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The Elements of Yoga


AutorDevereux, Godfrey
PealkiriThe elements of yoga / Godfrey Devereux
IlmunudShaftesbury : Element, 1994
Linkhttp://tartu.ester.ee/record=b1949723~S1*est
ViideDevereux, Godfrey 1994. The Elements of Yoga. Shaftesbury: Element.

The methods of yoga are many and encompass a number of systems, or paths, each with a different emphasis. What makes them yoga is their common purpose, similar effects and shared result. Their purpose is to liberate the individual from unnecessary confusion and pain. Their effect is to generate a quietening and refining of the mind. Their result is peace, joy and happiness in a rich, fulfilling life. In effect yoga is a science of skilful living rather than a religion, it is practical rather than hypothetical. (Devereux 1994: vi)
I have noticed that when I exercise and/or jog, I spend my surplus energy on the body and have less to spend on worrying about minute stuff (but also, less energy to read books, for example). I've noticed all these alleged effects of yoga while doing basically anything physical. I'm getting into yoga now because I think this might be a way to exercise without spending too much energy; to train my body without losing the ability to concentrate on my readings. Stretching and breathing exercises seem to be ideal for my current purposes.
Whoever begins yoga and continues regularly and consistently will soon benefit from its fruit. These include suppleness, strenght, energy, good posture, improved respiration, circulation and digestion, bright and clear eyes, smooth and shining skin, even muscle tone, normalized body weight, perceptual and verbal clarity, concentration, tranquility, self-confidence, openness, honesty, temperance, enthusiasm, appreciation and gratitude. It gives one the means and the desire to live life fully, to engage directly with the flavours and textures of life with enthusiasm and joy. However, yoga has a very different curve of progress for each individual. Some people progress physically faster than they progress psychologically, and vice versa. Yoga is more truly about the mind than the body and one should avoid establishing unrealistic goals and mileposts based on what one would like or has seen in others. If it makes you happy about yourself it is working, no matter how much or little flexibility, strenght or stamina you develop. These will come with time and practice. (Devereux 1994: vii-viii)
All's well and good. Perceptual and verbal clarity sound doubtful, but whatever. I'll still give it a whirl.
Yoga means union. As the goal and fruit of yoga it means union of the individual with the universal, the self with other, inner with outer, finite with infinite.
Samadhi refers to the state of consciousness in which liberation is experienced, through extinguishing the movements of the mind caused by desire, confusion and attachment. It is the ultimate state of consciousness, the final fruit of yoga. In it there is neither suffering, nor attachment, nor illusion. There is only the bliss of freedom from limitation and identification of the finite self with the infinite reality.
Moksha means liberation. Often it is thought that yoga is a flight from the world. This is not so. Yoga is a journey into the heart of the world. It is not the world that we leave behind in yoga, but our illusions, our preconceptions about it, especially our deluded sense of our self as separate from God, as apart from all other elements of existence. Free from illusions we become one with the entire universe.
Kaivalya means aloneness. This refers to the fact that when one has become one with God, one with the whole of existence, there is no other, and so one is all alone. This does not imply solitude or loneliness. In it the singular interconnectedness of all is realized. (Devereux 1994: X)
I know from other sources that "union" is a very one-sided interpretation, etymologically it is more close to yoke or rope (hey! these even sound alike!). Reaching the state of consciousness without movements of mind... a negative interpretation would be that yoga makes you stop thinking. And I don't agree at all that our sense of self as separate from God is deluded. Rather, the sense of being one with the whole of existence is deluded: either we are one with the whole universe to begin with or it is impossible; no amount of stretches, breathing exercises and feeling or belief is going to change that. This religious side of yoga is starting to annoy me so I'm gonna see what google:define has to say about these terms:
  • define:yoga - A Hindu spiritual and ascetic discipline, a part of which, including breath control, simple meditation, etc.
  • define:samadhi - A state of intense concentration achieved through meditation, at which union with the divine is reached.
  • define:moksha - In Indian religions, Moksha (Sanskrit: मोक्ष ') or Mukti (Sanskrit: मुक्ति), literally "release"...
  • define:kaivalya - Kaivalya, which is the ultimate goal of yoga, means solitariness or detachment..
Welp, now I'm doubting if I can get into yoga because the spiritual stuff repulses me.
Patanjali is often regarded as the father of yoga. However, the Hindu god Siva is traditionally regarded as the source of esoteric yogic knowledge. Many of the tantras, agamas and other works begin by stating that the information contained within was given by Siva to his consort Parvati. In one instance he was overhear by the king of fishes, Matsyendra, who subsequently took on human form and bevame the founder of Hatha Yoga. The popular Hindu god Krishna is the source of yogic teachings in the Bhagavad Gita, referring especially to the paths of devotion and action. (Devereux 1994: 9)
Neat: the variety that on the surface seems most sensible, has the most absurd origins story.
Similar to the Yoga panishads are a collection of manuals describing the beliefs, rituals and practices of Tantric Yoga. Howevery they focus more closely on the techniques of awakening the shakti power of the kundalini. This involves physical and psychic concentration inside the spinal column. They also include detailed descriptions of the subtle energy body, the chakras (energy centers) and andis (channels of energy throughout the body). They also claim that in this age of materialistic delusions Tantric Yoga is the only yoga powerful enough to awaken us from the thrall of our delusions. (Devereux 1994: 11-12)
Dammit, book, you're not making very much sense. This sentence could very well mean "the sperm-producing powers of the groin". Help me, Google, let me be one with you:
  • define:shakti - The female principle of divine energy, esp. when personified as the supreme deity.
  • define:kundalini - (in yoga) Latent female energy believed to lie coiled at the base of the spine.
I wasn't even that far off.
It [Svatmarama, the most respected Hatha Yogo text) outlines seven limbs of yoga practice: purification, posture, gesture, internalization, breath control, contemplation, ecstasy. (Devereux 1994: 12)
Thus, for all intensive purpose, yoga is a tentative hindu etiquette.
Many people think that yoga is a withdrawal from the world in which a detachment is cultivated which leads to isolation. Although this may be the effect of faulty practice it is not the intention of yoga. Yoga means union, not separation. The underlying psychology of yoga is sophisticated but simple. A key concept is illusion, or maya. Maya is a sanskrit term which refers to the unreal world in which we life. Many have taken this to mean that the world in which we live - of material bodies, birth and death - is not real.
In fact maya refers to the tendency of our minds to develop and hold on to conceptual images. These images result from past experience held in our memories. Every experience tends to be stored as a tapestry of images which feed off and into those remaining from other experiences. Long before childhood is over we have built up a complex, sophisticated web of images in our mind. This web is so powerful that we begin to impose it between ourselves and our experiences. When we do this we are no longer experiencing reality. Instead we are projecting an image, based on our past experience, and are living in a world of abstract images rather than concrete reality. This is the illusion of maya. (Devereux 1994: 28)
This also sounds very familiar to the semiotic modelling a la Sebeok and Danesi.
Yoga allows us to cut through the frozen web of images that suggests a separation of subejct and object, of self and other, and access the experience of life directly. We learn to live without the filter of the mind's projections, in and as the electrifying energy of each moment. (Devereux 1994: 30)
Oh, so yoga teaches you to live in and as energy that attracts small particles. Hmm, that's interesting, says the critical reader sarcastically.
Asana, the third limb of yoga, is a term describing the series of physical postures which are an integral part of the practice of yoga. However, there is a subtle but profound difference between yoga asana and a stretch exercise: the former is characterized by a combination of physical alignment and mental awareness, whereas the latter is merely a gymnastic exercise. By establishing the correct alignment of each part of the body, only achieved by directing the attention inwardly throughout the whole body, posture becomes asana. (See pp. 78-103, where the asana postures are described and illustrated.) (Devereux 1994: 43)
I fail to see this subtle difference as something important. Rather I see an ideological practice of denying "merely gymnastic exercises" the quality of mental awareness. As if gymnastic exercises don't require conscious effort to pull off correctly. Personally, I consider this extra "mental awareness" - in the "profound" sense meant here - to be unnecessarily spiritualistic. These very same (stretching and breathing) exercises are available on the internet without any notion of "union with God". What differentiates ordinary exercises from yoga is that the latter has a prestigious qality of being exotic, spiritual, mystic, "different"; yet unnecessarily so. These "asanas" can help my health and I'm not going to be drawn into something I don't believe in just because these exercises were so thoroughly recorded in foreign and/or religious language. I am all for secular yoga.
The actual experience of meditation is to cultivate a profound, living awareness of the mechanisms of our mind. Thereby we begin to lose our attachment to habitual thought patterns, mind states, emotions and ides, which we cling to as a means of identifying ourselves in external noises. We simply observe the pattern and tendency of our mind. We notive our response to external stimuli. But we do so openly, generously, without evaluation, judgement or analysis. We just observe and allow. In effect the process of meditation is one in which we make friends with ourselves in a very deep way. This we do by refraining from any tendency to criticize, judge, deny or repress the activity of our minds. (Devereux 1994: 48-49)
A note on how to meditate and achieve "unity" with oneself.
Many people assume that because yoga is not always a form of moving exercise it does not develop stamina. In fact it requires much more strenght and muscular stamina to execute a posture slowly than fast. By holding the postures when they have become more comfortable muscular stamina is developed very quickly. Stamina is especially developed by the standing and inverted postures - the latter often being held for half an hour at a stretch. When postures are connected together into a flowing sequence, as in Ashtanga Vinyasa Yoga, the development of cardiovascular stamina is rapid and impressive. (Devereux 1994: 63)
Well, this is comforting/encouraging.

The Intelligent Eye


AutorGregory, Richard Langton, 1923-
PealkiriThe intelligent eye / R. L. Gregory
IlmunudNew York [etc.] : McGraw-Hill Book, c1970
Linkhttp://tartu.ester.ee/record=b2590188~S1*est
ViideGregory, Richard L. 1970. The intelligent eye. New York: McGraw-Hill Book.

