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Reply to Singer

Patrick Colm Hogan, University of Connecticut

First, I wish to thank Professor Singer for responding to my blog post, especially as his response leads me to clarify one of the key points in the post. When I spoke of a dominant emotion, I should have clarified that I am not referring to something that we automatically know through introspection. I was also not referring to anything that necessarily shows up in our public arguments for particular, ethical positions—though I didn’t really realize this until I read Professor Singer’s response. Rather, I was referring to the sorts of emotional appeal that affect us individually with particular force. We often come to know our particular, emotional susceptibilities in a process of learning things about ourselves. Moreover, when we articulate public arguments in favor of a position, we formulate a range of appeals and may not even mention the concerns that are particularly weighty for us as individuals.

The emotions to which I am referring in these cases are broadly the same motivations that drive characters in the cross-culturally recurring narratives, which so frequently play a central role in our (empathic) ethical judgments. More exactly, my claim in Literature and Moral Feeling was that people’s moral views tend to cluster together in ways that fit the moral outlook that dominates one of the cross-cultural narrative prototypes—heroic, romantic, sacrificial, and so on. Moreover, each of these story structures has a limited set of emotions or motivations that drive the protagonists. My claim about the emotions of people faced with moral decisions is that they are likely to be particularly sensitive to the empathic appeal of the emotion that drives their (ethically) favored genre. For instance, I mentioned hunger in the blog because it is a prominent motivation in sacrificial narratives.

To return to my own case, it is relatively easy for people who know me to figure out that I am more strongly motivated by separation anxiety triggered by attachment loss (found in both romantic and familial separation and reunion genres) than by other emotions. I did not realize this myself until I came to formulate my views about descriptive ethics a few years ago. Moreover, when I defend an ethical position, I am likely to list a number of reasons, for which I feel a range of emotional responses, as I am appealing to unknown readers who probably are not so fixated on attachment themes as I am. So, my point about Professor Singer was simply that, if he has some particular emotional sensitivity—as I conjecture is commonly the case—I am not certain as to what it might be. I don’t know him personally and, for reasons already mentioned, any disposition he might have in this regard is unlikely to manifest itself very strongly in his publications. Indeed, on the surface, Professor Singer seems to proceed by reason alone, developing the defense of his position by appeal to logic and evidence within the context of a utilitarian calculus. It is certainly possible that there is nothing more to his motivation than such reasoned calculation—and presumably generalized empathy. Not everyone has to be driven by a dominant emotion. And yet, given his passionate engagement with the issues he addresses—especially in his justly renowned work on animal rights—I cannot help but feel that his commitments are not solely the products of cool, utilitarian calculus, even if this is enhanced by effortful, egalitarian empathy. (I hope it is clear that this is in no way a criticism—quite the contrary, to my way of thinking,)

Reply to Hogan (Blog for February 2025)

Peter Singer, Princeton University

          Thanks for your thoughtful discussion of some important issues that I have also discussed.
          I don’t have time for a full response, but I can clear up the question you raise here: “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.” The motivational impulse that dominates my ethical thought is the same as that which dominated the thought of Jeremy Bentham, John Stuart Mill, and Henry Sidgwick – the three great nineteenth century utilitarians: the reduction of suffering and the increase in happiness and well-being.  If I frequently mention hunger and grief, that is because they are very common and often very severe forms of suffering.  But, of course, they are not the only ones.
          As you mention my example of the drowning child in the shallow pond, it might be useful to add the place where I first wrote about it: “Famine, Affluence and Morality,”Philosophy and Public Affairs,vol 1, 1972.  The essay also appears in a book with the same title, published by Oxford University Press.
          See also Patrick Hogan’s response.

Blog for December 2024: Indigenous Studies and Universals

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

Donald R. Wehrs, Auburn University  

In recent decades, Indigenous Studies has emerged as a vibrant field of academic scholarship, but one whose theoretical underpinnings and research agenda seem to put in question the concept of literary universals and thus its interpretative value. Making the recovery and delineation of indigenous ontologies and epistemologies its primary focus, Indigenous Studies argues that both diverge categorically from Eurocentric, post-Enlightenment notions of rationality and modern Western conceptualizing of experience. Highlighting the central roles played by Western forms of rationality and conceptualizing in justifying and orchestrating European colonizing violence, Indigenous Studies suggests that politically and morally dubious effects follow predictably from viewing “nature” as separate from and ontologically inferior to “culture,” and that among the most prominent of these effects is universalizing Eurocentric constructions of reason and “civilization.” Discourse in the field further contends that the very ontological-epistemological premises that underlay settler and resource-extractive European colonization continue to inform the theoretical assumptions and analytical practices through which contemporary academic discourse typically “sees” indigenous societies and cultures.

Much Indigenous Studies scholarship aims to recover and explicate modes of conceptualizing that have been partially lost or distorted. It also seeks to document the continuing relevance of retrieved or clarified ontologies and epistemologies for the people shaped historically by them, as well as to demonstrate indigenous thought’s abiding practical, political, and moral value (see Henne 2020; Vizenor 2019; Barker 2017; Lee 2017; Emberley 2014; Schwarz 2001). Critical Indigenous Studies, the field’s theoretical, methodological extension, works to expose, correct, and redress the hegemonic effects of academic discourse perceived as reading into radically different conceptual worlds supposed “universals” that are really modern Western notions and constructions. Aileen Moreton–Robinson describes Critical Indigenous Studies’ goal as that of “mobiliz[izing] Indigenous epistemologies to serve as foundations of knowledge informed by the cultural domains of Indigenous peoples” (2016, 4; also see Watchmán 2024; McCall et al. 2017; Lee 2014). Because the theorizing of “universals” is taken to be a central feature of the Eurocentric bent of dominant academic discourse, critique of such thought is identified with decolonizing scholarly interventions.

Indigenous Studies understands the ontologies and epistemologies it explores to differ among diverse peoples in multifarious ways. Still, the use of “Indigenous” as a collective noun implies that what is so identified shares certain features, above all ways of thinking that preclude separations of nature from culture as well as other Western binary, hierarchical intellectual legacies and assumptions. Indigenous thought is instead characterized as positing interactive reciprocities that shape relations among humans and nonhumans, thus bringing cosmic-divine, ecological-natural, and social-cultural agents or forces into diverse interconnecting networks (for representative discussions, see Henne 2020, 185-89; Rice 2004; Preuss 1988; McPherson 2014, 10-11; Watchmán 2024, 3-21; Werito 2014).

Allied with discourses in Indigenous Studies that associate scientific understandings of nature with Eurocentric marginalization or distortion of indigenous ontologies and epistemologies is an influential current of contemporary anthropological theory. Eduardo Viveiros de Castro argues that in contrast to Western notions of being/truth and rationality “a set of ideas and practices found throughout indigenous America” may be described as “perspectivism”—a “cosmology” that “imagines a universe peopled by different types of subjective agencies, human as well as nonhuman, each endowed with the same generic type of soul, that is, the same set of cognitive and volitional capacities”: jaguars are understood to see as beer what humans see as blood, and what humans see as “a muddy salt-lick on a river bank, tapirs see as their big ceremonial house, and so on” (2015, 58). The French anthropologist Philippe Descola, like Viveiros de Castro an Amazonia expert, builds on his Brazilian colleague’s work and his own studies, but also augments it with research from Australia, Siberia, Mesoamerica, Africa, and the Artic. On this comparative basis, Descola distinguishes what he calls “naturalism” (Eurocentric rationalist-scientific hierarchical separations of culture and nature that may be traced back to Genesis and Plato) from three distinct indigenous ontologies: animism, which attributes human-like souls to nonhuman life forms and objects; totemism, which traces group identity and attributes to an ancestral progenitor; and analogy, which views different entities as interrelated by common qualities and distinguished by minute differences or degrees. Descola argues that each of these ontologies figure identity, self-other relations, and world ordering differently, with significant consequences for cosmology, material and social life, and inter-communal relations (2013a, esp. 112-231; also see 2013b).

