Jeanette Winterson’s Cogito—ʻAmo Ergo Sum’—or Impersonality and Emotion Redefined
p. 299-308
Résumé
This paper first means to confront T. S. Eliot’s essay, ‘Tradition and The Individual Talent,’ with Jeanette Winterson’s reading of it in her own essays, Art Objects: Essays in Ecstasy and Effrontery. Winterson’s own understanding of T. S. Eliot’s concepts of impersonality and emotion will then be confronted with her own fiction, and more particularly with Written on the Body. Analysing the way in which impersonality and emotion are redefined as transpersonality and love will permit an evaluation of Winterson’s relation to tradition and of her individual talent.
Texte intégral
1This paper first means to confront T. S. Eliot’s essay, ‘Tradition and The Individual Talent,’1 with Jeanette Winterson’s reading of it in her own essays, Art Objects: Essays in Ecstasy and Effrontery.2 Winterson’s own understanding of T. S. Eliot’s concepts of impersonality and emotion will then be confronted with her own fiction, and more particularly with Written on the Body.3 This should finally lead us to show whether Winterson takes Eliot as a model, as she claims to do, and thus to evaluate her relation to tradition and her individual talent.
2T. S. Eliot’s ‘Impersonal theory of poetry,’ (44) to use his own terms, is two-fold. It is first concerned with the process of depersonalisation that can be achieved through the poet’s ‘relation to the dead poets and artists,’ (41) that is through an absorption of previous works of art, neither in blind adherence to tradition nor in repetition of works of the past but in a dynamic relation. This is the process that critics from Bakhtin to Genette would later analyse in terms of intertextuality, a process pointing to the dispossession of writers, the absence of a unique origin in writing or what could be called the impersonality of writing. The second part of Eliot’s theory has to do with impersonality, the ‘escape from personality,’ as a means of foregrounding emotion redefined as ‘a new art emotion’ (47): ‘Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality.’ (48) Impersonality, for Eliot, is the condition for the creation of an ‘impersonal’ emotion he also calls ‘significant emotion’ (49)—in a phrase reminiscent of Clive Bell’s ‘significant form’4—‘emotion which has its life in the poem and not in the history of the poet.’ (49) It is ‘a very complex thing,’ intense and concentrated, the result of the transmutation of ordinary emotions into poetry, through ‘words or phrases or images’; (45) ‘the intensity of the artistic process’ (46) will create for the reader ‘an experience different in kind from any experience not of art,’ (45) a combination of emotion and feelings which we could call aesthetic emotion.
3The second part of his essay is what we are interested in and is also what Winterson comments upon in her own essays. In the chapter entitled ‘A work of my own,’ she acknowledges her debt to T.S. Eliot’s writings and her allegiance to his call for impersonality, what she calls ‘his cry against autobiography,’ (Winterson 1995, 184) ‘a concentration away from Self,’ (185) which is necessary for the rendering of emotional experience. Shakespeare, about whom nothing is known, is for her as he is for Eliot the best example of such impersonality. And she goes on explaining that Eliot’s theory of impersonality is far from being ‘a theory of aridity’: ‘Eliot is an emotional poet and the poets he particularly loved, the Metaphysicals and Dante, are poets of feeling but tightly kept.’ (184) She sees the rendering of emotional experience as inextricably linked with language, style and technique: ‘It is impossible to find fresh images, fresh ways of transmitting emotional experience, without fresh use of language.’ (185) Hence the necessity of getting away from cliché and defamiliarising the familiar.
4Winterson’s comments on Eliot’s theory suggest that she is in perfect harmony with her modernist predecessor, which is somewhat surprising for someone who writes nearly a century after he did. My purpose is to confront her essays with her fiction and see whether she follows Eliot’s theory or at least her own reading of it, which happens to be the most commonly accepted if not the only possible one. In order to do so, I shall focus mainly on one of her texts, Written on the Body which articulates the relation between impersonality and emotion most clearly.
