A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again (26 page)

If you’re not a critical-theory jockey, then to appreciate why the metaphysical viability of the author is a big deal you
have to recognize the difference between a writer—the person whose choices and actions account for a text’s features—and an
author—the entity whose intentions are taken to be responsible for a text’s meaning. Hix, paraphrasing the ever-limpid Alexander
Nehamas, uses the old saw about monkeys and typewriters to illustrate the distinction: “It is surely possible, though obviously
unlikely, that a thousand monkeys at a thousand typewriters could by sheer chance produce an encyclopedia. If they did, they
would be able to account for all the features of the text: Everything in the text was put there… by monkeys at Smith-Coronas.
But… there would be no way to account for the meaning of the text’s features, because… the monkeys could not have meant anything
by their typing.” Authors are monkeys who mean.

And for Romantic and early-twentieth-century critics, textual interpretation was author-based. For Wordsworth, the critic
regards a text as the creative instantiation of a writer’s very self. Rather more clinically, I. A. Richards saw criticism
as all and only an effort to nail down the “relevant mental condition” of a text’s creator. Axiomatic for both schools was
the idea of a real
author,
an entity for whose definition most critics credit Hobbes’s
Leviathan,
which describes real authors as persons who, first, accept responsibility for a text and, second, “own” that text, i.e. retain
the right to determine its meaning. It’s just this definition of “author” that Barthes in ’68 was trying to refute, arguing
with respect to the first criterion that a writer cannot determine his text’s consequences enough to be really responsible
(Salinger wasn’t hauled into court as an accessory when John Lennon was shot), and with respect to the second that the writer’s
not the text’s owner in Hobbes’s sense because it is really critical
readers
who decide and thus determine what a piece of writing means.

It’s Barthes’ second argument here that’s the real poststructural death certificate, and this line is really just an involution
of the New Critics’ WWII-era reaction against Richards and the Romantics. The New Critics, rather level-headedly at first,
sought to dethrone the author by attacking what they called “the Intentional Fallacy.” Writers are sometimes wrong about what
their texts mean, or sometimes have no idea what they really mean. Sometimes the text’s meaning even changes for the writer.
It doesn’t matter what the writer means, basically, for the New Critics; it matters only what the text says. This critical
overthrow of creative intent set the stage for the poststructural show that opened a couple decades later. The deconstructionists
(“deconstructionist” and “poststructuralist” mean the same thing, by the way: “poststructuralist” is what you call a deconstructionist
who doesn’t want to be called a deconstructionist), explicitly following Husserl and Brentano and Heidegger the same way the
New Critics had co-opted Hegel, see the debate over the ownership of meaning as a skirmish in a larger war in Western philosophy
over the idea that presence and unity are ontologically prior to expression. There’s been this longstanding deluded presumption,
they think, that if there is an utterance then there must exist a unified, efficacious presence that causes and owns that
utterance. The poststructuralists attack what they see as a post-Platonic prejudice in favor of presence over absence and
speech over writing. We tend to trust speech over writing because of the immediacy of the speaker: he’s right there, and we
can grab him by the lapels and look into his face and figure out just exactly what one single thing he means. But the reason
why the poststructuralists are in the literary theory business at all is that they see writing, not speech, as more faithful
to the metaphysics of true expression. For Barthes, Derrida, and Foucault, writing is a better animal than speech because
it is iterable; it is iterable because it is abstract; and it is abstract because it is a function not of presence but of
absence: the reader’s absent when the writer’s writing, and the writer’s absent when the reader’s reading.

