Seen of the Crime

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Content


 


 
SEEN
 OF
 THE
 CRIME:
 
 
ESSAYS
 ON
 CONCEPTUAL
 WRITING
 
DEREK
 BEAULIEU
 


 


 


 


 

 

/ubu editions
2012

Seen of the Crime:
Essays on Conceptual Writing
derek beaulieu

Contents
Please, no more poetry.
5
11
20
22
24
29
33
36
40
47
50
52
55

“I cannot sleep unless surrounded by books.”
“Compose the Holes”
“Besides, it’s always other people who die”
“Hence latent of satisfaction, relating singing of of bunch the effect.”
“Have you studied the soft toes of Geckoes?”
It Quacks Like a Duck
Rob’s Word Shop
A Phallic King Midas
An Articulatory Feat: an Interview with Caroline Bergvall
Representations of the Holocaust
“An irresponsible act of imaginative license”
bill bissett’s Rush: what fuckan theory; a study uv language
Fidgeting with the scene of the crime

Acknowledgements
Bibliography

2

Please, no more poetry.

Poetry is the last refuge of the unimaginative.
Poetry has little to offer outside of poetry itself. Poets chose to be poets
because they do not have the drive to become something better.
Readers are a book’s aphorisms.
All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling. To be natural is to be
obvious, and to be obvious is to be inartistic. Poetry, sadly, knows it’s poetry,
while writing doesn’t always know it’s writing.
Art is a conversation, not a patent office.
Poets in ostrich-like ignorance of the potential of sharing—as opposed to
hoarding—their texts, are ignoring potentially the most important artistic
innovation of the 20th century: collage. What’s at stake? Nothing but their
own obsolescence. If you don’t share you don’t exist.
We expect plumbers, electricians, engineers and doctors to both have a
specific and specialized vocabulary & be on the forefront of new
advancements in their field, but scorn poets who do the same.
Poets are now judged not by the quality of their writing but by the
infallibility of their choices.
Having been unpopular in high school is not just cause for book
publications.
Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal.
In theory, there is no difference between theory and practice. But, in
practice, there is.

3

Rules are guidelines for stupid people.
In poetry we celebrate mediocrity and ignore radicality.
Poetry has more to learn from graphic design, engineering, architecture,
cartography, automotive design, or any other subject, than it does from
poetry itself.
Poets should not be told to write what they know. They don’t know
anything, that’s why they are poets.
The Internet is not something that challenges who we are or how we
write it is who we are and how we write. Poets—being poets—are simply the
last to realize the fact.
If writing a poem is inherently tragic it is because it is hard to believe that
the author had nothing better to do. It is inherently tragic because we still
choose an out-dated form as a medium for argumentation.
If we had something to say would we choose the poem—with its sliver
of audience and lack of cultural cache—as the arena to announce that
opinion?
Please, no more poetry.

4

“I cannot sleep unless surrounded by books.”
I dream of bookstores.
I dream of finding the perfect bookstore, the oneric storehouse of all the
volumes which I knew existed just beyond my fingertips. When I explore
corporeal bookshops, I always compare them (unfavorably) to my
bibliophillic dreamscapes.
Like déjà vu or a faintly remembered conversation there are a few stores
which hint at the possibilities: Montréal’s The Word, Vancouver’s Pulp
Fiction, Calgary’s Pages Books on Kensington, Halifax’s John W. Doull,
Bookseller and Washington,

DC’s

Bridge Street Books all suggest the ante-

chambers of my imagined bookshops. But these are merely appetizers for my
yearned-for main course.
Jorge Luis Borges in “Poemes de los Dones” famously said that he
“imagined that Paradise will be some kind of library.” I agree with him
though bookstores haunt my dreams. It not unusual for me to dream of
nondescript doors that open onto disheveled stacks and shelves, piles of
maps and chapbooks, garret rooms of obscure titles and rarely-seen folios.
While Borges said “I cannot sleep unless I am surrounded by books,” I often
dream that books surround me.
But the bookstores of my dreams are not filled with the stock of your
average retailer. Instead they inevitably contain eccentric books I’ve heard of
but never held (Luigi Serafini’s Codex Seraphinianus for example); fantastic

5

tomes mentioned in literature (Silas Haslam’s History of the Land Called Uqbar
for example); and unlikely volumes (previously unpublished collections by
Italo Calvino for example). All of these volumes are gathered in impossible
bookshops that populate my dreamed streetscapes.
Parasitic Ventures Press has published 5 of those impossible texts—each
tantalizingly out of reach. The Press’s Lost Book Series consists of Edward
Gibbon’s The History of Democracy in Switzerland (destroyed after poor
reception on initial drafts), William Shakespeare’s Love’s Labour Won (a
known, but unfound sequel to Love’s Labour Lost); Confucius’ The Book of
Music (a lost member of his “6 books” now considered completely fanciful);
T. S. Eliot’s Literature and Export Trade (edited into an unrecognizable shape)
and Mikhail Bakhtin’s The Bildungsroman and its Significance in the History of
Realism.
Bakhtin’s volume is the triumph of the series. At the outset of World
War II the manuscript of The Bildungsroman and its Significance in the History of
Realism safely existed in 2 copies. Knowing that the working copy of the
manuscript was protected at his Moscow publisher, Bakhtin repurposed his
copy as cigarette paper, and dutifully smoked his manuscript. Unbeknownst
to him, his Moscow publisher Sovetsky Pisatel—and the only extant copy of
the manuscript—was destroyed in the 1942 battle of Moscow.
Of course, the ironic thing about dreaming of bookshops and impossible
oeuvres is that it is impossible to read in dreams. In dreams books are merely
the shells of themselves; they point to “bookness” but do not hold the texts
for which my mind searches. In our oneric nighttime escapades, we are able

6

to accomplish a myriad of impossible feats but we cannot read. Text is just
beyond the threshold of our mind’s eye (the next time you recall your
dreams, try to focus on any text you encountered).
Parasitic Ventures Press hasn’t performed an unlikely feat of literary
archaeology in republishing these lost classics however. The books are
blurred beyond the threshold of readability. You can polish your glasses or
tease out the range of your bifocal vision as much as you’d like; the texts are
nothing more than horizontal layers of smoke. The Matrix may cast us into
convincing landscapes but its ability for detail only reaches to a minimal level;
text floats in a grey shifting field. Newspaper headlines may be needed for a
realistic street scene, but the articles under those headlines are washed out.
Parasitic Ventures Press plucked a talisman from my dreams, a symbol of
the limits of my own subconscious and gave it form, taunting me with the
physical reminder that my dream volumes will always remain unreadable.
§
I am also drawn to libraries.
Small or large, a collection of books will no doubt attract my eye.
Whenever I am at someone else’s house, I am drawn—like so many of my
colleagues—to my host’s bookcases and the evidence of their reading.
Authors, scholars and academics are often socially awkward and I find myself
discovering more about a host’s personality from their bookcases than I do
from their conversation. How are the books arranged? What subject matters
(and authors) are represented? What periods are reflected? How are the
books kept?

7

I have a friend whose library consists solely—as a means of limiting the
size of his collection—of first editions. He does not loan his books and
believes that they are best preserved for posterity under UV-protective glass.
Another colleague’s books were re-arranged by his spouse from a
random array into a more aesthetically pleasing arrangement based upon
colour and height…the books soon wandered back to their original
randomness reflecting his more idiosyncratic way of looking at the world.
My personal library threatens to overtake our apartment, and is arranged
by genre, author’s last name and then by height … with a few nods to
practicality (Joseph Campbell’s indispensible A Skeleton Key to Finnegans Wake:
Unlocking James Joyce’s Masterwork is filed next to Finnegans Wake; The Alice B.
Toklas Cook Book is filed between Ida and To Do: A Book of Alphabets and
Birthdays). There’s a bookcase for visual art; two for graphic novels and
comics; four for fiction, poetry, drama and theory; and one for a further mix
of additional visual art, graphic novels, typography, travel books, literary
journals, and a hodge-podge of other genres (which oddly places Blazing
Combat next to The Holy Bible)—and that doesn’t include my daughter’s
growing collection, nor my partner’s.
The juxtaposition of books upon a shelf is one of the thrills of wandering
a library (my own has an intriguing juxtaposition of Francis Picabia, Vanessa
Place, Gabriel Pomerand, Francis Ponge and Bern Porter).
I continue to be dumbfounded by the University of _______’s decision
to move any books from their collection that have not been signed out in the
last 3 years into off-site storage. These books will only be available to readers

