Introduction: Revisiting Dialogue William A. Cohen, Laura Green Narrative, Volume 27, Number 2, May 2019, pp. 129-139 (Article) Published by The Ohio State University Press DOI: https://doi.org/10.1353/nar.2019.0008 For additional information about this article https://muse.jhu.edu/article/722864 Access provided at 29 Apr 2019 14:26 GMT from University Of Maryland @ College Park William A. Cohen and Laura Green Introduction: Revisiting Dialogue OVER the past half-century, discussions of characters’ speech in fiction have been dominated by the category of free indirect discourse (FID), which is often described as blending the point of view of a character with that of a narrator. Ann Banfield influ- entially argued that FID has been the most distinctive formal achievement of literary writing in the modern period.1 Following Banfield, critics have provided innumerable accounts of the origins and functions of FID in fiction, not only to analyze the com- plexities of its formal features, but also to understand the psychological, political, and aesthetic effects of its use. While disagreement persists among critics about the charac- teristics and boundaries of FID, this particular way of representing characters’ speech and thought has received so much attention that it leads us to wonder about what alternatives may have been neglected for it to become so salient. FID is distinguished, on the one hand, from a narrator’s discourse, whether in the service of exposition, reporting, interpreting, or evaluation of events. It contrasts, on the other, with both direct and indirect discourse. Direct discourse purports to quote a character’s speech (“She said, ‘I have to get out of here’”); indirect discourse reports on it (“She said she had to get out of there”); and FID incorporates the character’s speech within the lan- guage of the narrator (“She had to get out of there”). What critics find most interesting about FID are its many forms of mediation: it conveys meaning through some words that belong to the character and some that belong to the narrator—and sometimes through some words whose ownership is not so clearly marked. Different accounts of FID may address characters’ speech, thoughts, or both, and these differences can lead to conflicting understandings of what FID is as well as reveal the complexity of the phenomenon itself.2 William A. Cohen is Professor of English at the University of Maryland, where he also serves as Associate Provost and Dean for Undergraduate Studies. He is the author of Embodied: Victorian Literature and the Senses (Univ. of Minnesota Press, 2009) and of more recent articles in ELH, Victorian Literature and Culture, and 19: Interdisciplinary Studies in the Long Nineteenth Century. Laura Green is the author of Literary Identification: From Charlotte Brontë to Tsitsi Dangarembga (Ohio State Univ. Press, 2012). She is Professor of English and of Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies at Northeastern University and currently serves as the Associate Dean of Teaching, Learning, and Experien- tial Education in the College of Social Sciences and Humanities. NARRATIVE, Vol. 27, No. 2 (May 2019) Copyright © 2019 by The Ohio State University 130 William A. Cohen and Laura Green By contrast with FID, dialogue in fiction is often understood to represent the utterances of characters unfiltered through any intermediary frame. Dialogue is easily recognizable—and distinguished from other narrative elements—by the typographi- cal and phraseological conventions that were stabilized in English in the first decades of the nineteenth century.3 Dialogue shares these features with quoted speech as rep- resented in nonfiction: quotation marks (“inverted commas” in British English) or other typographical indicators, paragraph or line breaks, and speech tags such as “she said,” often qualified by adverbs of manner (“loudly,” “curtly”). This marked discourse is a familiar feature of fictional narrative at all levels of literary ambition. As Lewis Carroll’s Alice wonders, “What is the use of a book without pictures or conversa- tions?” (9). While contemporary adult readers have mainly left pictures behind (or relocated them to the subgenre of the graphic novel), it is hard to imagine a novel that contains no conversation—no exchange of character speech—at all. In addition to its promiscuous familiarity, the critical view of dialogue as a relatively self-evident, uninteresting feature, by contrast with FID, arises from the persistence of the illusion it creates—namely, that it plainly represents characters’ words. Some accounts of direct speech explicitly assign it the function of mimetic re- production. Patrick O’Neill, for example, distinguishes FID from both indirect speech and direct, quoted speech. He identifies