In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Lermontov And The Omniscience Of NarratorsDavid A. GoldfarbGod and fictional narrators are the only beings who are sometimes considered omniscient. God, who is sometimes regarded as not fictional, is frequently also regarded as omnipotent. Narrators, who normally seem to have no sphere of action save for conveying information to readers, particularly when they speak omnisciently in the third person, are not considered to have “power” in any way, (...) because they are supposed to function outside the story. God always speaks in the first person, and is regarded as an all-powerful agent.But what happens when the narrator gets in on the action? First-person narrators can enter the plot, speaking in the voice of personal narrative, and sometimes “know” as much or more than some third-person narrators who are supposedly “omniscient.” The positivistic “third-person omniscient” narrator of Turgenev’s Fathers and Sons, for instance, knows only what he sees, and though his omnipresence allows him to see quite a bit, he has virtually no access to the minds of the characters, as do the psychologically omniscient third-person narrators of Tolstoy or Henry James. If knowledge were thus limited in the context of a novel to observables, a first-person narrator who gets around enough could appear much like an omniscient narrator, while also appearing to present a particular point of view. Conversely, the third-person narrator’s seeming objectivity is similarly illusory. Any narrator “chooses” what information to relay, and when and how to relay it. In a sense, third-person omniscient narrators fictionally determine what counts as “the story,” creating the fictional world with their godlike voice. Some overbearing narrators, like Nikolai Chernyshevsky’s anonymous first-person narrator in What Is To Be Done, adopt not only an omniscient and objective standpoint with regard to the actions and [End Page 61] thoughts of the characters, but even presume to tell readers how to interpret the events in the novel. Therefore, all narrators have varying amounts of both knowledge and power, and in some cases they may approach, within variously circumscribed spheres of knowledge and agency, omniscience and omnipotence.In this essay, I would like to explore the range of constraints and effects of the narrator’s fictional power and knowledge. As a test case, I have chosen Mikhail Lermontov’s novel, A Hero of Our Time (Geroi nashego vremeni). Writing between 1837 and 1840, Lermontov was one of the first Russian writers to experiment with the form of the novel, influenced primarily by contemporary English, French, and German examples, as well as the classical epic, making this work, like many of the early Russian novels of the 1820s and 1830s, a jumble of narrative styles interestingly layered on each other. It is a particularly fecund work for studies of narrative subjectivity, because characters shift from narrator to narratee across a variety of genres, all in one text.A Hero of Our Time is composed of five major chapters: “Bela,” “Maksim Maksimich,” “Taman,” “Princess Mary,” and “The Fatalist,” the last three of which comprise the journal of the main character, the officer Grigory Pechorin. The “journal” chapters are preceded by a brief section, set in 1838 or 1839, sometime after Pechorin’s death, called the “Introduction to Pechorin’s Journal.” In “Bela” an unnamed traveler gathering stories in the Caucasus during the year 1837 meets an older officer, Maksim Maksimich, who tells a yarn about the Byronic adventures of Pechorin in the spring of 1833 involving his abduction of a Circassian woman after whom the chapter is named. The second chapter is an interlude, which takes place in 1837, where Maksim and the first narrator actually meet Pechorin, whom Maksim has not seen for about five years, and Pechorin gives his diaries to the first narrator. “Taman” recounts, in the form of a diary, a strange incident in which Pechorin, around 1830, meets smugglers while stranded in the Crimea and is nearly drowned by a young girl. “Princess Mary,” the longest tale, takes place in May 1832—a love story modeled after Aleksander Pushkin’s Eugene Onegin, culminating in a duel in which Pechorin prevails over a certain Grushnitskij, his friend earlier in the... (shrink)

The paper discusses in six parts the role of knowledge and omniscience in narration. The first part identifies kinds of knowledge which usually inform narratives, using modern and medieval narratives as examples. The second part focuses on the carrier of knowledge: it is the author, but also the narrator to whom omniscience is attributed. The third part describes the phenomenology of this knowledge which cannot be derived in a natural manner and traces it back in the history of narration. (...) The concept of omniscience is defined in the fourth part and distinguished from divine omniscientia. Omniscience was ›discovered‹ as a characteristic of third-person narration only at the beginning of the 19th century – evidence of this is given in part V. Finally, part VI discusses if the concept of omniscience can apply to modern forms of representing the mental states of characters. (shrink)

The problem of the fictional truthfulness of deviant evaluations is a description of a paradox that has become the subject of debate in the philosophy of literature of the analytical tradition in the last thirty years. Philosophers such as Walton, Tanner, Moran, Gendler, and others have constructed “mini-stories” in order to show that the authors of fiction, regardless of the almost unlimited powers of what they can make true in their fictional storyworlds cannot successfully construct a fiction in which an (...) objectively false evaluation would nevertheless be fictionally true in the story. For example, someone comes up with a fictional account in which a brutal unmotivated murder takes place. The author merely postulates such an event, and then readers accept it as true in the story. But let us imagine that the description of the murder also contains the evaluation of such an act as a morally right thing to do. We do not accept an evaluation that we consider “deviant” in relation to our current (moral) beliefs as an integral part of the fictional world, even though the author asks us to do so. The paradox is that it seems to be a basic convention of fiction that all third-person narrative statements that cannot be attributed to fictional characters are always fictionally true. This seems to constitute a major restriction to the narratorial authority prompting us to question our usual understanding of the phenomenon of fiction. However, by analysing specific “mini-fictions”, the article argues that (i) there is no good reason to assume that deviant evaluations in these mini-stories are uttered by some thirdperson narratorial voice that cannot be identified with a fictional character; (ii) that deviant evaluations must always be voiced by a personal narrator; (iii) that such personal narrators are never sensu stricto “omniscient” and that we do not need to trust them unquestioningly when, for example, they evaluate a murder as “the right thing to do”. The whole paradox, we claim, is just a pseudo-problem generated by ignoring concrete reading practices and a simplified understanding of narrative conventions. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:The Journal of Aesthetic Education 37.4 (2003) 124-137 [Access article in PDF] Difference, Visual Narration, and "Point of View" in My Name is Red Feride Çiçekoglu This paper focuses on the difference between Eastern and Western ways of visual narration, taking as its frame of reference the novel My Name is Red, by Turkish author Orhan Pamuk, winner of the 2003 International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award, announced on May (...) 19, 2003 at Dublin Castle. 1This book is particularly important in terms of visual narration because it highlights the critical concept of "point of view" (POV). In his now internationally renowned novel, Pamuk's anachronistically created characters confront each other on ways of seeing and visual narration in the context of sixteenth-century Istanbul, when it was the capital of the Ottoman Empire. The visual narratives of miniature painting are elaborated in comparison with the contemporary Renaissance art, unfolding the differences in the depiction of faces, in particular. Style in visual narration is treated in the novel as a reflection of seeing and imaging the faces in their uniqueness and iscontrasted with the tradition of Islamic book illumination where all faces appear to be the same. Western concerns with individuality and the uniqueness of the POV as revealed in one-point-perspective, suggests it is an indispensable aspect of style. In that sense, My Name is Red highlights portraiture in the visual arts as a reflection of character in visual narration; reflecting both the subject and the artist whose individuality is represented in the style of painting. Pamuk's novel, constructed as a symphony of many different voices, is well-suited in its form to its subject matter since it elaborates the concept of POV in fictional narrative structure. Through his characters, Pamuk's readers enter a world where Renaissance perspectivism — a dominance of vision — confronts the ultimate vision of blindness, presented in the novel as the self-imposed fate of the miniaturists at the peak of their careers. The worry about point of view is thus contrasted with its opposite — the absence of vision as supreme achievement within the Islamic-Turkic tradition. [End Page 124]This essay discusses issues of portraiture and character, movement and time, and story and space with reference to the narrative structure in fiction film. It aims to contribute to the discussion on POV in visual narration, dealing with the narrative structure of film as a continuation and interaction of different traditions in East and West. "Point of View" Revisited As a key concept in the narrative structure of both film and literary fiction, POV has been controversial. As a technical term in film practice, however, it is defined rather clearly: POV is a camera concept which describes what is seen by the camera. Where one puts the camera and what the camera sees defines the frame and the image. When one wants to tell a story with a sequence of images, one has to consider how one will use the camera, both for the whole sequence and for each image. From whose point of view, or from which different points of view will the story be told? Will it originate with a omniscient point of view or with the point of view of one of the characters, diving into the story from the inside? Will the camera be placed at the top of the room, on a crane, or under the table from where a child can see only the legs of the grown-ups? One has to make a series of technical and artisticdecisions relevant to the policy of points of view from which to narrate. This is similar to a comic strip, except that in visual narration with a camera, the frames follow one another in time rather than in space, creating the illusion that the images are moving when projected.We take this premise so much for granted in an age flooded withimages — seeing almost as a camera ourselves — that we tend to overlook the fact that once there were other ways of seeing and narrating. Narratives... (shrink)