8

and returned to the stacks if requested by name and call number. In my
opinion this “culling of the herd” based on frequency of usage not only
prevents the thrill of browsing, but it also prevents unexpected eruptions
within directed research. Students will no longer encounter any books on the
shelf that haven’t been placed there by previous research. The ocean of eyecatching spines, unexpected misfiled books, or volumes sadly unexplored by
recent scholars will be drastically reduced into a much shallower pool. Over
the last year I have heard a veritable choir of graduate students and
colleagues bemoaning the disappearing thrill of browsing.
Craig Dworkin’s The Perverse Library is a love-letter to the library.
Critiqued by a colleague for possessing a “very perverse library,” Dworkin’s
volume combines 3 distinct bibliophillic fervors. The book opens with a
masterwork introductory essay that borders on Calvino’s If on a Winter’s Night
a Traveller for hallucinatory descriptions of collections, shelves and stacks. In
a brilliant ’pataphysical moment, Dworkin postulates that canonicity is not an
aesthetic prioritization of genre but is in fact an architectural necessity:
A library is print in its gaseous state, filling every available space and
then increasing pressure—compressing, rotating, double shelving—
until, according to the constant required by Boyle’s Law, either the
current container breaks, loosing books onto new shelves and stacks,
or else the volume stabilizes, stabilizing volumes. (14)
The Perverse Library continues with 2 separate bibliographic catalogues;
“The Perverse Library” and “A Perverse Library,” each of which is a giddy
playground of potentiality. Borges’ library need not be a fantastical one, it is

9

inherently embedded in every library, every shelf. Due the demands of
moving, Dworkin has sorted his library by publisher’s trim size (my Green
Integer edition of To Do, as an example, is 6" x 4¼") in order to fit an everincreasing number of volumes in his residence. “The Perverse Library” is a
bibliographic listing of each book that Dworkin yearns to add to his personal
library, while “A Perverse Library” is a listing of each volume already
possessed barring books at his office, tomes not on the shelves at the time of
indexing, volumes of theory and anthologies. The paragraph-long list of
categories of omitted books reflects that “A Perverse Library” is, in fact,
exactly that—a perverse choosing of volumes which provide a nonpervasive, yet complete, portrait of Dworkin’s working library. The Perverse
Library opens with an epigraph from Thomas Nakell, “[t]he library is its own
discourse. You listen in, don’t you?” (9)

10

“Compose the Holes”

In the various anthologies and publications of concrete and visual poetry
in my personal library, it’s not particularly surprising to find visual poets who
are intrigued by the graphic possibilities of punctuation. Canadian examples
include David Aylward’s Typescapes and Sha(u)nt Basmajian’s Boundaries Limits
and Space; both are relatively simple combinations of punctuation, both
explore the graphic possibilities of typographic marks. Paul Dutton’s right
hemisphere left ear includes his off-the-grid 6-page “mondrian boogie woogie.”
What is a bit more unusual—and to me a lot more exciting—are novelists
and visual artists with the same interest in punctuation. Most of the writers I
know who work with punctuation do so by isolating the punctuation from
existing texts as a means of creating new resultant texts devoid of any
semantic content.
Gertrude Stein’s essay “On Punctuation” opens with the dictum that
“[t]here are some punctuations that are interesting and there are some
punctuations that are not” (214). With Gertrude Stein on Punctuation Kenneth
Goldsmith isolates all of the punctuation in Stein’s lecture, leaving blank
spaces where all the other typographic characters once occurred and proves
that all punctuation are equally intriguing once flattened and removed from
their intended use as semantic traffic signs. Goldsmith has an entire series of
work in this vein, including all of the punctuation from William Strunk and
E. B. White’s chapter on punctuation in their Elements of Style.

11

Carl Fredrik Reuterswärd’s Prix Nobel also uses an original source text to
create a new punctuation-only result. While I know nothing about the source
text that Reuterswärd uses, I was able to find a brief recording of him reading
from Prix Nobel. Reuterswärd’s Prix Nobel is scrubbed clean, but he voices the
novel by naming each mark: “Point. Point. Point.”
herman de vries’ argumentstellen consists entirely of 48 clean linen pages
each marked with only a single period floating in compositional space. The
text was written as a response to Wittgenstein’s Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus
2.0131: “der räumliche gegenstand muss im unendlichen raume liegen. (der
raumpunkt ist eine argumentstelle.)” The “full stop is the place for an
argument” but it is also geographically the marker of potentiality.
Gary Barwin’s Servants of Dust isolates all the punctuation from
Shakespeare’s sonnets but articulates them as words
comma
comma
comma
colon
comma
comma
inverted comma
inverted comma
dash
comma
comma
period
inverted
comma
inverted comma

comma
comma
comma
inverted comma
comma

period

comma
comma
period
comma

that create a new form of sonnet, but one without any semantic content
other than a map of latency. Barwin’s text resembles both a map of

12

Shakespeare’s sonnet and a transcription of Reuterswärd’s reading of his own
punctuation-only novel.
Riccardo Boglione’s Ritmo D. Feeling the Blanks isolates all the punctuation
from Giovanni Boccaccio’s Decameron, one of the most censored books in
history. The punctuation here acts as a “ghost of the text [that] roams around
the structure that should contain it.”
All of these texts are maps of potential. Each text offers the reader the
opportunity to imagine the possibilities inherent in the skeletal framework of
punctuation by filling the spaces between the marks with latent texts. The
punctuation does not insist upon a particular form, it only asserts that in the
resultant text the pauses and stops must occur at the predetermined
locations.
§
Jorge Luis Borges’ short story “The Library of Babel” posits a universe
embodied in a single interminable, honeycomb-like, library. Borges’ literary
repository holds every potential combination of letters arranged without a
card catalogue, dooming the denizens of this collection to wander the stacks
searching for meaning.
For writers, Borges has issued both a condemnation and a challenge. By
proposing an effectively infinite library (for given current estimates on the
size of our universe, it would take 101,834,013 universes to hold the entire
collection) Borges lays claim to every book within the library’s holdings: there
are no books that an author could propose which Borges’ library does not
already contain. When faced with the ontological nightmare of the Borgesian

13

library, a writer has two choices. She can either shrink from her task,
believing that there are no remaining original ideas that Borges has not
already placed within his collection, or she can see Borges’ library as freeing
her from the onerous weight of originality. Within this tact, the author must
assert the poetics of choice—writing for her has become not a matter of
creating art but selecting art. To be a writer is to artistically select a single
volume from Borges’ shelves and assert that volume as particularly worth
examination and consideration.
Borges’ library is a fractal—its implications reproduce at every level from
the most minute to the universal, from the library to the section to the
bookcase to the shelf to the volume to the page. At every level the contents
of Borges’ archive is a sea of un-asserted meaning. Every volume is titled on
the spine, but the title does not portend any insight into the contents of the
volume, The book could be titled The Plaster Cramp or Combed Thunder or
Axaxaxas mlö, none of those volumes would significantly waver from the
next in terms of its content or meaning.
Novels and poems formed entirely from punctuation, much like “The
Library of Babel,” assert every novel as being both anchored and unanchored
for each is its own Borgesian library of potential—each book is every book.
§
Allowing slightly more text than these minimalist gestures are the poets
and novelists who craft through erasure. The compositional technique is
sometimes conflated with William Burroughs and Brion Gysin’s “cut-up
method,” but I see it as a radically different strategy.

14

For Burroughs and Gysin all existing writing serves as raw material that
can be re-arranged and regrouped in a way that exposes an unexpected voice,
the “third mind” of collaboration. The cut-up method argues that aleatory
writing foregrounds a poetic voice inherent in the text that supplants any
intention of the author in favour of the preternatural other. Their technique
echoes Tristan Tzara’s famous “dada manifesto on feeble love and bitter
love” which insists upon a new form of chance-based writing:
TO MAKE A DADAIST POEM
Take a newspaper.
Take some scissors.
Choose from this paper an article of the length you want to make
your poem.
Cut out the article.
Next carefully cut out each of the words that makes up this article
and put them all in a bag.
Shake gently.
Next take out each cutting one after the other.
Copy conscientiously in the order in which they left the bag.
The poem will resemble you.
And there you are - an infinitely original author of charming
sensibility, even though unappreciated by the vulgar herd.
Tzara—like Burroughs and Gysin—uses existing text as the raw material for
new writing with no regard for how the text appears in the geography of its
original page. Erased texts do.

15

Tom Phillips and Ronald Johnson are the two major practitioners of
erasure; they each create texts by erasing passages from other authors’ work
in order to isolate new meaning. In A Humument (now in its 367-page 4th
edition) Tom Phillips paints, draws and collages over the majority of the text
in W.H. Mallock’s A Human Document. In doing so he extracts from Mallock’s
original the tale of Bill Toge (a particularly obscure combination of letters in
the English language: Toge’s name only appears embedded in the words
“together” and “altogether”). Phillips’ A Humument is so masterful as to be
the limit-case in terms of erased texts and artist books. Unlike Burroughs,
Gysin and Tzara, Phillips does not create his work by aleatory procedures but
instead carefully scours each page for the appropriate texts to isolate. Since
1966 Phillips has continued his engagement with Mallock, creating additional
interpretations of each page for each new edition. Phillips states in the 4th
edition that when the 6th edition of A Humument is eventually published it will
not have a single page in common with the 1st edition (and a completely new
narrative).
In radi os Ronald Johnson erases the majority of Milton’s Paradise Lost
leaving single words and isolate phrases. In doing so he extracts from
Milton’s original a commentary on the poet’s role in creation. More than few
poets have continued in this tradition—the ones I find most interesting are
those who leave the lifted words in their geographic location from the
original page; the texts—like books composed entirely from punctuation—
suggest that locked within each text are an infinite number of other stories.

