Georg Jeschke, B.A.

Intertextuality in LOST

Masterarbeit

Zur Erlangung des Akademischen Grades Master of Arts

Anglistik und Amerikanistik

Alpen-Adria Universität Klagenfurt

Fakultät für Kulturwissenschaften

Begutachter: Univ.-Prof. Dr. Jörg Helbig Institut für Anglistik und Amerikanistik

Jänner 2012

Ehrenwörtliche Erklärung

Ich erkläre ehrenwörtlich, dass ich die vorliegende wissenschaftliche Arbeit selbstständig angefertigt und die mit ihr unmittelbar verbundenen Tätigkeiten selbst erbracht habe. Ich erkläre weiters, dass ich keine anderen als die angegebenen Hilfsmittel benutzt habe. Alle aus gedruckten, ungedruckten oder dem Internet im Wortlaut oder im wesentlichen Inhalt übernommenen Formulierungen und Konzepte sind gemäß den Regeln für wissenschaftliche Arbeiten zitiert und durch Fußnoten bzw. durch andere genaue Quellenangaben gekennzeichnet.

Die während des Arbeitsvorganges gewährte Unterstützung einschließlich signifikanter Betreuungshinweise ist vollständig angegeben.

Die wissenschaftliche Arbeit ist noch keiner anderen Prüfungsbehörde vorgelegt worden. Diese Arbeit wurde in gedruckter und elektronischer Form abgegeben. Ich bestätige, dass der Inhalt der digitalen Version vollständig mit dem der gedruckten Version übereinstimmt.

Ich bin mir bewusst, dass eine falsche Erklärung rechtliche Folgen haben wird.

(Unterschrift) (Ort, Datum)

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CONTENTS

Introduction 1

1. Intertextuality 4 1.1. Different theories of Intertextuality 4 1.2. Intertextual Communication, the Death of the Author and Hypertexts 8 1.3. Postmodernism and Intertextuality 10 1.4. Diverted Reading 12 2. Defining Allusions 15 2.1. The Scope of Allusions 15 2.2. Reading Allusions 15 2.3. Duration of Significance 17 2.4. Allusion as metaphor and metonymy 17 2.5. Explicitness 18 2.6. Integration of allusions in LOST 19 3. Functions of Allusions in LOST 22 3.1. Supporting Themes 22 3.2. Characterization 23 3.3. Anticipatory Function 25 3.4. Tradition 28 3.5. Reality Effect 29 3.6. Multiple Functions: The Brothers Karamazov 30 4. Cross-medial Allusions: Music in LOST 32 4.1. Criteria for Music in Film 32 4.1.1. Diegetic vs. Non-diegetic film music 32 4.1.2. Visual and Verbal References to Music 34 4.2. Pop-songs as Intertextual Allusions 35 4.2.1. Film music’s tasks 36

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4.2.2. Lyrics as Intertexts 36 4.2.3. Patsy Cline Leitmotif 39 4.3. Functions of Music 40 5. The Paratext 42 5.1. Features of Paratexts 42 5.2. Paratextuality as a Category of Intertextuality 43 5.3. An Analysis of Intertextual Titles in LOST 44 5.4. Bonus Material 50 6. What’s in a Name? 52 6.1. Intertextual Names 52 6.2. Jack and Christian Shephard 52 6.3. Philosophers 54 6.4. Literary Characters 57 6.5. Conclusion 58 7. Genre 60 7.1. Thematic and Modal Components of Genre 60 7.2. Architextuality 60 7.3. Modes of Representation in LOST 61 7.4. Themes and Sub-Genres 62 7.4.1. Island Narratives 63 7.4.2. Time Travel Narratives 68 8. Case Study – Intertextuality and Self-reflexivity in “Exposé” 72 8.1. Summary 72 8.2. Self-Reflexivity 76 8.3. Intertextuality 78

Conclusion 81

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Introduction

With interest in mythology and spirituality on the decline, 21 st century society offers little comfort to humans unable to cope with the difficulties of modern life. This often leads to an attempt to create alternatives: escapism, asceticism or back-to-the-roots movements. For certain individuals, art offers the possibility to immerge oneself into another reality. Like all great myths in the history of time, the US-American TV-series LOST (2004-2010) also offers a fantastic narrative that is intended to help make life more meaningful and connect people. It does not shy away from the big questions and mysteries of existence: the origin of the human race, the afterlife and the existence of God. LOST creates its own mythology and symbolism, and the setting of a desert island serves as an ideal location for an alternative lifestyle to become possible. However, the narrative of LOST does not invite viewers into its alternative reality to idly rest there. On the surface, its labyrinth structure is filled with dead ends, unanswered questions and paths that lead nowhere. The viewers have to dig deeper and look for clues in the form of literary and cultural allusions to make sense of what they see on screen – that is, if they do not want to get lost. In LOST, a plane flying from Sydney to Los Angeles crashes onto an island in the Pacific Ocean. Miraculously, most passengers survive, but their hope for rescue is soon crushed when they learn that their plane was hundreds of miles off course and that the pilot had lost all communication with the main land. Cut off from society and civilization, the first challenge for the passengers is how to survive in this forsaken place and how to form rules and regulations to govern their everyday life. What is more, they realize by and by that the island is not an ordinary place and that there are other people inhabiting it. Survival and the struggle to return, magic and supernatural phenomena, and the threat posed by other societies, are the central themes of the TV-series. These themes (and many more sub-themes, such as time travel, mythology and romance) are supported by various allusions to cultural artifacts, such as references to paintings, film, television, music and literature. References to the latter field of art feature especially prominently in LOST. In Literary LOST – Viewing Television through the Lens of Literature (2011) Sarah Clarke Stuart identifies 91 works of literature that are alluded to in the TV series (149-51). Adding the references to other cultural domains, the number of overt allusions easily exceeds 300. On the DVD edition of the second season of LOST, the viewer can find a special feature called LOST Connections. It is based on Hungarian writer Frigyes Karinthy’s model of 1 the “Six Degrees of Separation” which implies that any two human beings A and B on this planet can somehow be connected to each other by no more than five other people. Following this principle, the users of this special feature can navigate their way through an intricate web of wires connecting the characters of LOST, starting with the show’s protagonist Jack Shephard. Moreover, LOST Connections is an interactive feature, with the user being free to decide which connecting wire to activate in order to establish one character’s link to another. Thus, this special feature functions as a metaphor for intertextuality in two ways. Firstly, it shows that any character in isolation has no significance whatsoever. It is only through exploring a character’s connections to others that he or she becomes meaningful. When substituting text for character we arrive at the core argument of the theory of intertextuality. No cultural text, be it a film, a novel or any other work of art, exists independently from other texts, nor can meaning be derived from it when it is read in isolation. Secondly, the user is a sort of navigator through the labyrinth of character relations in LOST Connections. Some might activate links others may not, and some might not even find a certain link between one character and another. Hence, the special feature itself is not meaningful unless a user explores it. The same can be said for the reading process of texts. It is not, as formerly believed, the author as the original and authoritative creator who fixes the meaning of a text, but the readers who, dissimilar in interest and cultural knowledge, produce various different readings of one and the same text. As in LOST Connections , they may take different paths and establish links to other texts. This is called the hypertext - the ultimate version of an intertextual artifact. The questions that are to be answered in this thesis are how and why LOST foregrounds its dependency on pre-texts texts. Chapter 1 presents the origins and different theories of intertextuality as they have developed since the coinage of the term by Julia Kristeva. The main aim is an attempt to reconcile these different theories in order to show that each of them has its validity and usefulness in the analysis to come. Moreover, this chapter demonstrates the immense influence intertextuality has had on the Romantic notions of the author-reader relationship and the reading process. Once the reconciliation between the different theories of intertextuality is completed, it can be made clear how such a concept - often regarded as an innate characteristic of language in general - can be closely tied to one artistic and cultural period, namely postmodernism. Last but not least, chapter 1 shows how intertextuality is quintessentially reader-dependent. The following three chapters will focus on allusions as the main instance of intertextuality within a text. Chapter 2 aims to define what allusions are and if, by a broad

2 definition, this concept might have the potential of serving as an umbrella term for all other intertextual devices. It moreover answers the questions of how allusions work and how they can be incorporated into a TV-series such as LOST. Chapter 3 describes the main functions of allusions with various examples from the TV-series, without failing to stress the fact that a text or author can never fix the function of an allusion, but that it is rather the readers who determine the purpose of an allusion for themselves. Chapter 4 analyzes music in LOST and aims to establish whether these cross-medial allusions also have such diverse functions as, for example, literary references. The next two chapters present two specific types of allusions as can be found in TV- series, films and written texts. Following Gérard Genette’s terminology, chapter 5 introduces paratextuality as a category of intertextual relations. It moreover discusses the relationship between title and text, and examines how titular allusions differ from those within a text. Chapter 6 presents intertextual names or onomastic allusions as they appear in LOST and analyzes their vast intertextual potential. The last two chapters introduce the flexible concept of genre and emphasize that this essentially intertextual concept inevitably presents the foundation of any text. Generic conventions are not only conservatively exploited in LOST, but are moreover parodied, as is made clear in chapter 8, which analyzes the self-reflexive, self-ironic and highly intertextual episode “Exposé”. Analyzing all allusions in LOST would exceed the scope of this thesis. The selection is generally based on relevance (on the diegetic and intertextual level) and explicitness (repeated allusions, level of foregrounding, character thematization). Attributing different degrees of relevance to an allusion is a quintessentially personal process. As with all texts, images or symbols mean nothing unless interpreted in a personal reading. This analysis, though attempting to be as objective as possible, will inevitably also mirror the present author’s interests and cultural knowledge.

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1. Intertextuality

1.1. Different theories of Intertextuality One who really loves texts must wish from time to time to love (at least) two together. (Genette, Palimpsests )

There is little common ground among the different theories of intertextuality as they have circulated in Western academia over the last forty years. H.-P. Mai states bluntly that there are “two contradictory definitions […] at war with each other” (1991: 51). The belief that only two definitions of intertextuality are ‘out there’ is a simplified one. Barthes’ and Kristeva’s notions of intertextuality are already very different from each other (c.f. Cuddon 1999: 424), despite the fact that both theories are often amalgamated under the heading post- structuralist theory of intertextuality (Allen 2000) or progressive theory of intertextuality (Plett 1991). Similarly, conservative or structuralist critics like Genette or Riffaterre do not share the same objectives and have no common terminology. Even the most frequently quoted short definition of the concept by Julia Kristeva is not generally agreed upon. She wrote that “any text is constructed as a mosaic of quotations; any text is the absorption and transformation of another” (Kristeva 1986: 37). If all texts are similarly intertextual, how is one to use the concept as a tool for textual interpretation? We might dismiss the term altogether, or use it as a synonym or substitute for textuality in general. On the other hand, if only some texts display intertextuality, the neologism runs the risk of becoming merely a synonym for source study, influence and allusion. These have been part of literary criticism for a long time and employing intertextuality as an umbrella term for these older disciplines was certainly not the inventor’s intention (c.f. Allen 2000: 53). As we have seen, intertextuality in its broadest, Kristevan sense describes how two or more text are interrelated, how any text at any given time is merely the re-fabrication of previous texts. The coinage of the term in the late 1960s has led to a vast variety of research and a considerable number of publications in this field, which has, in turn, led to numerous different approaches to and definitions of intertextuality. Graham Allen, conscious of the problematic plurality of definitions of intertextuality states that “such a term is in danger of meaning nothing more than whatever each critic wishes it to mean” (2000: 2). Therefore it is crucial to define the term before setting out to apply it to a given text. One can trace back the origins of the concept of intertextuality to the work of Swiss linguist Ferdinand de Saussure. In his Course in General Linguistics (1913) he declares that linguistic signs are arbitrary and that they do not refer directly to the real world but merely to 4 the system of language. A word has no inherent meaning; it does not function as a sign in isolation. It can only become meaningful in relation to other words, that is to say, by means of similarity and difference.

The linguistic sign is, after Saussure, a non-unitary, non-stable, relational unit, the understanding of which leads us out into the vast network of relations, of similarity and difference, which constitutes the synchronic system of language. (Allen 2000: 11)

What is true for linguistic signs is also true for cultural texts, which cannot possibly have meaning when not related to other texts or the generic system to which they belong. As John Frow puts it: “No text is unique; we could not recognize it if it were. All texts are relevantly similar to some texts and relevantly dissimilar to others” (2006: 48). There is, then, no such thing as a meaningful text in isolation from others. Another vital contribution to what was later to be called intertextuality is the work of Russian critic Mikhail Bakhtin. Whereas Saussure looks at the language system in general (langue) , Bakhtin looks at actual usage of language ( parole ), namely at utterances. From his socialist and anti-authoritarian viewpoint, he argues that words or utterances do not merely refer to the language system, but also to social reality. They are loaded with ideological meaning which derives from the contexts they have been used in before. Utterances are thus what he terms dialogic in the way that “their meaning and logic [is] dependent upon what has previously been said and on how they will be perceived by others” (Allen 2000: 19). One sign, or one utterance, contains within itself a plurality of voices, which influence their meaning. In combination, these two approaches make up the starting point for the concept of intertextuality (c.f. ibid: 8-61). From Saussure, it becomes clear that all signs or texts can only possibly be meaningful when viewed in relation to others, in the way that they are similar to or different from other signs or texts. What Bakhtin adds to this assumption is that signs and texts further gain meaning through comparison to their previous usages. These two approaches formed the basis for the notion of intertextuality as put forward by post-structuralist thinkers such as Julia Kristeva and Roland Barthes. As mentioned before, there is a problem with this definition of intertextuality. If all signs, utterances and texts exhibit intertextuality, this neologism could very well be a substitute for textuality in general. Because intertextuality in the post-structuralist sense is a characteristic of all texts, and not only of some texts, it becomes a mere philosophical, ontological notion rather than a valuable tool for text analysis. Plett calls this group of thinkers “the progressives” and criticizes them for never having “developed a comprehensible and teachable method of textual analysis”

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(1991: 4). That is not to say that critics of the post-structuralist notion of intertextuality oppose this view in general. Manfred Pfister puts it as follows:

No composition of texts is an original act, in which the producer has to create his own language from scratch simultaneously to her text; and no author is a Kaspar Hauser who has never heard or read another literary text. (1985: 52; my translation.)

Critics of this all-inclusive notion of intertextuality accept it as a philosophical idea, but oppose it for its inapplicability. If all texts are intertextual, the concept becomes highly impractical, “too vague and catch-all” (Orr 2003: 48). As a consequence of the inadequacies of the post-structuralist notion of intertextuality, other literary theorists embraced and expanded – or more aptly constricted – the notion of intertextuality with the intent to make it more applicable to the interpretation of works. In other words, they did not treat intertextuality as a characteristic of all signs and texts, but rather narrowed its sense down to the questions of how a pre-text can be incorporated into a post-text, which relations exist between texts, and how intertextual references function. At its core, intertextuality describes all texts as being somehow related to each other. What post-structuralism has failed to define, namely what kind of relations there are among texts, the structuralist critic Gérard Genette has described meticulously in his study Palimpsests (1982). To add (unnecessary) confusion to the concept of intertextuality, he substitutes this general term for what he calls transtextuality. This term is meant to describe all relations between texts, whether overt or covert, and is thus the umbrella term for the five subcategories he devises. To make matters worse, Genette does not dismiss Kristeva’s term intertextuality altogether, but in his study the term defines the first type of transtextual relations, namely the “actual presence of one text within another” (1997: 2). In order to diminish misunderstandings, Stocker proposes the term palintextuality for Genette’s intertextuality. Moreover, he believes that the prefix ‘palin-’ simplifies the understanding of this group of relations between texts as it clearly denotes the notion of repetition (1998: 51-5). The prototypical instance of an intertextual reference in Genette’s sense is a quote, in which elements of a pre-text are borrowed by the post-text, and included in the latter in unaltered (quote) or slightly altered form (allusion). Genette calls the second relational category paratextuality , which describes all elements which stand on the “threshold” of a text (1991: 261). This category is further split into the peritext , elements within the body of a work which do not belong to the text, as for example titles, chapter headings or prefaces. The epitext refers to instances outside the work

6 which refer to it. Reviews and interviews with the author, for example, belong to this subgroup. The category termed metatextuality refers to a post-text commenting on one or more pre-texts. While intertextuality, in Genette’s sense of the term, can be paraphrased as quotation or, more generally as repetition, metatextuality is best described as thematization (c.f. Stocker 1998: 69) or commentary. Paratexts, such as reviews, are always also instances of metatextuality, as they thematize or comment on other texts. This vague distinction between these two categories will be further discussed in chapter 6. Hypertextuality , the fourth relational category, is based on imitation. Some hypertextual texts refer more explicitly to their pre-text than others. Adaptations (transposition from one sign system to another), for example, usually give away their hypertextual character in the title, while parodies or travesties often do not overtly point out their imitation of a pre-text’s style or content. Finally, architextuality relates to one text’s place within the realm of genres, on the level of form, style, content and characters. All these categories, as proposed by Genette, were only briefly presented here for two reasons. Firstly, they will reappear in the course of this thesis and will be modified and criticized in detail as we go on. Secondly, all examples of Genette’s classification (e.g. quote, commentary, parody, genre, etc.) are by no means new phenomena and merely show how relations between texts can manifest in a text. What Palimpsests has provided is a relatively clear terminology to describe different relations between texts, based on three different modes, namely repetition, thematization and imitation. In this short summary it has become clear how a post-structuralist approach (Kristeva) and a structuralist approach (Genette) differ from one another. The former refuses to devise a terminology which describes manifestations and functions of intertextuality because intertextuality is a characteristic of all sign systems in the first place. The latter approach attempts to narrow down this impractical concept to its actual manifestations in a text. Both schools of thought agree that meaning cannot be found within a single text. But while structuralists believe that meaning can be located in the network of texts and one text’s relation to others, post-structuralists believe that one text refers to another, which in turn refers to others and so on infinitely. This instability of meaning is similar to Jaques Derrida’s concept of différance which, according to Cuddon, purports that „meaning is continuously and […] endlessly deferred since each word leads us on to yet another word in the system of signification“ (1999: 225). Thus, meaning can never be pinned down. What is at stake here is whether to revive authorial intention and only to discuss intertextuality when it really makes

7 itself visible in a text, differentiating between overt, explicit, intentional and covert, hidden, unintentional references. Doing so would be contradictory to certain aspects of post- structuralist notions of intertextuality and “The Death of the Author”. It is therefore necessary to look more closely for the common ground these different theories share and aim for reconciliation. But first, let us look at the consequences intertextuality has for the participants in the communication process.

1.2. Intertextual Communication, the Death of the Author and Hypertexts

“The author’s role is purely fortuitous and agential. He has no more significant a status than the bookshop assistant or the librarian who hands the text qua object to the reader.” (John Fowles, Mantissa )

“Is the writer much more than a sophisticated parrot?” (Julian Barnes, Flaubert’s Parrot )

It has already been established that a text does not gain meaning by itself but solely by being compared to other texts. It therefore does not refer to reality but to other texts. This has immense consequences for classic notions such as authorship, originality and mimesis. If a text’s meaning does not lie within the text, but rather in a space between itself and many other relatively similar or dissimilar texts, authors lose their position as the ultimate creators of meaning. They are but a link in a vast chain of texts, which communicate with each other. Romantic notions of originality and genius are thus incompatible with intertextuality and rendered obsolete. The classical communicative situation in which a sender encodes and a recipient decodes a text is thus enlarged. Writers are always also readers of other texts, which form the initial point of the intertextual communication. They are then not the creators of the text, but rather the recyclers of parts of all texts that have been there before. The reader/author decodes the text and in turn, sets it in relation to other texts. This process is continued ad infinitum. What this means is that “now it is not sender and recipient who have something to say to each other, but rather the text and the pre-text entering into dialogue” (Stocker 1998: 99; my translation). Edso, the narrator of Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose , tells of an epiphany that strikingly reflects this notion:

Until then I had thought each book spoke of the things, human or divine, that lie outside of books. Now I realized that not infrequently books speak of books: it is as if they spoke among themselves . In the light of this reflection, the library seemed all the more disturbing to me. It was then the place of a long, centuries-old murmuring, an imperceptible dialogue

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between one parchment and another, a living thing, a receptacle of powers not to be ruled by a human mind. (1983: 286)

It was French critic Roland Barthes who took this theory to its extreme. The recipient has been somewhat sidelined in Kristeva’s definition of intertextuality (c.f. Orr 2003: 26, 32), only to reemerge with unprecedented power in the works of Roland Barthes. In 1968 he declared the ‘Death of the Author’ because “a text’s unity lies not in its origin but in its destination” (1977: 148, cited in Allen 2000: 75). In Theory of the Text he further proclaims that “there are no more critics, only writers” (1981: 44). Certainly, it is up to the readers as interpreters to recognize and trace back intertextual references and they may do so differently as a result of diverging cultural knowledge or interest. There is no one meaning of a text as intended by the author, but multiple meanings arising from multiple readings. Thus, the former authority of the author is distributed to the readers. But here, too, a problem arises. Can a reader ever fix the meaning of a text for herself? Haberer suggests that this, too, is impossible. Asking himself to which artist or context a certain used and re-used phrase belongs and whether a reader can ever attribute it to a certain person, he states that

even if the reader tries to stop the intertextual flux, even if he wants to attribute the expression to one particular poet, or lodge it in the context of one particular poem, the [expression] will escape, and the signifiers, whether consciously or unconsciously for him, go back to the dancing of their silent intertextual round. (2007: 64)

This statement suggests that meaning can never be fixed – not even in a personal and subjective reading. The text’s nature is never accessible to anyone. What is often regarded as the realization of the theories of post-structuralism, intertextuality, and Hans Robert Jauss’ and Wolfgang Iser’s reader-response theory is the hypertext (cf. Aarseth 1997: 83-4). In this medium one text is linked to many others which the reader can choose to be taken by activating them. In the ideal case, recipients become authors by adding texts and creating different links to and from them. Hypertexts refute the idea of linear narration or the possibility of linear reading. Even in printed texts, the reader is led away from the linear path by what Riffaterre calls ungrammaticalities (1980: 82), that is, intertextual links which cannot be integrated on the syntagmatic level and refer the reader to a vast network of texts and textual relations. It is therefore not surprising that some critics define the hypertext as “the logical continuation, implementation and expansion of intertextuality” (Hess-Lüttich 1997: 131; my translation). There are, however, problems with regarding hypertexts as intertextual and post-structuralist theory put into practice.

