A review of Arkadii Dragomoshchenko's 'Endarkenment'
During glasnost in August 1989, Lyn Hejinian, along with Michael Davidson, Ron Silliman, and Barrett Watten, attended the first international avant-garde writers’ conference, “Language — Consciousness — Society,” in the Soviet Union since the Russian Revolution. One of the main organizers of the event was Arkadii Dragomoshchenko, whose book, Endarkenment: Selected Poems, was published by Wesleyan University Press earlier this year. In the early 1990s, Hejinian became one of the first American translators of Dragomoshchenko, working with Elena Balashova on the Sun & Moon titles Description and Xenia. Throughout the ’90s and into the 2000s, Dragomoshchenko’s connections to the American poetry scene, particularly with language writing, continued to develop through correspondence and travel to the States. During one of Dragomoshchenko’s last visits to the US, Charles Bernstein hosted him at the Kelly Writers House for a reading and interview. Less than two years later, in September 2012, after a diagnosis of advanced lung cancer, Dragomoshchenko passed away.
Endarkenment provides a solid career overview. For those already familiar with the poet’s work, this selected may seem too brief. In the newcomer’s hands, however, the book should feel just right. Edited by Eugene Ostashevsky, the selections are the work of six talented translators and come from three different collections. “Dragomoshchenko’s Russian,” Ostashevsky’s engaging essay that closes the book, discusses some of the translation challenges in Dragomoshchenko’s work and links the poet’s sensibility to Osip Mandelstam and Alexander Vvedensky.
In Leningrad: American Writers in the Soviet Union, a collaborative chronicle written by Davidson, Hejinian, Silliman, and Watten, Hejinian describes an insightful exchange with Dragomoshchenko over the notion of Western subjectivity. For Russians, the notion of an individual self is virtually nonexistent. The near impossibility of subjectivity is even embedded in the Russian language, according to Hejinian. While Russian seems to steer towards the communal, English steers towards one’s individual perception of the world. During their conversation about Eastern and Western notions of selfhood, Hejinian suggests, “many of us wish to overcome [subjectivity]. We think that if we can surpass or supersede the individual self we can achieve a community.” Presumably, the “us” she mentions primarily refers to the Language writers with whom she is attending the conference. Hejinian links Western subjectivity with Protestantism when she notes, “A Protestant person stands entirely alone speaking to God.” Following this line of thought, Dragomoshchenko draws connections with Russian Orthodoxy:
Protestants go to church to mail a letter to God, the church, it’s like a post office. The Orthodox church — the building is not symbolic — it is considered to be the real body of God, and Orthodox people too are God because they are together there, not alone, and speaking, by the way, has nothing to do with it.
When Hejinian responds by saying that Westerners have a universal feeling of alienation, Dragomoshchenko deftly sums up the difference this way: “You are afraid of your finitude, and we are afraid of our infinitude.”
Dragomoshchenko’s astute understanding of a difference between Russian and Western culture may stem from his richly textured relationship to Russian culture during the Cold War. He was born in 1946 in Potsdam, East Germany, where his father was a Soviet Army officer. Before moving to Leningrad in 1969 to study theatre, he grew up in Vinnytsia, Ukraine, where the languages spoken included Greek, Moldovan, Polish, Romany, Ukrainian, and Yiddish, not to mention Russian (ix and 143). That part of Ukraine is a religious crossroads as well, with Catholicism, Orthodoxy, and Judaism simultaneously making their marks (ix). And in the years before Dragomoshchenko’s birth, during Stalin’s Great Purge in 1937–38, Vinnytsia was the site of a massacre of mostly ethnic Ukrainians. By any measure, this is quite a backdrop for one’s youth.
While living in Leningrad, Dragomoshchenko became active in the samizdat culture of the 1970s and 1980s. In an agreement with Soviet authorities to legalize this underground culture, Dragomoshchenko and a few others formed Club 81, but it wasn’t until perestroika that his work was first legally published. As Jacob Edmonds describes in his book, A Common Strangeness: Contemporary Poetry, Cross-Cultural Encounter, Comparative Literature, Hejinian first met Dragomoshchenko in the Soviet Union in 1983, after Alexander Kan had invited the ROVA quartet to perform in Leningrad. To everyone’s surprise the invitation was allowed by the authorities, so ROVA, along with Hejinian, who is married to saxophonist and cofounder Larry Ochs, paid their first visit to the USSR. The album and documentary film that followed ROVA’s visit was called Saxophone Diplomacy.