16

Authors do not create new stories, they—to quote Ronald Johnson—
“compose the holes.”
While there are plenty of erasure texts out there, many are light-hearted,
playful works like Austin Kleon’s Newspaper Blackout. I think that the poetic
possibilities of erosion (as opposed to accumulation) are better served with
texts like Jen Bervin’s Nets (a manipulation of Shakespeare’s sonnets);
Elisabeth Tonnard’s Let us go then, you and I (a manipulation of a fragment
from T.S. Eliot’s The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock) and Janet Holmes’s The ms
of my kin (a manipulation of the poems of Emily Dickinson).
Some writers eradicate the “holes” and compress the appropriated
language over the geography of the original pages. The resultant poetry is one
further step from the distanced original.
Gregory Betts’ The Others Raisd in Me consists of 150 unique “readings”
of Shakespeare’s Sonnet 150:
O, from what power hast thou this powerful might
With insufficiency my heart to sway?
To make me give the lie to my true sight,
And swear that brightness doth not grace the day?
Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill,
That in the very refuse of thy deeds
There is such strength and warrantize of skill
That, in my mind, thy worst all best exceeds?
Who taught thee how to make me love thee more
The more I hear and see just cause of hate?

17

O, though I love what others do abhor,
With others thou shouldst not abhor my state:
If thy unworthiness raised love in me,
More worthy I to be beloved of thee.
Using

Shakespeare’s

original,

Betts

explores

what

he

terms

“plunderverse.” Restricting himself to only the diction found in
Shakespeare’s original, Betts finds a freedom in the sonnet. Betts uses not
solely the original’s words, but also the individual letters, which allows him
the potential to create:
131.
a new act
begins
in the rushed click
after math (201)
and
150.
the end
of everything
isn’t much. (220)
Robert Fitterman’s Rob The Plagiarist undertakes the same compositional
conceit in a different direction. The 13 chapters of Rob The Plagiarist each use
a unique tactic towards appropriation; and each steals at a different volume.
In “The Sun Also Also Rises” Fitterman recontextualizes every sentence
beginning with the first-person pronoun from Hemingway’s The Sun Also

18

Rises. By un-anchoring Hemingway’s muscular prose from the original,
Fitterman allows the “I” to float restlessly, uncertainly attaching to
Fitterman’s own (minimized) compositional voice. As readers, we are unsure
with which speaking “I” to relate. Is the “I” Hemingway’s, Fitterman’s, or
does the text become a funhouse mirror in which to see our own visage?
How do we identify with the author, when the author didn’t actually create
what the presented text? This troubling of authorship—where authors are
but a single voice in a compositional choir—is a central issue in conceptual
and “plunderverse” writing.
These books explore the Borgesian possibility of an infinite library. Every
book contains a text only slightly different from the book next to it. What I
find so inspiring about Borges’ “The Library of Babel” is that it is fractal in
scope—just as the library contains an infinite number of books, so does each
book contain an infinite number of potential narratives.

19

“Besides, it’s always other people who die”

The gall to call oneself a writer (and especially a poet)—with all the
inherent cultural baggage—causes even more pause during those times when
one isn’t writing: when life has other plans, when one is between projects, or
during that most-frightening period of “writer’s block.” What do we do with
the moments when we aren’t writing? Are you a writer if you’re not writing at
all?
Enrique Vila-Mata’s novel Bartleby & Co. is an essay by a fictional,
frustrated, novelist. Vila-Mata’s piteous, hump-backed, balding narrator last
published a novel about impossible love twenty-five years previous and since
that time hasn’t written a single word. He “became a Bartleby.”
Bartleby, of course, is the eponymous character from Herman Melville’s
novella Bartleby the Scrivener who, in the face of capitalist expectation and
responsibility, states that he simply “would rather not” have any active role in
his own life other than that of refusal. Vila-Mata’s unnamed narrator, in the
face of a 25-year drought, explores the “writers of the No,” those writers
who have decided to never write again. The book takes the form of
footnotes for an imaginary essay. The notes build a history of writers, both
real and imagined, who have decided that they were better served by not
publishing (as typified by J.D. Salinger who did not publish a word after
1963’s Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters and Seymour: An Introduction). Can

20

not writing at all be a literary act? Can we consider that an author is adding to
her oeuvre by ceasing to write?
Vila-Matas uses a combination of real and imaginary books in order to
explore the “no”—the real books seem too good to be true (and often are),
and the imaginary seem just real enough (and often aren’t). The line between
the written and the unwritten blurs both in the argument and its support.
By juxtaposing fictional authors with factual ones, Vila-Matas
undermines the reality of all authors. Every author he cites, and by extension
every writer there is, is merely a figment of his imagination and every text
written (or refused) equally ethereal. Writing, to Vila-Matas, does not need to
be something created, only something posited.
Once again Borges’ library architecturally looms—only this time the
books are empty; we are entombed in the walls noting silent authors within
the din of potentialities.

21

“Hence latent of satisfaction, relating singing of of bunch
the effect.”

But what about texts which weigh in on the other size of the scale?
While my own practice in fiction tends to lean towards the sparse and the
“unreadable,” I am also inspired by texts that exhaustively catalogue. These
texts look not to the minimalist gesture but to the maximalist undertaking—
the exhaustive, the complete. Instead of looking to crystalline haiku and
brevity as poetic tropes, these books embrace (as Kenny Goldsmith has
suggested) the database as most indicative of writing in light of the Internet’s
economy of plenty.
Simon Morris, based in York, UK, is co-publisher with Nick Thurston of
Information As Material, a press dedicated to publishing “work by artists
who use extant material—selecting and reframing it to generate new
meanings—and who, in doing so, disrupt the existing order of things.”
Morris is also responsible for a series of wonderfully “maximal” pieces of
conceptual literature: The Royal Road to the Unconscious (2003), Re-Writing Freud
(2005) and Getting Inside Jack Kerouac’s Head (2010) all published by
information as material.
Morris’ texts, much like Goldsmith’s No. 111 (2.7.93–10.20.96) (all the
words that end in the “schwa” sound as overheard for 3 years) and Craig
Dworkin’s Parse (the entirety of Edwin Abbott’s How to Parse parsed by its
own rules), work at the level of the database and examine how we handle,
22

sort and move large sets of information. For Morris, Dworkin and
Goldsmith poetry is not a matter of “original” writing; it’s a matter of
moving, sifting and packaging. It’s a matter of choice.
Morris’ 2005 volume Re-Writing Freud is a wonderfully playful example.
The 752-page volume is a response to Freud’s The Interpretation of Dreams.
With his Re-Writing Freud, Morris—in conjunction with his partner Christine
Morris—created software that completely randomizes all the text in Freud’s
original. Over a 3-day period the computerized algorithm randomly
assembled the text into a new form. The resultant manuscript is completely
random, and changes every time the algorithm is executed.
The printed edition of Re-Writing Freud mimics Volume 4 of the Penguin
collected Freud so closely as to be almost indistinguishable and is only 1 of
an affectively infinite number of potential randomized texts generated from
The Interpretation of Dreams.
Morris’ volume is a Freudian I-Ching that can be consulted on any
number of subjects on any page—the struggling writer can access an
unending chain of potentialities. Re-Writing Freud includes every one of the
266,704 words from Freud’s The Interpretation of Dreams but re-presents them to
the reader in completely random order. Faced with such random verbiage, a
reader must apply Freud’s own interpretative theories from The Interpretation of
Dreams in order to extrapolate sense.