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Yoo argues that “hyperlinks rule out the reader’s associative connections to texts which are not present […] which damages the concept of intertextuality” (2007: 57; my translation). Free association and the subjective connections to pre-texts, which have liberated readers in post-structuralist theory and have lifted them to the center of meaning creation, are thus not fully provided for in a hypertext. Moreover, regarding hypertexts as non-hierarchical structures is misleading. It is true that the reader/writer can link his texts to other texts and thus become a co-author in a seemingly democratic system of reader/writers. However, as Bolter argues, “the autonomy of the electronic text is only apparent. Behind the changing words and structure lies a program, and behind the program a human being” (Bolter 1989: 139, cited in Mai 1991: 50). What hypertexts do exemplify is that reading processes are not linear, the act of reading is not a passive activity, that different readers have different (intertextual) associations with texts, and that there does not seem to be a final destination where meaning is ultimately fixed. Despite the differences to intertextual theory mentioned above, hypertexts can nevertheless be seen as metaphors for the reading process of texts of any kind. What is true for this medium is also true for printed texts or films in general (despite the fact that the reception process is different), namely that “readers [can] choose any of the existing paths, or define a new path, through the materials they are reading” (Bolter, 1992: 23). They can do so by recognizing, interpreting and reuniting intertextual references, whether overt or covert, with the present text.

1.3. Postmodernism and Intertextuality

This subtitle appears to be a paradox, for how can one artistic and cultural period be associated with an innate characteristic of language and signs? And still, they seem intrinsically tied to each other. Critics define postmodern art as “eclectic, pastiche-like” (Eagleton 2008: 201), “parodic” (Hutcheon 2000: xi) and “parasitic” (Pfister 1985: 208). Collins states that “rearticulation and appropriation [are] the most widely discussed features of postmodern production” (2000: 378) and for Zima postmodern art displays “extreme forms of intertextuality” (2001: 268). These statements already suggest that some texts can be more intertextual than others. Have we moved away from Kristeva’s notion of intertextuality altogether? Actually, the opposite is the case, and here we finally reach the formerly promised reconciliation between the numerous different approaches to intertextuality, most notably the post-structuralist and structuralist ones.

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In his essay “How Postmodern is Intertextuality?”, Pfister argues that for him “[p]ostmodernist intertextuality is the intertextuality conceived and realized within the framework of a poststructuralist theory of intertextuality” (1991: 214). What this means is that postmodern authors are aware of the theories of post-structuralism in general, and intertextuality in particular. This does not come as a surprise since many contemporary authors come from the sphere of literary theory. For example, both John Barth and David Lodge were university lecturers. The latter’s affinity with intertextuality is most notable in his 1965 novel The British Museum is Falling Down in which he playfully imitates the styles of many of his predecessors, such as D.H. Lawrence, Ernest Hemingway and James Joyce. To emphasize the plot’s dependency on pre-texts, Lodge writes that “the humble life” of the novel’s protagonist Adam Appleby constantly “[falls] into moulds prepared by literature” (2010: 28). This awareness influences the writers and their texts lay no claim to being original or unique. In John Fowles’ The French Lieutenant’s Woman (1969), one of the most prototypical postmodern novels, this awareness of theory becomes most obvious. He writes:

This story I am telling is all imagination. These characters I create never existed outside my own mind. If I have pretended until now to know my characters’ minds and innermost thoughts, it is because I am writing in (just as I have assumed some of the vocabulary and ‘voice’ of) a convention universally accepted at the time of my story: that the novelist stands next to God. He may not know all, yet he tries to pretend that he does. But I live in the age of Alain Robbe-Grillet and Roland Barthes; if this is a novel, it cannot be a novel in the modern sense of the word. (1969: 97)

Postmodern texts self-consciously draw attention to their intertextual nature. Postmodern authors are not creators, but compilers of texts. They recycle and re-use texts, styles and traditions that were there before them and deliberately portray their work as a fictional construct dependent on and related to a vast number of other texts. As Pfister notes:

The ideal postmodern text is a meta-text: a text about texts or textuality, an auto-reflective and auto-referential text, which thematizes its own textual status and the devices on which it is based. (1991: 215)

In order to draw attention to their texts’ dependency on other texts, these postmodern writers use referential techniques such as quotes, allusion, pastiche or parody, which are by no means only characteristic of the postmodern era, but which now serve a different function. And here then is the point at which post-structuralist and structuralist notions of intertextuality meet and where reconciliation becomes possible. It is in the name of post-

11 structuralist theory that these authors apply intertextual references which are the ‘delight’ of structuralist literary criticism because one can classify them, devise certain rules and functions for them, which are universally applicable. In short, structuralist intertextuality, or the study of the relations between texts, does not contradict Kristevan notions of intertextuality. In fact, quotes, allusions, parody, pastiche and many more intertextual techniques are used so extensively by postmodern authors because of their indebtedness to post-structuralist theory. The study of intentional references of one text to pre-texts can therefore not be assailed by progressive critics of intertextuality and branded as conservative literary criticism. Authorial intention, a term that makes post-structuralist critics shudder, is thus revived, but only to the extent that the authors explicitly foreground their texts’ constructedness and relation to other cultural artifacts. The author is alive and kicking, but lays no claim to originality or attempts to arrest the process of meaning creation. Apart from the awareness of post-structuralist theory, another difference between postmodern and previous texts can be found. Postmodernism’s “anything goes” attitude has led to a greater freedom concerning which texts can be alluded to. As mentioned before, references to other texts are by no means a new phenomenon but characteristic for all different art forms from the beginning. However, there used to be a restriction on which texts one could allude to. Postmodernism has overthrown this hierarchy. According to Pfister “[the] act of granting a prerogative to the more prestigious pieces of our cultural heritage is elegantly and resolutely done away with in postmodernist texts” (1991: 218).The equal treatment of high and low culture characteristic of postmodernism has also had an influence on intertextuality. Referring to a pre-text, be it a novel, a painting, a film or a pop-song, is not a sign of the post-text placing itself within an accepted tradition. References are no longer exclusively used in order to lift a text to a higher status.

1.4. Diverted Reading

As previously discussed, there is no reading of a text as intended by the author. What governs any reading is free association on the part of the reader. Readers “impose on texts what has been forgotten by the writer or written many centuries later” (Still and Worton 1990: 9). There is no such thing as an ideal reader or an empirical reader through whose eyes a critic can attempt to ascertain how a text is to be read and perceived, and thus narrow down its meaning potential. Free association, then, can not be subject to analysis because no empirical research is possible. What can be analyzed are overt references of a text to a pre-text and how

12 they (ideally) work. Stocker argues for a restriction of the analysis of intertextual reading to what the text explicitly offers (c.f. 1998: 117). This leads us to a study that exclusively deals with references that are “intended, marked and recognized” (Pfister 1991: 209). The first step of the intertextual reading process concerns our recognition of an intratextual sign that does not refer to the text itself. Riffaterre states that “there cannot be an intertext without our awareness of it” (1990: 75). In the best case, references are marked and thus easily identified as such. Unmarked references call for a certain reader competence in order to be recognized. Generally, a reference to a pretext arrests the “perceptional continuum […] by the intrusion of an alien element” (Plett 1991: 16). As they are what Stocker calls “co- textual disruptions” the first phase can be called disintegration (1998: 104). The second step redirects the reader from the text to a pre-text. It can therefore be called digression (ibid: 104). If the reader does not know the pre-text that is being referred to, the intertextual reading process fails and the reader continues with the linear, intratextual reading. The last step can be called reintegration (Plett 1991: 16). This is the most challenging procedure for readers (and the most interesting for the critic), as they have to assess the similarities (or differences) between post- and pre-text and further determine why this text has been referred to. Only when the reader reaches a personally satisfactory answer to these questions can the reference be reintegrated into the text and the linear reading resumed. A text with many such diversions for the reader can be compared to Roland Barthes’ concept of the scriptible text, which, as opposed to the lisible text which “encourages the readers to view themselves as passive decipherers” (Allen 2000: 215) as is the case in many realist novels, does not allow passive and linear reading and forces the readers to participate in the meaning making process. The term scriptible already denotes that in such texts the reader is required to become a writer, to impose his associations on the text. Intertextual references make up the ground stock of these diversions. The intertextual reading process mirrors the deciphering of metaphors. Analyzing parody Linda Hutcheon states that

[i]n some ways, parody might be said to resemble metaphor. Both require that the decoder construct a second meaning through inferences about surface statements and supplement the foreground with acknowledgement and knowledge of a background context. (2000: 33-4)

A metaphor also disposes the reader to digress from the surface structure of an utterance. Neither an intertextual reference nor a metaphor “allow for smooth coherence” and thus, intertextual reading can be called “diverted reading” (Stocker 1998: 103). 13

This diverted reading does not follow a chronological order. While texts can only refer to those already written, readers can build bridges between a text and many other texts that have come after it. In this way, it is not merely a publicity trick when Lynette Porter writes in the preface to A. Merrit’s The Moon Pool (1918) that a “trip to the Moon Pool takes you from Merrit’s adventure into a new way to get LOST” (2008: title page). Personal reading does not obey any temporal rules, and if the reader is considered the prime instance of meaning creation, all texts, whether old or new, which surround one text in the intricate network of intertextual relations need to be taken into consideration. This further widens the intertextual web as there is no hierarchical structure starting with early works and ending with recent works. Intertextuality then has a rhizomatic structure – each text is connected to texts that have preceded it and to texts that have succeeded it. Since personal reading experiences differ so greatly it is impossible, however, to make any profound and empirical statements about the actual reading process. Despite the immense role that free association and personal reading history undoubtedly play in the process of meaning creation, they can therefore not be subject to an analysis such as this one. In the following pages, the emphasis will be (and has to be) on the intertextual links that the text itself makes explicit.

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2. Defining Allusions

2.1. The Scope of Allusions

Allusion previously indicated a hidden, covert, unmarked reference to a pre-text. By this definition, it can be clearly distinguished from quotation, which is an overt and explicit borrowing of segments from another text. Recent studies of allusion, however, have downsized the differences between these two intertextual devices. Most notably, it has been Ben-Porat’s definition of allusion as “a device for the simultaneous activation of two texts” (1974: 589) that has led other critics such as Hebel to identify allusion as “the over-arching category under which quite divers [sic.] devices for establishing verifiable intertextual relations can be subsumed” (1991: 137). Allusion thus becomes the umbrella term for other intertextual devices such as quotation, pastiche, parody and travesty. It is the author-intended realization of intertextuality.

2.2. Reading Allusions

For an allusion to work, it first has to be recognized (ibid: 138) because, as we have seen in the previous chapter, intertextuality cannot arise without the reader’s evocation of a pre-text. Recognition depends, firstly, on the explicitness of the allusion and, secondly, on the competence of the reader. In written texts, markers such as quotation marks facilitate the recognition of a pre-textual feature. Often, an allusion cannot be readily integrated into the text, it betrays its nature by not allowing the reader to combine it with the text on a syntagmatic level and it is thus what Stocker calls a “cotextual disruption” (Stocker 1998: 104). When, for example, Charlie Pace compares Hurley to “Colonel Bloody Kurtz” (1.18: 23:15) the viewer cannot ascertain the meaning of this utterance as it does not refer to anything within the text itself. Recognition, or in other words, diversion from a linear reading, is the first necessary step towards the reintegration of a pre-text. Once an allusion is recognized as a segment that does not (only) refer to the intratextual world, the pre-text to which it refers has to be identified (Hebel 1991: 138). Recognition and identification cannot be equated, for the former signifies the possible diversion from the text, and the latter step is concerned with the successful arrival at the pre- text alluded to. Returning to the previous example, this would mean that a viewer unfamiliar with Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness (1902) or Francis Ford Coppola’s anti-war film 15

APOCALYPSE NOW (1979), itself a re-contextualization of Conrad’s novel, would identify Charlie Pace’s utterance as an allusion but could not arrive at the intended destination. The second step necessary for an allusion to work is thus wholly dependent on the recipient’s cultural knowledge. Modification (ibid: 138), the third step, describes a kind of re-evaluation of the pre- text(s) referred to. In our example, one or both of the pre-texts alluded to by Charlie Paces are re-read, certain themes are subtracted, such as the colonial background in Conrad’s novel or the Vietnam War in Coppola’s film, and others, those which correlate with the post-text, are given more significance. Once the re-evaluation, which naturally differs from reader to reader, is completed, one can substitute the allusive sign in the pre-text with the connotations derived from the re-reading of the pre-text. The semantic comparison and alignment of the two texts is the final step that leads to activation (ibid: 138) or, more accurately, to reintegration (Stocker 1998: 104). To show how the reintegration of the allusion works in the previous example, we need to elaborate briefly on the context in which the allusion is embedded. Hurley, an altruistic, naïve and likeable character, wanders off into the jungle to find a French woman who has lived on the island on her own since her ship wrecked there 16 years ago. He undertakes this dangerous mission without telling anyone, most of all because his reasons – asking the French woman about a certain combination of numbers which he thinks are cursed – would expose his mental instability to the other survivors. A group of three, among them Charlie Pace, set out to find Hurley once they realize he is gone. They stumble upon him the instant he steps onto a trap that will trigger off a deadly bundle of sharp branches. To his companions’ disbelief and despite their pleading, Hurley, a rather corpulent young man, sets off the trap and just manages to duck under the approaching bundle. When he crosses a plank bridge that looks highly unstable and later collapses, Charlie cannot compose his anger any longer. He screams: “One minute you’re happy-go-lucky, good-time Hurley, the next you’re bloody Colonel Kurtz!” Reintegration of this allusion would involve the transposition of themes from Conrad’s novel or A POCALYPSE NOW onto the context of the episode. Possible similarities are, for example, the wilderness as a symbol for savagery and irrationality; isolation; cutting the cord to civilization; the subconscious as a behaviorist driving force, etc. There is no singular possibility of integration and different readers will produce different outcomes. The fact that the allusion is, by definition, initiated by the author does not limit the different forms of reintegration as they can appear in different readings. The author does indeed create the

16 path that leads to another text, but there is no perfect reintegration, no one true meaning as intended by the author. Thus, the final two stages of the reading process of allusions are essentially reader and context dependent, whereas the author has a certain control over leading the reader and facilitating the recognition process, by means of explicitness in the first two stages.

2.3. Duration of Significance

The allusion to Colonel Kurtz mentioned before allows for a simple and immediate reintegration into the post-text. Allan H. Pasco calls these allusions synoptic allusions . They are defined by being “activated by one rather than several more or less widely spaced references” (2002: 188). Even though they “are capable of inciting allusions of considerable scope” (ibid.), they are more often than not restricted to a limited duration of significance. The opposite of synoptic allusions are extended allusions . Extended allusions describe a text that frequently evokes another text. Classic examples of these kinds of allusions are parody and travesty. In these cases, a pre-text is constantly re-evaluated and re-read simultaneously to the post-text. However, even shorter allusions which only appear once can show similar effects. In titular and onomastic allusions, for example, modification and reintegration are a longer progress. Reintegration is often suspended and the significance of the allusion changes constantly as the story evolves. Allusions in other positions, such as Charlie’s reference to Colonel Kurtz can, on the other hand, be reintegrated on the spot.

2.4. Allusion as metaphor and metonymy

The similarities between intertextual realizations and the concept of metaphor have been briefly commented upon in the previous chapter and shall now be further elaborated on. Pasco describes allusions as follows:

For me, and in the pages that follow, allusion is the metaphorical relationship created when an alluding text evokes and uses another, independent text. Neither the reference nor the referent, it consists in the image produced by the metaphoric combination that occurs in the reader’s mind. (2002: 12)

By this definition, allusion is not (only) the manifestation of a pre-text in another text, but rather the result of the combination of both. The space in which allusions work is then in- 17 between texts. An allusion as it manifests itself within a text can be regarded as a sort of substitution, a vehicle, which leads the reader outside the text itself. In other words, just like with metaphors, a literal reading is impossible and “additional efforts” (cf. Stocker 1998: 86) are required from the reader. The destination of the allusion, or the tenor, is a necessary component in order to dissolve the “ungrammaticality” that has arisen within a text and has led the reader to divert from it. Once the tenor is identified, one must attempt to find connections between it and the vehicle. Arriving at some common ground, or tertium comparationis, is essential to be able to ascertain the significance of the vehicle. Furthermore, allusions most often work similarly to metonymy. For example, the episode title “White Rabbit” (1.05) stands in a pars pro toto relationship to two texts, namely Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (1865) and Through the Looking-Glass, and what Alice Found There (1871). When the relationship between Ernest Hemingway and Fyodor Dostoyevsky is commented upon by John Locke (2.15: 8:02), the allusion leads the reader further than to the mere identification of these names as literary personae. The allusion has the potential of bringing to mind the whole œuvre of these authors, including themes, characters and style.

2.5. Explicitness

Even though allusion in the modern sense describes covert as well as overt references to a pre-text, explicitness is nevertheless an important category of allusions. Overt references such as quotations from a pre-text force the reader to depart from a linear reading to prevent the occurrence of a semantic void. Therefore, a quotation such as that of the mentioning of ‘Colonel Kurtz’ is compulsory. If the pre-text is unknown to a reader, the utterance cannot be interpreted at all. As opposed to such instances, covert allusions can be read without recognizing their nature, because they have a referent in the intratextual space. Intertextual names, as we shall see later, do not have to be recognized as such. It is not necessary for the reader to process the allusive nature of such a name, because it can be integrated on a syntagmatic level as it has a referent (a character) within the story. Such allusions which can be overlooked without creating a semantic void on the intratextual level can be termed voluntary allusions.

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2.6. Integration of allusions in LOST

Up until now we have been mostly concerned with intertextuality in connection with literature. This is due to the fact that most theories of the concept are concerned exclusively or primarily with written texts. Intertextuality is, however, not restricted to one sign system. It can be applied to all texts in the larger sense, such as architecture, painting and film. The latter displays extreme forms of intertextuality because it is by nature a multi-medial text, combining the visual, the auditory and the verbal code. These codes (visual representation music and speech) are constantly refer to each other, and also have the potential to displace the readers from a syntagmatic reading and take them to the realm of textual relations. Similar to written texts, allusions in film can either occur on the level of narration or the level of dialogue. If there is no voice-over narration in a film, as is the case in LOST, allusions on the extradiegetic level are exclusively reserved for the visual code (i.e. cinematography) and the auditory code (i.e. film music). Verbal allusions, in turn, can only appear on the level of the diegesis. One frequently used device of alluding to a pre-text in LOST is what will here be termed a visual quotation . In this instance, the camera captures the material representation of a text (e.g. book, record, film, etc.). As opposed to quotations in a novel, the camera in film can, because of its ability for spatial organization of the content, assign more importance to some presented pre-texts than to others. In ‘The Economist’ (4.03), for example, the audience can see Benjamin Linus’ bookshelf, which contains works such as The Holy Quran, Paul Bowles’s The Sheltering Sky (1949) and Ray Bradbury’s dystopian novel Fahrenheit 451 (1953). As there is no close-up of the bookshelf, these visual quotations run the risk of being undetected (mostly when watching the series on television, which makes it impossible to pause or rewind) or being identified as mere props and therefore not given any significance. The situation is different when a book is shown in the center of the frame and is thus easily identifiable. The potential significance of a visual quotation increases when a character is captured reading (or watching) a certain text. In such instances, the content of the pre-text seems more closely tied to the intratextual action of LOST and (often falsely so) to the character reading it. For example, when Jacob is seen reading Flannery O’Conner’s collection of short stories Everything that Rises Must Converge (5.17), the book is clearly visible and identifiable, it is read by a character of the TV-series and this occurs in a situation which is expected to mirror the content of the novel. In other words, the visual quotation is more closely incorporated into the narrative than those presented in the previous example.

