Jay Miller

At one point in "Rationality and Imagination in Cultural History" M.H. Abrams cites Wayne Booth's assertion that the "deconstructionist" reading of a given work "is plainly and simply parasitical" on "the obvious or univocal reading."1 The latter is Abrams' phrase, the former Booth's. My citation of a citation is an example of a kind of chain which it will be part of my intention here to interrogate. What happens when a critical essay extracts a "passage" and "cites" it? Is this different from a citation, echo, or allusion within a poem? Is a citation an alien parasite within the body of its host, the main text, or is it the other way around, the interpretative text the parasite which surrounds and strangles the citation which is its host? The host feeds the parasite and makes its life possible, but at the same time is killed by it, as "criticism" is often said to kill "literature." Or can host and parasite live happily together, in the domicile of the same text, feeding each other or sharing the food? · 1. Critical Inquiry 2, no. 3 : 457-58. The first phrase is quoted from Wayne Booth, "M.H. Abrams: Historian as Critic, Critic as Pluralist," ibid., p. 441. J. Hillis Miller's contributions to Critical Inquiry are "Ariadne's Thread: Repetition and the Narrative Line" and "Theory and Practice: Response to Vincent Leitch"

The story of Ariadne has, as is the way with myths, its slightly asymmetrical echoes along both the narrative lines which converge in her marriage to Dionysus. Daedalus it was who told Ariadne how to save Theseus with the thread. Imprisoned by Minos in his own labyrinth, he escapes by flight, survives the fall of Icarus, and reaches Sicily safely. Daedalus is then discovered by Minos when he solves the puzzle posed publicly by Minos, with the offer of a reward to the solver: How to run a thread through all the chambers and intricate windings of a complex seashell? Daedalus pierces the center of the shell, ties a thread to an ant, puts the ant in the pierced hole, and wins the prize when the ant emerges at the mouth of the shell. Thread and labyrinth, thread intricately crinkled to and fro as the retracing of the labyrinth which defeats the labyrinth but makes another intricate web at the same time—pattern is here superimposed on pattern, like the two homologous stories themselves. J. Hillis Miller is Gray Professor of Rhetoric and chairman of the department of English at Yale. He is the author of Charles Dickens: The World of His Novels, The Disappearance of God, Thomas Hardy: Distance and Desire, Fiction and Repetition, and a study of narrative terminology, called Ariadne's Thread, of which his essay in this issue of Critical Inquiry is a part. His contributions to Critical Inquiry are "The Critic as Host" and "Theory and Practice: Response to Vincent Leitch"

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Diacritics 31.3 (2001) 57-66 [Access article in PDF] Literary Study Among the Ruins J. Hillis Miller It must be remembered and squarely faced, though it is difficult to do so for a lover of literature like me, that in spite of the lip service paid these days to literature's authority by politicians, the media, and educationists, fewer and fewer people, in Europe and America at least, actually spend much time reading "literature" in the old-fashioned sense of canonical works—Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, Pope, Wordsworth, George Eliot, Virginia Woolf, and the rest, in English literature. Literature has been granted enormous authority in our culture, but though that authority may still be tacitly or even explicitly acknowledged, for example by the media, no candid observer can doubt that it is no longer so pragmatically operative. If the books just stay there on the shelves, their authority is only potential. They must be read to be performatively effective. The joke about how George W. Bush's presidential library has been destroyed, both books in it, has an uncannily plausible ring. He has better things to do than read literature.If you are watching a movie or television or playing a computer game or surfing the Internet, you cannot at the same time be reading Shakespeare. People spend, all the statistical evidence suggests, more and more time doing the former. Poetry, it might be argued, does little legislating these days, unacknowledged or otherwise. Fewer and fewer people are decisively influenced by such reading as they do. Radio, television, cinema, popular music, and now the Internet—these are more decisive in shaping citizens' ethos and values, as well as in filling their minds and feelings with imaginary worlds. It is these virtual realities rather than strictly literary ones that have most performative efficacy these days to generate people's feelings, behavior, and value judgments. To speak of literature's authority is already to speak, to some degree, of an historical epoch that began in the late seventeenth or early eighteenth century in Europe with the rise of modern democracies and their concomitant print cultures. That epoch is now perhaps rapidly vanishing, whatever teachers of literature say, write, or do. Nevertheless, if someone happens for some reason to pick up Hamlet, or Middlemarch, or Yeats's poems, these works may still exert their magic power. Literature still has great authority over me and over no doubt many others. Just what effects are the globalization of the university and the new regime of telecommunications having on literary study and on the social role of literature itself?Jacques Derrida, in a striking passage written by one or another of the protagonists of La carte postale (The Post Card), says the following:... an entire epoch of so-called literature, if not all of it, cannot survive a certain technological regime of telecommunications (in this respect the political regime is secondary). Neither can philosophy, or psychoanalysis. Or love letters.... Refound here the American student with whom we had coffee last Saturday, the one who was looking for a thesis [End Page 57] subject (comparative literature), I suggested to her something on the telephone in the literature of the 20th century (and beyond), starting with, for example, the telephone lady in Proust or the figure of the American operator, and then asking the question of the effects of the most advanced telematics [la télématique la plus avancée] on whatever would still remain of literature. I spoke to her about microprocessors and computer terminals, she seemed somewhat disgusted [avait l'air un peu dégoutée]. She told me that she still loved literature (me too, I answered her, mais si, mais si). Curious to know what she understood by this. [Derrida, La carte postale 212, 219; Derrida Post Card 197, 204]What Derrida or rather his protagonist in La carte postale says in the citation I have made is truly frightening, at least to a lover of literature like me or like the protagonist's hapless interlocutor, the American graduate student in comparative literature who was looking for a dissertation topic...