We propose to analyze well-known cases of "imaginative resistance" from the philosophical literature (Gendler, Walton, Weatherson) as involving the inference that particular content should be attributed to either: (i) a character rather than the narrator or, (ii) an unreliable, irrational, opinionated, and/or morally deviant "first person" narrator who was originally perceived to be a typical impersonal, omniscient, "effaced" narrator. We model the latter type of attribution in terms of two independently motivated linguistic mechanisms: accommodation of a (...) discourse referent (Lewis, Stalnaker, Kamp) and 'cautious' updating as a model of non-cooperative information exchange (Eckardt). (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:The Journal of Aesthetic Education 37.4 (2003) 124-137 [Access article in PDF] Difference, Visual Narration, and "Point of View" in My Name is Red Feride Çiçekoglu This paper focuses on the difference between Eastern and Western ways of visual narration, taking as its frame of reference the novel My Name is Red, by Turkish author Orhan Pamuk, winner of the 2003 International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award, announced on May (...) 19, 2003 at Dublin Castle. 1This book is particularly important in terms of visual narration because it highlights the critical concept of "point of view" (POV). In his now internationally renowned novel, Pamuk's anachronistically created characters confront each other on ways of seeing and visual narration in the context of sixteenth-century Istanbul, when it was the capital of the Ottoman Empire. The visual narratives of miniature painting are elaborated in comparison with the contemporary Renaissance art, unfolding the differences in the depiction of faces, in particular. Style in visual narration is treated in the novel as a reflection of seeing and imaging the faces in their uniqueness and iscontrasted with the tradition of Islamic book illumination where all faces appear to be the same. Western concerns with individuality and the uniqueness of the POV as revealed in one-point-perspective, suggests it is an indispensable aspect of style. In that sense, My Name is Red highlights portraiture in the visual arts as a reflection of character in visual narration; reflecting both the subject and the artist whose individuality is represented in the style of painting. Pamuk's novel, constructed as a symphony of many different voices, is well-suited in its form to its subject matter since it elaborates the concept of POV in fictional narrative structure. Through his characters, Pamuk's readers enter a world where Renaissance perspectivism — a dominance of vision — confronts the ultimate vision of blindness, presented in the novel as the self-imposed fate of the miniaturists at the peak of their careers. The worry about point of view is thus contrasted with its opposite — the absence of vision as supreme achievement within the Islamic-Turkic tradition. [End Page 124]This essay discusses issues of portraiture and character, movement and time, and story and space with reference to the narrative structure in fiction film. It aims to contribute to the discussion on POV in visual narration, dealing with the narrative structure of film as a continuation and interaction of different traditions in East and West. "Point of View" Revisited As a key concept in the narrative structure of both film and literary fiction, POV has been controversial. As a technical term in film practice, however, it is defined rather clearly: POV is a camera concept which describes what is seen by the camera. Where one puts the camera and what the camera sees defines the frame and the image. When one wants to tell a story with a sequence of images, one has to consider how one will use the camera, both for the whole sequence and for each image. From whose point of view, or from which different points of view will the story be told? Will it originate with a omniscient point of view or with the point of view of one of the characters, diving into the story from the inside? Will the camera be placed at the top of the room, on a crane, or under the table from where a child can see only the legs of the grown-ups? One has to make a series of technical and artisticdecisions relevant to the policy of points of view from which to narrate. This is similar to a comic strip, except that in visual narration with a camera, the frames follow one another in time rather than in space, creating the illusion that the images are moving when projected.We take this premise so much for granted in an age flooded withimages — seeing almost as a camera ourselves — that we tend to overlook the fact that once there were other ways of seeing and narrating. Narratives... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Deborah Knight SELVES, INTERPRETERS, NARRATORS I Autobiography, understood in die standard sense of someone telling or more frequendy writing the story of her life, has been a periodic focus of philosophical attention. Partly this is because philosophers such as Augustine and Rousseau have written some of the classics of the genre. Recendy, interest in autobiography has been renewed among philosophers concerned widi narrative and especially those concerned widi die (...) relation between interpretation, narration, and die self. In particular, there has been considerable interest in questions of narrative voice and perspective,1 as well as in questions concerning whether die self is (merely) a literary or fictional construct. One philosopher who has had much to say about selves as autobiographers is Daniel C. Dennett. He argues that the self is just an autobiographical accretion forming on or around some agent who is able to speak, to differentiate itself from others, and to call itself "I."2 The self, according to Dennett, is just the hole surrounded by the autobiographical doughnut. It is a fiction, and like any otiier fiction, what any selfamounts to will depend on die way we tell the story. But as I will argue, Dennett's view oversimplifies die complex narrational role involved in telling tales about oneself and otiiers. It also oversimplifies die relationship between the accreters of autobiography and dieir interpreters. In particular, it fails to recognize that both autobiographical accreters and interpreters are involved in a narrational activity. Perhaps it should not surprise us to discover a philosopher-novelist whose work offers a helpful counterpoint to Dennett's views about story-based selves. Rebecca Goldstein's novel, TheLate-SummerPassion of a Woman ofMind,5 contains an important insight into die narrational Philosophy and Literature, © 1994, 18: 274-286 Deborah Knight275 function presupposed by bodi interpreters and self-interpreters. Goldstein, not unlike Dennett, argues that in a fundamental sense our lives are accounted for and made sense of in storied terms. This is not an original observation. What Goldstein recognizes that Dennett does not is the complex narrational interconnection between teller and interpreter. Further, she recognizes the hopelessness of the desire for some omniscient interpreter or impersonal narrator—some third-person interpretive perspective that can simply bracket the intentions of the agent as that agent understands them. Goldstein helps us to see part of what is at stake in all discussions of storied lives, as well as what is at stake in the idea diat die self or subject of action is produced through the stories tiiat we and otiiers tell. So let me contrast Dennett's views about narrated selves with Goldstein's views. My objective is to show the limitations of Dennett's position, and die suggestiveness of Goldstein's. II Dennett's views about the self can be thought of in terms of a pair of guiding intuitions: either (Dl) the self is soul-like, the ghost in the Cartesian machine, the originator a priori ofmeanings and actions, the incorrigible source of intentions, the consciousness that preexists and directs action; or (D2) the self is discursive, which is to say that it is a product formed in language dirough die telling and exchanging of tales about ourselves. If (Dl), then the self is prelinguistic and makes each of us God-like creators and guarantors of our meanings; or, if (D2), then the selfis the fragmentary, pieced-togetiier posit that orients us through an otherwise potentially unbalancing variety of environmental and psychological inputs and outputs. Dennett treats diese two views as the only possible positions in die debate, and since his brand of anti-Cartesianism, like RyIe's before him, requires that he refute (Dl), he is left only with (D2). By refuting (Dl) and keeping (D2), Dennett allows himself to conclude that, while agents' selves are spun through the tales they tell of themselves, there is no good reason to base one's interpretation of any agent on the version of the tale told by that agent. The only perspective from which agents can be interpreted is a diird-person perspective. There can be no significant question as to first-person authority, since on Dennett's view, die first-person subjective position has... (shrink)

