreover, for many Hindu theologians—indeed, virtually all those who follow the Vedāntic principles of the Upaniṣads—the supreme deity (e.g., Mahāviṣṇu) encompasses even the Trinity. Finally, in the case of Vaiṣṇavites (devotees of Viṣṇu), this supreme deity has been incarnated and thus given a wealth of personifying characteristics, as both a child and an adult. On the other hand, the ultimate unity of the divine in philosophical Hinduism is not so much a monotheism of the Judeo-Christian-Islamic sort as monism, an assertion that every soul is ultimately one in that divine being (who is, in this respect, commonly referred to as brahman). This division in personification is given a name in Hinduism—that between devotion to a deity “with properties” (saguna) or as absolute, thus “without properties” (nirguna; see Feuerstein 201-202 and 247-248).

This may at first appear to pose a problem. However, it fits the mystical analogy with romantic love perfectly. The longing of the bhakta for God in both Hindu and non-Hindu religious literature is not a longing to set up a home and have children, or to enjoy any worldly benefit. It is, rather, a longing to be one with the beloved, to be united in such a way as to overcome the sometimes unbearable isolation of being a conscious self. Mysticism could be conceived of as a sort of therapy for the existential loneliness of consciousness (a point I have discussed elsewhere; see chapter six of Personal Identity and Literature, and “Literature, God, and the Unbearable Solitude of Consciousness”). As such, it is certainly not confined to monotheisms. However, the development of a carefully personified single, potentially all-encompassing deity may facilitate the literary development of mysticism.

Future Directions

The implications of all this for future research on universals of religious literature are fairly straightforward. Here are a few possible directives, based on the preceding analyses.

• Evaluate hypotheses 1-8 by reference to as wide a range of orally (as opposed to chirographically) maintained and local (as opposed to world) religions as possible. This may include further specifications of the hypotheses (e.g., as to whether the same sorts of goods are requested in petitionary prayer across cultures and whether there is any pattern when they diverge).
• Consider historical factors as well. I have treated the world religions almost as if they were timeless. That may work well enough for petition and praise (of which human beings never seem to tire). But the bhakti-based literature was not always a prominent part of religious literature; its proliferation occurred during certain periods. Why was that?
• Systematically examine the division between an emphasis on grace and an emphasis on individual effort, addressing its implications for the features and purposes of religious literature.
• Systematically consider if there is any necessary connection between bhakti-based literature and the sort of religious counterculture that is so evident in certain forms of Ṣūfism. More generally, we need further exploration of the political dimensions of bhakti and mysticism.
• Systematically explore the relation between religion and attachment, which seems to be virtually unconsidered. This might include such specific sub-topics as the place of bhakti-like literature in the Jewish tradition, particularly Kabbalah, which the preceding analysis suggests would be likely to include such literature.

Addendum. Rather on a whim, I decided I would take maybe an hour to see what I could find that bears on the final point about Kabbalah. Within about five minutes, I came upon a virtual treasure trove of mystical poetry of eros, due to Cole’s valuable collection. Like Christian, Muslim, and Hindu writers, many poets of this tradition do indeed draw on the model of romantic love to express and convey the poet’s devotion to God.

Works Cited

Abhinavagupta. Tantrasāra. Translation and commentaries by B. N. Pandit. Varanasi, India: Indian Mind, 2020.

Ali, Maulana Muḥammad. The Holy Qur’ān: Arabic Text, English Translation and Commentary. 2^nd ed. Columbus, OH Ahmadiyyah Anjuman Isha’at Islam Lahore, Inc., 1995.

Allen, Roger. An Introduction to Arabic Literature. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2000.

Barrett, Justin. Cognitive Science, Religion, and Philosophy: From Human Minds to Divine Minds. West Conshohocken, PA: Templeton P, 2011.

Bloom, Harold. The Shadow of a Great Rock: A Literary Appreciation of the King James Bible. New Haven, CT: Yale UP, 2011.

Cai, Zong-qi. “Poetry and Ideology: The Canonization of the Book of Poetry (Shijing) During the Han.” How to Read Chinese Poetry in Context: Poetic Culture from Antiquity Through the Tang. Ed. Zong-qi Cai.New York: Columbia UP, 2018, 65-77. Kindle Edition.

Cole, Peter, ed. and trans. The Poetry of Kabbalah: Mystical Verse of the Jewish Tradition. New Haven, CT: Yale UP, 2012.

Davison, Scott A. “Petitionary Prayer.” In The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Winter 2021 Edition). Ed. Edward N. Zalta. Available online at https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/win2021/entries/petitionary-prayer/ .

Dmitrieva, Victoria. “Foreword.” In Abhinavagupta, 7-18.

Feuerstein, Georg. The Shambhala Encyclopedia of Yoga. Boston, MA: Shambhala, 2000.

Fisher, Helen. “The Drive to Love: The Neural Mechanism for Mate Selection.” In The New Psychology of Love.” Ed. Robert Sternberg and Karin Weis. New Haven, CT: Yale UP, 2006, 87-115.

Gerstenberger, Erhard. “Petition and Praise: Basic Forms of Prayer in the Babylonian and Hebrew Tradition.” [“Altorientalische Gebetsliteratur: Form, außersprachlicher Kontext und interkulturelle Adaptionsprozesse.”] Die Welt des Orients 49.1 (2019), 81-94.

Grimes, John. A Concies Dictionary of Indian Philosophy: Sanskrit Terms Defined in English. Revised ed. Albany, NY: State U of New York P, 1996.

Hogan, Patrick Colm. Affective Narratology: The Emotional Structure of Stories. Lincoln, NE: U of Nebraska P, 2011.

Hogan, Patrick Colm. “Literature, God, and the Unbearable Solitude of Consciousness.” Journal of Consciousness Studies 11.5-6 (2004): 116-142.

Hogan, Patrick Colm. The Mind and Its Stories: Narrative Universals and Human Emotion. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2003.

Hogan, Patrick Colm. Personal Identity and Literature. New York: Routledge, 2019.

Housden, Roger, ed. For Lovers of God Everywhere: Poems of the Christian Mystics. Carlsbad, CA: Hay House, 2009.

Jerusalem Bible, The. Ed. Alexander Jones. Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1966.

Leonard, J. “Introduction.” In Paradise Lost. Ed. J. Leonard. New York: Penguin, 2003, vi-xxxix.

Moody-Adams, Michele. Fieldwork in Familiar Places: Morality, Culture, and Philosophy. Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 1997.

O’Flaherty, Wendy, ed. and trans. The Rig Veda. New York: Penguin, 1981.

Pandit, B. N. History of Kashmir Saivism. Srinagar, Kashmir, India: Utpal Publications, 1989.

Pregadio, Fabrizio. “Religious Daoism.” The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Fall 2023 Edition). Ed. Edward N. Zalta and Uri Nodelman. Available online at  https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/fall2023/entries/daoism-religion/ .

Waines, David. An Introduction to Islam. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1995.

Mario Slugan, Queen Mary University of London 

David Bordwell passed away on 29 February 2024. I was aware that he had health difficulties as he missed a couple of recent Society for the Cognitive Studies of the Moving Image annual conferences – a society whose ethos he deeply inspired and for a few years presided over. But I clearly did not understand the gravity of the situation for I was dumbfounded when I heard the distressing news in a short email from Noël Carroll. Taken together, Bordwell and Carroll are undeniably two scholars who have contributed the most to film studies no longer being contests of who can produce more references to Althusser, Lacan or Freud, or who can offer a reinterpretation of this or that canonical work in a psychoanalytic, gender, or some other ideology critique key. We can only thank the minor gods of lucid writing in the humanities that the two found themselves at the same time at the University of Wisconsin-Madison where in 1996 they co-edited Post-Theory – a volume which cleared the way for the research programme of film cognitivism. Next to the introductory essay on the then dominance of what is still known simply as Theory with a capital T (as the posthumously just published book by Frederic Jameson, another recently passed pre-eminent scholar, evinces), Bordwell’s contribution to the volume was a piece titled “Convention, Construction, and Cinematic Vision” which introduced the notion of “contingent universals.”

Summarizing both Bordwell’s original account and Ted Nannicelli’s explanation of the concept in his contribution to the Literary Universals Project (available here), contingent universals are the underlying reasons for why a specific artistic technique is widely distributed and comprehensible. In other words, contingent universals are human practices that are at least widely distributed across cultures. Bordwell’s focal technique is shot/reverse shot and, underlying this, the practice of conversation which involves a face-to-face exchange and taking turns. It is this practice of conversation that is arguably widely spread across cultures, which then  explains why the editing structure which alternates two characters in relatively close shots to represent a conversation is so widely used and understood. While this might seem sensible, even self-evident, for the readers of the Literary Universals Project, during the heyday of Theory it was controversial, for at that time it was not uncommon to take even the recognition of verisimilar photographic images as culturally constructed. In such a context, positing contingent universals, thus moving away from purely nurture accounts of film comprehension, was a highly innovative move.

