Doing Ordinary Language
Criticism
Walter Jost
Walter Jost is professor of English at the
The Ordinary
In starting out, I should note that the “ordinary
language” in my title is not being opposed to the jargon of the
specialist. I’m sure that all of us here
are too experienced not to know how useful critical jargon often is, and how
treacherous so-called “everyday” or “ordinary language” can be. Nor is the term “ordinary” meant to be
contrasted to so-called “literary” language.
As J. L. Austin and Mary Louise Pratt and many others have shown over
the years, these two concepts, “ordinary” and “literary” language, exist on a continuum of language uses, with nothing
objectively inherent in them to clearly divide one from the other. Finally, I should preface my remarks my
saying that they are all made within what the philosopher Stephen Pepper, in
his book World Hypotheses, calls a
“contextualist” philosophy, a philosophy which is but one of several different
ways of making sense of the world. Among
contemporary philosophies, American pragmatism might be the most familiar
variant of contextualism, although some versions of analytic and continental
philosophy, like Wittgenstein’s and much of Gadamer’s, are also contextualist.
If we need a contrast to
ordinary language, then, and we do, I take ordinary language to be understood
in contrast to language that is, as Wittgenstein says, “idling,” language more
or less theoretically spinning its wheels outside any actual language games
that people engage in with each other, in actual things they do in the
world. In effect, this makes ordinary
language co-extensive with the natural language that we all learn to
speak. But to say this is not to say
that our language is just fine, in all of its specific parts and uses, just as
it is. On the contrary, Wittgenstein’s
philosophical investigations, for example, like those of Plato or many other
philosophers, are necessary to locate those aspects or uses of ordinary
language that are, in fact, metaphysically dead-ends, and therefore “idling,”
doing no reasonable work. It’s been a
while since I last looked, but as an example of what I mean, despite
Coleridge’s own embrace of “ordinary language,” and even while fully allowing
for his dialectical as distinct from my contextualist philosophy, I take it
that his account of “Reason,” as opposed to Kant’s, is also “idling,” just
because its claims exceed plausible uses of how we speak about knowledge,
truth, belief and the like. When that
happens, it is ordinary language itself that is brought to bear, so to speak,
from one sector of its active life, to correct the confused ordinary language
in another sector, where it is ailing or lost, doing no rational work.
If ordinary language can
become confused and need philosophical analysis, it also true that ordinary
language can be used for many different
purposes and effects, used in different “language games,” such as those of
poetry and criticism and philosophy, and so we need a few further distinctions
to talk about the language games of literature and of certain kinds of literary
criticism that I am most interested in.
By “literature,” a
functional or pragmatic definition can illuminate how those of us here are
likely to understand it. If literary
language cannot be distinguished from ordinary language by some set of unique,
objective characteristics, it is not likely that “literature” can either. And so far, efforts to define literature in
that way have not been very successful.
And yet literature can be defined functionally,
that is, as a specific kind or range of uses
of ordinary language. Throughout our history, and probably throughout human
history, auditors and readers have come in various ways to recognize when
certain uses of words are so dense, so rich, so implicitly productive of multiple
pleasures and meanings, that our interest in them simply outruns any specific
uses they might otherwise be reduced to in their structure or in their original
situations of appearance or publication.
“Literature,” in short, I take to be a linguistic phenomenon whose
imaginative possibilities of meaning are of more interest to us than any of the
settled actualities their authors or critics might have given them.
It follows from this that
literary criticism must be
pre-eminently interested in just such significant possibilities of a work of literature. If so, “ordinary language criticism” can be
further contrasted to empirical uses
of ordinary language, those that provide causal explanations of phenomena in or
out of literature. Such causal explanations
risk being too narrowly confined in their measurements of “texts in causal
contexts” to do justice to, or better, to “dwell in,” individual works of
literature. Argument from cause is a
legitimate preoccupation in literature so long as it does not trump arguments
from what, after Kant, are arguments from literature’s open-ended
Purposiveness.
Third, ordinary language
criticism and its contextualist views can be contrasted to textualist theories
of language and literature—most notably, perhaps, those of structuralism and
post-structuralism—which work by prising language off of its uses altogether in
order to ask questions about atemporal structures, or breakdowns of structure,
rather than temporal performances constituted by authorial and readerly acts. To be sure, this does not mean that empirical
and textualist studies are irrelevant to the study of literature. Quite the contrary, in fact, for it is my
belief that what the future of literary theory and criticism needs are interdisciplinary teams of trained scholars from different fields whose interests are
precisely those areas of intersection
between literature and other kinds of knowledge. In the meantime, textual and empirical
studies are, or should be seen as, one, defeasible dimension of the interests
of ordinary language criticism in the work as a performative act, an act that
is uniquely rich, even inexhaustible, in its possibilities for meaning and
significance.
