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MULTIPOESIS...MEDIA...MALLARME
by Justin Clemens
One of the most peculiar consequences of the digital
revolution is the consistent inability of poets to come
to terms with it. Of all the many types of "symbolic
operators" that informational globalization
incessantly throws up, poets seem to be dealing worst
with this radically new New Deal. Indeed, poets don't
seem to have changed any of their practices or ideas
about poetry as a result of the new centrality of virtual
media: one can cruise interminably through the
innumerable so-called "poetry journals" on the
web without ever encountering anything that wouldn't look
or read just as badly on a sheet of A4. As for the sickly
quasi-theological categories with which so many continue
to justify their work ("the quest for
presence," "magic," "sacred
speech," etc.), these are only rivalled by their
pretentious drivellings about the subjective
pseudo-intensity of verse ("fluid and urgent
imagery," "luxurious rhymes"). Worse
still, perhaps: when a poet does seem to have
taken a genuinely multimedia approach (lights, colour,
sound, movement, etc.), their work would not only
embarrass anyone who has even the most glancing
acquaintance with principles of good design, but it would
seem bizarre to assign it the name of "poetry."
What makes the contemporary situation all the more
dissatisfactory is that poets have traditionally been
sharper, faster and more inventive than anybody in their
dealings with social torsions and transformations,
thresholds and transitions. This is why the lags amongst
contemporary poets need to submit themselves to one and
only one injunction. . .re-read Mallarmé!
For whatever else the great Stéphane Mallarmé
accomplished outside of the well-determined and explicit
declarations of influence or affiliation has evidently
been what I will call "the globalization of his
im-personality." In other words, today you don't
need to know anything about Mallarmé, not even his name,
in order to be profoundly influenced by him. For I think
that it is undeniably true that the consequences of the
strange non-event designated by that im-proper name,
Mallarmé, are everywhere. If Mallarmé did not exist, it
would now be necessary to invent him. Or, more precisely,
although Mallarmé probably never really existed at all,
it is impossible not to act as if had. Hopefully, what I
mean by this will soon become somewhat clearer but what I
want to emphasize is that there are many possible forms
of influence, and that it is not always the evident,
explicit, or expressed forms that evince the most genuine
or profound relationships. Which is also to say that the
writers most affected by the Mallarméan intervention
perhaps haven't been writers at all.
Influence, influenza, influ-aster: an astral disease.
This fanciful etymology is all the more appropriate given
Mallarmé's own fondness for celestial meta-phorics:
"snowing white bouquets of perfumed stars" (Apparition),
"the ideal duty we are given by the gardens of this
star" (Toast funebre), and, perhaps the
most famous of all, "a constellation, icy with
forgetting and desuetude" - an image, by the way,
which thereby places writing almost beyond good and evil,
renders its accomplishment close to nugatory, and
influence im-possible. As Jacques Derrida puts it, in
Mallarmé's work "a text is made to do without
references; either to the thing itself. . .or to the
author who consigns to it nothing except its
disappearance. This disappearance is actively inscribed,
it is not an accident of the text, it is rather its
nature; it marks the signature of an unceasing
omission." The author must suffer a subtraction or
abstraction if they are to continue writing at all; he or
she becomes, in Alain Badiou's words, "a null
mediator." This nullity, although "fallen from
an obscure disaster" (that star again!) is not the
index of an irremediable obliteration. On the contrary,
Mallarmé doesn't think of his im-personality as
altogether entailing the destruction of literature; it,
rather, frees writing from many of the "impure"
elements in which it had hitherto been enmired.