23

“Have you studied the soft toes of Geckoes?”
Over the last few years I’ve accumulated three different books written
entirely in the interrogative.
The first volume in this miniature collection is Gilbert Sorrentino’s Gold
Fools. Sorrentino’s book takes the form of a western pulp novel:
[w]ere Nort Shannon, Dick Shannon, and Bud Merkel exceptionally
morose as they sat before the small bunkhouse and about the flames
of the blazing campfire? Was their recent failed adventure in ranching
all over, and did Bud, in particular, think it time to pack it in? Was
Bud a colorful speaker, in the great tradition of the heartbreakingly
beautiful, yet very dry, American West? Was their late debacle tough
luck, or just what was it? Had loco weed played an important role in
their failure? If so, how? Pack what in? Just what is loco weed? (9)
Gold Fools is a series of toggle switches for the reader’s composition of
another book—for if Nort, Dick and Bud were not exceptionally morose,
what were they? If their recent adventure in ranching was not over, when
would it continue? If it wasn’t time to pack it in, what time was it? Each
interrogative opens another narrative…
2009 was punctuated by the publication of two question-only novels.
William Walsh constructed questionstruck solely from questions posed by
Calvin Trillin in his New Yorker columns and his food and travel narratives.
Even when isolated, the questions reflect the original author’s texts and
signal an absence of narrative (unlike Sorrentino’s novel):

24

The former sheriff? How are you? What can I do to help? What’s so
odd about it? If the local law enforcement people launched an
undercover operation of such effectiveness and probity, he asks, why
was one of the state policemen transferred far from his home and the
other one encouraged to retire? What’s the story about the hog?
What’s the appropriate hog story? (17)
questionstruck doesn’t have the grace of Gold Fools as the questions posed are
harvested without an appreciation of how their juxtaposition may influence
reading. questionstruck is merely a gathering.
Padgett Powell’s The Interrogative Mood, on the other hand, is a fascinating
book. Lacking a traditional narrative, Powell’s book poses questions at ‘you’;
a litany of questions that slow the reader down. Each personality-defining,
seemingly unconnected, query is a test for the reader:
Are your emotions pure? Are your nerves adjustable? How do you
stand in relation to the potato? Should it still be Constantinople?
Does a nameless horse make you more nervous or less nervous than
a named horse? In your view, do children smell good? If before you
now, would you eat animal crackers? Could you lie down and take a
rest on the sidewalk? (1)
Each of these texts use the reader’s tendency to sub-consciously answer
questions posed in a text, especially those posed to “you” because every
“you” is you, isn’t it?
§

25

Dan Farrell’s The Inkblot Record gathers patients’ responses to Rorschach
tests from seven different textbooks and presents those results in
alphabetical order. No record is given of the initiating inkblots and all
responses are gathered into a single text. The results are distanced from any
single patient’s psychiatric responses:
Shape. Shape and appendages. Shape and head; climbing. Shape,
black bear, no real body. Shape, colouring, white and grey stone.
Shape inside a heart effect, a real heart. Shape, it has no head, part of
a tail, more nearly a moth with open wings, colour has nothing to do
with it. (61)
The alphabetic sorting, coupled with the enigmatic nature of the responses,
creates a chant-like repetitive rhythm:
Yes. Yes. Yes, all of it again, these white parts would be the eyes and
mouth I suppose. Yes, all of it looks like an abstract of some sort …
you see the veins, different muscles, veins are usually in red. You try
to allow for everything, but something unexpected comes up, things
don’t go your way. (105)
The design of The Inkblot Record cannily underscores Farrell’s text. The book
consists of dense rectangular blocks of text set in a full-justified, sans serif
typeface (denying any inkblot-style “readings” of shape). Additionally, The
Inkblot Record’s cover denies authorial extrapolation; there is no author
photograph, biographical sketch, endorsements or blurbs. Dan Farrell
remains a faceless creator, just out of reach of the reader.

26

Craig Dworkin’s “Legend (II)” is the sequel to a now non-existent
original. Dworkin’s poem “Legion” was a recontextualization of all of the
true/false questions in the Minnesota Multiphastic Personality Inventory. The
original “Legion” thus would have been an ideal addition to my minute
library of interrogative texts. Despite the test’s wide discreditation for
psychiatric usage, the publishers of the Minnesota Multiphastic Personality
Inventory insisted that Dworkin remove the piece from circulation. He
willingly did so, but replied with a sequel. “Legion (II)” consists solely of his
answers to the questions posed in the original—now redacted—“Legion”:
No. True. False. False. False. False. False. False. Not especially. Uh,
not really. False. No. Um, no. I guess that’s true. Not really. Uh, no.
No. False. No, but what a convoluted question! Of course not, that
would be crazy. Not really. Uh, no. Yeah. True. False. True. Uh, false.
No. Some of it. True. No. No. Uh, true. I wouldn’t call that an artist.
Without the original publisher’s demand that Dworkin’s text be redacted, his
“Legion (II)” would not have existed. Thus his poem consists entirely of
erased questions, questions which the reader then must generate.
Ron Silliman’s long poem “Sunset Debris” also consists entirely of
questions, a poetic addendum to my focus on prose. It has become a poetic
cliché among readers of Silliman’s text to answer the questions, thus
generating a text not un-like Dworkin’s “Legion (II)”. Christian Bök attempts
to move the text from confessional orientation to a more aleatory arena. Bök
uses the initial 100 questions from “Sunset Debris” as a means to engage the
online virtual intelligence of the

A.L.I.C.E.

chatbot.

A.L.I.C.E.

becomes an

27

unwitting interrogator of the reader/writer dichotomy inherent in Silliman’s
original text. Bök’s “Busted Sirens”’ consists solely of A.L.I.C.E’s answers to
Silliman’s questions where each answer becomes emblematic of our own
responses to the interrogation of literature:
Yes, I think that this is hard, but I’m not completely sure.
Yes, I think that this is cold, but I’m not completely sure.
I suppose that it does.
Yes, I think that this is heavy, but I’m not completely sure.
Yes, I always have to carry it far.
I can’t really speak for them.
Yes, I think that this is where we get off, but I’m not completely sure.
The blue one, I think.
We are just having a little chat.

28

It Quacks Like a Duck

The classical inspiration for writing poetry is the humanist moment—the
urge to communicate a classical ‘truth’ about the human experience—love,
memory, heartbreak—through now-familiar poetic diction. Poetry is an
indicator for “what looks like poetry”—if it walks like a duck and quacks like
a duck, it must be confessional humanism. The poem as finely wrought
epiphanic moment of personal reflection (the poetry norm) underlines massculture and political sameness; it does little to question or confront how
language itself defines the limitations of expression—both personal and
critical. Writers that emphasize the classical and humanist definitions of
poetry without considering the work being done in alternative forms of
writing do little to further the writing of poetry as they offer only what is
most palatable to the most conservative of audiences.
The accommodationist “official verse culture” (Bernstein 249) of
personal confession and reflection has been flattened into a sameness of
subject, form and structure. In striving for universality it instead degenerates
into an implicit support of sloganeering, advertising and suburban
consumerism. Neo-conservative writing continuously underlines the
relationship between power and language. A number of contemporary
writers distance themselves from the humanist trope by finding inspiration in
found and manipulated texts. These texts allow the author to move writing

29

out of its confines of the confessional, and into areas of language not
typically seen as literature.
Emma Kay’s Worldview successfully negotiates the schism between the
humanist drive and the conceptual compositional strategy where language is
assembled, not written. Worldview is nothing less than Kay’s exhaustive
history of the world from the Big Bang to the year 2000 written entirely from
memory. Wolrdview is highly personal, but rather than dwell on experience,
and the inherent ability of language to represent meaning, Kay writes in the
flattened, infallible tone of a high school textbook. Kay recites the history of
the world not through import or sociological subject matter but purely
through the idiosyncrasies of her own faulty memory.
Worldview spends only the first 75 (of 230) pages on the history of the
world until the 20th century, the remainder on the encyclopedic recitation of
history drawn primarily from the artist’s lifetime all with a flawless tone of
cultural authority. A sample section of the index to Worldview reveals Kay’s
own selective sense of history:
HIV,

156, 181

Holland, 45, 57
Holliday, Billy, 113
Hollywood, 86, 99, 145, 190, 195
Holocaust, 92, 95
holograms, 129
Holyfield, Evander, 197
(220).