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What further strengthens the significance of a visual allusion is when it is not merely shown (or shown being consummated), but also thematized in the speech of the characters. Verbal commentary on a pre-text (which correlates to Gérard Genette’s metatextuality) makes the recognition of a visual quotation compulsory in order for a viewer to be able to interpret the characters’ utterances concerning the pre-text alluded to. An interesting example occurs in ‘Eggtown’ (4.04) when John Locke hands over Philip K. Dick’s VALIS (1981) to Benjamin Linus, who is (again) held prisoner by the survivors – now in his own house. At first, the book is merely shown, which in turn means that identification and recognition is not guaranteed, nor necessary (on a diegetic level). This changes when the two characters comment on the book:

Linus: From my own bookshelf. Locke: Help you pass the time. Linus: I’ve already read it. Locke: You might catch something you missed the second time around. (4.04: 1:08)

The last sentence is significant in two ways. Firstly, it does refer to Philip K. Dick’s novel, which is indeed a confusing and incoherent narrative, told by a schizophrenic and unreliable narrator. The novel features an abundance of intertextual allusions and it is certainly advisable to read it again to reintegrate the allusions and identify the philosophical subtext. John Locke’s utterance is thus a metatextual comment. On a second level, the comment can also be interpreted as autotextual. In this way, the writers of LOST engage in a subtle dialogue with the viewers and recommend watching the series again. Similarly to VALIS, the narrative of LOST is inconclusive and its labyrinth-structure might only be resolved when one is able to pay close attention to hidden clues and intertextual references (in other words, when watching LOST on DVD). It becomes clear from this example, that while visual quotations in isolation from verbal commentary do not necessarily need to be identified, the recognition of visual quotations in connection with metatextual commentary is compulsory. The most common allusions in LOST occur on the level of character speech. These consist of verbal thematizations and quotations. The latter range from citing book titles ( Lord of the Flies, Heart of Darkness ) or characters of pre-texts (Bluebeard, Colonel Kurtz, Yoda) to quoting whole segments of a pre-text (e.g. Of Mice and Men ; 3.04: 41:18). Less overt are other visual allusions, such as symbols (mostly from Christian, Buddhist and ancient Greek mythology), settings (e.g. the island), characters (stereotypes) or turn of events. For example, Richard Alpert being chained and not reaching the water in front of him (6.09: 20:20) reflects

20 the myth of Tantalus and also evokes a scene from Stephen King’s The Stand in which Lloyd Henreid is about to starve in a prison cell. Visual and verbal allusions are, however, not the only possible channels through which pre-texts can be evoked. Through the incorporation of music, filmic representation consists of yet another code, namely the auditory one. Music can also be seen as an independent text which the post-text refers to and is in semantic exchange with. The analysis of the interetxtual potential of music in LOST will be the subject of chapter four. In the following chapter, the function of the diverse allusions of LOST shall be analyzed.

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3. Functions of Allusions in LOST

In this chapter, the functions of some of the allusions in LOST will be analyzed. The sub-chapter headings more or less correspond to Udo J. Hebel’s five functions of allusions in literary texts (1991: 156-8). Before grouping LOST’s allusions within these categories it is important to add two notions. Firstly, it is hardly ever possible to assign only one function to an allusion. An evoked pre-text has multiple functions and can change in significance while the narrative progresses. To stress this point, a multifunctional allusion, namely that to Dostoyevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov will be presented at the end of this chapter. Secondly, assigning a function to an allusion can also differ from reader to reader. It is dependent on which parts of an evoked pre-text are re-evaluated, activated and re-integrated into the post- text.

3.1. Supporting Themes

If a pre-text alluded to is known to the recipient, reintegration can take place effortlessly in case both texts show similarities on the story-level. Even though it may not always be intended that way, an allusion’s function of supporting a theme of a post-text can be regarded as its primary function, because readers first aim to reconcile the contents of post- and pre-text. The first major theme of the TV-series is survival outside modern society. The survivors of the plane crash find themselves in unknown and frightening territory. Conflicts begin to arise as food and water run short, and the characters more and more abandon their civilized ways. The theme of being cut off from the safety of modern, familiar civilization and the survivors’ attempt to deal with this difficult and dangerous situation is supported by allusions to Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness (1.04), Richard Adams’ Watership Down (1.05), the US-American television series Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman (1.09), William Golding’s Lord of the Flies (1.17), and Madeleine L’Engle’s A Wrinkle in Time (1.18). These narratives also support the theme of encountering the ‘Other’, whether represented by alien life forms, malevolent, unfamiliar societies, or by the monster within ourselves. The theme of being trapped in a mysterious and otherworldly place and the attempts to return to familiar and safe surroundings is supported by frequent allusions to pre-texts which deal with the same subject matter. Among these can be placed Homer’s epic poem The Odyssey (2.23), Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s The Little Prince (5.04) and the frequent 22 allusions to Lewis Carroll’s Alice books (e.g. 1.06) and L. Frank Baum’s The Wonderful Wizard of Oz (e.g. 3.20) . The recurring juxtaposition of reason versus faith and free will versus fate is echoed in a number of allusions. Kurt Vonnegut’s science-fiction novel Slaughterhouse-Five (alluded to in 4.04, 4.08), for example, purports that the past, the present and the future happen simultaneously. Changing the future (or present), as the characters in LOST attempt to do in season five, is therefore impossible. Life is predestined and free will an illusion. On the other hand, the characters of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz believe in a higher power that will save them. In this narrative, the higher power turns out to be an illusion and the characters realize that the power to change their destiny lies within themselves. The theme of reason versus faith is moreover supported by (implied) allusions to works such as James Hilton’s Lost Horizon or A. Merrit’s The Moon Pool , both of which feature one character who is a man of science, and a character who is a man of faith, which mirrors the different attitudes of Jack Shephard and John Locke in LOST. Parent and children relationships are a recurring theme in LOST which is supported by allusions to texts such as Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov (2.15, 2.16), or Flannery O’Connor’s collection of short stories Everything that Rises must Converge (5.17). The clash of different societies, as takes place frequently in LOST, is strengthened by (implied) allusions to Aldous Huxley’s The Island, Charles Dickens’ A Tale of two Cities (3.01) and H. G. Wells’ The Shape of Things to Come (4.09). The theme of ancient mythology, and more specifically origin myths, and the idea of purgatory and the afterlife, are sustained by allusions to Greek and Egyptian mythology, the Old and the New Testament and narratives such as Flann O’Brian’s The Third Policeman (2.04) or Walker Percy’s Lancelot (2.15). As themes usually develop over a longer period of time throughout a narrative, the pre-texts that support a certain theme also remain activated for a longer period of time. The viewer has to re-evaluate and re-interpret the pre-text and its relation to the post-text as the story progresses. Many of LOST’s allusions only gain significance - and thus exhibit their function as supporting themes - in retrospect.

3.2. Characterization

Another function of allusions is that of supporting, or further specifying, character descriptions. If a text explicitly puts one of its characters in relation to a character from a pre- text, readers are induced to draw parallels between them. There are different levels of

23 explicitness when it comes to establishing links between characters from different texts. Intertextual names, if recognized as such, are possibly the most intense connections between post- and pre-text characters. Due to their duration of significance, character traits will be frequently compared throughout the reading process. As will be seen in chapter six, onomastic allusions such as that of Jack Sheph(e)rd or Penelope Widmore, can give the reader an informational edge, in the way that one may be able to foresee these characters’ fates. Also very explicit, but different in duration of significance, are allusions to and comparisons of characters with pre-text characters on the diegetic level of communication. In LOST, it is most notably Sawyer, who has an affinity for nicknaming the other characters. In most cases, his sources are from literature, film and television. His reaction when he finds out that Sayid, a trained soldier, is not welcome to join a small band of survivors to attack the Others, is a case in point: “Even though Pippi Longstocking [Kate] and the damned Grape Ape [Hurley] are ideal candidates for the Dirty Dozen , we might want to bring in the Red Beret” (2.22: 13:01). Most of his nicknames refer to pre-text characters that share physical or ethnic characteristics with the characters from LOST. Hurley, who is rather corpulent, is given the nickname “Jabba” (2.12: 3:17), Charlie Pace becomes a “Munchkin” (3.10: 17:36) because he is short, Korean characters Sun and Jin are referred to as “Crouching Tiger and Hidden Dragon” (3.11: 5:43)), and Sawyer nicknames black African character Mr. Eko “Shaft” (2.03: 24:34). His repertoire is, however, much wider (which in itself is a characterization of his character) and he not only uses his literary knowledge for degrading other characters on the basis of their physical appearance. Some of his other allusions have more intertextual significance. For example, he refers to Tom – one of the Others who has kidnapped Walt – as Bluebeard (2.02) which evokes the French folk tale about a man who murders his wives. This reference increases the dangerous and violent aura of Tom, and the Others in general. In the cases presented above, the text explicitly prompts the reader to evoke a character from a pre-text and compare it to one from the post-text. There are yet other ways of characterization by allusion which are not as straightforward. LOST often depicts characters reading a certain novel. At first glance, the viewer expects either the content to mirror this character’s biography or present situation, or one of the novel’s characters to resemble the character of the reader. This is hardly ever the case. The novels featuring in LOST do indeed all serve a function, but they rarely allow inferences on the level of characterization between the reader of the novel and a certain character in this novel.

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To conclude, an interesting and playful device of characterization by allusion shall be presented here. In the second season of LOST, John Locke sits in an underground station (2.08: 16:03). He is seen filling in a crossword puzzle and appears to be struggling with the solution to one question that reads: “Enkidu’s friend”. After some consideration, John Locke finally finds the answer and fills in the word Gilgamesh . This ancient Mesopotamian myth revolves around King Gilgamesh and his adventures with his companion Enkidu, a former animal-like savage who was tamed by his master. Gilgamesh, similar to John Locke, is unhappy with civilization and sets out on adventures with Enkidu, which include “typical heroic and shamanic feats” (Armsrong 2005: 75). John Locke is also miserable in his life. Confined to a wheelchair, with no family and a dull job in an office, he leads an isolated and meaningless life. To improve his situation, he decides to go to Australia and take part in a walkabout – a spiritual quest. Due to his physical condition he is turned down. But when his return flight crashes on the island, John Locke does get his chance of spiritual and physical renewal. He encounters the divine on the island, he is reborn. Both Gilgamesh and John Locke’s adventures, however, end disastrously. Gilgamesh loses his friend Enkidu because he has turns down a marriage proposal from the mother Goddess Ishtar, who in turn revenges herself upon the King. John Locke loses his companion Boone because he acts on his supernatural visions. Both turn to the Gods. Gilgamesh attempts to restore Enkidu to life with the help of the gods. In frustration, John Locke demands to know why he has been misled. In both cases, the gods remain silent. “Instead of getting privileged information from the gods, [they] receive a painful lesson on the limitations of humanity” (ibid: 79). Apart from these two characters’ similar fates, they also exhibit related traits. Both do not see “civilization as a divine enterprise” (ibid: 77). However, while Gilgamesh finally retreats to civilization after having abandoned his faith – which signifies the gods’ retreat from the human world (ibid: 79) - John Locke begins to bloom outside civilization. The other characters try to form a society, but John Locke remains outside of it. He is a hunter, a pre- civilization man in close contact with his divine surroundings. In this context, John Locke could also be compared to Enkidu, before his transformation into a civilized member of Mesopotamian society.

3.3. Anticipatory Function

An allusion with an anticipatory or foreshadowing function cannot be integrated at once, but will rather tap its intertextual potential in retrospect. Thus, it can introduce a theme

25 that the alluding narrative has not yet established. Reintegration is suspended, but through the activation of a pre-text, an informed reader can make very profound guesses about how certain events may turn out. Sometimes, however, these allusions that cannot be integrated on the spot and lead to certain expectations can be deceptive. In such cases, the formerly expected similarities between post- and pre-text prove to be non-existent. In this chapter we will consider allusions that will indeed introduce a theme or turn of events, and others which are red herrings – misleading allusions that set the reader on the wrong track. As will be seen later, intertextual names can have an anticipatory function. Through the allusion to Jesus Christ, the viewers expect Jack Shephard to sacrifice himself and be resurrected. Similarly, we expect Penelope Widmore to be faithful and finally reunited with her partner, just as her namesake in Homer’s Odyssey is . Intertextual titles, by nature, have an anticipatory function. As their reception takes place before the narrative segment they govern, viewers naturally expect them to introduce a theme. The titular allusion to Charles Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities (3.01), for example, introduces (among others) the theme of the love triangle. In the course of the season, the situation of the three characters who are held captive by the Others will strongly reflect the situation of Charles Darnay, Sydney Carton and Lucie Manette in Dickens’ 1895 novel. The theme of time travel which is introduced in season four, can be anticipated as LOST alludes to various texts using the same device. Among these are Madeleine L’Engle’s 1962 novel A Wrinkle in Time (1.18), Peter Wright’s 2005 novel Hindsight (2.04), and Stephen Hawking’s non-fictional A Brief History of Time: From the Big Bang to Black Holes (3.07). Moreover, generic conventions and traditions, whether overtly commented upon and explicitly alluded to, or covertly evoked, induce the readers to anticipate certain actions or themes. The misleading allusions presented here revolve around two suggested possibilities of interpreting the TV-series, which are revoked in the course of the narrative. The first is that everything is only a dream or a figment of the imagination of an insane character (possibly Hurley, see 2.18). The other suggests that the characters are dead and they are now being tested or judged to see if they are worthy to move on, similar to the Christian notion of purgatory. The first interpretation is suggested through the frequent allusions to Lewis Carroll’s novels Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (1865) and Through the Looking-Glass, and what Alice Found There (1871). Among other functions of these allusions, they suggest that what takes place on the island is merely a dream. This notion is enforced in the episode “Dave” (2.18), in which Hurley is visited by an imaginary friend Dave – a result of his psychoses –

26 who tells him that at that very moment the ‘real’ Hurley is in a mental coma, in his “Own Private Idaho” (ibid: 32:21), imagining the island and dreaming up his companions. Dave tries to convince Hurley that his only chance of awakening is to commit suicide on the island, which merely exists in his imagination. Shortly before Hurley tries to jump off a cliff, he is stopped by Libby – a woman Hurley has fallen in love with. She convinces him that what they have experienced is real. The episode ends with a flashback in which the viewers see Hurley in a mental institution. The camera tilts to the right and we see Libby sitting there with a disturbed look on her face. Thus, the audience is kept guessing what would have happened had Hurley’s suicide attempt not failed. The second interpretation – that the characters are in purgatory – is suggested by allusions to Flann O’Brian’s 1967 novel The Third Policeman (2.04) and Walker Percy’s 1977 novel Lancelot (2.15). Both novels revolve around characters who are dead and have entered another plane of reality. The narrator of The Third Policeman , unaware of his own death, finds himself in a mysterious and fantastical world. As the end of the novel suggests his memory fails him and he will live through the same stages again and again. This (absurd) notion is comparable to the Greek notion of hell as exemplified by the punishment of Sisyphus. Though it is never made explicit, the protagonist in Lancelot is similarly dead and soon to be judged. The interpretation that he is in purgatory is substantiated by the motto of the novel. It is taken from Dante’s Divine Comedy and reads: “He sank so low that all the means/ for his salvation were gone,/ except showing him the lost people. For this I visited the region of the dead…” This shows the importance of the paratext in the reading process which will be the subject of the following chapter, but more importantly, it proves that both narratives deal with being dead, being judged and being punished. These misleading allusions are furthermore supported by the statue of Anubis - the judge of the dead in Egyptian mythology - that can be found on the island in LOST. Both interpretations that are supported by various allusions in the TV-series, can ultimately be proven wrong. Because some of the survivors do return to the ‘real’ world, it is impossible that their past experience on the island has only been a dream. Moreover, as the characters are resurrected after their deaths and find themselves in a world reminiscent of purgatory, it is impossible that their time on the island – despite the fact that the island deities Jacob and the Man in Black did indeed judge them – represented purgatory.

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3.4. Tradition

Many, if not all, allusions point to a narrative tradition or generic conventions. This function is supplementary. However, it simplifies the process of the viewers placing the post- text within a tradition or genre, which is, in turn, crucial for interpretation. It is important to differentiate between allusions that signify similarities on the level of form (or structure) and those which highlight similarities on the thematic level. LOST alludes to many other TV-series. This places it firmly within the tradition of filmic sequential representations. Despite the fact that references to TV-series such as Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman (1993-1998) (1.09), The A-Team (1983-1987) (3.14) or Little House on the Prairie (1974-1983) (3.10) all have a supporting function, they also stress the fact that LOST is a successor of these narratives. Moreover, allusions to series of films, such as STAR WARS or JURASSIC PARK , reflect the interdependence of episodes. In the same way, allusions to serialized comics, such as Superman (4.17) or The Flash (4.17) serve the same purpose. The mode of publication reflects the compositional structure of LOST and serialized comics can thus be regarded as the printed counterpart to a TV-series. Literary allusions can also mirror the compositional structure of a TV-series. Charles Dickens’ novels Our Mutual Friend and A Tale of Two Cities - both referred to in LOST - were published in weekly or monthly installments. Thus, they can be seen as precursors for the format of TV-series. In his novels, the action reaches its moment of greatest tension at the end of each published segment. Readers were kept in suspense during publication, similarly to the viewers of LOST in-between episodes and specifically during seasons. Charles Dickens’ novels are, moreover, multi-character narratives. Similarly to Stephen King’s The Stand (1978), implicitly referred to in season six, the stories are told from many different points of view. The same device is used in LOST as each episode focuses on one character. Allusions to Vladimir Nabokov’s 1932 novel Laughter in the Dark (3.08) and Joseph Heller’s 1961 anti-war story Catch-22 (3.17) lay stress on LOST’s nonlinear storytelling. On the thematic level, allusions to pre-texts which are prototypical for a genre serve the purpose of placing the narrative of LOST among certain generic traditions. There are a limited number of stories to tell and characters to create. By alluding to prototypical generic pre-texts LOST self-consciously highlights its dependency on already established conventions. The theme of time travel, for example, is accentuated by referring to a number of science- fiction texts, such as Kurt Vonnegut’s 1969 novel Slaughterhouse-Five (4.05, 4.08), P.K.Dick’s 1981 novel VALIS (4.04) or Robert Zemeckis’ 1985 film Back to the Future (5.11).

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The theme of free will versus predetermination is supported by allusions to Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s 1864 novel Notes from Underground (6.12), frequent references to L. Frank Baum’s The Wonderful Wizard of Oz or the implied allusion to James Hilton’s 1933 novel Lost Horizon. The island, too, is a prototypical setting that can lead to already conventionalized themes and actions. LOST stresses its dependence on island narratives by numerous allusions, among which are Homer’s Odyssey , William Shakespeare’s The Tempest and William Golding’s Lord of the Flies.

3.5. Reality Effect

We have already seen that postmodern texts include a multitude of allusions to stress their dependency on the already written. These hyperconscious references to pre-texts are included in the name of the theory of intertextuality. Writers thus abandon the romantic notion of genius and originality. Through metatextual self-commentary and an ironic playfulness with conventions these texts subvert the illusion of realism. Paradoxically, however, the inclusion of allusions to pre-texts can also strengthen the reality effect. Udo J. Hebel describes this instance as follows:

As basically nonfictional elements of the déjà […], extrafictionally verified allusions anchor the fictional world in the extrafictional world. Of course, the ‘reality effect’ gains momentum with the contemporaneity, topicality, or controversiality of the points of reference. (1991: 157)

Hebel includes allusions to historical instances here. But textual allusions can also create a reality effect. When the camera in LOST depicts a character reading a book, the object presented belongs to extra-textual reality. The viewers familiar with the edition of the novel - who might even have the same copy in their bookshelves - are thus tempted to lapse into the illusion of realism. A contrary effect is created by “pseudointertextual allusions” (ibid: 141). These allusions, typical for postmodern texts (e.g. those of Kurt Vonnegut and P.K. Dick alluded to in LOST), “seem to evoke intertextual points of reference, but only direct the reader back onto themselves and back into the deluding text” (ibid: 141). While allusions, and most of all visual representations of texts in film, can result in an illusion of realism, such pseudointertextual allusions completely subvert this effect. The most striking example in LOST is the reference to a band called ‘Geronimo Jackson’. Charlie Pace and Hurley rummage through the record collection of an underground station and find a record by 29

‘Geronimo Jackson’ (2.11: 26:28). In another episode, a minor character is wearing a ‘Geronimo Jackson’ band-shirt. As the band does not exist in the extratextual world, the viewers, once recognizing this segment’s intertextual potential but not finding an extratextual point of reference, are transported back to the text itself. Through the inclusion of pseudointertextual allusions, postmodern authors self-consciously parody this reality effect and self-consciously emphasize that the text is merely a fictional construct. The intertextual world does not resemble extratextual reality. Its purpose is not reflective; its points of reference are not outside the web of text relations.