Of course, Bordwell’s towering influence on film studies had started much earlier and extends far beyond theory to include other two traditional branches of the discipline: history and criticism. Already in the late 1970s, together with his spouse Kristin Thompson, Bordwell published Film Art, the most widely used disciplinary textbook which taught thousands of students how to analyze film style, currently in its thirteenth edition and translated to more than a dozen languages. In mid-80s he authored Narration in the Fiction Film – a manifesto of cognitivist film theory – which introduced the then radical idea that for the model for how the viewer understands film we should look to the discipline of contemporary psychology, rather than early 20^th century psychoanalysis. Appearing in 1988, The Classical Hollywood Cinema another joint project with Thompson, with Janet Staiger contributing this time as well, has remained the fundamental work for understanding the means of production, their evolution, and the textual features of the Hollywood studio system. Film History, originally from 1994 and again co-authored with Thompson, now in its fifth edition, is to this very day one of the best introductions to film history and canonical national cinemas from the end of 19^th century to the beginning of the 21^st.    

I will not list many other books that he published (although I believe Making Meaning – a scathing critique of the schematic and run-of-the-mill practice of academic film interpretation – is as timely now as it was in 1989 and as applicable to literary scholarship as it is to film). Instead, I would like to devote the remaining words to what becomes clear to anybody who read many of the in-memoriam posts that appeared in the days after his demise and written by many of those who were lucky enough to be his students (and are now themselves notable academics)–how generous Bordwell was as both a colleague and teacher. Despite the disciplinary authority he exuded, in his interactions in the classroom or the conference room he was always attentive and positive towards other people’s ideas even when they clashed with his own. At the 2016 Society for the Cognitive Studies of the Moving Image conference at Cornell University, I had the good fortune of experiencing this generosity firsthand when after my presentation he approached me and said that he liked my points and found them convincing. Imagine that! You are a postgraduate student who is wrapping up their PhD and sending your job applications all over the place, and David Bordwell tells you that you have good ideas. (That will keep you inspired through a couple of dozen rejection letters.) While the experience was unique for me, this type of encouragement must have been habitual to him. This is yet another reason to appreciate the wide reach of Bordwell’s scholarship, one which, I dare say, is for film studies what shot/reverse shot is for film style.

LITERARY UNIVERSALS WEBLOG: A series of informal observations and conjectures aimed at fostering more reflection on and discussion about cross-cultural patterns in literature.

Patrick Colm Hogan, University of Connecticut

A few months ago, I served as one referee for Stephen Levinson’s excellent new book, The Interaction Engine: Language in Social Life and Human Evolution. In this book and in earlier works, Levinson has been very critical of other linguists’—especially Noam Chomsky’s—claims about universals of language structure. In consequence, he is sometimes viewed as an anti-universalist, not entirely without reason (see, for example, chapter two of Irish). However, Levinson acknowledges the existence of cross-language patterns in language structure, at least of a statistical or implicational variety. (On statistical, implicational, and absolute universals, see “What Are Literary Universals?”) Admittedly, Levinson does not find such patterns particularly engaging or illuminating, but that seems to me largely a matter of personal taste, not anything entailed by his arguments. What is more important, he finds other universals of language to be quite significant, as well as consequential for our understanding of the origins of language and other important topics. Specifically, Levinson explores the idea that robust universals may be found in language usage or pragmatics. In examining these universals, he develops the relevant implications of such pragmatic principles as Gricean cooperation, along with more general affective and cognitive processes, such as empathy and Theory of Mind. (In his “cooperative principle,” Paul Grice famously articulated general rules that govern our production and interpretation of speech, but that go beyond strict logic. For example, suppose you say, “I haven’t seen Jones in a while,” and then I say, “The flu has been particularly virulent this year.” You will take me to be suggesting that Jones had the flu, not making some irrelevant comment.)  Specifically, Levinson recruits research on cooperation, etc., to formulate explanations of a range of absolute universals, such as conversational turn-taking. Moreover, his explanations do not address these universals at a merely general level. Rather, he enters into details, treating features of the processes in question, such as the precise timing of turn-taking.

Not long after I had read Levinson’s manuscript, I received an email from my friend, Bradley Irish. Brad was working on a book manuscript treating universalism and its status in the humanities and social sciences. Among other things, he told me that a number of linguists he had read or spoken with reported that most linguists no longer supported the idea of language universals. They attributed the sea-change in the discipline to an article by Evans and Levinson that appeared in the prestigious journal, Brain and Behavioral Sciences, in 2009. Brad wanted to get my opinion. I explained that I was not in a position to judge what most linguists currently believe, though when I spoke with colleagues in linguistics at the University of Connecticut, they vigorously disagreed with this characterization of their profession today.

In any event, I decided that I should read the article. In the usual format of Brain and Behavioral Sciences, there was a target article (by Evans and Levinson, in this case), followed by a number of rejoinders from prominent researchers in the field, followed by a response to the rejoinders. The article and rejoinders clearly raise issues relevant to the Literary Universals Project, specifically issues surrounding the identification of universals.

The first thing to say about the article is that, whatever one thinks of the specific arguments, it really should not be characterized as “anti-universalist,” though it is easy to see how readers might come away with that impression. In fact, Evans and Levinson, along with most of the commentators on their article, accept that view that there are recurring structures and processes across languages. As I have already suggested, Evans and Levinson accept universals primarily in the broad sense in which Joseph Greenberg used the term and which is also the sense in which it is used on this website. (On the other hand, Evans and Levinson clearly do not care for Greenberg’s terminology and would evidently prefer restricting the term, “universal,” to absolute universals.) For example, in the abstract for their article, they write that “there are significant recurrent patterns in organization” across languages (429). Thus, they are not disputing universality as such. Rather, they are disputing a particular set of claims about language universals—specifically, the claims that an innate Universal Grammar underlies all natural, human languages, yielding an extensive uniformity of principles across languages, principles that are almost entirely modular in the sense that they refer to language features without appeal to contextual or pragmatic functions, such as communication. In contrast, Evans and Levinson maintain that the “recurrent patterns” are tendential, rather than absolute, and that they are “better explained as stable engineering solutions satisfying multiple design constraints, reflecting both cultural-historical factors and the constraints of human cognition” (429). In other words, the object of their critical argument is not so much universalism as a certain sort of innatism, one that leads to extensive claims about absolute universals and restricts the possible explanations for those universals to innate, specifically linguistic structures and processes.

I am not at all certain that Evans and Levinson’s account is fully accurate with regard to Chomsky’s views on these topics, at the time or subsequently. (Chomsky is the main target of their criticisms.) However, I largely agree with their positive claims, as well as their methodological concerns. As to the latter, in On Interpretation (1996), I maintained that Chomsky’s innatism is not as parsimonious as possible and that at least some of the grammatical facts he seeks to explain by complex rules are themselves well-explained by locating language in its social, interactive context. Moreover, I maintained that the patterns Chomsky isolates are often not strict rules, but looser tendencies and preferences. In addition, I followed Hilary Putnam and others in arguing that language acquisition does not require a specialized, innate apparatus, but can draw on “generalized learning strategies” (see Putnam “The ‘Innateness Hypothesis’” and “What is Innate”). Specifically, my contention was that, in a variety of cases, both structure and acquisition could be understood by reference to communicative intent along with ordinary principles of rational inference.

I should stress that none of this is intended to be in any way dismissive of Chomsky’s work. In fact, I consider that work to be exemplary of scientific theorizing at its very best. Indeed, I find Chomsky’s analyses deeply insightful and clarifying, even when I end up disagreeing with them. The crucial point here is just that my claims are closely related to those of Evans and Levinson, but remain compatible with a robust universalism. Part of this relatedness includes the greater attention to statistical, domain-general, and communicative universals than would be found in Chomsky-type—or generativist–formalisms. This derives from the fact that the cross-language patterns claimed by different theories are themselves (somewhat) different. Most obviously, the nature of innately-specified universals is different from the nature of universals that are not innately specified. As I have repeatedly tried to stress in discussing universals with skeptics, “universal” does not mean or imply “innate as such”; for example, universals may arise from convergent development derived from responses to recurring social or physical problems. This is a point that should be obvious, but apparently is not—hence the need to repeat it.