For the deconstructionist, then, a writer’s circumstances and intentions are indeed a part of the “context” of a text, but
context imposes no real cinctures on the text’s meaning, because meaning in language requires a cultivation of absence rather
than presence, involves not the imposition but the erasure of consciousness. This is so because these guys—Derrida following
Heidegger and Barthes Mallarmé and Foucault God knows who—see literary language as not a tool but an environment. A writer
does not wield language; he is subsumed in it. Language speaks us; writing writes; etc. Hix makes little mention of Heidegger’s
Poetry, Language, Thought
or Derrida’s
Margins of Philosophy,
where all this stuff is set out most clearly, but he does quote enough Barthes—“To write is… to reach that point where only
language acts, performs,’ and not me’”—so you get the idea that author-as-owner is not just superfluous but contradictory,
and enough Foucault—“The writing of our day has freed itself from the necessity of ‘expression’; [it is] an interplay of signs,
regulated less by the content it signifies than by the very nature of the signifier”—so you can see that even the New Critics’
Holy Text disappears as the unitary lodestone of meaning and value. For Hix’s teachers, trying to attribute writing’s meaning
to a static text or a human author is like trying to knit your own body, your own
needles
. Hix has an even better sartorial image: “Previously, the text was a cloth to be unraveled by the reader; if the cloth were
unwound all the way, the reader would find the author holding the other end. But Barthes makes the text a shroud, and no one,
not even a corpse, is holding the other end.”

Hix himself is a good weaver;
Morte d’Author
is a tight piece of work. Its first half is a critical overview of some of the major positions on authorial vital signs.
Not only is there Hobbes and Frye on what an author is, there’s Foucault v. Nehamas on just how to recognize what an author
is, and Barthes v. William Gass on whether to even bother trying to find an author. There are also brief critical summaries
of Derrida, Culler, Stecker, Booth, and Burke. Hix’s discussion isn’t comprehensive, quite: Heidegger and Hegel are scarcely
mentioned, Husserl (a major influence on Derrida) is absent, as are such important contemporary figures in the debate as Stanley
Cavell (whose
Must We Mean What We Say?
is at least as important to Hix’s subject as Booth’s
Rhetoric of Fiction),
Paul de Man, Edward Said, and Gayatri Spivak. And Hix’s analysis of the players he does cover suffers from the scholarly
anality that’s so common to published dissertations, an obsession with the jots and tittles of making excruciatingly clear
what he’s saying and where he’s going. Wearying t-crossings like “I will isolate three of his claims in particular, disagreeing
with two of them and agreeing with the other,” and microprecise critiques like “Wimsatt and Beardsley’s error may be hidden
behind the passive voice; Cain’s is hidden behind the present tense” make the reader wish Hix’s editor had helped him delete
gestures that seem directed at thesis committees rather than paying customers.

Hix’s obsessive attention to detail is perhaps justified, though, by the fact that
Morte d’ Author
aims to be more than just a compendium of views on the dead-author controversy. Hix promulgates his own theory of authorship,
one that he claims clears up the debate and lays the foundation for a more sophisticated approach to literary criticism in
the wake of deconstructionism’s plumeocide. Though his solution to the problem isn’t the universal solvent he leads the reader
to expect, his project is still a neat example of that modern commissure where Continental theory and analytic practice fuse.
What Hix offers as a resolution to the debate is a combination of a Derridean metaphysics that rejects assumptions of unified
causal presence and a Wittgensteinian analytic method of treating actual habits of discourse as a touchstone for figuring
out what certain terms really mean and do.

Hix, early in his summary of modern theories about the author, divides the extant views into two opposed camps. The anti-death
guys still see the author as the “origin” / “cause” of a text, and the pro-death guys see the author as the “function” / “effect”
of a text. Hix posits that both sides of the debate “mistake… one aspect of the author for the whole.” All the debaters have
oversimplified what “author” really means. They’ve done this because they’ve made what Hix calls “the assumption of homogeneity,”
simplistically regarding “author” as referring to “a unitary entity or phenomenon.” If we examine the way “author” is really
used in critical discourse, Hix argues, we are forced to see the word’s denotation as really a complex interaction of the
activities of the “historical writer” (the guy with the pencil), that writer’s influences and circumstances, the narrative
persona adopted in a text, the extant text itself, the critical atmosphere that surrounds and informs the interpretation of
the text, the individual reader’s actual interpretations of the text, and even the beliefs and actions consequent to that
interpretation. In other words, the entire post-1968 squabble has been pointless, because the theorists involved haven’t bothered
to consider what “author” truly means and embraces before they set about interring or resuscitating the patient.