3.6. Multiple Functions: The Brothers Karamazov

Because of the reappearance of the same pre-texts in different categories of functions of allusions, it has become obvious that the evocation of a pre-text usually serves more than one purpose. In this chapter, we shall analyze the functions of the allusion to Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s 1912 novel The Brothers Karamazov. It has to be noted that the fulfillment of all five purposes does not necessarily represent an exception. Many more works alluded to in LOST would be suited for an analysis in relation to all five functions. Two functions of this allusion shall only be briefly mentioned here. Firstly, as the audience can see the book – an object belonging to the extratextual world – the illusion of realism is increased. Secondly, on a structural level, The Brothers Karamazov resembles LOST as it was published as a serial in a journal over two years (1879-1880). Therefore this novel, and many more books published in this fashion can be regarded as predecessors of the form of a TV-series. Benjamin Linus, the leader of the Others, is taken prisoner by the survivors. He passes himself off as Henry Gale, a former economist who crashed on the island in a hot air balloon. The survivors hold him captive in an underground station. Some of them are sure that he is one of the Others – the people who have terrorized them since the crash – while others, most notably Jack, do not want to jump to any conclusions. While Benjamin Linus is held captive, John Locke hands him Dostoyevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov (2.15: 7:33). Ben is reluctant to read it and asks “You don’t have any Stephen King?” (ibid: 7:41). John Locke tries to make it more palatable for him by telling him a little anecdote: “Did you know that Hemingway was jealous of Dostoyevsky?” (ibid: 8:02) He further states that Hemingway felt he could never exceed the Russian novelist. Ben replies by asking John who he thinks he is - the genius or the one who tries to be, thus referencing the relationship between John and Jack. This makes John

30 furious and he slams the prison door shut. Later Ben reads a section of the book to Jack (2.16: 38:11). The book is shown, thematized and quoted from by a character. One could assume that the writers of LOST took great pains to emphasize the importance of the novel. And indeed, as we shall see, the allusions to The Brothers Karamazov fulfill multiple functions. First of all, the allusions support various themes in LOST, most prominently faith and father-child relationships. The latter theme is recurrent in LOST as is made explicit in the flashbacks. All characters of the narrative have suffered and still do, because of their parents’ flaws. Fyodor Karamazov is the father of four sons, one illegitimate. He abandons all of them apart from one who is allowed to live in his house as his servant. Fyodor is soon found dead and the narrative revolves around his sons and the question of which one of them has killed him. Ivan, the second oldest, speaks of how he and many other children have suffered because of their parents:

[Grown-ups], besides being disgusting and unworthy of love, they have a compensation – they’ve eaten the apple and know good and evil, and they have become ‘like gods’. They go on eating it still. But the children haven’t eaten anything, and are so far innocent. […] If they, too, suffer horribly on earth, they must suffer for their fathers’ sins, they must be punished for their fathers who have eaten the apple. […] The innocent must not suffer for another’s sins, and especially such innocents! (2005: 215)

Passing on guilt, sin and suffering from generation to generation is also a theme of LOST, and Ivan’s monologue introduces the rebellion of the next generation. Similar to the brothers Karamazov, the characters in LOST rebel against their fathers, which in some cases leads to parricide, the central theme of Dostoyevsky’s novel. Parricide, as a theme in both texts, does not only have a supporting function (i.e. Kate Austin killed her father) but also an anticipatory function. As it is Benjamin Linus who reads the book, one tries to apply certain similarities to him. And indeed, the viewers will later learn that he, too, committed parricide (3.20: 36:15). The allusion can also be interpreted as being misleading. One might compare the prisoner Benjamin to Dimitri, the oldest brother in Dostoyevsky’s novel. He is the prime suspect and is also found guilty in a trial. Even though it is slightly ambiguous, it is possible that Dimitri was wrongly accused, that he is not the murderer of his father. In this light, viewers might falsely believe that Benjamin is innocent as well.

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4. Cross-medial Allusions: Music in LOST

A broader definition of ‘text’ which includes artifacts from all sign systems (linguistic, visual, auditory) allows for an analysis of cross-medial intertextuality. This chapter aims to explore and analyze the incorporation of music, and especially pop-songs, into LOST. The questions that are to be answered are, firstly, in which different ways songs can be integrated into a TV-series and, secondly, whether or not they, too, function as intertexts. That is to say, whether including a song or alluding to music in general is a mere matter of aesthetics or if music and song lyrics also reflect and add to what takes place on the level of story.

4.1. Criteria for Music in Film

4.1.1. Diegetic vs. Non-diegetic film music

Music on the level of story is referred to as diegetic music (Rodman 2006: 119) or source music (Weidinger 2006: 113). In this case, the audience shares the auditory experience with the characters on screen. Non-diegetic music or underscoring (Rodman 2006: 119) takes place on the level of narration. It has no origin in the presented world and is solely accessible to the audience, not to the fictitious characters portrayed. Both orchestral music and pop- songs can operate on both the diegetic, and the non-diegetic level. In LOST, however, underscoring is reserved exclusively for instrumental music, and vocal music, or more specifically pop-music only appears on the story-level. The question of whether a song belongs to the diegetic or the non-diegetic level cannot always be easily answered. There seem to be borderline cases in which the distinction between source music and underscoring is blurred. As with many other conventions, the writers and producers of LOST exploit and playfully employ the different possibilities of incorporating music into film. To illustrate this, two instances of the inclusion of pop-songs in LOST shall be analyzed in the following paragraphs. At the end of “In Translation” (1.17: 38:44), non-diegetic underscoring fades into Damien Rice’s “Delicate” (2003). The audience is led to believe that the song emerges from the same source as the previous orchestral music, namely the level of narration. A few seconds later, however, Hurley can be seen adjusting his headphones and the audience is given the clue that the song emerges from his Discman (ibid: 38:53). In the following minute the camera captures other characters with the song still playing in the background. In the last 32 shot of the episode the camera returns to Hurley who is sitting on the beach with his headphones on. All of a sudden the song stops, for Hurley and the audience. He checks the Discman, notices that it is not working anymore, comments on the situation with a defeated “Son of a bitch” (ibid: 40:13) and grumpily takes his headphones off. It becomes very obvious that the audience has shared Hurley’s auditory experience. From the moment Hurley could not hear the song anymore, neither could the audience. Clearly, this instance is meant to be source music, with the Discman presented as the diegetic source. But, by definition, source music needs to be heard by the audience and the characters alike and in this scene, it is only Hurley who can hear the music and the other characters who are captured by the camera cannot. Hurley thus functions as a sort of focalizer. The focalization in this instance, as opposed to the term’s ‘classical’ definition (c.f. Genette 1988: 72-9), is limited to Hurley’s auditory perception. There are no point of view shots in this scene that would increase the audience’s feeling of seeing, or more aptly perceiving, the world through Hurley’s eyes (and ears). The second instance to be analyzed is taken from “Man of Science, Man of Faith”. Desmond, a man who has been living inside a hatch on the island for three years, puts on a record after getting out of bed and before going through his morning routine (2.01: 01:12). The song that emanates from the record player is Mama Cass Elliot’s “Make your own kind of music” (1969). The song keeps playing for only one minute and during this time Desmond is seen making breakfast, washing the dishes and working out. Therefore, story time and song time do not correlate. Surprisingly, after Desmond has had a shower he realizes that the record is skipping and finally comes to a stop. Story time and song time consolidate again (ibid: 02:28). When defining source music as “music that the people on the screen can hear [as well]” (Skelton 2011) neither of the cases described above would fit this picture. “Delicate” can thus only be described as source music when Hurley, the only character who can possibly hear the same tune as the audience, is seen on screen. By the same narrow definition, “Make your own kind of music” can only be defined as source music in two shots, namely when Desmond puts the record on and when he realizes that it has stopped playing. In between those two shots his auditory experience differs from the audience’s auditory experience. Nevertheless, in both instances, the source or the origin of the music can be located on the level of story, thus clearly differing from underscoring. Therefore, it seems useful to design subcategories for the umbrella term source music. According to the first example, one can distinguish between one or multiple focalizers . If there is only one focalizer, his or her

33 auditory experience is not shared by other characters, but is still audible to the audience. The source music reflects one character’s auditory perception, but not necessarily his or her visual perception as well. Thus, as shown in the first example, the camera can capture other characters, concealing the actual source of the music, but without sacrificing the illusion of realism (which is certainly sacrificed in the case of underscoring). Multiple focalizers means that anybody – one or more characters – present within a certain space (e.g. car, pub, room) can (or could) hear the music. The second distinction, following the second example, concerns the question of whether the time that passes during the song correlates with the time that passes in the presented world. If the time spans are synchronous , as would be possible in the first example (even though there is no textual clue that this is indeed the case), the illusion of realism is higher and the song can be firmly placed within the realm of source music. If the two time spans do not correlate, if they are asynchronous , the auditory experience of the audience is different from that of the character(s). The source is clearly discernible, as in the second example. These cases are thus hybrid forms of source music and underscoring. They should, however, be regarded as belonging to the category of diegetic music, as they sustain the illusion of realism to a far greater extent than underscoring. In general it can be said that LOST never features a song that does not have an actual source on the level of story, despite the fact that certain inclusions of source music diverge from the typical examples (e.g. asynchronous, one focalizer). Underscoring is reserved for orchestral music. Giving each song a definable source increases the audience’s sense of realism. This is certainly surprising since the TV-show subverts this illusion of realism constantly by self-reflexive and auto-referential comments about its own status as a fictional construct.

4.1.2. Visual and Verbal References to Music

Film, being multimedial, as opposed to other art forms such as literature, has many more possibilities to refer or allude to other works of art. Firstly, there are visual references, as when a book or a painting is shown on screen. Secondly, there are verbal references, for example when a work of art is the subject of a conversation between characters. Compared to various showings of books and paintings, visual references to the realm of music are scarce in LOST. The most obvious is Charlie Pace’s tattoo which reads “Living is easy with eyes closed” (1.04), a reference to The Beatles’ psychedelic song “Strawberry

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Fields Forever” (1967). This allusion serves the purpose of supporting the otherworldly atmosphere of the TV-series. Another visual reference can be found in “Born to Run” in which Kate Austen and her childhood boyfriend dig up a box they buried in their early teens (1.22: 22:33). It is a New Kids on the Block wooden box, which probably serves as an additional clue for the audience to be able to place the flashback in the late 80s. Another piece of band merchandize can be found in “Everybody hates Hugo” in which Hugo Reyes’ friend Johnny can be seen wearing a Led Zeppelin T-shirt (2.04: 23:12) and in “Further Instructions” which features a character wearing a Geronimo Jackson shirt (2.11). The latter is an interesting example because this band or musician does not exist in extratextual reality. This pseudointertextual allusion refers the viewers back to the text and exposes it as a fictional construct with no points of reference in extratextual reality. Since LOST does not use voice-over narration, verbal references to music can only occur on the level of story. They are character-based allusions, such as when characters quote lyrics or make matters of music the subject of their conversation. Quotes occur when characters themselves sing or play a piece, or when they quote a line from the lyrics of a popular song. Furthermore, there are visual quotes, for example Charlie’s tattoo as discussed in the previous paragraph. Instances of quoting are too frequent in LOST for all of them to be listed here. They range from the protagonist Jack playing the piano piece “Heart and Soul” with his fiancée (1.21: 14:31), to James “Sawyer” Ford singing Bob Marley’s “Redemption Song” after setting sails on a raft (1.24: 13:12), and Charlie and Hurley singing “Itsy Bitsy Spider” and James Brown’s “I feel good” to soothe a baby (1.21: 22:24; 23:09). Another form of verbal references to music can be found when the subject arises in the characters’ conversations. Mostly, such thematizations of music revolve around Charlie Pace, a former rock star who occasionally draws other characters into conversations about music and who, after finding a guitar on the island, begins to write songs and comments on this creative process. He asks Jin if he knows the Kinks (2.10: 7:14), describes himself as a “bloody rock god” (1.07: 12:00) and is described by Sawyer as a “VH-1 has-been” (1.11: 14:44). References to music, musical institutions and terminology, are frequent in LOST, but their interetxtual potential is limited.

4.2. Pop-songs as Intertextual Allusions

The previous chapter was aimed at answering the question of how music, and especially pop-music, can be integrated into film. This chapter is interested in the reasons why

35 pop-music is incorporated into film, which purposes it fulfills and, furthermore, how song lyrics can function as intertexts.

4.2.1. Film music’s tasks

The main task of film music, whether diegetic or non-diegetic, is to “signify emotion and set specific moods” (Rodman 2006: 119). Thus, it merely has a supporting function to the action that takes place on the level of the diegesis and can, by this definition, be seen as subordinate to dialogue and events. Film music also has an interpretive function and is meant to help convey emotions portrayed on screen to the audience (ibid: 119). When a score in major fades into a terrifying score in minor, as happens in “Tabula Rasa” (1.03: 40:43) when the camera swings to John Locke, sitting on the beach in solitude with a grim look on his scarred face, the audience immediately senses that this character might be up to no good and begins to distrust him. Mr. Locke’s menacing look could undoubtedly be sufficient for creating these emotions, but the underscoring intensifies the audience’s suspicions. Pop-songs differ from instrumental music because they contain another plane of meaning, namely lyrics. In analyzing pop-songs in film, one can not only look at the instrumental characteristics of the piece (e.g. fast/slow, major/minor, menacing/comforting, etc.) but also investigate the subject(s) addressed in the song’s lyrics. One text (in this case LOST) referring to other texts (e.g. pop-songs) takes us into the realm of intertextuality.

4.2.2. Lyrics as Intertexts

A distinction has to be made between an original and a compilation score (Rodman 2006: 120). The former describes music that has been composed specifically for one film or TV-series. In LOST, all underscoring, composed by Michael Giacchino, falls into this category. A compilation score describes the inclusion of already existing music. This practice is not new to film-making but has, over the years, “created a disdain for compilation scores, derived from the baggage of nineteenth-century Romanticism which valued originality […] over borrowing and pastiche” (ibid: 121). With the emergence of postmodernism (and, in literary theory, poststructuralism) and its skepticism towards terms like originality and the author as the sole instance of meaning creation (c.f. Butler 2002: 87-8), intertextual practices became the common standard in (postmodern) art forms. It is therefore not surprising that

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LOST, as a quintessentially postmodern TV-series, frequently refers to other works of art and, as a result, incorporates already existing music (pop-songs) into the story-level. Literary allusions can point out similarities between two texts’ structures or contexts. LOST’s allusions to Charles Dickens’ Our Mutual Friend (1964-1965) or Stephen King’s The Stand (1978), for example, signify, among content similarities, that each of these three texts is a multiple-character story with different focalizers. Other allusions, such as those to Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, on the other hand, do not reflect similarities on the discourse- level, but rather similarities on the level of context. In such cases, the resemblance can be found as both pre-texts and post-text address similar themes. Concerning content, pop-songs are by nature too constraint to tell a detailed, well- structured story. Therefore, alluding to pop-songs’ context or structure can never be as profound when it comes to meaning creation as are references to works of literature. That is not to say that it is impossible. Poems, usually shorter than prose, can serve as intertexts for films, as shown in Mikhail Iampolski’s analysis of three films by D.H. Griffith which are all (loosely) based on Alfred Tennyson’s 1864 poem Enoch Arden (1998: 93-5). Usually, however, pop-songs merely tell a very short story, if they tell a story at all. Often they only convey a feeling or an emotion, and deal with but one topic. In the following, two pop-songs featured in LOST shall be analyzed, of which each one reflects one recurring theme in the TV-series. Throughout all six seasons of LOST, ideas of predestination and determinism, closely linked to the existence of (a) God, are juxtaposed to ideas of free will. The first stance is reflected in the 2001 song “I shall not walk alone” by The Blind Boys of Alabama. The song denotes an existence of the Christian God who leads and watches over his flock.

Battered and torn / still I can see the light tattered and worn / but I must kneel to fight […] When my legs no longer carry /and the warm wind chills my bones I reach for Mother Mary / and I shall not walk alone (1.08: 33:25)

The song lyrics introduce the theme of faith which will feature more and more prominently as the series progresses. The character who most obviously represents a believer is John Locke, who describes himself as a man of faith and tries to convince skeptical characters (such as the show’s protagonist Jack who describes himself as a man of science) that they have all crashed on this island for a reason. Ironically, he later becomes the nemesis of the island deity Jacob, a God-like figure who protects the island and guards a light that, should it ever be extinguished,

37 would set loose all evil into the world. John Locke, as opposed to his British 17 th century namesake, believes blindly and unquestioningly in a higher power and fate. He does not listen to the advice given to him by Mr. Eco, who is (ironically) a priest, that he should “not mistake coincidence for fate” (2.09: 47:48). The most rational characters, on the other hand, finally become believers when they find out that they were “touched” by Jacob in their childhood and have therefore made a series of choices that have led them to this island. They realize – and it is a painful realization for all of them – that what they had thought were choices made on the basis of free will were actually not their choices at all. They are redeemed at last, their sins forgiven. The other pop-song which more subtly introduces the theme of free will is Mama Cass Elliot’s “Make your own kind of Music” (1969).

Nobody can tell ya / There´s only one song worth singing They may try and sell ya / Cause it hangs them up / To see someone like you You gotta make your own kind of music / Sing your own special song Make your own kind music /Even if nobody else sings along (2.01: 1:21)

The audience first hears that song when a new character is introduced in the second season. This character is Desmond, who is prone to time travel and, contrarily to the song lyrics, is unable to “make his own kind of music” since his path is prefabricated by a higher power. When he travels through time he arrives at a critical moment. He could make certain choices that would prevent him from ever coming to the island (3.08). He painfully realizes, however, that he does not have a choice at all and makes the same decisions the second time around. The song lyrics broach the issue of individualism and the importance of making your own choices. On one level, it corresponds to the character of Desmond who desperately attempts to change his future (or, more specifically, his present). On another level, it can be seen as an ironic comment on Desmond’s situation, his inability to leave the path laid out for him and his being the puppet of the “theys and thems” mentioned in the song’s lyrics. The two intertexts mentioned above only introduce one theme. They can be more easily made sense of, that is to say exercise their intertextual power, in retrospect. It appears that the intertextual function of the songs’ lyrics is subordinate to their emotive function. “I shall not walk alone”, thus, coveys a feeling to the audience by means of its slow, choir and gospel-like minor tune. “Make your own kind of Music”, with its happy-sound is perceived in ironical opposition to Desmond’s tragic situation. In both cases the lyrics are secondary to the emotions the songs convey, but can, as the show progresses, also exhibit intertextual force if

38 they remain activated for the viewer as a means not exactly of additional meaning creation but rather as a support or a clarification of already established themes.

4.2.3. Patsy Cline Leitmotif

Throughout LOST, Patsy Cline songs can be heard in the flashbacks dealing with the character Kate Austen. Examples are “Leaving on your Mind” (1963; 1.03: 20:40), “Walking after Midnight” (1957; 2.09: 11:23), “She’s got you” (1962; 5.11: 4:45) and “Three Cigarettes in an Ashtray” (1957; 5.16: 4:06). These songs thus function as a leitmotif and, in addition, they display intertextual potential. A leitmotif in film is “any music […] heard more than once during the course of a film” and its functions are that it “must be associated with a cinematic object” and that it “must recur in order to evoke the memory of the viewer” (Rodman 2006: 123-4). LOST features many such leitmotifs, such as the instrumental score in minor signifying the death of a character or the orchestral, epic score signifying exodus (see chapter 6), or, more specifically, a larger party going on a hike either to seek shelter, looking for answers or going to a battle. The only instance of pop-music as leitmotif are Patsy Cline songs that are associated with the cinematic ‘object’ Kate Austen. According to Rodman, leitmotifs have a denotative meaning, in other words the associated visual image, and a connotative meaning. The latter illustrates “extra-musical properties […], describing traits of characters […] and the emotional state or mood of a scene” (ibid: 124). Through denotation, the Patsy Cline songs featuring in LOST signify that the scene will revolve around Kate Austen. Through connotation the audience might associate Kate Austen’s traits (i.e. lonely, desperate and betrayed) and moods of the scene (i.e. tragic) with the songs. The results of these connotations are as much tied to the kind of music (i.e. unfulfilled love is often associated with country music) as to the lyrics. The latter once again open up an intertextual plane of meaning. Allusions to Patsy Cline work on two different levels. The first is extratextual and concerned with the artist herself. This level deals with the similarities between the artist’s and the character’s biography. Most striking in this respect is the fact that both Patsy Cline and Kate Austen were involved in a plane crash. Patsy Cline died in a plane crash in 1963, while her counterpart in LOST survived. The second intertextual level is concerned with the lyrics and how they reflect Kate Austen’s character. Kate Austen had a tragic childhood and adolescence. Her mother’s boyfriend, who later turns out to be her real father, is prone to domestic violence. Kate

39 decides to take care of her mother, takes out insurance on her home for her and then proceeds to blow up the house, murdering her drunken stepfather. She flees her hometown and soon learns that her mother has betrayed her and that the police are now chasing her. Years later she finds out that her mother has cancer. With the help of her teenage love, now a doctor in the local hospital, it is possible for her to see her mother, who screams for help the instant she sees her daughter. The police are thus informed of the fugitive’s presence and in a dramatic car chase her former lover is killed. Kate manages to escape once more. At another point in her life she marries under a false name. When her husband shows her plane tickets for their honeymoon she realizes that she cannot live a normal life and leaves him brokenhearted. The lyrics of the four Patsy Cline songs featured on LOST reflect the emotional state Kate Austen is in. “Walking after Midnight” deals with a person who is searching something or someone. This person is as lost and lonely as Kate Austen for whom it is impossible to make close ties with other people due to her status as a fugitive who has taken on a false identity. “Leaving on your mind”, “She’s got you” and “Three cigarettes in an ashtray” all deal with loss and betrayal. Instead of saving her mother, Kate Austen has lost her. Because of the crime she committed she also loses all of the men she has ever been in love with. What hurts her the most, however, is that her mother has betrayed her and cannot understand the good intentions that were the cause of her actions. The references to Patsy Cline and the inclusion of her songs function more obviously and more immediately as intertexts as the previous examples. They are more obvious because they can repeatedly be heard and because they function as a leitmotif. A leitmotif can be compared to an extended allusion which, by definition, gains more prominence (by repetition) than synoptic allusions. Thus, their significance is overtly marked and conveyed to the audience. They have a more immediate effect because each song tells a story which clearly reflects what happens on the story level simultaneously.