On the other hand, the generativists make many extremely valuable observations and draw surprising, insightful inferences, which non-generativists need to take account of. This is clear in the generativist responses to Evans and Levinson’s article. These responses repeatedly criticize Evans and Levinson for taking superficial differences at face value, thereby failing to recognize sometimes non-obvious patterns that subsume the apparent differences. Whatever one thinks of any specific cases treated by generativists, the general point should be underscored, not only for linguistic universals, but for literary universals also. Indeed, the apparent self-evidence of cultural difference, as we might call it, is perhaps the single greatest obstacle to the development of a scientific treatment of universals. An initial, spontaneous sense of alienation in the face of unfamiliar artifacts or practices commonly underwrites the dismissal of the universalist project right from the start, thereby barring even the most basic attempts at identifying possible, cross-cultural patterns.

It may be difficult for readers to imagine a relevant case where the prima facie foreignness of a practice conceals an underlying commonality, and I doubt that the examples from linguistics would prove very illuminating for students of literature. I will therefore try to clarify this issue with a brief example (selected and summarized from work in progress). I have maintained that one cross-culturally recurring story genre is defined by the protagonist’s goal of seeking some sort of personal retribution, usually outside the standard, social procedures for the punishment of crime (see Affective Narratology, 120-135). Such revenge narratives form a “minor” or less frequent genre, but they appear significantly in a range of traditions. I obviously cannot overview a variety of cases from different literary traditions here. However, a valuable way of approaching the issue of cross-cultural genres is by treating selected, prominent cases, what I refer to as paradigms. In the Western tradition, a work such as Shakespeare’s Hamlet is highly paradigmatic; indeed, it has received almost unparalleled attention and has been the object of almost unequalled praise. Though not nearly as revered as Hamlet, Ji Junxiang’s Great Revenge of the Zhao Orphan has a notable position in Chinese literary history, making it an appropriate work for comparison. For example, Shih-pe Wang notes that “Wang Guowei (1877-1927), the founding figure of the study of Chinese drama, proposed that the play should be considered one of the great tragedies of world literature” (127). In addition, it is one of the “most frequently performed Chinese plays on the world’s stages” and has appeared in numerous versions (127; see also Li 17-19). For our purposes, the important point here is that these two paradigmatic works are both instances of the revenge genre. Put crudely, even if there were few other revenge stories in either tradition, it would still be reasonable to see both traditions as significantly including this genre. (There is nothing comparable in language as such, and thus in the study of linguistic universals.) Other paradigmatic works treating revenge would include, in Japan, Chikamatsu’s Drum of the Waves of Horikawa and Zeami’s Atsumori; and, in Greece, Aeschylus’s Oresteia trilogy, among others.

Revenge narratives are built out of a protagonist’s suffering some harm, in recompense for which he or she seeks to subject his or her (presumptively guilty) antagonist to equal or greater harm. The harm at issue often involves loss of status; it almost invariably involves attachment loss, either the death of a loved one or betrayal by a trusted companion (friend, spouse, or family member). Status harm, attachment loss, and personal betrayal are likely to elicit empathic anger on the part of the reader, often leading him or her to hope that the hero succeeds in snuffing out the unworthy life of the treacherous enemy. But, thematically, revenge narratives are frequently, perhaps usually, ambivalent. For one thing, the covert nature of the hero’s revenge leads to “collateral damage,” most obviously the accidental deaths of innocents. When the hero does manage to do in the right person, this may result in a self-perpetuating cycle of violence. As Martha Nussbaum stresses about revenge in real life, in no case does it reverse the original harm (e.g., resurrecting the dead beloved); even at its best, it succeeds only in adding new injury (not even simple insult, but palpable suffering) to prior injury. These problems are brought out particularly by the contrast between revenge and the closely related criminal investigation genre, for it is precisely the absence of an (unbiased) criminal investigation that makes the faults of revenge so salient. The point is particularly clear in Aeschylus.

Readers familiar with Ji’s play (as well as Hamlet) will already have recognized that these plays share some of the prototypical characteristics just outlined. Fundamentally, both the orphan and Hamlet lose their father to a politically usurping enemy and both set out to slay that enemy. However, there are apparently some striking differences on other features I see as prototypical. Specifically, in keeping with the assumption that Chinese culture looks more favorably on revenge than does Western culture, one might interpret the Chinese play as having little ambivalence. Once he learns of the misdeeds of his enemy, the orphan is single-minded in his rage against that enemy. There is none of the waffling and delay that we find in Hamlet. Moreover, the revenge of the orphan does not lead to the deaths of any innocents, while Hamlet’s plot puts Polonius, Rosencrantz, and Guildenstern—and, indirectly, Cordelia—into their graves prematurely. Indeed, we even find Hamlet setting up a sort of sting operation designed to provide him with concrete evidence of his uncle’s guilt—a sequence that immediately recalls the sorts of tactics associated with criminal investigations. Finally, Hamlet himself ends up dead, unlike the orphan. Given all this, it would be easy to read the two plays as very different, and as testifying to a stark, cultural difference between their societies.

But these superficial differences readily mislead us into missing some striking similarities in the two works. One problem is the cultural clichés that surround the plays. Despite a famous passage in the The Classic of Rites that urges revenge (1.70), there is ample evidence that opposition to revenge is equally culturally supported in Chinese tradition (see Cheng). There is also empirical evidence that Chinese people have ambivalent feelings about revenge (see the study reported in Huang). Moreover, while Hamlet is tasked with killing his uncle, the orphan must kill the man who is, in effect, his adoptive father. Ambivalence may not be explicit in the character who takes revenge (i.e., the orphan). However, the emotional complexity is clear in the larger thematic and affective development of the play. Conversely, Hamlet is arguably rather less ambivalent than we are inclined to assume. For example, he does not appear to have any affection for his uncle. Moreover, the well-known quandary of critics has been, “Why does Hamlet delay?” (see, for example, https://www.shakespeare-online.com/plays/hamlet/hamletfivereasons.html), which at least appears to suggest that the critics are in favor of the revenge and would like to see the prince get on with it.

The preceding points may, then, lead us to ask what it is that enables both plays to convey complex attitudes toward revenge. As to The Zhao Orphan, I have argued that the play is a sort of allegory appealing to Southern Sòng Dynasty loyalists to rise up against the alien, Yuán Dynasty rulers, taking revenge for the usurpation of the earlier, indigenous dynasty. If this interpretation is valid, then we can make sense of details of the play, such as the whole idea of making the orphan in effect into the adopted child of his enemy (see Hogan “Paradoxes”).

How, then, is this related to Hamlet? The relation is not readily ascertained by fixing on the superficial properties of the plays. It requires a recognition that both Hamlet and the Zhao orphan cannot in fact choose the impartial option of criminal investigation. The objectivity and fairness of criminal investigation are upheld by the integrity of the social institutions that engage in such investigation. The problem in these plays is that—literally in Hamlet, allegorically in The Zhao Orphan–the criminals themselves constitute the government. This results in a situation where the only possible outcome of criminal investigation is itself a doubling of the crime, as Hamlet or the orphan would inevitably be made a victim once again. (In addition, both plays do this by combining the revenge structure with the usurpation sequence of the heroic prototype, which is another striking commonality.)

As I hope this illustrates, the plays are not well characterized by Evans and Levinson’s celebratory affirmation of vast linguistic (here, by extension, literary) diversity. These plays are, instead, much better characterized by Mark Baker’s comment that, “each new language [literary work] I have studied presents both fascinating new examples of diversity and important new evidence that human languages [or literary genres] are all variations on the same theme[s].” (448).

I might summarize (and slightly extend) the preceding reflections as follows: There is a striking contrast today between two different approaches to linguistics, with implications for the study of literary universals. One group (which includes generativists) is concerned principally with the algorithmic generation of descriptions and explanations of language structure, formulated in terms of well-defined, fully explicit systems, often derived from mathematical models. The other is, roughly, humanistic in orientation and tends to stress the experiential plausibility of descriptions and explanations, drawing on less abstract models from biology, and focused on language function. Both have advantages and disadvantages. Personally, I tend to favor the explanations of the humanistic group—the emphasis on communication, the appeal to a range of contributory causal factors, and so on. However, I often see the rigorous descriptions undertaken by the mathematical group as more insightful and illuminating—as with, for example, their work to formulate the structure of languages in terms of principles and parameters. One aspect of this difference is that the humanists, it may be argued, considerably underestimate the extent of universals, taking superficial differences at face value; at the same time, the mathematical group tends to rely too heavily on innatism in explaining the universals. Students of literary universals have things to learn from both groups. However, the biases of most literary researchers today are clearly parallel with those of the humanistic group. For this reason, despite the fact that I tend to agree with the explanations offered by the humanistic group, I must say that students of literature have more to learn from the mathematical group. This includes learning to identify underlying commonalities across traditions—thus literary universals–especially those that are concealed by superficial differences.