Despite sharing with Indigenous Studies a focus on ontology as central to conceptualizing and experiencing life in ways that Eurocentric universalizing occludes, Viveiros de Castro and Descola differ from one another on certain points. Whereas Viveiros de Castro, much influenced by Deleuze, is primarily concerned with viewing ontologies as expressions of culturally specific, communally distinctive perspectives, Descola stresses shared features among the ontologies he elaborates while noting permutations, and their causes and implications, within each type.

Still, Indigenous Studies and this current of anthropological theory concur in suggesting that radically disjunctive ontologies and epistemologies tend to fashion emotional-motivational systems likewise disjunctive and communally-ethnically circumstanced. This view diverges from scholarship in social and cognitive anthropology that regards diverse human cultures to be the products of different ways of interacting with and interpreting a nature whose internal processes are affected by cultural constructions but nonetheless distinct from them (see esp. Boyer 2018, 2001; Bloch 2013, 2012, 1998). The theorizing of literary universals likewise ascribes a degree of universality and autonomy to nature. For Descola such ascriptions are characteristic of “naturalist” (Western, scientific) ontology, for Viveiros de Castro they efface the primacy of difference, and for Critical Indigenous Studies they are associated with Eurocentric colonizing thought and discourse. But for theorizing of literary universals they underlie the postulating of evolutionarily honed, species-wide emotional-motivational systems, to which are attributed recurrences in separate traditions of literary features such as prototypical plot structures of heroism, romance, and sacrifice (Hogan 2024, 2022, 2018, 2011, 2003).

Notable ambiguities or internal tensions attend the contrasting accounts of Indigenous Studies, Viveiros de Castro, and Descola. The more determinate ontological-epistemological formulations are identified with particular peoples and societies, the more homogenous collective worldviews seem to be implied. This not only conflicts with evidence that group identities are never monolithic (see Appiah 2018) but also recalls Herder’s and Fichte’s notion that different ethnic-linguistic collectives have their own distinctive, signature Volkgeist—itself a Eurocentric legacy. Conversely, the more ontological-epistemological formulations overlap or resemble one another in related or unrelated cultures, the more reasonable it appears to understand them as following from shared, evolutionarily derived emotional-motivational systems interacting with specific ecological and socio-historical conditions.

Indeed, animist ontologies as Viveiros de Castro and Descola present them presume that souls have “universal” attributes, “the same set of cognitive and volitional capacities” (Viveiros de Castro 2015, 58), whether these “souls” are those of in-group humans, jaguars, tapirs, or out-group humans. To have a “soul,” for these ontologies, is to view what is encountered in terms of threats and affordances, to distinguish an interiority from exteriority, to be constrained to live from material in the environment, to have social affections, to seek status, and to regard as good what advantages oneself and those affiliated with oneself. Natural and social scientific accounts of human experience of consciousness, subjectivity, emotions, and motivations concur with indigenous accounts of souls on all these points. That others have emotional-volitional systems that are like one’s own but different in perspective entangles one with them in ways that are necessarily socially and ethically fraught.

This is especially the case because interdependence involves flourishing at another’s expense. It does so in relation to game animals for hunter-gatherer societies and out-group humans targeted by inter-communal raiding just as it does so in relation to peoples dispossessed and depopulated by settler colonialism and those whose low wages subsidize affordable computers for others. The degree to which ecological, biological, and social interdependence brings with it flourishing at a cost to others may vary, of course, and may be made more or less. Still, it is naïve to think that wellbeing in this life can ever be made free from indebtedness and prioritizing that is troubling because it cannot be entirely disinterested, equitable, or just. On the most basic level, children survive through the care and physical wear-and-tear expended by the generations they will displace, biological existence demands constant assimilation of energy and resources, and for those endowed with “souls” (or subjective self-awareness) there is no escaping giving some interests or perspectives more attention and value than others. However much hunter-gatherer societies feel kinship with and even apologize to the animals they hunt, they will continue to kill them if their own survival is perceived to depend on it (see Humphrey with Onon 1996, 91-92; Wewa and Gardner 2017, 44-47). Even when reluctance to do harm is raised to the level of a stringent ethics, as in Jainism, there is recognition that to exist is to “be there” instead of or at cost to something else (for amplification, see Wehrs 2024, 151-90). In most cases, individuals and communities do what they perceive as necessary for their own flourishing, albeit with varying degrees of regret, remorse, rationalization, symbolic or notional reparation, and selective contractions of empathy (see Zaki and Ochsner 2012, 2011). The way hunting societies view the game they live from is close to how James Fenimore Cooper’s novels, for example, encourage readers to think of native North Americans.      

Because entanglement with others, human and nonhuman, is a “universal” exigency, not an effect of particular modes of conceptualizing, theorizing risks becoming disingenuous if it evades the question of whether an ontology should be valued simply because it is one’s people’s tradition (or another people’s tradition) or because it discloses insights or promotes moral tendencies that are transculturally valid or good. This particularly becomes a pressing matter when indigenous ontologies, identified with reciprocity and cooperation, are contrasted with Eurocentric ones, identified with hierarchy and domination. If any articulated ontology can be subjected to ethical critique on grounds other than internal self-contradiction, then no ontology can be presumed to be self-justifying—or open to evaluation only from within its own terms.

Ontological valorization of reciprocity and cooperation can extend ethical consideration to nonhuman forms of life and even ecological systems, but it can also support violent and appropriative practices, as in Pre-Columbian Mesoamerican societies where thinking of the gods as renewing the life-sustaining cosmological order in exchange for humans providing them blood motivated warfare to harvest captives for human sacrifice (see Fredrick 2024; Rice 2004; Preuss 1988, esp. 73-94). Similarly, valorization of difference—according it metaphysical irreducibility—can take problematic forms. Descola notes that for the Jivaro tribe of Amazonia “[b]y dint of shrinking” an enemy’s head, his “individuality” is “preserved” in ways that are “culturally usable yet at the same time perceived as different” (338). The very difference of perspective or “soul” associated with another’s head, and the worth accorded it, make collecting and shrinking heads an activity viewed as something “good,” socially conscientious members of the community ought to and will “naturally” want to participate in.  

Additionally, the theoretical prioritizing of conceptualization prominent within Critical Indigenous Studies and allied discourses might be suspected of betraying unwarranted intellectualist assumptions about how humans, as individuals and members of societies, experience life, assess what is desirable, and make decisions. Such prioritizing notably gives pride of place to activities and spheres over which professors, and before them priests and scribes, claim expert knowledge. What people say they believe, however, and what notions and motives actually govern practical thought and action are often quite different. Literary art and storytelling craft are adept at calling these discrepancies to mind, and they do so in ways that guardians of regulative ontological-epistemological orthodoxies in various societies tend to find disconcerting, if not threatening (see Wehrs 2024, 11-43).