This article reconsiders John Bender’s reading of Fielding’s fiction and proposals for judicial reform in Imagining the Penitentiary by replacing Fielding’s writings in their religious context. Bender links Fielding’s use of omniscient narrators to his insistence on penal procedure and to his organising information in narrative sequences. Even though Bender’s analyses prove fruitful to account for certain formal innovations brought forth by Fielding, they tend to overlook Fielding’s hatred for Methodism and its consequences on his novels, parodies and satires. (...) Contrarily to Samuel Richardson, who relied on prefaces and authorial interventions to make sure that the moral meaning of his novels was unequivocal, Fielding used prefaces and intrusive narrators to highlight the fictionality of his works and to be both more transparent and more opaque about his own writing practices. Fielding’s avowals of fictionality are meant to destroy the illusion of narrative authenticity, which can easily turn into hypocrisy, which Fielding often links to Methodism and Pamela. However, they also contribute to giving a greater liberty and responsibility to the reader. If Fielding’s novels participate in the ‘rise of the penitentiary’, it is not because they institute the narrator as a judge, but rather because they organise the disappearance of the author through the perfection of the narrative architecture. (shrink)

Two studies tested whether observers could differentiate between two facets of pride—authentic and hubristic—on the basis of a single prototypical pride nonverbal expression combined with relevant contextual information. In Study 1, participants viewed targets displaying posed pride expressions in response to success, while causal attributions for the success (target's effort vs. ability) and the source of this information (target vs. omniscient narrator conveying objective fact) were varied. Study 2 used a similar method, but attribution information came from both (...) the target and an omniscient narrator; the congruence of these attributions was varied. Across studies, participants tended to label expressions as authentic pride, but were relatively more likely to label them as hubristic pride when (a) contextual information indicated that targets were arrogant and (b) no mitigating information about the target's potential value as a hard-working group member (i.e., that success was actually due to effort) was presented. (shrink)

This article examines how the historian deals with ‘information’ broadly conceived, especially its acquisition, retention and loss. Ammianus details a complex interplay between those who control information and those who must work with an information deficit. Just as this dialogue plays out within the text, however, so too does it with respect to the author's methodology, which dances between the poles of incomplete and complete information depending on circumstance. Ammianus thus becomes an author as hard to pin down as many (...) of his characters, by turns the omniscient narrator and the dumbfounded participant. (shrink)

This book explores the logic and historical origins of a strange taboo that has haunted literary critics since the 1940s, keeping them from referring to the intentions of authors without apology. The taboo was enforced by a seminal article, "The Intentional Fallacy," and it deepened during the era of poststructuralist theory. Even now, when the vocabulary of "critique" that has dominated the literary field is under sweeping revision, the matter of authorial intention has yet to be reconsidered. This work explains (...) how "The Intentional Fallacy" confused different kinds of authorial intentions and how literary critics can benefit from a more up-to-date understanding of intentionality in language. The result is a challenging inventory of the resources of literary theory, including implied readers, poetic speakers, omniscient narrators, interpretive communities, linguistic indeterminacy, unconscious meaning, literary value, and the nature of literature itself. (shrink)

This article presents a narratological reading of the Gospel of Mark with special attention given to the role, function and rhetorical impact of point of view. It is argued that through the use of ‘witnesses’ ranging from the omniscient narrator, to the character God, to the Old Testament Scriptures, the author of Mark presents a point of view that his implied reader would find difficult to counter. In addition to this, the article demonstrates that the motifs of allegiance, (...) misunderstanding and opposition in the Second Gospel are almost entirely confined to the adoption or rejection of the point of view being advocated for by the author of Mark. In the end, it is shown that only in the death of Jesus on the cross and the subsequent ‘centurion’s confession’ are the motifs resolved and is the point of view of Mark accepted by a human character. (shrink)

The article examines a few short stories of Flora Annie Steel, a Scottish memsahib who spent a number of decades in the late nineteenth century in India with her husband, a British colonial official. Steel's short stories are interesting because they were produced at a time when most Anglo-Indian fictions (especially those authored by memsahibs) focused exclusively on station romances, and they explore with some seriousness and sense of complexity, issues related to the impact of Imperial reformatory intervention in the (...) lives of Indian women. Her female contemporaries wrote fictions that more often than not completely ignored the existence of Indians, and even famous male writers like Kipling stereotypically reduced Indian women either to sexually licentious or completely passive, voiceless entities. Steel, in her stories, examines questions of gender, sexuality and reform in the context of Indian women's lives in ways that often seem to go beyond such racial stereotypes. The stories have been examined within the context of the different political and social formations of the specific regions – Punjab or Bengal – in which they are based, since women's reform had very different trajectories in these regions. The remarkableness of Steel's stories, however, lies in their attempting to look at the reform question from the Indian women's perspectives. What cannot be ignored are the ways in which these stories attempt to go beyond the prevalent Anglo-Indian modes of stereotyping or completely erasing Indian women and register their voices in examining questions related to their reform. This is not to say that racial and Imperial hierarchies are entirely abandoned in her writings. In fact the omniscient narrator in these fictions often narrates in ways that sustain and strengthen such hierarchies. However, there are moments when the diegetic narrative mode gives way to an ironically nuanced narrative voice and to ambivalences that seem to gesture at complex questioning of the bases of Imperial authority and its ostensibly benevolent intervention in the lives of Indian women. It is these moments that make the stories worth exploring. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:March 13, 2008 (7:35 pm) G:\WPData\TYPE2702\russell 27,2 054.wpd 272 Reviews 1 See Brian J.yL. Berry and Donald C. Dahmen, “Paul Wheatley, 1921–1999”, Annals of the Association of American Geographers 91 (2001): 734–47. THE LIVES OF THOSE WHO WOULD BE IMMORTAL Richard Henry Schmitt U. of Chicago Chicago, il 60637, usa [email protected] David Leavitt. The Indian Clerk: a Novel. London: Bloomsbury, 2008; New York: Bloomsbury, 2007. Pp. 485. isbn 1-59691-040-2. (...) £16.99; us$24.95 (hb). From the start, this novel interested me for two reasons. First, it attempts to tell us the personal stories of two individuals who were working at the highest level in a very abstract Weld, namely G.yH. Hardy (1877–1947) and Srinivasa Ramanujan (1887–1920) during their collaboration on pure mathematics between spring 1914 and spring 1919. Obviously the same problems would arise in trying to tell the personal story of Bertrand Russell’s supervision of Ludwig Wittgenstein in mathematical logic, which occurred at Cambridge University in the years just before the start of the Great War. It is a great challenge to try to tie personal dynamics and abstract thought into a single coherent narrative. There are implications for the philosophy of mathematics and the history and sociology of science. So, of course, we have to ask: how does author David Leavitt rise to this challenge? Second, a more personal reason: Paul Wheatley1 told me shortly before his death that he thought this period at Cambridge represented the highest accom- March 13, 2008 (7:35 pm) G:\WPData\TYPE2702\russell 27,2 054.wpd Reviews 273 2 G.yH. Hardy, Ramanujan: Twelve Lectures on Subjects Suggested by His Life and Work (Cambridge: Cambridge U. P., 1940). Two lectures were presented at Harvard in 1936; the Wrst, a more personal recollection, was printed unchanged. The quote is from p. 2. The second lecture was expanded into the remaining published lectures, all considering speciWc mathematical topics. plishment possible for an academic institution: its fellows and masters had managed to attract and then recognize the genius of Ramanujan and Wittgenstein and to admit them to advanced studies without any real academic credentials. Wheatley had been the chair of the Committee on Social Thought at the University of Chicago; so, he knew something about such matters, as he did about many things involving humans, human settlements, and their arrangement in the world. Incidentally, Wheatley himself appeared as a character, Battle, in Ravenstein, Saul Bellow’s roman à clef about Allan Bloom. So, to the extent that Cambridge University just before and during the Great War plays a role here, we want to learn as much as we can about the atmosphere of the place. The Indian Clerk is a historical novelz—zin this case naming actual names, elaborating what we know about real people and occasionally adding Wctional charactersz—zall centered on the extraordinary mathematical genius Ramanujan and his equally extraordinary importation from India to Cambridge. The story is told largely in the third person, by an omniscient narrator, but repeatedly we also have the inner voice of G.yH. Hardy: there are a number of chapters with the indication “New Lecture Hall, Harvard University”, dated 1936, in which Hardy speaks in the Wrst person. In these passages David Leavitt uses parts of the published lectures, along with G.yH. Hardy’s private thoughtsz—zas imagined by Leavittz—zabout this “one romantic incident in my life” and about other matters that still haunt him.2 The novel is thus in some sense more about G.yH. Hardy and his inner life than it is about Srinivasa Ramanujan. The triumph of the novel is its ability to reconstruct and convey in a lively manner the circumstances of the time, the look and smell of the place, the crosscurrents, dynamics, and dislocations of people during these years. Leavitt has woven together a great deal, from many diTerent realms: pre-war meetings of the Apostles, the high table, the pre-war mathematics tripos, the method of collaboration between Hardy and J.yE. Littlewood, Cambridge as military training grounds and as hospital for the wounded, vegetarian cookery, feminism, Hindu... (shrink)