Works Cited

Baker, Mark. “Language Universals: Abstract But Not Mythological.” Behavioral and Brain Sciences 32 (2009): 448-449.

Cheng, Anne. “Filial Piety with a Vengeance: The Tension Between Rites and Law in the Han.” Filial Piety in Chinese Thought and History, edited by Alan Chan and Sor-hoon Tan, RoutledgeCurzon 2004, pp. 29-43.

Classic of Rites, The. (禮記 [Lǐjì]). Trans. James Legge. Available at https://ctext.org/liji (accessed 12 April 2020).

Evans, Nicholas and Stephen Levinson. “The Myth of Language Universals: Language Diversity and Its Importance for Cognitive Science.” Behavioral and Brain Sciences 32 (2009): 429-448.

Grice, Paul. Studies in the Way of Words. Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 1989.

Hogan, Patrick Colm. Affective Narratology: The Emotional Structure of Stories. Lincoln, NE: U of Nebraska P, 2011.

Hogan, Patrick Colm. On Interpretation: Meaning and Inference in Law, Psychoanalysis, and Literature. Athens, GA: U of Georgia P, 1996.

Hogan, Patrick Colm. “Paradoxes of Literary Emotion: Simulation and The Zhào Orphan.” In The Routledge Companion to Literature and Emotion. Ed. Patrick Colm Hogan, Bradley Irish, and Lalita Pandit Hogan. New York: Routledge, 2022, 134-43.

Huang, Jialing. “Loving Shuang Ju: Chinese Audiences’ Entertainment Experience of Retribution Narratives.”Psychology of Popular Media 13.3 (2023): 447-456.

Irish, Bradley. The Universality of Emotion: Perspectives from the Sciences and Humanities. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, forthcoming.

Levinson, Stephen. The Interaction Engine: Language in Social Life and Human Evolution. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, forthcoming.

Li, Wai-yee. “Introduction.’ In The Columbia Anthology of Yuan Drama. Ed. C. T. Hiah, Wai-yee Li, and George Kao. New York: Columbia UP, 2014.

Nussbaum, Martha. Anger and Forgiveness: Resentment, Generosity, Justice. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2016.

Putnam, Hilary. “The Innateness Hypothesis’ and Explanatory Models in Linguistics.” In Mind, Language and Reality: Philosophical Papers (Vol. 2). Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1975

Putnam, Hilary. “What is Innate and Why: Comments on the Debate.” In Language and Learning: The Debate Between Jean Piaget and Noam Chomsky. Ed. Massimo Piattelli-Palmarini. Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 1980, 397-409.

Wang, Shih-pe. The Orphan of Zhao: The Meaning of Loyalty and Filiality. In How to Read Chinese Drama: A Guided Anthology. New York: Columbia UP, 2022, 127-150.

LTERARY UNIVERSALS WEBLOG: A series of informal observations and conjectures aimed at fostering more reflection on and discussion about cross-cultural patterns in literature. 

Nigel Fabb, University of Strathclyde

This blog is a response to Patrick Hogan’s response to my valedictory lecture marking my retirement, ‘Why endings are better than beginnings’. This title was appropriate to the occasion, but not quite accurate, as the lecture was about the special affordances of endings, rather than a competition between beginnings and endings. Patrick develops an account of a particular kind of ending which might be universal (“Story Endings and Discourse Endings”).  In this blog, I explain and illustrate the two things I said in the lecture about endings. The first is that an ending is established as an outcome of an interpretation of the text; it is not an observer-independent fact about the text.  The second is that the ending of a text can exploit the audience’s prior knowledge of the text, because the ending (usually) comes at the end, and that this can give endings an emotional boost based on expectation and surprise, accompanied by the empathy we have developed for characters. These are simple and ontologically parsimonious proposals which require nothing other than ordinary psychology, and so should be universally available for writers and readers, though how endings are interpreted, and how they use prior knowledge, may differ cross-culturally.

I begin by explaining what I mean by saying that an ending is derived by interpretation. This proposal is in keeping with the account of literary form which I outlined in Language and Literary Structure, where I suggested that many kinds of literary form are not facts about a text but arise as interpretations of the text. In effect, these kinds of literary form – which include almost all kinds of literary form – are meanings of the text, pragmatically communicated.  The literary form is attributed to the text on the basis of evidence offered by the (author of the) text in context. This is the same as the way that all communicated meanings are attributed to the communicator, on the basis of evidence provided by the communicator in context. This follows from the ‘relevance theory’ of communication established by Sperber and Wilson, and it should be universal.  The idea that an ending is an interpretation of the text can be clarified by comparing endings with ‘lasts’ which are objective facts about a text.  The last word in Jane Eyre is ‘Jesus’, and this is a fact about the text. But where the ending of the novel is depends on the reader, with the ending likely to be located at the beginning of the final chapter with the statement “Reader, I married him.”  This makes sense as an ending both because it resolves the romantic plot of the narrative, but also because it restores the broken family of the beginning.  In contrast, the activities of St John Rivers (which occupy the end of the book) do not feel like the ending to the novel.  However, since endings are interpretations there is nothing stopping a reader from treating the description of his activities in fact as the ending of the novel, depending on whether the reader finds this part of the text to conclude one of the themes of the novel (I return to this below). It is worth noting that one of the reasons why an ending is best treated as an interpretation, that is, a kind of meaning, is that to a large extent it is the meaning of the preceding text which tells us where the ending is. If locating an ending depends on meaning, that strongly suggests that being an ending is also a type of meaning.

A ‘last’ is a fact about the text, but nevertheless the identification of the last can depend on how it is defined.  What, for example, is the last sentence in Joyce’s Finnegans Wake or Cortázar’s Hopscotch (Rayuela)?  These questions can be answered by making the question more precise.  Finnegans Wake ends in the middle of a sentence (which is then continued by returning to the beginning of the novel), so is this the last sentence, or is the last sentence the preceding completed sentence?  This is a matter of definition, not inference.  Hopscotch begins with an instruction from the author as to how to read the text, offering (at least) two options, which have different last sentences.  In one reading, the reader reads chapters in sequence and stops at chapter 56, so the last sentence of chapter 56 is, in this reading, the last sentence of the book.  In another reading, the reader reads chapters according to an out-of-order sequence, and in this reading the last sentence of chapter 131 or the last sentence of chapter 58 is the last sentence of the book. These are both ways of defining the last sentence, and a third is that the last sentence is the last sentence in the highest-numbered chapter 155 (which is under neither instruction the last to be read).  Again, finding the last is a matter of definition and instruction, not a matter of inference. Thus, it is possible to do interesting things with lasts but because they are fairly determinate, the possibilities are nowhere as rich as the possibilities of manipulating the ending.

The distinction between an ending and a last can be seen in the common phenomenon of making the ending not the last thing in the text.  Fairytales and folktales often have a ‘coda’ (Labov’s term) which comes after the narrative finishes, and reflects back on the narrative or connects it to our audience world.  Consider for example the story of the Demon of Ganish, in the Burushaski language and told by Jemadaar Imaam Yaar Bèg  to D.L.R. Lorimer in 1924, and published in his grammar.  In the story, a demon eats people and then a hero pegs her down into a boulder, thus putting her activities to an end; this is the ending of the story.  But then there are two more sentences, explaining that the boulder and the peg still exist and can be located still; these are the last part of the text, but not its ending.  Fairy stories which end “And they lived happily ever after” do the same thing: this sentence is not part of the ending of the story, but comes after it.  Texts sometimes provide a kind of post-ending coda by directly addressing their audience, after the narrative has finished: the Scottish writer Alasdair Gray liked ending his texts with ‘Goodbye’, and Puck at the end of A Midsummer Night’s Dream asks the audience to applaud. Here the address to the audience might or might not be interpreted also as an ending. What counts as an ending is always a matter of interpretation, depending on the evidence provided by the text in its context, which can include a knowledge of the genre.