Indeed, consideration of the nature of the literary itself, rather than pointing out internal tensions within alternative academic discourses or appealing to “universality” as it is operative in scientific accounts of nature, offers the best defense of literary universals’ conceptual and interpretative value. Certainly, reading indigenous literary discourses for information about the normative ontological-epistemological notions of the societies from which they emerge is a legitimate and worthwhile scholarly activity, just as is reading non-indigenous literary works for the purpose of documenting prevalent social practices, attitudes, and topical controversies. But this is rather like reading Shakespeare to cull information about the “Elizabethan world picture,” except that E. M. W. Tillyard’s 1959 study of that title is notably not confused about its subject of study. Its interest in the ontological notions evoked for Elizabethans by words such as “dolphin” is in service of understanding the literary use Shakespeare made of them, as when Cleopatra calls Antony “dolphin-like.”

Literature that is of interest as literature, rather than of interest primary as a source of sociological-historiographical data or as one of many examples of a general abstract claim, does not simply express a people’s ontology (or a culture’s monolithic ideology), but rather invites critical reflection on what a given ontology (or its selective and often varied deployment) makes visible and occludes. While discursive techniques and forms may be deployed for various purposes (propaganda, invective, advertising, cheerleading), they become literary in a qualitative sense when made intrinsic to a work’s exploration of endemic and intractable human concerns (conflicts between generations, tensions between genders, dissonance between personal and communal interests, clashes among various motives and plausible notions of what is good). Because human emotional-volitional systems are species-wide evolutionary inheritances, the stories they give rise to assume the shapes of prototypical plots that are intelligible and meaningful across cultures. Even so, heroic, romantic, and sacrificial figurations (often interfused) may take on highly individuated forms which allows them to become nuanced means of eliciting critical reflection on the interplay between what is endemic and what is socio-culturally and psychologically peculiar. When this interplay is developed in strikingly artful and revelatory ways, the literary work survives the contexts of its creation and engages the moral imaginations of those whose conceptualized worlds are radically different from but uncannily receptive to those the work presumes and evokes.            

It is best to conclude with brief example. In the Popol Vuh (or Popol Wuj), a narrative the moves from the creation of a pre-human world to the Spanish Conquest of the Quiché (or K’iche) Mayan people of Guatemala, two proto-human boys who are also gods defeat a giant bird, Seven Macaw. Surviving in an early 18th-century alphabetic Quiché manuscript with accompanying Spanish translation in the hand of a Spanish Catholic priest, the text hasgenerally been taken to be the work of mid-sixteenth-century Quiché nobles. They are thought to have transcribed or redacted the contexts of a much earlier hieroglyphic codex in an effort to preserve what they could of their culture from Spanish destruction. The narrative relates that the gods’ first efforts to create humans failed, causing them to destroy proto-humans by a great flood, after which was left a cosmic-natural order where there is not yet a sun but instead the overbearing Seven Macaw, whose self-enclosed, antisocial propensities made human life ecologically impossible (Tedlock 1996, 73-74).

Fully realized humans were acutely needed, however. Within Mayan ontological-cosmological frameworks,gods are not immortal. Since humans “alone bear the burden of carrying out life-renewing ceremonies so that rebirth can follow death naturally and at its proper time,” the gods (k’abawil) need humans to be their “providers and sustainers” (Christenson 2021, 21; 2007, 80). Indeed, the word for “sustainer,” q’o’l, denotes both “one who provides sustenance, primarily in the form of nourishment, but also in any other way—such as a mother caring for an infant” (21). The Quiché word thus interconnects organic, material wellbeing with affective, sociable moral actions and attitudes. Its use in the narrative implies that a world capable of sustaining human life binds together biological, ecological and social, moral dimensions of being. 

            “[D]efeat and destruction” (Tedlock 1996, 77) of Seven Macaw is attributed to “two boys,” Hunahpu and Xbalanque, who are also “gods.” Tedlock’s translation describes them as viewing as “evil” Seven Macaw’s attempted “self-magnification,” a judgment that accords with widespread oral discursive motifs, especially in trickster tales, that condemn and make comic sport of pomposity and bullying. Companionable cooperation against egoistic bullying likewise is often valorized, across cultures, as deliberative and morally sanctioned “virtuous” violence” (see Wrangham 2019, 222-72; Fiske and Rai 2015, esp. 1-34). Both English- and Spanish-language scholarship has long viewed the text as expressing moral condemnation of Seven Macaw’s pride or self-aggrandizement, most recently Fredrick’s 2024 study. Much in the manner of Critical Indigenous Studies, however, Nathan C. Henne argues that such readings project on the narrative a supposedly “universal” but really Eurocentric binary conceptualization of good/bad.

Henne suggests that the word translated as “evil,” itzel, more properly denotes “broken,” as in something not working right or effectively, and that what is rendered as “self-magnification,” nimarisaj rib, denotes “making oneself big.” On his account, the narrative does not imply a moral critique of antisocial self-aggrandizement, but simply relates that Seven Macaw’s time of acting as the sun has come to an end, for his brightness is insufficient for the world than will succeed the present one (2020, 99-138). Focusing on culturally distinctive ontology, Henne suggests, should disclose the Eurocentric, colonialist effects of projecting a supposed “universal” ethical framework on the narrative. By implication, viewing the Seven Macaw episode in terms of literary universals, as a variant of heroic plot structures in which, typically, a people’s wellbeing is threatened by invasion or tyranny but successfully defended, is unwittingly colonizing by being undiscerning of ontological difference.

            It is certainly true that Mesoamerican and more broadly Native American creation accounts commonly posit a succession of worlds. It is also true that “making oneself big” in Maya contexts is not necessarily negative. Indeed, responsibility is associated with bearing a burden, as Allen J. Christenson notes in describing how humans are conceived as “alone bear[ing] the burden of carrying out life-renewing ceremonies so that rebirth can follow death naturally and at its proper time.” But whether a particular instance of making oneself big is viewed as good or not depends, across cultures, on what one makes oneself big for. Within Maya contexts, efficiency in managing burdens of responsibility is linked to enabling and maintaining ontological-ecological conditions on which human and nonhuman life depends. Responsibilities include assuring the reappearance of the sun and other celestial-temporal phenomena (see Rice 53, 58, 60, 99, 149), and sustaining prosperity from which the whole community benefits (Iannone, Houk, and Schwake 2016).

Because the good is so configured, to be “broken” in the sense of not working adequately to ensure ecological-social wellbeing may not in itself be “evil,” but to cling to a position of responsibility under such circumstances makes one an impediment or threat to intermingled natural-human-divine flourishing, and thus one’s actions and attitudes become “evil.” It is not necessary to presume an absolute, extramundane perspective (that of Plato’s forms or a transcendent monotheistic god) to view an effect or intention as “evil,” for what merits praise or warrants condemnation can be relative to this-worldly concerns and goals but nonetheless involve moral-social measures of value. If Seven Macaw’s time as sun has come to an end, his insistence on maintaining his position indefinitely is a form of “self-magnification” that blocks the making of the kind of world needed by k’abawil, humans, and nonhumans in order to thrive. For that reason, making oneself big when one is “broken” is to act “evilly.”

