Charles Bernstein/American Innovator More Numerous Of: a Kinetic Approach James Shivers 2019
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Charles Bernstein / American Innovator (i ERS ERSPECTIV IVE. More Numerous of: A Kinetic Approach 37 Blue Editions James Shivers ©2019 James Shivers. Foreword © Richard Deming. All Rights Reserved. Design by 37 Blue Source Material for cover: Common Place book, 1833, p 109. Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon fund. All quotes from Charles Bernstein used with his permission. Charles Bernstein: American Innovator was James Shivers’s PhD dissertation from the University of Lausanne, Switzerland, 2001. This digital edition adds a new foreword by Richard Deming and a new introduction by the author Another version of chapter three, “Visual Strategies: A line, A Verse, Something on Paper” appeared in the Salt Companion to Charles Bernstein, ed. William Allegrezza (2012). Contact: 37 Blue Editions [email protected] jamesshivers.com Foreword How to Do Things with Charles Bernstein's Poetry Richard Deming Senior Lecturer in English, Director of Creative Writing Yale University One of the most memorable moments of my intellectual life came in the fall semester of 1999, during a graduate seminar that Charles Bernstein was running as part of the Poetics Program at the University of Buffalo. Charles’s dogged interest in archives means that the general outline of the syllabus still exists on line. Charles’s seminars always had some theme by which he structured the semester. That fall, for example, the ostensible focus was “materialist poetics,” and I say “ostensibly” because the discussions felt like explorations of ideas rather than the covering of a single conceptual frame or academic method. The seminars, largely, were built around visits by poets and critics. We would read the work of the visitors and then meet with them during the seminar for a conversation of the work. Between these visits, Charles would have us also spend weeks reading and discussing work by figures that could be seen as establishing a tradition of avant-garde poetry and poetics. To know Bernstein’s work is to be able to guess some of those figures: Ezra Pound, Ludwig Wittgenstein, Louis Zukofsky, Vladimir Mayakovsky, and, naturally, Gertrude Stein. Charles would establish a context for the discussion, but largely the seminar would flow from student presentations that he would guide into larger contexts. Given how loquacious Charles can be, I was always impressed by his ability to guide the discussion and moderate rather than dictate and lecture. The class, too, was diversely compressed of philosophy students, comparative literature students, Americanists, and poets. There were those in the class that seemed to want to be some new generation of Language poets, but there were also those who had a Freudian desire to dismantle that frame. There were those who just wanted to learn the material, and there was a group of us who knew that Charles—in his poetry, his essays, his editing, and his general advocacy for the arts—had, throughout his writing career, helped change the discussion that poetry was having with itself. It seemed that to take poetry seriously meant wanting to extend that thinking. Taken together, these different constituencies forming the seminar shared a belief in poetry’s social function, but there was no common doctrine or set of values and these divergences played out in the conversations in the seminar room. I mentioned an awareness that Charles had definitely made an impact for my generation (and the one before mine) in our understanding of poetics being involved in ethics as well as aesthetics. Did he help make the stakes for poetry higher? He certainly showed many of us how a consciousness of literary practice could broaden the scope of what poetry could and should do in a way that had a moral—certainly critical—dimension without descending into actual moralizing. In Bernstein’s work, particularly in his adroit use of an irony that seems to mean what it says as well as mean the opposite in the very same moment. For years, the work does not posit lyric truths, but rather has remained focused on asking the questions, or at its, best giving answers that felt more like questions. In the classroom, then, his was an authority that seemed to always be interrogating the very mechanisms of authority. The professor in the room taking such a position was, by turns, liberating as well as frustrating, but then no one ever said poetry should be easy. In fact, probably it should specifically not be. “What did Ralph Waldo Emerson say, “Poets are thus liberating gods”? Revolution, change of any kind, especially changing assumptions, is always messy and frustrating. That is how one can tell it is working. In any event, this range of students and their ideological investments and methodological were a feisty lot. There was quibbling and questioning of every text and indeed every visitor in a way that I have never seen in any other graduate seminar that I have ever been in, seen, visited, or led since. People were civilized, but fiercely critical in a way that sometimes ii made me uncomfortable. I did not always feel that my peers’ comments and observations were always moving towards synthesis or insight. Often, it felt like positions were reifying, as can happen with younger poets and critics. The polemics are a way of trying out one’s commitment even if openness was sometimes the cost. One day we were discussing Stein’s prose. I would like to say it was from The Making of Americans, certainly something characteristically dense, something obdurate, full of repetition and all kinds of distancing effects. The students were caught deep in an argument of the style, talking in vague ways about its surface play and how looking for meaning or an argument was reactionary if not jejune. Charles let this go on, and then calmly broke through the mists of some graduate student’s jargon-filled and lengthy disquisition on Derrida, deconstruction, and Stein’s modernist ineffability. “People always say that Steins’ work is about surface play and that it’s unreadable. That’s not true,” he said. Charles flipped to the middle of the book and started to read a page aloud, stopping every line or so to do a close reading, showing how the repetitions and backtracking of Stein’s prose were still wholly legible strategies. By the time he hit the end of the page, he had offered a breathtaking, absolutely eye-opening close reading of the very text that moments ago someone had said “resisted explanation.” In that moment, it seemed as if he chose the page wholly at random and improvised that reading. Even if it had been a reading he had prepared before class and had inserted it at just the moment to make his point, would it matter? . In fact, arguably, the fact of its being a bit of theater only would make me admire it all the more. The reading was brilliant—certainly the best I have ever seen anyone do of any text without any notes as a guide—and it made the point. The text had not failed us, we had failed it. We had let ourselves settle at illegibility as being its own good. I tell this story because it was riveting and because what I and my classmates saw so upended what many critics of Bernstein might lob at him—and have over the years—in terms of declaring his interest in difficulty as being merely obfuscation, or disruption as the one and only goal. James Shivers, in the chapters that follow, insists, “The difficulty for readers is that iii [Bernstein’s] work cannot be easily categorized into established interpretive patterns” (123). Clearly, Charles demonstrated that even if Stein’s work cannot be categorized within familiar patterns, that does not make it a text that cannot be interpreted. With that in mind, I also relate the anecdote because it positions Bernstein’s work within the pedagogical. By this, I do not mean to describe his teaching strategies, but rather wish to indicate how it shows that language and meaning and interpretation are not things that one can fully finish learning. Learning them means continually sounding their depths and testing their capacities. In the case of Stein, he saw the argument developing in front of him and used evidence to dispute it, but not to dismiss. I guarantee it meant that the students in the seminar could not see Stein’s difficulty as merely an end in itself. His close reading, improvised as it was, demonstrated that difficulty as a textual feature meant not that the work could not be read or interpreted, but rather that more was asked of readers. We had to go beyond our expectations about reading, but not forgo them altogether. Meaning, he showed us, is not a destination at which one arrives, but is a tentative understanding that arises from the process of reading. In that way, Stein’s work, if we read it closely, showed better what the edges of understanding might be. You only find the edge by walking along it and sometimes going past it. In many ways, James Shivers’s More Numerous of: A Kinetic Approach is an important contribution not simply because it is the most comprehensive engagement of Bernstein’s work that exists so far, but because Shivers is so resolutely interested in the pedagogical himself. Again, when I use the term pedagogical, I do not mean this in a narrow, practical way of how one teaches modernist and neo-modernist and avant-garde poetry. Instead, Shivers consistently shows how Bernstein’s poetry and his prose is demonstrates by means exploration what language can make possible, as well as what it cannot.