In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:Literary Power and the Criteria of TruthThomas ReinertLiterary Power and the Criteria of Truth, by Laura Quinney; xx & 183 pp. Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 1995, $35.00.Given the predominance of cultural materialism and historical scholarship, literary studies no longer ascribe much of a distinct, autonomous role to literariness as such. Current critics are interested in the complicity of individual works in the propagation of social and political (...) power, but the notion of literariness as a power in its own right has for the most part dropped away. The decline of this concept is a real loss; how great a loss becomes evident when one reads a book like Laura Quinney’s Literary Power and the Criteria of Truth, which in a gripping and authoritative fashion recalls the seductiveness of the literary.Quinney writes with a deconstructionist’s sense of the shaping influence that the desire for literature exercises over claims about the world. For Quinney, the literary—not just individual works, but literariness as a distinct disposition of language—has power and solicits attention on its own terms. To explain her general view of the prevalence of the literary in human experience, she makes use of Wittgenstein’s account of language as an engrossing and primary activity, irreducible to other drives or aims. To discuss the special case of literature, she turns to Maurice Blanchot’s notion that literature constitutes a distinct, impersonal, absorbing, but also uncanny and desolate “space.” Her book aims to affirm and expand on this Blanchotian idea.Quinney is primarily concerned with what she calls the “tragic paradigm” whose basic premise is that grim and depressing depictions of life somehow tell a greater or deeper truth than happy and comic depictions do. Working from this premise, writers and readers tend to set tragedy and the sublime above comedy and the beautiful in the hierarchy of literary forms. Quinney both acknowledges the force of this preference and puzzles over its oddity; she tries here to explain its origins.Through an examination of some of its most compelling exponents, Quinney interprets the tragic paradigm as a symptom of the struggle between an attraction to and a recoil from the “literary,” understood in Maurice Blanchot’s sense as an impersonal elaboration of language—language as a motiveless, subjectless compulsion akin to repetition in Freud. According to Quinney, literature is necessarily oriented toward representation, and for this reason, a passion for literature expresses itself as a “love of mimesis.” But because there is an irreducible difference between representation and what it represents, and because the truth it tries to tell is bound to be distorted, the love of it leads to a feeling of loss and mourning; and in turn this feeling seems to reflect the deepest truth of literary experience. According to Quinney, works that obey the logic of the tragic paradigm see the world through the prism of this failure of mimesis, the failure of literature to coincide with the world, and as a result the world appears to them colored with the pain of that failure.After a preliminary discussion of the sublime and tragedy, focusing on [End Page 275] Aeschylus, Edmund Burke, and Simone Weil, Quinney devotes the bulk of her book to Samuel Johnson and Percy Shelley as major representatives of the tragic paradigm. Johnson embodies the paradigm in all its ramifications, Quinney argues. Shelley, conversely, offers an example of the peculiar, almost surreal desolation that takes over when an author tries to break with the paradigm—that is, to deny tragedy any special epistemological authority—yet remains compulsively under its spell.These are dense, riveting, illuminating, and groundbreaking chapters. Readers will admire Quinney’s range of reference, her sureness of judgment, her originality, and her power to fascinate. Her argument takes counter-intuitive, paradoxical turns, but always with deliberation and patience. The book is strange, but its strangeness never feels gratuitous or self-indulgent; it only recalls the strangeness that may after all be intrinsic to literature itself.Thomas ReinertWellesley CollegeCopyright © 1996 The Johns Hopkins University Press... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:On NietzscheThomas ReinertOn Nietzsche, by Georges Bataille; translated by Bruce Boone; xxxiv & 199 pp. New York: Paragon House, 1994, $12.95 paper.Dating from 1944, On Nietzsche has the feel of a transitional work. Its themes of excess, risk, and self-loss had dominated Bataille’s writing since the late 1920s and do not seem freshly imagined here. They are, rather, brought together in a large, compendious argument, suggesting that at (...) this point Bataille was interested in systematizing his thoughts and ascertaining their deepest philosophical implications. A couple of years later he was to publish his major work, La part maudite, and it is tempting to see On Nietzsche as a kind of preparation for it.The book’s substantial preface lays out the vast cultural context in which Bataille sets his argument. He is concerned with experiencing “humanness” in its “entirety.” Since entirety involves an openness to all possible states, he argues, any undertaking or discipline that focuses desire—any orientation towards a goal—should be seen as a debilitating constraint. Earlier cultures seemed to indulge the free play of desire in their religious rituals; but in fact their mysticism was only a disguise for a kind of utilitarianism. The modern era’s secularism has done away with this obfuscation, and as a result the perplexing problem of human wholeness has now acutely posed itself.Generally, it is a problem of going “beyond” oneself. Bataille thinks of the self intuitively as a tender, vulnerable, delicately protected enclosure, something like an egg or a jelly. When it follows the dictates of goal-oriented thinking and the rationale of self-preservation, it pays the price of remaining single and isolated. Human “entirety” requires going beyond oneself; but this implies, in Bataille’s conceptualization, receiving a wound, being broken open