Further, the world being forestalled, on Henne’s own account, is one in which moral-sociable dimensions of humanly experienced life are taken to be ontologically-cosmologically structuring principles. The desired, optimal world is one in which “[a]ll beings and things transact continually with other realms that coincide in place (or that share some other transactional relationship)” (Henne 2020, 188). This characterization is consonant with others, such as Mary H. Preuss’s 1988 study, which stresses that Maya ontology associates the need and thus moral imperative of maintaining an appropriate equilibrium in the universe (“un equilibrio apropriado en el universo”), for all parts of the natural or existent world (“todos los sectores de la naturaleza”) need to work together (“juntos”) (14).

To the extent that Seven Macaw impedes the making of such a world, the Heroic Twins (as they are usually called) have good reasons (at once ontological-practical and moral-social) to remove him from power. Moreover, the violence they direct against Seven Macaw and his family, and the apparent reasons for it, much resembles patterns of violent removal of kings and elites perceived as failing to sustain communal wellbeing that may have been a recurrent feature of pre-European contact Maya political life, and that recent historiographical and archaeological studies have identified as occurring with particular intensity in the 800-830 CE era. The relation of those removals to “effectively bringing an end to Classic [Maya] style of kingship governance” (c. 250-900 CE) is a current area of scholarly inquiry (Iannone, Houk, and Schwake 2016, 21). Notably, sculptural iconographic representation of what appears to be the Heroic Twins’ attack on a large predatory bird deity can be traced back to Late Preclassic times (c. 400 BCE-100 CE), but in such depictions the bird deity’s dominant position and glorious apparel are emphasized, in contrast to the Popol Vuh text’s stress on Seven Macaw’s defeat and humiliation (see Guersey 2021, 268-94).

Recognizing that the Popol Vuh’s Seven Macaw episode draws on and reworks heroic prototypical plot structures that are literary universals is the beginning, not the end, of analysis. The twins defeat a threat to communal flourishing, but one that is not an invader whose aggression is a matter of territorial expansion, but one whose desire to perpetuate his own primacy threatens temporal-cosmological development, and thus the coming into existence of forms of combined ecological-social interaction that enable human (and nonhuman) wellbeing. The emphasis in Indigenous Studies on culturally distinctive ontologies and epistemologies contributes valuably to more nuanced, discerning, and appreciative readings of indigenous literary works, but it does so as a companion rather than alternative to interpretative work informed by consideration of the role literary universals play in giving works their distinctive tenor, texture, network of associations, evocations of emotions, and eliciting of reflection. In the Seven Macaw episode, intoxication with one’s own primacy is depicted as both a moral-social failing and an ontological-cosmological threat, one whose “heroic” overcoming is linked to subordinating making oneself big to ensuring that others can flourish. That separates the self-assertions of the twins from those of Seven Macaw, and provides “universal” ethical standards by which variously conceptualized and constructed worlds (those of gods, Quiché Mayan kingdoms, and Spanish colonizers) may with reason and in justice be assessed.        

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Wewa, Wilson and James A. Gardner. Legends of the Northern Paiute: As Told by Wilson Wewa. Ed. James A. Gardner. Corvallis, OR: Oregon State University Press, 2017.

Wrangham, Richard. The Goodness Paradox: How Evolution Made Us More and Less Violent. London: Profile, 2019.

Zaki, Jamil and Kevin Ochsner, “The Neuroscience of Empathy: Progress, Pitfalls, and Promise,” Nature Neuroscience 15, no. 5 (2012): 675-80.

—–. “You, Me, and My Brain: Self and Other Representation in Social Cognitive Neuroscience.” In Social Neuroscience: Toward Understanding the Underpinnings of the Social Mind. Ed. Alexander Todorov, Susan T. Fiske, and Deborah A. Prentice. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011. 14-39.   

Comments on Hogan, “Impossible Love”

Geoffrey Russom, Brown University

Some pretty clear examples of the mortal-immortal romance sub-genre (discussed in Patrick Hogan’s “Impossible Love: A Sub-Genre of Romantic Stories”) originate in Old Irish tradition and enter English tradition through Marie de France, the mother of the English romance and the grandmother of the novel.

The immortals involved are the Celtic fairies, in early tales called Tuatha Dé Danann ‘people of the Goddess Danu.’ Like other Celtic goddesses, Danu was a manifestation of a great river, the Danube. Fairies are said to live in island paradises like Tír ‘na n-Óg, “the land of the young,” and in fortresses connected to the underworld. Many of them bear the names of Celtic gods mentioned by Caesar.

“The Debility of the Ulstermen,” an important Old Irish instance of the sub-genre, explains why the Ulstermen were helpless when attacked by Queen Medb of Connaught in Táin Bó Cúalnge (The Cattle Raid of Cooley), the great Irish epic in Prosimetrum form.

Plot: Crunnchu mac Agnoman isolates himself after the death of his wife. One day a distinguished-looking woman appears in his house and takes charge of the household. His handsome appearance is delightful to her and she sleeps with him. They live together in prosperity for a long while. One day Crunnchu says he will attend a great festival at the court of the Ulster king. She says he should not go because they cannot not be together if he speaks of her in the assembly, as she strongly suspects he will. He goes anyway. The royal chariot wins all the races at the festival and everyone praises the king’s horses. Crunnchu foolishly remarks that his wife can run faster than those horses. He is seized and his wife is summoned to race against the horses despite her protest that she is about to give birth. She declares that her name is Macha (the name of one aspect of the triple goddess Morrígan, a.k.a. Morgan the Fairy). She wins the race and gives birth to a son and a daughter before the king’s chariots finish. She then declares that everyone who has heard her cry out while giving birth will become as helpless as a woman in childbirth when attacked by an enemy, unto the ninth generation. It is worth adding that the Celtic pantheon includes widely-known horse goddesses like Epona.

A later example of the sub-genre is Marie’s Lanval.

Plot: Lanval is one of King Arthur’s knights. His virtues are many but are not appreciated. Wandering in the forest, he encounters a fairy princess in a beautiful pavilion. They become lovers. The princess warns Lanval that they can no longer be together if he tells anyone about her. With the fairy’s supernatural assistance, Lanval becomes wealthy and earns fame for his generosity. One day Arthur’s queen meets Lanval and attempts to seduce him. He refuses. She says he must be more interested in pageboys. Lanval scornfully tells her about his lover and declares that the princess’s servant girls are more beautiful than the queen. The furious queen lies to Arthur that Lanval has tried to seduce her. Lanval is seized. The barons decide that Lanval can be forgiven if he produces his lover and her servant girls to prove that what he has said is true. The fairy princess decides to rescue Lanval despite her earlier statement that they can no longer be together. Her servant girls arrive at the court, strikingly beautiful and splendidly attired. Last comes the fairy princess, who testifies for Lanval. He is forgiven and freed. He stands on a mounting block, and when the princess passes by on her horse, he jumps up behind her. They leave for the island paradise of Avalon.

Works Cited

“The Debility of the Ulstermen.” In Ancient Irish Tales. Ed., Tom Peete Cross and Clark Harris Slover. New York: Barnes and Noble, 1969, 208–10. (Old Irish text, ed. and trans. Ernst Windisch, Königliche Sächsische Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften, Berichte (Philologisch-Historische Klasse), XXXVI (1884): 336–47.)

Marie de France. Lanval. Trans., Robert Hanning and Joan Ferrante. In The Lais of Marie de France. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Books, 1978, 105–23. (Old French text in Lais de Marie de France. Ed. Karl Warnke. Tübingen, Germany: Max Niemeyer, 1900, 86-112; available at Lais de Marie de France.)

