I was drawn recently to the article by Naomi Wallace in this month’s American Theatre. I was drawn primarily because in one of my early MFA courses the class read One Flea Spare, which is still ranks as one of the most beautiful and haunting pieces of writing that I’ve encountered. My professor and mentor Mike Geither knows Naomi and he arranged to have her come to one of our classes and there was a reading of one of her works The Retreating World, which was also very lovely and moving. I had the chance to talk with her during some down time and I found that my method of writing was much like hers–perhaps my method is like many peoples… Naomi said that she researched a project for nearly two years before writing and that generally had a good idea of where she was going with it, and generally disliked writing itself. That’s pretty much how I feel every time I start a play. Although, since I embarked a different approach as described elsewhere, I’ve found this to be less the case; and I’ve always loved the research–I guess that’s why I’m a research librarian. I also purchased the movie she wrote: Lawn Dogs, which has many of the attributes of her plays–a strange magical mysticism, etc. And a heavy dose of class angst. But, I digress. The point is, I looked forward to the article. Then I read it.

Now I’m not sure what to think. I feel that most of my mixed feelings arise from inner turmoil rather than from something she stated; but I can touch on this in a while.

Mainly, I was fascinated that she would begin by stating that writing is at its “best an act of transgression.” Transgression is an interesting word. Or rather, comes from an interesting root of words. Every time I see the word “trans” I’m reminded of my attempts to teach myself Latin, where many word roots were unveiled to me: “trans” = “across”. Just like “peninsula” which comes from the Latin “paene” (almost) and “insula” (island). I find etymology fun. So you have “trans” (across) and “gressus” (step). So, then I thought “aggression,” hmmm. “ad” (to) and “gressus” (step)–but in this case, it obviously means to step toward in a threatening manner; while transgress is to violate or cross someone’s step, violate their space or motion or whatever–I’m trying to figure this out as I go. Regardless, transgress means to step across the line; break a rule or a taboo. That is, Naomi begins by immediately setting up writing as something that runs counter, that is subversive, etc., with which I don’t agree at all. Or, let me say, rather, that this does not solely have to be the purpose and I take issue with her assumption, both at the beginning and throughout her essay, that it must be. Often times she’ll try to pull away from such a hard line–stating that “I tend to generalize. I like to generalize.” pp100 column 3–but despite her attempts? to pull away, she goes right on displaying her unconscious assumptions that all writing need be transgressive and politically directed. She gives the nod to writing for entertainment, writing for money, and writing for politics, but never writing for self-discovery, growth, or the search for the universe through the local–or rather, should I say, her brush, light with paint, but doth touch the canvas once with such a thought.

Writing to transgress, that is, to cross the self, to open the self and discover the self, while important to her, is seen as a means to a political end. To cross the self to realize how insulated you are, how naive you are, how self-centered, how white, how WRONG you are.

I take issue most with her on the politics of it. This is something that I have struggled with. In fact, I wrote a play, described or touched on elsewhere, entitled The Empiric, about at 14th century healer named Jacoba Felicie, or Jacqueline Felicia de Almania, who was forced out of the healing business by the violence of law in Paris, France. And yes, of course, I realize fully that “law” is a form of violence whose sole intent is to “force” a person to do something he doesn’t want to do, usually with the thin veil of physical violence lying in wait. But my question tended more toward the effect on the art itself that I was trying to create. Doesn’t the act of politicizing an art make it more like journalism? And no matter how pretty the prose or verse, or how human and empathetic the angle, there is some flavor left in the mouth that tangs metallic. It’s almost as if you must reach the truth by slight of hand–fooling even yourself. Sort of like Douglas Adams’ take on flying: that you must trip and fall and the split second before impacting be distracted by something such that you forget you’re falling and start to fly instead. And that you must not ever think of the act of flying or you will immediately fall from the sky, but must instead maintain the posture of distractedness. Such is how you must come to truth. For if you say it yourself it is your truth and if you force a character to speak it, it is degraded.

Politics overwhelms this article. The end of it invokes even global warming, for Christ’s sake. I want to state, openly and honestly, that I am not, nor have I ever been–well, except in a moment of youthful hubris at the outset of my undergraduate career–a member of the right-wing conservative establishment. And I do not want to be taken this way (I am a Libertarian today). But Wallace’s second paragraph smack so hard of Marxist overtones that it’s almost unbearable to read: “means of production,” “ownership,” “writing merely an exercise in accumulating…private property.” Give me a fucking break. And then has the audacity to posit that each of us should ask the question, when we write, “to what ends am I working.” What a load of shit. As if the act of writing is solely to polish a turd before launching it at some [thing, one, idea, group]. She begs us ask the purpose for our writing–positing the blatant assertions that there must be political motives behind when/what choices are made to a political end–one way or another, and then quickly steps behind the Brechtian shield that “all theatre is political.” As if that is an answer or ends all discussion on the matter. She states that the roll of theatre is to “speak truth to power” echoing Augusto Boal in his toppling reversal of Aristotelean logic.

But in much the way she casually dismisses “mainstream” theatre as being “mediocre” or entertainment to “keep the peace,” I defiantly state that theatre exclusively to the end of highlighting class politics, or race politics, is equally mediocre and certainly not original. She steps back from her take on Brecht by remarking that “all theatre is political” in the “human and social” sense, but immediately puts her foot back on the gas pedal of theatre as power struggle.

I am intrigued by her questions in this regard, that:

All theatre deals with questions of power. Who has it? Who doesn’t? Who wants to get it and how? Who lost it and why? Who has killed for it? Who has died for it?

And I tend to agree with Wallace’s “sizing up” of mainstream theatre’s–and it’s audience’s–penchant for congratulating itself on exploring the deep and meaningful issues of humanity, when its epic plow has only touched the surface tissue; a theatre that doesn’t think or even provide an experience of being alive, but instead provides a passable evening’s entertainment and a refreshing alternative to the evening news to while away the digestion of food: by spoon-feeding them the drama, exposition, and meaning as though it were pudding.

On page 100, Wallace defines “transgressive writing” by “calling for a teaching of theatre that encourages students to write against their ‘taught’ selves and to engage…in the kind of ‘self-transgression’ and ‘critical awareness of self’ that will enable them to become ‘citizens of the world.’