First and foremost, however, it unleashes writing from
the bonds of communication. The event that founds this
recognition of Mallarmé's is evidently historically
linked to the rise and expansion of new media
technologies toward the end of the C19 such as the
gramaphone, photography and film, which contest writing's
preeminence as the medium best able to record, store, and
disseminate the real. As Friedrich Kittler puts it,
"When typing, filming, and taking photographs become
three equal options. . .writing loses those aspects of a
surrogate sensuality. Around 1880 poetry becomes
literature. It is no longer the red blood of a Keller or
the inner forms of a Hoffmann that have to be transmitted
by standardized letters; it is a new and beautiful
tautology of technicians. According to Mallarmé's
instant insight, literature does not mean anything but
that it consists of twenty-six letters."
Mallarmé was, in other words, perfectly placed to
register the violent consequences of these new
technologies of reproduction. Moreover, this very
contestation opens up the most literal, material aspects
of writing to infinite experimentation, an
experimentation that is fundamentally that of a media war
and in which every medium becomes the hostile para-site
of every other. Because, as Marshall McLuhan says, the
content of one medium is always another medium, at the
moment that media unveil themselves as forms,
content becomes simply a form of a form of a form: a
smoke, a wraith, an apparition, a shipwreck. So this
"containing" of which McLuhan speaks is not
only an index of violent struggle for media do struggle
with one another but an impossible one, a literally
infinite struggle. Like Mallarmés "vesperal
dreams burnt by the Phoenix," media cannot simply be
contained by the "cinerary amphorae" that they
try to be for one another. It is no accident, then, that
so much of Mallarmé's verse, prose poems, letters, and
critical writings explicitly return, on the one hand, to
the relation that writing bears to other forms of media
(theatre, newspapers, fairgrounds, and other forms of
spectacle), and on the other, to the relation that,
writing alone and solitary, bears to itself. Vanishing or
fantasmatic images, mutilated wings, obscurities, foam
without issue, melancholy, anguish, death: these are not
simply the symptoms or sublimations of any subjective
trauma on Mallarmés part, but the
auto-registration of writing's historial agonies in the
face of the new media.
To cite McLuhan once more: "The hybrid or the
meeting of two media is a moment of truth and revelation
from which new form is born. For the parallel between two
media holds us on the frontiers between forms that snap
us out of the Narcissus-narcosis. The moment of the
meeting of media is a moment of freedom and release from
the ordinary trance and numbness imposed by them on our
senses." Mallarmé, poised in the midst of a media
blitzkrieg, creates new forms by way of a thoroughgoing
literalisation of literature a material practice of
writing and by emphasizing subtractions, vanishings,
abolitions of all kinds. Indeed, the authorial
im-personality which Mallarmé so insists upon is geared
to nothing other than the materiality of writing itself:
black marks on white paper. Writing in its attempt to
prevent itself from being simply one medium among others,
another form of forms is thereby, in its isolated
auto-relation, reduced to making itself nothing but a
matter of matter. However, as Mallarmé also shows, such
matter is itself in-consistent, the
unheard-of-echo-of-a-anexistent-narcissus.
But this situation also regulates other ruses of
Mallarmé's poetics. To shift momentarily to the present,
we can make this especially clear by invoking the
suspicious ontological status of information stored,
transmitted, and formed by the electronic mass-media.
Such information cannot be easily reconciled with
traditional opinions regarding the essential differences,
say, between speech and writing, orality and literacy,
aspiration and inscription. If, as the Latin proverb has
it "verba volant, scripta manent"
[words fly away, writing remains], no matter what the
data is that comes to be re-presented on a myriad
computer screens is rendered at once peculiarly immutable
and evanescent, as well irremediably veridically suspect
in such a representation. So-called "virtual
reality" challenges, in other words, the very
grounds for making any sustainable distinction between
the really real and the really imaginary. As do the
angels, it occupies the no-man's land between God and the
world itself. Moreover, the very word "angel"
originally meant "messenger" in Greek, and,
given that such creatures invariably served as the
indispensable intermediaries between otherwise
incommunicable regions of being, their role so the
argument often goes is strictly analogous to the role
played by modern media themselves. Hence the recurrent
predilection of specific media to image their relations
to other, competing media in precisely these terms: for
example, as David Odell once pointed out to me, Hollywood
cinema has consistently represented home video taping as
a literally demonic and ghastly process. Furthermore, at
the very moment that a technology is invented, it is
immediately felt to provide the royal road to the
hereafter-beyond, and mobilised as such by those trying
to get in touch with spirits from the Other World. When,
of course, it is not deliberately calculated to simulate
the appearance of such spirits in this World, in the name
of pedagogical-commerce. So often considered supplements
for physiological deficiency, media also offer impossible
passages to an unverifiable and de-sacralised beyond (a
la automatic writing): they are thus literally angels,
but now of an abolished divinity. Which is why, I would
maintain, such images proliferate throughout
Mallarmés work (and throughout that of Rilke,
Stevens, Walter Benjamin, etc.), the very traditional
figure of the angel thus undergoing an often overlooked
rupture at this historical moment.