1 From impersonality to transpersonality
5When Written on the Body came out in 1992, it was greeted as a rehash of the film Love Story. Indeed, the narrator, after a series of short-lived love relations, finds perfect love with Louise but the latter soon discovers that she has cancer; in order to let her be cured by the best cancer specialist, who happens to be Louise’s husband, the narrator leaves her, making sure she will not be able to trace him/her back. This moving, somewhat melodramatic, love story has been very successful. Drawing on the conventional pattern of romance, as Ganteau has shown,5 Written on the Body stages the same quest for love as Winterson’s previous works, The Passion6 and Sexing the Cherry,7 and works to come like Gut Symmetries8 and The. PowerBook.9 It also parades as a fictional autobiography written by an unnamed narrator who cannot be identified as male or female. The inscription of an anonymous ungendered narrator exemplifies the same quest for impersonality that can be read in the dialogic structure of The Passion and Sexing the Cherry where the male and female voices of Henri and Villanelle on the one hand, and of Jordan and the Dog Woman on the other, can be heard in turn; or in the blurred identity of Ali who, in The. PowerBook, is both a male and a female narrator as well as a character of the sixteenth or twenty-first centuries who tells changing stories that keep modifying him/her. The bisexual narrator is reminiscent of the androgynous mind which, according to Virginia Woolf and in the wake of Coleridge, is the ideal poetic mind where both male and female principles are at work: ‘it is fatal to be a man or woman pure and simple; one must be woman-manly or man-womanly.’10 This reference to Woolf surfaces at the end of The. PowerBook where the narrator is finally identified as Orlando. (237) A narrator who is close to the androgynous mind is an abstract and virtual entity; yet he is not exactly impersonal, being very much involved and all too human through his intense love for Louise. In Written on the Body, rather than being impersonal, this narrator transcends the boundaries of personality, of the self and of gender; in Art & Lies,11 where he speaks in turn as a painter, a musician and a poet, he transcends the boundaries between different art forms; and in The. PowerBook, he transcends the boundaries between narrator, character, reader and text. In Written on the Body and in Winterson’s fiction as a whole, he is what she calls in Art & Lies, a ‘“transpersonal” mind,’ (62)12 a mind endowed like Woolf’s androgynous mind, with ‘an incandescence of personality.’ (Winterson 1996, 187)
6Like Eliot who saw poetry as ‘an escape from personality,’ (48) Winterson sees art as a means of ‘free[ing] the writer from the weight of her own personality’ (Winterson 1996, 187) but where Eliot resorts to the word impersonality, Winterson coins the term transpersonality. Both see art as a dynamic process and an evasion, a release from the confines of the self, a deposition of the ego, which is the very definition Levinas gives of ethics: ‘un incessant dégrisement du Même enivré de soi.’13 Impersonality and transpersonality are thus synonymous with an ethical impulse, albeit in a slightly different way. The term ‘impersonality,’ through its negative prefix, underlines the loss or deprivation of personality just as Eliot’s other phrases in the same essay do (‘a continual extinction of personality,’ ‘a process of depersonalization,’ [44]; ‘a continual surrender of the self,’ [43]) whereas ‘transpersonality,’ through the prefix ‘trans,’ points to the crossing over or the transgression of the boundaries of the self. Transper-sonality states much more openly its ethical impulse towards an openness to the other. Moreover the escape from personality, for Eliot, rests on the assumption of a division between ‘the man who suffers’ and ‘the mind which creates’ (45) and the drive towards the other seems to be limited, as far as one can judge from this essay, to the person who enjoys a work of art, i.e. the reader. And this is where Winterson, for all her claims of allegiance, departs from Eliot. The ethical impulse in her fiction goes beyond the distinctions latent in Eliot’s theory. Not only does it exceed the distinction between male and female but it also exceeds the distinction between ‘the man who suffers’ and ‘the mind which creates,’ between the self and the other; hence her pronouncements in her first published text, Oranges Are not the only Fruit, which would be valid for Written on the Body: ‘Is Oranges an autobiographical novel? No not at all and yes of course.’14 We could even say that in Winterson’s work, ‘the ethical encounter with alterity takes place as the subject-object relationship founders,’ something Levinas stopped short of acknowledging, according to Gibson. (29) As such, transpersonality, although comparable to Woolf’s concept of the androgynous mind, exceeds it. In these different ways, Winterson expands the limits of Eliot’s concept of impersonality and operates a shift from the confines of personality to a limitless space.
