[Milton-L] responses and intentionalism

[Watt, James]

Thanks, again, Carol for your clarity and gentle touch.  I'm wanting to think about J D Fleming's three things: first, that Fish's reader response is continuous with a strong version of author-intentionalism because it, by its detailed reading, it makes strong demands on all readers by claiming a specific experience of the text --or set of specific experiences-- that were INTENDED by the poet. Second, that these readings, enshrined in the critical text, must, then, somehow usurp the reading or readings that those not privy to them have already had, making, that is, the critic (or much worse, the teacher) someone with apriori and especially sanctioned access to the intentions or purposes of which even the poet him or herself may have been unaware! And then, finally, that such readings --whether disguised as 'authoritarian-objectivist'  or 'subjective/relativist'- 'absolve' (love the theological slant) the reader of the burden of asking what the text is 'about'?

To begin.  Arguing that Milton intends his readers to identify with Satan's 'heroic opposition' and chafe under the wooden and uninspiring character of God --and his utterances-- in the early books doesn't claim to know precisely why he has done it, or even, completely, how.  It simply rejects the other positions --he DIDNT INTEND it because he (or his age's readers) was/were UNAWARE of it, or that HE TRIED TO MAKE GOD MORE ATTRACTIVE AND SIMPLY WASNT UP TO IT --as untenable.  This can still be argued but only by those who, presented with clear evidence of Picasso's draughtsmanship, maintain he must then have lost it or thrown it away when he came to the Demoiselle's D'Avignon.  Beginning by noting how the text strikes us on our first, second, and third, readings and asking whether or not the poet may have INTENDED the kinds of responses we have is a long way from authoritatively stating exactly what sort of response is 'correct.'  Second, imagining that a convincing reading somehow bestows on the person some kind of apriori or specially sanctioned knowledge of what the poet meant or intended including things of which he or she was unaware is simply preposterous.  Here's  a sample of how rapidly such an approach disappears in its own silliness:
"There is a painting by Picasso which depicts a pitcher, candle, blue enamel pot. They are sitting, unadorned, upon the barest table. Would we wonder what is cooking in that pot? Is it beans, perhaps, or carrots, a marmite? The orange of the carrot is a perfect complement to the blue of the pot, and the genius of Picasso, neglecting nothing, has surely placed, behind that blue, invisible discs of dusky orange, which, in addition, subtly enrich the table's velvet brown.  Doesn't that seem reasonable? Now I see that it must be beans, for above the pot --you can barely see them-- are quaking lines of steam, just the lines we associate with with boiling beans ... or is it blanching pods? Scholarly research, supported by a great foundation, will discover that exactly such a pot was used to cook cassoulet in the kitchens of Charles the Fat ... or was it Charles the Bald.  There's a dissertation in that." [William Gass, "The Concept of Character in Fiction" in FICTIONS AND THE FIGURES OF LIFE, pp. 38-9]
Alas, it is only in the scholarly world that anything like the second of Fleming's fears is like to be realized and, as we know, there is no end of these wandering mazes.  Finally, that readings, intentionalist or relativist, somehow will absolve anyone of the burden of asking what a text is about, is neither to be feared nor even much noticed.

Consider the following lyric of Herbert's: like Milton, the poet knows very well what most of us think of Nature and God and of the relationship between them.  And by making himself the speaker, he relieves us, at first, of any need to alter what we complacently believe will be effected by the poem.  By the end of the first stanza, we are sure we know how God will soon straighten out this poor sinner --though the last two lines are a LITTLE unsettling.  By the second stanza things are much more threatening, one feels oneself edging, like someone in the presence of a lunatic or saint, towards the exit.  And whereas the third stanza begins straightforwardly enough, it quickly makes the reader listen sharply to his own heart --and wonder.  The poem, that is, does not merely not absolve the reader of the burden of asking what it's about; it unsettles the very notion that we know what ANYTHING is about.  Indeed, it reminds us that in our confidence lies our undoing. As dear old Carl Dahlstrom, Ph.D. used to remind us sweet young readers of Shakespeare: "It's never your enemies, you know, that betray you. Indeed, they can't betray you.  Who, then, will?" 