In this article I shall argue for an interpretation of Odyssey 19.393–466 as a flash-back taking place in the mind of Eurykleia at the moment she recognises Odysseus' scar. That Eurykleia somehow forms the connection between main story and digression has been suggested before, but so far other interpretations have been defended with more fervour. Most famous of these interpretations is the one given by E. Auerbach in the first chapter of his Mimesis. He had chosen 19.393–466 to illustrate his (...) thesis that in Homer everything is ‘fully externalized’ and that there is no background, only a ‘uniformly illuminated’ foreground. According to Auerbach the digression on the scar stands in complete isolation to its context. It is meant to ‘relax the tension’, to make the hearer/reader ‘forget what had just taken place during the footwashing’, and although it might have been presented as a recollection of Odysseus , this ‘subjectivisticperspectivistic procedure, creating a foreground and background’ was not chosen, being ‘entirely foreign to the Homeric style’. Some twenty years later this interpretation was challenged by A. Köhnken, who, however, stuck to the idea that the digression is not told from the restricted perspective of one of the characters but from the perspective of the omniscient narrator; he claims that foreground and background are marked as such through a difference in narrative style: ‘berichtende Erzählung’ for the digression itself and ‘szenische Darstellung’ for the context. I disagree with both points. (shrink)

The conflict between Jupiter and Juno in the Aeneid is commonly read as a battle between the forces of order and chaos. The present article argues that this schematization, though morally and aesthetically satisfying, fails to account for most of the data. Virgil's Jupiter is in fact concerned solely with power and adulation, despite persistent attempts by readers——and characters in the poem——to see him as benign. By systematically discussing every appearance of Jupiter in the poem, the article seeks to correct (...) the distorted or incomplete views of the god that arise from selective examination. The first section looks at Jupiter's own speeches to illustrate his motivations. The second section demonstrates how these motivations, though frequently misconstrued by the human characters, are confirmed by the glimpses of Jupiter focalized through the omniscient narrator. The third discusses the implications of this portrait of Jupiter for Virgil's vision of Rome and of human happiness. (shrink)

Steven Spielberg‘s filmed representation of the Holocaust dares its viewers to experience, as secondary witnesses, atrocities committed by the Nazis in Poland. The film is yet another form of testimonial narrative (audio-visual but lacking a full historical context, except for a few on-screen titles) which aligns the survivors, who have come to be known as the Schindler Jews, and their descendants, on the one hand, and Spielberg‘s cameraman (comparable to an internalized narrator), Spielberg the film director (an external, (...) class='Hi'>omniscient narrator), and the film-theater audience, on the other. We are all turned into witnesses in the same process and at the same time in which the real witnesses, the survivors, testify to the horror of the Holocaust. (shrink)

This text investigates some difficulties that Semantic Externalism presents for the idea of “self-knowledge” and “first person authority”. I would like to defend that those difficulties originate mainly from the fact that externalist arguments often fall back on mental experiments construed in the perspective of an omniscient narrator. I believe that “self-knowledge” and “first person authority” should be thought of not from the viewpoint of epistemology, but our normal practical capacities to evaluate, ponder, criticize, judge our thoughts, attitudes (...) and actions, especially when we want to give proof, plan something, talk with other people, justify, explain, in short, when we want to offer reasons. (shrink)

The conflict between Jupiter and Juno in the Aeneid is commonly read as a battle between the forces of order and chaos . The present article argues that this schematization, though morally and aesthetically satisfying, fails to account for most of the data. Virgil's Jupiter is in fact concerned solely with power and adulation , despite persistent attempts by readers—and characters in the poem—to see him as benign. By systematically discussing every appearance of Jupiter in the poem, the article seeks (...) to correct the distorted or incomplete views of the god that arise from selective examination. The first section looks at Jupiter's own speeches to illustrate his motivations. The second section demonstrates how these motivations, though frequently misconstrued by the human characters, are confirmed by the glimpses of Jupiter focalized through the omniscient narrator. The third discusses the implications of this portrait of Jupiter for Virgil's vision of Rome and of human happiness. (shrink)

Although contemporary historical novels share a number of features with the traditional historical novel, as analysed by Lukács (1981), they display a fundamental change in the perception of history, evident in the disappearance of the omniscient narrator, in their choice of significant and representative figures, and scepticism regarding teleology of history or the world-historical role of war and violence. On the one hand, history has become a riddle, and this is reflected in the preference for the form of (...) the detective novel, for which the model is The Name of the Rose (Eco 1983). On the other hand, there is a clear preference for two historical periods: the collapse of the ancient world and the birth of the modern from the Renaissance to the 18th century. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:88 Reviews EPISTEMOLOGY OFMODERNISM WILLIAM R. EVERDELL History/ St. Ann'sSchool Brooklyn, NY 11201, USA [email protected] Ann Banfield. The Phantom Table:Woolf,Fry,Russelland the Epistemology of Modernism. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge U.P., 2000. £35.00; US$49.95. In Virginia Woolf's difficult masterpiece, The Waves(1931),each of several separate interior monologues-"streams of consciousness" in the American critical idiom-is separated from the next by an interpolated "Interlude". The interior monologues are assigned co different characters, bur (...) the Interludes are rendered from no perspectiveat all, verymuch like the "Time Passes"chapter of Woolf's earlier and better known novel, Tothe Lighthouse (1927).The passive voice and the demonstrative and indefinite pronotms are essential, removing from the scene not only the characters' points of view, but the author's as well. Numbered among the consequences of the new twentieth-century technique of interior monologue, the Interludes can be accepted today as one more trick of literary "Modernism", but for Woolf it was new, and the task of preventing any of her Interludes from becoming just another report from the rypical "omniscient narrator" of Victorian fiction was one of the most demanding she ever set herself as a writer. Like her friend the Post-Impressionist critic Roger Fry, she wanted to analyze the world outside the self into its smallest sensible elements, then show human selvesasthey formed by accumulating the experience of these myriad, random, discontinuous components, and finally to recombine these components in their two kinds, selvesand sense-able things, into a meaningful whole-a work of art. Rejecting both the idealism of Bradley and the British philosophical generation of the 1890sand the naive positivist materialism coming out of the 1850s, Bertrand Russell eventually settled on an ontology most philosophers call "realist " in that it rejected the view that the world accessible to the senses was no more than a mental construct and considered it naive to assign the origin of subjectivity to matter. The material world was, Russell thought, actually external -"out there". He did think, however,that all we knew of the external world was what wassensed by the sensesand pictured by the mind. He alsoconcluded (in essayslike "The Relation of Sense-data to Physics"written in 1910-17)d1at both that world and what we knew of it was presented in very small parts, and Reviews 89 analyzable down to them, or, in other words, that both ontology and epistemology were atomized. Each mind, with its senses, occupied, he thought, one of an infinite number of occupied and unoccupied "perspectives", each of which Lmiquely focused che "sensibilia"-whatever was perceived in che external world-like a Leibnizian monad. Machemacicallogic, on which Russell set che highest store, would be able, he thought, to bring together perspectives by providing a minimal secof cruchswhich, though abscracc,were objective in che sense chaccheywere noc private and could be agreed to by all. Something similar though rougher mighc be done for chesensibilia in cheworld "ouc chere" by che science of physics. Did Virginia Woolflearn from Bertrand Russell?To a latcer-dayacademic ic sounds too urrerly improbable, for che simple reason (obvious to academics) chat anyone who has made icto the upper levelsof English literature must have chosen cheseparticular heights to scale because the trail was so blessedlyfreeof chosenasry mathematical burrs and logical reazles,and the air so filledwith che pure chatter of French phenomenologisrs, that no hiker would ever have to struggle with analytical philosophy again. Lessmetaphorically, the separation of departments of literature from those of philosophy has come so close to divorce chat few in U.S. English Departments can make head or cail of che graduate thesis that one of Russell's philosophy students wrote on F.H. Bradley, and fewer still can trace the term "objective correlative" used by thac student (who was in fact T. S. Eliot) back to an early work of Husserl. Meanwhile, ic is taken for granted by those in Philosophy that there are no ideas worth discussing in Woolf, or, indeed, in any other novelise,greacthough she may be, Lmlessone is to descend from ontology and epistemology to the foothills of ethics and politics, or worse, aesthetics. (Among... (shrink)