One final word about
“possibilities” of literary phenomena. I
take “possibilities” to mean concepts, actions, situations, people, feelings,
attitudes and so on that would otherwise count, outside of the literary work,
as “examples-of-something,” but which, in literature, are put into play as heuristic possibilities for new
intellectual subsumptions and connections.
That is, given all of the tensions that arise, in a poem or novel,
between ordinary words in their non-literary uses, how those same words are put
under various pressures in the literary work, and how the work itself cannot be
conceptualized clearly as a whole, then everything comprising the work can be
understood to function as relatively indeterminate topoi, ready for a wide
variety of possible employments.
Now, having said all this,
I am the first to admit that the rubric of “ordinary language criticism” may not be worth the candle. When my colleague Ken Dauber and I coined it
a few years ago, we meant it as a kind of trial balloon, intended to draw
fire. It was our means for promoting, as
the critic’s first responsibility, concerns with “meaning as use,” and with the
rationality of criticism as a non-rule governed exercise of literary competence
that could benefit from ordinary language philosophy and its cognates. Although one reviewer actually did claim to
have found our phrase “felicitous,” I am afraid that, for most, it may seem
impossibly vague or misleading. (And by the way, for a good essay on the
problems long associated with the term, see Gilbert Ryle’s essay, “Ordinary
Language”).
Ken and I were well-meaning,
but we ought to have been rhetorically more savvy. But then it was I myself who was so foolish
as to use this rhetorically bottom-heavy phrase in my book, Rhetorical Investigations: Studies in
Ordinary Language Criticism, published in 2004. In that book a similar problem attends
another coinage of mine, that of “American low modernism,” by which I meant to
point to those artists, writers, and others in the first half of the twentieth
century who authorially display or feature in their works, thematically and
otherwise, specifically rhetorical
strategies, tactics, subject matters, ideas, and attitudes, as ways of making
sense of the modern world. Elsewhere I
have included, as “low modernists,” figures ranging from Emily Dickinson to
Robert Frost and much of Wallace Stevens, to W. H. Auden; from Susan Glaspell
and Eugene O’Neill to Edith Wharton and F. Scott Fitzgerald. Here again, the term “low modernist” is
probably misleading, for I meant to signal a neglected kind of literary modernism, one that embraced rather than reviled
“rhetoric” as a way of thinking about language and thought. For me “low” and “high” modernists must be seen as on a continuum—not in “opposition” to each other, but in
“apposition,” as mutual modifications of different ways of thinking. The problem with my term is that many
so-called high modernists also themselves sometimes feature rhetorical
strategies and tactics as modes of thinking, just as do many writers who come after the period known as modernism. In
short, my distinction is intended to be heuristic rather than ontological,
though I fear that the term taken alone, like “ordinary language criticism,”
leaves that and other distinctions easy to miss.
This mentioning of low
modernism and its rhetorical modes of thinking is my way of pointing to just one way
of undertaking ordinary language criticism.
It is a way that many have been exploring for some time now. As a matter of fact, I expect that many of us
here have long been ordinary language critics, and in any case I can think
of many people who feature “rhetoric” in their theories and critical
analyses. I might mention here, merely
as a way of arguing by authority, thinkers such as Charles Altieri, Kenneth
Burke, Wayne Booth, John Hollander, Richard Lanham, Walter Ong and Willard
Spiegelman—though there are many
others who do similar work under different names.
One such rhetorical
critic, Angus Fletcher, in his very rhetorically-titled book, Colors of the Mind, takes as his
critical agenda what he calls “thinking the poem.” For me, that,
at least, is a felicitous phrase—“thinking the poem”—signifying what I have
been trying lately to do: to inquire into how, particularly in light of the
aggressive swerve away from “rhetoric” in Romanticism and well into the
twentieth century—how some poetry
displays specifically rhetorical performances of mind and thought by both
author and reader. Like Charles Altieri,
like Willard Spiegelman, like the philosopher Stanley Cavell, I am trying to
understand “intelligibility” in literature and “rationality” in criticism.
Another way to say this is to say that I am interested in bridging the divide
between philosophy and literature, by way of rhetoric. I don’t say that that divide should be
abrogated altogether, much less that rhetoric is the only way to bridge it, but
that it’s one important, neglected way.
