Brian Lennon
Assistant Professor of
English
and
Comparative Literature
The Pennsylvania State University, USA
Ph.D., Columbia University (2005)
M.F.A., University of Iowa
B.A., Wesleyan University
Mail: Department of English,
The Pennsylvania State University,
University Park, PA 16802-6200 USA
Email: blennon(at)psu(dot)edu •
Tel: +1 (814) 865-6261 •
Fax: +1 (814) 863-7285
I work on post-1945 and contemporary North American and Euro-Atlantic literature and culture. I have published on topics in the following four areas: (1) contemporary poetry and poetics; (2) new media literary arts, especially in their antinomian aspect; (3) literary multilingualism; (4) literary and cultural theory, with a focus on media theory, translation theory, the theory of the avant-garde, the critical form of the essay, and the relationship between philosophy and literature.
Among other works, I am the author of In Babel's Shadow: Multilingual Literatures, Monolingual States, a research monograph study of literary multilingualism forthcoming in 2010 from the University of Minnesota Press, and City: An Essay (University of Georgia Press, 2002), a work of personal a/historiography.
I am currently working on a book on the legacies of literary and cultural theory, to be entitled Genrecide: Research and Temporality.
Lennon, Brian. In Babel's Shadow: Multilingual Literatures, Monolingual States. Forthcoming, 2010, The University of Minnesota Press.Composite of author's drafts of jacket/catalog copy:
In the study of twentieth- and twenty-first century literary multilingualism, it is easy to take for granted the availability of one's research objects to critical study, discounting or rationalizing the protest through which multilingual literary works challenge the constraint of the printed book, and thus the literary-critical archive, itself. In Babel's Shadow: Multilingual Literature, Monolingual States examines the material limit of multilingual literary expression in print-capitalist culture -- and therefore the limit, as well, of the literary journalism, criticism, and scholarship that analyzes and comments on multilingual literature. Suggesting that world literature is more a scene than it is a "system," and that literature and literariness are best grasped as antinomies, or paradoxes of publication, In Babel's Shadow describes a specific need for electronic literature, as a form of textual culture that book culture bars from literary history -- without reifying "new media," either, as a readily available alternative.
Focusing on the intersection of the critical space of U.S. literary studies with the material space of the transnational book publishing industry, In Babel's Shadow includes readings of works of postwar Indo-Anglian, Cold War U.S., British, and German, contemporary North American multiethnic, and contemporary Turkish and German Turkish literature, in relation to recent debates in global English studies, transnational and comparative U.S. literary studies, translation theory, and comparative and world literature. Together, they comprise a critical essay on the fate of literature in a world gripped by the crises of globalization.
- URL: Local
In English, at least, essay-theory makes for a dialectically enlightening literature review. What one might, with perfect justice, call a vast wealth of work on the anarchival genre is now -- has always been quickly -- out of print, exclusive property of the scholarly archives through control of which we guarantee (less persuasively by the day, to be sure) our expertise. It is as though one were condemned to the archive by writing about the essay, that form so often and so vigorously imagined as a bridge linking university writing to what is left of the literary public sphere -- or more recently, to "creative writing," its institutional analogue. This article proposes for the figure or cipher of "essayism" three critical homologies: (a) as a name for the effect or intensity of "theory" in U.S. literary-critical and scholarly research practice; (b) as the object of a sometimes sincere and sometimes malicious mourning, in pronouncements of theory's death; (c) as a mark of the indiscipline of "creative writing," understood as a space into which English studies and U.S. literary studies have diverted the disruptively writerly energies of imported Continental thought.
New media studies, we might say, has discovered temporality. After fifteen years in which its cultural dominant was presentist prognostication, even a kind of bullying, the field has folded on itself with such new guiding concepts as the "residuality," the "deep time" or "prehistory," and the "forensic imagination" of a new media now understood as after all always already new. This essay rereads the legacy of hyperfiction pioneer and demiurge Michael Joyce through Fredric Jameson's call, twenty years ago, for a "deeper comparison" than new media studies is yet ready to make, even today. It argues that new media studies, as a disturbance in both the practices and production regimes of humanistic discipline, is and always has been best thought less as an emergent field than as a site of such double vision. If we still want to consider Joyce's work a founding moment in new media literary studies in the U.S., it suggests, we will have to recognize the radical untimeliness of, and at, that foundation: the extent to which the negativity of Joyce's secession from this emergent field must be understood not as the end of his influence in it, but in antinomian fashion, as its beginning again.