30

Worldview is a maddening text, as it testifies that a contemporary artist
could actually conceive of a world where ‘Aerosmith’ (132) and ‘Archimedes’
(16) have the same historical credence. Kay’s text is both encyclopedic in
purview and centred on the fallibility of personal recollection.
Worldview’s non-interventionalist practice is typical of much conceptual
writing as the filter between the ‘ordinary’ and the ‘extraordinary’ becomes a
theoretical one. Kay accrues language and representation in a way that
foregrounds the materiality and accumulation of text, but also documents
memory. Materiality here is not one of humanist poetics—‘the stuff of
poetry’—but rather one that is developed through the sheer mass of the
extraordinary ordinary.
In conceptual writing the author works with extant material in order to
re-contextualize an already existing genre with a focus on materiality,
collection and accumulation.
Sol LeWitt, in his “Sentences on Conceptual Art”— both a manifesto
and a piece of conceptual art in its own right, —postulates that
28. Once the idea of the piece is established in the artist’s mind and
the final form is decided, the process is carried out blindly. […]
29. The process is mechanical and should not be tampered with. It
should run its course (222).
This shared processual base for conceptual art and conceptual writing is not
to suggest that conceptual writing is a temporally displaced adjunct to
conceptual art, but instead that the two share aesthetic values, and that

31

conceptual art can be understood as a moment of Oulipian anticipatory
plagiary.
LeWitt wrote in the late 1960s and early 1970s, but a generation of
writers later, these statements have taken on new weight. He argues for a
mechanical procedurality in visual art, as “[t]o work with a plan which is preset is one way of avoiding subjectivity” (LeWitt “Paragraphs” 214). His
resistance to humanist subjectivity is particularly relevant for conceptual
writing. Robert Smithson’s 1968 statement “Sedimentation of the Mind:
Earth projects” is a comparable stance applied directly to literary work:
“poetry being forever lost must submit to its own vacuity; it is somehow a
product of exhaustion rather than creation” (107).
In his famous defense of James Joyce’s Work in Progress, Samuel Beckett
argued that “[h]ere is direct expression—pages and pages of it” (502) and
chides the reader that
“[y]ou are not satisfied unless form is so strictly divorced from
content that you can comprehend the one almost without bothering
to read the other” (502–03).
Beckett’s defense of Work in Progress is temporally adaptable to become a
slogan for conceptual work in general:
“[h]ere form is content, content is form [.…] this stuff is not written
in English. It is not written at all. [… this] writing is not about
something; it is that something itself” (503).

32

Rob’s Word Shop

For May 2010, Robert Fitterman hosted a storefront facility in New York
City’s Bowery that sold nothing but words.
Rob’s Word Shop was open Tuesdays and Thursdays May 5th through May
27th 11AM to 2PM selling single letters for 50 cents and words for 1 dollar a
piece.
Clients were invited to request letters and words and specify which
typeface (typed or handwritten, in printing or cursive) in which they would
like those words produced. Fitterman then created the requested letters,
words, phrases and sentences to the clients’ specifications, produced an
invoice and commercial documentation and completed the sale. All requests
and conversations were recorded and all purchases were obsessively
detailed—fodder for Fitterman’s next book. Fitterman also allowed for mailorder requests and posted daily updates on his fledgling company’s success at
robswordshop.blogspot.com.
Needless to say, I couldn’t miss the opportunity to participate in a
venture that stands the traditional writing-publishing model on its head. I
placed an email order for the penultimate sentence from Herman Melville’s
novella Bartleby the Scrivener: “On errands of life these letters speed towards
death.” I dutifully sent Fitterman a cheque for $9US and promptly received
an envelope containing the requested sentence handwritten horizontally
across a standard sheet of paper rubberstamped and signed by Fitterman.
Accompanying the sentence was an itemized invoice stamped KEEP THIS SLIP

33

FOR YOUR REFERENCE

and a typed alternative setting of the same sentence

(no charge).
At the outset of Melville’s novella, Bartleby is a model employee, highly
praised by his superiors. Bartleby soon refuses to participate in any of the
expected duties of his office and of Capitalist society. Bartleby begins to
respond to demands that he dutifully execute his role as scrivener (handcopying business documents) with the phrase “I would prefer not to.” This
lack of participation soon spreads to all aspects of Bartleby’s life and he
eventually dies, preferring not to eat.
I requested that particular sentence as conceptual poets adopt Bartleby the
Scrivener as a stylistic forerunner of conceptual writing. Conceptual writing
“prefers not to” engage with the expectations of writing, as it is traditionally
defined. Eschewing traditional formulations of literature, conceptual writing,
echoing “Bartleby,” consists of works that are unreadable, unsellable,
unreviewable and that are ultimately outside of traditional definitions.
Fitterman, with Rob’s Word Shop, was a writer who refused to write. He
welcomed the position of ‘scrivener’ preferring to not express any of his own
creativity. Instead of accepting commissions for creative writing, Fitterman
merely transcribed words at his costumer’s request and charged them for a
task they could have easily accomplished without intercession. Ironically,
given the sales of poetry (especially that of avant-garde poetry), Fitterman’s
Word Shop probably “moved more product” than many poets.

34

If Rob’s Word Shop is any indication, readers today do not want to
purchase poetry; they would rather purchase their own words sold back to
them at a profit.

35

A Phallic King Midas

Steven Zultanski’s Pad (Los Angeles: Make Now Press, 2010) hilariously
interrogates experimental writing’s propensity for masculinist gestures.
Zultanski builds on Georges Perec’s An Attempt at Exhausting a Place in
Paris (in which he describes everything he observes from a café window over
3 days in October 1974), Tan Lin’s Bib (in which he obsessively enumerates
all of his reading materials and the length of time spent on each) and Daniel
Spoerri’s An Anecdoted Topography of Chance (in which he maps the histories of
every item spread across his kitchen table).
Perec, Lin and Spoerri catalogue the random assemblages of the
mundane; they create a level of significance simply through the application of
choice. The resultant manuscripts are both socio-historical mappings of
possessions, habits and behaviours and conceptual novels in which the
authors abandon narrative intention in favour of compositional intention.
The act of recording behavior and observation borders on the obsessive and
yet frequently yields observations of strikingly tender contemplative
moments.
Experimentalism (and conceptualism) is frequently criticized as a maledominated field where author’s works are judged not by grace or subtlety but
by muscular exertion and literary “heavy lifting.” Zultanski fully embraces the
masculinist trope of conceptual “heavy lifting” and takes it to an absurd new
extreme. In Pad Zultanski not only obsessively catalogues all of the items in

36

his pad; he also lists the items according to whether or not he could lift the
items with his penis:
My dick cannot lift the small Holmes rotating fan sitting on the
windowsill facing the bed. My dick cannot lift the windowsill. My
dick cannot lift the bookcase filled with mostly unread books. My
dick cannot lift the pile of mostly unread chapbooks sitting on top of
the bookcase filled with mostly unread books. My dick can lift the cat
postcard from Bob. My dick can lift the 2006 Turtle Point Press
catalogue. My dick can lift the book A Little White Shadow by Mary
Ruefle. (2–3)
Much as Kenneth Goldsmith’s colleagues pored over his Soliloquy in
search of details on how they were discussed behind their backs, Pad includes
an obsessively detailed list of all the books in Zultanski’s pad that he can lift
with his dick. In an act of perverted reader-response, each item on
Zultanski’s shelf is sorted by his own member’s success (or failure) in lifting
it from a secure position on the shelf. I imagine that Zultanski’s coterie will
similarly search Pad in hope for evidence that their book was submitted to his
phallic sorting. Zultaski’s reading list is catalogued by whether or not he
could dislodge books from its shelf (and implicitly, from a canonical
position) through the muscular force of his own phallocentrism. This
canonicity uncannily echoes most libraries own retention criteria:
My dick can lift the book The Maximus Poems by Charles Olson. My
dick can lift the book Collected Poems by George Oppen. My dick can

37

lift the book The Collected Poems of Wilfred Owen by Wilfred Owen. My
dick can lift the book Notes for Echo Lake by Michael Palmer. (120)
Zultanski gives overt voice to the masculine in Pad by literally associating
everything he owns, everything he touches, with his penis. In Pad, the phallic
is not implicit it is explicit. Everything in his apartment is included in
Zultaski’s tome, and thus he (and his cock) lays claim to everything in his
purview. Zultanski surveys his empire and all within it. His schlong is the
embodiment of the male gaze, and all that it can touch it can own and define.
Zultanski’s girlfriend’s possessions are treated to the same disturbing
taxonomy:
My dick can lift the girlfriend’s green Gap t-shirt from the plastic bag
of clothes. My dick can lift the girlfriend’s navy blue Suzy jeans from
the plastic bag of clothes. My dick can lift the girlfriend’s red belt
from the plastic bag of clothes. (34)
Interestingly, while Zultanski categorizes all of his possessions according
to his own penile acrobatics, he avoids grammatically claiming his girlfriend
as ‘his’, preferring the definite article ‘the’—and while the text opens with
Steve’s dick lifting all of “the girlfriend’s” clothing from a “plastic bag of
clothes,” by the end of the book he declares
My dick can lift the plastic bag stuffed with the ex-girlfriend’s clothes.
My dick cannot lift, all at once, the entire pile of the ex-girlfriend’s
clothes. My dick can lift, one at a time, each article of the exgirlfriend’s clothing (164)

38

This suggests that while there is a great deal that Zultanski’s dick could lift, it
“cannot lift the doorknob on the front door […] the front door lock […] the
eyehole” and ultimately “still cannot lift the door” (165). The litany of
products and items that Zultanski’s dick struggles to lift closes with a
castrated moment, where Zultanski and his dick are left alone and his “dick
cannot lift the floor.”
Zultanski, with Pad, is a phallic King Midas: all that he touches turns to
dick.

