While I have been writing about
David Foster Wallace, and how his work has helped to define a new brand or
genre or philosophical take on thinking or writing or creation, I realize that
I haven’t codified specifically what radical literalism is. That is to say that I haven’t provided
a succinct definition. I should
state for honesty’s sake (since honesty seems to be a component of radical
literalism) that I am not entirely sure that I can state succinctly what
radical literalism is, but I will try, and then, with the help of any kindly
readers who wish to post in the comments section (which I highly encourage), we
can come to a consensus about how to talk about this new ‘ism’.
Radical literalism is at once
defined in part by the concept of the ‘single entendre”, as well as the idea
that there are truths that lie beyond simple empirical understanding. So, for instance, thoughts, feelings,
ideas, concepts, emotions, et al are now on the table for consideration as
capital R “Real” and can be treated as such. This then suggests that writers are free to write about these
emotions, ideas, and the general stuff of the mind and heart at face value, or,
if that doesn’t lend itself to the discussion the creator whishes to have, s/he
is then able create an analogue that literalizes an amorphous,
tough-to-express, or otherwise un-codified real or reality (or unreality or
irreality for that matter).
Okay, there. That is a good first attempt. Now, let’s unpack it a bit. It might
first be a good idea to put out there briefly that there is currently debate
surrounding the idea that all non-fiction has to include elements of fiction as
it is always and at all times filtered through the mind and voice of a singular
writer. For now, I will pause in
my discussion of non-fiction as it is better suited for another posting of its
own, but in order to get at what radical literalism is, it might be best to
keep the fact that non-fiction is problematic as a genre in mind.
I do indeed see radical literalism
as lending itself to what is now referred to as ‘non-fiction’, which is of
course filled with fabrication, in that it opens the possibility of creative
constructions of a metaphoric nature in order to discuss what is intangible,
which would lend itself greatly to the understanding of creative non-fiction by
allowing metaphor to operate freely and still be considered real or
non-fiction. Also, the title of
‘radical literalizations’ suggests that these creations be a ‘literal’
representation – that these constructions be treated as real within the
writing. So, no longer would a piece of writing talk about concentric rings on
water after a stone has been thrown upon a placid pool as standing in for the
ripple-effect of life’s choices, but life’s choices would be the stone, the ripples are the affects.
In a radical literalist work, a man doesn’t take an inner journey, he
would literally take a journey inside of himself (much like the plot of The Windup Bird Chronicle or Being John Malkovich); it is by doing this that
we truly acknowledge the reality behind our human emotions, thoughts, ideas and
more, which, for now, are thought of as nothing but aether and fluff and the
stuff of intellectual property lawyers.
I recently read Jenny Boully’s The Book of Beginnings and Endings and I think
that some of what she has to offer will help to clarify radical
literalism. The book consists of
the first page of various articles or essays as well as the last. The book calls attention through
recontextualization to the importance, or lack thereof, of beginnings and
endings as well as what might be the arbitrariness of middles. At any rate, the book deals with ideas
surrounding what we, as readers and humans, tend to not only believe, but
believe in, including the ways in which ‘truth’ is framed and what and how we
frame ‘reality’ or the ‘real’.
Much like Wallace, Boully writes
with an earnestness that is at once insistent and clear, but also works hard to
ensure that the reader is aware of her desire to get at what is honest, real,
and true. Throughout the book she
says things like, “Believe me” (5).
She is concerned with ‘belief’.
Her book also seems to question how one goes about writing the ‘truth’,
or one goes about writing in way that is emotionally honest and will be
perceived by readers as such.
Boully’s book does some of the work through its very form, not only the
first and last pages, but the writing style itself, which is often comprised of
short and succinct sentences or statements that are hard to deny or complicate,
“The publishing houses give dead authors contemporary book covers and jackets,
making it seem as if these writers were still living” (7). By offering readers statement such as
these, Boully seems to be suggesting that a good place to build trust or faith
between reader and writer might be with information generally regarded as
fact. It is from this foundation
that she is then free to move outward to tougher to express truths.
Another
theme of the book seems to be “faith” or belief. In a competition of empirical knowledge and that of faith
Boully (seems to) suggests that there is no need to choose, that these things
are inextricably tied together.
She writes, “Children live in miracles, but for the adult a miracle
becomes something unbelievable” (19).
It seems that she sees adulthood as a place where the miraculous is
non-belief or that what cannot be explained is interpreted through the idea of
the ‘miracle’. The idea of the
miracle is then up for question: if miracles are what we use to explain
non-belief, what does it mean to then believe in the idea of the
miraculous? So, we don’t believe
in the event that sparked the label ‘miracle’, but we believe the miracle. How do we express this notion in our
writing and creation?
Boully
herself provides a succinct(ish) answer to this question, and a statement that
might really help to get at the heart of radical literalism:
For those of you who have
reservations about hope, who need more than what you may deem to be
speculation, perhaps it will help if you think of possessing wings in terms of
metaphor. In other words, the
representation of wings in art represents the actual wings, which in turn
represent something else. The
difficulty rests in trying to convey the true meaning of metaphor. Rather than being a comparison, metaphor
serves as a representation of an actuality twice (perhaps thrice or more?)
removed (33).
It is tough to unpack this, I find that I want to provide an
example, but Boully has already done that with the idea or concept of
wings. I suppose, for me, the best
example or way of explaining this, or the way that I have recently been
thinking of how this idea of metaphor as put forth by Boully works, is to
relate it to language itself.
Words, even the words I am putting to digital code right now, are nothing
but metaphorical or symbolic representations of objects, thoughts, ideas,
processes, emotions or a million other ‘things’ already twice removed in that
they are the familiar alphabetical representations we all know but now also a
series of ones and zeros. But if I
say (or type or encode) the word table, a different picture of a ‘table’ will
enter your mind than the picture I develop in mine. I don’t want to get into Socrates and Plato and their
“theory of forms”, but suffice it to say, words are symbolic in nature (a third
removal?). Therefore, and I think
that Boully would agree, it would be nice if we, as readers, writers, and
thinkers, could then invest these symbols with some faith or belief in their ability
to express something deep or profound or something that possibly lies outside
of the world of words, which means that we must/can treat metaphor
literally. This means, for me at
least, means a wonderful, if not drastic, shift in thinking. What do words like “love” and “hate”
mean in light of this thinking?
Again,
Boully’s writing tries to convey this.
She is constantly reaching for truth and understanding by treating
ideas, whether written or otherwise, as true in a literal sense, “It was wrong
of me to believe that you had invented your stories; even the alluded-to rocks
were based on real rocks and so the girl whom you met in the rain, who slipped
suddenly into your car to say that she had always loved you, she was true” (3). Here we have Boully writing about another written piece that
may or may not be classified as fiction (the reader is never told), but whether
it is or isn’t doesn’t matter, it is the truth behind the words, which are
merely symbols for that truth anyways, that matter. In light of all of this, fiction and non-fiction can be read
the same way with the same sorts of reading strategies. As a matter of fact (no pun intended),
it might be a good idea as we start to grapple with these notions, to begin by
reading fiction as fact and non-fiction as fabulosa. Boully, again, sums it up nicely and provides what might be
a nice stopping point for this part of the discussion: “What a novel can
accomplish that real life cannot is miraculous indeed” (21).
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