Christian Thorne • Commonplace Book

Late Reflections on The Authoritarian Personality

The essay that follows is a response to a seventy-year-old book. If you need a crash course on The Authoritarian Personality, first published by Adorno and a team of University of California psychologists in 1950, you could skim the Wiki entry or, better, have a look at this essay by Robert Gordon, available on the boundary 2 website. 

The essay is scheduled to appear in South Atlantic Quarterly in 2018.

       The Authoritarian Personality—I want to use the following paragraphs to explain why I find this admittedly remarkable book to be unpersuasive, why, in fact, it is a matter of some urgency that we not accept its arguments. I’m not sure how to come at the point directly, so permit me to note, by way of introduction, that anyone who reads widely in the history of fascism is likely to spot, sooner or later, a series of antitheses—oppositions, I mean, that were native to fascism itself and that historians return to again and again. If we want to be able to think clearly about The Authoritarian Personality, it will be enough for us to know about two of them. First, historians have made the point that fascism proceeded through stages, that, in other words, it wasn’t a single static position, that it was a dynamic entity, rather, tending to mutate over time. What, one might ask, were those stages? Broadly, the scholarship calls attention to fascism as an idea and an imagining, as an ideological current, therefore, cultivated by intellectuals—a fascism of the book, in other words—which was then succeeded by fascism as a mass movement. We need to be able to distinguish between those two. But then we also need to be able to distinguish between fascism as a movement and fascism as a regime—which is to say, as a successful movement, one that had achieved power or taken hold of the state—a fascism that governed. The point most commonly made is that fascism in its early stages—a still ideational fascism—was in certain respects more radical than what came later, or that it was more avant gardist, more likely to strike anti-capitalist and anti-bourgeois poses. The fascists, this is to say, became more conventionally conservative over time, more recognizably a party of the Right, once they felt compelled to make their case to the non-bohemian many and once forced by their very success to make concessions to existing institutions and coalition partners. The stages thus yield an antithesis—at one pole, fascism-as-dissident-counterculture; at the other, fascism as the mainstream run amok, the establishment’s protracted revenge against its critics and rivals.

This same antithesis now becomes available in a geographical form, via the single, uncomplicated observation that Mussolini’s government, unlike Hitler’s, did not attempt to monopolize the entire sphere of thought and culture. Historians are keen to point out that there was no Italian Gleichschaltung—no effort to bring everyone into line. Within certain parameters, independent intellectuals continued to publish in Italy, which means not that there were still socialists or communists or liberals expressing themselves freely in Florence and Rome—those people really were shut down—but that there remained an outer circle of freelance fascists, the half-fascists or the merely unenrolled, the shirts not of black, but of charcoal and onyx and taupe, who continued to propose hypothetical other fascisms, in a scatterplot around the fascism that was actually being implemented. An aestheticist and nonconformist fascism thus remained more visible in Italy throughout the ‘20s and ‘30s, never wholly subsumed into fascism-as-revanchist-orthodoxy. Early vs. late; Italy vs. Germany—two antitheses that are really one, a fascism with anti-bourgeois features vs. its snarlingly bourgeois rival.

This compounded antithesis matters because there are a hundred different claims you might wish to make about fascism that will run aground upon it. Arguments about fascism routinely invert or negate themselves, and the reason for this is surprisingly easy to identify. Histories of fascism often posit an A fascism and a B fascism, and even if you think that “A vs. B” sounds too schematic, as it doubtless does, that second term will suffice to undermine one’s accustomed sense that fascism was a uniform position—or indeed that it was, to a singular degree, a politics of uniformity, a uniform movement in the pursuit of uniformity. The problem for those of us needing to theorize fascism is that a great many things we will want to say about the B fascism will not be true of the A fascism. Worse, if we mean to fashion our historical analysis into a politics, then we run the permanent risk of pegging our anti-fascism to one pole or another of the fascist antithesis, such that by opposing one fascism, we will end up endorsing the other, if only unwittingly, because we have failed to so much as recognize this latter as fascist. Our anti-fascism will be stalked by its fascist twin.

Anyone wanting to come to grips with The Authoritarian Personality, then, will need to understand first how basic these transpositions are to the study of fascism. The movement’s nearest synonym has always been “national socialism,” in a manner that predates the renaming of the German Workers’ Party in 1920. So was national socialism national? Manifestly, you say, nothing is better established than that. Theorists of fascism are fond of the term “ultranationalism”—that’s a nationalism made super- and hyper- and arch-. But then what do we say about the swastika, that most recognizable of fascist emblems, incomparably more iconic than any bundle of wooden rods?—the swastika, this hermetic counter-crucifix, which, as of 1917, was still associated above all with sites in India and Baluchistan and western Turkey. The point that overfamiliarity makes hard to grasp is that every official building in Nazi Germany was adorned with an Orientalist hex sign. German troops marched under an ankh or dream-catcher, an Aryavartic pentacle that derived its talismanic charisma not from its Germanness—not, that is, from its being indigenous to Silesia or Brandenburg, which it wasn’t—but from its near-ubiquity across four continents.

The word “Aryan,” meanwhile, is not and never was an apt equivalent for “Teutonic” or “Nordic.” Even as a white-supremacist term of art, the word has always meant something like “Indo-Germanic.” It’s that hyphen we’ll want to pay attention to, informing us as it does that doctrines of the Aryan were not premised on yet another nineteenth-century sundering of the West from the non-West, but precisely on their fusing. Of all the ways of naming white people, “Aryan” has got to be the most peculiar—though “Caucasian” is plenty strange and “white” itself mere misdescription. Aryan, however, is the only entry on that list that could be suspected of negating whiteness even while exalting it. Aryan—the Eur-asian or Occi-oriental.

National socialism, then, was not straightforwardly nationalist. But was it socialist? The historians have a ready answer for that one, which is that even though some Nazi officials were willing to deploy a modified socialist rhetoric, the Nazi regime was quick to dismantle the institutions of the independent and organized working classes; to round up Leftists; and to close ranks with IG Farben and Siemens and IBM. National socialism was a capitalism dreaming of two continents.

At this point, there is a question that any anti-fascist is going to have to ask: What claims can we make about fascism that will escape transposition of this kind? That challenge gives us a few good reasons for endorsing the approach taken by Adorno and his colleagues in The Authoritarian Personality. The f-scale, in particular, could be grasped as a solution to this problem. But it’s more than that. Anyone still needing to be convinced of the achievements of Freudianism as a mode of political analysis could do worse than read this book, which turns to psychoanalysis in order to overcome the difficulties that have always weakened other theories, and especially to fix what has been least convincing about attempts to explain fascism in intellectual or ideological terms. To turn to psychoanalysis is to insist that there is no philosophical or merely doctrinal path to fascism—that fascism has never been a matter of the substance of one’s beliefs. It is akin to a syndrome, hence a way of inhabiting whatever creed or identification a person might have cathected to. There may not be a Protestant path to fascism, which is simply to say that some Protestants turned fascist and some didn’t, but there is a fascist way of inhabiting your Protestantism. There may not even be a nationalist path to fascism, but there is a fascist way of libidinizing your nationalism. If that point seems plausible, then the next step is simply to extend it to social history, whose results are similarly inconclusive about such matters. There is no particular social path to fascism, no economic or demographic niche that opens chute-like onto the far Right—the National Socialists were a mass party and recruited successfully from across the regions and classes and professions—but there might be a fascist way of being attached to your social position, any social position.

So that’s the achievement of the f-scale, and it’s worth sticking up for. And yet the theory fails to convinces all the same. The f-scale, too, comes apart upon the fascist antitheses. Maybe the problem is already apparent: Adorno and his colleagues have proposed a series of fixed attributes that they think makes up the fascist personality. Here’s Adorno summarizing the book’s findings at a YMCA in 1948: The proto-fascist personality type involves “mechanical acceptance of conventional values, blind submission to authority combined with a violently aggressive attitude towards all those who don’t belong, anti-introspectiveness, rigid stereotypical thinking, a penchant for superstition, a vilification of human nature, and the habit to ascribe to the out-group the wishes and behavior patterns which one has to deny in oneself.” Anyone alerted to the reversals that occur in the passage from fascism to fascism prime has got to suspect that we could just as well flip each of these character traits—name its opposite—and still find ourselves sitting across from a fascist. The f-scale describes the personality of a fascist, but then so does the anti-f scale. Handed an anti-fascist checklist by the Californians, we should be able to go through and negate each of its terms and thereby find not a non-fascism (the low scorers!), but an alternate path to fascism. Shall we just do it?

1. Conventionalism: Fascists, Adorno tells us, are deeply conformist, the prim creatures of conventional morality, quick to punish anyone who offends against a stupid decency—Victorians in leather trenchcoats. This observation might be right as far as it goes, but what it omits is that the Babbit-Nazis of Adorno’s description shared the movement with fascist revolutionaries and world remakers and proclaimers of a New Europe, with those who wanted to de-Christianize Germany, to revive a pre-Frankish religion of runes and Wotan or to forge a grossdeutscher Buddhism. Here’s Robert Brasillach, writing near the end of the war, not long before he was executed for being one of the most outspoken French Nazis: “Fascism was a spirit. For us it was not a political doctrine, nor was it an economic doctrine…. It was first of all an anticonformist, antibourgeois spirit, in which disrespect played its part.”

2. Authoritarian submission: The notion that fascists are typically submissive and obedient, meanwhile, is difficult to square with the movement’s reliance on mass mobilization—its determination to agitate and unleash the public rather than pacify it. This is often taken to be the characteristic that most obviously distinguishes fascism from a generic authoritarianism. Energy and the deed counter docility and ductility. Enthusiasm counts for as much as compliance.

3. Authoritarian aggression: The troubling sentence is this one: In fascist societies, “hostility that was originally aroused by and directed toward ingroup authorities is displaced onto outgroups.” The claim that fascists are aggressive or violence-prone is as close to a consensus position as one is likely to find. And yet to say additionally that fascists are the ones who channel their aggression towards an outgroup is drastically to understate the vehemence of their attack on existing institutions (and to skip over the very minor role that anti-Semitism played in fascist Italy for most of its duration). The problem is best grasped as a conceptual one: The fascists came to power only by declaring illegitimate the up-and-sort-of-running institutions of government and by anathematizing entire sectors of German and Italian society hitherto regarded as normal. They were wholly capable of waging war on the ingroup—or of reclassifying in- as out-. To say that aggression targets the outgroup is to skip all the urgent questions about how the social field gets cleaved and re-cleaved. Here’s another French fascist, Drieu la Rochelle, writing in 1934: “We are against everyone. We fight against everyone. That is what fascism is.”

4. Superstition and stereotypy: Superstition and stereotyping have been paired by the Berkeley authors because they both point to the inability of proto-fascists to think clearly about what is happening in the world at large and why it is happening. People susceptible to fascism are alienated in some properly Left Hegelian sense of the term—unsure of how events and institutions are produced, mired in the opacity of the social, cognitively thwarted by the complexity of networked causes. But then we have names for people who have been trained, contrariwise, to think carefully about such causes. Some of them we call “historians”; others we call “scientists.” To say that fascism thrives where causal understanding collapses is to suggest that there was no proto-fascist history-writing, in the manner, for instance, of Ernst Kantorowicz’s biography of Frederick the Second, and no fascist science either. But then, of course, we now have decades of scholarship, much of it Adornian in spirit, documenting the scientific orientation of National Socialism. That fascism requires superstition as its provender can only be maintained by someone who has never heard the term “biopolitics.”