If endings depend on how the text is interpreted, then there are a great many possibilities for endings.  There can be one ending, or more than one ending, or no ending, depending on how the text is interpreted.  Perhaps Jane Eyre has two endings, depending on how we interpret St John Rivers’s place in the overall narrative. Relevant evidence comes from a reading of the novel where many of the characters are named after the elements of earth, air, water or fire;  this character has the distinction of being both fire – St John pronounced as ‘singe-in’ – and water, which perhaps gives him a special symbolic role, allowing his ending to be part of the book’s ending, if the book is interpreted as being about the four elements.  A Midsummer Night’s Dream can be interpreted as having four endings, one for each of the groups of characters, in sequence: the lovers, the mechanicals, the royals, the fairies.  Sometimes it is hard to find an ending in a text.  A friend described her experience of borrowing a novel from the library, getting to the last page and finding no ending, and assuming that there were some pages missing (and so, fruitlessly, borrowed another copy to check).  Some texts imply that the narrative sequence will come to an end after the last: in the penultimate chapter of To the Lighthouseonly Mr. Ramsay reaches the island and his children rise to follow him as the chapter ends, but by implication their ending/arrival will occur after the last words of the chapter. (This is also a novel which can be interpreted as having two distinct endings.) In some texts, involving live performance in particular, the empty space after the text has finished can be interpreted as the ending, such as a concert performance which ends with a silence, before the audience is allowed to clap, or The Sopranos which cuts to a long-held silent black screen at the end. 

How do we locate the ending in a text? The text provides us with evidence, and we also come to the text with prior knowledge.  So, we know that the ending is likely to be near the last but may not be the last, and if we know the genre we can predict sometimes where the ending will fall. In many kinds of text, the ending has a relation to the beginning, and so by knowing how the text began we can infer the presence of an ending. For example, in Propp’s schema for fairy tales, a narrative begins by the hero’s family being disrupted (for example by the father leaving home) and it ends when a family is constructed around the hero (for example by marriage).  This is one of the important pieces of evidence which we use to infer that ‘Reader, I married him.’ is the ending of Jane Eyre.  Some endings at the last quote the title of the text (because the title is also a beginning) to imply the ending of the text, as in ‘Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came’ or The Crying of Lot 49. Or the text cycles back to the beginning as Finnegans Wake does.  It is worth noting that some texts explicitly discuss the fact that they have an ending (as The Truman Show does), and may tease the reader as to when the ending will come, and what it will be. Or the text may tell the reader at the beginning how it will end, as Slaughterhouse Five does, though with a prediction compromised by the disordered temporal structure of the text.  Endings are normally near the last part of the text, but it is also possible to find endings elsewhere in a text, including near the first part of the text: a novel or film which starts at the end of events and then recounts how we got there might be said to have an ending at the beginning (as in Sunset Boulevard), though perhaps this stretches the notion of ending too far, given that being near the last is one of the relevant kinds of evidence for the presence of an ending.

Barbara Herrnstein Smith in Poetic Closure offered one of the most extensively worked-out accounts of endings in poems, focusing in particular on the  reader’s experience of ‘closure’ at the ending. Smith notes that the form of the poem offers a clue as to the ending, by changing its form: she said that closure arises from “the terminal modification of a formal principle”. She focuses mainly on terminal modifications in the direction of greater regularity, but also acknowledges that the modification can also go in the direction of greater irregularity. Beyond poetry, we can also say that a text can use a change to tell us that it is ending: something different happens.  For example, a play or film may end with people dancing, when they have not previously danced (as in the films White Noise or Leon the Pig Farmer). It is worth noting that the recognition of a terminal modification also depends on inference. A change is something we infer about a text. Texts are too complex for ‘change’ to be just a fact about them: they constantly change, so what we are looking for is a significant change, an attribution which depends on interpretation.  Increased or decreased regularity must be established relative to some interpretative framework, and what is ‘different’ in a text depends on what we think the text has been before.  So, Smith’s terminal modification is not an irrefutable fact about a text but an interpretation of it.

What I have said here about endings should in principle be universal: that is, endings are always attributed to a text by inference rather than holding of the text as facts. The universal fact is that form is capable of holding of a text just by being inferred. But because inference depends on knowledge, including cultural knowledge and knowledge of literary genres, whether an ending is inferred, and what evidence cues the ending, is likely to vary between cultures.  The novel, a form which emerged in a particular cultural context, also developed a type of ending of its own, something Kermode discusses in The Sense of an Ending and Lodge in the last chapter of The Art of Fiction.  Readers of novels take this into account as context both when interpreting where the ending is and in expecting that there will be an ending.  Perhaps for some genres of texts, in some cultures, there is no convention that there will be an ending near the ‘last’ part of the text. Thus the presence of endings, and what kinds of endings there are, may all differ between literatures.

I turn now to a different aspect of endings, which exploits our universal human psychology and thus should also be universal. Endings are (usually) near the last part of a text, which means that if we have read the text all the way up to this point, by the time the ending arrives we have built up knowledge of characters and events. This knowledge can generate expectations as to what will happen at the end, and our knowledge of characters can produce empathy towards them which makes us care about what happens to them at the end.  Expectations can be met, which can be emotionally powerful.  Expectations can also be denied, which can also be emotionally powerful, particularly when we are surprised by an ending.  Expectations can also be met but before or after or slightly differently from what we expect: a combination of satisfaction and denial, again potentially emotionally satisfying.  (Huron’s Sweet Anticipation is a very nice account of expectation and emotion in music, which carries over to literature.)The combination of the manipulation of expectations with our empathy towards characters can also be emotionally powerful. 

In a text dependent on time, such as a piece of music or a film, a change in tempo at the end (a ‘terminal modification of a formal principle’) can produce a powerful effect.  I find this for example in Todd Haynes’s film Carol in which the final action is very slightly decelerated as Rooney Mara moves towards Cate Blanchett, and where the actors themselves become very still at the end (the slowing down of the action is made very salient by having extras walk across the image, clearly slowed down). A speeding up at the end can be found the end of Istvan Szabo’s Mephisto where the first world war is represented very rapidly, or the television series Six Feet Under when we see the future deaths of all the characters. These speedings up also feel like prolepsis, where we remain in the present and anticipate the future, another type of terminal modification which cues the ending. The denial of expectations can involve various kinds of ‘twist’.  Two of my favorite twists come in the endings of Borges ‘The Aleph’ and Dick’s The Man in the High Castle (I won’t say what they are, to avoid spoilers).  Another kind of denial comes with the bathetic ending, the ending that ends not with a bang but a whimper: for some, King Lear ends like this. A common technique in approaching an ending is to interrupt the flow of the sequence, just before the ending comes.  The Burushaski story of the Demon of Ganish, mentioned earlier, is interrupted just before the final gesture of pegging the demon into a boulder, when the narrator stops to explain where the boulder came from.  This type of interruption resembles the technique which Labov and Waletzky identified as the ‘evaluation’ in oral narratives, an interruption just before the point of the story arrives; though this is not an ending, the technique of interrupting in order to cue something important is the same.  Note again that a lot of this is dependent on how we interpret the text, because what constitutes an interruption is a matter of interpretation, not just a fact about the text.  I think, for example, that we can treat the ending of Shostakovich’s fifth symphony as having an interruption of this kind.  The symphony shifts from D minor to D major towards the end, and the whole orchestra plays a sustained major chord while the timpani beat out a repeated pattern on A and D, then just before the end the whole orchestra cuts out and all we hear is the timpani playing three beats on A-D-A, now accompanied by the bass drum, and then the chord returns and the whole piece ends. That break in the texturally thick sound, leaving just the texturally thin but loud sound of the percussion, feels to me like an interruption, and has an extraordinarily powerful effect at the ending.

A connection between these is that they involve a change at the ending, either in form or in content. In narratives, the change may involve a change of place, sometimes crossing a saliently liminal zone, as when going in or out of a doorway, or down or up a staircase.  Consider for example the end of The Searchers, with its movements in and out of the doorway of the house. I once saw Ingmar Bergman’s production of A Doll’s House,  and though I knew it ended with Nora going ot of the door, I was astonished when Nora first walked down from the stage into the audience and then out through the auditorium door, crossing two liminalities. In the ending of The Truman Show, the hero Jim Carrey goes up a staircase and through a door into the world, and the heroine Natascha McElhone goes down a different staircase and out into the world. In changing locations, endings share a characteristic with beginnings, which can also involve a change of place, and for the same basic reason: we experience the world as divided into events, and event boundaries at the beginning and end can be marked by changes in location.  In interpreting a text as having a beginning and an ending, we may draw on our perception of the organization of events in the world (Radvansky and Zacks ).  One of the ways of changing place is to move from a narrow domain into a broader domain, as Adam and Eve do at the end of Paradise Lost, or Chief at the end of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, or Calvin and Hobbes in the last frame of their cartoon strip, or more abstractly at the end of ‘Ozymandias’ as “the lone and level sands stretch far away”. In addition to signalling an event boundary, this type of ending also allows new anticipations and expectations to be formed at the end of the text, offering an ‘openness’ which some readers respond positively to.  Another type of change can be a shift to utter chaos, as at the end of ‘Dover Beach’ or the disintegration of language at the end of the songs ‘The big country’ (Talking Heads) or ‘White man in Hammersmith Palais’ (The Clash). 

