Wednesday, March 27, 2019

Lucky's Speech

It was years—decades even—from the time I first read Samuel Beckett's Waiting for Godot before seeing a production of it. In that time, and really since the beginning, I was fascinated with Lucky's speech, which still seems to me to be the climax of Act One. If you remove all the repetition from the play, then all that remains would be Lucky's speech and Pozzo's downfall.

In every production I have seen, Lucky’s speech, which Beckett calls a tirade, comes across as just that. It’s a wordy outburst that unfortunately loses much of its connotative meaning when delivered onstage, no matter who the actor is. Seeing productions of Godot, then, will always disappoint when compared to reading the script.


Lost is much of the bodily humor (the double caca of “Acacacacademy,” scholarly citations by “Fartov and Belcher”) as well as the philosophical content, which includes allusions to Descartes’ res extensa, the defective Latin “Essy-in-Possy” misquoted from Kant (esse-in-posse, or existence as a possibility or having the potential to exist), and the direct reference to Bishop (and philosopher George) Berkeley.

Certain lines from the tirade (“… what is more much more grave that in the light of the labors lost of Steinweg and Peterman it appears what is more much more grave that in the light the light the light of the labors lost of Steinweg and Peterman …”) easily resonates with Pozzo’s gloomy lines at the end of his scene in Act Two: “They give birth [read: “labors”] astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it’s night once more.” It is as if Lucky can either see the future or has the ability to correctly discern the present.

If I were to direct a production of Waiting for Godot, I think I would have Lucky speak more slowly. Other than the word "tirade," there is nothing in Beckett's stage directions that mandates how quickly the lines are delivered. And "tirade" can just as easily be much more methodical. Imagine if Lucky were presenting his findings at an academic conference. Or imagine Lucky as Hitler espousing not racist ideology but existential truths. What if Lucky were simply rallying all of humanity to his cause? How would that scene play differently? Would the speech's content finally be allowed to come through?

And spare me that bullshit "insight" that because it's "postmodern" it's not supposed to have any inherent meaning. That's fucking bullshit, and we all know it. If anything, theories of postmodernity show that the speech's meaning is located specifically within its dislocated meanings. The quaquaquaqua has meaning as both Heideggerian Als-Struktur and the quacking of a duck. What better way to honor Beckett and his "misnamed" Lucky, who, according to the play, is both capable of thinking even while remaining dumb?

Saturday, March 23, 2019

End of the Rainbow

"Between you and me is not only a rocket trajectory, but also a life."

When asked about my thoughts regarding Gravity's Rainbow, I responded that it easily has become one of my favorite books. Not my favorite, but certainly one of them. I mentioned that one of the things I liked most about the novel was that, like Moby-Dick, it created an entire universe, a world that could be recreated just from the science, technology, and mythology it contained. I liked how every detail, every character, every image responded to and activated that universe. Its rhizomic narrative structure is nearly perfect.

It's funny that Pynchon has been so little on my radar. I read The Crying of Lot 49 in graduate school, and I thought it was schlock lit. I had no interest in reading anything else by him.

Another aspect of Gravity's Rainbow that appealed to me was Pynchon's dialog with translation. There are a lot of languages used in the novel. And Pynchon does this interesting thing where he'll use a foreign word or phrase and then half-translate it a page or two later without ever calling attention to the fact that that's what he's doing. I say "half-translate" because his translation often employs an almost hyper-foreignized root that he leaves intact.

One example, when he directly cites Rilke: "These tall, these star-blotting Moslem angels ... O, wie spurlos zerträte ein Engel den Trostmarkt. . . ." And a paragraph and a half later: "coming to trample spoorless the white marketplace of his own exile. . . ." This was probably the first time I noticed what he was doing, and this example comes near the middle of the book. Spoorless jumps out because it's so weird. In German, it means trackless or without a trace. But Pynchon half-translates it as spoorless, which barely amounts to translation at all. This is not a common word in English. And the word is typically translated as completely in English translations of the Rilke. There are lots more examples.

Pynchon's manifesto of language can perhaps be summed up with this line: "Words are only an eye-twitch away from the things they stand for." Or perhaps more forcefully: "The knife cuts through the apple like a knife cutting an apple."

Pynchon's love affair with Rilke was beautiful and on display from early on. Rilke's name is mentioned seven times. The Duino Elegies, once. I would've liked to have translated The Duino Elegies to commemorate having finished Gravity's Rainbow. Or perhaps even Rilke's thematically related “How surely gravity’s law.” But because there are only so few hours in a day, I stuck with the shorter "Gravity." Here is Rilke's poem and my Pynchonian translation below.

Schwerkraft
by Rainer Maria Rilke


Mitte, wie du aus allen
dich ziehst, auch noch aus Fliegenden dich
wiedergewinnst, Mitte, du Stärkste.

Stehender: wie ein Trank den Durst
durchstürzt ihn die Schwerkraft.

Doch aus dem Schlafenden fällt,
wie aus lagernder Wolke,
reichlicher Regen der Schwere.

Gravity
by Rainer Maria Rilke, trans. Frank Garrett

Middle, how from all of us
you pull yourself, even from those flying off you
regain yourself, middle, you most strong.

Standing: like a drink the thirst
plunges him down by gravity.

But from the sleeper falls,
As from a stored-up cloud,
a generous rain of what’s grave.

See also: Half a Rainbow