39

An Articulatory Feat: An Interview with Caroline Bergvall

Language is inherently instable. It allows a flux of individual and personal
connotations to gather around dictionary meanings like barnacles on the hull
of a ship. Communication is dependent on what Caroline Bergvall refers to
as the “smooth functioning of a speaking’s motor skills” where “speech
fluency is an articulatory act.” Using fragmented text—words broken into
their constituent pieces—poets draw attention to how meaning accumulates
outside of intention. “Releasing poetics from poetry,” Bergvall explores how
sound isolates and aggregates.
With Fig, her second full-length book of poetry, French-Norwegian poet
Caroline Bergvall gathers collaborative texts written from 1996 and 2002
each of which interrogates how language and sound gather meaning. Bergvall
uses multi-lingual fragments to articulate body-politics and gender, where
words become entwined between surface and depth: “beyond the impl /
gated c ated body limit.” Bergvall’s enjambment torques her poetic language
to make the reader hyper-aware that text operates like a body in a room,
always aware of its location:
figure prepares to faceload aF
acelike a redred rise
this is not, why ox en, g, -ent,
ouldnt see, err, twiny, I mean not tiny
Bergvall’s language refuses to sit still, refuses to behave. Bergvall’s

40

fragments simultaneously assemble and disassemble, a vibratory dance of
sliding articulation.
beaulieu: Fig is a gathering of occasional pieces and collaborations (with
John Cayley, Heiko Fisher, Redell Olsen, Ciarán Maher and even, to an
extent, Dante and 47 of Dante’s translators). How do you perceive
collaboration as a poetic practice?
Bergvall: A few years ago, I was invited along with other British or
British-based poets to answer a series of questions, of which one was on
collaboration (see Binary Myths, ed. Andy Brown, Stride: 1998). My take at the
time was that collaborative practice opened up the poet as much as the
writing to “a wider network of activity and exchange” (by which I meant
primarily, arts activities and critical dialogues). I still very much subscribe to
this. Examples of arts collaborations are rife and frequently show for a
loosening up of discipline constrictions alongside an increased sense of
political or social urgency.
At a production level, collaborative practice helped me to negotiate a
place for writing projects that feed from performance, sound, space, moving
image, digital visuals etc. I’m not comfortable with the specialist isolationism
of art scenes and have always been keen to see work in poetic environments
as well as at arts and performance festivals. Collaboration is crucial in
circulating language-based work across different environments, and in
releasing poetics from poetry.
At a process-level, collaboration has emphasized an openness to tackling
each specific situation or project as a formal and intellectual motif. I haven’t

41

been interested in developing a recognizable writing “style,” but rather I have
applied various skills and writing concerns as needed to each project. As my
collaborators do with their own thought-processes and skills. Compromise
and negotiation become important formal concerns.
At a cultural level, collaboration has favored a certain personal distance
and has allowed me to explore and think performatively about some of the
(often prohibitive) discursive frames placed on the manifestation of forms of
subjectivity, community, collectivity.
The main challenge for the book Fig was how to present these textual
pieces without sacrificing their collaborative and formally diverse startingpoints. Most of the projects that are included in Fig were borne out of a
strategic interest in collaboration and process-led writing as ways of
experiencing and rethinking poetry’s role and cultural place.
Collaboration is not an absolute of practice. It is project-based and takes
its cues from this. I am currently involved in two specific collaboration
projects. Another bulk (as in load, in terms of quantity) of writing runs
parallel to these and is currently dedicated to a project which is noncollaborative, and is being written and explored completely on the page. The
need for such a project has emerged from the amount of traveling I’ve done
in recent years. This has forced up the necessity for an autonomous and
ongoing (no deadline) project and has also intensified an interest in the
mobility and portability of developing work from notebooks and/or straight
to computer and with no other end in mind than an accumulation of
thoughts/pages. It comes at a time when I’m also interested in thinking

42

through more introspective, intellectually questioning, and less explicitly
performic forms of writing.
beaulieu: To follow that more introspective form of writing for a
moment, in Fig as well as in Goan Atom, I am struck with the poly-linguistic
instability of language. In Fig you write that “[s]peech fluency is an
articulatory feat” that “presupposes the smooth functioning of speaking’s
motor skills.” (34). How does the fragment operate for you, especially within
words where the fragment is letteral, an embedded stutter?
Bergvall: I don’t think of fragments, as much as of nodes, joins, points
of articulated sound which can be used to redirect the language in use, and
travel down another one for awhile. This comes from my interest in the
heterogeneous traffic that is part of any language’s development, more or less
intensely, depending on political circumstances. Words seen diachronically as
much as synchronically. Bakhtin is fascinating on this. His concepts of
polyglossia and of heteroglossia show at different levels, within and outside
of a language’s national or regional bounds of self-determination, the
stratifications or networks, and also the power dynamics, at play. All of this
of course is crucially at work when languages are taken up to represent a
specific vernacular, and in a sense, when literature is used to make a claim on
a local and national consciousness. Dante decides to write in Italian, rather
than in Latin; Chaucer decides to write in English, rather than in French;
Luther gets the Bible translated into German. This story is replicated in most
language histories. Aimé Cesaire’s Notebook of a Return to My Native Land
provided an early and first model of the hybridism, or clear nodality, that has

43

marked much post-colonial literature, a written “créolité” which relies on a
combination of French and Martinican Creole imagery to draw up its
political and poetic lines. New speak for new consciousness. It reflects the
complex making of new cultural and social bodies.
Since 9/11, the

US

has seen a politics which increasingly attempts to

forget the polylingual migrant histories at the root of the republic and tries
instead to confirm the national naturalization of English and of Christian
culture. Of course, this exacerbation of the narrow culture in power can but
fail in the long run, but in the short-term it pretends rather successfully to
have only one tongue, one head, in order to criminalize a knowledge of the
historical, social and linguistic complexities that form this country’s national
body.
I think of these histories, or these lessons, these linguistic politics, also in
their analogies to the repression of social body-types. And what kind of
somatic (and poetic) speech has emerged from this. You mention the stutter
and it is a strong image of this kind of bodywork. Deleuze of course
describes it as the point of under-development in language and culture. Celan
imagined the exhausted endpoint of European culture as a stuttering old
man. A number of performance artists have used their own stuttering or
have taken forms of stuttering in use as a way of making other kinds of
speaking bodies visible. Anna O’s rebellious anti-paternalist speaking in
tongues came out as a somatised stuttering. The stuttering denaturalizes the
political language in use.

44

beaulieu: How can the stutter work to de-stabilize the body as a
political, gendered site?
Bergvall: It can be seen to carry out metaphorically the malfunctioning
of politics of gender and of heterosexual commands with it, these deceptively
naturalized body-types, only to combine and distort these with the
articulations of a combinatory, poetic tongue. In my work, sometimes this is
done at a macro-level: unit shifts of bilingual nodes allow for polylingual,
polysexual play: the Cogs of Doll or “16 Flowers” in Fig. At other times, the
combinations take place at a more semantic level. I think of Alvin Lucier’s “I
am sitting in a room” where spatial manipulation of the tape is used to ease
off, disperse his own initial stuttering. I think of the fact that he imprints my
listening space with this much-enlarged stuttering sphere. His spatial
recording is socially compensatory (he seeks to disguise his stuttering) as
much as poetically combinatory (he allows the act of stuttering to create a
very new sonic dimension).
I see it also as the degree to which a writer is willing to involve their own
body’s ways in the creation of their writing, or writing-language. And their
reasons for doing so. This involvement of the physical reality of writing is
always of interest to me. It works in two ways. It is a way of thinking about
ways of working, stimulus and techniques, as well as digging into personal
history lodged in the body. Roland Barthes became more and more
interested in these spatial and temporal levels of writing and the way they
involve the writer. Weirdly enough, it somehow de-individualizes the writer
and moves them towards an understanding of differential collectivities. One

45

becomes one of many. This creates or favors a distancing effect, and this
distancing becomes a point of entry to one’s culture, and to writing. .
beaulieu: Your new work on The Canterbury Tales offers a translation
which actively disrupts language’s stability by including a temporal shift
between Middle English and contemporary English, as well as other
languages—all of this sifted through Chaucer’s use of ‘tale’ and its use of
speaker, and reliability. What led you to Chaucer in this context?
Bergvall: Charles Bernstein and the medievalist David Wallace invited
me to do something for a Chaucer congress in

NY

in July 2006. It was

perfect. Chaucer’s English is chaotic, unstable, regional. There is no fixed
spelling and the reputation of the language itself is still culturally vastly
inferior to the neighbouring French or Italian, and of course to the imposing
legacy of Latin. He wrote at a time when English had hardly begun as a
national language, let alone as an international one. Somehow it seems the
exact inverse of our time. I live in a time where English has exploded way
beyond the national. It’s being constantly recreated or de-created in the chaos
of International English, it’s regionalized by the making-do inventiveness of
postcolonial anglo-patois, and there are even written similarities with Middle
English in the general crisis of spelling that comprehensive education is
currently going through. To use Middle English opens up my poetics to a
more historicized, diachronic understanding of words.