The global village, the world imploded in a caul of socialized electricity, is privatized in the home-bubble, a nut or seed-pod of data, the personal-professional archive whose exponential growth in life online, this essay suggests, shunts modernist critical practice (ours) into reverse. In this closure of critical distance, down the longue durée of the library shelf, we see our own work on the "junk-pile of critical history," "instructive as a hyperbolic interaction of critical desire with the modes of production" of our time (Willmott). There is no more necessary perspective than this; for scholarly production, today, no less than less rigorous forms of ubiquitous capture, compulsive diarism, and self-archiving, is an abject embrace of the surveillance state -- as much as its self-study, in what we might have to call our "telepathy": the pathos of (critical) distance, of distance which is always already "at" place. In nowness, in newness, the need to be "Herr von Vorsicht," der Fernseher, tele-visor, seer and broadcaster, prophet, fortune-teller, astrologer, historian -- scholar -- are we not precisely archiving ourselves, growing what Adorno termed "herbaria of artificial life," archives and anarchives whose endurance, whose beginnings and ends, as archives, cannot be known?
It cannot be denied that the works here under review are saying
something new, if by "new" we mean also that which, far from being
discovered in uncharted territory, was all along hidden, as it were,
in plain sight. Sometimes, it is a matter of the structural
amplification of scale through which the matter (the material,
and its mattering) of context itself thwarts the
circumscription of the phenomenological object, by reorganizing it
from within (its image, as it were, re-taken at higher resolution); at
other times, it seems necessary to look through the plane of
the real, with and at that other, imaginative world of remonstrantive
interpretation called ideology critique. Both are flexible and
adaptive forms of the scientism through which the literary humanities
in the United States, in its retransmission of French intellectual
struggle, mixes discourse-analytic tactics of parallel delineation
with hermeneutic strategies of serial penetration, and through which
both its Comtean and its Marxist positivisms express, as François
Dosse has put it of their transatlantic progenitors, "a certain degree
of [Western] self-hatred."
After September 2001, among other effects that may or may
not have been foreseen, the new direction of US national political
imperatives revived support for foreign language learning as a
component of human or cultural intelligence. Across the political
spectrum, lack of competence in languages other than English is now
acknowledged as a serious weakness of educational, economic, and
military resources in the United States. In the critical study of
contemporary literature, the multilingual spirit of this new emphasis
collides with the monolingual letter of the publication industry that
produces books. In the production of research objects for scholars of
contemporary literature, language difference, the ground zero of
multiple language acquisition, is displaced by translative
representation of language difference. To the extent that scholars
understand themselves as analysts of already given objects, regarding
intervention in the process of literary production as beyond their
practical or desired ability, the premium placed on language
difference here is insufficiently theorized.
"Gadget," we are reminded by Nicolas Freeling's 1977 novel
of that name, was in Manhattan Project jargon "a playful and harmless
word for what we would call an atomic bomb." Freeling's novel turns
the word over and over, linking the primitive device produced by
America's best minds in the heat of a just war to the hacked-out
contraption always already acquired by its most bitter
enemies, and reflecting on the inversions of the age of insanity
opened there: above all, on what can only be called the Bomb's satanic
cuteness. In this essay, I examine the work of the gadget in an age of
miniaturization: the molecular age of packs, bands, cells, all the
social miniatures in the panorama of stateless (and indeed, headless)
terror. My argument will be, first, that as a sign for inhuman
efficiency, a form of the machine evolving by becoming more radically
present-to-hand, the gadget is simultaneously a sign for the human
value of inefficiency, of waste and expenditure. Second, I will argue
that in the form of the portable translator, the gadget can tell us
something about the human and the inhuman in language, that most
artificial rose: about bad translation, or translation applied in
spontaneous or calculated bad taste, and about the waste of
translation.
Recent [2000] trends in digital media theory signal the
absorption of initial, utopian claims made for electronic
hypertextuality and for the transformation of both quotidian and
literary discourse via the radical enfranchisement of active readers.
The putative demise of textuality, inevitable or no, on the electronic
network known as the World Wide Web is presently accompanied by a
flourishing of poetry and text-based or alphabetic art that takes for
granted not only its own dynamic, kinetic, virtual, and interactive
visuality, but also --- contrary to alarmists' fears --- a real,
material, bodily human "interactor." This essay offers an essay, a
tentative gesture, at a digital visual poetics: a poetics that draws
by necessity on an entire century's worth of language art and visual
poetry, while at the same time formulating ways to read and to look
at, to "screen," the new and seemingly newly ephemeral artifact of the
electronic visual poem.
I CONFESS THAT I HAVE NO IDEA what Kierkegaard (or his persona, Constantin Constantius) meant by "repetition." Here, however, I mean to say that successive iterations of one single event multiply its existing points of entry. I was born: on the eastmost fringe of the City, in an enclave at the foot of the Airport, and I learned to sleep through the scream of jets, which I knew traveled over the ocean. My earliest awareness of the City: at the station, where I waited with my mother, in the idling car, for my father. At one end of the block: "the creek" --- a tract of spongy undeveloped land, beyond which stretched the runways. From the creek: the frogs that filled our yards; Gina Ragazza, two doors down, pressed sharpened sticks through their bodies --- twitch, twitch --- as airliners floated roaring overhead.
The poem
is our encounter
with the procedure
used to seize
messages.