5. Anti-intraception: The Berkeley authors make it hard to so much as register the existence of a fascist science—and then they do the same thing for fascist poetry. Proto-fascists, we are told, are uncomfortable with inwardness. They would gladly put a taboo on reflection or on the display of inner life or on psychoanalysis itself. But then are we to say nothing about the Stefan George and Ezra Pound and D’Annunzio and Yeats? Was there no such thing as a fascist lyric, hence a fascist inwardness? Were the fascist and near-fascist poets not fascist when they wrote poetry? Did they only become fascist again upon putting down their pens? Are lyric poems written by fascists less lyric than ones written by liberals or socialists? Less inward? Not at all inward? But then what makes them lyric? Did Yeats not write lyric?

6 & 7. Power and “Toughness” + Sex: Then of course there’s the idea that proto-fascists are tough guys with hang-ups about sex. That idea can be dismissed by pointing to a particular person. One of Stefan George’s closest associates for a time was Alfred Schuler, a freak classicist of sub-Nietzschean caliber, who wanted nothing more than to resurrect a pagan antiquity and who thought he could do this mostly by throwing toga parties. Schuler wrote almost nothing; he was more of a counter-culture guru than an intellectual; but his central idea seems to have been that European culture was all-but permanently rent by a conflict between the male principle and the female principle, to be understood, presumably, along orthodox lines as rationality vs. irrationality, logos vs desire, activity vs. passivity, &c. Schuler thought that Europe might yet be redeemed if Westerners could agree collectively to abandon settled gender roles and embrace instead a universal androgyny. The Greeks and Romans would point the way in this regard, because they had practiced boy-love; they had been wise enough to worship the she-male. Schuler thought, in other words, that pederasty, by offering a fragile synthesis of male and female or mind and body, might just keep Europe’s primal gender conflict in check. This idea had as its extension the idea that everyday life in Europe had been thrown permanently off kilter when Roman culture went into eclipse; the Roman world had promoted androgyny; the early medieval world had reestablished rigid gender roles. And the culprits behind this almost millennial crime were, of course, the Jews, since they were one of the very few eastern Mediterranean cultures to prohibit male love, which makes of any Christianity that will not spill its seed nothing but a generalized and evangelical Judaism. Christianity, in other words, had merely propagated and enforced the homophobia of the ancient Jews. When love between men thus became taboo, so this line of reasoning ran, the Jewish spirit and its gender orthodoxies went into the ascendancy, and it was this world-historical shift that a sibylline and modernist poetry might yet undo. It matters, then, that Schuler is known to historians mostly as the person who re-introduced into modern European culture the swastika, which was to be the emblem of the Future and Genderless Age. Indeed, Schuler for a time wanted to change his name to the Hakenkreuz, a symbol with no spoken equivalent. His reasoning here was roughly like Prince’s: The dingbat under which ‘90s-era Prince released his CDs combined the classic, bathroom-door sign for Mars—hard-on north-north-east—with the classic, incongruously dangling sign for Venus, which makes his just one of several recent transgender riffs on those old gender symbols. The revived swastika, in this sense, was one of the earliest instances of the typesetter’s hermaphroditic astrology.

This leaves (8) projectivity, as the one item from the f-scale we still need to consider. I would offer that its status is special for us. It will require extra attention. The claim that Adorno and colleagues make is fairly straightforward: that anyone “ready to think about and to believe in the existence of such phenomena as wild erotic excesses, plots and conspiracies, and danger from natural catastrophes” must have a rowdy Id—they have to believe such things are likely, they must themselves feel the pull of sex and destruction. Proto-fascists are the ones ready to see in the world their own most malign impulses. The theory of projection has always been of particular interest because it is psychoanalysis’s most obviously dialectical figure, this parody of Hegelian reconciliation, in which the subject rediscovers himself in some other and then, offered the chance for self-communion, declares war on this Other-Self instead, trading in the bei sich for a fatuous gegen sich. Projection matters to us because it is via its mechanisms that fascism and anti-fascism are most directly conjoined. The anti-democrat is alarmed how anti-democratic everything has become. The fascist declares himself worried about fascism. It is here, upon discovering that the people we’re pretty sure are proto-fascists are themselves anti-fascist, that caution recommends itself. We will want to pause, to at least wonder about the possibility of projection in our own anti-fascism, and not just in theirs. Are we sure that projection isn’t involved in our willingness to believe that other people are fascists, our finding that plausible? Is there projection in the f-scale itself? Couldn’t our diagnosis that other people are given to projection itself involve projection? And if not, why not? Can anti-fascism itself carry a fascism?

It’s at this moment that we’ll need to look up from The Authoritarian Personality and go back to The Dialectic of Enlightenment. It used to be taken as given that fascism was a movement of the counter-enlightenment; no book has done more to alter that perception than Adorno and Horkheimer’s. It can come as a surprise, then, to realize that Adorno and Horkheimer weren’t actually disagreeing with that earlier claim. New readers are going to understand The Dialectic of Enlightenment better if they can see that it takes that other, prior point as read. The word that we usually omit when summarizing the book is “also.” Adorno and Horkheimer thought they could show that fascism was also an Enlightenment project, that fascism had a disastrous way of getting the Enlightenment and Counter-Enlightenment to coincide—or that any organized enlightenment eventually reached a point where it could no longer be distinguished from counter-enlightenment. That’s the dialectic in the title—without the word also there is no dialectic. The title always has to be heard as The Dialectic of Enlightenment and Counter-Enlightenment, which they mostly call myth.

The problem, then, is that the book almost only gets read as “Enlightenment critique”—indeed, it is often held out as the twentieth century’s single greatest entry in that genre. But maybe it’s time to admit that “Enlightenment critique” is an intemperate simplification and pretty much a mistake, in which most of Adorno and Horkheimer’s argument gets shorn away. Enlightenment critique is The Dialectic of Enlightenment de-dialecticized. One forgets the starting point, which was that fascism had presented itself above all as counter-enlightenment. Not in the Dialectic of Enlightenment itself, but among its readers, and on the syllabi in which it is excerpted, the counter-enlightenment that is the closest thing that fascism had to an official ideology gets held out as the authentically anti-fascist option. In this form, the Dialectic of Enlightenment, far from being the centerpiece of anti-fascist philosophy that we need it to be, becomes the vehicle by which a certain proto-fascist sensibility has been kept alive in the extended postwar era, in which one important version of the fascist temptation survives because disguised as its opposite.

Recognizing as much should help us see at last why it is important that we not accept the framework offered by the Berkeley team in The Authoritarian Personality—because it is in the pages on the f-scale that Adorno signs his name to the non-dialectical version of his own dialectical argument. It is in this volume that dialectic gets truncated back to diagnosis. It is finally hard to agree with the West Coast Adorno if we accept that the f-scale was meant to identify proto-fascists and not just company men. The mind pauses and reflects. Does anyone really think that the fascists were right-thinking squares who always did what they were told and wanted to punch queers in the face? The German catastrophe was an awful lot weirder than that—uncomfortably weird if weird is what you like. A critical theory that preemptively declares itself a Zona Antifa gullibly deeds over its stances to the very movement it opposes. Two American thinkers share credit for coining the term alternative right: 1) the elderly intellectual historian who gave a speech in 2008 commending a movement less egalitarian than Fox News, the Republican Party, and the Heritage Foundation, welcoming a conservatism willing once again to embrace scientific racism and to stop pretending it admires Martin Luther King; and 2) the young intellectual historian who edited that speech for publication online. In the 1980s, the older man wrote a book cataloging all the philosophical prizes that Hegelian-Marxist apostates bring with them when they convert to anti-communism. Twenty years later, his fond reminiscences of taking a class with Herbert Marcuse in the early 1960s are matched by the tributes he writes to Jared Taylor’s American Renaissance. First one reads this: “There were … Frankfurt School texts that I found instructive, particularly Dialectic of Enlightenment and Negative Dialectics.” And then one reads this: “Which American party stands for the white counterinsurgency? … Significantly, the white solidarity that Jared advocates has never really developed in Western history outside of colonial settlements and in the American South.” At least one early member of the Frankfurt School spent his later career refunctioning a concept of Marx’s, the Asiatic mode of production, into a bludgeon with which to thump the Reds. Frankfurt School accounts of the administered society are joined by neo-Confederates who define the enemy as “the managerial society” or borderline fascists who can tell you all about the “therapeutic managerial state.” The day you first read Guy Debord was the day you should have realized not only that you could practice détournement, but also that it could be practiced upon you, that the cultures susceptible to jamming include your anti-fascist own. In November 2016, that younger intellectual historian addressed a room full of white nationalists. “Hail our people!” he said. “Hail victory!” He wrote his master’s thesis on Adorno.

A few notes:

•The book that argues most openly for fascism-as-process-and-sequence (idea, movement, regime) is Robert Paxton’s Anatomy of Fascism. The French fascists are quoted in Zeev Sternhell’s Birth of Fascist Ideology. Jack Jacobs quotes Adorno speaking at the YMCA in his Frankfurt School, Jewish Lives, and Anti-Semitism. The material on Schuler I owe to Robert Norton’s Secret Germany: Stefan George and His Circle.

•I talked this argument through with friends and co-thinkers at a roundtable at Hunter College in November 2016. Special thanks are due Robyn Marasco for organizing “The Authoritarian Personality, Revisited.” Thanks, too, to Eric Kurlander.

An essay from boundary 2 online: 

What comes to mind when a writer says that he means to comment upon “the South”? Anyone sitting in North America is likely to hear that term, if not further specified, as referring to the southern United States, what we might for now call “Alabama etcetera,” though this is hardly the phrase’s only possible designatum. The other region now routinely denominated “the South”—the other region, I mean, that routinely earns that otherwise ungrammatical capital S—isn’t actually a region at all, but a name for what used to be called “the Third World” or “the developing countries” or “the colonies”: the Global South. The American South, the Global South—as soon as one sees those two terms in the same paragraph, questions start humming. Why does the former Third World bear the same name as Georgia and the Carolinas? Do these have anything to do with one another, conceptually or concretely? Do our perceptions of one bleed into our perceptions of the other? In what sense are they all southern? What are we attributing to a region when we call it southern? Is there such a thing as southness?

With these questions in front of us, I’d like to state a few propositions forthrightly—propositions, in the first instance, about the US South, which might or might not open up to include the global South, too. There are two propositions that I suspect I can get a person to agree with directly, without coaxing, and then a third that will in all likelihood require further elaboration and reflection. I’m going to share a few observations about “the South,” but with the proviso that I mean the phrase and not the place. What I’m wondering is what it means to call some expanse of territory “the South.”

What I need us to see first is that the word “South” is, in the US context and probably most others besides, entirely optional. You might imagine yourself reading these words in Tennessee somewhere, west of the Appalachians. We often refer to that patch of the planet as “the South,” but we could and do call it other things. A person might for instance, feel a certain attachment to the region marked out in burnt orange here…

The full essay is here.

SIX THESES ON CRITICAL THEORY

•1.