46

Poetic Representations of the Holocaust

Poetic engagements with the Holocaust must overcome the argument
that language cannot portray the inhumanity of the Nazis’ actions. Poetry
must challenge its traditionally humanist pose in order to respond to the
dehumanizing Shoah. Poetry can either concentrate on the highly personal—
which runs the risk of reducing the scale of the events—touching the reader
with the retelling of individual testimony, or it can try and reform language to
find a new means of expressing the inexpressible.
Heimrad Bäcker (1925–2003) renounced his former membership of the
Hitler Youth and the Nazi Party after World War II. He spent the remainder
of his life as a poet, editor and intellectual as a means of confronting his own
involvement in how the Nazis used language itself as a means of propagating
the Holocaust. Bäcker was a member of the Hitler Youth’s Press and
Photography Office before he worked as editor of the Austrian avant-garde
press Neue Texte. His Hitler Youth employment exposed him to the
anaesthetized prose of the Nazi’s intricate documentation of their Final
Solution.
Theodor Adorno’s dictum that all poetry after Auschwitz is immoral
embodies the crisis of poetics following the Holocaust. How is European
poetry to situate itself? In the Holocaust much literature was as defiled as the
authors who had written it; poetry and prose were brought to unwitting
service of a culture’s destruction. With Nachschrift (1986) Bäcker poetically

47

argues that the best way to engage with the language of the Holocaust is to
present it baldly, without editorializing and without personal intercession.
Nachschrift is finally available in English translation as transcript (Dalkey
Archive, 2010, translated by Patrick Greaney and Vincent Kling).
transcript is a collection of page after mostly empty page, interrupted by
brief, aphoristic (strictly documented) quotations from internal Nazi
memoranda, private letters and reports presented in the banal, toneless
language of bureaucracy. Bäcker referred to his style as dokumentarische dichtung
(documentary poetry) and where he revised the original text, every detail is
acknowledged in eerie echo of the precision of the source authors.
Bäcker created transcript without knowledge of Charles Reznikoff’s
Holocaust (1975). Reznikoff used a similar compositional strategy but drew
from survival testimony at the Eichmann and Nuremberg trials. Both books
are bereft of traditionally poetic language. Reznikoff’s, however, mines
testimony for the stuff of poetry–prosaic sentences with poetic line breaks
that testify to traumatic experience. Bäcker rejects the testimony in favour of
the corporate, but transcript is as emotionally engaging as any humanist
confession. The vast majority of transcript could be excerpted from any
obsessively-documented corporation pleading for increased shipments where
“the times on the train schedule correspond to the hours of the day 0-24”
(28) when “it is very difficult at the moment to keep the liquidation figure at
the level maintained up to now” (52).
As a forerunner of contemporary conceptual poetry, transcript displays
how potent and emotional the corporate can be—and how language

48

simultaneously veil and unveils. Bäcker’s involvement in the Nazi party is
implicitly the subject of transcript. His sentence is the Sisyphean task of sifting
and resifting banal primary documentation in search of the poetic in the
unspeakable.

49

“An irresponsible act of imaginative license”

The traditional poetic impulse is a refutation of language’s inherent
failures. It is the attempt to make language perform the impossible, to lucidly
reconnoiter the ineffable. Metaphorical language is an acknowledgement of
language’s inherent downfall. Language is too tied to thingness, to objects and
gestures (as Robbe-Grillet argues in “A Future for the Novel”) to plumb the
depths of the human soul. This is not to say that metaphorical language does
not have moments of beauty and grace, but those moments are the result of
a larger failure. As poets, we attempt to bend language to our lyrical will.
What results is inevitably a failure, but poetry exists in the degree to which
the poem fails.
kevin mcpherson eckhoff’s Rhapsodomancy explores language’s inherent
failures and surveys how those failures become poetic. mcpherson eckhoff
uses two abandoned languages—Shorthand (created by Sir Isaac Pitman in
1837) and Unifon (created by John Malone in the 1950s) to visually tie
concrete poetry (an ostracized poetic form) to sleight of hand, comic strips,
optical illusions and apantomancy (the divination of the future through
scattered objects).
Rhapsodomancy’s “Disavowals: Optical Allusions” recreate traditional
optical illusions with Unifon characters. Each of the fourteen visual poems
playful challenge the reader to define their own poetic foreground /

50

background relationship; the pillar of “I” warps, one of the arms of “E” falls
into emptiness, the “O” is a linguistic Gordian knot. The “optical allusions”
in “Disavowals” belie the illusion of poetry; strain your eyes as much as
you’d like, vertigo is inevitable.
As hopeful as apantomancy (the divination of the future from astrology,
palm-reading, tea-leaf reading which ultimately reveal more about the reader
than the read) may be, poetry is just as naïvely optimistic. Poets have become
literary palm-readers, not because they can divine or influence the future
(gone are the days when poets were members of the court or endowed by the
ruling classes to celebrate and immortalize their accomplishments), but
because they are the literary equivalent of a tarot-reader in a secluded tent at
a creative anachronist fair. Poetry has become Unifon: a language largely
abandoned to specialists and anachronists who pine for a return to an
imagined poetic heyday.
Rhapsodomancy revels in the exuberant, playful poetics of failure. The
meaning “stamped on [the] lifeless things” of poetry is merely an illusion, a
“now you see it, now you don’t.” Poetry is no longer the beautiful expression
of emotive truths; it is the archæological re-arrangement of the remains of an
ancient civilization. Faced with the “two vast and trunkless legs of stone” of
Shorthand and Unifon (and by extension of poetry itself), mcpherson eckhoff
realizes Shelley’s plea that “[r]ound the decay / of that colossal wreck,
boundless and bare / The lone and level sands stretch far away,” sits down
and makes sandcastles in the rubble.

51

bill bissett’s Rush: what fuckan theory; a study uv language

bill bissett’s work for the past several decades has been problematic.
His lyrical voice is complicated by his complex idiosyncratic orthography.
His concrete poetry intersperses dense typewriter-driven grid pieces with
diagrams of ejaculating phalluses. Most problematic is the frequency and
design of his books. Talonbooks has published a new bissett volume every
18 months for decades, and now the consistency of voice and style have
made it difficult to differentiate one volume from another—they all blend
into “bill bissett’s new book.”
I remember the first time that I saw bissett perform. I was awe-struck by
the combination of poetry and song, script and improvisation, speech and
incantation. A few years later I saw him again. And that was the problem.
This later performance—and the one after that (and the one after that)—was
the same as, or almost indistinct from, the first one. Much like his books, his
performances had taken on the role of “bill bissett performance” instead of
exploring where he was now. Sadly in 2011 bissett’s books and performance
upon repeated exposure become the work of an overwrought maracawielding hippie who’s overplayed LP is caught in a groove.
But then there’s Rush: what fuckan theory; a study uv language.
Rush: what fuckan theory is bissett’s vital 1971 manifesto in support of his
poetics of sexuality, breath and page composition.

52

Within what fuckan theory’s legal-sized pages (with card covers, side-stapled
and taped; all the copies I’ve heard of have a variety of cover illustrations and
are just as variously stained and rumpled), bissett issues militant directives for
poetic composition.
bissett argues that only words liberated from traditional syntax can truly
represent human emotion, “otherwise wer only writing what sum one is
telling yu too

that s all greeting cards advirtising fr certain authorizd

emotions.” He claims that poetry has been “usd fr all th bullshit fascism too”
and that the academy attempts to normalize language in order to make “the
language […] safe nd still correct nd teachabul backd up with troops by the
fort knowx.”
bissett implores poets that “yu dont have to do it like everybody else,”
that “all thes correct usses ar like punishment” which force normative
thought. Normative writing enforces normative thought and makes the
reader conform to a homogenous culture (“sure baby i think liberals are nice
people too but nort america really becomes increasingly fascist”). Instead,
bissett argues, realize that “the first lettr of kill is s” and write knowing that
“meaning is meaningless.” The poet’s attempt to create culture and to
participate in a larger discussion of national cultural identity only re-affirms
the culture that she may be trying to challenge. what fuckan theory argues that
as much as paragrammatic language may undermine the linguistic status quo,
“th pun fuks back” as a master narrative will always be ascribed. Our culture
has the propensity to normalize everything. No matter how radical a poetic
may be, it will eventually be ascribed a cultural value, a value which will be

53

make it consumable. So then, bissett argues, the point is to realize that “yu
dont have to cum bak to th same place all th time.”
bissett’s manifesto flirts with what we would now consider conceptual
writing, and includes a Sol LeWitt-like list of compositional strategies:
so yu dont need th sentence
yu dont need correct spelling
yu dont need correct grammar
yu dont need th margin
yu dont need regulation use of capital nd lower case etc
yu dont need sense or skill
yu dont need this
what dew yu need
RUSH argues that the last thing poetry needs is more poetry. The linguistic
signals of effective communication are unneeded for bissett’s poetics, for “all
these [things] yu dont need are tools of war.” With what fuckan theory bissett
argues that the best way of interrogating the political control of language is to
intercede with a radical orthography which foregrounds the text’s materiality
of the text and the author’s ideological independence.
RUSH: what fuckan theory—the key book in bissett’s 45-year oeuvre—
remains out of print.