All the techniques which can be used to manipulate our expectations of the ending are available in all languages and literatures. They depend on commonalities such as our experience of time, our building up of expectations, our empathy, and the fact that most of what we find in texts depends on universal principles of interpretation (i.e., a universal pragmatic theory such as relevance theory).

Works Cited

Fabb, Nigel. Language and Literary Structure: The Linguistic Analysis of Form in Verse and Narrative. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2002.

Huron, David. Sweet Anticipation: Music and the Psychology of Expectation. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2006.

Kermode, Frank. The Sense of an Ending.  2nd edition.  Oxford, 2000.

Labov, W. & J. Waletzky. “Narrative analysis: oral versions of personal experience.” In Helm, J. ed., Essays on the Verbal and Visual Arts. Proceedings of the 1966 annual spring meeting of the American Ethnological Society. Seattle: University of Washington Press. pp. 12–44, 1967.

Lodge, David. The Art of Fiction.   London: Vintage, 2011.

Lorimer, D. L. R.  The Burushaski Language. Oslo: Instituttet for sammenlignende kulturforskning, 1935.

Radvansky, Gabriel A. and Jeffrey M. Zacks (Eds.) Event Cognition. New York: Oxford University Press, 2014.

Smith, Barbara Herrnstein. Poetic Closure. A Study of How Poems End. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1968.

Sperber, Dan and Deirdre Wilson. Relevance: Communication and Cognition (2nd ed.). Oxford: Blackwell, 1995.

LITERARY UNIVERSALS WEBLOG: A series of informal observations and conjectures aimed at fostering more reflection on and discussion about cross-cultural patterns in literature.

Patrick Colm Hogan, University of Connecticut

At the end of May, I had the great pleasure of remotely attending Nigel Fabb’s valedictory address on the topic of endings, given on the occasion of his retirement from Strathclyde University. Nigel’s talk was characteristically erudite, witty, and insightful. Moreover, like so much of Nigel’s work, it introduced topics and approaches that are virtually certain to provoke further reflection, study, and theorization by Nigel himself and by others. Indeed, after listening to Nigel’s talk, I myself began thinking about just what features of endings might be candidates for universality.

Nigel stressed that isolating the “ending” is not simply a perceptual experience. It involves interpretation. In saying this, Nigel was extending the approach to endings that he developed in his book, Language and Literary Structure. A central idea of that book is that many kinds of form are our interpretation of what a text tells us, in context, rather than being observer-independent facts about the text. Endings are, by this account, one such kind.

A somewhat different, but complementary approach, would begin the interpretative isolation of endings by noting a key ambiguity in the term, “ending.” The basic reason why we need interpretation to isolate the ending is that, as narratologists would say, the story ending and the discourse ending are not necessarily the same. Put simply, a story is the sequence of events dramatized in a play or recounted in a narrative. Discourse is the manner in which those events are represented. For example, the discourse might represent story events in non-chronological order. Thus, a romantic comedy might begin at a wedding. As the bride and groom exchange rings and kiss, the unshaven best man turns to the somewhat rumpled maid of honor and whispers discreetly, “Well, that turned out rather better than we might have anticipated.” The film cuts to a clock, which stops its forward progress, then runs backward to eight hours earlier. It is the middle of the night, and the pajama-clad groom is having a ill-tempered exchange with the best man over why anyone would pack a wedding ring in a suitcase, when the item fits easily in one’s pocket—and especially when he knew that the ring was a precious memento of the bride’s grandmother and that she would probably call off the wedding if she thought the prospective groom had been so careless as to entrust that memento to such an untrustworthy guardian. The film cuts to the clock again, now running backward four hours and fifteen minutes, to when the best man is checking his luggage at the airport. We then follow the suitcase as it travels to some exotic destination that happens to have the same name as the regional airport in rural Wisconsin where the wedding was to take place. The rest of the film informs us of how the wedding ring was recovered, and the entire fiasco was concealed from the bride, due in large measure to the quick thinking of the maid of honor. The film ends with a montage of the newlyweds, driving off toward a sign that reads “Niagara Falls, Honeymoon Capital of the World, 836 Miles,” strings of clattering tin cans tied to the bumper, and the best man inviting the maid of honor for a cup of coffee, under a huge sign that says only “CHEESE.” (It’s a Wisconsin thing. Trust me.) In this fanciful scenario, the end of the story is presumably the wedding. But that end of the story occurred at the beginning of the narrative. The discourse ending comprises the departure for Niagara Falls and the possible beginning of a romance between the best man and the maid of honor.

Nigel empirically isolates some recurrent endings from which we might draw theoretical conclusions. Here, I will begin instead with a few theoretical conjectures to orient our look at some actual endings. The first thing we need to do is to characterize story endings more clearly. (A discourse ending is simply the last bit of a work—play, novel, poem, or whatever.) Broadly in keeping with Nigel’s view, I don’t believe that there are any absolute rules as to what constitutes a story ending. But one clear option relies on the common view that a story is preceded and followed by normalcy, which is to say, routines of everyday life. Something happens that disturbs this normalcy—for example, two people fall in love or an enemy invades one’s country. This sets in motion a series of further events until the disturbance is “resolved,” which is to say, things return to normalcy, to generally predictable routine. In a romantic story, the marriage of the lovers is a case of this sort. The subsequent honeymoon is to a degree ambiguous. It is not ordinary in the sense that it does not occur every day. But, within the (partially fictional) culture tacitly assumed in the preceding example, it is predictable. Moreover, it is what people in the culture would assume to follow the wedding (leaving aside some anachronisms, such as the tin cans, added in the hope of producing some comic effect). But, given the preceding problems, the wedding itself was uncertain. Thus, throughout the film, we presume that the usual sequences of events—including the honeymoon–will follow only because the (endangered) wedding has occurred. On the other hand, the hints of a budding romance between the best man and the maid of honor are not at all a matter of resolving the obstacles to the romantic union of the lovers in the main story. So, it is unequivocally a discourse ending.

Once we have distinguished story endings from discourse endings, we might reasonably expect that the two can either coincide or diverge. Coinciding is presumably the default case. Thus, one might anticipate that at least some narratives and dramas, cross-culturally, will conclude the discourse with the ending of the story. For example, we find the 18^th-Century, Japanese playwright, Chikamatsu, ending his romantic tragedy, The Love Suicides at Sonezaki, in roughly this way. The lovers, weeping, first consider whether or not they will meet their parents “in the world of the dead” (56). The woman (Ohatsu) then demands that her lover (Tokubei) stab her. He does so, calling out, “Namu Amida” (56), thereby invoking the Pure Land Buddhist belief in the spiritual benefits of invoking the compassionate Buddha, Amitābha. When someone calls his name with sincerity, Pure Land Buddhists believe that Amitābha will aid that person’s enlightenment—thus, his or her freedom from worldly attachment—initially through rebirth in the “Pure Land” (see the entries for “pure land,” “Amitābha,” and “buddhakṣetra” in Buswell, et al.). Having stabbed Ohatsu, Tokubei quickly turns his dagger against himself. After they have both died, the narrator informs us only that “No one is there to tell the tale,” but even so people will “gather to pray for these lovers who beyond a doubt will . . . attain Buddhahood” (56).

This ending is almost entirely a simple representation of the suicide, thus of the final moment of the story. It does, however, contain two elements that suggest how divergent (i.e., non-coinciding) discourse endings might operate generally. In other words, they hint at the functions that might be served by separating the discourse ending from the story ending, or more simply why an author might do such a thing. I take it that the references to the bonds of the lovers with their parents serve to stress the centrality of attachment feelings (as distinct from mere lust) to the lovers’ emotional lives. This in turn makes their immanent attachment loss more salient and their condition all the more pitiable. (Most readers are, presumably, more sympathetic with people suffering attachment loss than with people who are merely sexually frustrated.) It also puts them in the position of children, in some degree heightening our sense of their vulnerability. In these ways, the references to parents intensify the audience members’ empathic response—though only short term. The reference to their eventual Buddhahood gives the viewer or reader hope—indeed, virtual certainty—that this deeply tragic moment will serve as the means to end suffering permanently. Like the reference to parents, this part of the discourse ending serves to modulate our emotion. But in this case, it limits the lovers’ suffering, thereby mitigating our empathic pain, providing us with a more distant, but also more enduring peace. We might in addition take these points to suggest that Chikamatsu is addressing Buddhist themes bearing on desire and suffering.