quoted speech as “the maximally mimetic option . where the narrator elects to show what happened rather than tell about it[;] we hear . only [the character’s] voice, as if we were physically present our- selves” (59). Most theorists in principle acknowledge the artificiality of this mimesis. Gérard Genette, for example, while agreeing with O’Neill that fictional dialogue is optimally mimetic because it refers to nothing but itself, also distinguishes it from nonfiction dialogue by virtue of itsdoubled artifice: “History, biography, autobi- ography are supposed to reproduce speeches that were actually made; epic, novel, story, novella are supposed to pretend to reproduce them. Supposed to: Those are the generic conventions, which of course do not necessarily correspond to reality” (Narrative Discourse Revisited 50; emphasis original). Yet such is the power of what Meir Sternberg calls the “direct speech fallacy” (“Point of View” 68) that this mimetic account of direct speech still influences most arguments on behalf of FID’s relative subtlety and flexibility—arguments that unreflectively stop at the quotation marks, which appear to bind words as they are imagined to have been spoken.4 With the illusion of proximity to oral discourse that written dialogue generates, it can also seem distant from fiction’s particularly literary qualities. The application of linguistic frameworks, such as pragmatics, drawn from analysis of real-world conversation may contribute to the perception of dialogue as fundamentally tran- scriptive.5 Indeed, one of the innovations of Banfield’s Unspeakable Sentences was to assert that literary discourse has a deep grammatical structure distinct from that of spoken language. Yet as much as any other component of narrative, dialogue is part of the novel’s textual fabric. Instances of dialogue may partake of the narrator’s style (or styles), or may be distinct from it. Relative to other narrative materials, dialogue may evoke an illusion of mimesis and conversational spontaneity (words as actually spoken and exchanged), and yet it is as determined and stylized as any other writing in fiction. As James Phelan points out, fictional dialogue between characters is a com- Introduction: Revisiting Dialogue 131 plex rhetorical representation: “The implied author must simultaneously motivate each character’s speech within its mimetic context and within that of his or her own commu- nicative purposes” (172; emphasis original). In the afterword to this issue, Rosemarie Bodenheimer similarly analyzes characters’ dialogic exchanges as embodying a se- quence of authorial choices and cues to the reader. Recognizing how far dialogue in fiction actually is from oral performance—by comparison with, for example, dramatic literature—helps draw attention to that styl- ization and writtenness. Lennard Davis states that, for eighteenth-century playwrights, “Scripts were by and large not meant to be read, so that they stood in relation to [real spoken] conversation as a musical score stands in relation to the heard symphony” (172). As Frances Ferguson points out, drama “consists of almost nothing but direct quotation, so that [it] must continually create an unfolding plot that motivates indi- vidual characters to present their views, to have thoughts that rise to the level of the expressible.” In its early form in epistolary novels such as those of Samuel Richardson, fiction “expand[s] and exaggerat[es] the requirement that characters represent them- selves and the details of daily life in their own persons, and only through their words” (167–68). Katie Gemmill argues in this issue that Richardson, a printer as well as a novelist, in fact attempts to supplement characters’ words, and to capture some of the embodied affective capacity of dramatic dialogue, through his use of typographic features such as the em dash and italics. His very success in “evoking aurally vivid and thus emotionally live characters” (Gemmill 158), however, contributed to the diver- gence, at the end of the eighteenth century, of fictional from dramatic representation. The rise of the novel and the standardization of rules for representing dialogue depended on and mutually reinforced each other, fostering the development of third-person narrators who can characterize and evoke emotional states and different levels of character consciousness without recourse to a “transcriptional aesthetics” such as Richardson’s. As Dorrit Cohn, among others, has argued, the novel in the nineteenth century evolved away from the represented speech of its original epistolary and confessional first-person forms (such as Richardson’s), and toward a form of rep- resented thought that “imperceptibly integrate[s] [characters’] mental reactions into the neutral-objective report