4.3. Functions of Music

Corresponding to the five functions of allusions presented in the previous chapter, the following can be said about the incorporation of music in LOST. First of all, the main task of music is to support what takes place on the level of story. This is true for instrumental non- diegetic music as well as for diegetic pop-songs. Characterization through music is possible as well. If the mood of a piece of music is menacing and the camera captures a certain character, the audience is likely to transpose the feelings created by the music onto the character. The

40 two examples analyzed in this chapter have shown that lyrics can also anticipate a theme while this is impossible for instrumental music. These pop-songs only gain significance in retrospect and it is very likely that they do not remain activated for a longer period of time because, firstly, the auditory code is subordinate to the visual and verbal code, and, secondly, because the mood of a pop-song (its aesthetic function) is more significant than its lyrics (its intertextual function). The example of “Make your own kind of Music” has shown that a musical allusion can also be misleading. The theme of individualism and free will introduced by the lyrics do not correlate to Desmond’s fate, around which this pop-song revolves. Last but not least, music plays an ambivalent role in creating a reality effect. Underscoring decreases the illusion of realism as it does not have a source in the presented world and because (in LOST) it does not refer to ‘reality’ as it was composed exclusively for the TV- series. Source music or diegetic music, on the other hand, increases the reality effect as it is firmly anchored in fictional reality as well as extratextual reality. Due to the subordinate role of the auditory channel within visual representation and the relatively constricted nature of lyrics, music’s intertextual potential is often limited to mirroring or intensifying the mood conveyed on the level of story.

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5. The Paratext

5.1. Features of Paratexts

A text is always embedded in a structure which is different from it but at the same time connected to it. This outside presentation, be it verbal, visual or material, influences the reading and the perception of a text. Gérard Genette calls this structure paratext , and because it is outside the actual text while at the same time determining its reading, the relationship between text and paratext is essentially intertextual. It is not always easy to determine which elements belong to the text proper, and paratextual features differ in proximity to the text – some are closely tied to it and others loosely connected to it. Therefore, Genette describes the paratext as a “threshold, […] an undecided zone between the inside and the outside, itself without rigorous limits” (1991: 261). As paratexts are so diverse, they need defining according to their spatial occurrence or their “positioning” (ibid: 263). The first kind of paratexts can be subsumed under the term epitext , which describes everything that is outside the product in which the text is embedded but deals which certain aspects of the same. According to Genette, this includes, for example, reviews, public responses, delayed auto-commentaries, correspondence, interviews or diary entries. What was once an epitext does not necessarily have to remain outside the presentation of the text. Often epitextual features, such as interviews or reviews, are included in the physical representation of a text and thus lose their epitextual status. This phenomenon frequently occurs in special editions of a novel or, as we shall see later, in bonus materials of a DVD. What is within the product, Genette terms peritext . This ranges from title, name of the author, date of publication and chapter/episode headings to dedications, prefaces and editor’s footnotes. Another feature of paratexts that has to be taken into account is their “temporal situation” (ibid: 264). Here, Genette differentiates between paratexts that were published earlier than the text, such as advertisements or previews, those which were published simultaneously, as for example an original preface, and those paratexts that came after the publication of the text, such as reviews or editorial comments. The “substantial status” (ibid: 265) is concerned with the question as to which sign system a paratext belongs to. Though most frequently linguistic, the paratext can also be iconic as is the case in book or DVD covers, illustrations and photographs. Recorded interviews are auditory paratexts and in bonus material of films, the paratext usually includes all codes: linguistic, visual and auditory. To 42 define a paratext according to its “pragmatic status” (ibid: 266) is to assess who wrote it for whom. The addresser of a paratext is not necessarily the author as becomes obvious in editorial prefaces or explanatory footnotes. Reviews or notes about the author are by nature written by a person other than the author himself. The addressee is usually the public in general (ibid: 267) but often, as in posthumous publications of private correspondence or diary entries, the paratext was originally not meant for all. Last but not least, paratexts differ according to their function. Genette concedes that “the functions of a paratext constitute a very empirical and very diverse object, which must be derived in an inductive way, genre by genre and often species by species” (ibid: 269).

5.2. Paratextuality as a Category of Intertextuality

Including paratextuality into the realm of intertextuality is not uncontested. Stocker eliminates this sub-category of Genette’s transtextuality in his definition of intertextuality and vindicates this decision as follows:

Beyond doubt, paratexts are noteworthy literary phenomena. It is untenable, however, to declare paratextuality as a form of intertextuality. First, some peritexts are, as a matter of fact, indeed integral parts of a text, despite the fact that they are circumferential. How, then, can intra textual elements such as title, subheading or motto refer intertextually to the text they belong to? (1998: 59; my translation)

Stocker further argues that Genette’s category of the epitext is also redundant because all these texts comment on another text which would, by Genette’s definition, fall under the category of metatextuality. Epitexts, such as reviews, are indeed intertextual, but on a different level. In such cases, it is not a work of art invoking another work of art. A review is, in the narrower sense, not literature and its sole purpose, which it makes explicit, is to evaluate and comment on another text. Moreover, a text can not overtly refer to a review, it can never be influenced by one. An epitext is thus the post-text and the text proper is the pre- text. And as the text came before the epitext, metatextuality in this sense cannot be a valuable instrument for text interpretation. For this reason, everything which is outside the physical representation of the text will not be included in this analysis. It is the peritext, and more specifically episode titles in LOST, with which we will be concerned here. An attempt has to be made to answer the question of whether a title or a subheading belong to the text proper or to the peritext. If the former is the case, they can still be intertextual, or, in other words, refer to another work of art. However, they could not be

43 regarded as a separate textual entity which is in constant semantic exchange with the text. The model proposed here views the title as being outside the text. That is because, firstly, title and text are spatially and temporarily apart (in the reading process). Secondly, a text as a short sequence of words already bears some text-independent meaning or at least gives rise to a reader’s associations. Thirdly, the interdependence of title and text mirrors the interdependence of text and the already read. The reader is constantly transferred back from the narrative to the title in order to ascertain its connection with the text. At the same time, the title remains activated throughout the reading process and influences what is being given significance to. Therefore, the relation between title and text is intertextual. Intertextual titles complicate the picture. In such cases, the title immediately activates a pre-text. Gottfried Keller’s short novel Romeo und Julia auf dem Dorfe (1856) is a case in point. The first part of the title activates Shakespeare’s pre-text which will influence the reading of the text. The second part of the title signals difference to the pre-text and already establishes connotations which will be confirmed or revised during the reading. The reading, too, will be governed by the pre-text and the expectations and associations previously assigned to the title. The proposed model for an intertextual title and the interrelations of the three textual segments that make up its structure is as follows:

Title

Pre-Text Text

5.3. An Analysis of Intertextual Titles in LOST

One difference between a quote or an allusion in a title and a similar device within the text is that the pre-text evoked by the title cannot, due to its temporal and spatial position, be integrated into the text in hand immediately. In most cases, titles are polysemous and thus it is the context of the narrative which will by and by determine their significance. There is a second difference connected to the impossibility of immediate integration that is concerned with an intertextual device’s duration of significance. Karrer writes that “the main difference between a quoting title and a simple quote occurring somewhere in the text consists of the extension of overcoding: a text title overcodes the whole text” (1991: 123). Concerning chapter titles or, in this case, episode titles, the intertextual title overcodes the whole part of

44 the text which it governs and is replaced by another title as another episode begins. This might be true as a rule of thumb, but it will be seen later that some titles will gain significance only later on when they have already been replaced by another. In order for such titles, which have an anticipatory function, to gain significance, the text they govern is not sufficient for them to realize their intertextual potential. In the following we will look at intertextual titles in LOST and analyze their relevance for the respective episode.

“Tabula Rasa” (1.03)

As will be seen in the next chapter, the notion of a person being a ‘white paper’ is intrinsically tied to British philosopher John Locke and consequently to the TV-series’ character of the same name. Later on in the season, when the audience gets to know John Locke better, this title begins to bear more and more significance. In this episode, however, the only link that can be established between the philosophical idea of ‘tabula rasa’ and the content of the episode is the fact that the characters’ past experiences determine their behavior on the island as is made explicit by frequent flashbacks focusing on their lives before the plane crash.

“White Rabbit” (1.06)

This episode title is the first of many allusions to Lewis Carroll’s novels Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (1865) and Through the Looking Glass, And what Alice Found There (1871). Jack sees an image of his dead father and follows him into the forest, which mirrors Alice chasing a white rabbit who leads her to a fantastic, surreal world. This titular allusion, as well as most other allusions to Lewis Carroll, forces the recipient to wonder whether the fantastic is a hallucination and (on-screen) reality is merely a dream. This is confirmed by Stafford who identifies the theory of everything being a hallucination as one of the most popular among LOST fans (2006: 81, 249). The frequent references to fantasy texts constantly impose the question on the viewers if what they see is real or if it is all “a curious dream” (Carroll, 1993: 141).

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“… in Translation” (1.17)

This episode title is a partial quotation of the 2003 movie L OST IN TRANSLATION . Both the episode and the film deal with the feeling of isolation one experiences when robbed of the possibility to communicate with others. Korean character Jin is accused of having burned the raft and because he cannot speak English he is unable to prove his innocence.

“Deus Ex Machina” (1.19)

This episode title is included here not because it refers to a specific pre-text but rather because it signifies a dramatic technique and thus refers to the realm of literature in general, and to all works that have deployed such a device in specific. In drama, deus ex machina describes “the use of a God lowered by a mechanism of some sort onto the stage to rescue the hero or untangle the plot” (Beckson and Ganz, 1990: 61). In LOST, this episode title has two functions. The first is self-reflexive, as the writers, too, make use of an artificial, unforeseen and plot-unrelated device (namely another crashed airplane) to expedite the action. Similar to many other instances, the writers of LOST do not shy away from exposing their re-cycling of story-telling techniques and conventions. Second, it is used ironically on the level of the diegesis. John Locke has a dream in which he sees an airplane crashing in the rainforest. Taking it as a sign from God - which in John Locke’s case is the island - he begins looking for the plane with Boone. When they find it entangled on the top of a cliff, the latter dies trying to use the plane’s communication equipment to send out a distress call and all they find on the plane is heroin – not the supernatural sign of importance which John Locke has expected. While in Classic Greek drama, deus ex machina was a device to save the hero, in LOST it is ironically inverted and brings about death and despair.

“Exodus” (1.23, 1.24, 1.25)

This title denotes the second book of Moses in the Old Testament. Moses, after rescuing the people of Israel from slavery in Egypt, leads them to the Promised Land, and safety. Suspecting an attack from the Others, Jack, too, leads the survivors away from the beach in order to hide in a hatch. The connection between Jack and Moses are also made explicit in the third Season when Naomi asks Jack, who, once again, leads the survivors to what he believes to be their rescue: “What did you do for a living before you became Moses”

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(3.22: 2:57). Moreover, the story of Moses is activated for the recipient again and again because the underscoring, which is first introduced in this episode, connotes the theme of Exodus. The ostentatious, epic, orchestral music, which supports the theme of Exodus, will be often repeated later on in the TV-series and it underlies the action whenever a group of people is led somewhere. Introducing the theme of Exodus and the biblical character of Moses is not an intertextual device which functions on the basis of similarity only. Most dominantly, it stands in opposition with the pre-text as Jack, and later John Locke, do not lead their groups to safety but their missions rather lead from one dire situation to another.

“The 23 rd Psalm” (2.10)

Stein calls the bible “the principle subtext of Western culture as a whole” (1988: 123). In this regard, LOST is no exception. The episode title and Mr. Eko and Charlie Pace’s reciting of the same psalm reflect the positive aspects of faith. In this prayer God is represented as a guardian who gives comfort in dangerous situations and moments of despair. In “The 23 rd Psalm”, Mr. Eko encounters the island’s monster – a moving cloud of black smoke. He does not panic, stoically stands his ground and the monster eventually retreats. Mr. Eko’s behavior and the contents of the psalm alluded to signify that a belief in God allows humans to deal with earthly dangers because of the promise of an afterlife. Faith is, however, by no means only represented as positive in the TV-series. Many characters, most notably John Locke and Benjamin Linus, reflect the dangers of blind faith.

“A Tale of Two Cities” (3.01)

Charles Dickens’ novel A Tale of Two Cities (1858) is a story about the French Revolution, the wretchedness of the common people, the ignorance of the aristocracy, but also the blind hatred and the thirst for revenge of the oppressed once the system is overturned. The theme of revolution is hinted at in this episode with the introduction of Juliet, a member of the Others who is kept on the island against her will by their leader Benjamin Linus. Her protest against his totalitarian regime is at that moment still rather passive. For the book club she elects Stephen King’s Carrie (1973), on which other members remark that Ben would have dismissed it as unworthy, or second-rate literature. Both books combined intensify and anticipate the theme of revolution and the audience suspects that Juliet, just like Carrie and

47 the French population at the end of the 18 th century, will not endure the present situation much longer. Another similarity between Dickens’ novel and the situation of the three survivors who are kept prisoners by the Others is the theme of the love triangle. In A Tale of Two Cities, Carton is miserably in love with Lucy, who in turn is in love with and later marries Darnay. At the end of the novel, Carton saves Darnay from the guillotine, sacrificing himself for Lucy’s happiness. A similar situation evolves in the course of the third season of LOST when Jack, similar to the heroic Carton, helps Kate and Sawyer to escape while he himself will remain a prisoner.

“Stranger in a Strange Land” (3.09)

Robert A. Heinlein’s 1987 science fiction novel of the same name revolves around a human being who was born on Mars and only returns to Earth as an adolescent. His physical and mental capabilities exceed those of normal people, which increases his isolation. He founds a church which teaches its members how to deal with and decrease their suffering. Misunderstood by the general public, he is eventually murdered by a mob. Both the protagonist of Stranger in a Strange Land and Jack Shephard bear resemblance to Jesus Christ. In this episode we learn that Jack’s fate is to be a great but lonely man. Combining the clues of Jack’s last name and the reference to Heinlein’s novel, the (ideal) reader will gain an informational edge concerning Jack’s self-sacrifice in the last episode of the TV-series.

“Catch-22” (3.17)

Reintegrating this reference to Joseph Heller’s 1961 novel Catch-22 in the course of this episode is difficult. The fact that Heller’s novel revolves around a Captain of the Air Force stationed on an island in the Mediterranean Sea and who is desperate to return home offers a similarity in terms of spatial setting and overarching theme, but does not enrich the reading of this episode. A possible anticipatory function of this reference is the hint that a war is coming to the island. Moreover, Naomi’s wound is similar to that of Snowden in Joseph Heller’s novel – hidden underneath a parachute suit. More important than some of the often far-fetched content similarities between the texts is the similarity in story-telling and structure. Catch-22 is a non-chronological story par excellence . LOST introduces flash-forwards in addition to flashbacks in this episode, similar to the alluded to pre-text, in which the episodes

48 are temporarily displaced without exception. The reference to Heller’s novel might indicate the comparable narrative technique.

“The Man Behind the Curtain” (3.20)

Viewers familiar with L. Frank Baum’s The Wonderful Wizard of Oz (1900) will recognize the allusion to the ordinary man who passes himself off as a great and terrible wizard. For those who do not, it is made more explicit when John Locke accuses Benjamin Linus of being a liar, the wizard of Oz, in the same episode. Activating the link to this fantastical children’s book will indeed influence the reading of this episode. One expects that Benjamin Linus will (finally) be revealed as a hypocrite who pretends to act in the name of an island deity in order to uphold his totalitarian regime. The main difference between the Wizard of Oz and Benjamin Linus is the fact that the latter, despite not being connected to a higher power in the way that he would like others to believe, is not weak and innocuous once his cover is blown.

“Through the Looking Glass” (3.22, 3.23)

Marion Kühn (2011) identifies many parallels between Lewis Carroll’s novel Through the Looking Glass (1871) and the last two episodes of the third season of LOST. Characters, similar to the chess pieces in the book, are “controlled from a distance” and “presuppose the existence of a higher power” (157; my translation). Moreover, she argues that Charlie Pace entering the subsea station (which is aptly called the Looking Glass Station) reflects Alice’s immersion into another world (ibid). More significantly, however, one can assume that the constant references to the Alice novels serve the purpose of keeping the audience guessing whether all the occurrences on the island really do take place or if “life” is really nothing “but a dream” (Carroll 1993: 279). They can also be interpreted as a metatextual, self-reflexive comment on LOST as a fictional construct.

“The Shape of Things to Come” (4.09)

In his 1933 novel of the same name, H.G. Wells provided the world with a prophecy that has turned out to be true in many respects. From his early 20 th century view point, he writes the history of the world until the early 22 nd century. What awaits us, he writes, is

49 political instability, global war, disastrous climatic changes and, as common for science fiction, technology and progress as a threat. This grim outlook on the future is mirrored in this episode as war finally breaks out among the different groups on the island.

“The Little Prince” (5.04)

This episode title is taken from Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s 1943 novel The Little Prince and refers, at least on the surface, to Aaron, Claire’s son who now lives with Kate in the ‘real’ world. This comparison connotes that he is not where he belongs, namely with his mother or her family. On another level, the pre-text evokes the theme of returning to a place one could not appreciate before, which would especially apply to Jack, who is now as desperate to return to the island as he was desperate to leave it before. The reference will gain significance in retrospect when John Locke has to die in order to get back to the island, just as the little Prince deliberately chooses death on earth to be able to return to his home planet.

“Some Like it Hoth” (5.13)

This episode revolves around Miles trying to come to terms with his father complex. In the future, Miles does not know his father, and is told by his mother that he left them when he was only a child. Traveling through time, Miles now lives in the same community with his parents and his infant-self. The episode title is an allusion to S TAR WARS , which also has a father-son relationship as a central theme. The similarity is that in both narratives the fathers – Darth Vader in S TAR WARS : EPISODE VI – RETURN OF THE JEDI and Pierre Chang in LOST - eventually redeem themselves by sacrificing themselves for their family.

5.4. Bonus Material

The paratext in films or episodes as they appear on television is less extensive than that of printed texts (if one ignores vital, paratextual elements such as channel and program schedule). The paratextual elements of a LOST episode on television, for example, merely seem to consist of the title of the TV-series, the names of the actors and the production team, and the production company. One can argue, however, that the recap of past events as it appears in most episodes after the voice-over “Previously on LOST” should be included in the paratext. We have seen that paratexts differ in their degree of proximity to the text proper.

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Titles or episode titles seem so close to the text that they are sometimes not distinguished from it. The summary of events which aids the understanding of the content of an episode is also outside the text . It takes place on the level of discourse rather than on the level of story. As with titles, it appears to be a direct informational exchange between (real) author and readers. With the advent of DVDs, the paratext of films and TV-series gained more prominence. Bonus material is now an almost compulsory addition to commercially successful editions of TV-series. One of the most crucial differences between watching LOST on television and watching the series on DVD, is the fact that the latter medium stresses the importance of episode titles and thus the viewer can more readily incorporate these, often highly intertextual, segments into the text itself. Bonus materials on DVDs, such as a making-of or interviews with cast and crew, are a good example for epitexts becoming peritexts. Once outside the physical representation of the text they are now included in it. Their intertextual significance, however, is debatable as they are normally consumed after the text proper. They thus differ from epitextual features, such as name of author and title, in the way that they do not precede the text and therefore cannot govern or influence the reading process. There is no doubt that such bonus materials are themselves intertextual, or more aptly metatextual, but the text proper never relates to such peritextual features. As an intertextual analysis can only be concerned with what the text (explicitly) has to offer, such paratextual commentaries cannot be included in such a study.

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6. What’s in a Name?