In a delightful paper, 'What the Frog's Eye Tells the Frog's Brain', by Lettvin, Maturana, McCullon and Pitts, several specific pattern-receptive mechanisms are identified. The eye responds to movement, to changes of illumination and to what we may call 'rotundity'. A small black shadow is signalled strongly and serves to evoke the fly-catching reflex.(Gregory 1970: 22)
Rotundity is "sphericity: the roundness of a 3-dimensional object". Sphericity is yet another interesting term which might come handy when discussing the semiosphere, as in I doubt whether such disparate sign-processes are ultimately grouped into sphericity. In any case, this quote is noteworthy in my mind because it almost answer a question I pondered about when I reminisced about Battlefield 2; namely, if staying immobile on a roof with a sniper could be pulled off in real life. The answer is most likely no, because even if you don't show movement, the change in illumination, or simply being "a small black shadow" could give you away.
In this book I propose to consider the inner 'logic' of perception. The main argument is that perception is a kind of problem-solving. Pictures are regarded as a remarkable invention, requiring special perceptual skills for seeing them, leading to abstract symbols and ultimately to written language. By considering the perception of objects represented in pictues and symbols (including the pictograms of early languages) I hope to show that our most abstract thinking may be a direct development of the first attempts to interpret the patterns in primitive eyes in terms of external objects. (Gregory 1970: 31)
This general formulation of his argument is also stated on Gregory's wikipedia page. Generally it seems that this kind of thinking can also be applied to perception of bodily signals: noticing significant action, in this sense, is a kind of problem-solving (a statement not far off from what is propounded in some popular books about body language).
The retinal images do not have the double reality of external pictures. We do not see them both as patterns and as representing something else. We read aspects of reality from the patterns in the eyes, but we do not also see our eyes' images. (Gregory 1970: 32)
Ah! This was exactly what I was arguing for in my critical comment towards J.G. when she claimed that perception is "coded". Perception is not coded in signs in themselves: they do not have a double reality. When I see the cheese right in front of me on the table I'm not seeing signs of cheese, I'm seeing cheese. So while Gregory says that pictures are important because they show absent things, the pictures themselves are not absent, their referential content (object) is.
Object-recognition is simplified by the fact that most familiar object are largely redundant. Faces have two eyes - and so but one needs to be seen. If there is an eye - there will surely also be a nose. If a head - somewhere near a body, legs and feet. Indeed we could make no sense of close-ups on the cinema screen if we did not make such associated facts about familiar objects. (Gregory 1970: 86-87)
Automatically brings to mind Yu. Lotman's discussion on a young lady who upon first seeing a film found is gross and disgusting because the heads seemed to her decapitated.
When sensory information is used for guiding action, it must control movements which are appropriate to the position and sizes of the surrounding objects. Sensory information must be scaled appropriately to the external world, for control and prediction to be possible. Similarly, the readings of instruments cannot be in arbitrary units but must, at least ultimately, be tied to familiar objects. Some measures are direct (such measures as lenght with rulers) while others are indirect (such measures as temperature with a thermometer). (Gregory 1970: 98)
Firstly, action control and mapping of external environment I should investigate more. Secondly, the note about instruments being exact made me think if a ruler with arbitrary/random measures on it would be a good prank. And thirdly, I'm not so sure about Gregory's use of direct and indirect; rather it should be a matter of degree. His direct is visual, mine would be corporeal. This would suppose that the body is an instrument on it's own, but this debate it too complex to get into at the moment.

Various Seminar Texts (2)