The essay is negative, as "nonfiction," its genus, is negative:
not a fourth genre, but the negation of genre. Where drama promises
public spectacle, and poetry retains its cachet as the origin of the
language arts, "nonfiction" offers only not fiction, the
refusal or denial of fiction. Nonfiction refuses that with which we
associate rapture and transport, the pleasures of the imagination in a
world of regimented time. The very idea of it strikes one sometimes as
boring and pitiable, like the figure of Bartelby the Scrivener, whose
complete introversion is a monument to the death in meaningless work.
Even the Encyclopaedia Brittanica concedes that "nonfictional prose
seldom gives the reader a sense of its being inevitable, as does the
best poetry or fiction." Nonfiction cannot answer the question, "Would
I die if I were prevented from writing?"
The true pathos of the creative writing programs (and this is why they
have an inverted political value) is that they are filled with
aspirants partly in flight from something---growth and
profit-obsessed American business culture---without necessarily being
fully in flight toward something: not toward a knowledge of
literature, either low or high, historical or contemporary, and
sometimes not even really toward reading at all. The dream,
particularly in the fiction and nonfiction divisions of such programs,
tends to be one or another variation on winning the lottery, on never
having to work again in one's life, except in the euphemistic sense
with which an actor paid millions of dollars to act in a film might
refer to "my work." It is another version of the dream of rock
stardom: to escape and live above it all, the measly two weeks of
vacation per year, the being bossed around all your life or else
having to plant a knife in someone else's back to get a leg up. It's a
selfish dream, but viewed dialectically, it reveals an intense
antipathy to overwork and to meaningless work in our culture.
Who wouldn't want to escape?
How much would you pay for something real? This question is posed by
"An American Work of Art in Progress," playing Zwischenology within
the new+/-old commodity aesthetic of what one might, with a
semicolon-wink to Teilhard, now term "noömedia." Everything's up
for sale, yes. But that's too easy. Each component fashions itself
from the D.I.Y. machine of mid-tier services (Evite, Ebay, Mp3.com,
Zing) offering prepackaged experiential formats for the vox populi to
adopt at its leisure. "An American Work of Art in Progress" lives in
that interior public sphere accessed via the dual mode of "home
privacy" plus logged invasion and governed by the social contract
including sincerity.
Hypertext utopism has had its day, and creativity in the electronic
arts is concentrated, for the moment [2000], in practices of programmed
visual and kinetic poetry that have their roots in the experimental
typography of the historical avant-gardes and European modernism, as
well as the internationalist Concrete poetry of the 1950s. Programmed
"code poetries," the forms of the moment, will suffer a similarly
pained relation to utopia (and/or apocalypse) as did hyperfiction,
which has been hyped and debunked, and hyped and debunked again, at
dizzying net-speed. Meanwhile, print culture and electronic media
continue to interact, crossbreed, surge and ebb across and through
each other in patterns that are mutually repressive and
stimulating at the same time. What happens when a work created
in and for the electronic medium then evolves "backward"
onto the page? The task here is not only to notice proto-cybertexts,
but also to think about what it means to produce a version of
digital art for plain old paper.
New forms of Internet-dependent writing/coding are flourishing, and a
good deal of it is important and extraordinary. Not merely an
incitement to brave new poetries, however, Internet is also -- and
perhaps more significantly, thus far -- an inexpensive distribution
system for "old" ones as well. In the gift economies of "otherstream"
poetry, it is perfectly forgivable, I think, simply to transfer one's
operations from the print medium to the Web, without feeling -- yet --
any ethical imperative to program.
The formalist writer today is, like the postmodern urban planner, an architect of rubble: everything has, in the most basic sense, been posited already; there are no "new" sensibilities, no "original" voices (though there are certainly voices that have historically been suppressed); now it is a matter of suggesting dialectics of access and retrieval, for archive (data bank) and research (recombination), that will lead us to specific provocations of that notion of "new." But if "pure practice" -- known in the trade as "craft" -- can be codified and reproduced like any other technique, if a computer can be programmed to compose traditional sonnets, or sestinas, or terza rima, or Dickinsonian or Trakl-esque lyric, or Jamesian hypotaxis, or a hostile critic's version of L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E writing, or the gnarly jargon of postmodern academic prose, then perhaps the computer's encroachment on human uniqueness is most meaningful in its specific historicity: everything has been posited already, yes, only not in this particular way, at this very moment. It is incumbent on the writer not to mourn the loss here (of her or his exclusive control of language), but instead to notice the specific new possibilities that loss indicates. It is in this sense that the procedural poet is the ghostwriter of genres.
wire all night electric vex / speeding apart & over & through the neck
Nostos sprouts, like a weed, in the new garden. Each successive epoch must startle itself for the first time with this truth. But History means nothing else than that everything which may occur, certainly has.
-- elements disappear; poetry does not affect that; I was once the person I used to be; poetry does not affect that --
I'd been aware -- I am not I -- I hit disconnect --