In the closing chapter of his recent bestseller The Blank Slate, Steven Pinker attributes what he dislikes in modern literature to the influence of poor empiricist psychology. The modernist ‘denial of human nature’ resulted, Pinker informs us sadly, in the replacement of ‘omniscient narration, structured plots, the orderly introduction of characters, and general readability’ by ‘a stream of consciousness, events presented out of order, baffling characters and causal sequences, subjective and disjointed narration, and difficult prose’ (p.410). And, worse still, (...) ‘in postmodernist literature, authors comment on what they are writing while they are writing it’ (p.411). Pinker doesn’t mention the intense pleasure which rather large numbers of readers find in the novels of Thomas Pynchon or Paul Auster, for example: but I suspect this would be ascribed to a disavowed hunger for status fostered by pretentious and unintelligible critics (compare pp.412-6). (shrink)

Some theorists on literary interpretation have suggested a connection between Monroe C. Beardsley’s anti-intentionalism and hypothetical intentionalism based on an implied author. However, a full exploration has never been attempted. I undertake this task in this paper. A close reading of Beardsley reveals that he assumes something very similar to the implied author in interpretation. I distinguish five types of fictional works in terms of their narrative mode and show that my claim stands in at least four of the five (...) types. The significance of my argument lies in exposing the above version of authorism in anti-intentionalism. -/- Beardsley is generally perceived as advocating the irrelevance of authorial intention to literary interpretation. The common interpretation of his theory is that work-meaning is generated by linguistic conventions, with intention playing no role in meaning-determination. All the interpreter needs is knowledge of public, linguistic conventions in order to recover textual meaning. -/- Nevertheless, when dealing with the problem of interpretation, Beardsley explicitly talks about attributing textual meaning to a fictional speaker. Although he does not elaborate on the nature of this speaker, clues scattered in his writings point to the striking similarity of this theoretical apparatus to an implied author. The key lies in his presumption that every fictional work must have an ultimate speaker to whom meaning inferred from the text should be attributed. This claim is almost the core of an implied author theory of interpretation. -/- A difficulty in classifying Beardsley’s view as a version of the implied author position is that his characterization of the story’s presenter might apply better to the story’s narrator than to its implied author. To test this, I examine different types of narrative modes to see whether the fictional speaker merges with the implied author in each of these scenarios. -/- The first factor to consider for classifying narrative modes is whether the narrator’s presence is explicit or implicit. The narrative scenario in which the narrator is implicit can be further divided into two sub-types: either the story is told from an omniscient viewpoint or centers on the experience of a third-person character. In either case, the story is not told by any of the characters in the story; rather, it is told by an implicit speaker whose words the work purports to be. It seems reasonable to identify this fictional speaker with the implied author, for both function as the subject to which textual meaning is attributed. -/- As for the narrative mode in which the narrator is explicit, this involves first-person narratives. In these, either the narrator is reliable or unreliable. When the narrator is unreliable, a transcendental perspective is required in determining the text’s meaning, because what is said ultimately in the work is not equivalent to what is literally said by the unreliable narrator. It follows that an implicit speaker has to be assumed and she again coincides with the implied author. -/- Where the narrator is reliable but textual meaning transcends what is literally expressed, an implicit speaker is at play again. This narrative scenario is thus better classified as a case in which the narrator’s presence is implicit. This leaves us with the narrative scenario in which the narrator is a reliable spokesperson for the implied author. -/- The identification of the narrator with the implied author in the case last mentioned is controversial. The crucial difference between them is that the former is dramatized in the story while the latter is not. I accept that the narrator here is not happily called an implied author, though I also point out several similarities between the two. -/- Finally, I discuss four complications to my argument. The first concerns multiple points of view in a story. To accommodate this kind of narrative, Beardsley could argue that an implicit narrator is needed to explain the definite meaning concealed behind what is literally said by different characters. The second complication is about the ontological status accorded to the narrator and the implied author. It might be objected that the two reside in different fictional worlds and this is what makes their merging impossible. But it is questionable whether this is a definitional feature of the implied author; moreover, the interpreter can take the implied author to be an instrumentalist concept and hence avoid talk about the ontological status of fictional entities. The third complication claims that versions of the implied author position developed by philosophers tend to be based on a contextualist ontology of literature; however, Beardsley’s account is acontextual. This is not true, for Beardsley has exhibited contextualist leanings in his writings. Finally, it has been objected that the formalist resources Beardsley has are not enough to guarantee a single right interpretation. But if Beardsley is actually a contextualist, contextual constraints will come into play and raise the chance of getting a single right interpretation. -/- The article concludes by reflecting on the significance of the misrepresentation of anti-intentionalism: it is the intention of the actual author which anti-intentionalism is against. The position in question is actually developed in an intentionalist framework based on the implied author. (shrink)

Caesar’s third-person narrative style has recently attracted much attention, especially regarding his motives for using it, and its relation to those points in the text where he lapses into the first person. This chapter focusses on the nature of Caesar’s third-person style: it differs from ‘typical’ third-person usage in that the reader knows that Caesar-the-narrator and Caesar-the-character are one and the same. Caesar-the-narrator assumes and plays on this knowledge, for example by describing the actions of Caesar-the-character omnisciently but (...) describing those of his antagonists non-omnisciently. The chapter compares Caesar’s technique to that of Xenophon, who also narrates his own actions in the third person, but without adopting the semi-first person that Caesar does. It argues that much of the impact of Caesar’s narrative derives from the complex interplay of Caesar-the-narrator with Caesar-the-character. (shrink)

ExcerptDrawing on the quasi-legal human experimentation programs designed and implemented by the CIA between the 1950s and 1970s, the television series Severance envisions the possible corporate uses of brainwashing and mind control. The narrative centers on employees of a technology company, Lumon Industries, who agree to undergo a medical procedure (“severance”) that separates non-work memories from work memories by implanting a microchip into the brain. Unfolding like a science fiction psychological thriller, the narration falls somewhere between omniscient and restricted. (...) Viewers at the outset know only slightly more about the non-work lives and histories of the characters than the characters’ work-day versions, while the gradual increase of viewer knowledge parallels that of the characters’ paths toward self-discovery. (shrink)