Althusser, Louis 2000 [1971]. Ideology interpellates individuals as subjects. In: Paul du Gay, Peter Redman, Jessica Evans (Eds.) Identity: A Reader. London, Sage/The Open University, 31-38.
...there is no ideology except by the subject and for subjects. (Althusser 2000: 31)
That is, ideology exists only insofar as there is human subjectivity. In it's formulation it comes close to Mauss's techniques of the body being by and for authority.
...the category of the subject is only constitutive of all ideology insofar as all ideology has the function (which deifines it) of 'constituting' concrete individuals as subjects. (Althusser 2000: 31)
At first sight this seems tautological, but I think this means that the physical-bodily individual can constitute ideology only insofar as these physical-bodily individuals are constituted as subjects. That is, vegetative bodies don't constitute ideology because they don't exhibit subjectivity (whatever that may be, at this point).
...the author and the reader of these lines both live 'spontaneously' or 'naturally' in ideology in the sense in which I have said that 'man is an ideological animal by nature'. (Althusser 2000: 31)
Just as human beings are "cultural", "political", "symbolic" etc. animals by nature. Important part here is the spontaneity and naturality of being in ideology: it happens by itself and it is supposed to happen.
...the 'obviousness' that you and I are subjects - and that that does not cause any problems - is an ideological effect, the elementary ideological effect. (Althusser 2000: 32)
That is because we do not meet 'automatons' whose 'obviousness' as subjects is in doubt. It is remarkable that by tying ideology with subjectivity Althusser is basically saying "you cannot not be ideological", thus shattering in it's emergence any claim to be non-ideological (as some political ideologies sometimes do, as in The Anarchist FAQ).
At work in this reaction is the ideological recognition function which is one of the two functions of ideology as such (its inverse being the function of misrecognition - méconnaissance). (Althusser 2000: 32)
Recognition here is not only in the sense of recognizing who is knocking on the door by their claim "it is me", but in the sense of belief: "That's obvious! That's right! That's true!" This point is actually relevant for my study because in Montag, by going against the prohibition and doing the impermissible (reading books), transforms his ideological stance: he no longer finds the argument that books are bad because they make people sad "obvious" anymore. Thus in general terms, ideology's function, for my purposes, is the elimination of doubt, instilling the feeling of stuff being "obvious, right and true" where there may be very little justification for it.
...when we recognize somebody of our (previous) acquaintances ((re-)-connaissance) in the street, we show him that we have recognized him (and have recognized that he has recognized us) by saying to him 'Hello, my friend', and shaking his hand (a material ritual practice of ideological recognition in everyday life... (Althusser 2000: 32)
Here I enjoy the jargon of calling handshaking a "material ritual practice of ideological recognition". I remain skeptical in what exactly is ideological in greeting a friend or acquaintance, but I guess an ideological dimension could be invented to signify the different ideological fractions to which our acquaintances belong. If we conflate ideology and culture then of course we could say that greeting a foreign stranger, for example, is different from greeting fellow countrymen, even on the level of "material ritual practice" (e.g. the "how", by shaking hand, nodding the head, doing a ritual dance or whatnot). In any case now I know one way how marxists view body language: as material ritual practices.
...you and I are always already subjects, and as such constantly practice the ritual of ideological recognition, which guarantee for us that we are indeed concrete, individual, distinguishable and (naturally) irreplacable subjects. (Althusser 2000: 32)
On this I can build further my previous muddled discussion. Namely, greeting an acquaintance instates him or her as a person (here, concrete, individual, distinguishable and irreplacable subject). By recognizing the personhood of others we are, in this sense, interpellating them, constituting them as subjects. If of course follows that if we do not do this then they remain, in a sense, "automatons", homogenous and replacable "grey mice".
...all ideology hails or interpellates concrete individuals as concrete subjects, by the functioning of the category of the subject. (Althusser 2000: 33)
A little help from the dictionary. A hail is "A shout or call used to attract attention." Interpellation is a more complex term; it has definitions in philisophy (mainly Althusser), law enforcement and politics. The politics definition has something to do with the parliament (I'm not going to get into that), but the law enforcement definition is interesting: "interviewing with the goal of extracting a confession or obtaining information". In this sense it is interchangable with "Interrogation". I don't yet know how this would fit into my puzzle. The quote is worded differently, better I think, in wikipedia: interpellation is "the process by which ideology addresses the pre-ideological individual and produces him or her as a subject proper." That is, the "concrete" is switched with more exact terms ("pre-ideological" and "proper").
I shall then suggest that ideology 'acts' or 'functions' in such a way that it 'recruits' subjects among the individuals (it recruits them all), or 'transforms' the individuals into subjects (it transforms them all) by that very precise operation which I have called interpellation or hailing, and which can be imagined along the lines of the most commonplace everyday police (or other hailing: 'Hey, you there!"
Assuming that the theoretical scene I have imagined takes place in the street, the hailed individual will turn round. By this mere one-hundred-and-eighty-degree physical conversion, he becomes a subject. Why? Because he has recognized that the hail was 'really' addressed to him, and that 'it was really him who was hailed' (and not someone else). Experience shows that the practical telecommunication of hailings is such that they hardly ever miss their man: verbal call or whistle, the one hailed always recognizes that it is really him who is being hailed. And yet it is a strange phenomenon, and one which cannot be explained solely by 'guilty feelings', despite the large numbers who 'have something on their consciences'. (Althusser 2000: 33)
Yet a completely different explanation is imaginable. Namely, that when a policeman calls or whistles, he is directed at the individual, thus targeting the sound toward him (he will be the one who hears it the loudest). And multiple people may turn around to see where this call or whistle originates from, but only the target will make eye contact with the policeman, thus verifying that it was really him who was called. By merely hearing a call or a whistle, we are not interpellated as subjects; by hearing the call or whistle, responding to it and receiving visual feedback that the call or whistle was aimed at us, are we interpellated as subjects. This would be the nonverbalist explanation; others (psychoanalytic, perhaps?) are possible.
...ideology = misrecognition/ignorance... (Althusser 2000: 38)
Very brief, but very telling, remark.
Benveniste, Emile 2000 [1971]. Subjectivity in language. In: Paul du Gay, Peter Redman, Jessica Evans (Eds.) Identity: A Reader. London, Sage/The Open University, 39-43.
...language is in fact employed as the instrument of communication, probably because men have not found a better or more effective way in which to communicate. (Benveniste 2000: 39)
Ah, if he could only see how youtube videos and internet memes are able to communicate across language barriers.
...discourse is language put into action, and necessarily between partners... (Benveniste 2000: 39)
With the first tenet I agree, discourse is language put into action in speech or text... Yet the condition of two ontologically different partners is too restrictive; i.e. it excludes self-communication as a form of discourse.I may very well type an imaginary keyboard on the table, without producing a material expression of the discourse I have in my mind, but does that mean that, since no one aside from myself knows what I'm typing mean that it is not discourse?
Language is in the nature of man, and he did not fabricate it. (Benveniste 2000: 40)
As common sense tells us otherwise, that man indeed did fabricate language, be it from singing or gesturing, or whatever lower form of expression, this statement needs some qualifying. He means that the man of today did not fabricate it; it was fabricated through history.
We can never get back to man separated from language and we shall never see him inventing it. (Benveniste 2000: 40)
And I disagree again. People on the autistic spectrum who are "non-verbal" can be seen inventing language; it is a language of their own private worlds and "language" in the loose sense of the term (it may not have vocal or textual expression), yet it may still be used to communicate.
It is in and through language that man constitutes himself as a subject, because language alone establishes the concept of 'ego' in reality, in its reality which is that of the being. (Benveniste 2000: 40)
I am quite sure that this is not the complete picture, but I cannot imagine how we could prove otherwise without the use of language. The answer may be out there, perhaps, again, in the fields that study autism or related disabilities, but as of yet I am unaware of concrete studies. In any case, if I were to not argue against Benveniste for the sake of arguing, this claim could be taken at face value and there are numerous common sense examples where man subjects himself (self-surrenders?) to authority through language.
Language is possible only because each speaker sets himself up as a subject by referring to himself as I in his discourse. (Benveniste 2000: 41)
Here Benveniste has already argued against my counter-argument that anthropological cases of people who do not use the I category, are doing this merely for politeness or for sake of communal unity. The point is that language sets up "interior/exterior" oppositions where the speaker is always interior.
Widgren, Mats 2004. Can landscapes be read? In: Hannes Palang, Helen Sooväli, Marc Antrop, Gunhild Setten (eds). European cultural landscapes: persistence and change in a globalising environment. Dordrecht: Kluwer, 455-466.
Table 28-1. Landscape concepts.
Landscape as sceneryRepresentation
Idea (mental cosntruction)
"A way of seeing"
Landscape as institutionCustomary law
Social order, land rights
"A way of communicating, a way of acting"
Land as resourceLand use
Production
Capital
(Widgren 2004: 59)
Here it seems that my own interest in this (sub?)field is involved with representation (the way it looks to the eye), Idea (what I know about this particular landscape), "A way of seeing" (where and how can I see), Social order (who holds power over this particular landscale, landscape as a nexus of power), land use (the functions of landscape). What these notions involve are my own guesses, but I tend to see how this course and elaboration from pedestrian dynamics pan out with my goals.
A second source of support concerning a structural way of reading landscapes takes its starting point in the everyday reading of landscapes. People do read landscapes and landscape representations daily. Landscale images form an important part of the media flow. Advertisements, propaganda, rock videos, etc., all make efficient use of landscapes in conveying ideas and feelings, and thus make us of our everyday understanding and subconscious reading of landscape sceneries. (Widgren 2004: 460)
The image that "reading landscapes" conjured up in my mind comes from a TV show I cannot name (Flashback, perhaps?) where a guy could identify a specific Somalian territory merely by taking note of the climate conditions and flora on a single image. Subconscious landscape reading, or it's effective use in media is probably more related with how landscape is utilized as an illustration to contextualize some message. E.g. conveying beauty and magnificence by displaying an image of a extremely natural (untouched by people) or exactly the opposite - highly (even mathematically) organized landscapes.
Krull, Hasso 2011. Mis on luule? Vikerkaar 2011(7-8).
Loomulikult tekitab žanrimääratlustest hoidumine tublisti arusaamatusi ja teineteisest möödarääkimist, nii et viimaks jääb mulje, nagu oleks luule “luulepärasus” ainuüksi maitse küsimus: see, mis on ühe meelest luule, ei pruugi seda teise meelest olla ja vastupidi, sest kõik sõltub ainult hindaja isiklikest huvidest ja eelistustest. Kui niisugune hoiak oleks teadlik, võiks seda nimetada “žanrirelativismiks” ja tunnustada ühe võimaliku vaatepunktina. Kahjuks ei ole “žanrirelativism” aga sugugi teadlik valik, vaid pigem illusioon, mille tekitab kriitilise mõtlemise ähmasus ja abitus. (Krull 2011: 2)
"Genre relativity" is exactly the term I have been searching for when accounting for how in modern music "genres" have been replaced by "tags" (a sub-genre division of stylistic characteristics).
Just like previous text, this one was also too self-involved with it's context: the landscape article dwelled on how landscape studies is demarcated in relation to science; this one used popular science and philosophy (N. Chomsky and I. Berlin, for example) marginally to discuss the relation of poetry and politics. The notion of archepoetry seemed interesting but otherwise this text remained "empty" for me.
Šhklovsky'd text in Estonian didn't even provide one remarkable quote. Is this caused by my disinterest in poetry or am I losing touch with my mother tongue?
Eliot, T.S. 1982 [1919]. Tradition and the Individual Talent. Perspecta 19: 36-42.
...we might remind ourselves that criticism is as inevitable as breathing, and that we should be none the worse for articulating what passes in our minds when we read a book and feel an emotion about it, for critizising our own minds in their work of criticism. One of the facts that might come to light in this process is our tendency to insist, when we praise a poet, upon those aspects of his work in which he least resembles anyone else. In these aspects of his work we pretend to find what is individual, what is the peculiar essence of the man. We dwell with satisfaction upon the poet's difference from his predecessors, especially his immediate predecessors; we endeavor to find something that can be isolated in order to be enjoyed. (Eliot 1982: 36)
This search for originality, that which least resembles anyone else, I have noticed in my readings when I happen across a word of jargon that feels like "the first usage", yet it rarely is. I was happy to find Marcel Mauss use the term habitus several decades before Bourdieu, yet I know absolutely nothing about neither's predecessors.
No poet, no artist of any art, has his complete meaning alone. His significance, his appreciation is the appreciation of his relation to the dead poets and artists. You cannot value him alone; you must set him, for contrast and comparison, among the dead. (Eliot 1982: 37)
This is exactly what I do (with non-fiction), mainly because most of the authors I read tend to be long dead by now (R.L. Gregory, who I'm reading at the moment, died a few years ago, at the age of 95).
The business of the poet is not to find new emotions, but to use the ordinary ones and, in working them up into poetry, to express feelings which are not in actual emotions at all. And emotions which he has never experienced will serve his turn as well as those familiar to him. (Eliot 1982: 42)
This is very prescriptive, but at the same time telling: poets can indeed express feelings which are not actually emotions at all. In this sense poetry invents emotions.
There is a great deal, in the writing of poetry, which must be conscious and deliberate. In fact, the bad poet is usually unconscious where he ought to be conscious, and conscious where he ought to be unconscious. Both errors tend to make him 'personal'. Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of couse, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things. (Eliot 1982: 42)
Ah! What a truism.
Freud, Sigmund 1914. The Psychopathology of Everyday Life. Translated by A. A. Brill. New York: The Macmillan Company.
He finally became piqued and said: "Please don't make such a mocking face, as if you were gloating over my embarrassment, but help me. ..." (Freud 1914: 18)
I can only guess the face expressing superiority in knowledge Freud must have made at this moment. The rest of the two chapters merely prove that Freud was able to find repression in memory mechanisms and enjoyed word associations. Absolutely useless for my purposes.
Ginzburg, Carlo 1989. Clues: Roots of an Evidential Paradigm. In: John & Anne C. Tedeschi (Eds.) Clues, Myths, and the Historical Method. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 96-125.
...Scholastic motto Individuum est ineffabile (“We cannot speak about what is individual”)...
A useful phrase. This is exactly the motto (in this case propounded by psychologists) that I was arguing against in my seminar paper.
At first, all the elements tied to orality and gesture and later even those tied to the physical characteristics of writing were thought to be irrelevant to the text. This twofold process resulted in a progressive dematerialization of the text, which was gradually purified at every point of reference related to the senses; even though a material element is required for a text's survival, the text itself is not identified by that element. (Ginzburg 1989)
Ah! Finally a worthwhile remark, concerning the ejection of bodily elements from text. This could very well be evaluated typologically: for example, a scientific text, unless it deals with bodily matters, do not make any reference to there being any bodies (or behaviour); a literary text, on the other hand, makes inevitable reference to bodies and behaviour. On a broader scale, this "purification" could be discussed in light of organicism vs textualism (but I am as yet far too incompetent in both to take up this challenge). In any case, this is an interesting problem and some light could be shed on this by Barbara Korte's Body Language in Literature.
From this text I at least gained some new words:
  • define:venatic - Of, pertaining to or involved in hunting. [jahi-, küttimisest elav]
  • define:etiological - of or relating to the philosophical study of causation. [põhjuseõpetus]
  • define:cuneiform - Denoting or relating to the wedge-shaped characters used in the ancient writing systems of Mesopotamia, Persia, and Ugarit. [kiilkiri]
  • define:nosography - The systematic description of diseases.