2 From impersonality and emotion to love
7Just as Eliot sees impersonality as the preliminary condition of poetry and ‘significant emotion’ (45) and just as Woolf sees the androgynous mind as the means of transmitting ‘emotion without impediment,’ (Woolf 1978, 94) Winterson, in her essays, sees the release from the self as closely linked with language and emotion: ‘Style, sensibility and technique distinctively brought together, frees the writer from the weight of her own personality.’ (Winterson 1996, 187)
8If in her essays the terms ‘sensibility,’ ‘feeling,’ or ‘emotion’ are used indiscriminately, in her fiction the recurrent term is love. Her fiction is presented as ‘the history of the human heart,’ (Winterson 1996, 99) the latter being traditionally said to be the seat of emotions. For Winterson, ‘the heart. Carbon-based primitive in a silicon world,’ (Winterson 2000, 40) is the place of love defined as a complex, multi-faceted emotion. Love combines passion and suffering, as in The Passion; joy and melancholy as in Art & Lies; it is ‘the horror and the glory’ in Gut Symmetries (179), anger and wonder in Sexing the Cherry; it combines hatred and love, love and loss, the body and the mind, sensuality and abstraction in Written on the Body. This rainbow-like love is very similar to what Spinoza calls ‘affectus’ or affect (‘Un Affect [Affectus], que l’on dit Passion de l’Âme est une idée confuse’15), the three primary affects—desire, joy and sadness—encompassing, in his philosophy, all the other forms of passion, from hatred to rage or from pity to shame. And it is probably in Winterson’s latest work, Written on the Body and The. PowerBook, that love is best defined. Love is the feeling that links the narrator and Louise; unlike ‘contentment’—ordinary love which is only ‘an absence of feeling,’ ‘the positive side of resignation’ (Winterson 1993, 76)—love is powerful and intense. Defined in antinomic terms, it is both ‘the holiday and the homecoming,’ ‘the edge and the excitement’; (Winterson 1993, 79) this ‘ordinary miracle’ (Winterson 1993, 124) contains within the bounds of its oxymoronic association the antinomies Woolf contains in her ‘moments of being’ where, for instance, terror and ecstasy are brought together, as is the case in Mrs Dalloway when Peter meets Clarissa.16 But it goes beyond the modernist moment of being. The miraculous dimension love is endowed with defamiliarises the ordinary emotion of love, which enables the writer to get rid of clichés. Moreover, in Written on the Body, love and the lovers are interchangeable. Louise as ‘Lover and child, virgin and roué,’ (81) embodies the ‘complexity of passion,’ (81) love as the moment of encounter with the other, the moment when the distinction between the self and the other or the subject and the object of love founders. If love and the lover are depicted in geographical terms as maps (20) and territories, (53) their land is a space where all boundaries have been erased: ‘love is Wonderland.’ (10) Love thus appears as a limitless space, an ethical space.
9The intense love story between the narrator and Louise is further transmuted into an allegory of writing and reading. The encounter at the end of Written on the Body, whether imaginary or real, with the face of Louise, who may be dead or alive, is the moment when love is revealed; it is, as at the end of Sexing the Cherry or Art & Lies, ‘an epiphany of the face,’ (Gibson 63) the ethical encounter par excellence; it coincides with the moment when artistic creation becomes possible and writing begins:
This is where the story starts, in this threadbare room. The walls are exploding. The windows have turned into telescopes. Moon and stars are magnified in this room. The sun hangs over the mantelpiece. I stretch out my hand and reach the corners of the world. The world is bundled up in this room. Beyond the door, where the river is, where the roads are, we shall be. We can take the world with us when we go and sling the sun under your arm. Hurry now, it’s getting late. I don’t know if this is a happy ending but here we are let loose in open fields. (190)
10It is a moment when writing turns into ‘an ordinary miracle,’ not only because ‘we’ and ‘you,’ present and future, closed and open space, microcosmic and macrocosmic space are brought together but also because language is renewed through metaphors, alliterations, paratactic rhythm or disrupted syntax. The novel becomes poetry; the living language of love, what Winterson calls ‘language and lust,’ (Winterson 1995, 74) takes the place of ‘the language of the dead.’ (Winterson 1995, 14) Love, ‘The winged word. The mercurial word. The word that is both moth and lamp,’ (Winterson 1995, 137) becomes the substance of an art transfigured by emotion, sensuality and desire. It is not a romantic word but ‘a mature word... deep-layered with associative delights’ (Winterson 1995, 74), the word ‘for a roué’s pleasure.’ Or again in Winterson’s words, ‘The word and the kiss are one.’ (Winterson 1995, 66)