Hear, fucking, hear. I absolutely agree with this. To crack that self and unleash the torrent that is the unconscious. The become a citizen of the world by becoming one with all humankind. Nothing could be better. But the motive. My god. The motive should be the act itself; not, as Joseph Campbell would say, to move all the pieces around in the vain attempt to recreate the world–which seems to be Wallace’s explicit goal: writing to wrongs. As if the immense and powerful act of self-discovery should lead to nothing more than a new market economy in an African village. Throughout the essay Wallace waivers between stating greatness and suggesting ways to it, and then cutting it with transient political concerns of the day.

Wallace finishes this section by stating that, “Transgression is, among other things, a dissection of one’s self and a discovery of larger worlds.” A statement with which I whole-heartedly agree.

But again, to do it, Wallace states that one must be involved in “questioning entitlement and empathy.” A statement that seems to, again, take away from the main realization–to debase it. Entitlement and empathy are lesser points to the main act of self-discovery and larger world exploration. And, in fact, that new discoveries of self and larger worlds should, in and of themselves, lead to empathy and a questioning of entitlement, and not be in any way predicated on it. In fact, to listen to Nietzsche, one can make such realizations and discoveries and not give one mote of shit for other human beings at all–to elevate oneself to the status of a god: thus rejecting any empathy or questioning of entitlement; though, I admit I see Wallace’s point and don’t mean to dismiss it. The Holy Grail, or recognizing the pain of others an that in your own self (empathy) is core to the Western ideal of Christian love and understanding…and I think questions of entitlement fall immediately on the heels of such a realization. I am yet amazed that Wallace can make such bold statements regarding transgression and self-discovery and yet immediately lessen them by connecting their main importance with simple political thoughts regarding racism, sexism, etc.

Wallace ends her main introductory section by expressing her desire to see more writers “who envision theatre as a space for social and imaginative transformation.” Another desire that I share with her.

I’ll pick up this discussion again tomorrow, when my mind is clearer and my eyelids less inclined to fall over my eyes…

Introduction

The Vortex

In his essay “Discourse in the Novel,” Mikhail Bakhtin “declared that the natural and healthy state of language, which is a changing, socially stratified, multivocal clatter of discourses, is unrepresentable in poetry.” (Scanlon 2007: 1) Bakhtin espouses the view that poetry is monologic: that is, the text speaks with one voice, using one language–that of the author — admitting no possibility for outside voices (heteroglossia), and thus diversity of meaning within the text.  Bakhtin concludes that “the language of poetic genres…often become authoritarian, dogmatic and conservative, sealing itself off from the influence of extraliterary social dialects.” While Bakhtin does allow for some exception, for instance he notes that a “certain latitude for heteroglossia exists only in the ‘low’ poetic genres–in the satiric and comic genres and others,” his stance is quite fixed and sincere. While Bakhtin does point to some examples of dialogism in epic poetry, specifically Eugene Onegin (which is considered a novel even though written in verse), it is likely that Bakhtin never figured on a poetic work like that of Also, with My Throat, I Shall Swallow Ten Thousand Swords.

Also, with My Throat, I Shall Swallow Ten Thousand Swords is supposedly a collection of letters from Arkai Yasusada to a correspondent named Richard.  I say supposedly not only because it is unclear if Richard even exists, but because Araki Yasusada himself does not exist, being a persona of a translator Tosa Motokiyu.  However, the authorial confusion does not end there, as it may be that Motokiyu also does not exist and is a persona of poet Kent Johnson (or Kent Johnson and Javier Alvarez). It has also been asserted by Mikhail Epstein, in an essay at the back of Doubled Flowering , that two Russian writers, Andrei Bitov and Dmitri Prigov, may have created Yasusada.  And in an essay by Bill Freind it was suggested that Mikhail Epstein may not exist and is a “hyperauthor” created by Umberto Eco. (Freind 2004: 151) This confusion of authorial responsibility for Yasusada’s letters is just one of many methods by which Also, with My Throat creates diversity of meaning and challenges Bakhtin’s notion of the monologic poem. Through its employment of many authorial voices, use of multiple generic forms, broken English and mangled idiomatic expressions how Also, with My Throat means and how it’s many voices speak, and to what end, creates a fully heteroglossic work that is dialogic at in its very essence.  The importance of this should not be underestimated, for many have challenged the ethical position of Johnson, Alavarez, and Friend (Soltan 2001) and the ethical implications of the figure of Araki Yasusada.  This requires explanation. According to the description of Also, with My Throat on Amazon.com:

In the early 1990s, a number of respected US literary journals published the poems of Araki Yasusada, a Japanese poet and Hiroshima survivor who turned out to have never existed. The most likely author of this "hoax" (if it even is a hoax) is probably Kent Johnson. For this book, Johnson claims that Yasusada was in fact the creation of yet a third writer who uses the pseudonym Tosa Motokiyu, and who requested (prior to dying in 1996) that his legal identity never be revealed. ALSO, WITH MY THROAT is a collection of letters, in imperfect English, that Motokiyu wrote as Yasusada. Edited by Kent Johnson and Javier Alvarez, this new book might renew some of the many polarizing responses to Yasusada’s first appearance. "This is essentially a criminal act," claimed Arthur Vogelsang at the time. Carolyn Forche, on the other hand, argued that "’Yasusada’s’ writing is an entry into a spiritual space…It is a work of art in the largest sense."

With regard to the ethical implications of this “hoax,” the description notes that “respected US literary journals published the poems” and that Yasusada was a “Hiroshima survivor who turned out to have never existed.”  The ethical implications for the US literary journals are of course that an author or authors published material that, while theirs, was not represented truthfully, and that the journals were a tool in the distribution of this falsity to their readers; but as straightforward as this argument seems, it doesn’t end there, for the question of authenticity comes directly back to the journals in the form of their need for what Johnson refers to as “collective, pathological yearning for simulacral states.” (Freind 142) That is, Johnson contends that what “people are after nowadays is not so much ‘the Authentic’; they are after, rather, authenticity’s simulacral and constructed Figure, ready-made in the Author’s image.” (Freind 138) A fact that holds for journals as well.  More specifically, it is unlikely that “respected US literary journals” would have looked positively on “a white American constructing or appropriating the voice of a Japanese victim of the bombing of Hiroshima.” (Freind 143) And yet, without knowing this fact they were very willing to publish the work.  To this point, the ethical implications for Johnson and others is precisely this last point–to what end does he assume this voice? What are the implications of his fabricating a persona who supposedly bore witness to one of the greatest atrocities in human history–that is, assuming the voice of a witness to and a victim of such an event?  There are several answers that come from Freind, and the answer that seems perfectly acceptable: that “many survivors emphasize not only the necessity but also the impossibility of speaking about atrocity”; (Freind 144) that arguments against assuming a persona would “reduce” the “political to the personal and confine the act of writing to a factual narcissism” and that it amounts to “a denial of imagination” (Freind 145); further, such allegations dismiss wholly the experience that a reader has–as if to invalidate that experience based on the credentials of the author.  Thus, Johnson can be said to give voice to an experience to which victims themselves could not adequately give voice, and give readers access to an expression of that voice to which they would not have access otherwise.  But a more important point emerges when looking at the work through the lens of Mikhail Bakhtin, as noted by William Batstone:

Monologism was a “denial of equal rights”, a “verbal and semantic dictatorship” a “Ptolemaic conception”, whereas dialogism was “the activity of God in His relation to man, a relation allowing man to reveal himself utterly”; it was an act of love.  Dialogism revealed consciousness: “the thinking human consciousness and the dialogic sphere in which this consciousness exists, in all its depth and specificity, cannot be reached through a monologic artistic approach”. And dialogism revealed truth: “It is quite possible to imagine and postulate a unified truth that requires a plurality of consciousnesses” (Batstone 2002: 102)

That is, a dialogic text is an ethical text.  It is one that by presenting many voices inquires about the nature of how one lives one’s life, and through the dialogic nature of literature, asks the same question of the reader. (Scanlon 17) If Kent Johnson had come at the subject of Hiroshima through the voice of a “white American” poet living in the Midwest the directness of the speech act–the poem–and the monologic nature of that voice would not be able to capture truth and frame an ethical dialog.  The use of the persona of Araki Yasusada, the persona of Tosa Motokiyu, the editorial framework of Kent Johnson and Javier Alvarez, as well as the generic form of letters to a reader are heteroglossic and form a dialog that is ethical and provides the reader with a method for constructing truth.

Can Poetry be Dialogic?

Mikhail Bakhtin was a Russian literary critic, linguist, scholar, and philosopher who is perhaps most known for advancing a comprehensive theory of the novel.  Bakhtin did this through many of his works, but the singular work on the subject is The Dialogic Imagination a compilation of his early essays that was put together in 1975.  In this work, Bakhtin defined many terms for how a novel worked, both in relationship to itself—its internal operations—and how it worked in relation to readers and other literary works—its external operations.  One of these terms is “dialogic,” which refers to the ability of a text to present arguments through a variety of techniques: one of the most obvious being the use of different characters who represent different positions; but a text can also relate to, and be informed by, other texts.  According to Bakhtin, dialogism, which “is the characteristic epistemological mode of a world dominated by heteroglossia.  Everything means, is understood, as a part of a greater whole—there is a constant interaction between meanings, all of which have the potential of conditioning others.”(Bakhtin 1988: 426) So not only does dialogism refer to relationships between texts, it also relates to words themselves: every word means and may mean in ways that the person speaking or writing the word does not intend because no person can predict the contextual understanding of another, for whom a word may mean differently.  In the context of novelization or works of literature, dialogism is the relationship between works and between characters who populate those works—and even between the author and the reader.  For Bakhtin, monologic texts would be those that do not refer to other texts, or which are closed unto themselves, hermetic, and often as not may not even consider or care about any relationship to any outside (a reader, for example).  Within the definition of dialogism is the word “heteroglossia” which “insures the primacy of context over text. At any given time, in any given place, there will be a set of conditions—social, historical, meteorological, physiological—that will insure that a word uttered in that place and at that time will have a meaning different than it would have under any other conditions; all utterances are heteroglot in that they are functions of a matrix of forces practically impossible to recoup.” (Bakhtin 428) For Bakhtin, “the novel is the genre that accomplishes the subversive, ethically necessary act of decentralization, in large part through its incorporation of multiple voices representing clashing ideologies or world views, what Bakhtin calls ‘heteroglossia’ and Michael Holquist has helpfully described as a ‘plurality of relations’ rather than just a ‘cacophony of different voices.’" (Scanlon 2) It is important to note that for Bakhtin, if two different characters are expressing the same view of the world, there is no true dialogism and there can only be heteroglossia if the two characters represent different “stratifications” or worldviews—characters from two different professions, classes, countries, etc.  Other terms used include polyvocal or multivocal, which simply refer to the presence of other voices within a text, usually, but not necessarily, in dialog.  It is important also to note that dialogs can take place through time, forming what Bakhtin refers to as a chronotope. Chronotopes are "conceptions of time and space… [that] determine ‘to a significant degree the image of a person in literature.’”(Burton 39)

To advance his various philosophies of the novel, Bakhtin was often found drawing comparisons between the novel and the poem.  This foil for his theories was an important one for several reasons: first, the poetic styles to which Bakhtin addressed his attention were highly monologic (“Russian and Continental traditions which formed Bakhtin’s ideas of the lyric” (Richter 26)); second, at the time of his writing his theories, the monologic poetic form was being used as a nationalistic device to create a homogonous political world view in Russia (Scanlon 4); and third, Bakhtin was rebelling against a “formalist poetics” (Richter 14) that put itself forward as the quintessential form of literary achievement–creating a distinction characterizing something as “literature” or “non-literature” (Richter 26). This background demonstrates reason enough for the often antagonistic tone that Bakhtin takes toward poetry. But, as other authors have pointed out, Bakhtin took the strange approach of looking narrowly and looking backward as well, not looking toward new poetic traditions that were coming into their own (Richter 26) or even looking across the Atlantic to poetic movements in the United States. The authors of several articles, including Richter and Scanlon have argued that “multivocal collage” (Scanlon 10) poems such as Elliot’s The Wasteland, or Pound’s Cantos demonstrate clearly that heteroglossic possibilities exist in poetry.  Yet, as Batstone points out, “Bakhtin knew poetry well, loved it deeply, lectured on it continually–but never revised his view of lyricness.” (Batstone 100) This notion of “lyricness” is perhaps best stated by T.S. Eliot who wrote: “the voice of the poet talking to himself–or nobody–and part of our enjoyment of great poetry is the enjoyment of overbearing words which are not addressed to us.” (Batstone 101) Thus, Eliot makes clear what most appalled Bakhtin about the monologic nature of poetry: that there was not a thought of a dialog at all–even with a potential reader. As Richter notes in his essay, “like all dramatic poetry the dramatic lyric is ‘objectified discourse,’ the drama of the poet’s discovery of meaning in mute nature allows for very little in the way of ‘discourse with an orientation toward someone else’s discourse.’” This was appalling to Bakhtin because Bakhtin believed that the self was created and understood in the context of others (Batstone 105), in the context of society, and the various languages and world views that societies represent: what Bakhtin referred to as “stratification”. (Bakhtin 263)