Elsaesser, Thomas 2009. Between Erlebnis and Erfahrung: Cinema Experience with Benjamin. Paragraph 32(3): 292-312.
One specific entry-point can be simply stated: whereas semiotics generally regarded film as a discourse or a narrative, the turn to emotion presupposed film to be above all an event. [...] Insofar as a film engages with the world, it does so in the form of embodied knowledge, of percepts and affects, and insofar as it assigns a role to its spectators, it does so by casting them not as voyeurs or across the imaginary identification of the split subject, but as witnesses or participants. (Elsaesser 2009: 293)
This is important as it involves process terms: while discourse and narrative remain structures, an event is a process, an occurrence. Even more, an occurrence wherein the body has a marked place. The viewer is recognized as a bodily being.
The very diversity leads me to limit the possible concepts of experience I am concerned with here to three domains: embodiment - experience as immediate sensory presene and corporeal plenitude; time - experience as retrospectively constructed, temporally or discursively mediated self-possession and self-appropriateion; and agency - experience as the exposure to limits, and the recovery from extremes. (Elsaesser 2009: 293)
These are indeed valuable concepts, although all of them kind of restrictive; that is, much more could be said about each.
In line with many German late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century theorists, Benjamin makes a distinction between Erlebnis and Erfahrung, the first associated with moments of sensation and the second with a more sustained texture of experience. As Martin Jay points out, 'The immediate, passive, fragmented, isolated, and unintegrated inner experience of Erlebnis was, Benjamin argued, very different from the cumulative, totalizing accretion of transmittable wisdom, of epic truth, which was Erfahrung.' (Elsaesser 2009: 294)
These notions are the reason why I found this article (and asked a lecturer on semiotics of film to retrieve it for me): they are quite reminiscent of Peirce's token and type, although a far-reaching elaboration is called for if these notions from so distant nomenclatures are to be identified so simplistically.
Limit experiences are above all limits in our sense of body and embodiment, agency and helplessness, time and its apparent irreversibility. (Elsaesser 2009: 297)
What an unexpected opposition. I thought about "helplessness" in relation to the feelings of protagonists in dystopic fiction. It didn't even cross my mind to oppose it to "agency", although it makes good sense: by "waking up" of their helpless situation of subjection to a totalitarian regime, they [the protagonists in multiple, because I have three to analyze] in fact try to achieve agency, with more or less success.
Extending her focus, one could draw on quite a range of artworks, including the films of Valie Export from the 1970s, or the subsequent generation of body artists using film and video, in order to test the spectator's somatic stamina. Such body-based performance art has emerged with special force since the 1970s - coinciding with the rise of video and the women's movement. Apart from Vienna Actionists (to whom Valie Export belonged), one could name Carolee Schneeman, Vito Acconci, Paul McCarthy, Shigeko Kubato, Marina Abramovic and Orlan. These artists foregrounded a body often in pain, or seemingly beyond pain, as it submits to repetitive, mechanical intervention or makes itself vulnerable to technological, often medical, invasion. The always implied limit here is death... (Elsaesser 2009: 299)
Actually the first time I meet Abramoviç's name in writing other than that specifically dedicated to her. When I do happen to have such free time, I should check out these other names mentioned here.
Rogers, Mary F. 1984. Everyday Life as Text. Sociological Theory 2: 165-186.
For ethnomethodologists, everyday life is a textual affair based on linguistic structures and competence. Its practical situations rest on the anonymous, untraceable rules that govern language use. Everyday situation is off-centered and open-ended; in ethnomethodological terms, everyday social situation involves reflexivity and indexicality. (Rogers 1984: 169)
Thus far the author has outlined ethnomethodological movements and contrasted it with phenomenology and Barthes's literary theory (of The Text, with capitalization). This quote is a kind of synthesis of ethnomethodology and Barthes; it seems that this whole article is.
Everyday life is, then, The Text, a methodological field where reader-ethnomethodologists study members' productive (or constitutive) activities to disclose the ground rules that make those activities "visibly account-able and rational-for-all-practical-purposes." Unsurprisingly, ethnomethodological reports often appear redundant. Ethnomethodologists face, after all a single Text (everyday life) whose features are accessible through any given text (mundane social situation) considered as a methodological field in need of a careful reading. (Rogers 1984: 169-170)
This language is kind of off-putting, but at the same time makes surprisingly lot of sense. The relationship of Text and text, or everyday life and mundane social situation, is basically that of a whole and a part. This is not a clear segmentation of everyday life, but one way of looking at it. Also, jokingly, I wish "The Text" would be replaced with "Book" - a book of (everyday) life which one has to learn to read.
Moreover, Bathes's focus on The Text provides a metaphor that clarifies the ethnomethodological perspective on everyday life. At the same time, that metaphor offers an alternative to the theatrical metaphors that social dramaturgists and symbolic interactionists sometimes use. Finally, Barthes's structuralism evokes attention to alternative literary approaches to texts capable of providing sociologists fresh interpretive grounds for analyzing everyday life. (Rogers 1984: 175)
Thus, Barthes is put on alongside Mead and Goffman.
The idea of everyday life as text is attractive. The metaphor centers attention on expression and communication and, therefore, on the grounds of social action and interaction. "Text" also leads to the question of how the public and the private realms intermesh and how informal and formal discourse relate. (Rogers 1984: 175)
Damn right it is. Everyday life as text would open whole new "interpretive grounds" also in the semiotics of culture, as "text" (with its expressive and communicative functions) is the main notion of the school, but the conceptions of social action an interaction are almost wholly alien to it.
I follow Barthes in sometimes capitalizing text. The capitalized term refers to the fundamental form of written discourse; the uncapitalized version refers to any particular instance(s) of that form. (Rogers 1984: 180)
There is an explanation to capitalization in the end-notes, but it remains ambiguous for me what this "fundamental form of written discourse" is; and if I wish to apply this Text metaphor to behaviour directly, could it actually be Yu. Lotman's behavioural sphere? Most likely not, but it's an idea worth considering, as I'm still mystified by his two approaches to behaviour.
Adler, Patricia A., Peter Adler and Adrea Fontana 1987. Everyday Life Sociology. Annual Review of Sociology 13: 217-235.
...the sociology of everyday life is an umbrella term encompassing several related but distinct theoretical perspectives: symbolic interactionism, dramaturgy, labeling theory, phenomenology, ethnomethodology, and existential sociology. (Adler et al. 1987: 218)
The actors (theoretical perspectives) here are basically the same as in the last article.
Goffman's new subfield, dramaturgy, was launched with The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life (1959). Influences by the works of Blumer, Burke, and Durkheim, Goffman offered an analysis of the individual in society which made the area of interaction the locus of reality, of socialization, and of societal regeneration. Goffman's work speaks to both roles (the nature of the self) and rules (micro-social norms). Instead of role-taking for the purpose of cooperatively aligning their actions with others, Goffman's actors intentionally and manipulatively role-play for the purpose of managing others' impressions of them. This occurs through the interaction rituals of everyday life - rituals that shape the individual's inner self by externally imprinting their rules on him or her at the same time they ensure the self-regularoty character of society. (Adler et al. 1987: 220)
This description of Goffman's dramaturgy made me wonder how, in Fahrenheit 451, society regenerates itself without proper interaction. Would telescreen lounges really uphold social reality and substitute socialization to such an extent? I also find it fascinating that rules are here described as "micro-social norms", because the relationship of rules and norms (and even roles, for that matter) has remained muddled for me: different authors claim there to be different and often contradictory relationships. And lastly, if interaction rituals ensure the self-regulatory character of society, they are, effectively, "the invisible hand". Here are some micro-bookreviews
  • The Nude Beach, by Douglas & Rasmussen (1977), offered a multi-perspective view of the complexity of feelings, motivations, rationalizations, behaviors, fronts, and micro and macro politics associated with public nudity and sexuality.
  • The Last Frontier, by Fontana (1977), explored the emotional issues, loneliness, and existential identity changes that underlie and render insignificant the rational meaning of growing old.
  • In P. Adler's (1981) book, Momentum, he analyzed the dynamics of self-reinforcing excitement and depression caused by momentum-infused individuals, groups, and masses.
  • Using an organic perspective, Kemper (1978) [A Social Interactional Theory of Emotion] has emphasized how the power and/or status inherent in social relationships influence body chemistry.
Hochschild (1979, 1983) discussed the types of "feeling rules" which are structurally mandates onto interaction and relationships through social guidelines. People then try to make their feelings coincide with these rules by doing cognitive, bodily, or expressive "emotions work." Emotion work can be commercialized when it is co-opted by business, leading to a "commoditization of feeling." (Adler et al. 1987: 225)
Firstly, I am very interested if "feeling rules" has anything to do with Ekman's "display rules" of emotional expressions. And secondly, in a baffling way, in Fahrenheit 451, the State has commoditizised feeling: everyone must be happy! Oh, and "display rules" are explicitly mentioned in Shott's (1979) article "Emotion and social life".
Shott, Susan 1979. Emotion and social life: A symbolic interactionist analysis. The American Journal of Sociology 84(6): 1317-1334.
In this paper, I shall attempt to show that one sociological perspective, symbolic interactionism, is particularly well suited for the explication of the actor's construction of emotion and the part certain feelings (which I shall call role-taking emotions) play in social control. The socialization of emotion, also, will be discussed, using a general sociological (and anthropological) perspective that is part of symbolic interactionist theory but not unique to it. (Shott 1979: 1318)
Welp, symbolic interactionism is related to social psychology, so it is a very likely theoretical perspective to investigate such matters. The role of emotions in social control is especially interesting, as this might lead up to one of today's "weird" disciplines, politology of emotion.
Before I begin this exposition, however, a defintiional note is in order, given the variegated welter of definitions of emotion. In this paper, I shall use Schachter's (1971, pp. 23-24) conception of emotion as a state of physiological arousal defined by the actor as emotionally induced: Hence, two elements - physiological arousal and cognitive labeling as affect - are necessary components of the actor's experience of emotion. Pain and sexual arousal will not be considered here: they are physical sensations often accompanied by emotions but not equivalent to them. In addition, i wish to note that, unlike a number of writers, I shall use the terms "affect," "emotion," "feeling," and "sentiment" as semantic equivalents. (Shott 1979: 1318-1319)
Okay, so the author's definition of emotion is kind of superficial, but if more exact terms are needed I have Caroll E. Izard's "Patterns of Emotions and Emotion Communication..." at my disposal. It is important to take note of the self-labeling aspect of emotional experience here, as it excludes outside observers identifying emotion. Whether emotions are fully internal matter of whether physiological arousal's bodily expressions can indicate to outside observers even more exaclty the nature of emotion (e.g. facial expressions of emotion which we do not see ourselves performing) is a problematic field. I do agree that pain and sexual arousal are not emotion, although some people tend to think or say so in everyday discourse.
