Literature II - Ambiguity

The thing that makes literature so fascinating is the ambiguity of meaning. A character speaks, a scene unfolds, consequences abound. There is so much that can be drawn from all of it - so many possible meanings. It is this ambiguity - this doorway to possibilities that makes English the language of literature.

Latin was made the language of law and academia, primarily moved by the ancient Roman orator, Cicero, and his eloquent speeches using Latin. He was so sharp and masterful in his language, Latin became the academic language throughout Europe for a thousand years.

Many consider French the language of diplomacy because it is so precise; there is little room to misinterpret. This is the opposite of English - where every word can have multiple meanings, and sometimes use them all.


T.S. Eliot called Shakespeare's Hamlet the "Mona Lisa of Literature". In the nineteenth century, the prince (Hamlet) was heralded as a noble philosopher, conflicted over the deep questions of a dramatic existence, whereas in the twentieth century, readers and critics considered the prince manic, indecisive, wallowing in self-pity and even a bit mad. Characters and scenes mean different things to people of different backgrounds and time periods.


But time aside, language itself can be ambiguous. "When I use a word,' says Humpty Dumpty, 'it means just what I choose it to mean - neither more nor less.' The question is, retorts Alice, whether you CAN make words mean so many different things.'" - Take the word 'buckle' - it can mean to grind together or fasten, like buckle your seat belt, or it can mean bend to the point of breaking, like the supports buckled under the weight. Clever writers can use words in ways to suggest multiple meanings - up for interpretation. I'm no poet, so I don't pretend to be master of this method - but Shakespeare was. There is a reason his Elizabethan English verse so captured the minds of people throughout the world, and throughout the centuries. Every verse was packed with more meaning than most people will know.


For example, when Hamlet finds out his mother married his uncle, knowing his uncle murdered his father, he hides in her closet, waiting to confront her and mutters to himself, "O heart, lose not thy nature, let not ever/ The soul of Nero enter this firm bosom. Let me be cruel not unnatural." To those familiar with the Roman emperor Nero, history records he murdered his mother, Agrippina. Other stories circulated that he had an incestuous relationship with her. By using a Nero reference, Shakespeare opens both those possibilities, displaying them to the reader through Hamlet's thoughts.

So ambiguity exists not just in words and their meanings, but also in social interactions and psychology, and again in time periods which are socially charged. As the Latin proverb says, Tot homines, quot sententiae - There are as many opinions as there are people.


As a side note, Sigmund Freud, in the 1930s, was exploring psychoanalysis and believed in 'parapraxes' - or what we today call 'Freudian slips'. Freud believed that even authors could do this in their writing - slipping unconsciously into giving clues into their own minds and motivations... Yet another angle for the ambiguity of literature.

Is good literature like a lemon? The more it can be squeezed for meaning, the better?

(This is paraphrasing of chapter 2 of 50 Literature Ideas by John Sutherland)

Literature I Mimesis

The ancient Greek term "mimesis" (my-mees-is), "holding a mirror up to nature" or in English "imitation" - which carries many negative, or at least sub-par connotations, is the starting point for all human expression - in this case, literature.

Aristotle, in his The Poetics, marveled at how certain black marks on white background - or certain sounds and tone in the ear - when strung together in the right order and sequence, could transfrom into a timeless epic tale about human adventure such as The Odyssey.  He was, however, at odds with an even more authoritative philosopher than himself - his teacher and mentor - Plato.

Plato was an idealist and a rationalist.  While he applauded the aesthetic qualities of these imitations, he viewed them as mere shadows of reality, cheap tricks to inspire emotional, not rational, responses.  In his The Republic, he argued that fictional literature, poetry, was all a flight of fancy, subjective, illegitimate, and superficial - a waste of time.  Plato wished to exile all poets.  Truth was not the province of the artist, but belonged to the more serious and logical problem-solvers - the philosopher-kings.  These "beautiful lies" of poets led to irrational thinking, spontaneous and reckless choices, and futile and unproductive living - selfish thinking and selfish lives.  In short, there are so many real and actual events to discuss, why waste time on what is unreal - what never happened?  If it did't happen, why talk about it?