continent. 1.4 (2011): 279—285. Concerning its Transitive Nature, the Conversion of Native Americans of Spanish Colonial California, Indoctrinated Catholicism, & the Creation There’s no direct archaeological evidence that Jesus ever existed. 1 I memorized the Act of Contrition. I don’t remember it now, except the beginning: Forgive me Father for I have sinned . . . This was in preparation for the Sacrament of Holy Reconciliation, where in a confessional I confessed my sins to Father Scott, who looked like Jesus, (...) at least in Western cultural representations of Jesus since the middle ages, and if Jesus put on a few pounds. Father Scott was long-haired, redheaded, bearded, chubby, and tall. When he left church with the procession of altar servers and Eucharistic ministers, yelling, “Sing a Good Song Unto the Lord,” he smiled, hands folded, and he gazed over his parishioners, and bounced along. For four months every year he lived among the Crow Nation in Montana, where towards the end of his tenure at Our Lady of Refuge, they adopted him as an honorary member of their tribe. * This is the prayer we chanted, holding hands, every night before dinner: Bless us oh Lord, for these our gifts, which we are about to receive, our bounty through Christ, our Lord, Amen. Then we all said, God bless the cook! When we were with my grandparents, Grandpa said, God bless Chicky, and Holly, and Harvey, and Boots—all the dead dogs. * My sister tells me that she sits next to a handsome man on a flight across the country. After chitchat, she withdraws her book. She’s reading Kevin Sampsell’s A Common Pornography . After a few moments, the handsome man also reads from his book—his leather-bound Bible. Sister thinks, Oh, Jesus—too bad. She falls asleep. Later, settled in Nashville, she opens her volume and out falls a Jesus-covered card that reads, You can still find God and Salvation! Because that handsome God-fearing young man saw that word— pornography . * I suppose Father Jim’s dark hair, beard, and glasses made me think doctoral-ly of him. He called while I was in the midst of a breakup, after I’d twice attempted suicide, and my mother was desperate for help. She somehow found and phoned him. And Jim, now years out of Our Lady of Refuge’s parish, twenty years since my baptism, years even since he’d left the priesthood and the Catholic faith, still made the effort to bring me back into the fold. He said, “Have you seen a priest?” I did not respond, as I was more shocked to hear his voice than anything, so I said, “How are you, Father Jim? Sorry, I guess I shouldn’t call you ‘Father.’” And I said, “Why did you leave the priesthood? Do you have a girlfriend?” He said that I should call him just “Jim.” He said, “Do you need someone to talk to?” I said, “Not really.” He said, “Call your mother; she’s worried about you.” That was the last time I talked to Father Jim. * Mother let me know just how disappointed Jesus was. I cried and cried, and said I was sorry. Into my hands she placed my missal, ordered forty Rosaries. She said next Saturday I would go to confession. I hated confession. Who wouldn’t? * I realize, of course, that this page is a kind of confessional. * The Kumeyaay, Ipai, Tipai, Chumash, Esselen, Rumsen—all Native Americans of Alta California—shared similarities in their religions. Southern Californian tribes made use of Datura, or jimpson weed, a hallucinogen, for religious rituals. In the creation, God made brother sky and sister earth. Brother and sister mated, and sister gave birth to all things on Earth, including people, but it was difficult to distinguish people from all other aspects of Earth because everything was alive: granite and obsidian, the Pacific and its waves, the San Diego and Los Angeles Rivers. Wiyot—a hero—was very powerful, born from lightning, the son of the Creator and a virgin. When Wiyot thought that human women’s legs were more beautiful than Frog’s, Frog became jealous and poisoned Wiyot. The dying Wiyot went to all the people’s villages, and he distributed his power among them. He said, “When I die, I should be cremated.” The people built the fire and funeral pyre. When the fire was ready, and the people about to place Wiyot’s body upon it, Coyote came and snatched away Wiyot’s heart. * My friend Nick told me once how he ate some jimpson weed and that he hallucinated for three days. His family took a road trip and, while driving over the Sierra Nevada mountains, he kept seeing dinosaurs roaming the open meadows and charging down snowy slopes. So it’s no wonder that Native Americans who ingested this plant would have developed religion. * Walking Castroville’s streets after school I got into fights but mostly watched other boys scrabbling on the asphalt. I went to Burger King for Whoppers. Me and my friends cussed. Antonio admonished me when I said, “damn,” while strutting a sidewalk alongside the church. He said, “Jaime”—pronounced Hi-May, which was what all the Mexicans called me—“you’re crazy, eh. Don’t cuss at the church.” He meant while at church, as in, within its vicinity. I said, “We’re not in church.” Once we’d crossed the street, Tony said, “Damn dude, you’re fuckin crazy!” * Blessed Father Fray Junípero Serra raised the Eucharistic goblet to his lips, and candlelight danced on the blood’s tiny waves. Incense clouded the church so completely that some of the Pame natives grew nauseous. So, too, felt Blessed Father Fray Junípero Serra later that night, as he bent over a ceramic bowl and vomited blood, not only the Lord’s, but his own, for poison had laced the sacred vessel into which he poured the sacrament. The physician tending to the sick prelate urged him to take the remedy he’d prepared. But Blessed Father Fray Junípero Serra refused, said that he would pray, for he had never taken any medicine in his life, and he never would. * The Chumash of El Valle de Los Osos called themselves the Stishni, separating themselves from Chumash of other regions, those varying tribes of the central California coast that spoke mutually unintelligible dialects of their Hokan language. This made learning their languages impossible for the Spanish friars, to say nothing of translating the Doctrina. Thus the priests baptized few natives, despite the help that the tribes offered the fledgling settlements in the form of meat and acorn meal, which the Spaniards found repugnant. Some from these cultures, feeling threatened by the newcomers, shot flaming arrows into the thatched roofs of the mission structures. And why wouldn’t they feel threatened when priests chastised them for performing, for example, their Coyote Dance, wherein a man donning a coyote-skin-and-skull costume dances while a singer sings his tale, which laments the human feces strewn imaginatively about the Earth? Coyote, meantime, tries to get an onlooker to lick his genitals, and finally engages in public sexual intercourse with a female tribe member or two, then ends the dance by defecating. Though the Franciscans called such forbidden acts devilry , the Chumash maintained their Datura cult religion, along with the enforced Christianity. For the Chumash, the Earth was made of two enormous snakes that caused earthquakes when they slithered past one another—a vast reptilian tectonics. In the 20th century, long after Blessed Father Fray Junípero Serra and his cohorts had died, when asked by an anthropologist about religious contradictions, conflating the Datura and Christian cults, a Chumash man replied, incredulous: “But these are two different religions.” * When Portolá ordered that if by March 19th, the feast day of St. Joseph, the San Antonio had not arrived in San Diego Bay to relieve them, the Sacred Expedition to Nueva California would be abandoned, Blessed Father Fray Junípero Serra prayed a novena for San José’s intercession. And lo, a lookout sighted the San Antonio ’s sails—what seemed to the priest a miracle—that very Saint’s feast day. Europeans would stay in California, and Blessed Father Fray Junípero Serra would continue to reap a great harvest of souls for the Lord. By the end of mission secularization in 1836—sixty-six years after the San Antonio rescued the Spaniards—Native American populations in California had declined by seventy-three percent. * When Peter the Aleut would not renounce his Eastern Orthodox faith the padre of San Francisco had a toe severed from each foot with each refusal, totaling ten. The native Ohlones employed in this gruesome task—their obsidian chiseled knives tearing through skin and grinding bone—continued as per their orders, and cut off also each of Peter’s fingers (equals a total of twenty refusals). They quartered the martyr, spilled his bowels, as if from bear attack, attack by a bear in the shape of a Catholic. * Blessed Father Fray Junípero Serra absolutely believed that the slow rate of conversion for the native people was due to the influence of the Devil, who had been outraged by the coming of the Catholics to California, this region that he had long held in his dominion. * In his reception speech for the Nobel Prize for Literature, John Steinbeck said, “Man himself has become our greatest hazard and our only hope. So that today, St. John the Apostle may well be paraphrased: In the end is the Word, and the Word is Man—and the Word is with Men.” * In 1602, when Sebastián Vizcaíno and his friars sang mass on Catalina Island, as many as a hundred Pimungans witnessed the rite, asking by signs what it was about. According to Vizcaíno’s records, the Californians marveled not a little at the idea of Heaven and at the image of Jesus crucified. * Vizcaíno was brought to a prairie on Santa Catalina Island where the Pimungans worshipped their sun god. Upon the prairie they had placed an icon, a headless figure with horns protruding from the body, a figure that Vizcaíno predictably described as a demon. The Pimungans urged Vizcaíno not to approach the image of their deity, but he ignored them. He placed his crucifix against the wooden figurine and prayed the Our Father. Vizcaíno told the natives that his prayer was from Heaven, and that their god was the Devil. Vizcaíno held out his crucifix, encouraging the Pimungans to touch it and receive Jesus. He pointed at the sky and indicated Heaven. The Pimungans worshipped a sun deity, so they were impressed with this white man and his description of his god, for their gods seemed to be one and the same. It’s no wonder then that Vizcaíno’s diary reports the natives being pleased with this exchange. “Surely,” the diary says, “they will be converted to our Holy Faith.” * The Miwok women wailed and scratched at their faces when their men consorted with Sir Francis Drake and the other Englishmen who had landed on California’s coast in the summer of 1579. “The blood streaming downe along their brests, besides despoiling the upper parts of their bodies of those single coverings . . .they would with furie cast themselves upon the ground . . . on hard stones, knobby hillocks, stocks of wood, and pricking bushes.” Drake and his men fell themselves to their knees in prayer, their eyes Heavenward, so that the natives might see they prayed to God and they too might worship God then their eyes that had been so blinded by the deceiver might be opened. * Father Fray Antonio de la Ascención—Carmelite friar in Vizcaíno’s party—writes that the Indians of California can “easily and with very little labor be taught our Holy Catholic faith, and that they would receive it well and lovingly.” He calls for two hundred older and honorable soldiers to ensure brotherhood during the conquest, so that peace and love—the best tools to pacify pagans—should reign. The religious, the friar says, should likewise be wise and loving to easily quell animosities between Spaniards and the heathen, and therefore avoid war. The Spaniards should bring with them trinkets—beads, mirrors, knives—to distribute amongst the gentiles, so that they might come to love the Christians, and see “that they are coming to their lands to give them that of which they bring, and not to take away the Indians’ possessions, and may understand that they are seeking the good of their souls.” No women are to accompany the conquest, says Father Fray Antonio, “to avoid offenses to God.” * In 1955 Wallace Stevens admitted himself to St. Francis Hospital in Hartford, Connecticut. There, it’s rumored he converted to Catholicism before dying of stomach cancer, exclaiming to his priest after the baptism, “Now I am in the fold.” Stevens’s late-career poems seem less cynical, more in awe of being and death (read “Metaphor as Degeneration” from The Auroras of Autumn ). He could have chosen from at least three secular hospitals in Hartford at the time. * I was reading Stevens’s Collected Poems when I joined eHarmony and listed that as my “currently reading” book among the “more than twelve” books a year that I would read. I fell in love with my wife when she said, “Are you sending your work out to literary journals?” Prior to this, the first girl I talked to on the phone, when I explained my doctoral exams, said, “So, you’re like, reading Stephen King and stuff?” When I said not exactly she responded defensively: “He must be doing something right, since he makes all that money.” * Mom walked me, my brother, and sister, through the Stations of the Cross. We did this on Ash Wednesdays, or whenever she thought we needed extra God after church. It might’ve happened before church, though that’s unlikely because we were always late. Anyway, it’s easiest to walk the Stations of the Cross when there’s no one else around. To walk the actual Stations means one goes to Jerusalem and walks the Via Dolorosa to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. So the Stations elsewhere—usually paintings, or low-relief sculptures upon church walls—serve as a kind of virtual Dolorosa. Mom held our hands and started from the rear of Our Lady of Refuge: the First Station. Mom said we should say a prayer at each Station and to think of all the pain Jesus went through so that we could go to Heaven. It was hard to keep thinking about that one thing for so long. My mind went to that Saturday’s little league game, to the donut and chocolate milk (our after-church reward from Castroville Bakery), and as I grew older I thought about girls. When you’re thirteen you can’t not think about the girl’s butt in the pew in front of yours as she kneels and stands to pray throughout mass. * It grew increasingly juvenile to lie awake at night daring myself to utter a simple sentence. Even if I said I didn’t believe in God, wouldn’t He know the truth? He was omniscient, like a narrator. Even the idea of Him as a him ceased making sense. Not only did this come with a budding realization of my paternalistic culture, but due to the simple question of why? If God was everything, everywhere, all knowing, then why would he be a man? There’s that question: If God is a man then God must have a penis, and if so, what for? * The Catholic Church incorporates some modern scientific research into its dogma concerning the formation of the Universe, Solar System, and Earth, as well as evolution. According to Catholic doctrine, in approximately the fifth millennia BCE, humans began to worship the one true God. Those humans were Adam and Eve, though the Church says humans had been around for thousands of years prior to Adam and Eve. The Church claims to be infallible. Every time the Church changes its doctrine it remains infallible. * One Catholic writer, Tom Meagher, writes that “Modernism[—]the idea that we come to our beliefs individually through emotional or personal experiences[—]has crept into our Catholic schools.” * Catholics believe that evil spirits, given power through Original Sin, can imbue ordinary inanimate objects of everyday use. Thus, such objects should be blessed in order to induce in them the desire to serve the good. Such objects are not limited to, but include, “new ships and boats, railways and trains, bridges, fountains, wells, cornmills, limekilns, smelting furnaces, telegrams, steam engines, and machines for providing electricity.” * In The Sound of Music Julie Andrews and Christopher Plummer sing together: “Nothing comes from nothing, nothing ever could...” * To explain competing theories on the very early universe, and pre-verse would be another book. What was the inflaton? Did (mem)branes collide, initiating the Big Bang, as opposed to Lemaître’s primordial atom, a singularity? Without a unified theory there’s gravity hanging out there, fucking everything up. We cannot make sense of the mechanics of the Planck Epoch—0-10-34 seconds into the Universe’s creation—named for Max Planck, who stumbled into the discovery of quantum mechanics in the early twentieth century. * My students often ask if I believe in God, since I espouse evolution, the Big Bang, Science, reject a strictly biblical or creationist theory of the Universe. I tell them that yes, I believe in God, though not the God that they imagine one must believe in. * When questioned regarding the rumor that, before his death, founder of quantum mechanics Max Planck had converted to Catholicism, he replied that he did not believe “in a personal God, let alone a Christian God.” * Physicist and Catholic priest George Lemaître, who formulated the theory and wrote the 1946 book The Primeval Atom Hypothesis , was made a household name by then-detractor Fred Hoyle, who pejoratively referred to the idea as a “Big Bang.” * Suicide is a mortal sin. To end one’s own life one must have despair, which is to lose hope, which is to lose faith, and to disbelieve in God. * Archaeology has uncovered graffiti in all of California’s missions—Indian pictographs inscribed into the adobe, covered with layers of whitewash. Native deities and depictions of cultural practices show that tribespeople never fully gave up their native traditions even after baptism and coming to the missions. There was something inside Native Californians that would never die. (shrink)