Human behavior is emergent, continually constructed during its execution (Blumer 1969, p. 82). The meaning of an act is somewhat volatile, since acts are interpreted continuously (by the actor and others) while being carried out. Consequently, human conduct is actively constructed and cna be transformed in its making through reinterpretation and redefinition (Hewitt 1976, p. 48). (Shott 1979: 1312)
This is where, I think, "everyday life as text" metaphor would get into trouble: text is more discrete and static while actual behaviour is continuous and changeable.
Social structures and normative regulation are the framework of human action rather than its determinant, shaping behavior without dictating it. Structural features (culture, systems, stratification, roles, etc.) shape behavior only insofar as they influence the situations that are the setting of action and provide the symbols used to interpret situations; they do not determine human conduct (Blumer 1969, pp. 87-88) (Shott 1979: 1312)
I know it is not smart to "quote quotes" so to say, but Blumer's book is available in Tartu and it is very possible that I will happen to read it in the future (Hewitt, in the last quote, I have already read). This quote is important because the cultural influence on behaviour are quite ambiguous, to say the least, and this is one way of looking at it.
...physiological arousal alone does not constitute an emotion; what is required, in addition, is the belief that some emotion is the most appropriate explanation of a state of arousal. (Shott 1979: 1322)
Here the remark about labeling is elaborated: this "appropriate explanation" does seem to be culturally formed; I am tempted to call it "registry of emotions" or even more metaphorically, "emotional code".
Within the limits set by social norms and internal stimuli, individuals construct their emotions; and their definitions and interpretations are critical to this often emergent process. Internal states and cues, necessary as they are for affective experience, do not in themselves establish feeling, for it is the actor's definitions and interpretations that give physiological states their emotional significance or nonsignificance. (Shott 1979: 1323)
This is the general conclusion of symbolic interactionist approach to emotions.
Role-taking sentiments are of two types: reflexive role-taking emotions, which are directed toward oneself and comprise guilt, shame, embarrassment, pride, and vanity; and emphatic role-taking emotions, which are evoked by mentally placing oneself in another's position and feeling what the other feels or what one would feel in such a position. Reflexive role-taking feelings entail considering how one's self appears to others or the generalized other and, unless experienced emphatically, are directed toward oneself. Thus, they are, in effect, emotional self-conceptions. Both reflexive and emphatic role-taking emotions, as I shall attempt to show in this section, are significant motivators of normative and moral conduct and, hence, facilitate social control. (Shott 1979: 1324)
This is a worthwhile distinction.
Social control is, in large part, self-control. Because people can view themselves as others do, social control can operate in terms of self-criticism, exerting itself "intimately and extensively over individual behavior [and] serving to integrate the individual and his actions with reference to the organized social process of experience and behaviour in which is implicated" (Mead 1934, p. 255). The generalized other is particularly important for this kind of social control, since it is the means by which the attitudes of the community or group are incorporated within individuals and influence their thinking and conduct (Mead 1934, p. 155). (Shott 1979: 1324-1325)
I have to say I did not notice these remarks myself when reading Mead's Mind, Self, and Society. Too bad, because these are exactly the themes I tried to approach in my seminar thesis: what I called self-censure (aften Schefflen), and behaviour influenced by social situation or reference group.
Clifford Geertz (1973, pp. 401-3) has described another "affective regulator," lek, while he considers the msot intensely emphasized sentiment used for social control in Bali. It is a feeling that, I think, can be usually classified as a reflexive role-taking emotion. Lek is an emotion akin to stagefright, "a diffuse, usually mind, though in certain situations virtually paralyzing, nervousness before the prospect (and the fact) of social interaction, a chronic, mostly low-grade worry that one will not be able to bring it off with the required finesse" (Geertz 1973, p. 402). The fact that lek is of little importance in American society (we do not even have a word for it) is further evidence for the cultural shaping of affective experience. (Shott 1979: 1326, footnote 11)
This reminds me of the role of adrenaline in social interaction (something I should look into someday).
Baldwin, John D. 1988. Habit, Emotion, and Self-Conscious Action. Sociological Perspectives 31(1): 35-57.
A nontrivial portion of human conduct is based on habit, including such sociologically important behaviors as customs, rituals, moral practices, personal mannerisms, and style. (Baldwin 1988: 36)
That is, "habit" is another way of looking at sociocultural phenomena, especially repetitious and routine activities.
Those who have analyzed habit usually define habitual activities as stable response patterns that are learned through multiple repetitions until they become nearly or completely automatic responses to certain classes of stimuli. Some habits are learned via conscious meditation; but others are acquired without any awareness. Habits that are developed and perfected under conscious guidance often drop below the level of consciousness after they become overlearned and well adjusted to environmental conditions. Well-learned habits are often performed so spontaneously and naturally that they may be spoken of as being "second nature" - in contrast to the biologically programmed responses that are our "first nature." (Baldwin 1988: 38)
This cluster of definitions may become useful in formulating semiotics of everyday behaviour as the acquisition of meaningful and/or functional habits.
Mead described a variety of acquired habits, such as walking, bike riding, playing musical instruments, doing daily routines, and performing those habits that maintain social institutions. (Baldwin 1988: 41)
In this sense acquired habits are similar to Mauss's techniques of the body.
After citing Thomas and Thomas's famous dictum that people's actions are "very much determined by how they define the situation they find themselves in," Denzin states: "This proposition, which assumed wide-awake, cognitively self-reflexive individuals" reveals "a fundamental bias in interactionist research which may be termed the 'overly reflexive' or 'overly cognitive' view of man" ([1980] p. 252). This highly cognitive view can bbe seen in the constructionist theories of emotions developed by Shott (1979)... (Baldwin 1988: 47)
Firstly, I am quite aware of the "definition of the situation" perspective, which goes back to Goffman and even Benjamin Lee Whorf (if I remember correctly; referring to the gasoline barrel example). In any case, it is doubtful if people are very reflexive of the definition of the situation; in Goffman it rather appears as an analytical device. Secondly, the last article I read (Shott 1979) is here dismissed as being overly cognitive (for example, the understanding that a physiological arousal becomes an "emotion" only when labeled as such).
Collins, Randall 1981. On the Microfoundations of Macrosociology. American Journal of Sociology 86(5): 984-1014.
Microsociology is the detailed analysis of what people do, say, and think in the actual flow of momentary experiences. Macrosociology is the analysis of large-scale and long-term social processes, often treated as self-subsistent entitites such as "state," "organization," "class," "economy," "culture," and "society." In recent years there has been an upsurge of "radical microsociology, that is to say, empirically detailed and/or phenomenologically sophisticated microsociology. Radical microsociology (Garfinkel 1967; Cicourel 1973), as the detailed study of everyday life, emerged partly from the influx of phenomenology into empirical sociology and partly from the application of new research techniques - audio and video recordings - which have made it possible to study real-life interaction in second-by-second detail. (Collins 1981: 984)
Thus, nonverbal communication is a microsociological field, and searching links with Power, State, and Culture are attempts to bring it into relaton with macrosociology: e.g. "What will the detailed study of everyday life reveal about the social systems?"
This radical microsociology, under such labels as "ethnomethodology," "cognitive sociology," "social phenomenology," and others, cuts in a number of different directions. The direction that I would argue is most promising for the advance of sociology as an empirical science is not the phenomenological analysis of concepts but the emphasis upon ultradetailed empirical research. This detailed micro-analysis offers several contributions fo the field of sociology in general. One is to give a strong impetus toward translating all macrophenomena into combinations of micro-events. A microtranslation strategy reveals the empirical realities of social structures as patterns of repetitive micro-interaction. Microtranslation thus gives us a picture of the complex levels of abstraction involved in causal explanations. (Collins 1981: 985)
These terms are very interesting. Birdwhistell's research, for example, could justly be called "ultradetailed empirical research", as he did in fact study nonverbal interactions in second-by-second detail. Microtranslation, could very well designate my own study, as I am viewing the totalitarian social system as consisting of micro-interactions. In a manner of speaking, I am tracing the somatic etiology of ideological resistance.
Another contribution of radical microsociology is its discovery that actual everyday-life microbehavior does not follow rationalist models of cognition and decision making. Instead, social interaction depends upon tacit understanding and agreements not to attempt to explicate what is taken for granted. This implies that explanations in terms of norms, rules, and role taking should be abandoned and that any model of social exchange must be considerably modified. (Collins 1981: 985)
This agreement is basically what is upholding social interaction as such: "don't question the way things are." In a sense, the protagonists in dystopic fiction get into troubles exactly because they abandon this agreement and search for a way out of their suffering.
There are several advantages in translating all sociological concepts into aggregates of microphenomena. The first point is epistemological. Strictly acquaintances, whose solidarity is an end in itself as far as its members are concerned. (Collins 1981: 997)
This comes very close to the multidisciplinary approach to ideology propunded by van Dijk. Very close indeed.
The most basic emotional ingredient in interactions, I would suggest, is a minimal tone of positive sentiment toward the other. The solidarity sentiments range from a minimal display of nonhostility to warm mutual liking and enthusiastic common activity. Where do such emotions come from? They originate in previous experiences in IR [interaction ritual] chains. An individual who is successfully accepted into an interaction acquires an increment of positive emotional energy. This energy is manifested as what we commonly call confidence, warmth, and enthusiasm. Acquiring this in one situation, an individual has more emotional resources for successfully negotiating solidarity in the next interaction. Such chains, both positive and negative, extend throughout every person's lifetime. (Collins 1981: 1001-1002)
Ah! This paragraph is valuable on its own terms, but it also sheds light on the "coalition" between Montag and Clarisse in Fahrenheit 451. Their relationship remained short and platonic, but positive and built on nonhostility and warm mutual liking.
Persons become powerful (or "charismatic") when a dramatic event, usually involving success in a conflict, makes large numbers of people focus on them. The widespread and rapid circulation of their new reputation gives them the self-reinforcing power of commanding the largest, and therefore dominant, coalition in that society. Conversely, powerful persons usually fall because of dramatic events - scandals or defeats in conflicts - which suddenly circulate their negative reputation. (Collins 1981: 1008-1009)
I'm not exactly sure, but this seems to be what happened in Huxley'd Brave New World with "the savage". I don't know the conflict he overcame, but he did gain the following of large numbers of people.