Comments on Zoltán Kövecses, “Metaphor Universals in Literature”

Kathleen Hart, Vassar College

Metaphor Universals in Literature” succinctly synthesizes important conceptual metaphor scholarship (to which Kövecses has made substantial contributions) that offers valuable tools for analyzing metaphor in poetry and other literary forms. In what follows, I propose a theoretical justification for Kövecses’s decision to focus on poetry: more than other genres, poetry approximates the experience of ritual. I then explore the implications of this theory for the content Kövecses proposes for the schematicity levels of the skyscraper metaphor in Carl Sandburg’s poem “Skyscraper.”

Kövecses’ “schematicity hierarchy” can serve to illuminate the interpretive choices available to readers (including literary translators) by bringing to conscious awareness the different levels of abstraction associated with a metaphorical expression. Readers generally access the compound conceptual metaphor “Life is a journey” to interpret Robert Frost’s poem “The Road Not Taken.” But since a journey, like a walk in the woods, can be voluntarily undertaken, and to a known destination (for which the complex metaphor “A purposeful life is a journey” is more apt), the “Life is a journey” metaphor can lead readers to overlook the poem’s emphasis on what is involuntary and unknown. Applying Kövecses’ method, one can articulate an even more schematic (less specific) metaphorical level above “Life is a journey” that removes volition from the proposition: “A life from beginning to end is movement from a start point to an end-point” (the event-structure metaphor “Change of state is change of location” would not be specific enough). Now it becomes clear that life is from the outset a “journey” we are involuntarily thrust upon, under conditions not of our choosing, even if we exercise some choice with respect to paths taken. Likewise, identifying “path” (the route along which something travels) as a less specific source term than “road” (a wide, specially prepared surface) throws into relief the poem’s allusion to civilization as another factor narrowing our life choices:

Image schema: A life from beginning to end is movement from a starting point to an end-point.

Domain: Life is a journey

Frame: Making a life choice is embarking on one path instead of another

Mental spaces: I made a significant life choice (“that has made all the difference”) when I took the road less travelled by

Establishing such distinctions to create what Kövecses calls a “multi-level view” better enables readers to identify both choice and lack of choice as thematic preoccupations of the poem.

Probing relationships between different levels of abstraction can also call attention to the specific sensory-motor or perceptual representations activated by the source domain at the “mental spaces” level, enhancing our appreciation of the esthetic as well as symbolic value of a poet’s linguistic choices. The question of value, however, raises a theoretical consideration beyond the practical ones Kövecses cites for focusing primarily on poetry. If poetic choices have both esthetic and symbolic value, then we may need to take a text’s generic status into account when attempting to articulate its levels of metaphor. In the case of Carl Sandburg’s poem “Skyscraper,” for instance, the traditionally ritualistic character and functions of pro-labor poetry, with its emphasis on the neglected humanity of low-wage workers, participate in Sandburg’s questioning of the “Society is a building” metaphor.

As Kövecses observes, the “typical topics of poetry, such as love, freedom, beauty, history, time, life, honor, nature, suffering, and so on, all invite metaphoric conceptualization, as they are highly abstract concepts.” This raises the question as to why poetry treats such topics, or why we read poems metaphorically for those topics in the first place. Never does Frost’s poem explicitly map the metaphor “Life is a journey,” though literary works often do offer explicit metaphorical mappings (e.g. “All the world’s a stage/And all the men and women merely players”). It’s the text’s recognizable status as a poem that invites us to give abstract meaning to a walk in the woods. If we were to take the news report of a fatal accident that occurred when a driver swerved into an oncoming car to avoid hitting an animal, and rearrange the same “ordinary” language on a page to resemble poetry, then it would automatically have metaphorical import. Now the driver becomes every human being who has tried to avoid a wrong path in life, only to embark on a worse one. Higher-level construal involves a certain discounting of the precise details that separate us. Not all of us drive cars or walk in a yellow wood, but we all share human vulnerability; we’re all on this journey together.

The very use of the adjective “higher” to refer to abstract processing is relevant to at least one significant theoretical rationale for focusing on poetry to explore metaphor: poetry comes closer than other genres to approximating the ritual affiliative symbolic practices of our pre-industrial ancestors. In ritual, humans experience a dissolution of boundaries between the self and other. Group ritual allowed members of a village or tribe to undergo self-transcendent experiences that had an “‘All for one, one for all’ subjective quality” (Yaden, et. Al, 153). Our capacity for self-transcendent experience likely conferred evolutionary advantages by promoting pro-social behavior. Experiencing the group as a single entity, one could forget the individual concerns of “the small self” and feel implicated in a “higher” purpose, with the word “higher” expressing the possibly embodied metaphor “Good is up.” One could then more easily reconceptualize “getting killed in battle” as “making a noble sacrifice” (see Dissanayake).

Poetry harkens back to ritual, as Ellen Dissanayake argues, in that it typically relies on “paralinguistic aesthetic devices” (56), including rhythm, repetitions, silences, and ways of bringing out words’ acoustic qualities; such devices are also characteristic of “motherese”: the style of speech adults universally use when bonding with infants. The poetic extension, elaboration, and questioning of metaphor is “covered by aesthetic devices” (67) that produce “bodily-emotional affective effects” (74). “Both baby talk and ritual ceremony structure (or pattern) and produce changes in feelings” (71), which influence our ways of thinking about something.

Ritual often takes place when something important is at stake. If we read “Skyscraper” as a ritualistic act that can change our ways of thinking about something, then the metaphorical expression involving a skyscraper at the beginning of the poem potentially means something different by the end of the poem. Citing cultural context – around the time the poem was written in1916, skyscrapers began to proliferate in major American cities — Kövecses asserts that the skyscraper can be construed as a metaphor whose four levels of schematicity he identifies as follows:

Image schema: Complex abstract systems are complex physical structures.

Domain: Society is a building.

Frame: The construction of a society is the building of a building.

Mental spaces: Building a new American society is building a skyscraper.

Never does the poem offer the explicit metaphorical mapping “Society is a building.” The poem’s own metaphorical expressions, on the other hand, point to a tension between the skyscraper as an awe-inspiring symbol of collective achievement, and the skyscraper as a money-making machine commissioned and controlled by “the master-men who rule the building.” Understood in historical context, that tension corresponds to two competing future visions of “the new American society”: it could potentially honor every “soul,” or be completely dominated by unregulated industrial capitalism.

At stake was the future of American workers. Would they ever enjoy an eight-hour workday, decent wages, compensation for job-related injury? Would child labor be outlawed? Or would workers continue to be the victims of employers’ unchecked power, while labor union organizers got beaten by the police, framed by the courts and executed? Would the rights to freedom of speech and assembly continue to be violated in the name of public safety? Sandburg cared deeply about those questions. And nowhere in the United States was the battle for labor fought more furiously than in the city of Chicago, where Sandburg had gone to write for a pro-labor newspaper amidst ongoing strikes.

Challenges to unregulated capitalism were associated in the public mind with anarchist violence, though violence often began when the police, at the behest of big business, fired into crowds of peaceful strikers. This may be why Sandburg’s publisher pressured him to soften the more radical tone of The Chicago Poems. “Skyscraper” leaves open the question of what more specific target domain, other than “new American society,” corresponds to the specificity of the source domain “skyscraper” at the level of mental spaces. That more specific target domain, I suggest, involves the “complex abstract system” of industrial capitalism.