6.1. Intertextual Names

In onomastics, a distinction is made between proper nouns and common nouns. The former belong to a person or a place, thus they are individual. The latter are the foundation of languages, the lexicon, and thus they are universal. In other words, a name like Peter Johnson only refers to this one Peter Johnson, and to nothing and no one else. In literature, however, names can sometimes become intertextual, not merely referring to characters but also to other texts or authors. Allan H. Pasco describes this instance as follows:

Ideally, at least according to certain linguistics, proper names are discrete denotative referents, that is, they refer to only one subject or person. The theory runs into trouble in regard to popes, kings, and families with onomastic traditions. Likewise in literature, though a name is undoubtedly important as a reappearing constituent for the creation of a character, authors frequently use it as well to bear meaning, in precisely the same way as any other word. (2002: 32-33)

As with many other intertextual devices it is not crucial to recognize the allusive nature of names in order to successfully interpret or make sense of a text. When one does, however, one leaves the one-dimensional world of a text and enters a multi-dimensional, vast area of references. Wolfgang Müller calls these intertextual relations between characters of different texts interfigurality and argues that “the interrelations that exist between characters of different texts represent one of the most important dimensions of intertextuality” (1991: 101). Interfigurality in its purest sense describes the re-appearance of a character, or characters from a pre-text in a post-text, as for example in Tom Stoppard’s Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead (1967) or the various appearances of Dr. Faustus in Phillip Marlowe, Johann Wolfgang Goethe and Thomas Mann. In LOST, however, there are no characters resituated to the story. The names, here, function like quotes, alluding to previous texts or authors. Due to the abundance of intertextual names in LOST, only a few examples will be analyzed in depth here.

6.2. Jack and Christian Shephard “Christian Shephard? Seriously?” (Kate Austen, LOST 6.17: 4:24)

In the first few moments of the very first episode of LOST the audience follows a man from the jungle to the site of a plane crash (1.01: 0:16). It becomes obvious by means of certain clues - such as the business suit he is wearing and the small bottle of spirit he keeps in 52 his breast pocket - that this man has not been taking a rest in the jungle, but that he was on the plane and is one of the survivors of the crash. After looking around and composing himself, he runs towards the plane wreck to help injured passengers. At some point Hurley asks him for his name and the man, already running towards another person in need, turns around and shouts: “I’m Jack.” (ibid: 05:32) Before this point, approximately three minutes into the first episode of the show, we know very little about the story and the setting. As soon as Jack reveals his name to us, however, it can be argued that a competent viewer can make very good guesses about what is to come and where the plane has crashed. This idea will be elaborated on in the following paragraphs. The claim that a single, highly common first name such as Jack can provide numerous clues and even introduce themes might seem insubstantial. However, if one is familiar with two of the most canonical desert island genre novels, namely R.M. Ballantyne’s The Coral Island (1857) and William Golding’s Lord of the Flies (1954), it should become apparent that it can lead to a dimension of vast intertextual associations and generic clues. The first case in point is the fact that the reappearance of a ‘Jack’ in the two novels mentioned above is no coincidence. Golding’s novel is a back-writing to The Coral Island (c.f. Alexander 2000: 366; Gregor and Kinkead-Weekes 1996: iv). In the latter novel the three ship-wrecked boys have a ‘jolly good time’ on their coral island, never despair, and never forget their manners or lose their faith in God. In Lord of the Flies , most of the boys become savages, worship idols and become murderers. Jack in Ballantyne’s novel is a hero – a good Christian and fair-minded leader and mentor for the two younger boys who were shipwrecked with him. Golding’s Jack wants to be a leader too, but finally becomes one only by igniting paranoia and creating false idols. He is the first of the boys to abandon his civilized manners. Lord of the Flies can be read as a parodic, ironic and critical commentary on Ballantyne’s novel and its ideology. The onomastic quote of ‘Jack’ serves not only to point out the similar situation in which both characters find themselves, but also emphasizes this critical difference . The relation between Ballantyne’s and Golding’s ‘Jacks’ is now obvious. Still, this does not rule out coincidence in the case of LOST’s Jack. What could serve as proof for the interrelation of the characters of those three texts is the fact that LOST implicitly (dichotomy between civilization vs. savagery, society vs. anarchy; the monster, etc.) and explicitly refers to Golding’s novel. In “…In Translation” Sawyer tells Jin, who is suspected of burning a raft the survivors built, that “Folks down at the beach might have been doctors and accountants a month ago, but it’s Lord of the Flies time now!” (1.17: 13:32) before knocking him out with a kick to the face. This suggests that the

53 writers of the TV-series were familiar with the pre-text and affirms the treatment of LOST’s Jack as an intertextual name. The viewer who recognizes the intertextual significance has an informational edge over those viewers who do not. As soon as Jack introduces himself one can surmise that the plane has crashed on an island which firmly places the show within the genre of (desert) island narratives. Moreover, we can assume that Jack will be the leader of the survivors but it remains to be seen whether he will be humane and brave like Jack from The Coral Island or brutal and authoritarian like Jack in Lord of the Flies. If the connection to these works of literature is established, the informed viewer can also predict that this narrative will deal with themes such as society, savagery and the survival of the fittest. Jack’s last name is Shephard. This is a homophone of ‘shepherd’ which denotes leadership but can further be linked to Jesus who is described in the New Testament as “the good shepherd” who “gives His life for the sheep” (John 10:11). A viewer who has recognized and reintegrated this biblical allusion will hardly be surprised of the fact that Jack does indeed sacrifice himself for his friends in the end of the TV-series (6.18: 12:33). Jack’s father is called Christian, which leads us to the assumption that he represents the God of the Old Testament. And indeed, Christian is not forgiving and kind, but rather vengeful, dominant and oppressive. Despite mistreating Jack, it was Christian who led Jack to the island and thus played a considerable role in his self-sacrifice. Later Christian even becomes a somewhat omniscient leader figure (6.18: 31:32) after Jack’s resurrection, and he leads the survivors from one plane of reality – presumably purgatory - through a gate from which emanates bright, white light which signifies Heaven. Among many other biblical allusions in LOST, these two names bring to mind the characters and storylines from the Bible which in turn affects, enriches and facilitates the reading of the series.

6.3. Philosophers “Jeremy Bentham?” “He was a British philosopher. Your parents had a sense of humor when they named you. So why can’t I?” (John Locke and Charles Widmore, 5.07: 12:55)

While the intertextual significance of Jack Shephard’s name is relatively difficult to come by, the name of his nemesis John Locke is a word for word adoption of the name of the famous British Enlightenment philosopher John Locke (1632-1704). A further clue to the connections between this character’s behavior and his namesake’s ideas is provided in the 54 episode title “Tabula Rasa” (1.03), a conception intrinsically tied to John Locke’s philosophy. According to Störig, he believed that when born, human beings are like “white paper” and their consciousness, their ideas and their behavior are exclusively a result of the experiences they have had (c.f. 1969: 17). This reflects LOST’s John Locke’s belief that all the survivors were reborn after the crash. He advocates Shannon to let go of her emotional baggage from her past and tells her: “Everyone gets a new life on this island, Shannon. Maybe it’s time you start yours” (1.17: 13:10). John Locke’s belief in rebirth is supported and strengthened by the fact that he used to be confined to a wheelchair in his pre-island life and has been able to walk again since the plane crash. However, he is by no means able to leave his past behind. In fact he is constantly haunted by it, even though he tries to enjoy his newly won freedom as a “white paper” which makes it hard for him to be integrated into the group. In the course of the narrative John Locke distances himself from the liberating notion of “tabula rasa” and even contradicts this notion. Aka argues that according to the philosopher’s notion “any human being is self-determined, while the character of John Locke feels that he was summoned to the island by fate” (2011: 143; my translation). As did most other philosophers of the Enlightenment, John Locke considered reason to be man’s most important quality. For him, however, that did not rule out the existence of a higher power. What John Locke and his contemporaries believed was that God did indeed create the world and man, but has since let it run its own course. This is usually referred to as deism (c.f. Störig 1969: 26). Here, LOST’s John Locke differs most clearly from his namesake. This is made most apparent in the show’s constant juxtaposition of faith versus science and fate versus reason. Jack, the prototypical member of the latter camp, and John, who describes himself as a “man of faith” (1.25: 16:34), constantly struggle with each other to enforce their own worldview. Ironically, Jack becomes a believer in the end while John Locke loses his faith and attempts to commit suicide. John Locke’s name is as much a quote signaling similarity as it is an oppositional quote. His slogan “Don’t tell me what I can’t do” (e.g. 1.04: 21:38, 32:46) reflects his individualism as advertised by his namesake. Moreover, his belief in reason and self- determination at the beginning of the narrative signals clear similarities with the British philosopher. On the other hand, his blind faith in a supernatural power, his belief in miracles and his self-conception as an instrument of the island, as reflected by his often repeated sentence “The island will tell us what to do” (e.g. 1.19: 04:45), make it obvious that his character stands in clear opposition to the enlightenment philosophy of John Locke.

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John Locke is given the alias Jeremy Bentham once he is off the island. Jeremy Bentham (1748-1832) was also a British philosopher of the school of utilitarianism. This philosophical notion implies that “the morally right action is the action that produces the most good” and its aim is to “maximize the overall good” (Driver 2009). The idea of utilitarianism stands in stark contrast to Locke’s individualism. Now the individual has to subordinate his own interest to the interests of society. This difference is also reflected in John’s personal change. He no more acts in his (or the island’s) best interests, but in order to save the other survivors. He leaves the island hoping to be able to convince those who have left to return, even though he knows that he will have to give his life in order to succeed. Whereas the survivors on the island know that John’s intentions are good and altruistic, those who have returned to the real world remember him as the selfish individualist he used to be and his failure in convincing them to return finally results in an attempted suicide. Another philosopher referred to by a character’s name is David Hume (1711-1776). The bearer of this name is Desmond David Hume, the man who spent three years of his life in a hatch on the island to press a button that is supposed to save the world. The extratextual similarity between them is their common birthplace. However, the fact that both are Scottish hardly bears any significance and merely intensifies the intertextual link. Where David Hume’s philosophy and Desmond’s actions coincide is made apparent when Jack first learns about Desmond’s task in the hatch. The computer system linked to the button that has to be pushed every 108 minutes in order to prevent the apocalypse collapses and Desmond tries to flee the underground station as fast as possible. Jack, the man of science and reason, stops him and shouts:

JACK: It says quarantine on the inside of the hatch to keep you down here. To keep you scared. But you know what? We've been up there for over 40 days and no one's gotten sick. […] Do you ever think that maybe they put you down here to push a button every 100 minutes just to see if you would? That all of this, the computer, the button, it's just a mind game? An experiment? DESMOND: Every single day. And for all our sakes I hope it’s not real! (LOST 2.03: 25:29)

Jack argues with Desmond because he holds the view that man’s reason can be the basis for his decisions, which is a typical notion of Enlightenment philosophy. Desmond is rather skeptical about the purpose of the computer as well, but he has not stopped pushing it for three years because it is experience, and not reason, that governs his understanding of the world. As an answer to Jack’s question, Desmond might as well have quoted his namesake 56 who, according to Weischedl, believed that without experience, reason alone is insufficient regarding real existence and facts (c.f. 1966: 174). Thus, Desmond has always been skeptical, but because he has never experienced what would happen if he failed to push the button, he cannot, for reason or faith alone, decide about the outcome in such a situation.

6.4. Literary Characters

Despite the fact that she is merely a minor character, it can be argued that the name of Penelope Widmore is, among the names Jack and Christian Shephard, the most intense link to a pre-text, which not only describes the character or the character’s story but moreover signifies the TV-series’ connection to a generic tradition, namely the Odyssey, in specific, and island narratives in general. Penelope, like her namesake in Homer’s epic poem is the archetypal faithful woman. Ever since her partner Desmond disappeared she has never given up on the hope that she will one day be reunited with him and has invested a great deal of time and money to find him. The name Penelope activates the similarities and the differences between the character in the pre-text and the character in LOST. More importantly and interestingly, the viewer can compare Penelope’s boyfriend Desmond to the Odyssey ’s protagonist Ulysses. Here, too, the similarities are striking. Ulysses unwillingly leaves his wife and son in his kingdom Ithaca to join the Greeks in the Trojan War. Desmond breaks up with Penelope to join the army, thus breaking their engagement. He does so not out of some political duty, but rather to prove himself worthy of her, a doubt reinforced by Penelope’s father, a powerful economist. While Ulysses becomes a hero in the war, Desmond is imprisoned for desertion. There, too, is a link between the characters as Ulysses is said to have attempted to fake madness in order to escape the draft. Then both characters go to sea, Ulysses to return to his beloved family and Desmond to win a race around the world in order to regain his self-respect. Neither succeeds and both become stranded on an island, entering a “world of elsewhere” (Vernant 2002: 89). Other similarities between Desmond and Ulysses are, for example, the battle with a Cyclops (certainly not the politically correct term to describe the character of Mikhail Bakhunin), the loss of companions, failed attempts to return home and the wish to return as a driving force for their actions. What is more, as soon as a recipient draws parallels between Desmond and Ulysses, it is already possible to anticipate how Desmond’s journey will end. As the Odyssey is the archetypal story of the struggle to return home, of unbreakable devotion

57 and faithful endurance of separateness, the link that has been established to Desmond forecloses that he, too, will be reunited with Penelope. In a list of characters of LOST the name Henry Gale would not feature at all. This is because he is a dead man buried on the island. However, the name gains significance when Benjamin Linus first appears in the second season (2.14) and, in order to support his lie that he is not one of the Others - the people who were there before the plane crashed and are the enemies of the survivors- assumes the identity of the long since deceased Henry Gale. The name bears significance because it is composed of two names of characters in L. Frank Baum’s 1900 children’s book The Wonderful Wizard of Oz , namely the protagonist Dorothy’s last name ‘Gale’, and her Uncle’s first name ‘Henry’. It is the first of many of LOST’s allusions to the novel and theses allusions usually revolve around the character of Benjamin Linus (c.f. Stafford 2010: 54). At the point of the series when the link between LOST and the pre-text The Wonderful Wizard of Oz is first established by the appearance of Benjamin Linus a.k.a. Henry Gale, the viewer does not know what to make of this newly introduced character, and, at the same time, is unable to determine the function of the reference. With both the interpretation and evaluation of the character and the successful and satisfactory reintegration of the alluded text, the recipient will be left in suspense for many more episodes. The question for the viewer who has identified this intertextual link is how to get an informational edge and reintegrate this allusion with the text. Because the answer to this question is not given in the text itself, the reader is encouraged to become a writer or, in other words, to actively cooperate in the integration of the pre-text into the post-text and thus create (personal) meaning.

6.5. Conclusion

The aforementioned examples have shown that names of characters differ in explicitness according to their potential as means of activating a pre-text. One can distinguish between names as quotations , as is the case with John Locke, Jeremy Bentham and Captain Gault. Furthermore, there are names as partial quotations , in which cases only the first, second or last name of a character refers to a pre-text. Examples of this class are Desmond David Hume, Penelope Widmore or Charlotte Stapleton Lewis. Further there are names as compounds , as the name Henry Gale illustrates. In such cases, character names of one pre-text are put together to form a new name. Then there are names as oblique allusions and the prototypical example in LOST is Jack Shephard. The first name covertly refers to two

58 characters in two pre-texts. Shephard is a mutated (non-homographic) quote from a metaphoric description of Jesus Christ in the bible. As with any other intertextual device, names can also signal similarity or difference. Jack Shephard is neither an infallible hero like Jack in The Coral Island , nor is he a brutal savage like Jack in Lord of the Flies. John Locke advertises some of his namesake’s ideas while at the same time he blindly follows and obeys a supernatural power. Penelope Widmore, too, is similar and different from Ulysses’ wife in the Odyssey. They do share a similar fate, but the former does not passively await her lover’s arrival but actively tries to find him. While some sources of intertextual names lend themselves more readily to reintegration into the post-text, others only gradually gain significance and are the playground for individual, associative, intertextual readings. And even if reintegration is easily made possible by the text, intertextual names will always exhibit the difference between pre- and post-text, because quotes and allusions always inherently present a conflict between the original and the new context. To conclude, it has to be mentioned that the reading process of intertextual names differs from that of classic allusions or quotes. If a pre-text is referred to only once in a text, it is necessary for the reader to integrate that reference immediately to be able to continue with a linear reading. Intertextual names, on the other hand, are more complex due to their frequent reappearance and their close tie to a character. Reintegrating the pre-text alluded to through a name is not a one-off affair that allows for an immediate completion. Rather, the pre-text remains constantly activated and remains in permanent interaction with the post-text. Through intertextual names, readers are always somewhat displaced and dislocated from the text, and compelled to move in-between texts.

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7. Genre

7.1. Thematic and Modal Components of Genre

It is of utmost importance to realize the diverse meaning potential of the term genre. For example, one can list the novel as a genre, among the classic Aristotelian forms of epic, drama and lyric (c.f. Beckson and Ganz 1990). In this sense, a genre merely describes the mode of representation. By this definition it would be wrong to speak of the detective genre or the science-fiction genre, as they merely denote conventions on the thematic level. Themes cannot be grouped exclusively within one mode of representation. Tragedy, for example, is not intrinsically tied to drama, despite the fact that it might appear to be so historically (c.f. Allen 2000: 98-9). One theme can appear in different forms of representation. Narrative genre, then, describes cultural conventions concerning both mode of representation and the thematic content of such a representation. On both levels, the notion of genre or conventions is quintessentially intertextual. Briggs and Baumann note that

[w]hen a discourse is linked to a particular genre, the process by which it is produced and received is mediated through its relationship with prior discourses. […] The link is not made to isolated utterances, but to generalised or abstracted models of discourse production and reception. (1992: 147, cited in Frow 2006: 48)

As opposed to other intertextual devices analyzed before, a text does not need to have the actual presence of one pre-text within itself for the reader to realize its intertextual potential. Genre is what is necessary for a reader to make sense of a text by evoking others that are similar (or different) from it on a formal and/or thematic level. Knowledge of generic codes is critical for interpretation. Without it, one cannot assess the significance of any utterance or text, since not knowing genre means being outside the web of sign relations. As John Frow writes: “no text is unique; we could not recognize it if it was” (2006: 48).

7.2. Architextuality

Among his various categories describing text relations, Gérard Genette proposes the term architextuality to lay stress on a text’s dependency on previously established conventions. He describes it as “the entire set of general or transcendent categories […] from which emerges each singular text” (1997: 1). As opposed to his other categories of text relations, architextuality is not concerned with the actual presence of one text within another. This 60 notion purports that any text is the result of a limited number of formal and thematic possibilities. There are, according to Genette, universal archetypes that appear again and again in slightly modified forms. All authors are forced to make use of such prototypical formal and thematic structures, whether they do so intentionally or not. This category thus represents a structuralist notion of intertextuality that post-structuralist thinkers are likely to agree upon because it is not necessarily tied to authorial intention and is not more relevant for some texts than it is for others. Genre is what is necessary for the author to encode and the reader to decode. What legitimates an analysis of the all-embracing and universal notion of architextuality or genre-dependency is the fact that some texts foreground their reliance on conventions and prototypes more than others. Often, especially in postmodern texts, conventions are self-consciously commented upon. Linda Hutcheon calls this (post)modern phenomenon “modern parody” and it describes the “ironic playing with multiple conventions” and an “extended repetition with critical distance” (2000: 7). Stocker offers the term “Similtextualität” which, as opposed to Genette’s category of hypertextuality, signifies the “obvious imitation of styles, genres, poetic patterns” and not merely the instances of a text imitating a single pre-text (1998: 64). In LOST, genre conventions are most obviously commented upon in “Exposé” (3.14) by ironic metatextual references which completely subvert the illusion of realism. Self- reflexivity and parody will thus be the subject of the following chapter, in which this episode will be analyzed. This chapter is mostly concerned with two genres that are foregrounded not only by the narrative itself (or, in other words, subjective associations) but also by frequent allusions to pre-texts that belong to the same genres. Before examining LOST’s place within the genres of ‘island narratives’ and ‘time travel narratives’, we will first briefly consider the viewer’s expectations that arise when considering the modal convention LOST belongs to, namely TV-series.

7.3. Modes of Representation in LOST

Among the medium of visual representation, LOST can be allotted the mode of a TV- series. This already triggers some expectations on the side of the recipient, even though it cannot be established previous to the television premiere whether the show’s episodes will be relatively exchangeable (series), as for example in MASH (1972-1983), or if the episodes will be interconnected and will follow a coherent chronology (serials). One does not, for example,

61 anticipate relatively immediate closure as we do with films. It is expected that the story will evolve over time and that the narrative will consist of many sub-climaxes or cliffhangers which are most likely to occur at the end of a season and will be resolved in the course of the next one. One already anticipates a multi-character narrative and a relatively low number of flat characters. The audience expects to be kept in suspense during the temporally displaced episodes. Also, one expects actors and directors to participate in a TV-series. Both have intertextual and extratextual potential which can influence perception. Keith A. Reader states that “the very concept of a film star is an intertextual one, relying as it does on correspondences of similarity and difference from one film to the next” (1990: 176). The same is certainly true for the directors or writers of a TV-series. As actors are firmly placed within the ‘real’ world, their biographies can influence the perception as well. What is also included here among the modal features of a narrative are the ways in which the story is told, e.g. flashbacks, voice-over narration, subjective or objective point of view, etc. All these possibilities on the discourse level are conventionalized structures and techniques which take the reader back to other texts (visual, written, etc.) that have made use of them before. LOST employs many cross-medial allusions to texts that resemble its compositional structure, such as novels by Charles Dickens or Dostoyevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov (both published in sequences which reflects the episode-structure of a TV-series), Stephen King’s The Stand (which mirrors a TV-series focusing on multiple characters and story lines) or Joseph Heller’s Catch-22 and Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five (which also make use of flash-forwards and flash-backs and are thus prototypical instances of nonlinear storytelling).