Thus, The Love Suicides at Sonezaki presents us with two possible functions of discourse endings: emotion modulation (either intensification or mitigation) and thematic assertion. Neither of these is unexpected. I have argued elsewhere (see, for example, Narrative Discourse 17-18 and Affective Narratology 103-104), following many previous writers, that literary narratives have two principal purposes: to produce emotion (in the first place, empathic emotion aimed at characters in the story) and to cultivate attitudes toward and ideas about the real world (thus, “themes” as I am using the term). As these are the two primary goals of literature, it is predictable that the primary goals of discourse endings would be the same.

Of course, narrative works pursue these functions through stories. Thus, we might also expect some discourse endings to bear on stories as such. Upon reflection, we may recognize something of this sort in The Love Suicides at Sonezaki. Specifically, the reference to Buddhahood focuses on the fate of the central characters, but it does so for events that occur subsequent to the story represented in this work, events that take place after the story ending. Other works may focus on the fate of “supporting,” or even peripheral characters. Of course, as already noted, some works give us the story ending early on, then conclude with something from the middle or the beginning of that story. Even so, all these story-based discourse endings (as we might call them)  ultimately serve emotional or thematic purposes. For instance, in the fictional case presented earlier, the end of the story is actually the first event presented in the film. In cases such as this, the main emotion elicited by the narrative is often mirth, which might be inhibited if the viewer is worried about whether or not things will work out in the end. In Meir Sternberg’s terms, the change in discourse order, so that we know the story outcome from the start, shifts part of our emotional response from suspense to curiosity.

We find particularly illuminating cases of discourse endings in the two versions of Ji Junxiang’s The Zhao Orphan, which appeared in the Yuan and Ming dynasties. The Yuan version appeared during the Mongol rule of China and the play may be read as a call to rebel against this “foreign” domination (see “Paradoxes of Literary Emotion”). The play ends with the orphan’s rage against the would-be usurper, Tu Angu. The orphan contemplates how he will “slit open [Tu Angu’s] belly/Lop off his limbs” (67), and so on. This version is actually different from anything I have mentioned thus far. The discourse ending represents a point in the middle of the story, but the story ending is nowhere to be seen. Indeed, the story is unresolved. I take it that this has both an emotive and a thematic purpose, which become clear in the interpretation of the play as an indirect expression of anti-Yuan, Song loyalism. (The Song dynasty was the Han Chinese dynasty that preceded the Yuan dynasty.) Specifically, in that context, the discourse ending appears aimed at intensifying audience anger at the then-current rulers (i.e., the Yuan dynasty emperors). It implicitly characterize those rulers (thematically) as invaders and usurpers, thus as real-world targets for the sort of rage represented in the character of the Zhao orphan.

The ending of the Ming dynasty version is quite different. As Li points out, this version “tones down or deletes criticism of the . . . ruler and removes any suggestion that the Zhao Orphan . . . could have become a usurper” (19)—or, more properly, a rebel against the current, real-world ruler (who was tacitly characterized as a usurper in the Yuan period version of the play). In the Ming version, the orphan, Cheng Bo, receives the monarch’s permission to arrest Tu Angu secretly, after which the latter’s entire clan is killed and Tu Angu is tortured to death. There is clearly no thematic encouragement of rebellion in this version, unsurprisingly as the foreign, putatively usurping Yuan dynasty has ended. More precisely, the events of the play are presumably taking place in the pre-imperial period (to judge from the dates that Chinese writers have given to the historical sources; see Wai-yee Li’s “Introduction” to the play [17]). Nonetheless, they almost certainly serve to foster terror of the punishments for rebellion against the then-ruling Ming emperor, due to his implicit connection with the ruler in the play.

A possible problem here is that the brutal treatment of Tu Angu and the murder/suicide of the lovers will almost certainly lead some audience members to condemn these characters. Moreover, readers familiar with the Analects will recognize that terrorizing the public, as developed in the play, is far from the tiāndào or “way of heaven” envisioned by Confucius as the proper model for monarchs (see, for example, Analects 2.3 [available here; accessed 11 June 2024]). In part to modulate this very un-Confucian theme, the entire revenge is characterized as following the “way of heaven” (54). This technique of spiritual elevation applies directly to Cheng Bo, though indirectly to the ruler in the play and, thereby, to the Ming ruler also. (I refer to a feature of an ending as a technique if it is repeatedly taken up to specify and implement emotive and/or thematic functions, but is not a literary desideratum in and of itself.)  We saw this technique previously in the Chikamatsu play, when the narrator asserts the lovers’ eventual Buddhahood. In both cases, this spiritual elevation serves in part to further secure the audience’s sympathy for the main characters—thus, Cheng Bo in the Ming Zhao Orphan and the lovers in The Love Suicides. In keeping with this function, the discourse ending stresses Cheng Bo’s filial obligations to his murdered parents and to his foster father. It then touches on the fate of the latter, before turning to an account of how various minor characters will be treated–how they will be memorialized if they died to save the Zhao orphan, and so on. This is a version of the discourse ending that recounts the (non-story) fates of the various characters.

Another, somewhat different instance of emotive and thematic spiritualization may be found in the discourse ending of Kalidasa’s 4^th-century, Sanskrit drama, The Recognition of Shakúntala. This is a romantic comedy in which the lovers have been separated due to a curse and have remained separated due to a misunderstanding. Specifically, neither King Dushyánta nor Shakúntala knows about the curse, so neither understands why Dushyánta failed to recognize Shakúntala after their initial separation. The discourse ending includes the reunion of the couple—thus, the story ending. As part of this story-resolving conclusion, both lovers learn about the curse, which exonerates Dushyánta for his earlier rejection of Shakúntala, thereby reconciling the two. But this is not only a reunion of the lovers. It is a family reunion that highlights the affection Dushyánta feels for his young son, an affection that foregrounds the attachment component of the love that motivates the action of the play, much as the references to parents did in the discourse ending of Chikamatsu’s play. This is also connected with a general, spiritual elevation of this family, signaled most clearly by the fact that the concluding events take place in a heavenly hermitage, and by the final words of the play. Specifically, the concluding verses link the king—Dushyánta, and perhaps an actual monarch at the time of the play’s performance)–with heavenly beings. Interestingly, the king himself goes on to pray that he will be devoted to his subjects and will ultimately achieve spiritual enlightenment. This spiritualization has the usual thematic and emotive functions, with the addition of making Dushyánta more sympathetic through humility. (Thanks to Lalita Hogan for help with some points in the Sanskrit original.)

Two other points are worth making about this ending. First, the familial reunion brings the couple’s son, Bhárata, on stage and thereby facilitates the treatment of his eventual fate. Indeed, the play also recurs to Shakúntala’s adoptive father, allowing us to be reassured about his understanding of the situation and his continuing affection for Shakúntala. (It would be easy to worry that he would reject her for apparent promiscuity in becoming pregnant without any recognized marital bond.) Finally, the last act of the play is clearly parallel with the opening act and the invocation of Shiva at the end of the act parallels the invocation of Shiva that opened the play. Thus, the discourse ending closely recalls the discourse beginning of the work. This familiar technique of plot circularity often fosters a feeling of aesthetic pleasure through the reader’s recognition of an unanticipated pattern. (On aesthetic pleasure and unanticipated pattern recognition, see the first chapter of Beauty and Sublimity.) It may also intensify or otherwise modulate our emotional response by recalling for us the initial feelings of the lovers. In the case of this particular work, the circularity may be taken to have thematic implications as well, for the play’s treatment of forgetting suggests theories of the operation of memory traces in relation to spiritual practices (see Affective Narratology, 165-181).

The functions (thematic and emotive) and techniques (e.g., formal circularity) we have considered in the Japanese, Chinese, and Indian cases are, I believe, all familiar from European works as well. It is worth briefly mentioning a case from one further region—Nizami’s 12^th-century Persian poem, The Story of Layla and Majnun. The poem has a total of 54 cantos. The story ending is spread over three of the last four. In canto 50, Layla dies. In cantos 51 and 52, Majnun grieves and dies. Additionally, in these two cantos, Nizami provides further indications that the unconsummated love between Layla and Majnun may be read as an allegory for the Sufi devotee’s love of God, which cannot be realized in a full, mystical union while the former lives in the mundane world. The 53^rd canto sees the lovers buried together, their physical proximity suggesting their ultimate union after resurrection and judgment. This would seem to conclude the story proper. The final canto comprises a vision experienced by the old man who served as a go-between for the lovers. The vision is in part an instance of reporting what happens to the main characters after the story resolution. As in Chikamatsu’s play, however, this epilogue is also a spiritual elevation, for Layla and Majnun are transfigured in the divine Garden—itself a circular return, not to the beginning of the poem, but to the beginning of time itself or creation, though now intensified as “eternal” (thus, with no risk of a Fall). The poet goes on to explain that the moral virtues of the lovers, leading them to “right action” and “compassion,” are the outcome of love (176; I am grateful to Yass Alizadeh for her insights into the linguistic resonances of the original Persian). The intertwining of emotional and thematic purposes could hardly be clearer.