On a final note, I have suspicions that Cloak's statement "all macroevents have microexplanations" in The Relationship of Verbal and Nonverbal Communication has something to do with this article. In the grander scheme of things this long and dense article could actually be one of the bases for my BA thesis. I could replace emotional contagion with Morris's communization and build a semiotic framework on the work laid out here. This of course would necessitate a lot of work, but would also be greatly worth it.

Universe of the Mind


AutorLotman, Juri, 1922-1993
PealkiriUniverse of the mind : a semiotic theory of culture / Yuri M. Lotman ; translated by Ann Shukman ; introduction by Umberto Eco
IlmunudLondon ; New York : I.B. Tauris, c1990
Linkhttp://tartu.ester.ee/record=b2531328~S1*est
ViideLotman, Yuri M. 1990. Universe of the mind: a semiotic theory of culture. Translated by Ann Shukman; introduction by Umberto Eco. London; New York: I.B. Tauris.

The translator is forced to make a choice. There is even greater indeterminacy when, for instance, a novel is transformed into a film. (Lotman 1990: 14)
This is the word I was searching for: indeterminacy. In my case there is a twofold indeterminacy from what the author of the novel chooses to remark about the characters' behaviour to what the director chooses the actor to enact in front of the camera.
In the second system, while communicating with him/herself, the addresser inwardly reconstructs his/her essence, since the essence of a personality may be thought of as an individual set of socially significant codes, and this set changes during the act of communication. (Lotman 1990: 22)
Finally I have found this brief and important definition which identifies the essence of personality with semiotic codes.
Between the non-discrete flow of life and the demarcated discrete 'arrested' moments which are typical of representational art, the theatre occupies an intermediary position. On the one hand, it is different from a picture and resembles life in its continuity and movement, and on the other, it is different from life and resembles picture by the fact that it divides the stream of events into segments, each of which at each particular moment tends to have an organized composition within any synchronic section of the action: instead of the continuous flow of non-artistic reality we have as it were a series of separate, immanently organized pictures linked to each other by transitional moments. (Lotman 1990: 59)
A surprisingly clear-headed description of theatre in the scale between real life and static pictures. The life in theater is segmented, almost pseudo-continuous.
A poet's symbolic 'alphabet' is not just an individual matter: a poet may draw symbols from the arsenal of epoch, cultural trends or social circle. A symbol is bound to cultural memory, and an entire series of symbolic images runs vertically through the whole course of human history, or large areas of it. An artist's individuality is manifest not only in the creation of new, unique symbols (i.e. in a symbolic reading of the non-symbolic), but also in the actualization of symbolic images which are sometimes extremely archaic. But it is the system of relationships which the poet established between the fundamental image-symbols which is the crucial thing. Symbols are always polysemic, and only when they form themselves into the crystal grid [kristallicheskaya reshetka] of mutual connections do they create that 'poetic world' which marks the individuality of each artist. (Lotman 1990: 86-87)
On the origin of a poet's symbols. I think the "crystal grid" could be a reference to de Saussure's crustallization of the link between signifier and signified.
This extraordinary episode lodged in Dostoevsky's memory and became a symbol; it began to behave like a symbol in culture: accumulating and organizing new experience around it, turning into a kind of memory condenser, and then unfolding into a variety of stories which subsequently the author selectively combined with other plot constructions. The original similarity with Belinsky was almost lost as the symbol went through numerous transformations. (Lotman 1990: 110)
This happens because any experience "can be symbolized further and further on the basis of continuing inward attention to it" (Rogers 1974: 126-127).
A schema consisting of addresser, addressee and the channel linking them together is not yet a working system. For it to work it has to be 'immersed' in semiotic space. All participants in the communicative act must have some experience of communication, be familiar with semiosis. So, paradoxically, semiotic experience precedes the semiotic act. (Lotman 1990: 123)
This is actually not as paradoxical as Lotman makes it sound. By and large it's very similar to age-old notions that society precedes the social man. Of course you have to be familiar with signs to use them for communication. Only a typology of communication could invent something different.
As a person of culture I embody the behaviour prescribed by certain norms. Only what in my behaviour corresponds to these norms is counted as a deed. If, through weakness, sickness, inconsistency, etc., I deviate from these norms, then such behaviour has no meaning, is not relevant, simply does not exist. A list of what 'does not exist', according to that cultural system, although such things in fact occur, is always essential for making a typological description of that system. (Lotman 1990: 129)
Again with the typology approach. Well, the remark about norms is an important one, because it comes to show that there are behaviours which we so to say pre-choose not to see or take into account.
Between unexpectedness on the level of everyday life and unexpetedness in the detective story there is a significant difference. The disconnected sequence of events in a detective story is only seemingly accidental. it seems so to the reader who does not know the secret of the plot and who is inclined to see significance in what is unimportant and vice versa. Since the reader has to be kept in ignorance for as long as possible the mistakes of his or her assumptions are not exposed until later. The wrong answer is the one that seems the most logical and seemingly convincing. Only occasionally is the lack of connection between the different episodes shown up in order to hint at the error in the reader's assumption. (Lotman 1990: 166)
This seemingly trivial paragraph is at the moment the only connection I can draw, or rather the only explanation I could give to why we are made to read Sherlock Holmes in the course on "Theories of Everyday Behaviour". How unexpected and random!
Plot is a powerful means for making sense of life. Only when narrative forms came into being could people learn to distinguish the plot aspects of reality, that is, to divide the non-discrete flow of events into several discrete units, linking these units together by semantic intepretations, and organizing them into ordered chains by syntagmatic interpretations. The essenve of plot lies in selecting the events, which are the discrete units of plot, then giving them meaning and a temporal or causal or some other ordering. (Lotman 1990: 170)
That is, events in narrative text are not random as such but has a temporal and/or causal ordering. In my work, it is important to take account of nonverbal behaviour as a cause for furthering the plot.
THe city is a complex semiotic mechanism, a culture-generator, but it carries out this function only because it is a melting-pot of texts and codes, belonging to all kinds of languages and levels. The essential semiotic polyglottism of every city is what makes it so productive of semiotic encounters. The city, being the place where different national, social and stylistic codes and texts confront each other, is the place of hybridization, recordings, semiotic translations, all of which makes it into a powerful generator of new information. These confrontations work diachronically as well as synchronically: architectural ensembles, city rituals and ceremonies, the very plan of the city, the street names and thousands of other left-overs from the paste ages act as code programmes contantly renewing the texts of the past. The city is a mechanism, forever recreating its past, which then can be cynchronically juxtaposed with the present. In this sense the city, like culture, is a mechanism which withstands time.
The rationalist utopian city has none of these semiotic reserves. But the lack of history gave rise to a great wave of myth-making, which would no doubt have appalled the rationalist Enlighteners of the eighteenth century. Myth filled the semiotic void and the artificial city turned out to be extremely mythogenic. (Lotman 1990: 194-195)
A paragraph extremely important for the semiotics of the city [linnasemiootika]. I must consider if cities in dystopic fiction have a "seiotic reserve" or not.
Take the behaviour of an individual. As a rule it accords with several stereotypes which define the 'normal', predictable course of that person's actions. But the number of stereotypes within any particular society is much larger than what one individual can enact. Some possible stereotypes are rejected on principle, others are held to be less preferable, and others again are regarded as permissible. At a moment when the historical, social and psychological tension reaches the point where a person's world picture dramatically alters (as a rule under intense emotional pressure) a person can dramatically change his or her stereotype, as it were leap into a new mode of behaviour, quite unpredictable in 'normal' circumstances. (Lotman 1990: 233)
This is how Lotman handles predictability in individual behaviour: with stereotypes. This can be a valuable discourse for the semiotics of subculture. And the point when a person's world-view alters dramatically could be identified with the "waking up" in dystopic fiction.
As we have already argued, creative intelligence is operative when a text comes into being which could not have been predicted by automatic algorithms. Certian aspects of the text will, however, always be predictable (e.g. 'tradition') and if we only take account of them, then the historical process will seem to be smooth and continuous; other aspects of the text are predictable with some degree of probability, while others are completely unexpected. (Lotman 1990: 234)
This seems equally true in case of behaviour: predictable behaviour is 'traditional'; such as manners, courtesy, and rituals.
An event that is quite unexpected (the apperance of an unpredictable text) radically alters the situation of the next one. The improbable text becomes a reality and subsequent development makes the fact of its existence a starting point. The unexpectedness is forgotten, and the originality of the genius becomes the routine of the imitators... (Lotman 1990: 235)
This is a fairly familiar discussion in the sphere of music; especially in discussions about the 'originality' of The Beatles, for example, and whether or not it brought anything new to music or merely simplified and popularized ("appropriated") earlier styles. The cultural dynamics in literature and modern music is quite alike.
Writing is a form of memorizing. Just as the individual mind has its own memorizing mechanisms, so the collective mind, which has to record what is held in common, creates its own mechanisms. One of these mechanisms is writing. But is writing the first, or more importantly, is it the only possible form of collective memorizing? The way to answer this question is to suppose that forms of memorizing are derivative from what people think has to be remembered, and what that is depends on the structure and orientation of that civilization. (Lotman 1990: 246)
This reminded me of how a friend asked me several times if I remember everything that I read upon first reading... And I tried to explain to him that this blog, in fact, is my memory. What I find significant in my readings I record here. This blog is my memory mechanism.
Socrates tells the story of the divine inventor Theuth who gave science to the king of Egypt:
But when it came to writing, Theuth declared: 'Here is an accomplishment, my lord the kind, which will improve both the wisdom and the memory of the Egyptians. I have discovered a sure receipt for memory and wisdom.' 'Theyth, my paragon of inventors,' replied the king, 'the discoverer of an art is not the best judge of the good or harm which will accrue to those who practice it. So it is in this case; ou, who are the father of writing, have out of fondness for your offspring attributed to it quite the opposite of its real function. Those who acquire it will cease to exercise their memory and become forgetful; they will rely on writing to bring things to their rememberance by external signs instead of on their own internal resources. What you have discovered is a receipt for recollection, not for memory. And as for wisdom, your pupils will have the reputation for it without the reality: they will receive a quantity of information without proper instruction, and in sonsequence be thought very knowledgeable when they are for the most part quite ignorant. And because they are filled with the conceit of wisdom instead of real wisdom, they will be a burden to society.'
(Lotman 1990: 251)
This critique against my very practice comes from Plato's Phaedrus, translated by Walter Hamilton, Penguin Classics, p. 96. It is also enlightening towards the society in Fahrenheit 451 which lacks recollection, but not memory.
A religious act, on the other hand, is based on an unconditional act of self-surrender, rather than on an exchange. The one party surrenders itself to the other without making any conditions at all, except that the receiving party is acknowledged to be the supreme power. (Lotman 1990: 255)
I am a fan of self- notions for the sake of it, but this one has a practical outlet in my study: after torture, Winston self-surrenders to the all-embracing love of the Big Brother. In a sense, this is a religious act - he is converted.
The semiotic aspects of behaviour stresses the play element: the aim of an action lies less in its practical result than in the correct use of the language of behaviour. In West European chivalry the tournament became the equivalent of battle, while in Russia hunting had the function of a tournament in the life of a feudal lord: as a special form of play it epitomized the semiotic values of chivalric military behaviour. This is why Vladimir Monomakh listed his hunting expeditions alongside his military exploits as matters of equal pride.
The opposite kind of behaviour exludes conventionality: it tends to reject play and the relativity of semiotic methods and it identifies truth with the absence of conventionality. Unconventionalized social behaviour may be either of two types: for those at the top of society there is a tendency towards symbolism in behaviour and throughout the semiotic system, but for those at the bottom of society there is a tendency towards zero-degree of semioticity, behaviour being transposed into the purely practical sphere. (Lotman 1990: 259)
Here, Yu. Lotman identifies instrumental/biological/intrinsic/goal-oriented/purposive behaviour with zero-degree of semioticity.

Fahrenheit 451


AutorBradbury, Ray, 1920-2012
PealkiriFahrenheit 451 / Ray Bradbury
IlmunudNew York : Ballantine books, c1953
Linkhttp://tartu.ester.ee/record=b1876330~S1*est
ViideBradbury, Ray 1953. Fahrenheit 451. New York: Ballantine Books.

