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You won't get where you think you're going.
A conventional novel is a safe ride. It is designed to catch you up, propell you down its track, and pop you out at the other end with possibly a few new catchphrases in your pocket and a pleasant though vague sense of the scenery rushing by. The mechanism of the chute is so effective, in fact, that it undoes the most worthy experiments; sentences that ought to stop you in your tracks are like spider webs across the chute. You rip through, they're gone.
Hypertext likes give and take, snares and grottos, nets and knots. It lacks thrust. It will always lack thrust; thrust is what linear narrative is good at. As far as I'm concerned, we can trust thrust to it. It means we'll need other reasons to keep readers reading--assuming that's what we want--than a compulsion to find out what happens next. There's no question that hypertext will lose or never acquire those readers for whom a fated slalom toward the finish line is the defining literary experience; hypertext's not built for that. Probably it is because linear text's so well-built for it that it has become the dominant narrative style in the novel. But there are other reasons to read. I can be caught in that slalom myself, but I emerge feeling damp, winded and slightly disgusted. It is a not entirely pleasant compulsion disguised as entertainment, like being forced to dance by a magic fiddle. It becomes harder and harder to imagine going anywhere but just where you're going, and words increasingly mean just what they say. (Common sense reality does the same thing: there is little opportunity for poetic ambiguity in the dealings of everyday life.) Plot chaperones understanding, cuts off errant interpretations. Reading a well-plotted novel I start by knowing less than I know about my own life, and being open to far more interpretations, which makes me feel inquisitive and alive. I finish by knowing more than I want to know, stuck on one meaning like a bug on a pin.
In a text
like this, gaps are problematic. The mind becomes self-conscious,
falters, forgets its way, might choose another way, might opt
out of this text into another, might "lose the thread of
the argument," might be unconvinced. Transitional phrases
smooth over gaps, even huge logical gaps, suppress contradiction,
whisk you past options. I noticed in school that I could argue
anything. I might find myself delivering conclusions I disagreed
with because I had built such an irresistable machine for persuasion.
The trick was to allow the reader only one way to read it, and
to make the going smooth. To seal the machine, keep out grit.
Such a machine can only do two things: convince or break down.
Thought is made of leaps, but rhetoric conducts you across the
gaps by a cute cobbled path, full of grey phrases like "therefore,"
"extrapolating from," "as we have seen,"
giving you something to look at so you don't look at the nothing
on the side of the path. Hypertext leaves you naked with yourself
in every leap, it shows you the gamble thought is, and it invites
criticism, refusal even. Books are designed to keep you reading
the next thing until the end, but hypertext invites choice.
Writing hypertext, you've got to accept the possibility your
reader will just stop reading. Why not? The choice to go do
something else might be the best outcome of a text. Who wants
a numb reader/reader-by-numbers anyway? Go write your own text.
Go paint a mural. You must change your life. I want piratical
readers, plagiarists and opportunists, who take what they want
from my ideas and knot it into their own arguments. Or even
their own novels. From which, possibly, I'll steal it back.
BANISHED
BODY
It's not what we wish it were.
The real body, which we have denied representation, is completely inimical to our wishful thinking about the self. We would like to be unitary, controlled from on top, visible, self-contained. We represent ourselves that way, and define our failures to be so, if we cannot ignore them, as disease, hysteria, anomaly. However:
The banished body is unhierarchical.
It registers local intensities, not arguments. It is a field of sensations juxtaposed in space.
It is vague about size and location, unclear on measurements of all kinds, bad at telling time (though good at keeping it).
It is capacious, doesn't object to paradox, includes opposites--doesn't know what opposites are.
It is simultaneous.
It is unstable. It changes from moment to moment, in its experience both of itself and of the world.
It has no center, but a roving focus. (It "reads" itself.)
It is neither clearly an object nor simply a thought, meaning or spirit; it is a hybrid of thing and thought, the monkey in the middle.
It is easily influenced; it is largely for being influenced, since its largest organs are sensing devices.
It is permeable; it is entered by the world, via the senses, and can only roughly define its boundaries.
It reports to us in stories, intensities, hallucinatory jolts of uninterpreted perceptions: smells, sights, pleasure, pain.
Its public image, its face is a collage of stories, borrowed images, superstitions, fantasies. We have no idea what it "really" looks like.
Because
we have banished the body, but cannot get rid of it entirely,
we can use it to hold what we don't want to keep but can't destroy.
The real body, madcap patchwork acrobat, gets what the mind
doesn't want, the bad news, the dirty stories. The forbidden
stories get written down off-center, in the flesh. In hysteria,
the body starts to tell those stories back to us--our kidneys
become our accusers, our spine whines, our knees gossip about
overheard words, our fingers invent a sign language of blame
and pain. Of course, the more garbage we pack into that magical
body the more we fear it, and the more chance there is that
it will turn on us, begin to speak, accuse us. But that body-bag
is also a treasure-trove, like any junkyard. It knows stories
we've never told.
BOUNDARY
PLAY
We don't think what we think we think.
It's straightforward enough to oppose the self to the not-self and reason to madness. It's even possible to make the leap from here to there, though coming back presents some problems. But the borders between are frayed and permeable. It's possible to wander that uneven terrain, to practice slipping, skidding in the interzone. It's possible, and maybe preferable for the self to think of itself as a sort of practice rather than a thing, a proposition with variable terms, a mesh of relationships. It's possible for a text to think of itself that way. ANY text. But hypertext in particular is a kind of amphibious vehicle, good for negotiating unsteady ground, poised on its multiple limbs where the book clogs up and stops; it keeps in motion. Conventional texts, on the other hand are in search of a place of rest; when they have found it, they stop.
Similarly,
the mind, reading, wants to make sense, and once it has done
so it considers its work done, so if you want to keep the mind
from stopping there, you must always provide slightly more indicators
than the mind can make use of. There must be an excess, a remainder.
Or an undecideable oscillation between possibilities. I am interested
in writing that verges on nonsense, where nonsense is not the
absence of sense, but the superfluity of it. I would like to
sneak as close to that limit as possible without reaching it.
This is the old kind of interactive writing: writing so dense
or so slippery that the mind must do a dance to keep a grip
on it. I am interested in writing this way for two reasons.
One, because language must be teased into displaying its entire
madcap lavish beauty. If you let it be serviceable then it will
only serve you, never master you, and you will only write what
you already know, which is not much. Two, because the careful
guarding of sense in language is not just analogous to but entirely
complicit in the careful guarding of sense in life, and that
possibly well-intentioned activity systematically squelches
curiosity, change, variety, & finally, all delight in life.
It promotes common sense at the expense of all the others.
REALITY
FICTION
It's not what it says it is.
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