and spilling out. The classical model of self-surpassing, in his view, is the wounded, crucified figure of Christ, who enables humanity to unite with divinity by subjecting his divinity to defilement.The conundrum of “going beyond oneself” is that one cannot set that activity itself as a goal for oneself. According to Bataille, even defining it theoretically, as his book tries to do, blocks the approach to it. It happens, when it happens, by chance; at most, one brings it on by taking risks, and so exposing oneself to chance. When the risk is real, it necessarily induces anxiety and distress, both because it raises the possibility of disaster, and because it neutralizes one’s powers of acting and leaves one helpless. Self-surpassing is agonizing, though it can be exuberant.More specifically, Bataille writes here about communication with other people; and, above all, about sex. Much of the book is a journal recorded between February and August 1944, at which time he was pursuing an affair with a woman he refers to as “K.” The distress of taking risks and of passively enduring chance figures here primarily in his relation with K. He felt with her [End Page 169] the impossibility of determining his fortune by his actions. Perhaps she was peculiarly unpredictable: at one point, Bataille compares her to Brett in The Sun Also Rises. But the account of their affair, like the book as a whole, unfolds at such a high level of abstraction that Bataille seems in it to expose himself to chance in general, as if the affair had been metaphysical rather than interpersonal.The book’s evocation of sex overall leaves one wondering how much Bataille’s metaphysical vocabulary gave rise to his anguish. In his terms, what is “not the self” is “nothingness”; when we make love, we go down from “transcendence” into “immanence” by “risking” ourselves in the “nothingness” of “woman’s nakedness.” The extremity of such language, the spareness of such categories, seems to generate a dire scenario that neither “communication” nor “humanness” is obliged, perhaps, to support.Thomas ReinertWellesley CollegeCopyright © 1995 The Johns Hopkins University Press... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:On NietzscheThomas ReinertOn Nietzsche, by Georges Bataille; translated by Bruce Boone; xxxiv & 199 pp. New York: Paragon House, 1994, $12.95 paper.Dating from 1944, On Nietzsche has the feel of a transitional work. Its themes of excess, risk, and self-loss had dominated Bataille’s writing since the late 1920s and do not seem freshly imagined here. They are, rather, brought together in a large, compendious argument, suggesting that at (...) this point Bataille was interested in systematizing his thoughts and ascertaining their deepest philosophical implications. A couple of years later he was to publish his major work, La part maudite, and it is tempting to see On Nietzsche as a kind of preparation for it.The book’s substantial preface lays out the vast cultural context in which Bataille sets his argument. He is concerned with experiencing “humanness” in its “entirety.” Since entirety involves an openness to all possible states, he argues, any undertaking or discipline that focuses desire—any orientation towards a goal—should be seen as a debilitating constraint. Earlier cultures seemed to indulge the free play of desire in their religious rituals; but in fact their mysticism was only a disguise for a kind of utilitarianism. The modern era’s secularism has done away with this obfuscation, and as a result the perplexing problem of human wholeness has now acutely posed itself.Generally, it is a problem of going “beyond” oneself. Bataille thinks of the self intuitively as a tender, vulnerable, delicately protected enclosure, something like an egg or a jelly. When it follows the dictates of goal-oriented thinking and the rationale of self-preservation, it pays the price of remaining single and isolated. Human “entirety” requires going beyond oneself; but this implies, in Bataille’s conceptualization, receiving a wound, being broken open and spilling out. The classical model of self-surpassing, in his view, is the wounded, crucified figure of Christ, who enables humanity to unite with divinity by subjecting his divinity to defilement.The conundrum of “going beyond oneself” is that one cannot set that activity itself as a goal for oneself. According to Bataille, even defining it theoretically, as his book tries to do, blocks the approach to it. It happens, when it happens, by chance; at most, one brings it on by taking risks, and so exposing oneself to chance. When the risk is real, it necessarily induces anxiety and distress, both because it raises the possibility of disaster, and because it neutralizes one’s powers of acting and leaves one helpless. Self-surpassing is agonizing, though it can be exuberant.More specifically, Bataille writes here about communication with other people; and, above all, about sex. Much of the book is a journal recorded between February and August 1944, at which time he was pursuing an affair with a woman he refers to as “K.” The distress of taking risks and of passively enduring chance figures here primarily in his relation with K. He felt with her [End Page 169] the impossibility of determining his fortune by his actions. Perhaps she was peculiarly unpredictable: at one point, Bataille compares her to Brett in The Sun Also Rises. But the account of their affair, like the book as a whole, unfolds at such a high level of abstraction that Bataille seems in it to expose himself to chance in general, as if the affair had been metaphysical rather than interpersonal.The book’s evocation of sex overall leaves one wondering how much Bataille’s metaphysical vocabulary gave rise to his anguish. In his terms, what is “not the self” is “nothingness”; when we make love, we go down from “transcendence” into “immanence” by “risking” ourselves in the “nothingness” of “woman’s nakedness.” The extremity of such language, the spareness of such categories, seems to generate a dire scenario that neither “communication” nor “humanness” is obliged, perhaps, to support.Thomas ReinertWellesley CollegeCopyright © 1995 The Johns Hopkins University Press... (shrink)