54

Fidgeting with the scene of the crime

Kenneth Goldsmith’s Fidget is a verbal map of a missing crime. Fidget
interrogates the representation of bodies and the representation of the
“crime scene,” a documented space of a prior action. The ramifications of
these actions on the body and on the construction of history fall outside the
frame of the narrative, the presentation of an absent body. The “formed
holes” in narrative echo the crime scene as a questioned space where
[t]he body is envisioned neither as an innocent repository of nature
nor as an existential symbol of isolation, but as an artifact that leaves
traces and in turn is a surface for recording them.
(Rugoff “More than meets the eye” 104)
Fidget opens with the snap of an eyelid that resounds like the snap of a
coroner’s camera:
Eyelids open. Tongue runs across upper lip moving from left side
of mouth to right following arc of lip. Swallow. Jaws clench.
Grind. Stretch. Swallow. Head lifts. (8)
The crime scene is more than simply the scene of the crime. Ralph
Rugoff uses the field of criminalistics—what he defines as the “analysis of
traces”—to examine conceptual art. Unlike the crime scene investigator,
however, the viewer of conceptual art is not asked

55

to reach a definitive finding or conclusion: instead our search for
meaning engages us in a goalless activity of speculation and
interpretation. (Rugoff “Introduction” 18)
Art and writing practices are read through the “aesthetic of aftermath, as a
place where the action has already occurred” (Rugoff “Introduction” 19).
Goldsmith has applied a transcription process to the movements of his
own body aiming for the “observation of a body in space, not [his] body in
space. There was to no editorializing, no psychology, no emotion—just a
body detached from a mind” (Goldsmith as quoted in Perloff 91).
Goldsmith’s process was seemingly simple. On June 16 (Bloomsday) 1997
Goldsmith woke and immediately began obsessively narrating the
movements his body made over the course of the entire day without ever
using the first-person pronoun. There is no speaking “I;” no narration of
self-awareness. Goldsmith narrated each movement into a voice-activated
tape recorder. He later returned to the tape, transcribed his recording and
edited out all first-person pronouns. It was Goldsmith’s intention that the
transcription and editing would “divorce the action from the surrounding,
narrative, and attendant morality” (Goldsmith quoted in Perloff 93). The
body of the poem is without anchor, without intention, it “addresses the
body as a dispersed territory of clues and traces” (Rugoff “More than meets
the eye” 88).
The artistic site as crime scene is dependent on “the actions of a missing
body or […] complete scenes that must be reconstituted from shreds of
evidence” (Rugoff “More than meets the eye” 101). The absence of a body—

56

or in Goldsmith the presence of body but the absence of context and
intention—leads “not toward analysis but toward a new mode of aesthetic
contemplation precisely because there is no moral reason […] but simply a
documentary impulse to record” (Wollen 29). Fidget records the actions of an
unanchored body in non-narrativizing narrative and also the “impulse to
record.” This impulse overrides meaning as it is traditionally constructed, in
favour of absence and melancholy, “meaning seems overwhelming in its
presence yet strangely insubstantial … [s]omething happened here that we
cannot quite grasp or understand” (Wollen 25). Fidget leaves the reader /
viewer reflecting on Goldsmith’s own movements:
Grasp. Reach. Grab. Hold. Saw. Pull. Hold. Grab. Push. Itch.
Push. Push. Turn. Walk. […] Turn. Chew. Massage. Gather. […]
Reach. Open. (62).
Unlike a retrospectively narrated detective novel where the scene of the
crime is of utmost importance and where “the crucial dramatic action—the
crime—always takes place before the story has begun” (Ernst Bloch as
quoted in Wollen 33), Fidget occurs simultaneously. Classically crime scenes
are “traces of prior mayhem” (Rugoff “More than meets the eye” 84); for
Goldsmith the mayhem is continuous and continuously present:
Lips part. Hand tilts. Swallow. Repeat. Eyes dart left to right.
Ears twitch. Eyes look straight ahead. Focus. Double Vision [….]
Eyes dart left. Light forces eyes to move to right. Eyes focus
closely. Glace afar. Register motion. (35)

57

Goldsmith has “leach[ed] away the significance of narrative point of view
and subjectivity” (Wollen 26) by removing agency from his body’s
movements. Peter Wollen describes crime scene photography and crime
scene investigation as having “an acute sensitivity to the trite, the futile, the
banal, and the insignificant” (32).
Goldsmith meticulously documents the “banal and the insignificant” in
an anti-space, a space of absence or negativity created by the “displaced
signifiers of the crime” (Wollen 24). We are not asked to read for the
evidence of presence, but rather for the residue of absence. Goldsmith’s
Fidget articulates the absences of narrative. Walter Benjamin stated that “to
live means to leave traces” (Benjamin quoted in Rugoff 75), and Goldsmith
dwells exclusively in those traces creating a narrative solely of traces without
effects. But, like any investigation, what is not documented in Fidget is just as
important as what is documented. Goldsmith’s documentation gives in to
“the temptation to make things fit, to squeeze clues into a coherent picture
by highlighting some facts and excluding others” (Rugoff “More than meets
the eye” 62). Only once does Goldsmith document the act of documenting:
“Mouth forms round o of swallow” (10). This is the only time in the entire
text where the act of speaking is documented. At this point the line between
the document and the act of documentation becomes blurred.
The cool distance of Fidget’s isolated crime scene is soon degraded and
contaminated by Goldsmith’s consciousness. As the task of narration
becomes increasingly onerous, Goldsmith actively intercedes in the isolation.
Barry Le Va argues that the rise of installation art in the 1960s meant that

58

“the stuff laying around the object … grew more important that the object
itself” (as quoted in Rugoff 71). As the hours of Fidget tick by Goldsmith
introduces something “laying around the object” which begins to grow
“more important than the object itself”: a fifth of Jack Daniels.
The narration of the factual in Fidget becomes increasingly idiosyncratic
as Goldsmith becomes increasingly drunk. Transcription of the tapes
exposed that his speech was increasingly slurred and difficult to transcribe,
although this did not cease the description. Investigation into the crime scene
became less dependent on fact and increasingly dependent on clues,
suspicions of what the actions may have been. Fidget at this point is based not
on movement, but rather on an approximation of the sounds of Goldsmith’s
narration:
Greens projectile. On ah squint. Elen crows on tongue. With
muriss. Kush jimmyhands. Cinder hung moistened, Soldiers
stable. Midgets in palm. The latter affair. Lowerslime. Your pinch
yearning. (73)
The shift from faithful transcription to approximation suggests a
homolinguistic translation where the resultant text gives clues about the
original source text. Fidget becomes about the act of transcription itself, a
“latter affair” of Goldsmith’s transcription.
The clue of action—the deposit of possibility—“may derive from the
absence of a relevant object as well as from the presence of an irrelevant
one” (William O’Green as quoted in Rugoff 90). The Jack Daniels infused
chapters of Fidget border on Language Poetry, allowing a shift of priority

59

from communication of fact to communication of suggestion. Fidget, like a crime scene,
presents us with “both a surplus and a dearth of meaning” (Wollen 25), a comingling of presence and absence.

60

Acknowledgements
For Madeleine.
Gracious thanks to the writers I discuss and interview in these pages.
Thanks also to the friends and colleagues who have provided the
conversations that were the impetus for these pieces. I owe a debt of
gratitude to Andrea Andersson, Jonathan Ball, Gary Barwin, Gregory Betts,
Christian Bök, Kit Dobson, Craig Dworkin, Lori Emerson, Chris Ewart,
Robert Fitterman, Kenneth Goldsmith, Helen Hajnoczky, Richard Harrison,
Jake Kennedy, kevin mcpherson eckhoff, Simon Morris, Eiríkur Örn
Norðdahl, Vanessa Place, Sina Queyras, Jordan Scott, Nick Thurston, Tony
Trehy, Darren Wershler and Eric Zboya.
Jon Paul Fiorentino and Karis Shearer at Snare exhibited great faith and
editorial acumen.
Kristen Ingram understands the work/life balance and helps me surf.
Thank you to the journals, websites, blogs and magazines where this
work previously appeared.
Thank you also to the editorial collectives of filling Station and NoD
magazines and the staff at Pages Books on Kensington. Each foster, support
and challenge Calgary’s exceptional writing community.

61

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