Nature

Full of rebellion, I would die,
Or fight, or travel, or deny
That thou hast ought to do with me.
                                 O tame my heart;
                            It is thy highest art
To captivate strongholds to thee.

If thou shalt let this venom lurk
And in suggestions fume and work,
My soul will turn to bubbles straight.
			And thence by kind
                              Vanish into a wind,
Making thy workmanship deceit.

O smooth my rugged heart, and there
Engrave thy revrend law and fear;
Or make a new one, since the old
			Is sapless grown,
                               And a much fitter stone
To hide my dust, than thee to hold.

The reason, in a word, we're on this list serve at all, is that we know, left to our own devices we'll soon be as lost as that great Cherub.  There's a reason Abdiel leaves the gathering in the North to rejoin the others; it's not so much, I think, to show God how brave and outspoken he is as it is to rejoin the always baffling and unending conversation that is poetry.

Jim Watt

________________________________________
From: milton-l-bounces at lists.richmond.edu [milton-l-bounces at lists.richmond.edu] On Behalf Of Carol Barton [cbartonphd1 at verizon.net]
Sent: Saturday, May 09, 2009 3:03 PM
To: John Milton Discussion List
Subject: Re: [Milton-L] responses and intentionalism

Yes, Jim (Rovira). Fish asks (and attempts to answer) how what Milton
has written *works*: what is the effect of the words on the page on
the person who reads them, how does he use those words to manipulate
the reader into responding in a certain manner, and how does he use
that experience to teach something valuable about human perception and
human experience that tells us something not only about ourselves, but
about the nature of our interaction (one might even say complicity, in
the case of PL) with evil?

Neither he nor any other reception theorist worth his or her
credentials would presume to tell the broad spectrum of
persons-throughout-history-who-have-read-Milton what their individual
experiences *should be*--but if you share the same responses that Fish
does to the various poetry and prose about which he has written, you
will understand *why* you reacted the way you did. Fish attempts to
demonstrate in SBS and other works that evil ensnares us only with our
own consent and participation: as John Potter was fond of reminding
his students, the serpent has no hands, and can't *force* you to do
anything or go anywhere unless you choose to follow him. Like the
beautiful demon in Gibson's "Passion" (or the Green Knight in Gawain
or Despair in Bunyan) Milton's Satan finds the chinks in our moral
armor, and we invite him to enter through them. The Serpent talks Eve
into transgressing because he says what she wants to hear--Adam talks
himself into sinning because he allows his passion to rule his
reason--but Jesus stands on the pinnacle because he understands that
any act done at the devil's bidding, no matter how innocent it may
seem (such as feeding the hungry) has an underlying ulterior evil
inherent in it. Fish demonstrates the truth and the mechanics of such
assertions because to the best of his understanding and belief, that
is how Milton's works *work*--using enjambment, circumstancial
evidence, misleading syntax, and ambiguous language, and a host of
other devices. For him, and for many other Miltonists, understanding
the "how" enriches the "what"--but if your experience of the poem or
prose piece is significantly different, Fish's arguments will almost
of necessity fall flat.

I can't help but be amused that those who argue against any assertion
of Miltonic intentionality as made by Fish seem to have no problem
making pronouncements about what Fish thinks or intends other people
to think by means of reading one or two of his works.

For me, it's rather like staring at the negative/positive perception
vase/lovers or young/old woman and not being able to see the negation
of whatever your original perception was. If you see only the young
woman or only the vase, I can tell you over and over again about the
ear of one being the wart on the nose of the other, or the bevel at
the vase base being the chins and lips of the people about to kiss,
and my comments will be meaningless to you--lunatic, even, since it's
clear (from your perspective) that that's an ear, and that's a beveled
base.

Some readers react to Fish the same way.

Best to all,

Carol Barton


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