The Exemplary
My own way of linking
philosophy and poetry through attention to contextual uses of ordinary language
resists reducing “rhetoric” either to conceptually-calcified “topoi,” on the
one hand, or to supposedly destabilizing “tropes” that “de-center” meaning, on
the other. Topics and tropes themselves
are, I think, a good, short-hand way to circumscribe rhetoric as a mode of
thought and speech, that is, as a universal method of inquiry and
judgment. But topics and tropes must be
understood, first, as working together—not only on a continuum but as mutually
constitutive and not reducible to law-governed terms and propositions or to
runaway figuration. And second, tropes
and especially topics must be reformulated for contemporary use, not only as
structured terms and argument-forms but as flexible, inductively-generated, and
contextualized terms for interpretation.
And my own way of resisting reductionism is to borrow from and partly
reinvent the traditional arts of discourse, namely grammar, rhetoric, logic,
and dialectic, in order to attend to four major functions of rhetorical
thinking: “invention,” which I take to be the signal preoccupation of rhetoric
as such, its concern with possibilities; “judgment,” which overlaps on
Wittgenstein grammatical investigations and which makes invention possible in
the first place and helps keep it honest; “sequences and consequences” of
thoughts and words, which expands traditional notions of logic as practical
rather than formal reasoning; and the “creation and re-creation of community”
through critical dialogue, which is one way of re-conceiving dialectic. In my view these four dimensions constitute an
ongoing “ordering of the ordinary.”
Unfortunately there isn’t
time here to elaborate on all of this, and in any case, each particular way of
doing ordinary language criticism finally lives or dies by example—since rules go
only so far and, as Wittgenstein says somewhere, the practice has to speak for
itself.
Allow me, therefore, to
give a brief example of how what I am talking about can work, by looking at a
poem by W. H. Auden entitled “Law Like Love,” published in 1940 as the Second
World War had gotten underway. This poem
is not nearly as challenging as the work of Ann Lauterbach that I have just
begun to read with pleasure and from which I am learning a lot; but this Auden
piece will be more accessible here. Try to think of my reading as one possible
“performance” of this poem, a performance that is intended to “think the poem”
as a rhetorical act about literature as
cognitive without, however, being strictly conceptual.
Auden’s witty discursiveness is a late incarnation
of American low modernism—modernist, but a modernism turned towards rhetorical
modes of reasoning, arguing, persuading, and showing forth provisional truths,
or better, “exemplifications,” “possibilities,” of plausible ways of seeing the
world. In short, Auden is a late, low
modernist poet who particularly inclines toward the explicitly rhetorical (some
will recall that one of his poetry collections is even entitled The Orators [1932]). Like many of Emily Dickinson’s rhetorical
lyrics, “Law Like Love” emphasizes inquiry more than conclusion. Its sections are easily distinguished from
each other in almost all available ways, by tone, meter, syntax, diction,
punctuation, lineation, strophic layout, and subject matter. For my purposes, I have divided it into three
sections: stanzas one to six, or lines 1-34; the following verse paragraph,
lines 35-56; and the concluding quatrain of two couplets (the first in iambic
tetrameter, the second in iambic trimeter, echoing the stanzas of section one),
lines 57-60.
Now, Section One, it seems to me, double-voices
others’ differing definitions of law, offering us readers a very mixed bag of
topics as fixed commonplaces, made even more uninventive by virtue of their
sing-song diction, syntax, and meter:
Law, say the gardeners, is the sun,
Law is the one
All gardeners obey,
Tomorrow, yesterday, today.
Law is the wisdom of the old,
The impotent grandfathers feebly scold.
The grandchildren put out a treble tongue,
Law is the senses of the young.
As this litany of what “law is” unrolls, it appears
that law “is” many things: Nature, wisdom, sensory experience, Scripture,
ecclesial authority, established convention, social fashions, Fate, the
State—and even nothing at all, a figment of the imagination. These views are retailed and allowed to
stand in stark contradiction to each other, until the speaker of the poem, in
an aside to his “dear,” interrupts with a riddling of homonyms and pronouns:
If we, dear, know we know no more
Than they about the law,
If I no more than you
Know what we should and should not do
Except that all agree
Gladly or miserably
That the Law is
And that all know this,
If therefore thinking it absurd
To identify Law with some other word . . .
And so on.