In other words, the supposed "hermetic aspect"
of Mallarmé's work's difficulty, obscurity, elusiveness,
and so on devolves from the fact that it does nothing but
constantly re-turn to the uncircumventable exigencies of
writing itself: syntax, typography, literal repetitions
for example, the letters or. In this re-turn of writing
onto itself, not only are such exigencies consistently
"thematized" (if the word is still viable in
this context) but, in and through this thematization,
unhinge the very mechanisms that once provided the
illusion of sense and spirit. Communication qua transmission
of information which once seemed to require words for its
most elevated expressions is stripped of the mask of
language which concealed its truth, and un-veiled as an
essentially non-linguistic, purely economic phenomenon.
In Mallarmé's famous phrase, newsprint (for instance)
may as well be nothing more than "a coin passed
silently from hand to hand." Reportage, anecdotage,
verbiage. As Kittler remarks of Mallarmé's consistent
condemnation of this hyper-transmissibility of the new
media, "a separation exists between an image-less
cult of the printed word, i.e., e[lite]-literature, on
one side, and purely technical media that, like the train
or film, mechanize images, on the other. Literature no
longer even attempts to compete with the miracles of the
entertainment industry. It hands its enchanted mirror
over to machines."
The C19 proliferation of communicative technologies
thereby frees literature to become a purified writing,
purified, that is, of its mimetic, ritual, pedagogical,
aesthetic functions. Which is why, as Alain Badiou puts
it, "The poe[try] of Mallarmé is...neither elegiac,
nor hymnal, nor lyric." Literature at least that
which attempts to retain its sovereignty over the
capitalized 'L' is henceforth condemned, through its very
purification, to a comparatively tiny audience of
enthusiasts. But the supposed consequences of this
situation at least as they tend to be elaborated by
theorists of the media and popular culture would be
repudiated by Mallarmé himself. For Mallarmé, the
supposed magic of newspapers and cinema is nothing of the
kind: its apparent populism or mass appeal is simply the
monotonous vulgarity of quotidian reportage.
Against this derisory, delusory centrality of the new
popular media, poetry can continue to dream of the
im-possibility of uttering Truth itself: as Mallarmé
puts it, what the popular media "fail to spread is
the priceless mist that floats about the secret abyss of
every human thought." This "priceless
mist" is inexpressible and unaccountable, yet
absolutely inexpungible: it is more truly universal than
the arbitrary and ubiquitous chatterings of the media
broadcasts which constantly betray it.
As Octavio Paz writes, "Being a public [artist] is
not the same as being popular." Paz's distinction
also reactivates others, relevant in this context. For
example, McLuhan's re-marking of the often confused
difference between the mass media and the
popular media: whereas popularity involves
simply a totalling up of consumers, the crucial aspect of
mass media is that they involve everyone, even
if not everyone watches them. Or, as Mallarmé
demonstrates, poetry still involves everyone, even if no
one reads it. The challenge facing contemporary poets
today is to accomplish the same (not the
identical) in this, the era of virtual information.
JUSTIN CLEMENS lives in Australia. His
work is currently in Cordite.
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