A woman's right to say no to a proposal of marriage, in defiance of her family and friends, was an essential feature of Victorian middle- and upper-class ideology, as it is represented in novels of the time. This right was based on the assumptions that falling in love is to some degree fortuitous, but that it is a permanent ontological change of selfhood. A good woman is justified in saying no even to an advantageous marriage proposal if she does not love her suitor. Anthony Trollope's novels offer varied dramatizations of these assumptions, while Henry James's novels recount their incipient breakdown

"Matters"! This is an odd word when used as a verb. Of course we know what it means. The verbal form of "matter" means "count for something," "have import," "have effects in the real world," "be worth taking seriously." Using the word as a noun, however, someone might speak of "literature matters," meaning the whole realm that involves literature. The Newsletter of the Maine Chapter of the Appalachian Mountain Club is called Wilderness Matters, punning on the word as a noun and as a verb. We might say, analogously, "Literature Matters," as my title does. In medieval Europe learned people spoke of "the matter of Rome," "the matter of Arthur," "the matter of Greece," meaning the whole set of stories that lay behind ..

The function of Nietzsche in our present intellectual life is a salient example of the continued vitality of the nineteenth-century in the thought of today. In Germany, in France, in Italy, and in the United States new work of editing and commentary has made Nietzsche a current force. The monumental Colli-Montinari edition, which includes many of Nietzsche’s hitherto unpublished notebooks and drafts, is the most conspicuous evidence of this on the textual side. This edition will make available in German, French, Italian, and Japanese versions a far more complete and accurate Nietzsche than we have had. Mention should also be made of the new English translations by Walter Kaufmann. These have made good versions of most of Nietzsche’s books available to those with no German, though the Kaufmann translations are far less complete than the Colli-Montinari edition. On the side of commentary, the bibliography of new work on Nietzsche is enormous. Two collective volumes may be mentioned. They indicate at least a sketch map of this rugged terrain: The New Nietzsche: Contemporary Styles of Interpretation, edited and introduced by David D. Allison, and Nietzsche Aujourd’hui? The new work appropriates Nietzsche for present purposes. Ideas which may seem especially characteristic of the literature and philosophy of our own day are found to have been already worked out by Nietzsche in his own way. These would include linguistic, artistic, historical, social, and psychological concepts. Among these is Nietzsche’s systematic putting in question of the idea that the self is a substantial and integral entity.

For I have to remind you, somewhat bluntly and simply, that my most constant interest, coming even before my philosophical interest I should say, if this is possible, has been directed towards literature, towards that writing which is called literature. What is literature? –Jacques Derrida, “The Time of a Thesis, Punctuations” Literature is everywhere in Jacques Derrida's writing. It is there from one end to the other of his work, even in essays or books that superficially do not seem to involve “literature.” If Derek Attridge had not already invented or borrowed the phrase “Acts of Literature” as the title for his fine anthology of Derrida's writings about literature I might have called this chapter “Derrida's Acts of Literature.” The phrase “acts of literature” is a double genitive, subjective and objective at once. It names acts performed by literature, and at the same time acts that create or comment on literature. In what sense can literature, or writing about literature, or writing literature, or reading literature be an “act”? That is one of my main questions here. Derrida, along with all the other things he is (as this volume testifies), is one of the great literary critics of the twentieth century.

A poem encrypts, though not predictably, the effects it may have when at some future moment, in another context, it happens to be read and inscribed in a new situation, in ‘an interpretation that transforms the very thing it interprets’, as Jacques Derrida puts it in Specters of Marx. In Wallace Stevens's ‘The Man on the Dump’ (1942), we are told: ‘The dump is full/Of images’. The poem's movement is itself a complex temporal to and fro that aims to repudiate and even annihilate these images. This renunciation leaves the man on the dump ‘The Latest Freed Man’, as the title of another Stevens poem puts it. Like Walter Benjamin's Angel of History, he has his back toward history and has rejected its images in ‘disgust’ in order to face toward a future that will, he hopes, be purified of ideology. Yet Stevens knows that more such images will come and will need in their turn to be rejected and junked, in an endless task of purification. In a now impossibly outdated way, Stevens nevertheless wanted the poet – that is, himself, the man on the dump – to be the begetter of a new ideology, or a new fiction that would, in a powerful speech act, replace all those outworn images on the dump. In the context of potentially catastrophic climate change (as the result of something like a global auto-immune disorder), the second part of the essay complements this commentary on the poem with a free reading; a performative reading, reading as work or as oeuvre that does something with words, for which Jacques Derrida calls. This reading sees Stevens's text as somehow the proleptic foretelling of a present situation. Such future chiming is also, it is argued, a sign to sign relation, an anticipatory allegory or prophecy, or, perhaps, a miniature apocalypse in the etymological sense of an enigmatic unveiling of what has not yet happened