A critical theory that has gotten serious about politics has only one question left to answer. Having convinced another semester’s worth of young philosophers to grant a conceptual priority to non-identity or Becoming, how are these now to become real in the world? What kind of institutions are needed to safeguard non-identity, and not just in thought? Does Becoming recommend some practices over others? Who are that concept’s proper bearers? Critical theory in the US has largely been a fight over this last—over who gets to count as devenir’s chosen agents and avatars—over which identity position can most convincingly pose as its antithesis, as non-identitarian. Queer people? Black people? Diaspora Jews? All migrants? And yet the candidates proposed by radical philosophy’s master thinkers have generally been rather different from these. Their stated preferences have been not for this or that group, but for certain institutions—for free markets or for empire and often for both; the empire of Becoming will help install the non-identity market. The pied noir philosopher sends an old classmate a nineteen-page letter defending French colonial society in Algeria and then publishes a landmark attack on anti-imperial anthropology—an attack which counts among its core claims the notion that indigenous people are fully as violent as the Europeans who have subjugated them. That book’s most famous accomplishment is to declare a certain civilizational technology, unevenly distributed across the planet, a universal term and thereby to render strictly unnameable non-civilizational and decolonized alternatives to it. The theorists of the rootstock, meanwhile, write a jubilant prose in praise of, first, those English nomads who know how to inhabit the whole world by “pitching their tents over the sea”; second, any social formation able to “expand, conquer, capture”; third, Africans who fantasize about being beaten by French settlers. Hardt and Negri, for their part, have simply ejected peasants and the indigenous from the ranks of the multitude; the universal, in their hands, becomes the universal-minus-two. Derrida says that people attached to their localities are conceptually “primitive” and asks on these grounds that we not criticize the mass media, since with any luck the phantasmatic abstraction that these generate will produce “dislocation” in people too attached to place. Hollywood and television will displace the natives. A question thus becomes poseable: Should you still speak of “Western metaphysics” if those you consider most duped by it live outside the West? In “White Mythology,” Derrida says that language has as its corollary or nearest equivalent the (market) economy. Nothing escapes the market; nothing ever has; nothing ever will. Everything is subject to “the general law of value”; such was the great insight of Saussure, as presumably of Jevons before him. We have to think of words as a kind of currency, then, always in motion, always fluctuating, constantly assigned new meanings or values. Attempts to think positions outside of the marketplace are doomed either because markets are entire and comprehensive or because the principles of the market are embedded in language itself, even in those regions that lack commodity exchange. Look backwards: Near the beginning of “Plato’s Pharmacy,” Derrida objects to the king who thinks he can set prices, offering in his place a writing that cannot help but circulate freely, beyond all possibility of regulation. Look forward: Derrida finishes Given Time by arguing against the Aristotelians who think that economies should be ordered according to some non-economic conception of the good. We should pledge ourselves instead to the not-really “bad infinity” of “chrematistics”—the ungoverned accumulation of wealth—because commerce, like writing, is what “opens” the household; it is the “threshold” that teaches us to look beyond the family. International trade is therefore just another version of the gift or “hospitality,” of welcoming into the home something that wasn’t originally there: a high-tea cake stand handmade in India; a fringed shoulder bag whose kaleidoscope-and-bearded-iris print was woven by widows in Guatemala; a batik wall hanging. This Levinasian neoliberalism finds its counterpart in the Harvard professor who, having helped introduce Totality and Infinity to the study of Latin American literature, recommends to the keepers of alterity that they “consider medieval England, where Normans were wise enough to know that they ruled a nation of foreigners”; or to consider the “Moslem empires,” who have “traditionally been hosts to the cultural differences that Christendom does not abide.” Critical theory names itself here as the expertise of invaders, a program for the wise rule of foreigners—not as the fresh round of decolonization you were taught to expect, but as an alternate imperialism. But then who didn’t know this already? Critical theory has long been characterized by a vocabulary of openness, plurality, globalizing flows, and flexible networks that we would have easily recognized as neoliberal and Americanizing in any context other than our own. Anyone surprised to find Foucault arguing that no-one has a right to health care simply wasn’t paying attention. The other name for neoclassical economics is “marginalism.”

•2.

The ideological valences of critical theory are routinely inverted. This is often to be welcomed. There is nothing discreditable about those old Marxist glosses on Roland Barthes or anti-colonial deployments of Derrida, as oblivious to their source texts as such rejiggings inevitably are. It is a kind of hygiene to be able to read Nietzsche and not see a single-minded neo-aristocrat or to read Heidegger and think only that you should switch to free-range eggs. Rare is the philosophy that cannot be improved by inattention. But why would we believe that arguments only get flipped in one direction, further on down the road towards emancipation and equity? It is fairly easy, after all, to show how specific theoretical schools become what they claim to negate. Any new concept that allows people to speak hitherto unspoken claims—to write fresh sentences and form fresh sets—will become available, automatically, for purposes other than the ones to which it was first put. Manifestos against consumer capitalism furnish pretexts for less consumerist modes of capitalism or, more often, for un-massified modes of consumption. Queer theory mutates into sex discourse the same day we teach it—back in the dorm, that very afternoon. Postcolonial theorists can only convince themselves that they are carrying on the work of Fanon and Cabral as long as they don’t read their counterparts in history, whose most successful tactic these last twenty years now has been to recycle the arguments of Bhabha, Chakrabarty, and others as liberal justifications for European expansion. Postcolonial theory has summoned as its twin an apologetics in which every incursion is an “encounter,” every confiscation a “new opportunity,” every colony a distended “border”—a zone of “cultural contact,” all membrane, no cell. One historian refers to invasion as “armed immigration.” An introductory course on postcolonial writing begins in an anti-political mode, by recommending that its students set aside “the blunt tools of violence and political rabble rousing” in favor of the “complex identities” on display in literature. But not just in literature: A historian at Vassar, two-time winner of the Bancroft Prize, sets out to overturn the anti-imperial history-writing of the 1960s and ‘70s by showing how “polyphonic” the North American colonies were and offers a few complex identities as evidence: the British baronet who directed the Irish overseer to dress his African chattel in Iroquois drag. A Cambridge anthropologist, meanwhile, director of that university’s Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology, wants you to know that Pacific islanders have always been “cosmopolitan” and offers as his second example of their sophistication three men who were kidnapped by the Spanish near Papua New Guinea in the early 1500s—three non-Europeans, that is, who became world-travelers only because they were abducted. The just society is a multiethnic slave plantation. Worldliness is a good even at swordpoint. Any institutional description of critical theory in the academy would have to flag the predictability with which such transpositions occur. It is no use, at this moment, thinking back to your mentor and knowing her to be righteous. The vocabulary we devise to describe the redeemed society will furnish others with the language they need to justify afresh the protocols of the administered world. This is the service critical theory provides. Every Foucault gets his Ewald.

•3.

It has become common for intellectual historians to point out that Marxists give a distorted picture of the long seventeenth century. Almost no-one in that period, they say, was sticking up for commerce or what we would call capitalism. Inherited political discourses simply provided no language with which to justify commercial life, which means that there was no “bourgeois ideology” in early modern England, and the Marxists are wrong to see it there, hiding under every republican rock. There may have been capitalism, but there was no system of capitalist belief. That point seems right as far as it goes, but is misleading all the same, because it badly misunderstands how ideology usually works. Ideology typically has the structure of a disowning, and not just in the seventeenth century. Capitalism-without-strong-capitalist-beliefs names the ordinary condition of modern societies. Only in exceptional cases has ideology ever offered a full-throated defense of the marketplace. Indeed, most of what we think of as “bourgeois culture” names the middle class’s distinctive ways of protecting itself from capitalism—its commitment to family and home; a certain way of enjoying the arts—which quickly leads one to the conclusion that not even the historical bourgeoisie has embraced capitalism or thought of the market as a place one could happily live. It does not much matter, then, that commodity exchange is Derrida’s uncamouflaged druthers or that A Thousand Plateaus reads like it was co-authored by Kipling. Nor does it matter that critical theory is full of conceptual displacements and dignifying proxies, verbal sublimations that, when parsed back to their real-world and institutional coordinates, mostly end up meaning “expanding markets” all over again, though if you already know that “freedom” and “democracy” and “human rights” are neoliberalism-by-another-name, then you are well placed to see that “dissemination” and “deterritorialization” and “the rhizome” are, too. Critical theory’s most significant ideological work has not been to enforce a set of basically metropolitan commitments, entrepreneurial and buccaneering, but to license a set of false disidentifications from same. The problem is not that we read Derrida and thereby become neoliberals, but that we take our reading of Derrida—or Rancière or José Muñoz—as sufficient evidence that we aren’t. One of the forms that power takes in a mature capitalist society is the professional class’s ability to build bulwarks against capital itself: respites and pseudo-negations. A history of bourgeois disavowal is underway; the challenge is to name its changing forms, from domesticity to aestheticism to … critique.

•4.

What if we started from the simple fact that critical theory is now a predictable part of a college education for twenty-year-olds who aspire to be professionals, that the works of Agamben and Badiou are mostly housed in (protected and subsidized by) institutions of the state and of status? The first thing a sociologist will tell you about the professions is that they are much larger than they were a century ago. There are more professions—more ways to be a professional, more lines that count as professional—and there are many more people in them, even in relative numbers, more people, that is, whose station involves being highly educated, whose work requires them to showcase that education, and who have at best limited patience with bosses. Even in the administered society, one mode of unadministered labor has continued to grow, and Adornian attacks on administration, mostly silent on the professions anyway, are perhaps best understood as the spontaneous ideology of self-directed work, a further blessing bestowed upon the favored and the exempt—on the understanding, however, that “the exempt” make up an expanding class fraction, and not, as the ideology itself requires, a declining one. The proponents of a creative capitalism, meanwhile—those professors of management who advise rust-belt cities to use gay people as economic bait—write a prose that is sometimes hard to distinguish from Adorno’s own. If you want to understand the current state of critical theory, you could do worse than ask which of the following sentences I’ve taken from Minima Moralia and which from management consulting: “Capitalism has also expanded its reach to capture the talents of heretofore excluded groups of eccentrics and nonconformists. … The creative individual is no longer viewed as an iconoclast. He … is the new mainstream.” “New structures for systematically eliciting and applying creativity … have become ingrained features of our economic life.” “We insist that all our workers contribute their minds.” You can object that the work of Richard Florida and others is ideology—that it is out to instrumentalize fugitive thought—and you’d be right. But it is this objection that is the more thoroughly ideological position, refusing as it does to face the existence of a post-managerial capitalism as a social fact in its own right, as all the evidence one needs, in fact, that fugitive thought is instrumentalizable. Florida is right in a way that most of his critics are not—the ones who think that the alternative and interdisciplinary humanities exist at Princeton but outside of exchange society, the ones who think that because they are not interested in capital, capital is not interested in them.

But then are the anti-capitalists really not interested in capital? The most consequential mistake that casual readers of Bourdieu ever made was to consider him a theorist of high culture in some settled sense of that term, mandarin and European, a theorist, that is, of the concert hall and the sculpture garden, of the art novel and the opera cape. But Bourdieu’s argument, however keyed to the empirie of France in the 1960s, holds only that culture tends to stratify, that social actors will usually elevate some cultural modes (and forms of intellection) at the expense of others. It does not say that the elevated term has to be Chopin. Indeed, there is zero reason to think that eliminating mazurkas (or piano lessons or Henry James or even literature as a category) would overturn cultural capital, any more than eliminating the franc has overturned money. One might, it’s true, wonder how cultural capital has survived the last half century’s apotheosis of pop, the rollback of the old patrician-bourgeois culture of the West, postmodernism’s putative muddling of low and high. But the sociologists have gone and checked, and the answers are not hard to find: Fancy people are now more likely to consume culture indiscriminately, that is, to congratulate themselves on the expansiveness of their tastes; indistinction has become distinction. They are more likely to prefer foreign culture to their own, at least in some who-wants-takeout? kind of way. And they are more likely to enjoy culture analytically and ironically, belligerently positing a naïve consumer whose imagined immersion in the object will set off everything in their own approach that is suavely arms-length and slaunchwise. Such, point for point, is the ethos of the new-model English department: of cultural studies, new media, the expanded canon, of theory-courses-without-objects. To bring new types of artifacts into literature departments is not to destroy cultural capital. It is merely to allow new things to start functioning as wealth. Even here, the claim to novelty can be overstated, since it is enough to read Bourdieu to know that the claim to interpret and demystify has always been an especially heady form of symbolic power. The ingenious reading confers distinction, as do sundry bids to fix the meanings of the social. Critical theory is cultural capital. Citing Judith Butler is one of the ways in which professional people outside the academy understand and justify their own elevation. Bickering recreationally about the politics of zombie movies is just what lawyers and engineers now do.

•5.