11Love as artistic creation cannot be dissociated from love as aesthetic emotion. As the reading process is turned into an ‘ordinary miracle,’ a moment of love when the reader recovers his power of being affected, artistic rapture becomes complete and the lover, writer and reader become interchangeable figures. In Written on the Body, Louise’s body is a body to be loved and caressed, a book to be read with the tips of the fingers like braille, with the senses as well as the intellect: ‘Written on the body is a secret code only visible in certain lights; the accumulations of a lifetime gather there. In places the palimpsest is so heavily worked that the letters feel like braille.’ (82) Reading, like love-making, is a most sensual process: ‘Reading is sexy,’ Winterson writes in Art Objects. (192) Louise’s body is also a book which only makes sense when it is read, just as a musical instrument only makes music when it is played: ‘Clavichord.... Your clavicle is both keyboard and key’; (Winterson 1993, 129) it is a book that is both being written and decoded under the reader-lover’s caress: ‘I didn’t know Louise would have reading hands. She has translated me into her own book.’ (89) The poetics of writing and reading are thus inscribed within the love story as a ‘poetics of sex’—the title of one of Winterson’s short stories—and love-making is ‘lexographic love’17 in a world where the lover, writer and reader are caught in ‘a single loop of love.’ (Winterson 1993, 88) The perfect palimpsest of Louise’s enchanted body is both the space of jouissance and of writing and reading as an erotic process, when feeling and the senses are solicited as much as, not to say more than, the mind—something very close to Barthes’ concept of jouissance.18 The reversibility of roles also points to writing and reading being a shared experience and not a moment of appropriation or domination. Unlike reception theoreticians, Winterson underlines in her work the receptivity of the reader. The reader is represented as both responsive and inventive; such ‘responsible reading,’ in Attridge’s terms, is ethical: ‘a responsible reading, a reading that attempts to do justice to the alterity, singularity, and inventiveness of the literary work; and it’s here that I locate the ethical.’19 In such a perspective, the narrator’s doubts function as a paradigm of reading as ethical experience. After leaving Louise to give her a chance to be cured by her husband, the narrator starts wondering whether he/she had the right to decide of Louise’s fate. Doubt here appears as a way of taking the other into account and respecting his freedom of choice; it therefore becomes the sign of the ethical position of the text.
12In this eminently self-reflexive narrative, Winterson not only expands the bounds of love but redefines metafiction. Far from being the cold intellectual game Lecercle regrets it to be,20 metafiction is fraught with intense emotion and art as a whole is defined as a love-affair: ‘art works to enlarge emotional possibility.’ (Winterson 1996, 108) While requiring the space of romance, a ‘supergenre containing all fictional forms and figures,’21 love, through the multiple meanings it is given, becomes much more than the object of the characters’ quest, traditionally represented in romance. Love is turned into a concept including the characters’ personal emotions and aesthetic emotion; the banal and the extraordinary (what the term ‘magic realism’ tries to convey); the tangible and the intangible; desire and suffering; thought and feeling; emotion and the idea of emotion, etc. By encompassing these antinomies in a dynamic relation, love is an attempt at going beyond a binary system of thought; at transcending the boundaries between the self and the other or the writer and the reader or the text and its creator, etc. Love is the utopian third element (‘Tertium non datur. The third is not given,’ as Winterson writes in Gut Symmetries, 137) permitting the alchemy of art through the conflation of distinct categories, which reveals them both while shaking the reader out of his ‘Apathy. From the Greek. A Pathos. Want of feeling’ (Winterson 1995, 14) into a powerful pleasure of reading.