In his essay “Catullus and Bakhtin: The Problems of a Dialogic Lyric,” William Batstone also explores the question of whether a truly dialogic lyric can exist.  Batstone notes, almost immediately, that:

Bakhtin drew a stark distinction between the poetic and prosaic style.  The contrast, as Bakhtin conceived it, was between a totalitarian form of thought and discourse…and an alternative form…which depended on the interpersonal nature of the meaning, preserved [in] the multiple voices that inhere in language and society, and celebrated our freedom from the totalizations and finalized images we become for others. (Batstone 99)

For Batstone, there are three requirements for a dialogic lyric and the tiered levels of the requirements expose an approach or an identification of the self that Shunryu Suzuki might himself enjoy. The first, requirement for Batstone is a “poetic practice in which the self is (or can be) polyphonic and interpersonal.  This interiorizes the external dialogue of the novelist into the self-fashioning dialogues that are constitutive of the life of the mind.”(Batstone 104) That is, we all have multiple selves inside of us and each of us is privileged in hearing the discourse between these voices.  The self is a polyphonic creation, where a mix of voices merge to create episodic selves.  The key challenge for Batstone is not to unify the voices nor is it to eliminate or silence voices, but to ensure that there is an “irreducible noncoincidence between the voices.”(Batstone 104) But this is a problem for us, because as we get older the “orchestration of these voices is hierarchical; it is an internal debate decided ahead of time or a constitutive tension over which the “self” presides.  For a truly dialogic lyric to exist, internal dialogue must be grounded in a psychology of the divided self, a self which is intersected by embodied discourses and may speak now with one voice, now with another.” (Batstone 104)

In the chapter “Study Yourself” in Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind, Suzuki writes:

If we think of ourselves as our bodies, the teaching then may be our clothing. Sometimes we talk about our clothing; sometimes we talk about our body.  But neither body nor clothing is actually we ourselves. We ourselves are the big activity.  We are just expressing the smallest particle of the big activity, that is all.  So it is all right to talk about ourselves, but actually there is no need to do so.  Before we open our mouths, we are already expressing the big existence, including ourselves.  So the purpose of talking about ourselves is to correct the misunderstanding we have when we are attached to any particular temporal form or color of the big activity.  It is necessary to talk about what our body is and what our activity is so that we may not make any mistake about them.  So to talk about ourselves is actually to forget about ourselves. Dogen-zenji said, “To study Buddhism is to study ourselves. To study ourselves is to forget ourselves.”  When you become attached to a temporal expression of your true nature, it is necessary to talk about Buddhism, or else you will think the temporal expression is it.  But this particular expression of it is not it. And yet at the same time it is it! For a while this is it; for the smallest particle of time, this is it.  But it is not always so: the very next instant it is not so, thus this is not it…When we forget ourselves, we actually are the true activity of the big existence, or reality itself.”(Suzuki 2006: 88-9)

In speaking to Batstone, Suzuki might say not to be “grounded in a psychology of the divided self” but to realize that the selves we manifest at any given time are manifestations of a temporal form that will pass away.  A Buddhist approach might suggest to release our attachment to any of the forms that may manifest themselves in us, but to observe them nonetheless.  In art, it is useful, undoubtedly, to let those passing selves speak to one another and form a dialogue.  Because, as Batstone points out, dialogism reveals truth. (Batstone 102) However, equally valid, is to not get so tied up in one manifestation of the self that it distorts who we really are.

The second prerequisite for a dialogic lyric, according to Batstone, is very much Buddhist in its conception—and even more so in its articulation:

If the intersected and polyphonic self is the first prerequisite of a dialogic lyric, the second is a consequence of that self: an elusive self, the event of the self-under construction, the noncoincidence of self-objectification.  From his earliest essays, Bakhtin thought of the “self” as a project, of “a life that is directed ahead of itself toward the event yet-to-come”. But the present is also a coexistent event, and there is an inevitable slippage between the authoring and the authored self…The lyricist who prized this aspect of consciousness would be looking not for his own word but for the word which reveals and hides him, not for the mask or the face behind the mask but for the potential and coexistence that find in the resources others offer us the ways we can appear to (and disappear from) ourselves and others. (Batstone 105)

Batstone’s third prerequisite for a dialogic lyric states, “If, then, it is possible to imagine a polyphonic self which remains elusive and unfinalized, it follows that this voice saying I asks for and expects a form of authorship (creative understanding, hearing) from its readers.” (Batstone 105)

This is precisely the expectation that Mara Scanlon emphasizes in “Ethics and the Lyric: Form, Dialogue, Answerability”.  Scanlon writes:
I am using here, then, two concepts of dialogism, ethics, and literature simultaneously. The first is the concept of the poem’s being heteroglossic and, within the dialogic play of those voices, making meaning. For Bakhtin, this is ethical representation of the stratified languages and voices of the world. The second type I invoke is the dialogue between the reader and the text that results in an ethical responsibility for the reader as she responds to the poem, an accountability that Bakhtin calls answerability. (2007: 9)

In her essay, Scanlon argues that a dialogic poem is possible using Robert Hayden’s “Night, Death, Mississippi,” which layers four or five voices into a relatively short poem consisting of nine quatrains and three interjections by a disembodied voice. While Scanlon finds Bakhtin’s theories to be a highly useful vehicle for the examination of poetry, she disagrees with Bakhtin’s assessment that all poetry is monologic.