7.4. Themes and Sub-Genres

It is impossible to place one text exclusively within one (thematic) genre. Rather, a text exploits many different formal and/or thematic generic codes. Jacques Derrida states that

a text would not belong to any genre. Every text participates in one or several genres, there is no genreless text, there is always a genre and genres, yet such participation never amounts to belonging. (1980: 230, cited in Frow 2006: 25)

Texts are thus never anchored in one genre alone, but rather move from one set of conventions to another or, more aptly, use different conventions simultaneously. This

62 becomes obvious in a text like LOST, which is impossible to describe generically without regarding the multiplicity of conventions within it. Here the focus will be on the TV-show’s dependency on and relation to two generic traditions, namely that of island narratives and time travel narratives which feature very prominently in the story. Nevertheless, the complex narrative of LOST would also allow for an analysis of several other genres, such as adventure, fantasy, romance, and mythology. Once a text is identified as belonging to or making use of a certain genre, this awareness will “guide interpretation” (Frow 2006: 101) and result in the activation of “a set of expectations” (ibid: 104). If the relation to a certain narrative tradition is further strengthened by alluding to pre-texts that can be firmly placed within it, as is the case in LOST, readers are especially prompted to, firstly, compare the post-text with the genre’s conventions, and, secondly, to adapt their expectations and thus gain an informational edge.

7.4.1. Island Narratives

The generic description ‘island narrative’ is given preference over the more established and more frequently used term ‘desert island fiction’ (c.f. Cuddon 1999: 215-16). The reason for this is the fact that the island, though often uninhabited, is never a place of total human isolation. Even in the most prototypical desert island novel Robinson Crusoe (1719) by Daniel Defoe, the protagonist ultimately interacts with other human beings.

Magic and Monsters

In many island narratives, the island is an otherworldly place in which magic rules over reason. It is a place from pre-civilization times where fantastical, mythical beings, gods and demigods are still in charge, not yet excluded by civilization and rendered obsolete by human self-determination. The divine and fantastical is always beyond the understanding of human beings. The godlike creatures that inhabit magical islands or seem to rule over them produce miracles, perform transformations and meddle with human affairs. In The Odyssey, Ulysses becomes stranded on one magical island after another. He survives the encounters with the divine, but all of his shipmates fall victim to the gods and their magic. Some are devoured by the cyclops Polyphemus, others transformed into animals by Circe, and the rest are killed in a storm sent by Zeus to punish them for killing Helios’ cattle. The deities on the island in LOST- Jacob and the Man in Black- similarly punish and transform the arrivals on

63 their island. Jacob has the power to grant immortality, just like Calypso in The Odyssey , and similarly to the inhabitants of the underworld that Ulysses encounters during his adventure, the deceased on LOST’s island are also forced to remain in between life and death, roaming the island as shadows and ghosts, unable to move on. LOST explicitly refers to Homer’s epos through the onomastic allusion to Penelope and through the one-eyed character of Mikhail Bakunin who attempts to murder Desmond – Penelope’s partner and thus Ulysses’ counterpart. It is highly possible that even without these allusions readers familiar with the Odyssey would activate this pre-text, as it can be argued that the Odyssey represents the prototypical island narrative. It already contains all the most conventionalized motifs of this genre: the encounter with the ‘Other’, the struggle to return and the isolation from civilization. The possibility of magic on an island, a place far detached from modern civilization, is also a theme of William Shakespeare’s The Tempest (approx. 1610), the title of which is the name of one of the underground stations in LOST. Prospero, expelled from his dukedom in Milan, rules over a mysterious island with the help of a spirit named Ariel. Using his magic, he conjures up a tempest that leads to his enemies becoming shipwrecked on his island. In LOST, too, Jacob summons people to the island. His otherworldly powers grant the survival of all that he deems worthy, even in a plane crash that would have otherwise been lethal. Prospero also ensures that his enemies will not fall victim to the tempest:

I have in such provision in mine Art So safely ordered, that there is no soul No not so much perdition as an hair Betid to any creature in the vessel (І, ii, 118-21)

The improbability that most of the survivors of the plane crash have no serious injuries soon leads some of LOST’s characters, most notably John Locke, to acknowledge the mysterious power of the island. There are, however, other indicators that the island might be a magical place – more menacing than those indicating the presence of a magician with healing powers. Islands as symbols for the unknown are also often inhabited by monstrous creatures which stand for the menace that awaits one who is isolated from society. Ulysses encounters a cyclops, a one-eyed giant with a special appetite for humans, the protagonist in Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels (1726) finds himself in a world inhabited by people twelve times his size, the characters of A. Merrit’s The Moon Pool (1918) live side by side with frog-like creatures and dwarves, and Edward Prendick, protagonist of H.G.Wells’ 1896 novel The

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Island of Doctor Moreau becomes stranded on an island inhabited by humans that have been transformed into wild beasts. In LOST, too, there is a monster. In the very first episode the survivors look on as something effortlessly tears down trees in the jungle (1.01: 13:10). This encounter with a menacing, rationally unexplainable and alien phenomenon and the survivors dealing with it can be said to represent one of the two most intense triggers which propels the narrative and accounts for its dramatic tension. The other trigger is also a prototypical segment of island narratives, namely the realization that the island is, contrary to previous beliefs, not uninhabited. Similarly to LOST, Robinson Crusoe reaches its climax when the castaway notices a human footprint on the beach. Realizing that he is not alone on his island fills him with terror and panic. When the survivors in LOST find out that one of their companions had not been on the plane and must have been on the island before the crash, they are terror-stricken and the narrative is at its moment of greatest tension (1.10: 33:55). Monsters are frequent in island narratives, though they can take on very different forms. In Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe (1719) and R. M. Ballantyne’s The Coral Island (1857) the monsters are savages. In these conservative and condescending novels, the way of life of the indigenous population is presented as uncivilized and the protagonists are both disgusted and frightened by their manners which seem alien to them. In William Golding’s re- appropriation of The Coral Island , the monster is neither supernatural nor an unknown species. It does not even exist even though the boys believe it to be very real indeed. Rather, the monster lives inside the children’s psyche as they more and more turn away from their civilized manners, abandon moral values and begin following their instincts rather than their reason. The only character aware of their predicament is Simon, a withdrawn and sensitive boy. In one of their meetings, which revolves around the nature and the existence of a monster, Simon says: “Maybe there is a beast. What I mean is . . . maybe it’s only us.” (1996: 110-11). Unable to get his meaning across to the other boys he “[becomes] inarticulate in his efforts to express mankind’s essential illness” (ibid: 111). In Lord of the Flies , William Golding lays stress on the fact that it is not necessarily the ‘Other’ that presents a menace to us in dire situations, but it is rather human nature, or the ‘Self’, which turns against us when we find ourselves outside the boundaries of civilization. In LOST, both the monster outside and the monster within appear. The difficult situation the survivors have to face after the crash changes them and unleashes irrational and immoral behavior. The danger from outside – the monster and the Others – intensifies their terror which often makes it impossible for them to cling to the values they held up in their pre-island lives.

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Spiritual Rebirth and Utopian Society

The island as a place separated from the outside world does not only have potential in relation to otherworldly, often menacing phenomena, but can also represent a place where spiritual rebirth becomes possible. The island may then be comparable to the mythical notion of the lost paradise, a place “in which humans lived in close and daily contact with the divine” (Armstrong 2006: 15). Robinson Crusoe, for example, finds strength in God and after his initial feeling of despair and self-pity his devotion gives him the will to carry on. The boys in The Coral Island find delight in God’s splendid creation and thank their Lord constantly for having brought into being these natural substances which keep them alive. These characters feel closer aligned with the divine than they did when they were safely embedded in society. Robinson Crusoe often reflects on his previous ignorance of leading a life without giving thought and praise to a higher power. In Aldous Huxley’s 1962 novel The Island, the protagonist Will Farnaby is shipwrecked on the island of Pala. The people who live there see to his injuries and by and by the former cynic, egotistical and greedy Farnaby abandons his flawed notions as he is enchanted by the inhabitant’s philosophy of Buddhism, free love and altruism. The island in these narratives offers the possibility of re-evaluating one’s life and of redeeming oneself. The microcosm of the island offers the characters a possibility to change their lives, to start over without the pressures of modern society. The pre-island lives the protagonists of LOST led were all miserable. As Jacob reminds them: “I didn’t pluck any of you out of a happy existence. You were all flawed” (6.16: 31:02). Their new surroundings are certainly often sinister, but the fact that they have entered a world of elsewhere also gives them the opportunity to come to terms with their past and re-evaluate their moral standards. This is most obvious with the characters who are chosen by Jacob to become his successors. Jack, for example, used to be unable to let go and needed to be in total control of everything that happened around him. In the end he accepts that there are things beyond his control and this acceptance allows him to make the ultimate sacrifice: he gives his life for the lives of his friends. Sawyer, the stereotypical trickster, was a selfish criminal in his pre-island existence. Throughout the narrative he becomes an altruistic hero. These and many more transformations become possible because the island signifies a miniature paradise; a garden of Eden prior to original sin, in which absolution is granted to the stranded, in which sins are forgiven and redemption is possible.

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The island as a place secluded from modern, sinful society also gave rise to many narratives that dealt with the possibility of such a place in-between worlds becoming the setting for a utopian society. The people of Pala in Aldous Huxley’s novel The Island are shut out from the world and its conflicts. They provide what they need to survive for themselves, independent from import and export. They learn to love nature, treat each other with respect and prevent the problem of overpopulation by legitimized birth control. The island of Pala is a safe haven from modern illnesses, such as capitalism, religious fanaticism, war, economic dependencies and technological invention. It is a utopian society aware of society’s flaws. But Murugan, the rightful heir of the kingdom of Pala, is fascinated by modern lifestyle and the prosperity of other dictators. On his eighteenth birthday he invades Pala with an army. James Hilton’s 1933 novel Lost Horizon is not an island narrative as such but shares many of its characteristics. Conway and Mallison crash in the Tibetan mountains and find the fascinating town of Shangri-La which is ruled by the High Lama, a spiritual leader who does not age as quickly as other humans do. Like in LOST and The Tempest, the High Lama has summoned Conway to this mysterious place to become his successor. He tells him that they have created this society as the last safe resort for humans who they believe will annihilate themselves very soon. The society the High Lama has created is built upon spiritual wisdom and learning rather than progress and the development of technology. Conway is enchanted by this microcosm and considers accepting the High Lama’s offer and becoming his successor. Mallison, the quintessential modern man or – like LOST’s Jack – the man of reason, however, compares this place to a prison since it seems impossible to escape. Conway replies:

Well, there are two ways of looking even at that. My goodness, if you think of all the folks in the world who’d give all they’ve got to be out of the racket and in a place like this, only they can’t get out! Are we in prison or are they ? (2004: 189)

In both narratives an island or at least a secluded place, is regarded as safe from the catastrophes introduced by modern society. In LOST, the Dharma Initiative who settled on the island presumably during the 70s and christened their ferry system ‘Pala’, thus referring to the utopian society in Aldous Huxley’s novel, can be regarded as having made an attempt to establish a new and better way of life by adhering to the Buddhist notion of dharma, which stresses the importance of justice and ethics in society. It is their main objective to gain knowledge of the island. Most of them are pacifists by nature and merely resort to violence when their camp is attacked. Even though their society is hierarchical in structure, their leader Horace treats every member with the same degree of respect.

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In all three narratives presented here, the utopian societies are eventually destroyed: Pala is invaded by a modern army; Conway, in a moment of weakness, decides to help his friend Mallison to return home and will never be able to return to Shangri-La again; and the Dharma Initiative is annihilated by one of its own members –Benjamin Linus – in a personal act of violence directed against his father. What these narratives suggest is that an island has indeed the potential to represent a paradise, but that modern humans are too far deteriorated (or civilized) to be able to fully appreciate it and will finally destroy or leave it.

7.4.2. Time Travel Narratives

According to Sarah Clarke Stuart, LOST employs many of science fiction’s stereotypical conventions, namely “radical technological experiments, unfamiliar or alien life forms, morally problematic psychological or medical experimentation, and the manipulation of the space-time continuum” (2011: 89). Here, the focus will be on the theme of time travel, not because the other science fiction conventions feature less prominently in LOST, but rather because of the abundance of references and allusions to time travel narratives in the TV-series, such as those to Madeleine L’Engle’s A Wrinkle in Time , Peter Wright’s Hindsight , Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time, Adolfo Bioy Casares’ The Invention of Morel, H.G. Wells’ The Time Machine, Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five , and Rober Zemeckis’ film Back to the Future. In the third season of LOST, traveling through time becomes a major component of the TV-show. After the explosion of an underground station, Desmond’s consciousness is transported back in time (3.08: 11:03). He is back in the apartment he shares with his girlfriend Penelope. He has not yet left her, joined the army, taken part in a race around the world and gotten stranded on an island. He has a faint ‘recollection’ of his future and therefore tries to alter the course his life once took. Desmond decides to ask Penelope to become his wife immediately, but in a jewelry store Eloise Hawking (an onomastic allusion to Stephen Hawking) tells him that he will not buy the ring he is about to pay for. The mysterious woman does indeed influence Desmond in such a way that he does make the same decisions a second time around and, after being struck unconscious, he once again finds himself on the island. From then on Desmond becomes “unstuck in time” and can foresee (and prevent) Charlie Pace’s death. His consciousness seems to exist in the past, the present and the future simultaneously. Similarly, Desmond travels back in time in the fourth season (4.

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05). In both cases, his body remains in the present and it is merely his mind that travels through time. This form of time travel reflects Billy Pilgrim’s becoming “unstuck in time” in Kurt Vonnegut’s 1969 novel Slaughterhouse-Five. Time, for Billy Pilgrim, does not follow the normal, linear direction from past to present. For him and the Tralfamadorians who have given him this gift, the past, the present, and the future happen simultaneously and infinitely. When time is not constricted to a linear path but happens all the time at any temporal vantage point, the one who travels cannot change the future when in the past. When Billy Pilgrim is held prisoner on the planet of Tralfamadore he questions the aliens about their perception of time and wonders why they do not prevent the end of the universe when they already know how and why it will happen:

‘If you know this,’ said Billy, “isn’t there some way you can prevent it? Can’t you keep the pilot from pressing the button?’ ‘He has always pressed it, and he always will . We always let him and we always will let him. The moment is structured that way.’ (1979: 80)

This conversation is often echoed in LOST, most notably when Sawyer asks Daniel Faraday in season five why he cannot change the future (5.01: 27:19), and also in the explanation given to Desmond by Eloise Hawking (3.08: 26:36). If past, present and future, happen simultaneously, their causal relationships have already been established and cannot be changed. In this light, Desmond is doomed to fail when he tries to change his future and stay with Penny even though he does have a faint ‘recollection’ of his future/past, because his path has always and will always lead to the island. Similarly, he is able to foresee Charlie’s death but concedes that he will eventually fail to prevent it. Another form of time travel is introduced in season five. Here, the body travels through time and is thus not present in multiple timelines but merely in one. The most canonical novel which uses such a device is H.G. Wells’ The Time Machine (1895). In this form of time travel the alteration of the present/future seems possible. Robert Zemeckis’ 1985 film B ACK TO THE FUTURE , twice alluded to in LOST (3.01; 5.11), is a case in point. Traveling through time, Marty encounters his parents and because of his interference they will be able to lead a more affluent existence in the future. The characters in LOST, first and foremost Jack, also believe that, once in the past, they can change their future. In this narrative, however, alteration of the future seems impossible. The narrative suggests that

69 without knowing it, Jack takes the measures that will ultimately lead to their plane crash. Time in LOST appears to be circular and unalterable. Using time travel as a narrative device, does, to put it simply, not make sense. If characters travel to the past, why do they not remember it in their future/present? If the alteration of the present/future is possible, would that not, in most cases, prevent the construction of a time traveling device, or at least make the motifs for time traveling redundant? Once returning from the future to the present, would there not have to be a second self of the time traveler there? Conscious of the fact that time traveling presents an infusible aporia, the writers of LOST comment self-reflexively and self-ironically on this predicament through the voices of the characters Hurley and Miles Straume. Their time travel debate takes place soon after Sayid has shot Benjamin Linus - the survivors’ adversary to be - even though in their present he is only a child. Sayid, attempting to murder his future enemy, Jack, refusing to operate on the wounded Ben, and Hurley all believe that they have been given the chance to alter their future.

Hurley: Let me get this straight. All this already happened? Miles: Yes. Hurley: So this conversation we’re having right now; we had it before? Miles: Yes. Hurley: Then what am I gonna say next? Miles: I don’t know. Hurley: Ha! Then your theory is wrong! Miles: For the thousandth time, you dingbat, the conversation already happened, but not for you and me. For you and me, it’s happening right now. Hurley: OK, answer me this: If all this already happened to me, then why don’t I remember any of it? Miles: Because once Ben turned that wheel, time isn’t a straight line for us anymore. Our experiences in the past and the future occurred before these experiences right now. Hurley: (Confused.) Say that again. Miles: (Hands Hurley a gun.) Shoot me! Please! Hurley: Haha! I can’t shoot you because if you die in 1977 you’ll never come to the island on the freighter 30 years from now. Miles: I can die! Because I’ve already come to the island on the freighter. Any of us can die because this is our present. Hurley: But you said Ben couldn’t die because he has become the leader of the Others. Miles: Because this is his past! Hurley: But when we first captured Ben, and Sayid tortured him, why wouldn’t he remember getting shot by that same guy when he was a kid? Miles: (Baffled.) Huh. I hadn’t thought of that. (5.11: 12:24)

In this meta-fictional exchange, the writers of LOST engage in a secret dialogue with the viewers and concede that time travel, no matter how one approaches it, never works. It is typical for LOST as a postmodern text that it does not attempt to solve the aporia of time travel, but rather leaves it for the viewer to decide. The frequent allusions to pre-texts which are also concerned with time travel lay emphasis on the TV-series’ dependency on and 70 indebtedness to the conventions and forms of representations of time travel. However, as the conversation between Hurley and Miles exemplifies, these same pre-texts are at the same time also parodied and ironically commented upon in LOST.

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8. Case Study – Intertextuality and Self-reflexivity in “Exposé”

No other episode in LOST can be considered more prototypically intertetextual and self-reflexive, or in other words, quintessentially postmodern, than “Exposé” (3.14). In this episode there is a constant parodic and auto-textual dialogue between text and pre-texts. The writers of the episode self-consciously expose their creation as being dependent on pre-texts and they moreover enter into a subtle and secret dialogue with the viewers. In order to further elaborate on these points, a summary of Exposé is called for. Another reason why this episode lends itself conveniently to analysis (and also to summary), is the fact that it revolves around two characters who have only recently been introduced to the narrative. Their story is almost unconnected to the other happenings on the island and can therefore be regarded in isolation from the wider context of the TV-series.

8.1. Summary

At the beginning of the episode we see Nikki running through the jungle. She seems panic-stricken and scared for her life. She stops, looks around and digs a hole with her bare hands. We see her burying something. A flashback takes the audience to a strip club. Nikki, a stripper announced as Corvette, is called onto the stage to great applause. She stops her show when she notices a man with a silver case surveying the club and finally entering through a door. Corvette follows the man and enters an office. In front of her, the case lies on a table, now fully opened and filled with money. Corvette exclaims: “No, that’s the money for the orphanage! That means, Mr. LaShade, you’re the Cobra!” (3.14: 1:26) The man behind the desk turns around in his office chair and, after a brief exchange of words, shoots the stripper. She falls to the ground; he gets up and fires one last bullet into her dead body. Then someone shouts “And cut” (ibid: 2:06). A film crew enters the office and Nikki rises from the floor. She offers her respect to Billy Dee Williams, a ‘real’ actor who impersonated her killer, goes out of the room and talks to the TV-show’s producer Howard L. Zuckerman. He tells her: “You don’t need to die, we can bring you back next season.” (ibid: 2:32) Nikki answers: “Look, I’m just a guest star. We all know what happens to guest stars.” (ibid: 2:46) The old man and Nikki kiss and the viewers learn that they are in a relationship. Back on the island, Sawyer and Hurley play ping-pong on the beach. They hear rustling in the underbrush, turn around, and see Nikki collapsing in front of them. Hurley asks 72 her what happened, but her answer is merely a mumble that cannot be understood – neither by the characters nor by the audience. Nikki turns stock-still and Hurley announces: “Nikki is dead!” (ibid: 3:57) Sawyer exclaims: “Who the hell is Nikki?” (ibid: 4:02) Another flashback takes the audience to Zuckerman’s mansion in which he and Nikki are having dinner together. Paulo, the director’s new cook, approaches the table to receive praise for his cooking skills. Shortly after, Zuckerman has a heart attack and dies. Obviously he has been poisoned. We learn that Nikki and Paulo have plotted against the man in order to steal his diamonds which they now take from a matryoshka doll hidden in a safe. On the island, Sawyer, Jin, Charlie and Hurley stand around the corpse and discuss what might have happened to her. Charlie notices dirt under Nikki’s fingernails. Suddenly, Hurley believes he can remember Nikki’s last words. He believes she mumbled, “Paulo lies” (ibid: 7:23). The detectives receive their first clue and set out to find the boyfriend of the deceased – their first suspect. In another timeline, the partners in crime are waiting for a flight at Sydney airport. They read in a newspaper that Zuckerman’s death is not considered to be a crime by the authorities. Of course, the plane they are about to take is Oceanic 815, the plane that will crash on an island. In another flash-forward we see Nikki stumbling around the plane wreck looking for Paulo. When she finds him he seems traumatized. Not particularly interested in his condition, Nikki immediately asks Paulo if he has seen the bag with the diamonds. He looks at her disbelievingly. In the present, Sawyer, Jin and Hurley have followed Nikki’s trail and find Paulo lying dead in the jungle. Jin opens a bottle of water which lies next to the corpse. Sawyer snatches it away from him quickly, believing it to be poisoned. Later, Jin and Hurley believe it was the ‘Monster’ which killed Nikki and Paulo. Sawyer is not convinced and tells the little group of survivors to start gathering information about the two deceased. The detective work begins. In a flashback to 57 days ago, Nikki and Paulo are still looking for the bag, even though the latter is much less motivated to find it. Nikki approaches Doctor Arzt, a high school teacher who, after crashing on the island, has collected various insects, some of which have yet to be discovered, in order to become the “new Charles Darwin” (ibid: 15:02). One of these is a (fictional) spider Doctor Arzt refers to as “Latrodectus Regina” or “Medusa Spider”. This insect, once dead, releases such strong pheromones, that all male exemplars of the species will quickly be attracted to the scene. Later, Nikki and Paulo discover an entrance to an underground station. Paulo wants to go in, but Nikki forbids him to do so because she thinks it is too dangerous.