Aristotle, however, objected.  The genres of literary art, whether tragedy or comedy or epic, are not bogged down or confused with the randomness of humanity's confusion, accidents, mistakes, or unintentional successes.  They can cut away all the fat - stab right into the heart of the matter - and ring that funny bone of universal truth inside a human.  A thing needs not be real to be true - as in the old fable, The Boy Who Cried Wolf.  There may never have been a boy who continued calling a false 'wolf' alarm,  but the truth that if you continue to lie, then nobody will believe you, even when you speak true, is a universal truth that everyone understands in their core.

Or, another, in the words of Russian novelist Leo Tolstoy, "Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way".  Literature can trim a lesson down to the basic and most simple truth.

Plato's second objection is that we spend all our emotions on fictional characters (like Leonardo DiCaprio dying in Titanic) but ignore the starving beggar outside the theater.  But Aristotle countered that art and literature offer catharsis - a purging of emotions that leaves one calmer and more collected - with a clearer mind and more ready to see the world with reason and purpose.  As Milton said in Samson Agonistes, "calm of mind, all passion spent".

Does this mean, however, that simply making "tear-jerkers" or using cheap tricks to trigger emotions, offers better catharsis than good literature?  This argument has been made.

Plato argued to exile the poets.  Aristotle argued to keep them inside the city. George Orwell argued exile is necessary and where true writers belong.  Solzhenitsyn, exiled in 1973, wrote more powerful literature than all the hacks who lingered within the safety of the Soviet Union's walls.  James Joyce argued writers should be forcefully isolated to be truly cunning.  Marxist writer Bertolt Brecht warned that mimesis was the drug of literature and dangerously could lure people away from reality and should be avoided.

Shakespeare loved the idea of mimesis.  Hamlet tells the visiting players, "hold as 'twere mirror up to nature". He played with it in Midsummer Night's Dream, with the theater crew desperately using mechanics to mimic nature, and said, "the lover, the lunatic and the poet/ Are of imagination all compact."

What think you, reader?  Is fiction a useful tool for thoughtful reflection and contemplation - to purge our emotions in cathartic experience and leave us with a clear head, as Aristotle argued - or was Plato right to wave away fanciful fairy tale distractions from the real problems of life?


(above is a paraphrasing of chapter 1 of John Sutherland's 50 Literature Ideas...)

The Devil ~ an exceprt from "The Club Dumas" by Arturo Perez-Reverte

"Who are you?"

"The devil," she said. "The devil in love."

And she laughed. The book by Cazotte was on the sideboard, next to the Memoirs of Saint Helena and some papers. She looked at it but didn't touch it. Then she laid one finger on it and turned to Corso.

"Do you believe in the devil?"

"I'm paid to believe in him. On this job anyway."

She nodded slowly, as if she knew what he was going to say. She watched Corso with curiosity, her lips parted, waiting for a sign or gesture that only she would understand.

"Do you know why I like this book, Corso?"

"No. Tell me."

"Because the protagonist is sincere. His love isn't just a trick to damn a soul. Biondetta is tender and faithful. She admires in Alvaro the same things the devil admires in mankind: his courage, his independence..." Her eyelashes lowered over light irises for a moment. "His desire for knowledge and his lucidity."

"You seem very well informed. What do you know of all this?"

"Much more than you imagine."

"I don't imagine anything. Everything I know about the devil and his loves and hates comes from literature: Paradise Lost, The Divine Comedy, Faust, and The Brothers Karamazov." He made a vague, evasive gesture. "I know Lucifer only secondhand."

Now she was looking at him mockingly. "And which devil do you prefer? Dante's?"
"No. Much too terrifying. Too medieval for my taste."

"Mephistopheles?"

"Not him, either. He's too pleased with himself. Too much a trickster, like a crooked lawyer... Anyway, I never trust people who smile a lot."

"What about the one in The Karamazovs?"

Corso made a face. "Petty. A civil servant with dirty nails." He paused. "I suppose the devil I prefer is Milton's fallen angel." He looked at her with interest. "That's what you were hoping I would say."


That's the excerpt.  I'm curious how many people have actually read all four of those literary references.  I hadn't. The first time I read this I'd read Milton and Dante, but had no idea about the other two. 

The interesting question is the literary portrayal of the devil - or evil.