Explanatory remark: These passages are quoted here without any comments because they constitute the "object of study" in my BA theses. That is, I am going to analyze and comment them more thoroughly in the process of academic writing. Most of them are in some way related to nonverbal behaviour and communication, or at least this will be the prism through which I will be continually re-reading them during the current academic year.
Montag grinned the fierce grin of all men singed and driven back by flame. (Bradbury 1953: 3)
The last few nights he had the most uncertaing feelings about the sidewalk just around the corner here, moving in the starlight toward his house. He had felt that a moment prior to his making the turn someone had been there. The air seemed charged with a special calm as if someone waited there, quietly, and only a moment before he came, simply turned to a shadow and let him through. Perhaps his nose detected a faint perfume, perhaps the skin on the backs on his hands, on his face, felt the temperature rise at this one spot where a person's standing might raise the immediate atmosphere ten degreed for an instant. There was no understanding it. (Bradbury 1953: 4)
The autumn leaves blew over the moonlit pavement in such a way as to make the girl who was moving there seem fixed to a sliding walk, letting motion of the wind and the leaves carry her forward. Her head was half bent to watch her shoes stir the circling leaves. Her face was slender and milk-white, and in it was a kind of gentle hunger that touched over everything with tireless curiosity. It was a look, almost of pale surprise; the dark eyes were so fixed to the world that no move escaped them. Her dress was white and it shispered. He almost thought he heard the motion of her hands as she walked, and the infinitely small sound now, the white stir of her face turning when she discovered she was a moment away from a man who stood in the middle of the pavement waiting. (Bradbury 1953: 5)
"I'd - I'd have known it with my eyes shut," she said, slowly.
"What - the smell of kerosene? (Bradbury 1953: 5)
They walked the rest of the way in silence, hers thoughtful, his a kind of clenching and uncomfortable silence in which he shot her accusing glances. When they reached her house all its lights were blazing.
"What's going on?" Montag had rarely seen that many house lights.
"Oh, just my mother and father and uncle sitting around, talking. It's like being a pedestrian, only rarer. My uncle was arrested another time - did I tell you? - for being a pedestrian. Oh we're most peculiar." (Bradbury 1953: 8)
He felt his smile slide away, melt, fold over and down on itself like a tallow skin, like the stuff of a fantastic candle burning too long and now collapsing and now blown out. He said the words to himself. He recognized this is the true state of affairs. He wore his happiness like a mask and the girl had run off across the lawn with the mask and there was no way of going to knock on her door to ask for it back. (Bradbury 1953: 11)
Laughter blew across the moon-colored lawn from the house of Clarisse and her father and mother and the uncle who smiled so quietly and so earnestly. Above all, their laughter was relaxed and hearty and not forced in any way, coming from the house that was so brightly lit this late at night while all the other houses were kept to themselves in darkness. Montag heard the voices talking, talking, talking, giving, talking, weaving, revweaving their hypnotic web. (Bradbury 1953: 15)
"How did it start? How did you get into it? How did you pick your work and how did you happen to think to take the job you have? You're not like the others. I've seen a few; I know. When I talk, you look at me. When I said something about the moon, you looked at the moon, last night. The others would never do that. The others would walk off and leave me talking. Or threaten me. No one has time any more for anyone else. You're one of the few who put up with me. That's why I think it's so strange you're a fireman, it just doesn't seem right for you, somehow."
He felt his body divide itself into a hotness and coldness, a trembling and a not trembling, the two halves grinding one upon the other.
"You'd better run on to your appointment," he said.
And she ran off and left him standing there in the rain. Only after a long time did he move.
And then, very slowly, as he walked, he tilted his head back in the rain, for just a few moments, and opened his mouth. ... (Bradbury 1953: 21-22)
"Hello," whispered Montag, fascinated as always with the dead beast, the living beast.
Nights when things go dull, which was every night, the men slid down the brass oles, and set the ticking combinations of the olfactory system of the Hound and let loose rats in the firehouse areaway and sometimes chickens, and sometimes cats that would have to be drowned anyway, and there would be betting to see which of the cats of chickens or rats the Hound would seize first. The animals were turned loose. Three seconds later the game was done, the rat, cat, or chicken caught half across the areaway, gripped in gentling paws while a four-inch hollow steel needle plunged down from the proboscis of the Hound to inject massive jolts of morphine or procaine. The pawn was then tossed in the incinerator. A new game began.
Montag stayed upstairs most nights when this went on. There had been a time two years ago when he had bet with the best of them, and lost a week's salary and faced Mildred's insane anger, which showed itself in veins and blotches. But now nights he lay in his bunk, face turned to the wall, listening to the whoops of laughter below and the piano-string scurry of rat feet, the violin squeaking of mice, and the great shadowing, motioned silence of the Hound leaping out like a moth in the raw light, finding, holding its victim, inserting needle and going back to its kennel to die as if a switch had been turned. (Bradbury 1953: 22-23)
"But most of all," she said, "I like to watch people. Sometimes I ride the subway all day and look at them and listen to them. I just want to figure out who they are and what they want and where they're going. Sometimes I even go to the Fun Parks and ride in the jet cars when they race on the edge of town at midnight and the police don't care as long as they're insured. As long as everyone has ten thousand insurance everyone's happy. Sometimes I sneak around and listen in subways. Or I listen at soda fountains, and do you know what?"
"What?"
"People don't talk about anything."
"Oh, they must!"
"No, not anything. They name a lot of cars or clothes or swimming pools mostly and say how swell! But they all say the same things and nobody says anything different from anyone else. And most of the time in the cafes they have the joke-boxes on and the same jokes most of the time, or the musical wall lit and all the colored patterns running up and down, but it's only color and all abstract. And the museums, have you ever been? All abstract. That's all there is now. My uncle says it was different once. A long time back sometimes pictures said things or even showed people." (Bradbury 1953: 28)
Montag blinked. Beatty was looking at him as if he were a museum statue. At any moment, Beatty might rise and walk about him, touching, exploring his guilt and self-consciousness. (Bradbury 1953: 30)
Had he ever seen a fireman that didn't have black hair, black brows, a fiery face, and a blue-steel shaved but unshaved look? These men were all mirror images of himself! Were all firemen picked then for their looks as well as their proclivities? (Bradbury 1953: 30)
They hurried downstairs, Montag staggering after them in the kerosene fumes.
"Come on, woman!"
The woman knelt among the books, touching the drenched leather and cardboard, reading the gilt titles with her fingers while her eyes accused Montag. (Bradbury 1953: 35)
They said nothing on their way back to the firehouse. Nobody looked at anyone else. Montag sat in the front seat with Beatty and Black. They did not even smoke their pipes. They sat there looking out the front of the great Salamander as they turned a corner and went silently on. (Bradbury 1953: 36)
"Millie...?" he wispered.
"What?"
"I didn't mean to stratle you. What I want to know is..."
"Well?"
"When did we meet? And where?"
"When did we meet for what?" she asked.
"I mean - originally."
He knew she must be frowning in the dark. (Bradbury 1953: 39)
He lay massaging his eyes, his brow, and the back of his neck, slowly. He held both hands over his eyes and applied a steady pressure there as if to crush his memory into place. It was suddenly more important than any other thing in a lifetime that he know where he had met Mildred. (Bradbury 1953: 39)
And he thought of her lying on the bed with the two technicians standing straight over her, not bent with concern, but only standing straight, arms folded. And he remembered thinking then that if she died, he was certain he wouldn't cry. For it would be the dying of an unknown, a street face, a newspaper image, and it was suddenly so very wront that he had begun to cry, not at death but at the thought of not crying at death, a silly empty man near a silly empty woman, while the hungry snake made her still more empty.
How do you get so empty? he wondered. Who takes it out of you? And that awful flower the other day, the dandelion! It had summed up everything, hadn't it? "What a shame! You're not in love with anyone!" And why not? (Bradbury 1953: 40)
"You should've thought of that before becoming a fireman."
"Thought!" he said. "Was I given a choice? My grandfather and father were firemen. In my sleep, I ran after them." (Bradbury 1953: 47)
"Let me alone," said Mildred. "I didn't do anything."
"Let you alone! That's all very well, but how can I leave myself alone? We need not be let alone. We need to be really bothered once in a while. How long is it since you were really bothered? About something imporant, about something real?" (Bradbury 1953: 47)
It didn't come from the Government down. There was no dictum, no declaration, no censorship, to start with, no! Technology, mass exploitation, and minority pressure carried the trick, thank God. Today, thanks to them, ou can stay happy all the time, you are allowed to read comics, the good old confessions, or trade-journals. (Bradbury 1953: 53)
Surely you remember the boy in your own school class who was exceptionally 'bright,' did most of the reciting and answering while the others sat like so many leaden idols, hating him. And wasn't it this bright boy you selected for beatings and tortures after hours? Of course it was. We must all be alike. Not everyone born free and equal, as the Constitution says, but everyone made equal. Each man the image of every other; then all are happy, for there are no mountains to make them cower, to judge themselves against. (Bradbury 1953: 53)
"...Don't give them any slippery stuff like philosophy or sociology to tie things up with. That way lies melanchony. Any man who can take a TV wall apart and put it back together again, and most men can, nowadays, is happier than any man who tries to slide-rule, measure, and equate the universe, which just won't be measured or equated without making man feel bestial and lonely. I know, I've tried it; to hell with it. So bring on your clubs and parties, your acrobats and magicians, your daredevils, jet cars, motorcycle helicopters, your sex and heroin, more of everything to do with automatic reflex. If the drama is bad, if the film says nothing, if the play is hollow, sting me with the theremin, loudly. I'll think I'm responding to the play, when it's only a tactile reaction to vibration. But I don't care. I just like solid entertainment." (Bradbury 1953: 56)
The converter attachment, which had cost them one hundred dollars, automatically supplied her name whenever the announcer addressed his anonymous audience, leaving a blank where the proper syllables could be filled in. A special spot-wavex-scrambler also caused his televised image, in the area immediately about his lips, to mouth the vowels and consonants beautifully. (Bradbury 1953: 58)
Mildred backed away as if she were confronted by a pack of mice that had come up out of the floor. he could hear her breathing rapidly and her face was paled out and her eyes were fastened wide. She said his name over, twice, three times. Then, moaning, she ran forward, seized a book and ran toward the kitchen incinerator.
He caught her, shrieking. He held her and she tried to fight away from him, scratching. (Bradbury 1953: 60)
They read the long afternoon through, while the cold November rain fell from the sky upon the quiet house. They sat in the hall because the parlor was too empty and gray-looking without its walls lit with orange and yellow confetti and skyrockets and women in goldmesh dresses and men in black velvet pulling one-hundred-pound rabbits from silver hats. The parlor was dead and Mildred kept peering in at it with a blank expression as Montag paced the floor and came back and squatted down and read a page as many as ten times, aloud. (Bradbury 1953: LK)