Scholarship is possible only because learned people need not fight the fights that criss-cross whatever patch of the world they study and because they are not in competition for that field’s distinctive goods. The biggest advantage they possess is that they can come and go as they please. The ecologist will leave the cloud forest before the semester starts. The anthropologist was in Brazil for rather less long than you had imagined. The sociologist won’t even spend the night in Cabrini Green. Likewise, the ethnographer determined to figure out how a particular cluster of villages distributes its yams needn’t amass any, any more than the botanist counting tamarisks is tempted to divert their CO2 for her own personal use. One wonders whether critical theory—this committed thinking, this liberation philosophy—is any different on this score. Is there, in addition to the scholastic point of view, a critical one? Critical theory is perfectly capable, of course, of neutralizing situations in conventionally scholastic ways. Derrida’s differance and deferral, Deleuze’s virtual, Agamben’s potentiality—these all demand that I withdraw from context and conjuncture, that I cognitively bracket any entanglement I might have with this actuality or with this organization of the social, in a manner that presumes leisure and distance—ie, that I can afford so to withdraw. The same could be said of the utopian, the messianic, the open horizon of the future, or the not-yet—and that list could doubtless be extended. Any critical theorist who offers to liberate you via play is confident that you don’t have more pressing business.

Non-involvement, however, is what critical theory most shares with ordinary scholarship. What makes critical theory distinctive is its determination to pantomime the involvement that its scholasticism has already precluded. The critical point of view is the scholastic view that doesn’t take itself to be scholastic, that strikes a set of anti-academic poses while preserving all the core features of academic vision. If the scholar is the one who renders a field legible by suspending its interests and stakes, the critical theorist is the one who pretends that all stakes enter his thinking intact. The critical point of view is what induces us to habitually misdescribe a given colleague’s attitudes and expressed judgments as her “politics” or to write about Spinoza and think that we are thereby writing about matter. The critical theorist, indeed, renovates all the old idealist arguments by translating them into a speciously materialist idiom—materiality, yes, but “of language”; politics, yes, but “of representation”; violence, yes, but “of the concept.” We know now to write the word “bodies” where twenty years ago we would have written “subjects”—and then we go ahead and make all the old arguments about subjects anyway. The wholly accurate insight into the interestedness of philosophy—that all philosophy has a politics—reverses itself into the sluggish conviction that writing philosophy is all the politics one needs. Some scholars, the critical ones, make a claim and think it’s a gesture. They retire to their writing carrels and call it an intervention. It is one kind of prerogative to be able to write about a discourse or culture or social scene and not be bound by its rules, not to have to get something done in it—to not be in the game. It is a second prerogative, derived from this first, to be able electively to treat that deactivated field as though it were still running on live current.

•6.

The answer to a theory this uncritical would be an un-critical theory.

A few thoughts about Popular Revenants: The German Gothic and Its International Reception, 1800-2000, edited by Andrew Cusack and Barry Murnane (Rochester, NY: Camden House, 2012)

Here is as straightforward an argument as Adorno ever made: If you wish to find an art that is adequate to mass death—an art, that is, that can do right by the Apache in the 1880s and the Armenians in the 1910s and the Palestinians now—you have a few different options. You might consider a documentary and testimonial art, one that gets the word out, peeling back blankets of denial and obfuscation and palm-bearing oblivion—a “photograph of the disaster” was Adorno’s name for such a thing. That might do, but better would be an art capable of giving voice to anguish and not just of tabulating it—an art that rather than producing a set of paraphrasable propositions about suffering actually made its audience ache, a sorrowing art, then, literature as paid mourner. Better still would be an art of “incomprehensible horror”—this is still Adorno—and on the simple grounds that a tale of terror is more likely to rattle you than an exposé or maudlin vignette. Nothing will go as far to dent our perception of Adorno as fussy Brahmin than his embrace of Gothic literature, this one precious genre that puts violence on display and allows it to be horrible. The enormities of empire and a capitalism-without-pretenses do not in fact require that we abandon all of our storytelling conventions, that we start art over again from gory scratch, since we already have at our disposal a narrative form that forces us to say who is dying and how and at whose hands: scary movies and the weird menace of the pulps. Such is the art due Guatemala in the 1980s or the biped chattel of a former Alabama. They keep telling you that you can’t write poetry after Auschwitz, but no-one ever said you couldn’t re-make Blood Feast.

But then perhaps Adorno’s argument is after all not so very straightforward. It has always been possible to think of horror stories as an exercise in truth-telling and consciousness-raising, with fear functioning as the bearer of moral judgments, usurping the role that sentimental fiction more typically reserves for tears. Sometimes you cry in the face of something you know to be wrong, something whose wrongness does not need to be argumentatively demonstrated to you. And sometimes, equally, you blench or panic, and you do so, when watching a film, not because you fear for yourself, but because you fear for another; at such moments, yours is an ethical fear, not panic, but companic. Slasher movies simply make more sense if you approach them as stunned enquiries into male violence, rather than as grisly cheerings of same. And yet the horror art that Adorno is proposing as commensurate with fascism and occupation and your administered life does not, in fact, work that way; it is no longer on the continuum with activist journalism or moral sense theory. The “radically darkened art” that Adorno is proposing must do something more “than merely protest”; we need an art, rather, that “has taken the disaster into itself” and that “identifies with it,” an art, indeed, that “has defected to the enemy”—not horror, but gonzo horror. If we follow this line, we will actually have to relinquish most ghost stories and vampire movies for being plain-vanilla Gothic. Horror fiction, which respectable readers usually think of as out-there and round-the-bend, now stands accused of having never gone far enough. The Gothic is itself scared of something, permanently recoiling from its own dismal consequence.

A counter-intuitive argument, no doubt. So why might a person come to this conclusion about the Gothic? In what aberrant circumstances does horror fiction itself seem squeamish? Such is the utility of one collection of recent scholarly articles about weird fiction in Germany; the dozen contributors to Popular Revenants make clear just how much timorous philosophizing the rubric of the Gothic makes possible. This dispersed volume’s uniting arguments are threefold: that horror fiction is cosmopolitan; that it broadcasts enlightenment (and not the demonic counter-enlightenment you might have expected); and that it does so in perpetuity, throughout the nineteenth and twentieth centuries (and so not just in the decades of a flourishing and self-conscious Romanticism). Let’s take each of these claims in turn.

The Gothic is cosmopolitan. The volume is subtitled “The German Gothic and its International Reception,” and its biggest innovation is right there after the colon. It has to be said: “The German Gothic” is a puzzling term, though not much more so than the designator “Gothic” by itself, since this last was originally an ethnic and geographical term (a name for the Germanic tribes of central and eastern Europe in the period of the Roman Empire), which then mutated into a periodizing term naming not peoples but centuries (a name for the Middle Ages almost anywhere in Europe), before mutating again to describe a group of eerie, late eighteenth-century novels whose most famous examples are set in neither the Middle Ages nor Germany. The problem in the present case is that “Gothic” is a word that some English readers once used to describe fictions that struck them as in some ill-defined sense “Germanic,” but then this last word is one that no German writer (or literary historian) can meaningfully self-apply, since one rather expects German writing to come across as Germanic. All German literature is Gothic, and the term “German Gothic” thus becomes a redundancy, akin to calling a novel “Teutono-Allemanic.” But then German literary history has for that very reason never really taken to the term, preferring to speak of Schauerliteratur or Räuberromane or more recently of Horrorliteratur. There is no gotische Literatur, or if there is, it involves twig-writing on amulets and might have been invented by Odin. And yet from out of this muddle, the editors of Popular Revenants have managed to extract an argument or affirmative program. They know that the term “German Gothic” is largely their own creation, and they know, too, what a casual reader is likely to miss—that the term “Gothic” makes this literature in some sense less German and not more so, flagging the affiliations between uncanny writing in German and such writing in other languages, especially English. E. T. A. Hoffmann becomes in the uptake more of a French writer than a German one. In 1786, a German novelist translates from the English an extravagantly plotted historical romance and goes on to write a few novels of her own in that acquired vein. In the 1790s, these are translated into English in turn, by which point they get to count as echt deutsch. Popular Revenants is never more convincing than when establishing the Gothic as a pan-European mode and when establishing the brief centrality of Germany to a literature that you might have remembered as being set mostly in Spain and Italy. For a few decades in the early nineteenth century, when readers were eagerly buying “tales of the northern nations,” it was not uncommon for an English novelist to claim that a novel was hers when it was actually translated from the German or to claim that it was a translation from the German when it was actually hers: “A Very German Story.” The term “Gothic” might be ethnic-tribal, but a nationalist account of Gothic literature will not do. Victor Frankenstein travels to Bavaria and Scotland and the Arctic; the Transylvanian noble stows away on a ship bound for the Yorkshire coast; nineteenth-century Gothic novels were themselves on the move, widely translated and written in many languages anyway. The most famous thing the ancient Goths ever did was cross the Danube.

The Gothic is enlightened. This claim is also true and might even be truer than you think. Nearly the first lesson that any student of the Gothic learns is that the genre comes in two forms: the supernatural kind, in which the bogeys and demons are real, and the demystifying kind, in which the goblins all turn out to be Jesuits. We know to call that second kind of Gothic enlightened, but the first is hardly less so, and both wobble with paradox. The villains of the demystifying Gothic are those who use terror to shore up their authority—priests, political operatives, gaslighting Machiavels—but then the ranks of such fear-preachers would have to include Gothic novelists themselves, who find themselves saying both that there is nothing to be scared of and that one should stand aghast at anyone who tells you different. That you should fear those who try to instill fear into you is a sentiment that will always indict its speaker. The supernatural Gothic, meanwhile, might seem irrational or anti-scientific, in that it asks its readers to credit a still occult world, and yet the heroes of such fictions are typically out to defeat everything magical, to reduce the paranormal back to the normal, and whenever they succeed the enchanted Gothic outs itself as disenchantment by other means. Protestants and liberals and London lawyers learn just enough Church Latin to make the vampire go away. Even counter-enlightenment is made to serve the purposes of the enlighteners.

For current purposes, the important point is that this last sentence could serve equally well as a summary of Popular Revenants, whose authors tell us more than once that Schauerromane were products of “the late Enlightenment” or that the Gothic was “firmly rooted in a dominant strand of [the] late Enlightenment.” It’s just that the wisdom that the literary critics have extrapolated from these strange fictions still sounds a lot like counter-Enlightenment: that the “supposedly solid enlightened subject” is easily “deranged”; that humans have difficulties “thinking of themselves as coherent subjects”; that the Enlightenment itself needs “testing out.” One of the volume’s major aims is thus to undo the distinction between Enlightenment and Enlightenment critique, simply by reassigning to the former the insights of the latter. Adorno and Horkheimer took something rather like this to be one of enlightenment’s most alarming features—that rational argument would be impossible to outrun, that even opposition to enlightenment would be obliged henceforth to offer itself as enlightenment. Popular Revenants takes this obligation to be a virtue, and the Gothic of its making comes to us as a basically Kantian exercise—that’s the “late” in “late Enlightenment”—an enlightened culture’s candid reflection on its own limits and failures. Kafka and Poe cordially request that you not overdo it with the Diderot.

The Gothic is not a period in literary history, but an enduring strand that runs throughout modern storytelling. Nearly half the volume’s contributions have been arranged in service of this point, demonstrating the persistence of the macabre in the German realism of Wilhelm Raabe or Theodor Fontane; in the German modernism of early twentieth-century Prague or Weimar cinema; in postmodern novels of German reunification (by Christa Wolf and Irina Liebmann). It is perhaps confounding that the editors would think it needful to relitigate a case already made by sundry historians of supernatural fiction. Indeed, an English-speaking reader is more likely to have been told at some point that it was realism, and not the Gothic, that has been strangely absent from German literary history—that what the German nineteenth century lacked was an Austen or a Dickens or a Balzac or a Zola, some realist so formidable that I can count on your knowing their name. Anyone reading in translation might even get the impression that German literature has only ever been fantastic, an unbroken sequence of plays about the devil, stories about robot women, and novellas about bug-men, with the not-quite-literary, but wholly Gothic, figures of Wagner and Nietzsche occupying the late nineteenth-century slots where one might have expected to find Flaubert and Tolstoy.