The poem’s very first metaphorical expression hints at something ominous: “BY day the skyscraper looms in the smoke and sun and has a soul.” The skyscraper is a huge inanimate object that has a “soul,” as if endowed with intelligence and agency: a thing is a being. Subsequent lines depict people being “poured” into the skyscraper, or identified as “broom” and “mop”: human beings are things. The personification of the skyscraper-as-instrument thus corresponds to the instrumentalization of the people who work in or on it, like the construction worker who becomes part of the building when he falls from a girder and breaks his neck.

As a product of unregulated industrial capitalism, the skyscraper was not a mere physical structure; it was an instrument for generating capital (Parker). Construction workers had no more say in its architectural design than in their own wages or working conditions; workers were treated as mindless and dispensable objects to be purchased cheap with the building materials: “Hour by hour the hand of the mason and the stuff of the mortar clinch the pieces and parts to the shape an architect voted.” The rise of unregulated industrial capitalism is the degradation of work, defined as “the separation of conception from execution” (Braverman 78).

Any working definition of a “society” includes “people.” It is the dehumanization of workers that the poet strives to oppose, by insisting that every person, regardless of social status, has “a soul.” Though reduced to machine-like status on the job, human beings deserve consideration with respect to wages, physical safety and daily hours. Offering a corrective to the representation of low-wage workers as mere things, the poet points out that “men and women, boys and girls,” are the ones “that give the building a soul of dreams and thoughts and memories.” The skyscraper minus human beings, on the other hand, is just a pile of concrete: “Dumped in the sea or fixed in a desert, who would care for the building . . . ?”

Society, then, is not a building (which is not to contradict Kövecses: to question a metaphor is to develop it). At the same time, however, humans are capable of feeling connected to a group as if it were a single entity; a building is a single entity. The poem’s final line echoes the first, while taking on a potentially new meaning: “By night the skyscraper looms in the smoke and stars and has a soul.” By the end of this poem that has repeatedly invoked every person’s “soul,” the skyscraper’s “soul” now potentially designates a society by and for “souls” who are united as a single entity, to uphold a lofty group purpose. Experienced as an oppressive force that pits “the master-men” against powerless workers reduced to things, society can be conceptualized as a soul-destroying skyscraper. Experienced as a single entity that makes us feel “we are all in it together,” with worker’s hours reduced and income increased, a society can be conceptualized as an awe-inspiring symbol of collaborative endeavor: a skyscraper.

Vision I.

Image schema: Complex abstract systems are entities that limit our agency

Domain: Societies are buildings

Frame: The perpetuation of unregulated industrial capitalism is the erection of a building-machine that contains people by reducing them to things

Mental Spaces: The concretization of an American society based on unregulated capitalism is the erection of a soul-destroying skyscraper that looms over the dehumanized masses.

Vision II.

Image Schema: Complex abstract systems are entities that limit our agency

Domain: Societies are buildings

Frame: The establishment of regulated industrial capitalism is the erection of a building-machine that contains people while preserving (relatively speaking) their “souls”

Mental Spaces: The concretization of an American society based on regulated capitalism is the erection of an awe-inspiring soul-preserving skyscraper pointing to the stars.

Reading and writing pro-labor poetry was a ritualistic bonding practice of early twentieth-century Americans who fought for more regulatory policies and protections. Good or bad, their poetry and songs sustained them through terror and crushing defeat. Poetry helped them feel morally elevated above the proponents of unregulated capitalism who sought to keep them down.

To Carl Sandburg, poetry was a way of calling upon the soul’s power to transcend the “small self” and celebrate “people,” not profits, as the very highest purpose of humanity. Accordingly, “Skyscraper” uses the verticality metaphor in two ways: through the conceptual metaphor “Power is up” and the conceptual metaphor “Good (virtue) is up.” There are men in the skyscraper who aspire to a “million-dollar business,” to “live a lobster’s ease of life.” The “People are animals” metaphor – not just any animal here, but a lobster, quite low on the Great Chain of Being — indicates that only a low life aspires to “stacks of money” while disregarding the “souls” on whom fortune is made. Virtue, in the form of poetic contemplation and higher-level construal, belongs to the low-level watchman who gazes over the city from the building’s highest floor.

Kövecses’ term “conceptualizer” is appropriate, since the reader, and not just the poet, actively constructs metaphorical meaning; the reader’s background, and not just the writer’s, can account for the metaphors identified and articulated at different levels. My own background informs my reading: my great-grandfather, George Carey, was a Wobbly who met his Belarusian anarchist wife Ykaterina (“Kate”) at a rally for the labor activist Joe Hill (see Kornbluh and Gross 156-157). I have inherited their pro-worker pamphlets full of poetry.

Early twentieth-century America was at a crossroads. After laissez-faire economics failed to prevent the Great Depression, President Roosevelt took the view that “we” were all in this together, and had new regulatory policies and reforms adopted such as the Social Security Act and the Fair Labor Standards Act. By 1960 President Johnson called Sandburg “more than the voice of America, more than the poet of its strength and genius. He was America.”

Unlike a building, a society is ever at a crossroads, consisting of people who make crucial decisions. Sandburg’s skyscraper could indeed be a metaphor for a “new American society” committed to civil liberties and protection for workers. Without the guarantee of those rights and protections, however, the skyscraper would revert to the status of an inhumanly immense instrument of oppression. Which road gets taken is what makes the difference.

Works Cited

Braverman, Harry. Labor and Monopoly Capital: The Degradation of Work in the Twentieth Century. New York: Monthly Review Press, 1999.

Dissanayake, Ellen. “Prelinguistic and Preliterate Substrates of Poetic Narrative.” Poetics Today 32.1 (2011): 55-79.

Kornbluh, Joyce L. and Daniel Gross. Rebel Voices: An IWW Anthology. Oakland, CA: PM Press, 2011.

Parker, Martin. “Vertical Capitalism: Skyscrapers and Organization.” Culture and Organization 21.3 (2015):  217-234.

Yaden, David Bryce, Jonathan Haidt, Ralph W. Hood, Jr, David R. Vago, and Andrew B. Newberg. “The Varieties of Self-Transcendent Experience.” Review of General Psychology 21.2 (2017): 143-160.

 

 

 

Comments on Zheng Ying, “Chinese and Western Drama”

Patrick Colm Hogan, University of Connecticut

I was both pleased and stimulated to read Zheng Ying’s insightful reflections on tragi-comedy and tragedy. Since Professor Zheng is concerned centrally with my work on this topic, it seemed appropriate that I make a few comments. Broadly speaking, I believe Professor Zheng’s essay shows us something important about tragedy, comedy, and tragi-comedy. However, I am not convinced that it shows us a difference between Chinese and Western drama.

First, I should say that I did not initially conceive of my comments on tragedy and tragi-comedy as involving terribly substantive claims. I had analyzed story sequences in terms of goal pursuit, with goals defined by imagined happiness. Achievement of the goal is the basic condition of comedy. This left the obvious issue of what constitutes tragedy, since heroes do not typically pursue objects they do not believe will make them happy. My claim was simply that tragedy is not a problem because the tragic hero pursues a happiness goal in the usual way; what marks off tragedy from comedy is that the hero cannot achieve the goal. For example, Romeo and Juliet desire union. Their deaths prevent this. I went on to argue that prototypical comedies intensify their outcome emotion (of joy) by developing the middle of the story into an apparent loss of the happiness goal. For example, it is all well and good if John and Jane fall in love, then get married with their parents’ and friends’ enthusiastic encouragement. But it is more engaging and ultimately enjoyable if John and Jane are married after they have been separated by parental disapproval, with one of them apparently dying and the other being engaged to a wicked rival. In comedy, that intensification in the middle is, so to speak, temporarily tragic. The lovers are not dead; the conflict with the parents can be overcome. In tragedy, that middle is permanent.