3 Tradition and Winterson’s individual talent
13Love as a concept and a compound of antinomies is very close to the concept of transpersonality, the latter being a refusal to think gender in binary terms, an attempt at destabilising the identity principle and introducing indeterminacy. Love conceptualises a similar destabilisation but goes further than gender indeterminacy; it conceptualises the deconstruction of all categories (self/other, subject/object, narrator/reader, writer/ reader and even literary genres as we could show if we had enough space to do so). As such it exceeds and encompasses transpersonality. In other words, instead of making impersonality a pre-condition for art emotion as T. S. Eliot does, Winterson in her fiction, turns emotion, redefined as love, into a gigantic, all-encompassing concept, including and exceeding impersonality redefined as transpersonality. Her fiction takes her beyond her essays and beyond Eliot’s modernism. In her fiction she transmutes the modernist tradition she keeps referring to as a model in her essays, thus exemplifying the dynamic relation to tradition Eliot describes in the first part of ‘Tradition and the Individual Talent.’
14Instead of arguing in favour of the erasure of the author’s self as twentieth century critics have done from Eliot to the early Barthes of ‘The Death of the Author,’22 or against it as the later Barthes of Barthes by Roland Barthes23 or Couturier have done,24 Winterson chooses to conflate the two, to simultaneously erase and inscribe the author’s self. Erasure of the author’s self—whether through polyphony or the ungendered narrator— results in an open text and a new form of freedom for the reader whereas inscription of the author’s self and desire, of an Artistic God-like figure, results in closure, a tyranny of the text and a manipulation of the reader. Winterson’s fiction constantly oscillates between openness and closure as if she refused to resolve the tension between the two opposed views of two of her modernist models, Eliot and D. H. Lawrence who respectively defended impersonality and the inscription of the author’s self. This concomitant drive towards the deposition of the ego and the inscription of a superego can only be understood in terms of transpersonality. As Winterson writes in Art Objects: ‘in the East it would not seem so odd to say that the total realisation of self necessary for the artist and evinced in her style is that which makes possible a total escape from Self.’ (188)
15Similarly, instead of opposing feeling and thought, the body and the mind or other categories in a Cartesian move, she brings them together in love, a utopian ‘enchanted space,’ (Winterson 1995, 200) the very space T. S. Eliot was implicitly yearning for when in his essay ‘The Metaphysical Poets,’ he denounced the ‘dissociation of sensibility’25 and advocated a return to a pre-seventeenth century aesthetic. As such, love should be inscribed within the history of sensibility which runs from the eighteenth century to Eliot and from Eliot to today’s theory of affect. Yet, although in her essays, Winterson claims Eliot’s ‘re-association of sensibility’26 as a model, in her fiction, she implicitly questions his assumption that the metaphysical poets’ ‘mode of feeling was directly and freshly altered by their reading and thought.’ (Eliot 286) Like contemporary critics, she questions Eliot’s subjection of feeling to thought, what Gibson calls ‘the derogation of sensibility’ (Gibson 163) which, according to him, has been endorsed by the followers of Eliot, from Empson to Derrida and Lyotard whose theory ‘presides over a final eclipse of sensibility.’27 (Gibson 164) Instead of thinking in terms of subjection, Winterson thinks in term of tension, thus erasing hierarchy and radically transforming Eliot’s theory. Discarding the Cartesian tradition inherited, in spite of appearances, by Eliot and his followers, she indirectly places her work under the banner of another tradition, running from Spinoza to Levinas, and transforms Descartes’ cogito into an ‘Amo ergo sum.’ (Winterson 1997, 206)
16The ‘constitutive ambivalence’ (Gibson 36) of the concept of love, its deconstructive and destabilising nature can be read in political terms, especially in Winterson’s first texts where various figures such as the Puritans embody fixity, stability, the self-confinement that is barbaric and celebrated by fascism, according to Levinas28 and which for Winterson is synonymous with any form of blind power, from patriarchy to religion or the power of money.
17But love and art as love is mainly an ethical impulse, the ‘new emotional role model’ (Winterson 1991, 165) Winterson meant, from her very first text, to take the place vacated by God and religious ecstasy; it is a movement not towards transcendence but, in Levinas’ terms, to ‘excendance’; ‘a desire to escape the limits of the self’ (Gibson 37) and turn towards the other; in short, an assertion of freedom as well as a generous welcoming and regeneration of the power of emotion. Love thus redefined is the measure of Winterson’s individual talent.