So why tell us all over again that the Gothic has never gone away? The collection’s three main claims have to be considered together: The German Gothic has been cosmopolitan, enlightened, and perpetual. Taken singly, none of these observations is wrong, but conjoined they present an image of the Gothic as accommodating and ecumenical, at home in every literary style and period, mediating an accord between enlightenment and counter-enlightenment, itinerant across Europe to ensure the peace of nations. What the editors have done, then, is crafted a Gothic wholly without conflict or adversary, a horror fiction that wants to be everybody’s friend. And then that, tailored to our prejudices, is the squeamish Gothic that Adorno was trying to identify and surpass. It is also a Gothic remodeled on the example of critical theory itself, an international conversation about the impasses and injuries of the rationalized world—international, but with Germans taking the lead. It’s just that this confluence both confirms many of Adorno’s core arguments and oddly robs them of their force. In Popular Revenants, we read that the Gothic is amenable to “transfer,” like money into a bank account or executives reposted to Singapore. We are told that other Europeans have always undertaken a “commerce with German letters.” A Gothic commodity of this kind has precisely not gone over to the enemy, but is obligingly doing the work of the neo-Kantian angels. German monsters cross borders, but only in the manner of Berlin philosophers guest-lecturing at American universities. A horror fiction this worldly and liberal-minded betrays its own anxieties and above all its fear of the provincial: the dialect tale, the hatchet-waving redneck, the untranslated book. Here, then, is my proposal, a general one, a learnable method, not confined to Popular Revenants: Whenever someone offers you a definition of the Gothic, invert it—say clearly what this version of the Gothic is not, what it is rejecting or cannot accommodate. Strip the Gothic of what a given critic thinks makes it respectable and in that negation you will find a second Gothic, a horror prime secreted in its spooky base. If someone tells you that the Gothic is cosmopolitan and enlightened, it’s not so hard to figure out that they are scared of something, which is that it is neither. But then of course the idea of a multinational and semi-illuminated Gothic is not simply an error. Sometimes the cosmopolitans who wear their enlightenment lightly really are the scary ones. In British West Africa, colonial administrators thought it was their job to protect indigenous societies from precipitate modernization and ruled them tenaciously to that end. The team-leaders of a bohemianized capitalism don’t like the old corporate managers any more than Adorno himself did; they will speak to you of “flexibility” and “creativity,” and what they will mean is that you are going to have to be accommodating, adaptable; that you can never say no; that you will never stop working. If you make horror fiction sound like a measured version of critical theory, as this book does, then it is only a matter of time before readers will think to ask where critical theory has been most horrifying. Somebody, somewhere feels stalked by ghastly Habermasians.

Thesis 1, Part Two

Here, at last, is an argument about—and, indeed, against—endings: Nineteenth-century novels were written for the professional and bureaucratic classes, for the kinds of people, in other words, who keep reports on the rest of us; good twentieth-century novels were not; and it is endings that most distinguish the one from the other. Readers of Juan Rulfo and Nathalie Sarraute have to make their peace with enduring uncertainty, relinquishing the expectation that a fiction’s final pages will notarize and tidily file away all that’s come before. In the classical text, by contrast—so Barthes—truth arrives “at the end”; “truth is what completes, what closes”; “the profound is what is discovered at the end,” “closing off the infinite repetition of dialogue,” “bringing the interplay of languages to an end.”  And here’s where things get tricky for the literary historian trying to make sense of S/Z. Anyone reading Barthes on “the classical text” is bound to feel, at some point or another, that they have just read some of the most penetrating pages ever written on prose fiction. I’m thinking especially of mini-essay #60, in which is explained the dilemma of any literature trying to establish its place in the epistemological society. In any “civilization of enigma, truth and decipherment,” realist novels have no choice but to pursue a certain ruse, producing artificial opacities which they will later offer to illuminate: Who is Pip’s benefactor? Who started the fire at Thornfield Hall? For if they were genuinely committed to truth, there would be no suspense—no tenterhooks, perhaps no story—since they could just authoritatively answer any riddle as soon as it arose: Look, the convict he once helped is sending him money from Australia. Watch out, he keeps his first wife in the attic. Hey, you know that singer? She’s a dude. Most narrators and all novelists are in a position, more than any overly detailed trailer or whispering aisle-mate, to ruin the coming plot-twist. They can always solve the mystery before the detective. The trick of realist fiction in a culture dominated by knowledge is to withhold the truth while seeming to be honest and truth-driven.

So again, “classical texts” do this. “Modern” ones don’t. It’s a brilliant argument whose only drawback is that it can’t possibly be right, at least not as a general proposition about narrative as such. One can hardly doubt that the description serves for some mid-shelf fiction, but do we really think it will hold for every story published before 1922? Where exactly are to we look to find these canons of uniformly closed storytelling? Are we to look to the ancient epic, to “the classical text” in its accustomed meaning? That won’t help. The Iliad ends so abruptly—with the burial of a single Trojan warrior in the middle of an ongoing war—that first-time readers typically feel cheated. Anyone finishing book twenty-four of Homer knows that there is more story left to tell, and woe to the great-books lecturer who has to break it to his students that there will be no wooden horse. For the fall of Troy, a reader will have to wait for the Aeneid, which itself terminates so suddenly, well before the conquest of Italy and founding of Rome, that scholars have generally concluded that Virgil died before finishing the thing.

So do we look instead to French neoclassicism? That might be one of the configurations Barthes had in mind when he grabbed the word “classical.” The problem here is that prose fiction, unlike eighteenth-century history paintings and seventeenth-century neo-Pindarics, is almost never described as “neoclassical,” since prose-writers were much less likely than tragedians or epic poets to invoke whatever few ancient models they had. The most obvious exception to this observation—that would be d’Urfé’s L’Astrée (1607-1627), a pastoral love story, with bonus side adventures, set in the fifth century—clocks in at some 5,400 pages, which means that it can hardly be accused of possessing a precipitate drive to closure. That prose fiction forgoes the claim to classicism can be glimpsed in the form’s accepted names; the European languages furnish two, and they both mark long prose fiction as innovative. This, I’ll grant, might at first be hard to see, since the most common term for “novel” outside of English is a word that also means “a citizen of antiquity’s great Mediterranean empire.” It is a trick of etymology, then, that a roman is precisely not Roman, but rather a story-no-longer-in-Latin, a vernacular tale, recounted in some post-imperial creole or another. “Novels,” meanwhile, are new stories about new things.

So maybe “the classical text” is actually just Barthes’s idiosyncratic gloss on “the realist novel” after all. Maybe this is what makes realist novels distinctive—and distinctively odious—that they go in for strong closure when so many forms do not, that they are the blind alleys on literature’s otherwise open map. But then how could anyone wishing to make that argument choose as his paradigm Balzac, the steamboat captain of the roman-fleuve, of the riverine novel-that-never-ends, the great novel-flux? The shady southern law student you read about in one novel reappears five years later, as a secondary character in another book, except now he’s under-secretary of state. The property speculator at the center of Zola’s Curée, from 1871-72, is still kicking around eighteen novels later. Any novel that appears in a cycle—any Leatherstocking tale, any Barchester chronicle, any episodio nacional—is liable to have its ending amended by some later entry in the series. The biggest shock is to realize that Roland Barthes is mistaken even about his proof text—not just about Balzac broadly, but about “Sarrasine” in particular. Let me read back into the record my summary of Balzac’s novella:

In southern Italy in the 1770s, a French sculptor falls in love with a pretty soprano without knowing that she is actually a cross-dressing and castrated man; that mistake ends up getting the sculptor killed. In Paris, a half century later, the now elderly castrato unnerves the Bourbon Restoration’s smart set, crashing their balls, sidling wordlessly up to their women.

What you’ll want to bear in mind at this point is that S/Z is often read, with some justice, as an early exercise in queer literary criticism. The Anglo-Foucauldian vocabulary of “the queer” may not have been available to Barthes in ’68 and ’69, but he is plainly interested in how “the classical text” deals with characters who fall outside of its governing schemes of sexual classification, and in pursuing that matter he ends up furnishing a later queer criticism with one of its signature arguments. The painter is killed; the queer love story is terminated; it leaves behind only images of itself—a statue of the singer, and then paintings made of the statue: “something dangerous,” writes Barthes, “has been contained, exorcised, pacified.” Queer desire has been foreclosed; Western discourse has opted to liquidate, as unreadable, the emasculated man, &c. But even my rushed précis should be enough to show you that Barthes has got this wrong, since “Sarrasine” is not one story but two, a narrative and a frame narrative—that structure is common enough—and what is pacified in the one lives on in the other. Sarrasine dies; the singer lives.

Nor is this a subtle point, the literature professor’s usual exercise in competitive exegesis. Barthes bizarrely implies that attenuated images of the castrato are all that remain of him: “the sinister story of La Zambinella grows distant, no longer exists save as a vague, moon-struck enigma, mysterious without being offensive.” (208) But Balzac’s non-realist idiom makes the queer soprano’s uncanny survival hard to overlook. The castrato doesn’t, in fact, just intrude upon the parties of the rich; he haunts them, deaf, desiccated, in outdated ruffles and hose, a queer “phantom,” a zombie of the ancien régime—a “vampire,” perhaps, a “walking corpse,” the story says. So yes, queer illegibility is in a sense killing, at least to a normal; the encounter with the queer term can be lethal. But Barthes has botched the bit about closure: The story does not know how to wish the queer away. The exorcism does not take. The Gothic language—realist? classical?—guarantees repetition.

So what’s going on here? How has the greatest work of post-structuralist literary criticism made such a hash of its central claims? Fortunately, Barthes himself has engineered all the tools one needs to work out an answer. Semiotics, after all, instructs us not to treat any writing as a simple report on the world; every account, every argument, every description involves a more or less arbitrary coding of the data, and our task now is simply to extend that insight to semiotics itself, to stop reverencing S/Z as a special vehicle of glossematic wisdom and to see it instead as cutting capriciously into the literary field. I can be more specific than that: Barthes, unlike many of his predecessors, insists that the codes in any text will always be multiple. That is, he forgivingly calls off the search for the master code to which all others reduce. At the same time, though, he argues that any given story will be organized around a central antithesis, a patterning of its information into some specially charged dichotomy (in whose circumference other codes might nonetheless float free). Indeed, it was in S/Z that Barthes furnished post-structuralism with one of its canonical attacks on binary thought, on any Manichean and stalled antithesis that carves the cosmos into ontologically polarized densities, “two plenitudes set ritually face to face like two fully armed warriors … the given opposition, eternal, eternally recurrent.” The “symbolic” universe posited by nearly all writing can understand the breached antithesis or union of opposites only via the conceptually impoverished category of “paradox,” to be strictly distinguished from the dialectical antithesis-in-motion, though Barthes also suggests that for a story to begin, for it to be experienced as necessary, there has to exist some such absurdity, something excessive, something that upsets the stagnant balance of the binary, an unresolved third term that will eventually and in unprecedented fashion mediate between A and B … or will be eliminated as a menace … or will survive its attempted purge and so open-endedly stalk the binary as free radical and unpaired abortion. The fate of third terms simply is the stuff of narrative; it is the only story anyone has to tell.