[Ethics and the Lyric] has two purposes: to insist again that dialogic poetry is possible, which I will do by tracing the dialogism of the word and character-based dialogism in a heteroglossic lyric by Robert Hayden, foregrounding especially ways in which the lyric not only allows but even through its form makes possible a Bakhtinian clash of voices and ideas; and to connect this reading to the strengthening field of literature and ethics by arguing that a second dialogue, that between the poem and the answerable reader who attends the text, is implored, demanded, and even enacted by the lyric’s mobilization of voices and forms, including its use of call-and-response traditions. (2007: 2)

Interestingly, Scanlon not only traces the interplay of voices in the poem–that is, the dialogism between characters–but she also traces the dialogism between words, which is equally to the point of Bakhtin’s theory that every word means and words cannot be separated from their objects. This clash of voices is the heteroglossia that Bakhtin so much seeks.  In Bakhtin’s definition of heteroglossia it is interesting to note that there are reflections that resemble what Ezra Pound espoused in his idea of Vorticism.  A simple comparison of statements regarding the ideas will reveal their connection, but it is important to remember that Pound was referring to all art, while Bakhtin was referring to texts–however, Bakhtin’s ideas could be expanded.  In an early pamphlet, Pound writes:

The vortex is the point of maximum energy, / It represents, in mechanics, the greatest efficiency. / We use the words "greatest efficiency" in the precise sense–as they would be used in a text book of MECHANICS. / You may think of man as that towards which perception moves. You may think of him as the TOY of circumstance, as the plastic substance RECEIVING impressions. / OR you may think of him as DIRECTING a certain fluid force against circumstance, as CONCEIVING instead of merely observing and reflecting. / THE PRIMARY PIGMENT. / The vorticist relies on this alone; on the primary pigment of his art, / nothing else. / Every conception, every emotion presents itself to the vivid consciousness in some primary form. / It is the picture that means a hundred poems, the music that means a hundred / pictures, the most highly energized statement, the statement that has not yet SPENT / itself in expression, but which is the most capable of expressing. / THE TURBINE. / All experience rushes into this vortex. All the energized past, all the past that / is living and worthy to live. All MOMENTUM, which is the past bearing up on us, / RACE, RACE-MEMORY, instinct charging the PLACID, / NON-ENERGIZED FUTURE. / The DESIGN of the future in the grip of the human vortex.  All the past that / is vital, all the past that is capable of living into the future, is pregnant in the / vortex, NOW. / Hedonism is the vacant place of a vortex, without force, deprived of past and of / future, the vertex of a still pool or cone.  / Futurism is the disgorging spray of a vortex with no drive behind it, / DISPERSAL. (Pound 1)

Bakhtin writes of heteroglossia:

The basic condition governing the operation of meaning in any utterance.  It is that which insures the primacy of context over text. At any given time, in any given place, there will be a set of conditions—social, historical, meteorological, physiological—that will insure that a word uttered in that place and at that time will have a meaning different than it would have under any other conditions; all utterances are heteroglot in that they are functions of a matrix of forces practically impossible to recoup, and therefore impossible to resolve. Heteroglossia is as close a conceptualization as is possible of that locus where centripetal forces and centrifugal forces collide; as such, it is that which a systematic linguistics must always suppress. (Bakhtin 428)

In both statements we see the stress that is placed on how the thing means.  For Pound meaning is achieved through the “primary form” be it word, sound, picture; for Bakhtin the thing is the word.  Both place an emphasis on the context, what Pound characterizes in terms of the past becoming and moving to the future, spreading through “race memory” and what Bakhtin refers to dialogically and chronotopically and through stratification: “social, historical, meteorological, physiological” contexts; and both emphasize the “vortex” and the “centripetal” forces as well as the “centrifugal” forces, which Pound refers to as “dispersal.”  These forces are always operating in a living culture, what Pound refers to as man DIRECTING and CONCEIVING–active, not passively laying by–and these forces are always operating in a living language, what Bakhtin refers to as heteroglossia and dialogic, where “everything means, is understood, as part of a greater whole–there is constant interaction between meanings, all of which have the potential of conditioning others.” (Bakhtin 426)

Given this, as Scanlon points out, it is ironic that Bakhtin would characterize poetry as monolog.  But, interestingly, it is the very power of poetry that Bakhtin turns against itself.  Bakhtin states that the word in poetry is so fully charged and so fully heightened in its use, that there is no room for the play of meaning in the context of the word–the dialog is drowned out by the sheer force of meaning that is layered upon it. (Richter 10) But this does not foreclose the possibility of poetry or other poetic forms from being dialogic.

the heteroglossia of longer poems and twentieth- century epics commonly known as collage texts, such as Ezra Pound’s Cantos or T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land, provide one example. These long poems and others like them show, of course, modernist fragmentation and radical juxtaposition at its most intense, the lines and stanzas themselves composed of dense quotation from multiple sources in numerous languages: newspaper, popular song, personal conversation and letters of the poet, Shakespeare’s plays, economic treatises, history texts, myth. Although one can debate unceasingly whether these long poems are heteroglossic (truly admitting different world views) or simply multivocal-that is, for instance, if Eliot’s alternate title "He Do the Police in Different Voices" suggests finally one speaker and intention, or if Pound’s ultimately unsuccessful attempts to wrest control over his collage text and use it for his own economic, cultural, and political ends work to smother the heteroglossic tendencies of the collage they certainly admit at least the possibility of dialogic illumination within the poem. (Scanlon 9)

David Richter agrees, and in his essay “Dialogism and Poetry,” Richter argues that there are four lyric forms that demonstrate the variety of expressive forms available in poetry: some of which are dialogic and some of which are not.

For Richter, a useful framework for considering dialogism in poetry is the “formalist classification system” (Richter 15) that characterizes the “variety of speech-acts poems enact”(Richter 15) as articulated by Ralph Rader.  These are referred to as the “four subgenres of dramatic poetry” and are the dramatic lyric, the expressive lyric, the dramatic monologue, and the mask lyric.

If one were to translate Rader’s description of the four subgenres of dramatic poetry from his own formal/phenomenological notation to Bakhtin’s idiom of svoi and chuzhoi," one would discover a curious symmetry. The dramatic lyric presents the poet’s acting self as though emancipated from time and memory: the Self as Other; while the mask lyric presents a concrete character in circumstances that inwardly are identified with the poet’s: the Other as Self. Meanwhile the expressive lyric presents the poet as simultaneously thinking and speaking, finding in him or herself the language to suit his or her thought: the Self as Self; while the dramatic monologue, both thought and language belong to a created character: the Other as Other. All these forms would minimally belong to Bakhtin’s second category, since all would have to be considered "objectified discourse," the "discourse of a represented person," because the poet by definition represents himself or others within a setting. (Richter 16)

This characterization of “speech-acts” allows us to conceptualize the speaking voice, that is the poet’s self, as Self as Other; Other as Self; Self as Self; and Other as Other.  When considering how the poet acts or relates to the poetry that is created, it is curious to note the similarity of this discussion with that of Mikhail Epstein’s essay at the end of Also with My Throat, where Epstein writes:

As far as authorship is concerned, one could say it always points to something or somebody else behind the alleged author: God, Muse, a prompter, an inspirer, a shadow, a ghost, an anonymous writer, a crowd, a social class, the will of the people, imagined voices and fictive figures, modes of representation and hallucination.  This does not imply that authorship is a false or “outdated” (since when? Since Plato?) concept, but that its content is very different from its conventional definition.  The concepts of “self” or “identity” do not cohere with it.  Authorship is far from being a possession of the finished work and/or its meaning; it is, rather, a state of being possessed.  It is not a point of origination but rather a path of transgression.  Authorship is Othership.  By becoming an author I “other” myself, or the Other appropriates me. (Johnson and Alvarez 45)

It is interesting to note that in a recent interview, Ray Bradbury said that “he will sometimes open one of his books late at night and cry out thanks to God.”  That, "I sit there and cry because I haven’t done any of this….It’s a God-given thing, and I’m so grateful, so, so grateful. The best description of my career as a writer is, ‘At play in the fields of the Lord.’ "(Blake 1) It is also interesting to note these two conceptions, by both Bradbury and Epstein, carry the notion of God; and to put this in light of what Suzuki says in his discussion of “God Giving”:

“To give in nonattachment,” that is, just not to attach to anything is to give…every cultural work that we create, is something which was given, or is being given to us…Moment after moment we are creating something, and this is the joy of our life.  But this “I” which is creating and always giving out something is not the “small I”; it is the “big I.”  Even though you do not realize the oneness of this “big I” with everything, when you give something you feel good, because at that time you feel at one with what you are giving. (Suzuki 69)

But for Richter, the notion of the Other as Self has the potential for creating a fully dialogic poetry in the sense that Bakhtin implies:

the subgenre that most directly contradicts Bakhtin’s views on poetry is the mask lyric. The mask lyric is dramatic in the sense that the speaker is defined as an Other, with a name, time, and place that may well be distant from the poet’s: Tennyson writes of Ulysses in Homeric Ithaca, and T. S. Eliot of J. Alfred Prufrock in fogbound Boston, not of themselves. But it is lyrical in that it continually demands of the reader an emotional and intellectual empathy with the protagonist, rather than clarity of judgment of his character and predicament… the mask lyric presents the poet with manifold opportunities to objectify the speaker and set him into dialogical relations with others. (Richter 23)

There is no firm answer one way or another to the question of whether a dialogic poetry can or does exist.  The very definitions of the context make the discussion somewhat slippery.  For instance, even given Richter’s presentation of the four subgenres with, per the above, the mask lyric looking like a strong candidate for a dialogic poetry, Richter is forced to concede that “All these forms would…have to be considered ‘objectified discourse,’ the ‘discourse of a represented person,’ because the poet by definition represents himself or others within a setting.”(Richter 16) For Bakhtin this would imply that the poem is an image of a poem, not the direct thing itself–that is, “objectified discourse” and thus novelistic.  So, there is a sort of chicken and egg situation with Bakhtin in that any literary activity that meets a certain set of criteria becomes a novelization: hence the notion, for Bakhtin, that Eugene Onegin is a novel in verse, and not merely an epic poem. (Bakhtin 44) In his essay, Richter may put his finger on the problem precisely when he writes, with regard to the question of prose versus poetry in Bakhtin’s cosmogony, “the reasons of this opposition may be seen in the fact that the poem is an uttering act whereas the novel represents one."  Thus, Also, with my throat, could be both depending on which persona is speaking at a given moment.

Also, with my throat, I shall swallow ten thousand Authors

It is within the context of the discussion above that this paper will now approach Araki Yasusada’s Letters in English.

What is interesting here, in the context of Yasusada, is primarily the notion of heteroglossia and dialogism–with a stressed focus on the interaction of the various authors as well as the direct address to the reader. Again, heteroglossia and dialogism refer to not only the presence of many voices in a text, but the presence of many different or distinct worldviews–and how they comment on and inform each other.  As we’ve discussed above, to Bakhtin, a multiplicity of voices forms a dialectic that forces all of the voices into conjunction and expands the understanding of the text with the complication of the different perspectives.  The Yasusada letters accomplish this on an amazing number of levels, and in fact, accomplish them on the astonishing level of the sentence or line, what Scanlon refers to as an internal dialogism: “that is, the interplay of and tensions between voices in a multivocal text.” (Scanlon 9) But for Yasusada, the tension of voices arises at the very level of the sentence: the play of voice occurs between the author’s inner voice (the voice framing the correspondence and choosing what to say) and the English language translation of that speech-act.  The mere mis-interpretation of idiom in many cases is enough to pop a hole in what would ordinarily be a mundane literary vehicle (a letter–i.e. one authorial voice) and allow a plethora of vexing voices to flow in–including the monolithic and austere voice of culture (or some sub-culture)–what Epstein’s essay refers to as “authorial position” or “genre.” (Johnson and Alvarez 45) But as noted at the outset of this paper, it is difficult to refer to the notion of the “author’s inner voice” especially in the context of Also, with my throat.  First, there is the issue of Araki Yasusada, who does not exist, as well as the possibility that the correspondent, Richard (in Ohio, no less) also does not exist, which means at the very least the letters have been written by an assumed persona–or to use Richter’s terminology, the Other as Self, mask lyric, that is, the presentation of a “concrete character in circumstances that inwardly are identified with the poet’s” (Richter 16) or the Other as Other, dramatic monologue, where “both thought and language belong to a created character.” (Richter 16) This immediately sets up a complex dialogism between the true author (whomever that may be), the assumed persona as letter writer (Yasusada), the persona as recipient of the letters (Richard–and often in the text there is speculation as to how Richard would react), and the actual recipient (the reader).  A complex dialog is formed in many different ways, none of which has to do with the actual sentence-level construction of the letters, which, as mentioned above, creates its own internal semantic and syntactical dialog.  As discussed above by Batstone with the notion of the divided self, the author of the letters, in assuming the voice of Yasusada, had to both identify with and embody the particular internal self that would allow this voice to speak honestly and directly to the reader.  No small challenge, and one that would make Constantin Stanislavski proud.  Having done this, the speech-act is directed outwardly at a fictive reader who must also be imagined in order to be addressed.  This act is nearly the equal to the act of embodying the letter-writing persona.  Further, great care is taken to establish the immersive world in which the letter writer lives–what Bakhtin again refers to as stratification, the immersive social context in which Yasusada finds himself.  As Bakhtin notes:

In any given historical moment of verbal-ideological life, each generation at each social level has its own language; moreover, every age group has a matter of fact its own language, its own vocabulary, its own particular accentual system that, in their turn, vary depending on social level, academic institution…and other stratifying factors…Thus at any given moment of its historical existence, language is heteroglot from top to bottom. (Bakhtin 290)

And great care is given to create the fictive environment in which Yasusada is bounded: his overbearing English instructor, the events of his daily life, his family, friends, networks and peerages, institutions he encountered, journals to which he subscribed and applied, conversations with editors, and so on.  Then, to include in this the intentionally anachronistic errors, which form a dialog with another time, serve as a running commentary on that time, and directly challenge the reader to be engaged with the text.  But the complexity does not end here.  For layered in atop this is the suggestion that the actual writer of the letters was Tosa Motokiyu. Throughout Also, with my voice, Motokiyu is an editorial voice both translating and commenting in notes on the text of the letters.  To discover that this writer could also be the author of the letters implies an author who is commenting on the writing of his own persona.  The level of dialogism within the text drops another story in the layered meaning that the text embodies.  But again, there is no floor, as it is revealed that Tosa Motokiyu could also be a persona! Can a persona embody a persona?  At what level does the true author (whomever he may be) become schizophrenic in this kaleidoscope of personas and speaking selves?  And there’s more, at least within Doubled Flowering, as Bill Freind points out:

Furthermore, the notes are written, allegedly, by three people: Tosa Motokiyu, Ojiu Norinaga, and Okura Kyojin, and they utilize the first person plural pronoun ‘‘we,’’ thus suggesting that the presentation, or representation, of the poems is a group effort. (Freind 149)

So there may be more than one persona, each with his own unique stratification of voice, class, education, perspective, etc. And, of course, the coup de grace, is that the whole of it may be written by Kent Johnson, or Kent Johnson and a group of others:

Even Doubled Flowering is something of a group effort, since it includes essays by Johnson and Alvarez, Marjorie Perloff, and Mikhail Epstein (1997), who further muddies the waters by suggesting that two Russian writers, Andrei Bitov and Dmitri Prigov, may have invented Yasusada. Epstein later noted that some subscribers to Russian Journal, a scholarly Web site, began to speculate that ‘‘Mikhail Epstein’’ was actually a hyperauthor created by Umberto Eco. (Freind 151)

The hyperbole with which authors are or are not the authors of the text is explosive and eventually withers the will to continue to look at the matter, as the author simply disappears into a mesh of possible authorial voices, all of which are vying for the reader’s attention.  Freind addresses this question explicitly in a number of ways: “Yasusada mounts an implicit and sustained critique of what Kent Johnson has called ‘the ideology of the author’” (Freind 139) and more directly in quoting from Michel Foucault whose “notion that writing is not a purely individual process but is instead shaped and bound by various social and political forces,” and notes, finally, that in a “culture in which the author function has disappeared” (Freind 140) … that other questions will become irrelevant:

questions which explicitly invalidate any privileging of the biographical author: ‘‘Who is the real author? Have we proof of his authenticity or originality?’’ (ibid.) His essay’s final sentence clearly summarizes that position: ‘‘And behind all these questions, we would hear hardly anything but the stirring of an indifference: What difference does it make who is speaking?’’ (ibid.). For Foucault, this is a fundamentally liberating movement, since the author function has served to limit the meanings of the text and to control the play of language. (Freind 140)

This notion of authorship only confirms the Buddhist conception of God Giving as expressed by Suzuki above as “Dana prajna paramita,” or “the true wisdom of life is to give.” (Suzuki 69) And thus, Suzuki quotes Dogen-zenji as saying, “To produce something, to participate in human activity is also dana prajna paramita.” (Suzuki 70) Further, Suzuki would remark that the obsession with authorship is “the danger of human culture:”

And when we repeat, “I create, I create, I create,” soon we forget who is actually the “I” which creates the various things; we soon forget about God…to create with the “big I” is to give; we cannot create and own what we create for ourselves since everything was created by God.  This point should not be forgotten. But because we do forget who is doing the creating and the reason for the creation, we become attached to the material or exchange value.  This has no value in comparison to the absolute value of something as God’s creation…Not to be attached to something is to be aware of its absolute value.” (Suzuki 71)

With Foucault’s quote above in mind, though, it should be pointed out that the notion that the “author function” serves to limit meaning and control language is precisely the Monologism that Bakhtin strove to dispel. And, in fact, in the end, it is the sheer variety of authorial voices available in Also, with my throat that make the text truly dialogical and heteroglossic:

Internal stratification present in every language at any given moment of its historical existence is the indispensible prerequisite for the novel as a genre.  The novel orchestrates all its themes, the totality of the world of objects and ideas depicted and expressed in it, by means of the social diversity of speech types and by the differing individual voices that flourish under such conditions.  Authorial speech, the speeches of narrators, inserted genres, the speech of characters are merely those fundamental compositional unities with whose help heteroglossia can enter the novel; each of them permits a multiplicity of social voices and a wide variety of their links and interrelationships (always more or less dialogized). (Bakhtin 263)

Bakhtin asserts that this is something fundamental to the novel.  It is without a doubt present in Also, with my throat, which leads us back to the earlier question of whether the text represents a novelistic form or a poetic form.  Regardless of the answer, Also, with my throat is a profoundly heteroglossic and dialogic text.