The wicked fun here is to watch how Hix uses the deconstructtionists’ own instruments against them. Derrida’s attack on the
presumption of metaphysical presence in literary expression forms Hix’s blueprint for attacking the assumption of homogeneity,
and Hix’s attempt to “undermine” and “overturn” an essentially binary opposition of author-as-cause v. author-as-effect is
a textbook poststructural move. What’s more original and more interesting is Hix’s use of a kind of Austin/Wittgenstein ordinary-language
analysis on the extension of the predicate “author.” Instead of joining his teachers in the metaphysical stratosphere they
zoom around in, Hix quite plausibly suggests that we examine how smart readers really do use the term “author” in various
kinds of critical discourse in order to figure out what the nature of the beast is before we whip out the spade or the de-fib
paddles. His project, as he outlines it, seems both sensible and fun to watch.

Hix’s actual analysis of author-ity is way less sensible and way
way
less fun. For one thing, his actual argumentation is wildly uneven. In the same breath, he’ll recommend identification as
necessary for determining viability, then say that a thorough definition of “author” is prima facie important because no satisfactory
theory of text and reading is possible until there’s a solid theory of the author, which begs the poststructuralists’ whole
question of whether a text even requires an author in order to be and to mean. Hix clearly
does
think a text requires an author, and so what pretends to be a compromise between the Bury-Him and the Save-Him camps is really
a sneaky pro-life apology.

But the incredibly baroque definition of “author” Hix comes up with by the book’s final chapter, “Post-Mortem,” seems finally
to commit the very homicide Barthes called for. The difference is that where Barthes simply argued that the idea of an author
is now for critical purposes otiose, Hix so broadens the denotation of “author” that the word ceases really to identify anything.
Nouns, after all, are supposed to pick things out. But while Hix claims that “to deny the assumption of homogeneity, though
it entails that the historical writer is not the exclusive locus of meaning, does not entail that meaning has no locus,” he
ends up preserving the idea of a meaning-locus by making that locus such a swirling soup of intricate actions and conditions
and relations that he essentially erases the author by making the denotation of his signifier vacuous. It ends up being a
kind of philosophical Westmorelandism: Hix destroys the author in order to save him.

Though his conclusions do not resolve the problem they address, Hix’s attempts to organize and defend them yield some impressive
scholarly writing. He has a rare gift for the neat assembly of different sides of questions, and his complex theory has the
virtue of being able to account for many of the ambiguities in the way we do in fact make such claims as that Luke is the
author of the third Gospel, Jefferson is the author of the Declaration of Independence, George Eliot is the author of
Middlemarch,
and Franklin W. Dixon is the author of
The Hardy Boys at Skeleton Cove.
His section on “Schizoscription” is a fascinating discussion of the “implied author” in first-person persona-lit like Browning’s
“My Last Duchess” and Swift’s “A Modest Proposal,” and it affords, believe it or not, a genuinely intelligible theory of how
irony works. And ingenious examples, like that of the brain-damaged patient in A. R. Luria’s
The Man with the Shattered World
who could write but not read what he wrote, not only help Hix argue against the notion that the writer is the ultimate “insider”
with respect to his own work, they’re also just plain cool.

It’s Hix’s flair for images and examples that may make
Morte d’ Author
of interest to general lit.-lovers. His prose is often witty and conversational, and his talent for constructing test cases
offers a welcome relief from the painstaking academic detail he tends to fall into. I’m not sure just how much familiarity
with twentieth-century literary theory the book requires. Hix does, roundaboutly, give most of the background to the dead-author
conundrum. But a reader who’s not comfortable with ghastly jargon like Foucault’s “The conception of
écriture
sustains the privileges of the author through the safeguard of the
a priori”
is going to get flummoxed, because Hix tends to toss quotations like this around without much gloss. It’s finally hard for
me to predict just whom, besides professional critics and hardcore theory-wienies, 226 dense pages on whether the author lives
is really going to interest. For those of us civilians who know in our gut that writing is an act of communication between
one human being and another, the whole question seems sort of arcane. As William (anti-death) Gass observes in
Habitations of the Word,
critics can try to erase or over-define the author into anonymity for all sorts of technical, political, and philosophical
reasons, and “this ‘anonymity’ may mean many things, but one thing which it cannot mean is that
no one did it
.”