Examples of stalled antitheses are easy enough to find. Cowboy v. Indian, the grazia and ingegno of Renaissance culture v. the gross rusticity of medieval art, prudish mortal v. sabertoothed, libertine superman. Here are a few more—or rather one more variously named: the classical text v. the modern one; the readable text v. the writerly; closed texts v. open ones. These all come from Barthes, and their proliferation and near-redundancy suggest how central this opposition is to his system. Modern equals writerly equals open, though there is one term, common enough in Barthes’s writing, that we will want to keep out of this series, and that’s “plural,” since the semiotician himself remarks that all texts are plural by necessity, while only some of them are open. “Plural,” in other words, does not mean “open.” Cellblocks are variously populated but no less locked for that. Polyphonic but nonetheless closed—that idea is, in fact, Barthes’s great contribution to the fight over the novel, his signal innovation over Bakhtin. The realist novel might be a compendium of many voices, but if Barthes is right, they are all muttering slogans you’ve already heard. Choruses, we know, sing from off the same score. The Bakhtinians, then, are the ones who cannot distinguish between polyphonies, disregarding all the devices deployed by texts to weight and rank their voices, like sound engineers at a mixing board, amplifying this channel, fading out that, always ready, should a performer prove uncooperative, to cut the mic. Any time a critic uses the word “heteroglossia,” you can be pretty sure he can’t tell the difference between lead vocal and background sha-na-na.

If, therefore, I am reading S/Z as a semiotician, and not as a Bakhtinian, then I should be able to note that Barthes’s writing is plural—varied in its literary-critical methods, tessellated into numbered pseudo-fragments—and still not feel that this plurality counts for much, because he himself has told us that it doesn’t (or that it needn’t). S/Z, despite having a lot to say about literary plurality, is nonetheless anchored in precisely the kind of antithesis that stabilizes and organizes multiplicity: classical and not modern; readable and not writerly. To ply the distinction between texts open and closed is one good way to stopple your own argument. S/Z is less an open text than a closed one in service of the open. Old-fashioned stories, Barthes tells us, can’t accommodate freaks or “monsters”—his word—characters who fall outside the narrative’s coding of the universe into zero and one, those who are “outside any classification,” “outside the code,” “outside the norms.” Terminator 3, Silence of the Lambs, Thor, others I have yet to name: Any movie that both ends and doesn’t is the monster that S/Z doesn’t want to face, open and closed at once, the prodigal term that a bisected semiotics cannot accommodate.

There’s actually a pattern here. More than once, Barthes identifies one of the pitfalls of the “classical text” and then heedlessly falls straight into it, replicating in his strenuously modernist pamphlet the putatively outmoded iniquities of the old bourgeois literature and so undoing the reassurance he wishes to provide that the rhetorical failings of this latter can be identified and historically quarantined. So antithesis was one such pitfall; here’s another. If there is anything Barthes likes less than binary thinking, it is the related problem of common sense or ideology. No surprise there, though his account of how ideology gets produced is fairly distinctive. What needs tracking, he says, is the routine processing of new scholarly claims into anonymous and uncredentialed wisdom. Literature and journalism are the key devices in this transformation—the transmutation of expertise into street epistemology—seizing hold of what had briefly been specialized arguments, repeating them without attribution, and so lending them the insidious authority of the commonplace. A novel, by opening itself to other registers and discourses, doesn’t make itself more plural; it merely absorbs whatever in the dominant intellectual scene was already least thinking, its triteness and decay.  Or worse, literature and journalism are the making-platitudinous of once contested positions. A claim, once reproduced in a “classical text,” is no longer an argument that one might disagree with or feel challenged by; it is merely a topos and will pass back into general circulation in this imbecile form. Such, then, is the business of yet another of the coding mechanisms that Barthes theorizes in S/Z, “the cultural codes,” he calls them; you might think of them as the venders of chestnuts and sedative bromides. Among the fundamental elements in any piece of writing are the things that other people have told its author are true, unchallenged beliefs that are present in its paragraphs only as paraphrase and copied language.

The point we won’t want to miss is that the book in which Barthes describes the cultural codes is itself shot through with such codes—that Barthes’s writing, I mean, is an unweeded bed of borrowed wisdom and pilfered idioms. A few of these are especially salient. Indeed, if you follow these you’ll be able to spot for yourself the rhetorical mechanisms by which Barthes codes some endings as open and assigns to their openness an unchanging set of connotations. The ideology of the open text announces itself here:

(1)           The goal of literary work (of literature as work) is to make the reader no longer a consumer, but a producer of the text.  ★ This sentence says little more than that we should prefer modernist novels to nineteenth-century ones because William Burroughs demands engaged and active readers and Victor Hugo didn’t. This idea is, I think, best understood as encouraging readers to refashion a text or to adapt it to their circumstances, to not be bound by what the author had in mind or indeed by a concern with what a given collection of words “really means.” For our purposes, the important point is that this notion could be phrased in two very different ways: as permission to “play with the text” or as permission to “work with the text.” I’m guessing you would say “play,” which is why you should notice that Barthes does not. Literature is labor; the reader fabricates or manufactures. Barthes has opted for the toilsome version of the active reader, and this in some maximally Marxist way—production!—even though once stripped of these rhetorical choices, his underlying argument is merely professorial and stick-to-it-ive: not that listening to the Mekons will make you want to go out there and start a band, but that reading Robbe-Grillet kind of feels like a job. The Barthes who talks about work is, at any rate, the Barthes we think we know, the Barthes of western Marxism, the Barthes who politicized semiotics, the Barthes who transformed structuralist linguistics into a stick with which to beat the bourgeoisie, the Barthes who thinks a difficult novel enrolls its cultivated readership into the ranks of the proletariat. There is more in this vein: Modernist novels are “production without product,” a utopian factory that need assemble no roadworthy Buicks. Realist novels, by contrast, are literature’s consumer goods, ready-mades arranged behind interchangeably orange spines. If this is the case, then the task of a materialist criticism is to steal from such “products” their finished face, to defetishize old novels the way one would any deceptively settled object, to insist that fiction is something made and that it might yet be re-made by any reader-producer “working back along the threads of meanings,” “observing the reversibility of the structures from which the text is woven.” The trick now for us—as readers not of Balzac but of Barthes—is to hear these sentences as language and solely as language, to register only their memes, and so not to start parsing them as stance or admiring them as argument, because if we are reading S/Z semiotically, then we are prohibited from saying that Marxism is authentically available in its pages as a method. Just tell yourself: Any point that Barthes couches in Marxist terms he could just as well have couched otherwise, without the workerism that makes of the novelist a weaver and of the novel a bolt of frayed organdy. In any particular paragraph, historical materialism announces itself not as an intellectual-political project, but only as a sociolect, the ornaments and epithets of the independent Left, a communism amputated back to its figures of speech, a trophy Marxism (REF. the Marxist code).

(2)     How can one code be superior to another without abusively closing off the plurality of codes? Only writing, by assuming the largest possible plural in its own task, can oppose without appeal to force the imperialism of each language. ★ These two sentences are a rumpus of political commonplace. If you’re still thinking that Barthes is a Marxist, then the term that just jumped out at you was probably the last, imperialism, around which the literature professor conscripts modernist fiction into the anti-colonial struggle (REF. the code of the Bandung Conference). That gloss is mostly spurious, though, because the passage’s several other ideologemes form around this scrap of liberationist rhetoric a rather different political constellation. Plural …  not closed … without force—at a half century’s remove it is easier than ever to see that this is the patois of Cold War liberalism and thus the verbal housing of a US-led and Wilsonian anti-colonialism rather than a Third-Worldist one (REF. the code of the UN Charter). This would be the moment to go back and renew our attention to the word closed, whose essentially Popperite register now looms into view. It is a tag Barthes uses often—realist novels are “closed,” bad readings are “closed,” antitheses are “closed,” actions assigned overfamiliar verbs are “closed,” dictionaries are “closed”—though the opposite of “closed,” in S/Z, is the Schlegelian “infinite” and not the expected “open,” such that one might mnemonically rename the book The Infinite Text and Its Enemies. The word “plural” occurs more frequently still, many dozens of times in the space of some 200 pages, though it, too, acquires an unanticipated antonym: neither “monolithic” nor “homogeneous” nor “uniform,” but “incompletely plural” (REF. the code of the separation of powers and the mixed constitution, of religious tolerationism, of institutionalist social theory, and of Americanism in Europe). Semiotically, then, the distinctive quality of Barthes’s writing lies neither in his extensive recitations from the anti-totalitarian liturgy, nor in his much scarcer deployments of red catchwords, but in his free-form recombination of the two, by dint of which the vocabulary of historical materialism is absorbed into and made to do the work of the open society. Marxist intellectual procedures—the critique of fetishism, the redescription of art and culture as “production”—get pressed into the service of liberal political arguments, the pursuit of the “integrally plural,” “the largest possible plural,” the diversissimo. That’s S/Z.

(3)     The difference between feudal society and bourgeois society, index and sign, is this: the index has an origin, the sign does not: to shift from index to sign is to abolish the last (or first) limit, the origin, the basis, the prop, to enter into the limitless process of equivalences, representations that nothing will ever stop, orient, fix, sanction. ★ Another argument about endings: Barthes asks us to dislike old-fashioned narrative—novels, but in this case, one suspects, plays, too—for preferring some denouements to others, for needing to end some particular way, and so for tamping down on our sense of the future as a field unenclosed, changing possibility into plot and routing the morrow through story’s variously convention-bound bottle-necks and border crossings. A novel can reach its foreordained conclusion without even having to deliberate over alternatives, just by relying on a given genre’s sense that this is how such characters are meant to wind up. Sense and Sensibility, after all, might be a more interesting book if one could at least conceive of Elinor Dashwood marrying Willoughby (or Lucy Steele) and not always awkward and dependable Edward Ferrars. Or: It doesn’t matter how many times you re-read Waverley, the Highlanders aren’t going to win this time. Barthes is never more anti-Aristotelian than when he objects that plot structures create, through repetition, an artificial sense of fate or destiny or historical necessity. The word he attaches to this argument is “reversible”: The “classical text” generates a sense of “irreversible order”; it installs an “incompletely reversible system.” But once that word is in play, the argument becomes easy to discard. That we should reject all claims to irreversibility is prima facie unconvincing. Are we really sure that everything is reversible? Every broken jug glueable? Every monarchy restorable? Are you confident that vanished glaciers can be re-frigerated? Have you ever known a Yemeni wedding party to be reanimated or retroactively un-mis-assassinated? Do you have a proposal for getting white people to leave North America? No action is irreversible is the sentiment of a man who has never oversalted his soup. Nor is it really clear that “the classical text” is as rigidly end-directed as all that. I can write that it is tough to imagine a Hamlet in which a briefly resolute prince successfully avenges his father, but as soon as that sentence is typed, one goes ahead and imagines it anyway: Claudius cut down at prayer, Ophelia no longer nunneried, the prince raised to the throne and dithering still.

More to the point: Does Roland Barthes actually believe that all sequences are reversible? Or rather, does he write as though he did? Go back and look again at the sentence quoted here:

The difference between feudal society and bourgeois society, index and sign, is this: the index has an origin, the sign does not: to shift from index to sign is to abolish the last (or first) limit, the origin, the basis, the prop, to enter into the limitless process of equivalences, representations that nothing will ever stop, orient, fix, sanction.