I hope Nigel will forgive me for taking up his fascinating analyses and moving them in a different direction. I say “different,” but that is not at all to say “contradictory.” First, there is certainly overlap between my treatment of endings and Nigel’s. More significantly, I hope Nigel will agree that the parts that do not overlap are complementary. Indeed, I hope he will consider a blog post here on his treatment of endings—which, I must stress, inspired my own, both the parts that overlap with his and the parts that do not.

As to future directions, I have sought to distinguish a range of functions and techniques of discourse endings. They may treat story materials by changing their order of presentation or by extending the tale to the post-story fate of the main characters or the non-story fate of ancillary characters. However, when they do so, the function of this added material is almost always one of emotion modulation or thematic development, for these are the usual desiderata of storytelling. There are different techniques an author may employ to achieve these ends. For example, he or she may associate the protagonists with attachment feelings (e.g., parents or children), thereby enhancing our empathy toward those characters. He or she might also seek to link the protagonists with spirituality, in effect disarming criticism of their (often unorthodox) behavior. Such elevation may be extended beyond the fiction to political figures in the author’s or audience’s world—whether powerful figures (as in the Ming Zhao Orphan) or unjustly disempowered figures (as in the Yuan Zhao Orphan). In some cases, the technique may be formal, as with circularity; then, its emotional effects are often a matter of aesthetic pleasure.

Though I have considered only a handful of works, it seems likely that the same broad principles will be found to recur in a range of cases in the written literatures of East Asia, South Asia, the Middle East, and North Africa, as well as Europe and the Europhone Americas. No doubt, the list of techniques could be expanded considerably. But they all probably serve the same broad emotive and thematic functions. What seems more potentially significant, however, is the study of pre-colonial (or indigenous) orature—African, Australian, North and South American, and so on. Indeed, orature is generally much underrepresented in the study of universals, so that it becomes difficult to tell if one has isolated an unrestricted literary pattern, or a pattern that appears only after the development of writing. In any case, Nigel Fabb’s recent work on endings—and, I hope, the preceding reflections on that topic—point toward yet another  potentially fruitful area of research in literary universals.

[See also Nigel Fabb’s “Blog for July 2024: Endings are Created by Interpretations.”]

Works Cited

Buswell, Robert, et al. The Princeton Dictionary of Buddhism. Princeton UP, 2014.

Chikamatsu. Major Plays of Chikamatsu. Trans., Donald Keene. New York: Columbia UP, 1990.

Fabb, Nigel. Language and Literary Structure: The Linguistic Analysis of Form in Verse and Narrative. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2002.

Fabb, Nigel. “Why Endings Are Better Than Beginnings.” Strathclyde University, Glasgow, UK. 29 May 2024.

Hogan, Patrick Colm. Affective Narratology: The Emotional Structure of Stories. Lincoln, NE: U of Nebraska P, 2011.

Hogan, Patrick Colm. Beauty and Sublimity: A Cognitive Aesthetics of Literature and the Arts. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2016.

Hogan, Patrick Colm. Narrative Discourse: Authors and Narrators in Literature, Film, and Art. Columbus, OH: Ohio State UP, 2013.

Hogan, Patrick Colm. “Paradoxes of Literary Emotion: Simulation and The Zhào Orphan.” In The Routledge Companion to Literature and Emotion. Ed., Patrick Colm Hogan, Bradley J. Irish, and Lalita Pandit Hogan. New York: Routledge, 2022, 134-143.

Ji Junxiang. The Zhao Orphan [Ming version]. Trans., Pi-twan Huang and Wai-yee Li. In The Columbia Anthology of Yuan Drama. Ed., C. T. Hsia, Wai-yee Li, and George Kao. New York: Columbia UP, 2014, 17-54.

Ji Junxiang. The Zhao Orphan [Yuan version]. Tran., Wai-yee Li. In The Columbia Anthology of Yuan Drama. Ed., C. T. Hsia, Wai-yee Li, and George Kao. New York: Columbia UP, 2014, 55-72.

Kalidasa. The Recognition of Shakúntala. Ed. and trans., Somadeva Vasudeva. New York: New York UP, 2006.

Nizami. The Story of Layla and Majnun. Ed. and trans., Rudolf Gelpke. English version in collaboration with E. Mattin and G. Hill. Final chapter trans., Zia Inayat Khan and Omid Safi. New Lebanon, NY: Omega Publications, 1997.

Sternberg, Meir. Expositional Modes and Temporal Ordering in Fiction. Bloomington, IN: Indiana UP, 1993.

Patrick Colm Hogan, University of Connecticut

As a member of a movie discussion group, I often see films that I would ordinarily be entirely unaware of. The week after posting my blog on “The Double,” I saw Howl’s Moving Castle (Miyazaki). The film concerns a young woman, Sofie, who does not have any real social life, but rather devotes herself to work. The reason for this appears to be given in her offhand remark early in the film that she is not beautiful. Beauty is a recurring theme in the film. For example, the titular character, Howl, at one point claims that he doesn’t want to live if he can’t be beautiful. Sophie is transformed into a severely overweight, old woman. She gazes at her mirror image in dismay at this transformation. The change is caused by a curse from Howl’s former love interest—the Witch of the Waste–who has lost her beauty, growing morbidly obese (her name in English clearly involves a pun on “waist”).

The film includes various sorts of doubling. At one point, Howl takes on the appearance of a particular king as a disguise. This is reminiscent of the Zeus and Indra cases, except that Howl does it to protect a woman rather than to seduce her. This is, obviously, a doubling in which two different persons appear in identical bodies. There is also a prince who appears as an unspeaking scarecrow, which may suggest the dead version of the self stressed by Rank—though, appropriately for the film’s younger audience, the death motif is very much underplayed, and the prince is restored at the end anyway. Though it stretches the use of the term somewhat, the change in the Witch of the Waste could be viewed as a sort of doubling also, one in which the bodily self alters so much that we might be tempted to say that the person is no longer recognizable.

The doublings all involve the relation between one’s first-person sense of oneself and one’s third-person sense of others. In addition, they bring into play one’s idea of other people’s third-person sense of oneself. This is clearest in reference to beauty. To say one is or is not beautiful is usually to say, in part, that one’s bodily appearance to others is or is not beautiful for them. Again, it is the sense of other people’s disgust at oneself that triggers shame. Shame can be moral, intellectual, related to personality, and so on. It can also bear on one’s physical presence and appearance. In this last case, it commonly manifests itself as body dysmorphia (see chapter three of Giles)—a distortion of one’s bodily self-image, a distortion that highlights or even imagines (what one takes to be) aversive features and downplays or even occludes (what one takes to be) attractive features. This is just what happens with Sofie, as she is “cursed” with being an overweight, old woman. The curse is in effect a metaphor for her own dysmorphia, and both last until she and her borderline dysmorphic beloved, Howl, are united at the end of the movie.

One difficulty with treating body dysmorphia and age is that it could lead to ageism. Fortunately, the film avoids this problem. As my fellow film-group members stressed in discussion, the old Sofie is quite a strong, self-confident agent. Indeed, she is far more active than the young Sofie, Perhaps this is precisely because she is no longer focused on her appearance. As Rorty and Wong explain, “Someone with a low sense of somatic self-confidence”—as appears to be the case with young Sofie—“can feel alienated or unimpowered, act in a tentative and anxious way, limit her desires, avoid confrontational situations, expect failure, and so on” (21). This is exactly what we see with the young Sofie at the start of the film.

In short, this film reinforces some points of my earlier post. What is more important, it leads us to see some aspects of literary doubling—and of shame—that are consistent with those earlier points, but I had not even begun to articulate.

Works Cited

Flanagan, Owen and Amelie Oksenberg Rorty, eds. Identity, Character, and Morality: Essays in Moral Psychology. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1990.

Giles, David. Psychology of the Media. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010.

Miyazaki, Hayao, dir. Howl’s Moving Castle. Tokyo: Studio Ghibli, 2005.

Rorty, Amelie Oksenberg and David Wong. “Aspects of Identity and Agency.” In Flanagan and Rorty, 19–36.