Notes de bas de page
1 T. S. Eliot, ‘Tradition and the Individual Talent,’ Selected Essays (London: Faber & Faber, 1932) 39-49.
2 Jeanette Winterson, Art Objects: Essays in Ecstasy and Effrontery (1995; New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1996).
3 Jeanette Winterson, Written on the Body (1992; London: Vintage, 1993).
4 Clive Bell, Art (1914; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987).
5 Jean-Michel Ganteau, ‘Fantastic but Truthful: The Ethics of Romance (Winterson, Woolf, Rolfe),’ The Cambridge Quarterly 32.3 (2003): 225-238.
6 Jeanette Winterson, The Passion (London: Bloomsbury, 1987).
7 Jeanette Winterson, Sexing the Cherry (London: Bloomsbury, 1989).
8 Jeanette Winterson, Gut Symmetries (London: Granta Books, 1997).
9 Jeanette Winterson, The. PowerBook (London: Jonathan Cape, 2000).
10 Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own (1929; London: Panther Books, 1978) 99.
11 Jeanette Winterson, Art & Lies (1994; London: Vintage, 1995).
12 ‘If the body is personal, the mind is transpersonal, its range is not limited by action or desire. Its range is not limited by identity.’ (Winterson 1995, 62)
13 Quoted in Andrew Gibson, Posmodenity, Ethics and the Novel. From Leavis to Levinas (London: Routledge, 1999) 25.
14 Jeanette Winterson, Oranges Are not the only Fruit (1985; London: Vintage, 1991) xiv.
15 Spinoza, Éthique III, ‘Définition générale des Affects,’ t. III (Paris: Gallimard-Pléiade, 1978) 215.
16 Virginia Woolf, Mrs Dalloway (1925; London: Panther Books, 1976) 172.
17 Jeanette Winterson, The World and Other Places (1998; London: Vintage, 1999) 40.
18 See Roland Barthes, Le Plaisir du texte (Paris: Seuil, 1973).
19 Derek Attridge, ‘Ethics, Otherness, and Literary Form,’ The European English Messenger 12.1 (Spring 2003): 33-38, 33.
20 Jean-Jacques Lecercle and Ronald Shusterman, L’Emprise des signes (Paris: Seuil, 2002) 234.
21 Ian Duncan, Modern Romance and the Transformation of the Novel (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992) 10.
22 Roland Barthes, ‘La mort de l’auteur,’ Le Bruissement de la langue (Paris: Seuil, 1984) 63-70.
23 Roland Barthes, Roland Barthes par Roland Barthes (Paris: Seuil, 1975).
24 Maurice Couturier, La Figure de l’auteur (Paris: Seuil, 1995).
25 T. S. Eliot, ‘The Metaphysical Poets,’ Selected Essays (London: Faber & Faber, 1932) 281-291.
26 Eileen Williams-Wanquet, ‘Jeanette Winterson’s Boating for Beginners: Both New Baroque and Ethics,’ Études britanniques contemporaines 23 (2002): 99-118, 114.
27 Gibson explains: ‘the concept of affect that is dominant in theory—in Foucault, Deleuze and much of Derrida and Lyotard—is of affect as “force” or “libidibal economy,” repeatedly theorized in post-Nietzschean, Dyonisian, unremittingly virile terms as an active violence, a movement outwards towards an object, rather than susceptibility or openness to the event.’ (Gibson 164)
28 Gibson writes: ‘In “Quelques réflexions sur la philosophie de l’Hitlérisme”, Levinas suggests that fascism magnifies and celebrates self-confinement.’ (37)
Auteur
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Christine Reynier
Université Paul-Valéry — Montpellier III
Professor of contemporary British Literature at the University Paul-Valéry—Montpellier III. She has edited books on Virginia Woolf, published a critical analysis of The Waves in collaboration and written essays on Virginia Woolf’s short stories, especially on her theory and ethics of the short story. She has also published essays on other Modernist writers like Katherine Mansfield or Leonard Woolf and on contemporary writers like McEwan. She has just completed a book on Jeanette Winterson: Le Miracle ordinaire (Presses universitaires de Bordeaux, 2004).
Le texte seul est utilisable sous licence Licence OpenEdition Books. Les autres éléments (illustrations, fichiers annexes importés) sont « Tous droits réservés », sauf mention contraire.
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