He opened another book.
" 'That favorite subject, Myself.' "
He squinted at the wall. " 'That favorite subject, Myself.' "
"I understand that one," said Mildred.
"But Clarisse's favorite subject wasn't herself. it was everyone else, and me. She was the first person in a good many years I've really liked. She was the first person I can remember who looked straight at me as if I counted." He lifter the two books. "These men have been dead a long time, but I know their words point, one way or another, to Clarisse." (Bradbury 1953: 64)
Mildred kicked at a book. "Books aren't people. You read and I look all around, but there isn't anybody!"
...
"Now," said Mildred, "my 'family' is people. They tell me things, I laugh, they laugh! And the colors!" (Bradbury 1953: 64)
Faber held his hand over his left coat pocket and spoke these words gently, and Montag knew if he reached out, he might pull a book of poetry from the man's coat. But he did not reach out. His hands stayed on his knees, numbed and useless. "I don't talk things, sir," said Faber. "I talk the meaning of things. I sit here and know I'm alive." (Bradbury 1953: 66)
Montag stopped at the door, with his back turned. "Millie?"
A silence. "What?"
"Millie? Does the White Clown love you?"
No answer.
"Millie, does -" He licked his lips. "Does your 'family' love you, love you very much, love you with all their heart and soul, Millie?"
He felt her blinking slowly at the back of his neck. "Why'd you ask a silly question like that?"
He felt he wanted to cry, but nothing would happen to his eyes or his mouth. (Bradbury 1953: 68-69)
I'm numb, he thought. When did the numbness really begin in my face? In my body? The night I kicked the pill-bottle in the dark, like kicking a buried mine.
The numbness will go away, he thought. It'll take time, but I'll do it, or Faber will do it for me. Someone somwehere will give me back the old face and the old hands the way they were. Even the smile, he thought, the old burnt-in smile, that's gone. I'm lost without it. (Bradbury 1953: 69)
"Denham's dental detergent."
"Shut up, shut up, shut up!" It was a plea, a cry so terrible that Montag found himself on his feet, the shocked inhabitants of the loud car staring, moving back from this man with the insane, gorged face, the gibbering, dry mouth, the flapping book in his fist. (Bradbury 1953: 70)
He ran on the white tiles up through the tunnels, ignoring the escalators, because he wanted to feel his feet move, arms swing, lungs clench, unclench, feel his throat go raw with air. (Bradbury 1953: 71)
Faber turned the pages. "Mr. Montag, you are looking at a coward. I saw the way things were going, a long time back. I said nothing. I'm one of the innocents who could have spoken up and out when no one would listen to the 'guilty', but I did not speak and thus became guilty myself. And when finally they set the structure to burn the books, using the firemen, I grunted a few times and subsided, for there were no others grunting or yelling with me, by then. Now, it's too late." Faber closed the Bible. (Bradbury 1953: 73)
"You're a hopeless romantic," said Faber. "It would be funny if it were not serious. It's not books you need, it's some of the things that once were in books. The same things could be in the 'parlor families' today. The same infinite detail and awareness could be projected through the radios and televisors, but are not. No, no, it's not books at all you're looking for! Take it where you can find it, in old phonograph records, old motion pictures, and in old friends; look for it in nature and look for it in yourself. Books were only one type of receptacle where we stored a lot of things we were afraid we might forget. There is nothing magical in them, at all. The magic is only in what books say, how they stiched the patches of the universe together into one garment for us.
...
Do you know why books such as this are so important? Because they have quality. And what does the word quality mean? To me it means texture. This book has pores. It has features. This book can go under the microscope. You'd find life under the glass, streaming past in infinite profusion. The more pores, the more truthfully recorded details of life per square inch you can get on a sheet of paper, the more 'literary' you are. That's my definition, anyway. Telling detail. Fresh detail. The good writers touch life often. The mediocre ones run a quick hand over her. The bad ones rape her and leave her for the flies.
...
So now do you see why books are hated and feared? They show the pores in the face of life. The comfortable people want only wax moon faces, poreless, hairless, expressionless. (Bradbury 1953: 73-74)
Number one, as I said, quality of information. Number two: leisure to digest it. And number three: the right to carry out actions based on what we learn from the interaction of the first two. (Bradbury 1953: 75)
"Good night, good night."
Montag's hands picked up the Bible. He saw what his hands had done and he looked surprised. (Bradbury 1953: 78)
The old man said nothing but glanced once more nervously, at his bedroom. Montag caught the glance.
"Well?" (Bradbury 1953: 80)
"Faber?"
"Yes?"
"I'm not thinking. I'm just doing like I'm told, like always. You said get the money and I got it. I didn't really think of it myself. When do I start working things out on my own?" (Bradbury 1953: 82)
Montag reached inside the parlor wall and pulled the main switch. The images drained away, as if the water had been let from a gigantic crystal bowl of hysterical fish.
The three woman turned slowly and looked with unconcealed irritation and then dislike at Montag. (Bradbury 1953: 84)
"...Stick with the firemen, Montag. All else is dreary chaos!" [Beatty] (Bradbury 1953: 96)
"Well," said Beatty, "now you did it. Old Montag wanted to fly near the sun and now that he's burnt his damn wings, he wonders why. Didn't I hint enough when I sent the Hound around your place?"
Montag's face was entirely numb and featureless; he felt his head turn like a stone carving to the dark place next door, set in its bright border of flowers. (Bradbury 1953: 100)
"Nukdred!"
She ran past with her body stiff, her face floured with powder, her mouth gone, without lipstick. (Bradbury 1953: 100)
Beatty struck him a blow on the head that sent him reeling back. The green bullet in which Faber's voice whispered and cried, fell to the sidewalk. Beatty snatched it up, grinning. He held it half in, half out of his ear.
Montag heard the distant voice calling, "Montag, you all right?"
Beatty switched the green bullet off and thrust it in his pocket. "Well - so there's more here than I thought. I saw you tilt your head, listening. First I thought you had a Seashell. But when you turned clever later, I wondered. We'll trace this and drop it on your friend."
"No!" said Montag.
He twitched the safety catch on the flame-thrower. Beatty glanced instantly at Montag's fingers and his eyes widened the faintest bit. Montag saw the surprise there and himself glanced to his hands to see what new thing they had done. Thinking back later he could never decide whether the hands or Beatty's reaction to the hands gave him the final push toward murder. The lastt rolling thunder of the avalanche stoned down about his ears, not touching him. (Bradbury 1953: 105)
The air over and above the vast concrete river trembled with the warmth of Montag's body alone; it was incredible how he felt his temperature could cause the whole immediate world to vibrate. (Bradbury 1953: 111)
"-nose so sensitive the Mechanical Hound can remember and identify ten thousand odor indexes on ten thousand men without re-setting!"
Faber trembled the least bit and looked about at his house, at the walls, the door, teh doorknob, and the chair where Montag now sat. Montag saw the look: They both looked quickly about the house and Montag felt his nostrils dilate and he knew that he was trying to track himself and his nose was suddenly good enough to sense the path he had made in the air of ther oom and the sweat of his hand hung from the doorknob, invisible but as numerous as the jewels of a small chandelier, he was everywhere, in and on and about everything, he was a luminous cloud, a ghost that made breathing once more impossible. He saw faber stop his own breath for fear of drawning that ghost into his own body, perhaps, being contaminated with the phantom exhalation and odors of a running man. (Bradbury 1953: 118-119)
If he wished, he could linger here, in comfort, and follow the entire hunt on through its swift phases, down alleys, across streets, over empty running avenues, crossing lots and playgrounds, with pauses here and there for the necessary commercials, up other alleys to the burning house of Mr. and Mrs. Blackm, and so on finally to this house with Faber and himself seated, drinking, while the Electric Hound snuffed down the last trail, silent as a drift of death itself, skidding to a halt outside that window there. Then, if he wished, Montag might rise, walk to the window, keep one eye on the TV screen, open the window, leap out, look back, and see himself dramatized, described, made over, standing there, limned in the bright small television screen from outside, a drama to be watched objectively, knowing that in other parlors he was large as life, in full color, dimensionally perfect! and if he kept his eye peeled quickly he would see himself, an instant before oblivion, being puncture for the benefit of how many civilian parlor-sitters who had been wakened from sleep a few minutes ago by the frantic sirening of their living room walls to come watch the big game, the hunt, the one-man carnival. (Bradbury 1953: 119)
he was three hundred yards downstream when the Hound reached the river. Overhead the great racketing fans of the helicopters hovered. A storm of light fell upon the river and Montag dived under the great illumination as if the sun had broken the clouds. He felt the river pull him further on its way, into darkness. Then the lights switched back to the land, the helocopters swerved over the city again, as if they had picked up another trail. They were gone. The Hound was gone. Now there was only the cold river and Montag floating in a sudden peacefulness, away from the city and the lights and the chase, away from everything.
He felt as if he had left a stage behind and many actors. He felt as if he had left the great seance and all the murmuring ghosts. He was moving from an unreality that was frightening into a reality that was unreal because it was new. (Bradbury 1953: 124)
It was not burning, it was warming.
He saw many hands held to its warmth, hands without arms, hidden in darkness. Above the hands, motionless faces that were only moved and tossed and flickered with firelight. He hadn't known fire could look this way. He had never thought in his life that it could give as well as take. Even its smell was different. (Bradbury 1953: 130)
The voices talked of everything, there was nothing they could not talk about, he knew, from the very cadence and motion and continual stir of curiosity and wonder in them. (Bradbury 1953: 130)
A voice cried, "There's Montag! The search is done!"
The innocent man stood bewildered, a cigarette burning in his hand. He stared at the Hound, not knowing what it was. He probably never knew. He glanced up at the sky and the wailing sirens. The camera rushed down. The Hound leapt up into the air with a rhythm and a sense of timing that was incredibly beautiful. Its needle shot out. It was suspended for a moment in their gaze, as if to give the vast audience time to appreciate everything, the raw look of the victim's face, the empty street, the steel animal a bullet nosing the target. (Bradbury 1953: 133)
But I've forgotten!"
"No, nothing's ever lost. We have ways to shake down your clinkers for you."
"But I've tried to remember!"
"Don't ry. It'll come when we need it. All of us have photographic memories, but spend a lifetime learning how to block off the things that are really in there. Simmons here has worked on it for twenty years and now we've got the method down to where we can recall anything that's been read once. Would you like, some day, Montag, to read Plato's Republic?" (Bradbury 1953: 134-135)
Garner stood looking back with Montag. "Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Ora garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you're there. It doesn't matter what you do, he said, so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that's like you after you take your hands away. The difference between the man who just cuts lawns and a real gardener is in the touching, he said. The lawn-cutter might just as well not have been there at all; the gardener will be there a lifetime." (Bradbury 1953: 140)