Linguistickiness.

On Ogden/Richards:

In the footnote discussion of grammatical exigencies (and, subsequently, their usefulness/necessity/nature) in Ch. 6 of The Meaning of Meaning, the authors argue: “so far from a grammar – the structure of a symbol system – being a reflection of the structure of the world, any supposed structure of the world is more probably a reflection of the grammar used” (96). The footnote then directs the reader to the appended material “On Grammar” which begins by quoting a condemnation of grammatical teaching. Ogden and Richards note: “it is not surprising that the best-informed philologists should feel that no words can be too strong for the grammatical fare on which the twentieth century child is still nourished” (251). The fascinating statement about grammar, then, does not begin with grammar itself but with frustration with the procedures and features of elementary grammar education. That the Appendix “On Grammar” would begin so illuminates a larger issue in the study (and in Saussure’s, and in any academic/theoretical study): namely, “why do these things matter?” In this case, the reason is that while grammatical systems may be difficult to terminologize or formalize without “absurd”-ity, children must be taught to understand their parents, society, each other.
They go on to say, “The understanding of the functions of language, of the many ways in which words serve us and mislead us, must be an essential aim of all true education” (261-262). The syntax of this sentence highlights the priorities of the authors. That is, they do not say “The essential aim of all true education is…” – instead they prioritize understanding as the subject (of this sentence but also of the book, of course). This is because their primary interest lies in meaning, as opposed to education (in this case). Precisely this type of syntactical decision/inversion is cited in a citation in the footnote that follows the aforementioned one. F. P. Ramsey asserts: “Now it seems to me as clear as anything can be in philosophy, that the two sentences ‘Socrates is wise’, ‘Wisdom is a characteristic of Socrates’ assert the same fact. . . . They are not, of course, the same sentence, but they have the same meaning, just as two sentences in two different languages can have the same meaning. Which sentence we use is a matter either of literary style or of the point of view from which we approach the fact. . . and has nothing to do with the logical nature of Socrates or wisdom, but is a matter entirely for grammarians” (97). The questionable word, appropriately, is “meaning” – here it is used to describe truth-functional equivalence. The order of things matters, of course, just not to the logical conclusion (in this case). Thus meaning in the context of Ramsey is not meaning in the context of, say, poetry. (That’s probably at least partly the point of this book, right?)
This reminds me of the discussion of sentences in the last class. Donna argued that “Running.” could be a sentence because it begins with a capital letter and ends with a period. I wasn’t sure I agreed. As usual, it depended upon which rules we chose to follow. OED:

6 a. A series of words in connected speech or writing, forming the grammatically complete expression of a single thought; in popular use often (= PERIOD n. 10), such a portion of a composition or utterance as extends from one full stop to another. In Grammar, the verbal expression of a proposition, question, command, or request, containing normally a subject and a predicate (though either of these may be omitted by ellipsis).
In grammatical use, though not in popular language, a ‘sentence’ may consist of a single word, as in L. algeo ‘I am cold’, where the subject (= I) is expressed by the ending of the verb. English grammarians usually recognize three classes: simple sentences, complex sentences (which contain one or more subordinate clauses), and compound sentences (which have more than one subject or predicate).

I thought this was a nice way to illustrate the pluralistic complications Ogden and Richards demonstrate/articulate.

Today's words.

More

Fact emotes
with piercing glare,
slinking in
and lurking there.
For chance or faith,
in angst or no,
into the midst
the songs below
erupt, implode,
evoke, allude,
and creep along
with habitude.
Custom needs
like virtue glows
and wraps around
the more you know.

Envoi, voila! Ou, Un Poème D'amour Pour les Grenouilles.

Las lettres A a G

Je ne peux même pas dire
ce que je ne suis pas
ni savoir ce qu'est
l'amour est ou n'est pas
a ce point
dans ces moments
sans penser
a vous
et le choix
(ou nous).
Je sais que certaines choses:
je ne sais pas comment
tomber dans ou hors
de l'amour.
J'aime plus
que je n'aime pas
Je ne peux pas forcer
quelqu'un à m'aimer
proportionnellement.

Voici. C.

Isolating Creative Motivation: Yeats wake!

Yeats, Dependent.

In “Yeats Without Analogue,” Richard Ellmann explains Yeats’s poetry, process, and persona through a series of comparisons and examples, offering numerous insights into the multifaceted significance of the grand literary figure while situating his own critical project within the bigger context of Yeats scholarship. The comparisons, to a variety of artists and thinkers, provide interesting juxtapositions with insightful distinctions and emphases, but ultimately Ellmann fails to make an especially resonant argument about Yeats that doesn’t rely upon comparison or influence. That is, he often makes bold and resonant statements about Yeats’s poetry, but situates them between and against qualities these other artists (namely Michaelangelo, Blake, and Mallarme) exhibit. For example: “When we think of Yeats,” he writes, “we think of unprecedented modulation” (21) Taken alone, this observation provides a salient assessment of Yeats’s poetic import, its tantalizing mutability and captivating amplitude. However, Ellmann undercuts this statement of great weight by spending nearly equal time assessing Blake’s poetic philosophy and effect – rather than offering Blake as a jumping-off point for his Yeats discussion, Elmmann mires himself in comparative strategies that ultimately weaken his final argument. He similarly spends considerable time explaining Mallarme and his symbolist practices, noting Yeats’s fascination with such tactics and how they enriched without restricting his creative process. Of course, comparison is important, and the Mallarme/Yeats juxtaposition certainly provokes consideration. Ultimately, though, as Ellmann asserts Yeats as asserting “his independence” – the majority of his argument depends too heavily on comparisons to other greats and influences. Considering Yeats “Without Analogue” seems pretty safe – just as considering Shakespeare or Milton, Virginia Woolf or James Joyce, to be figures above comparison seems a smart bet. As is, though, this argument unfortunately insists upon degrading that distinction, failing to provide enough material on Yeats alone. These other figures, which he claims to be “on the perimeter of this consciousness,” that is, dilute his ultimate thesis, that “at its center we see only and supremely Yeats” (32).

Effervesce, ant.

Loneness flows so toneless,
knows the growing
lows that memory
groans
reaching up
and wraps the rein
that graceless falls
away from sight,
throughout her life,
that softly, sadly
drifts aloft...
alas, she thought,
like all you want.

Innamorata?

"Communication is the key," cried Nefastis, "The Demon passes his data on to the sensitive, and the sensitive must reply in kind. There are untold billions of molecules in that box. The Demon collects data on each and every one. At some deep psychic level he must get through. The sensitive must receive that staggering set of energies, then feed back something like the same..."

Pynchon talk.