Reading Professor Zheng’s essay, I realized that these claims are not simply preliminary to the genre analyses that follow. They do have some independent consequences. The first consequence that I should note is terminological. I use the term “tragi-comedy” to refer to outcomes of story sequences—failure to achieve goals (tragedy or the “tragi-” part of “tragicomedy”) versus success in achieving them (comedy). Another use of “tragi-comedy” refers to overall mood—sad (tragedy or the “tragi-” part of “tragi-comedy”) or joyful (comedy). In keeping with the latter usage, some writers refer to a work as a tragi-comedy if sorrowful elements disturb our response to the joyful elements, rendering the predominant mood unclear. Rather than referring to this as “tragi-comedy,” I would refer to (degrees of) ambivalence.

I believe to some extent Professor Zheng’s comments concern ambivalence rather than tragi-comedy (in my usage). However, that brings me to the second consequence, which is not merely terminological. Professor Zheng’s essay suggests to me that ambivalence is in part a matter of the extent to which happiness outcomes are or are not achieved, In other words, ambivalence results from different degrees of “shortening,” as Professor Zheng would put it. I have stressed the broad extent of ambivalence in other work (see How). But I did not fully realize its importance in tragedy or tragi-comedy before reading Professor Zheng’s analysis.

Specifically, Professor Zheng presents a suggestive argument that both Chinese and Western narratives involve shortening comedy into tragedy. However, in my terms, he indicates that Chinese tragedies are more ambivalent (thus have more joy) in their outcomes. This is possible. However, if true, it could only be shown by broad survey. What Professor Zheng’s examples suggest to me is, rather, that both traditions are more ambivalent than I had previously thought. In The Mind and Its Stories, I did stress the troubled character of heroic usurpation narratives. The “epilogue of suffering” that often ends such stories suggests that there is frequently a tragic mood even in works that count as tragi-comedies by my outcome-oriented definition. I also pointed out that many heroic stories involve the original leader being killed and replaced by his heir. Given these points, The Great Revenge of the Orphan of Chao seems to conform relatively well to the general structure of heroic tragi-comedy—or, more properly, it seems to approximate the prototype (since we are not dealing with necessary and sufficient conditions here, but with roughly average tendencies).

Hamlet is more clearly tragic than Chi Chun-hsiang’s play. The usurper is killed, but so is the hero (the usurped leader’s heir). King Lear turns out to be a difficult case. It partially approximates the tragi-comic prototype as the usurped leader (Lear) is succeeded by his favored son-in-law (Albany; recall the opening lines of the play, “I thought the King had more affected the Duke of Albany than Cornwall” [I.i.1-2]). But his favorite child (Cordelia) has been killed—partially due to conflict with that son-in-law. Even while being more complex in its outcome, King Lear seems clearly to be varying the prototypical, tragi-comic case. But its complexity—narrative, thematic, and above all emotional—is important and consequential.

The key point for present purposes is that all these heroic works—Chinese and Western–betray degrees of ambivalence, whether we judge them ultimately tragic or comic in outcome. The same point applies to romantic works. (On heroic and romantic works, see “Story.”) Consider, for example, Romeo and Juliet and Ma Chih-yuan’s Autumn in Han Palace. Both involve the permanent, tragic separation of the lovers. But both also involve social reconciliation at the end—reconciliation of the Montagues and Capulets in the former case and reconciliation between Emperor Yuan and Emperor Huhanya in the latter. Indeed, once we are attuned to ambivalence, we are likely to notice that it occurs even in comedies, most obviously with the “scapegoat” figure—for example, Malvolio at the end of Twelfth Night or the suicidal rival, Cheng Heng, at the end of Western Chamber Romance.

In sum, it is not clear that there is a systematic difference between Chinese and Western drama in the nature of shortening tragi-comedy into tragedy. Rather, Professor Zheng seems to me to have drawn our attention, very valuably, to variation in the degree of such shortening in both traditions. This in turn sensitizes us to the extent of ambivalence in both tragedy and comedy. Finally, it suggests that there is not a sharp comedy-tragedy division, but a continuum, with ambiguous cases—rather as we might have expected from the idea of tragi-comedy to begin with.

Future Research

The preceding points suggest that the ambivalence of both comedy and tragedy should be studied more systematically across a range of traditions. Part of this research may involve understanding what patterns there are in such ambivalence, for example what forms of “shortening” we find in more tragic stories or how common scapegoating is in comedies. Another part of this research may involve explaining why different traditions apparently develop comic and tragic outcomes in different proportions, both within and across works. Finally, further study of the way tragi-comedy operates in the different universal-prototypical genres (such as the heroic and romantic stories) might advance our understanding of why some genres appear more prone to ambivalence than others.

Works Cited

Chi Chun-hsiang. “The Orphan of Chao.” In Six Yuan Plays. Ed. and trans. Liu Jung-en. New York: Penguin, 1972, 41-81.

Hogan, Patrick Colm. How Authors’ Minds Make Stories. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2013.

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

Ma Chih-yuan. Autumn in Han Palace. In Six Yuan Plays. Ed. and trans. Liu Jung-en. New York: Penguin, 1972, 189-224.

Shakespeare, William. King Lear. In The Norton Shakespeare. Ed. Stephen Greenblatt, et al. New York: Norton, 1997, 2307-2554.

Tung Chieh-yuan. Master Tung’s Western Chamber Romance. Ed. and trans. Li-li Ch’en. New York: Columbia UP, 1976.

Response to Russom, ‘Comments on Fabb’

Nigel Fabb, University of Strathclyde

These very interesting comments raise some difficult issues, to which I offer partial responses as follows.