Cinema struggles with the representation of inner-speech and thought in a way that is less of a problem for literature. Film also destabilises the notion of the narrator, be they omniscient, unreliable or first-person. In this article I address the peculiar and highly unsuccessful cinematic innovation which we can call the ‘first-person camera’ or ‘first-person’ film. These are films in which the camera represents not just the point-of-view of a character but is meant to be understood as that (...) character. Very few such films have been made, and I will concentrate on the way in which speech and thought are presented in Lady in the Lake (Robert Montgomery, 1947) and Dark Passage (Delmer Daves, 1947). I use Jacques Derrida’s critique of the idea of ‘hearing oneself speak’ and phenomenology’s dream of direct experience to explore the generally understood failure of such films and conclude by considering the implications of such a technique for a homunculus theory of mind. (shrink)

At the close of the Cyclops adventure Odysseus piously sacrifices to Zeus the ram that has carried him out of Polyphemus' cave. Yet the god spurns his offering and ponders instead the destruction of Odysseus' ships and their crews :These lines need explaining, as they present two difficulties, one formal, the other thematic. How can Odysseus know what Zeus is pondering? As a first-person narrator Odysseus assumes temporarily the role of the epic poet, yet without being given the latter's (...) omniscience. He retains therefore the restricted perspective of an epic character which precludes any precise knowledge of supernatural processes. (shrink)

La troisième Pythique de Pindare comporte un nombre extraordinaire de termes relatifs à des états de conscience (νόος, φρήν, γνώμα, ψυχά, θυμός et καρδία). En particulier, la narration mythique de l’ode détaille la façon dont Apollon s’est rendu compte, tout seul et à distance, que la mère d’Asclépios lui était infidèle : le νόος y joue à l’évidence un rôle capital mais le texte requiert un examen minutieux (v. 24-32). Plus loin, Pindare invite son dédicataire à cultiver lui aussi son (...) intériorité (v. 80-82) et esquisse ainsi les contours d’un savoir humain qui n’est ni absolu, ni aveugle, ni corrompu. Un rapprochement avec Pyth. 9, 33 sqq. permet d’éclairer avec humour les troubles de l’omniscience divine. (shrink)

I argue that if deliberation is incompatible with (fore)knowing what one is going to do at the time of the deliberation, then God cannot deliberate. However, this thesis cannot be used to show either that God cannot act intentionally or that human persons cannot deliberate. Further, I have suggested that though omniscience is incompatible with deliberation, it is not incompatible with either some speculation or knowing something on the grounds of inference.