What sounds like a fairly skeptical drift of
thinking here ends surprisingly, and paradoxically, in a “timid boast”—not
about what Law “is” once more, but about what law is “like,” a simile
that is comprised of quick, short sentences built chiefly around negatives:
Like
love we don’t know where or why,
Like love we can’t compel or fly,
Like love we often weep,
Like love we seldom keep.
Formally, it might be noticed, this quatrain
reaches back to the metricized commonplaces of section one. But in attitude and substance, it is
continuous with the cautious skepticism of section two, proposing a middle term
between dogmatic definition and a kind of negative theology of love, that makes
of the poem a sustained argument-by-example of considerable power, at once
almost mythical without, however, being mythicized.
For while section two politely declines to attempt to
define law one more time in favor of speaking otherwise, the speaker has
not dismissed those earlier commonplace definitions. In its lonely position at the end, it is
true, “love,” as a moving metaphor for law is nevertheless characterized
chiefly by its own via negativa: “we don’t know,” “we can’t
compel,” “we often weep,” “we seldom keep.”
Certainly such a trope “proves” nothing, and as a topic it is almost
wholly indeterminate, hence of no obvious use for the task of determination as
it stands.
But then, as noted, in its climactic position it
does not stand alone, for it bridges the gap between the
preceding section two and the very different section one. For the speaker has not refused by the end to
speak about law; he admits that “No more than they can we suppress/ The
universal wish to guess;” lines 47-48).
The problematic indeterminacy is not going away. What, then, is the speaker, is Auden, up to? I’d like to propose that this poem itself
points to a bridge between philosophy and poetry, by understanding “rhetoric”
as the middle term between them. The
poem does this in several ways.
First, if we read the final quatrain of the poem as
a new, but not dogmatically
exclusive, way to re-define law—not only as a trope but as an inventive topos based on possible contrasts
between “similarity and identity,” and on possible similarities between
“similarity and identity,” then the question ostensibly shut down earlier by
narrow-minded ideologies (“What is Law?”) gets re-opened.
Second: In metaphorically providing his own new
commonplace (“Law like love”), the speaker nudges us to see that those earlier
identifications of law—“Law is the sun,” “Law is the senses of the young,” “Law
is we,” “Law is me”)—these commonplaces, however categorically they were
phrased earlier, were themselves no
less metaphorical than the speaker’s own overt simile. From which it follows that they need not be taken as uninventive and
dogmatic, as before, but might instead be understood as equally “open-ended”
possibilities, and even as the necessary background against which “love” can be
understood positively (rather than just negatively). That is, as metaphors, they are not
exhausted by the uses others heretofore have made of them.
And that fact suggests, finally, that love
itself—and in this regard, recall that parts two and three of the poem are
addressed to the speaker’s “dear,” who proves to be none other than ourselves
(for who talks quite like that to his “dear”?)—love itself, in the final
stanza, transmutes those earlier clichés into powerful, even
philosophical, topics of invention. They
do this by reminding us that those very commonplace metaphors of others are
also the means by which they themselves actually
go about loving others, or trying to.
That is, while those earlier speakers may talk in terms of implicit
rules, in fact the activities of following Nature, correcting the
grandchildren, preaching the Word, accepting one’s Fate, and so on—cannot
be reduced to rules without remainder, precisely because they are themselves
cast as topical metaphors, or metaphorical topoi.
Again, we are not being asked to choose
between the categorical “is” and the metaphorical “is like,” but are rather
learning how to live with both
intertwined, as appropriate, in a given case.
“Law Like Love” is, to be sure, no more philosophy
than it is information of the kind we find in newspapers: that is, it is not
news, nor is it a doctrine about law.
What then is it? From an ordinary
language perspective, in the present case one focused on rhetoric, the poem
offers us a way of schooling our abilities at invention, judgment, logic, and
critical community. For the poem offers
us a way to enact a progression that goes from thinking about “law” (or we
might substitute here “philosophy” or “criticism”) as rule-governed and
dogmatic, bled of all its life-blood and purpose, to thinking about “law” as an
open-ended, exemplary activity of inquiry, judgment, argument and
community. Far from Auden’s merely
dismissing either those “others,” whose rhymes we all
recite for reassurance against the growing dark; and far from impatiently
negating their efforts at logical identity, Auden is schooling our own skills
in rhetorical transformations of commonplace routine into mastery of critical
techniques. As Willard Spiegelman has
put this point elsewhere: “Teaching, in the final analysis, does not take a
direct object; the poets teach us how.” And so I think do philosophers and literary
critics, though each in their own way.