  1. The definition of “poem” is taken from Fabb (What is Poetry?). It covers metrical poetry, nonmetrical but parallelistic poetry, and free verse. Its goal is to differentiate most poetry from most prose, but it has some blurred boundaries: for example it does not fit prose poems, and it holds at a small scale – ordinary prose can be divided into paragraphs, chapters etc. which are larger sections not determined by syntactic or prosodic structure.  So it is intended as a useful but not strict (or universal) definition; its purpose is to draw attention to the fact that where poetry has regular added forms such as metre, rhyme, alliteration or parallelism, these added forms are dependent on poetic sections.  Because prose lacks these kinds of section it also lacks the poetic forms.  (Furthermore, as I argue in another entry, the poetic sections on which the forms depend are short enough to fit into working memory.)   Poetic sections – such as metrical lines – can have boundaries which coincide with linguistic constituent boundaries; in some traditions, this is strictly enforced, while in others it is not.  That is, there is definitely the possibility of a regular (perhaps statistically predictable) relation between poetic sections and linguistic constituents.  The point of the definition is that the reverse is not true; that is, there is no generalization that a specific type of linguistic (syntactic or prosodic) constituent is always coincident with a poetic section; if that was the case, then people would be talking poetry whenever they spoke and there would be no prose.
  1. As noted in the comment, there are apparently meters which enumerate words. Hebrew (Carmi 60-62) offers examples, and Rumsey argues that the PNG language Ku Waru has word-counting meters. If words, rather than some prosodic element inside words, are being counted in these meters then they fit the Fabb and Halle approach, which is not committed to phonology determining meter, better than the Kiparsky approach.  But also if these are just counting meters and there is no control of rhythm, then these ‘word counting’ meters are like syllable counting meters, or mora-counting meters, or Korean sijo in which accentual phrases are counted.  As such, these purely counting meters fall outside the scope of the universal, which look not at counting as such, but at the relation between counting and rhythm (in the sense of a pattern of prosodically differentiated units).
  1. Lerdahl and Jackendoff showed that music has various kinds of hierarchical structure, of which (musical) metrical structure is closest to the rhythmic organization of metrical verse. However musical metrical structures are not subject to an upper bounding in length; for example, if the music is in 3/4 time, we do not in general find a kind of requirement relating to the metrical structure itself that every four bars form a distinct section.  The organization of the musical sequence into sections is Lerdahl and Jackendoff’s ‘grouping structure’, a hierarchical organization into motives, phrases and sections which is distinct from but can be systematically related to the metrical structure: they are ‘independent but interactive’. Grouping structure is one of a range of kinds of hierarchical grouping structure in cognition (as Lerdahl and Jackendoff point out, and an area in which they were pioneers; for general discussion see Cohen).   Other kinds of grouping include event segmentation (Radvansky and Zacks).  One of the characteristics of all these kinds of grouping is that there is no inherent limit on their maximal size; they are not measured or counted out.  (Though Lerdahl and Jackendoff do have a rule against very small groups.)  But metrical structures in poetry are made from a controlled number of elements with a lower and upper bound; in this, they are unique.   Note that nothing prevents musical grouping being organized numerically, or prose being organized numerically (and Hymes argued that some folk tales were organised into counted groups); but this is optional not obligatory. Grouping structure in music is a bit like division into paragraphs and chapters in a novel; it is a kind of hierarchical grouping with no inherent limit on maximal size. It is unlike lineation in metrical verse.
  1. Finally, a comment on the Fabb and Halle theory of meter. This shares with all theories of meter the view that a metrical line is attached to a hierarchical metrical representation (whether tree or grid, close variants of one another), with rules which relate the prosodic phonology of the line to the metrical representation.  Theories differ in the extent to which the metrical representation is determined by the phonology of the line, or is autonomous of the phonology; the Fabb-Halle theory tends more (but not completely) to the latter.  We focus more than other theories on how the representation is built (and in our theory, also transformed). Our specific contribution is to note that the metrical representation is controlled in its size by non-linguistic principles; a meter such as iambic pentameter counts ten syllables (or five times two syllables) – but no linguistic rule can count higher then two or perhaps three.  This is the basis of the universal which I propose, which means that there are upper limits on the size of metrical sequences.  This is not inherent to the Kiparsky theories which focus on local relations between small metrical constituents such as feet and short sequences of syllables, though the setting of a limit is derived (in a different way) by Golston and Riad.

Works Cited

Carmi, T., ed. The Penguin Book of Hebrew Verse. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1981.

Cohen, G. “Hierarchical Models in Cognition: Do They Have Psychological Reality?” European Journal of Cognitive Psychology 12 (2000): 1-36.

Fabb, Nigel. What is Poetry?  Language and Memory in the Poems of the World. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2015.

Fabb, Nigel and Morris Halle. Meter in Poetry: a New Theory. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2008.

Golston, Chris and Riad, Tomas. “The Phonology of Classical Greek Meter,”  Linguistics  38 (2000): 99–167.

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

Rumsey, Alan. “Tom Yaya Kange: A metrical narrative genre from the New Guinea Highlands.”   Journal of Linguistic Anthropology  11.2 (2001):193-239.

 

By: Nigel Fabb, Strathclyde University, U.K.

Comments on Fabb, “Rhythm”

Geoffrey Russom, Brown University

I think that the proposed universal is very much worth pursuing but I disagree with two of the related claims and would appreciate a response to my reservations by Fabb. The two claims are:

(1) A poem is a text made of language, divided into sections which are not determined by syntactic or prosodic structure. Such sections are called ‘poetic sections’.

(2) In music, regular rhythms can be sustained indefinitely over musical sequences which are not divided into sections; in other words, music can be a kind of ‘metrical prose’ (Fabb and Halle “Grouping”).

Claim #1 comes from Fabb and Halle (Meter). This publication does not confront the evidence for the reality of the metrical foot presented by Paul Kiparsky, and in more recent work based on the hypothesis “that literary language is a development of ordinary language, using the resources already available to it” (Fabb and Halle, Meter, 10). I was surprised that Fabb and Halle simply ignored this research after noting that it existed. I think excellent evidence and argumentation have been provided for the claim that metrical feet exist, that foot boundaries are aligned with word boundaries in the unmarked case, and that line boundaries are aligned in the unmarked case with the boundaries of natural syntactic constituents (sentences, clauses, and phrases, short phrases of course when a form employs short lines). An important universal proposed by Gilbert Youmans is that “higher-level metrical boundaries are progressively more significant than lower-level ones” (376). This explains, for example, why coincidence of foot boundaries with word boundaries is less strictly regulated than coincidence of line boundaries with phrase boundaries. I think the most challenging poetic material for Fabb would be Irish alliterative meters in which the enumerated constituent of the line is the word. (For a summary and references, see Russom.)

Fabb’s claim #2 is stated as if it were an unremarkable one but it seems very remarkable to me. Music in 4/4 time, as generally understood, is divided into measures, and the unmarked realization of the measure is as a group of four quarter notes with the prominence contour 1/3/2/4 (“1” being highest). The leftward boundary of the measure coincides with a prominently accented note in the unmarked case. I have not read Fabb and Halle (“Grouping”) but it is important to clarify what it meant by claim #2 for the benefit of music theorists and musicians. Fabb might want to consider the universals for musical groups in Lerdahl and Jackendoff’s Generative Theory of Tonal Music (the list of universals is on pp. 345–52).

[See also Nigel Fabb, “Response to Russom.”]

 

Works Cited

Fabb, Nigel and Morris Halle. “Grouping in the Stressing of Words, in Metrical Verse, and in Music.” In Language and Music as Cognitive Systems. Ed. Patrick Rebuschat, Martin Rohrmeier, John A. Hawkins, and Ian Cross. Oxford:  Oxford UP, 2012, 4–21.

Fabb, Nigel and Morris Halle. Meter in Poetry: a New Theory. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2008.

Kiparsky, Paul. “The Rhythmic Structure of English Verse.” Linguistic Inquiry 8 (1977): 189-247.

Lerdahl, Fred and Ray Jackendoff. A Generative Theory of Tonal Music. Cambridge, MA: MIT P, 1983.

Russom, Geoffrey. “Word Patterns and Phrase Patterns in Universalist Metrics.” In Frontiers in Comparative Prosody. Ed. Mihhail Lotman and Maria-Kristiina Lotman. Bern: Peter Lang, 2011, 337–71.

Youmans, Gilbert. “Milton’s Meter.” In Phonetics and Phonology: Rhythm and Meter, Volume 1. Ed. Paul Kiparsky and Gilbert Youmans. San Diego, CA: Academic P, 1989), 341-379.

 

 

By: Geoffrey Russom, Brown University