Next to the presence of multiple authors is the importance of the presence of multiple genres or generic forms.  For Bakhtin, this is also a method by which heteroglossia can be introduced into a text. (Bakhtin 263) For Bakhtin, such an introduction of other genres is an introduction of different voices, but usually with the intent of parody or irony, that is, the represented genre “in no way function[s]…as the primary means of representation (as they would function in a direct, “serious” song…); rather they themselves have here become the object of representation, or more precisely of a representation that is parodied and stylized.  This novelistic image of another’s style (with the direct metaphors that it incorporates) must be taken in intonational quotation marks within the system of direct authorial speech.” (Bakhtin 44) An example of this is the Heian poem by Lady Murasaki presented to Dick in one of Yasusada’s letters.  The poem becomes, for Bakhtin, an image of a poem because it is not presented to the reader as something to be understood and engaged as directly voiced from the poet, but rather as contextualized within another narrative context–as an example of something.  That this is parody cannot be doubted by the mere fact that Yasusada is translating the poem, complete with his malformed idiomatic phrases, and further confirmed by the notes, provided by the “editors,” which remark that the “parenthetical interjections” inserted by Yasusada into Lady Murasaki’s poem do not exist in the original, and that most of the passage is “willful invention.” (Johnson and Alvarez 29) A further extension of the heteroglossia introduced into the text is the direct editing of existing text on the page presented in later letters.  There is the notion not only of an incomplete text, but a text whose meaning can never be final because other possible meanings, presumable excised by Yasusada, are left intact by the editors.  This also furthers the illusion of authorship, as Freind notes:

There are also a number of references to illegible words and phrases, smeared ink, tea stains. Again, those are common features in writers’ notebooks, which might be the point. The notes seem to suggest that we, as readers who are deprived of the original notebooks, unable to read Japanese, hindered by blurring, smearing, and tea, can never gain access to the original, autonomous text. This is supposed to be proof of its authenticity: … translations, commentary, and annotations without an original. (Freind 149)

Although, Freind here is referring to Double Flowering his observation still holds for Also, with my throat.

Authorship, however, is only one part of the equation for a dialogic text.  As many authors that this paper has looked at have pointed out, the second part of the equation is the reader of a dialogic text.  For Batstone, the reader is the third prerequisite for a dialogic poetry (Batstone 105) and Scanlon states that “the dialogue between the reader and the text that results in an ethical responsibility for the reader as she responds to the poem, an accountability that Bakhtin calls answerability.” There can be little doubt as to the expectation of a readerly response in Also, with my throat.  The genric form that the text takes, epistolary, is a form that demands a reader response: as there is little, if any, concealment of by whom the letters are being read.  As well, the relentless questioning by Yasusada not only begs a response, but it many cases the nature of the questions are such that the reader most likely responds to them before even realizing he or she has responded: that is, the questions are of the mundane and common sort that a person might encounter in any run-of-the-mill social environment: where do you live? Are you married? Do you have kids? What is the weather like? How are you doing?  These questions are the “easy” ones, though, and mask the questions of a more profound nature that follow soon after.  The early questions lay the ground work for a reader response, that is, they almost make the response inevitable.  This works to adjust the reader to having to respond and makes it difficult to sidestep later questions that require more effort.  Also, as mentioned above, the shattered idiomatic expressions used by Yasusada momentarily fracture understanding and force the reader to pay attention and work at understanding, and, one hopes, the effort already undertaken is continued on to the answer.  For example, early on Yasusada writes, “How are the present things? How is the family, so lovliness in a photo?” (Johnson and Alvarez 10) These are questions that are relatively common.  The phrasing, again, forces the reader to pay attention and think about the nature of the question.  The phrasing also transforms meaning, causing the reader to participate in the act of creating meaning: or as Scanlon would say, “Creation is then a process of relation in which both parties are potentially changed.” (Scanlon 3) But then Yasusada continues with, “How angry are many leftists in the orchard?  Did you lock some doors to spite their blossoms?” (Johnson and Alvarez 10) Given the time period, one can presume that Yasusada is inquiring about worker strikes on the home front, as well as whether or not Richard locks his door at night to keep their rioting out.  But the mangled idiom is far from clear and breaks upon the reader’s mind in potentially dozens of ways.  Meaning is created and the strange context of the words explode like fireworks in the mind, creating strange associations that the language poets strive for, or that Ezra Pound strives for in his Imagism.  One must work to reach understanding of the text, because interestingly, if the reader does not, Yasusada’s letters will leave the reader bewildered and a strange, unnerving otherness will linger in the mind until some meaning is hammered out.  Scanlon also makes an interesting observation with regard to the nature of the use of the second person, which is inherent in the epistolary form:

a second-person address is particularly surprising or, I would say, compelling…the work of William Waters on the "du" address of Rilke helpfully theorizes the effect of the sudden introduction of the second-person address. As Waters writes about the lyric "you" in his work, it is a pronoun which "tends to hail; it calls everyone and everything by their inmost name. . . . One can read unidentified ‘I’ or ‘she’ with comparatively small concern, but the summons of unidentified ‘you’ restlessly tugs at us, begging identification" (Scanlon 15)

This is certainly the case in Yasusada’s letters, where this reference is made literally manifest when Yasusada writes, “Thank you that I am asked to write in your intimate name.” (Johnson and Alvarez 29) But this intimacy also occurs where the nature of the questions evolve to being highly personal, and move into that area of “inmost” concern: “What was there before your birth? / What was there after your death? / Who or what is it, at this moment, that is reading?” (Johnson and Alvarez 5)

Conclusion

The direct question asked at the outset of this paper may not be directly answered, but preferring the method of Mikhail Bakhtin, it is hoped that the truth lies somewhere in the mix of all the voices and dialogs that have been presented to discuss it.  Much of the answer depends finally on one’s opinion as to what makes something a poem and what makes something prose.

Also, with my throat, places inordinate power on the individual word and in this manner hypercharges the meaning, which is very like the poetic approach to text construction.  As well, Batstone quoting Bakhtin, states that one marker of poetry is that “all fully signifying authorial interpretations are sooner or later gathered together in a single speech center and a single consciousness; all accents are gathered together in a single voice.” (Batstone 103) “Authorial interpretations” in this case being a criticism of the poet’s attempt to unify the language of the work, or more darkly perhaps, to subordinate the language to that of the poet’s unifying vision: that is, voices are not left to live or mean on their own.  This paper has hopefully demonstrated that this is not the case with Also, with my throat, which is so interpenetrated by the voices of authors, translators, editors, and other generic forms that if any attempt has been made at unifying the language it has failed miserably.  On the novelistic side, it is put forth by Bakhtin that the novel requires a “plurality of unmerged voices and consciousnesses. They may agree or disagree, they may even disagree with the author, but their essential characteristic is that they speak ‘as subjects of their own directly signifying discourse.’” (Batstone 102) Ultimately, the most important point is not whether the text is considered this generic form or that generic form, but what it accomplishes, and as was noted early in this paper, perhaps the most important achievement is the realization, through a complex form, of Also, with my throat as a truly ethical text: one that finds human meaning and truth through the interplay of many dialogs and many voices, including that of the reader.

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