From feudalism, indices, and a world of ordered sequence; to capitalism, signs, and a world without such sequence. We’ll want to note right away that this sentence can’t possibly be saying what it seems to be saying—that Capetian France and the Holy Roman Empire lacked language or that in such societies words really did function like footprints or photographs, as the physical evidence left behind by their referents. Barthes has to be saying that pre-modern people typically thought of words as securely attached to their objects and that moderns to their credit know better, that they know language to be free-floating. So not: from index to sign, but: from sign-mistaken-for-index to sign-recognized-for-what-it-is. But now we have to bracket that clarification, setting aside the substance of Barthes’s historical claim in order to register the simpler, semiotic point that this sentence has borrowed the language of historical periodization (REF. the code of the philosophy of history). In the process of expounding the doctrine of reversibility, Barthes proves perfectly capable of proposing an irreversible series of his own. This isn’t just a gotcha point—the problem is more interesting than that, an incoherence and not just an inconsistency. In S/Z, the society-without-sequence appears as an item within a sequence, and the problem is that if Barthes can identify the shift from one to another, then the shift itself doesn’t exist. Or the same point in reverse: If it’s true that we live in a society-in-which-one-no-longer-thinks-in-terms-of-sequence, then Barthes shouldn’t be able to name the historical stages by which such a society came to be. All you have to do to make this paradox go away is concede that Barthes has written a literary manifesto and not the statement of fact that S/Z sometimes pretends to be. Modernity, Barthes writes at one point, is the time of “confusion,” of “the unbridled (pandemic) circulation of signs, of sexes, of fortunes.” Capitalism, queerness, and modernist literature—we don’t really need to know why he thinks these three belong together; it is enough to know that he codes them all as “modern” (or “bourgeois”) and not as “classical” (or “feudal”). Modernity is the period of generalized circulation, of wealth-, desire-, and language-without-ground. Barthes’s point was not that twentieth-century novelists couldn’t (or uniformly didn’t) attempt sequence or strong endings, but simply that such novelists were out of keeping with a consumer society that in 1970 was the true empire of signs. Realism is to be rejected not for being too bourgeois, but for being insufficiently so. S/Z is a petition to bring European fiction more fully into the market, to subject it irrevocably to the “limitless process of equivalences.” “Limitless process”: The first word in that phrase is going to require special comment, of course. Commercial and semiotic societies are “limitless,” governed, he says on the same page, by an “endless process.” Just follow the bleeping code: Capitalism and language are “limitless” and “endless.” The modern text replicates this condition in literature, “denying [the] final word (denying the end as a word).” Capitalism, language, and modernist literature thus make up a set. All three belong to a semiological modernity that, Barthes tell us, “nothing will ever stop,” an endlessness, then, that far from restoring to us the open future ensures only that it will never come.

So Barthes wants fiction writers to forego the temptations of the tidy ending, to commit to the infinite text as project and program. The only point that still needs making is that he needn’t have bothered, that this recommendation is, in fact, entirely redundant. His point about capitalism is accurate enough, after a fashion. I say again that Hollywood blockbusters go in for unresolved and ambiguous endings, and you reply, perhaps, that that you have a ready explanation for this. Open endings set up sequels, you say; they are just so many dropped cans of Barbasol. This is no doubt true, but if we pause now to mull this observation, the puzzle will merely change shape before us. So let’s say that the open ending is how franchises are built, hence the mark of commerce impinging on narrative form, and that in some unusually forthright way—the necessary re-organization that fiction undergoes if it is to be industrialized: mass-produced and sold in installments. As soon as we say that, we have to give up once and for all on the common belief that popular narrative requires strong closure: wedding bells sounding, bombs defused, families reunited, victory laps haughtily jogged. For popular narrative has for several generations now been produced in two antithetical modes: 1) the old, completed forms of romance (the good guys win!) and comedy (everybody wins!) coexisting with 2) oddly ongoing and undecided versions of same: novels sold chapterwise, novels serialized in magazines, novels serialized in newspapers, comic strips, movie serials, television. English fairy tales end with happily ever after, but German tales go out on and if they have not died, then they are still alive. And if pulp comes with endings both closed and unclosed, then we can no longer treat the open ending as one of modernism’s more sophisticated achievements—the art novel’s defining challenge to its downmarket competitors, the carrier of its abstrusely anti-teleological and anti-totalizing doctrines. Commercial imperatives and experimental writing attack traditional narrative in the same way and to similar effect, and the “modern text” mutates into a universal term without meaningful rivals.

MORE SOON…

A beginning

You may not be all that surprised to hear that Hollywood blockbusters have trouble finishing. You’ve seen enough of them; you’ve sat through some gangly third acts; you know to wait for the teasers and the stingers and the Easter eggs. All the same, I hope you’re at least a little bit surprised, since you probably also think that open and ambiguous endings are the hallmark of serious fiction and auteurist film. That is, you probably think that ordinary people, the ones who didn’t go to liberal arts colleges, demand, alongside singable choruses and lifelike paintings of trout fishermen, stories with unambiguous endings—triumphal marches, high fives, freeze-framed exultation. And if you think this, then you shouldn’t just shrug at the simple fact that a great many blockbuster endings aren’t all that emphatic; that often enough, epilogue follows upon coda follows upon now buried peroration; that Hollywood, which hasn’t gone in for actual cliffhangers since the 1940s, nonetheless prefers that its biggest movies stumble in their final moments or that their endings arrive breached and unsettled. Terminator 3 is, at heart, the story of a good killer robot from the future battling a bad killer robot from the future, and if you were talking casually to a friend, you would say that the movie ends when good robot eliminates bad. But that’s not quite right, since the movie actually ends when the US military’s in-house computer network becomes self-aware and launches nuclear strikes on all the world’s major cities. Humanity’s near annihilation is reported, but accorded the status of a subplot or loose end, such that one could plausibly leave it out in the re-telling: Oh yeah, I almost forgot—we all die. Hollywood endings, it turns out, are compulsively multiple: A defeated Loki decides to end his own life and leaps contritely into the Empyrean; the same Loki re-appears, unrepentant and un-seppuku’d, not six minutes later. Silence of the Lambs ends with one serial killer dead on the floor and a second serial killer on the move in Bimini. The most important book on narrative published in the 1980s explains in its opening pages that plots “demarcate, enclose, establish limits”; they involve “boundedness, demarcation, the drawing of lines to mark off and order.” But boundedness is not, in fact, the condition of many of our most widely shared stories. Some plots branch and end partially. Or they end and then promptly, uncannily, withdraw those endings and so end up only weakly demarcated, enclosed on three sides, half-limited and semi-ordered. Allow yourself to be puzzled. Wasn’t dominant supposed to return to tonic?

…which is all to say: You may not care that The Avengers trails off with five superheroes eating schawarma in silence, but if you begin thinking hard about such scenes—about finales false, weak, and plural, as about post- and mid-credit sequences and their now wholly conventionalized rescissions, their ticcish abrogation of ending—then it will turn out that nearly everything we think we know about how stories end is wrong. On the matter of closure, literary criticism has inherited from twentieth-century narratology a set of fixed positions that actual movies and novels do not reliably bear out.

I would like to propose some corrections.

Thesis #1: Modernist and experimental fiction possesses no monopoly on the open ending.

When revolution was attempted in France in May 1968—eleven million workers on the streets, French students in revolt against their home departments, speaking bitterness at their lecturers and mentors—Roland Barthes was leading a seminar on a single novella of Balzac’s. In January 1969, after a hiatus forced by the rebellion, Barthes resumed his course, moved to North Africa for a year, wrote up his findings, and then published them back in Paris in 1970 under the title S/Z. That’s a book we’re going to want to know about, because it offers what has been for many decades now literary criticism’s canonical defense of the open ending, though it does this mostly in the negative, by anatomizing a story whose ending it takes to be disingenuously closed. That story, Balzac’s “Sarrasine,” from 1830, is lurid enough to hold a person’s interest: In southern Italy in the 1770s, a French sculptor falls in love with a pretty soprano without knowing that she is actually a cross-dressing and castrated man; that mistake ends up getting the sculptor killed. In Paris, a half century later, the now elderly castrato crashes the soirées of the Bourbon Restoration, unnerving its smart set, sidling wordlessly up to its women, exerting a power few can fathom. But you don’t have to be interested in nineteenth-century French fiction to appreciate what Barthes is up to in S/Z. In most respects, the Balzac story is just a case study, an exemplum upon which to showcase a new method, which you are meant to deploy against whichever middlebrow novel you next read, though it has to be said that Barthes’s performance in this little book is so consummate—so expert and so businesslike in its expertise—that almost no-one in these last forty-five years has ventured to emulate it. For what most jumps out at a first-time reader of S/Z is its pretense to exhaustiveness, its determination to comment on the entire novella, which Barthes reproduces in toto, word for word and front to back, in a display of exegetical thoroughness more typically associated with constitutional law textbooks and rabbinic Judaism, as though the realist novel were getting its own Midrash. Barthes, this is to say, has broken down “Sarrasine,” only 34 pages in its modern edition, into 560 units, with the aim of identifying, by function, every one of these separate pieces, like a tinkerer disassembling a ham radio and carefully labeling each of its parts. Barthes’s book is in one sense just an annotated inventory of those units, though from out of these scholia, a theory emerges, as Barthes pauses every six or seven items to insert a short essay on How Narratives Work.

The theory goes something like this: When I read a novel, it is easy for me to feel that I am, as it were, listening to a single voice, that I am in the care of a single great storyteller. In many cases, I will take this voice to be the author’s; in some instances, I will know it to be a narrator’s. Either way, I reach for a novel because I enjoy being immersed in its sonority. Barthes’s guiding argument is that this view is wrong and the pleasure associated with it illusory, that prose fiction is always a welter of discourses, artfully rearranged; a composite of many voices; a chatter; a radio dial rapidly turned, fortuitously yielding sense. Thus Barthes, briskly stated.

Immediately, though, difficulties present themselves. For in this summary version, accurate enough as far as it goes, Barthes’s theory is hard to tell apart from rival accounts, and most notably from Mikhail Bakhtin’s, which holds that the novel is a plural genre, the literary form native to bourgeois-democratic societies, a play of competing and counterpointed voices, with no controlling perspective. That Barthes is arguing more nearly the opposite won’t be clear until you understand the claims he is making about literary history, which poses a problem, since on the face of it he seems to be making no such claims. Barthes, after all, doesn’t want to be telling a story; why we shouldn’t trust stories is finally what S/Z is about. The semiotician comes into being in the mid-twentieth century as the literary historian’s rival and replacement, as will be evident to anyone reading Barthes for the first time, wondering what to take away from the book’s spasmodicness, confounded by its collection of stop-and-go marginalia, its footnotes without body text.

But Barthes is telling a story all the same, giving a not unfamiliar account of the way literature used to be and the way it is now (or was in the now of 1968); and one of our tasks as readers of S/Z is to assemble its scattered historical claims and with them to reassemble the saga that semiotics claims not to be singing. Barthes’s position is most easily grasped, I think, as a claim about the rhetorical tradition, though this isn’t, in fact, how he frames it. Or rather, this is how he frames it, but in hard-to-perceive ways, by routinely calling Balzac’s fiction “classical”—that is, by making “Sarrasine” his signal instance of the “classical text”—and also by insisting that we prefer to any such paleolith a set of more recent novels that he calls “the modern text” or “modern writing,” which latter term sometimes mislays its adjective and so becomes just “writing.” For to call Balzac “classical” is to strip the realist novel of its usual claim to modernity and to associate it instead with the ancient literary education, the rhetorical education typical of Roman senators and Renaissance humanists. The important point, for any reader of S/Z, is that declamatory Latin trained its students to write in exceedingly conventionalized ways and this for a few different reasons. First, convention entered the prose of students when they were forced to mimic the good style of acknowledged masters: Cicero, Seneca, Tacitus. Second, any young  grammarian needing to stake out a position in some upcoming disputation was invited to scan a list of established argumentative moves, many of which recommended invoking the testimony of others: the argument to authority, the argument to law, the argument to rumor, the argument to common wisdom, and so on. Third, young orators were counseled to agree with their auditors whenever possible.  The classical idea is that when you step in front of an audience, your first task will be to reassure the crowd that you share with them an underlying set of premises and priorities—to show that you are one of them, a fellow Roman, a loyal Florentine, and that you understand the culture’s core convictions. You discern your audience’s chauvinism, and then you offer to reinforce it. The art of a shrewd speaker is thus to convince his listeners that some inventive and potentially troubling position flows seamlessly from views they already hold. In a literary culture of this kind, the best writers will be careful to submerge their voices beneath maxims and inherited elegance and the unchallenged assumptions of their own readers; indeed, it might not even make sense to talk about such writers as having had voices to begin with.