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Meanwhile, in the present, Charlie believes there might be a virus that was the reason for their deaths. The detectives are now in Nikki and Paulo’s tent. They find the insect collection of now deceased Doctor Arzt there, and, to Hurley’s delight, a script for Exposé, the show in which Nikki had a guest appearance. They also find walkie-talkies in their bag, which leads Sawyer, who has previously been held captive by the Others, to believe that the two of them were working together with their enemies who, in Sawyer’s opinion, decided they would not need their spies anymore and decided to kill them. In another flashback we see Nikki and Paulo walking to a lake in which some luggage has previously been found by other survivors. Nikki is eager for Paulo to dive in, but he is uncertain. He asks her whether they would still be together if they had already found the diamonds. He does not receive a satisfactory answer, which probably leads him to lie to Nikki and tell her that their bag is not at the bottom of the lake. Sawyer, still (pretending to be) convinced that the Others were involved in the deaths of Nikki and Paulo, tells the other survivors occupied with solving the mystery that he will look around for signs of them in the jungle. He produces a gun nobody else knew about which earns him the suspicion of the other detectives. In a flashback we see Paulo returning to the hatch he and Nikki found a few days ago. He climbs into the underground station and hides the diamonds in a toilet. Two of the Others enter the station shortly after him and forget a walkie-talkie when they leave. Paulo picks up the walkie-talkie as he leaves which gives the viewer an informational edge over the characters in the present as it refutes their guess that the Others might have been hand in glove with Nikki and Paulo and are responsible for their deaths. Back in the present, Hurley questions the other survivors, trying to ascertain whether anybody has any useful information. What he learns from Desmond increases his suspicion that Sawyer might be involved in the deaths of Nikki and Paulo. Desmond tells him that he saw Sawyer and Nikki arguing on the beach that very morning. In a flashback to 9 days ago, Paulo is faced with a dilemma. John Locke plans a trip to the underground hatch and Nikki wants to accompany him. Paulo cannot take the chance that the might find the diamonds in the toilet, so he, too, accompanies them and retrieves the diamonds from their previous hiding place. In the present, Sawyer approaches the burial ground where the other detectives are busy digging Nikki and Paulo’s graves. Hurley tells him that Desmond saw him and Nikki fighting and, full of suspicion, demands the gun from him. Sawyer explains that he did indeed keep this argument from his companions because he wanted to buy time to find out what

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Nikki had buried in the jungle. He concludes that if someone buries something shortly before they die, it must be something very precious. Sawyer then produces the diamonds and hands them over to the others to prove his innocence. In the morning of the same day, Nikki and Paulo sit together on the beach. Paulo tells her that not finding the bag was maybe the best thing that could have happened to them since it brought them closer together. When he gets up, Nikki notices a pack of nicotine gums that have fallen out of Paulo’s pockets. As the nicotine gums and the diamonds were both in the same bag, she now knows that Paulo has been lying to her. She is furious and runs to Sawyer to ask him for a gun. He declines and, as she runs away angrily, he shouts after her: “And who the hell are you?” (ibid: 33:00) The funeral of Nikki and Paulo is under way. Hurley, in his scant eulogy, shares with the other survivors what the detectives believe has happened: “It appears you have killed each other for diamonds.” (ibid: 34:35) Sawyer, the ex-criminal and con-man, throws the diamonds into the grave, realizing that they are of no worth in this place. In a flashback to earlier that day, Nikki has found a way to get even with Paulo. Under the pretence of wanting to surprise her boyfriend, she leads him into the jungle. She tells him she has found the diamonds. Naturally, Paulo is dumbfounded. Nikki shows him the nicotine gums, and despite Paulo’s pleading, she throws Doctor Arzt’s ‘Medusa Spider’ at him, which bites him immediately. Paulo kills it, seems to have a seizure but remains conscious. Nikki explains to him that, “they call her Medusa because one look from Medusa turns you into stone.” (ibid: 36:30) She goes on to assure him that he will only be paralyzed for approximately eight hours. Paulo apologizes and tells her that he was afraid of losing her and that he loves her. Judging from Nikki’s expression, she loves him too and only wants to teach him a lesson. But she does not get to say more, because of the central flaw in her scheme. She has forgotten that the female ‘Medusa spider’ releases pheromones which immediately attract all male exemplars of the species. Soon, rustling can be heard in the jungle as hundreds of spiders run towards Nikki. She is bitten too. Nikki takes the diamonds, runs through the jungle, stops to bury them and commences to the beach. When she breaks down before Hurley and Sawyer she tries to utter one single word – the only word that will ensure that they will not presume that she is dead: “paralyzed” (39:16). In the present, the funeral is coming to a close. Shovel after shovel of earth are heaved into the grave. Moments before Nikki’s face is completely covered, her eyes open in terror. Neither the bystanders nor the gravediggers notice, and Nikki and Paulo are buried alive.

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8.2. Self-Reflexivity

“The reflective novel is sixty years dead, Erato. What do you think modernism was about? Let alone post-modernism. Even the dumbest students know it’s a reflexive medium now [...].” (John Fowles, Mantissa )

We have already seen that postmodern art employs intertextuality to comment on and expose its fictional and dependent status. LOST’s frequent and “hyperconscious literary references” (Stuart 2011: 5) are proof that the TV-show lays no claim to originality or independence from texts that have preceded it. But the theory of intertextuality shows itself in yet another way in postmodern texts, namely in a playful and ironic self-commentary, a self- consciously drawing attention to the writing process and a parodic commentary on literary conventions, traditions and techniques. This is what is meant by self-reflexivity here. According to Linda Hutcheon, “the novel today often claims to be a genre rooted in the realities of historical time and geographical space, yet narrative is presented as only narrative, as its own reality – that is, as artifice” (2000: 31). She further claims that a frequently used device to point to the text’s nature as a fictional construct is the mise-en- abyme structure, or what she terms “an internal self-reflecting mirror” (ibid: 31). “Exposé” also begins with such a device, namely a TV-series within a TV-series. Once the strip-club scene is exposed as being fiction within fiction by someone shouting “Cut” (3.14: 2:06), the illusion of realism is completely subverted. However, what is to follow the first scene of the flashback in turn appears to be more realistic. This effect is aided by explicitly showing how a TV-series is created (camera work, producers, etc.) and by the appearance of a ‘real life’ actor. Billy Dee Williams who impersonates ‘The Cobra’ plays himself in this episode which is supported by Nikki saying that it was such a pleasure working with him. As he is firmly anchored in the extratextual world, the illusion of realism is strengthened. In this way, the incorporation of a mise-en-abyme structure in “Exposé” could be regarded as a way of making the rest of the narrative appear more realistic. However, this effect is completely reversed when paying close attention to the clapperboard (ibid: 2:07). On it, one can read the name of the director of this episode of Exposé: Stephen Williams. Ironically, Stephen Williams is not only the director of the play within a play, but also the director of this episode of LOST. This is a prototypical example of postmodern art’s tendency to playfulness and ironic distance. The matryoshka doll in which the diamonds are hidden, serves as a symbol for the mise-en-abyme structure of this episode. It reflects the many layers of which the narrative 76 consists and which all mirror each other. The largest segment signifies the island story or the present. The next segment is the story of Nikki and Paulo, which can be regarded as a story within a story as it is (more or less) independent from the causally related narrative of LOST. The third segment symbolizes the flashbacks, which are auto-referential and mirror the present happenings. The last and smallest doll then connotes the mise-en-abyme structure of the first flashback scene – Exposé as a TV-series within a TV-series. And altogether, LOST, like the matryoshka doll, is nothing but a constructed plaything. By using such a device, the narrative refers to itself - to the creation processes involved and the conventionalized techniques used. It does so overtly and playfully, and exposes itself as a fictional construct. In this sense, the episode title “Exposé” can be attributed a metaphorical function: in French, the adjective exposé can mean both “exposed” and “defenseless”. The latter relates to Nikki’s fate on the island, the former can refer both to Mr. LaShade in the TV-series within a TV-series, and the episode’s effect of laying bare the narrative’s fictional status. In other instances, the writers of Exposé (Edward Kitsis and Adam Horowitz) comment overtly on the writing process. According to Stafford, fans of LOST were furious about the introduction of Nikki and Paulo at the beginning of the third season (2007: 106-7). Apparently, the fans’ aversion towards these two characters did not pass the writers/producers of LOST unnoticed. They decided against incorporating Nikki and Paulo further into the narrative and this episode can be regarded as an “extended apology to the fans” (ibid: 107). Thus, Sawyer’s remark “Who the hell is Nikki?” (3.14: 4:02) ironically echoes the viewers’ sentiments towards the newly introduced character. The mise-en-abyme structure already foreshadows Niki’s death on the island. This is even made more explicit in the conversation Nikki has with the director of Exposé. After he offers to rewrite the script and bring her back next season she replies: “I’m just a guest star. We all know what happens to guest stars.” (ibid: 2:46) This remark has two functions. First, it anticipates Nikki’s death in the other timeline. Second, it can be read as a self-conscious exposure of the writers’ dependence on already established generic conventions. They enter into a subtle dialogue with the viewers and comment on the writing process. The self-commentary in this episode results in a secret contract between writers and viewers who are now both aware what they deal with: a fictional construct which uses already established generic conventions and refers not to reality but to itself and the already written.

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8.3. Intertextuality

When Nikki approaches Sawyer on the beach to demand a gun from him, he can be seen reading Agatha Christie’s 1941 novel Evil under the Sun . The allusion to this prototypical work of crime fiction serves the function of supporting the theme of murder mystery, and also places this episode firmly within the genre of detective narratives. While “Exposé” does indeed feature all the necessary components of the genre (i.e. victim, detective, suspects) it would be wrong to assume that the allusion is incorporated conservatively, that is to say, to lay stress on the episode’s indebtedness to former works of that kind. While the narrative certainly exploits conventionalized structures of the detective genre, it does so with an ironic distance that leads to the subversion of certain prototypical generic norms. The episode can thus be regarded as a “repetition with critical difference”, which corresponds to Linda Hutcheon’s definition of parody (2000:7). Parody used to be limited according to its function. Texts which merely overtly ridiculed another text could be grouped among this intertextual device. In A Theory of Parody (1985), Linda Hutcheon argues for a more broad definition of parody (and thus runs the risk of merely proposing a new term for the concept of intertextuality) which, in her opinion, should include any imitation which lays stress on its difference to the pre-text. Thus, parodies can have more than one intent; their function is not solely that of mocking a pre-text. The function of parody in Exposé is also not only that of ridiculing, but it is rather a playful exploitation and subversion of established conventions. In this way, it is not one pre-text that is parodied, but a whole genre. The allusion to Evil under the Sun therefore represents a metonymic link to the whole genre of detective narratives. The difference between parodying one pre-text and a whole group of texts is often ignored. Stocker proposes Genette’s term Hypertextuality for the first instance and the term Similtextuality for the latter (1998: 65). In Genette’s definition, a parody of generic conventions would fall under the category of Architextuality , which however emphasizes similarity and imitation rather than difference. In “Exposé”, all seems to be set for the development of a typical detective narrative: there is a victim, an unknown offender, and detectives eager to solve the crime. However, what is to follow does not adhere to conventionalized developments of prototypical detective narratives. It is rather a parody of the literary genre of detective fiction, represented by Agatha Christie’s Evil under the Sun , and also a parody of the abundance of murder/mystery TV- series (such as CSI: Crime Scene Investigation , 2000- ; Law and Order , 1990-2010; Criminal

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Minds, 2005- ; Bones, 2005- ; Navy CIS , 2003- ; Cold Case, 2003-2010 ; etc.) that have been produced in the last decade. First of all, the detectives in “Exposé” are not brilliant and impeccable investigators, like those of prototypical detective narratives. Hercule Poirot, in Evil under the Sun , is able to perfectly reconstruct the crime and uncover the motives of the two murderers – Patrick and Christine Redfern. In LOST, the investigators make various wrong guesses as to who might have murdered Nikki and Paulo and why. Before they find Paulo’s body in the jungle, they believe it was him who killed his girlfriend Nikki. Later, some believe that the couple’s water must have been poisoned or that the monster on the island randomly killed them. Later, Charlie suggests (rather out of the blue) that there might be a virus. The Others are suspected, and later some believe that the murderer could be Sawyer, one of the detectives. At the funeral, Hurley unconvincingly presents the investigation’s final outcome: “It appears you killed each other for diamonds.” (3.14: 34:35) Investigations in prototypical detective narratives are also rife with wrong assumptions and dead ends, but they ultimately lead to the solving of the crime and the detection of the motives of the killer. In “Exposé”, the detectives remain in the dark until the very end and the crime is never solved. When Sawyer pours out the water of Paulo’s water bottle because he thinks it is poisoned, Hurley accuses him of destroying the crime scene. Sawyer returns: “Crime scene? Is there a forensics hatch I don’t know about?” (ibid: 32:24) He thus implicitly alludes to various TV-series in which it is the detectives’ shrewdness as well as the technology available to them which allow for a detailed and flawless reconstruction of a crime. In “Exposé”, the detectives fail, and it is only the viewers who learn the true nature of what happened. This dramatic irony suggests that is well enough for a piece of fiction to pretend to be able to reconstruct past events. In (the island) reality, however, the past is never accessible, never allows for exact reconstruction, and all that remains for the characters to do is fictionalize the past. This notion again signifies a bridge to postmodern thought and its resistance to grand narratives such as history. History, too, is merely a representation of the past, because “correspondence between narrative and ‘the past’ is not possible” (Butler 2002: 36). By not allowing the detectives to solve the mystery, LOST disavows the possibility of a one-to-one reconstruction of past events by means of any sign system, as is implied by crime TV-series of today. The perfect irony and most striking parody of detective genre conventions is this: the victims are not even dead. Nobody ever meant to kill them, and without knowing it, the detectives who attempted to solve a crime become the murderers themselves by burying Nikki

79 and Paulo alive. The successors of Sherlock Holmes and Hercule Poirot – those geniuses of their genre – are themselves the killers, and therefore their investigation must be fruitless, their guesses must be wrong. The detective and the criminal fuse into one and the same character who chases his own tail throughout the narrative.

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Conclusion

Sarah Clarke Stuart states that in the majority of cases the motive for incorporating “hyperconscious literary references” in LOST is that of “nostalgic reverence” (2011: 5). It is the core argument of this thesis that this is not the case. Firstly, authorial intention cannot be reconstructed. It is impossible to determine if an allusion within a text serves the purpose of an author paying tribute to the pre-text referred to. Even if Sarah Clarke Stuart’s argument was valid, it would not change the fact that a text can only gain meaning in a personal reading. Chapters 1 and 2 put emphasis on the fact that meaning creation always differs from reader to reader and cannot be governed by the author. This becomes evident when looking at the reading process of intertextual devices. Authors can simplify the recognition process of allusions by means of explicitness, but it is out of their control which significance or function a reader will assign to them (or if they will remain unnoticed). So if it is true that, as stated by Sarah Clarke Stuart, most references in LOST merely serve the purpose of paying homage to pre-texts or authors, the actual interpretations can and would still differ from the intended one. The function of an allusion will always be determined by the reader. In chapter 3 it was shown that an allusion such as that to Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov can have more than one function because readers activate different elements of the pre-text. One reader might focus on the similarities; another on the differences; another might look for a clue in the pre-text to determine what will happen next in the TV-series; and yet another might merely interpret the allusion as a way for the writers to honor the Russian novelist. All of these and many more other readings are possible, and none can be prevented by the text or the author. Secondly, while most allusions do mirror what takes place on the story level of LOST, they always also represent a conflict or difference. Allusions can never be conservative, or in other words merely show nostalgic reverence to a pre-text, because they are reinterpretations and recontextualizations, and therefore go beyond transposing a pre-text to a post-text. Allusions are thus like metaphors: both (con)texts are inconsistent with each other unless both are reinterpreted. Allusions will therefore always contain both similarities and differences alike. Intertextual titles and onomastic allusions, which were dealt with in chapters 5 and 6, are a case in point. The process of reinterpretation becomes especially clear when analyzing intertextual titles. In these cases, the pre-text is known before the post-text evolves. In order to reconcile both texts, each one needs to be reread. The result will always contain similarities and differences. Intertextual names, too, remain activated for a longer duration and thus call 81 for active participation and reinterpretation of the readers. The example of the TV-series’ protagonist Jack Shephard was a case in point: three pre-texts remain activated, namely The New Testament, Coral Island and Lord of the Flies . The similarities to all these pre-texts are striking, but as the narrative of LOST evolves it becomes clearer and clearer that these allusions also present a conflict in the way that LOST recontextualizes certain elements and contradicts others. If this onomastic allusion only had the purpose of paying homage, the viewers would not have to constantly reassess the relationship between LOST and the three pre-texts alluded to. Thirdly, it was shown that postmodern texts often employ overt intertextuality to stress their dependency on other texts and expose their nature as fictional constructs that do not refer to reality but only to the realm of textual relations. Allusions in these cases do not serve the purpose of showing nostalgic reverence but rather have the function of putting emphasis on the fact that each text is the result of recycling other texts. Any work of art is dependent on all other pre-texts. No text is original, but rather compiled of elements from other texts. Foregrounding intertextuality is one of the most frequently mentioned characteristics of postmodern art. Authors lay no claim on originality and highlight their dependency on the already written by incorporating allusions to pre-texts. While, during Romanticism, authors were believed to be God-like creators, they are now regarded as recyclers, arrangers and compilers of texts that have preceded them. This dependency does not only show itself conservatively but can also be parodic. Chapters 7 and 8 analyzed how LOST exploits genre conventions while at the same time ironically commenting on them. This self-reflexivity – the awareness of pre-text dependency and of the text’s nature as a fictional construct- is best visible in the episode “Exposé”. This quintessentially postmodern episode playfully recycles conventions and self-ironically exposes itself as a fictional construct with no points of reference in extratextual reality. The visual allusion to Agatha Christie’s Evil under the Sun can hardly be interpreted as paying tribute. It rather stands in a pars pro toto relationship to all texts belonging to the detective genre, and its main purpose is that of making the viewers aware of which conventions are parodied in this episode. If allusions are recognized and if their functional variety is not downplayed as being nostalgic and conservative, intertextuality can enrich the reading of LOST considerably. One can anticipate events and gain an informational edge. This most clearly applies to titular and onomastic allusions which remain activated for a longer period of time. One can gain a more profound understanding of characters and events as is the case with most allusions with a supportive function. Intertextuality allows the viewers of LOST to actively participate in the

82 process of meaning creation instead of passively consuming the text. And last but not least, one might find (personally) satisfactory answers to the unanswered riddles LOST poses and never resolves. Again, these clues or points of reference cannot be found in extratextual reality but in the web of textual relations. One might never be able to cut the Gordian knot LOST represents, and just like a signifier takes one to another signifier and so on infinitely without ever arriving at a final destination (signified), the TV-series takes the viewers from one pre-text to another, never arresting meaning, never giving them a chance to rest. Due to the multitude of allusions in LOST, only a selection of them could be analyzed in this paper. Biblical references, for example, feature especially prominently in the series and were only mentioned in passing. Moreover, the emphasis was placed on literary allusions, which is not say that references to television, film and painting are less frequent and exhibit less intertextual potential. Further research into LOST could include among others the analysis of actors as agents of intertextuality, stereotypes and their quintessentially intertextual nature, LOST’s usage of cinematographic conventions, parodies of LOST in other media, or a comparison between the TV-series and previous works of producers, directors and writers. This shows how LOST remains one of the most fertile objects for research in intertextuality and postmodern popular culture.

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