This book deals with an old conundrum: if God knows what we will choose tomorrow, how can we be free to choose otherwise? If all our choices are already written, is our freedom simply an illusion? This book provides a precise analysis of this dilemma using the tools of modern ontology and the logic of time. With a focus on three intertwined concepts - God's nature, the formal structure of time, and the metaphysics of time, including the relationship between temporal (...) entities and a timeless God - the chapters analyse various solutions to the problem of foreknowledge and freedom, revealing the advantages and drawbacks of each. Building on this analysis, the authors advance constructive solutions, showing under what conditions an entity can be omniscient in the presence of free agents, and whether an eternal entity can know the tensed futures of the world. The metaphysics of time, its topology and the semantics of future tensed sentences are shown to be invaluable topics in dealing with this issue. Combining investigations into the metaphysics of time with the discipline of temporal Logic this monograph brings about important advancements in the philosophical understanding of an ancient and fascinating problem. The answer, if any, is hidden in the folds of time, in the elusive nature of this feature of reality and in the infinite branching of our lives. (shrink)

Does rationality require logical omniscience? Our best formal theories of rationality imply that it does, but our ordinary evaluations of rationality seem to suggest otherwise. This paper aims to resolve the tension by arguing that our ordinary evaluations of rationality are not only consistent with the thesis that rationality requires logical omniscience, but also provide a compelling rationale for accepting this thesis in the first place. This paper also defends an account of apriori justification for logical beliefs that is designed (...) to explain the rational requirement of logical omniscience. On this account, apriori justification for beliefs about logic has its source in logical facts, rather than psychological facts about experience, reasoning, or understanding. This account has important consequences for the epistemic role of experience in the logical domain. In a slogan, the epistemic role of experience in the apriori domain is not a justifying role, but rather an enabling and disabling role. (shrink)

An exchange between Patrick Grim and Alvin Plantinga regarding Cantorian arguments against the possibility of an omniscient being.

The great Buddhist writer Santaraksita (725-88) was central to the Buddhist traditions spread into Tibet. He and his disciple Kamalasila were among the most influential thinkers in classical India. They debated ideas not only within the Buddhist tradition but also with exegetes of other Indian religions, and they both traveled and nurtured Buddhism in Tibet during its infancy there. Their views, however, have been notoriously hard to classify. The present volume examines Santaraksita's encyclopedic Tattvasamgraha and Kamalasila's detailed commentary on that (...) text in his Panjika, two works that have historically been presented together. The works cover all conceivable problems in Buddhist thought and portray Buddhism as a supremely rational faith. One hotly debated topic of their time was omniscience -- infinite, all-compassing knowledge -- whether it was possible and whether one could defensibly claim it as a quality of the Buddha. (shrink)

The purpose of this paper is to consider the explanatory resources that Robert Brandom‟s distinction between acknowledged and consequential commitments affords in relation to the problem of logical omniscience. With this distinction the importance of the doxastic perspective under consideration for the relationship between logic and norms of reasoning is emphasized, and it becomes possible to handle a number of problematic cases discussed in the literature without thereby incurring a commitment to revisionism about logic. 12.

The text published below is the translation of a part of this published article: "Il Dio che rischia e che cambia: introduzione all’Open Theism". The issue of omniscience is one of the most debated in contemporary Analytical Philosophy of Religion. However, what is often lacking in this discussion is a deep understanding of the dilemma of omniscience and human freedom within a complete epistemological (what can we really say about the divine and the world), metaphysical and theological framework. For example, (...) it is often forgotten to frame some issues within a clear definition of the notion of mystery. (shrink)

God’s omniscience generates certain puzzles, not least regarding how such omniscience is compatible with human free will. One option in this regard is to impose limitations on the scope of God’s knowledge, but that then poses the further question of how such limitations can be compatible with God’s nature as a perfect being. I offer a novel way of approaching these questions, which appeals to what I claim is an independently motivated distinction between lacking knowledge and being ignorant. In particular, (...) it is contended that God’s omniscience is best understood not as a complete knowledge of all truths, but rather as a kind of deliberate non-knowing that excludes ignorance. God might not know all truths, but that’s not because of any cognitive lack, and there is certainly no truth about which he is ignorant. (shrink)

A very weak omniscience principle is formulated, related omniscience principlesare considered, and the theorem that a function of bounded variation is the difference of two increasing functions is shown to be equivalent to the omniscience principle WLPO. It is a so shown that an arbitrary function with located variation on an interval is the difference of two increasing functions.

Omniscience is the divine attribute of possessing complete or unlimited knowledge. This article examines motivations for taking such a property to be a divine attribute, attempts to define or analyse omniscience, possible limitations on the extent of divine knowledge, and, finally, objections either to the coherence of the concept or to its compatibility with other divine attributes or with widely accepted claims.

At first glance, the properties being omniscient and being worthy of worship might appear to be perfectly co-instantiable. But there are reasons to be worried about this co-instantiability, as it turns out that, depending on our commitments with respect to certain kinds of knowledge and notions of personhood, it might be the case that no being—God included—could instantiate both. In this paper, I lay out and motivate this claim before going on to consider a variety of responses—some more plausible (...) than others—that may be offered by the theist. (shrink)

This chapter contains section titled: Omniscience as Maximal Knowledge The Analysis of Omniscience Divine Foreknowledge and Human Freedom.

I discuss the propositional knowledge of an omniscient being, knowledge of facts that can be represented by that-clauses in sentences such as ‘John knows that the world is round.’ I shall focus upon questions about a supposedly omniscient being who propositionally knows the truth about all current states of affairs. I shall argue that there is no such being.

Recently, several philosophers have moved from a classical account of divine omniscience according to which God knows all truths to a restricted account of divine omniscience according to which God knows all knowable truths. But an important objection offered by Alexander Pruss threatens to show that if God knows all knowable truths, God must also know all truths. In this paper, I show that there is a way out of Pruss’s objection for the advocate of restricted omniscience if she will (...) define her view in terms of ways of knowing rather than in terms of logical possibilities. (shrink)

This article argues that theism entails a species of pantheism on the grounds that there is simply no discernible difference between the God's knowledge of the world and the world that God knows. The case against this thesis begins with the traditional theory of distinctions. But since God is necessarily omniscient there is not even the possibility that these might be considered apart and thus distinguished in that way. But neither is it possible to do this by means of (...) Leibnitz's law, that is, by finding some feature possessed by the one but not the other. Three potential areas of difference are considered but rejected, first, that knowledge unlike the world is representational, and second, that knowledge unlike the world is phenomenal – there is something that it is like to have. Both of these features, though able to distinguish ordinary knowledge from its objects, cease to provide the difference we require when extended to the case of divine knowledge. A final area of potential difference lies in the transcendent nature of God over the world, especially with respect to time, finitude and possibility. But this, in the end, is found no more able to distinguish God's knowledge from its object than the previous two suggestions. (shrink)

Several theorists (Merricks, Westphal, and McCall) have recently claimed to offer a novel way to respond to the dilemma of freedom and foreknowledge, rooted in Molina's insight that God's beliefs depend on what we do, rather than the other way around. In this paper we argue that these responses either beg the question, or else are dressed-up versions of Ockhamism.