We’ll want to note that this position can be made to yield a full-blown theory of literary history, as when some medievalists argue that there was no specifically medieval literature, that anyone studying, say, twelfth-century writing is merely dipping at random into the essential continuity of Western civilization. Before the rise of the novel, and perhaps even before Romanticism, European art and letters were uniformly late–Roman, just so many riffs on the fourth century, discrete entries in the unbroken history of Christianized antiquity. If you find that claim convincing, then the task of the cultural historian will be to trace the continuities and small mutations in the European West’s common store of images and poetic formulas. You will want to study conventions and not authors or artists, on the notion that innovation or individual creativity didn’t count for much in Europe until Byron fled England in 1816. And with this frame in place, Barthes’s “classical text” can be heard for the periodizing term that it is. Indeed, something of this argument can be sensed simply by contemplating the many neologisms that Barthes proposes in S/Z, almost all of them derived from the Greek (semes, proairetisms, hermeneutisms), and which when added to the many Hellenistic terms he borrows unmodified (catachresis, asyndeton, cacography, endoxa) offer to transform structuralism into a twentieth-century ars rhetorica. Barthes steps forward as the counter-Curtius, writing temporarily from independent Morocco to lament realism’s fundamental allegiance to what he calls “Western discourse” and “Western thinking” and “the Occident.”  And with that, it becomes possible to say why Barthes’s position is, in fact, unlike Bakhtin’s, whose basic move, after all, had been to separate epics and novels, with the latter stepping forward as the great open and post-classical genre, willing to forego the oracular, soliloquizing authority claimed by the Homeric tyrant-bard. Barthes is making the case that even in the nineteenth century, innovation and individual creativity didn’t count for much, that writers like Balzac were still rhetorical—jugglers of commonplace, topos recyclers, weavers of purchased thread.

So why would he think this? There are a few different reasons; the pervasive conventionality of realist fiction can be spotted from a few different angles. Its heroes, for a start, get assembled out of routine verbal tags, which means, among other things, that you are going to have to stop treating your favorite characters as people. They don’t preexist the descriptions that conjure them into being, and those descriptions aren’t nearly as particularizing as we fondly take them to be. Even the most iridescent characters have been bundled together out of already existing memes. Julien Sorel and Maggie Tulliver are scarecrows improvised out of semiotic burlap.

Much the same point can be made about action. An attentive observer could, at will, describe any action in ever more minute and corporeal terms, off towards some vanishing point of micro-physiology, right down to the cosine of your briefly crooked elbow. A woman across the room has dropped her hands to her sides; she’s fingering her skirt on either side, as though preparing to check with both hands the thread count of hotel linen; now she’s looking at the floor—maybe something has shaken loose from her lap, just now, when she tightened the skirt’s fabric across her thighs—a contact lens? a bit of dinner roll?; and at the same time, her right foot has swung back behind her left, toes planted on the floor, heel cocked into the air, and her knees are angling outwards, left and right, yawing her legs into the exaggerated bow of a cartoon gunslinger, dragging her still unbent torso some eighteen inches closer to the floor. There is a serious question, of course, about whether we want to call such a description unmediated—presumably not, though it would be possible to rewrite those sentences with more math and less Yosemite Sam. Does more math mean less mediated? Again, probably not, but such a description would be estranging all the same and at least mildly autistic, the beginnings of a motion study in prose, withholding the summary terms that we habitually attach to such sequences: She curtsied. It is only if we keep in mind that fiction writers could if they wished commit to an off-putting literary Newtonianism, describing only bodies in motion, itemizing the hypothetical nano-gestures of made-up limbs, that we can begin to appreciate how important it is that they almost never do—almost never, but sometimes: Foster Wallace plays tennis!—preferring to burden their readers with the poverty of overfamiliar verbs, bringing actions before our minds already abridged, socialized, encased in their conventional meanings: He fell in love. The deed thoughtlessly named is the very stuff of old-fashioned novels, their cell form, as potted actions get organized into longer sequences that are themselves entirely routine: the tribulation, the quest, the courtship.

Barthes’s overriding point, then, is that Balzac’s novels are as conventionalized as any thirteenth-century allegory. Saying as much will now force us to reckon with those infrequent passages in S/Z where Barthes seems to be arguing the opposite point, distinguishing nineteenth-century fiction from what came before, as when he draws a line between “societies that are aware … of the linguistic nature of the world” (medieval Europe, apparently) and societies that aren’t (nineteenth-century France).  It’s hard to say whether this is, in its generality, an accurate account of the Middle Ages—one doubts that Angevin peasants were organic structuralists in quite this fashion, Saussureans of forest and field—but it is telling that Barthes thinks they were, since this bit of idealist cod sociology concedes to Balzac a certain deluded modernity after all. The old humanist and oratorical writing will have to mutate in any society as linguistically un-self-conscious as Restoration France putatively was—a society organized around science and expertise and institutionalized rationality, a society convinced that it is “truth” and not “force” that “brings an end to the confrontation of languages.” Literature itself will remain wholly conventionalized, while at the same time developing a most un-literary orientation towards knowledge or fact. Balzac’s fiction is in this sense at odds with itself, a rhetorical text become un-rhetorical, because not in touch with its own rhetoricity. The realist novel, in sum, is the classical text that does not know itself to be classical, whose suppressed classicism must be reconstructed and aggressively adverted to, which means, of course, that in a few important respects it is no longer classical at all.

At this point, it becomes possible to scan S/Z for claims about the realist novel’s innovations, and they are basically threefold:

1) Realist novels depend, no less than Anglo-Norman fabliaux or neoclassical threnodies, on stock formulas, but what had changed by the nineteenth century were the sources of fiction’s borrowed language, as journalism and the academic disciplines took over the role once played by mythology and holy writ. The point would be that Balzac and his fellows deploy medical knowledge—and history-writing and the psychology of the passions—in precisely the same manner that avowedly neoclassical poets deploy Trojan lore and minor episodes from the Second Book of Kings: citationally and at third hand. The paleontology on the first page of Bleak House is what Dickens has instead of a water nymph; the Megalosaurus is a second Cleodora.

2) But it is not just that the realist novel borrows this or that convention from fresh sources. Realism’s global innovation has been to disavow the conventionality of even its most etched-in patterns, to make them hard to see as conventions. Anyone reading a sonnet can judge for herself whether the poet has managed the 8/6 turn proficiently or not, and in much the same way that one might judge a gymnast’s well- or ill-stuck landing, which is to say: technically. The realist novel, however, does not invite us to scrutinize its technique; its objectionable virtuosity is to move imperceptibly across its borrowed idioms, to make quilt look like unstitched sheet. This is the moment to note that Barthes’s method fully carries his argument: The blocks into which Barthes has disassembled “Sarrasine,” sixteen of them to a page, are like shots in a movie—in fact, if you’re still trying to get the hang of what Barthes has accomplished in S/Z, it would be easiest to imagine a film critic who has taken it upon himself to comment upon every single shot in The Godfather, every close-up, every long take, every cross-cut assassination—except shots are ready-made and identifiable units and Barthes’s lexias are not. It’s hard enough for a film critic to get an audience to start paying attention to where the cuts in a sequence fall, but Barthes’s more audacious task is to insert those very cuts, such that one might begin to see the realist novel as a kind of montage. This idea might, indeed, force us to reevaluate Barthes’s use of the word “code”—realist fiction, we are meant to see, is an intertwining of multiple “codes”—which word choice has often been seen as furthering the case that structuralism and post-structuralism were, in their overlapping heydays, a kind of generalized cybernetics, an investigation into the world’s universal coding. There has got to be something to that line, yet one suspects all the same that S/Z’s profounder allegiance is to an earlier stage in the history of twentieth-century media, not to the computer but to the moving picture, in which case one might track in Barthes’s arguments the belated maturity of film criticism, able now to infiltrate the procedures of its literary elders, to suspend their accustomed prerogatives, and to insist that all pre-cinematic narrative be reclassified as proto-film. Upon finishing S/Z, we will have to struggle to read novels the way we already know to read movies—to read, Barthes says, “in the cinematographic sense.” But then perhaps this point is best made in broader terms. Barthes is not just commenting upon “Sarrasine”; he is reediting it, transforming Balzac’s decommissioned aesthetic into an experimental and twentieth-century one. S/Z is out to enforce a program, and its approach here is rather unusual, not just to hiss at “those who like a good story” or to attack realist prose for being “burnished” and “smoothed” and so insufficiently modernist, but to roughen and tarnish the Balzacian paragraph until it sheds its realist qualities and becomes appreciable as pastiche or nouveau roman, a miscellany of undirected text.

3) The other point to make about the word “code” is that it is in at least one respect pretty sneaky. Barthes says on the very first page of S/Z that he is no longer a narratologist in the usual sense—not for him the reduction of the world’s sundry stories to a single obligatory master plot, not any more. Such is the importance of Barthes’s ditching the old arguments about “structure” in favor of one about “codes.” Structuralism would instruct you to extract from “Sarrasine” its narrative skeleton and mappable grammar, on the expectation that the novella, at that level of abstraction, would be indistinguishable from any other story you’ve ever read. Semiotics, though, will make multiple what structuralism has just flattened, by spot-checking passage after passage, half-paragraphwise, and demonstrating that more than one code is chirruping in every one. I read out loud a single sentence in Balzac and hear him at once mobilizing a dumb commonplace from art history (what we think we know about Italian painting), organizing the novella’s action into a nameable sequence (going-to-the-theater), and inserting enough equivocation or engineered ambiguity that a reader seeking clarity will have to keep reading. This last operation Barthes calls “the formulation of the enigma,” and it’s the sneaky bit, because every time the theorist identifies a passage as contributing to the enigma, he is pointing to the incremental formation of a certain kind of plot—except no, not a “kind of plot,” because there is for Barthes only one plot after all, the mystery-suspense plot that he thinks the classical text strictly requires. The old narratological argument, disavowed on page one, thus reappears intact, and Barthes turns out to be a structuralist still. It’s just that “structure” has now been absorbed into the language of “codes” as one of its members.

The classical text requires a suspense plot, I’ve just written, though one suspects that this is the last and perhaps most important way in which realist fiction is unlike its medieval and ancient forebears. For the plot that Barthes claims to have discovered in all classical fiction is most evident in the fully modern genre of the mystery novel—“Narratively, an enigma leads from a question to an answer, through a certain number of delays”; that’s S/Z’s general description of all readerly novels—in which case the book’s unspoken claim seems to be that all literary realists are to a greater or lesser degree writing detective stories. That claim can be dilated in turn, simply by noting that the nineteenth-century detective novel itself partook of trends broader than itself, in which case we might conclude that in the protracted age of enlightenment, all fiction has shared its structure with science and philosophical system, posing questions and promising answers and stopping only when there is nothing important left to learn. At the end of a classic novel, you know who the main characters are; they have disclosed the important truths about themselves and so become fixed. At the end of the sensation novel, everyone knows who is and isn’t the woman in white; identities briefly up for grabs have been clarified and settled. At the end of the Bildungsroman, we know just what kind of adult this teenager is likely to be. Lizzie Bennett has to revise her judgment of Mr. Darcy once, but only once; their marriage renders Darcy legible and the revision permanent. Characters in novels will never elude their conditions. The waiter in the café will be a waiter still, David Copperfield a David-thing.

MORE ON THAT SOON…

 A few notes:

-I found the opening image — “There Is No Ending” — here: http://downlopaz.com/no-ending/

-The volume I refer to as “the most important book on narrative published in the 1980s” is Peter Brooks’s Reading for the Plot (1984).

-All quotations from Barthes come from Richard Miller’s 1974 translation of S/Z, except that I have rendered as “classical” the adjective that Miller sometimes (but inconsistently) translates as “classic.”

-The backstory to S/Z is detailed in Louis-Jean Calvet’s Roland Barthes: A Biography.