But no matter how interesting a poet’s background or how significant his literary relationships might be there is no context that defaults to good poetry. A poet must be astute in his milieu. Dragomoshchenko’s awareness of the divide between Western and Russian conceptions of consciousness are only one example of his ability to cleave apart situations and concepts. As someone living the greater part of his life under the Soviet regime, one that aimed to control all forms of production, he was also keenly aware of the tension between the individual and the authority figure, whether that figure is one leader or the manifold state.
“To a Statesman,” translated by Genya Turovskaya, is one of the earliest poems in Endarkenment, and it shows the poet cleaving the situation of actual leadership from the concept of ideal leadership. This poem, like many of Dragomoshchenko’s, engages Greek philosophy. Here, he relies on the Socratic dialogue, “The Statesman.” Written by Plato, the dialogue attempts to define the qualities of a statesman, as something different from sophists and philosophers. According to the dialogue, the statesman is one who knows how to rule justly, with citizens at the center of attention. One of the participants in the dialogue, The Stranger, suggests that this isn’t what actually happens. Rulers have been mere sophists in disguise, the Stranger thinks; they don’t possess the level of specialized knowledge that rulers ought to have. With this in mind, it’s not much of a stretch to make connections to both Communist and post-’91 Russia, or any government for that matter. In the poem, Dragomoshchenko begins with direct address, mixing the ethereal with the quotidian:
When you, Statesman, speak dreams across the notebook,
because the rest menaces night with blue graphite,
and crumbs don’t captivate, nor cast-off clothes,
nor doors, nor veins along the calf, nor eyes,
nor glass in Aegean linen —
for you Stymphalian nightingales magnanimously whistle
and someone thinks just before sleep that once, long ago
you played circular football, smashed your knee to pieces,
the rain washed over your heads and no one was anointed, slated … (13)
Dragomoshchenko tends to layer his poems with reference; such as he does here with those bronze-beaked, man-eating birds from Greek myth, Stymphalian nightingales. Judging from their magnanimous whistling, these birds must view the Statesman favorably, as if the power this figure has is out of human hands. In his essay, Ostashevsky notes that the nightingales also “[assert] the primacy of sound and stylistic aura over philological (and logical) accuracy” (152). This is a tendency common in Dragomoshchenko’s work and one of its greatest pleasures.
Through the next few stanzas Dragomoshchenko indicates a connection, one that goes back to school days, between the speaker of the poem and the Statesman. Readers learn the two were on the same soccer team and that there were awkward experiences with girls (14–15). Instances such as these place the Statesman more firmly in the everyday. Eventually, the speaker exposes the Statesman’s failures at school:
Statesman, you conceive laws,
forgetting that you failed to grasp the rules of simple mathematics;
the same as in school when for the first time you sensed the smell of the girl
you shared your desk with,
when empires crumble like chalk on the lackboard, and you didn’t
get your hands on the dress and if someone did,
then it was no one. (15)
In Dragomoshchenko’s view, failed leadership may have its roots in one’s past. How can a leader conceive laws when that leader could not grasp the rules of simple mathematics?
What happens to the central character is only part of the driving force of Dragomoshchenko’s poem. Turovskaya’s translation further underscores the Statesman’s deficiency. She makes a wise choice when she invents a word such as “lackboard.” The word simultaneously calls to mind what we expect, a blackboard, and a void. With Dragomoshchenko’s text as a base, Turovskaya’s adept translation captures some of the common elements — intrigue, humor, and melancholy — of a Dragomoshchenko poem. Ostashevksy’s essay once again provides further insight. With this particular poem, he describes how the gender of the Statesman, in the original Russian, shifts. Turovskaya made the choice to put the gendered pronoun in the third person because of differences between languages (150). Neither Ostashevky nor Turovskaya indicate where those shifts occur, but many readers, at least this reader, would be curious to see them. But perhaps that would overcomplicate the English-language poem. Translating Dragomoshchenko’s work can’t be easy, making it all the more impressive that the six translators featured here have made invigorating English-language poems of the originals.
Endarkenment foregrounds Dragomoshchenko’s investigation into the materiality of language. In a poem such as “there they go, writing poems,” he focuses on the relevance of the written word: “Configurations of letters plugged / into unstoppable machines of interference” (97). Later in the same poem: “Be articulate, do not avoid the sense of responsibility” indicates his interest in finding appropriate expression. That the line incidentally calls to mind Robert Duncan’s definition of responsibility, the ability to respond, makes it seem as though the poem is participating in an ongoing international discourse. The interrogative quality of this poem also conveys the sense of doubt that can plague a writer. For Dragomoshchenko, though, doubt seems to enable, rather than paralyze, his writing. “Nasturtium as Reality” closes the book on a note that stresses “[a]n attempt,” not the ultimate description of an observation, for the form of the ultimate takes its shape through eavesdropping or “a glance over someone else’s shoulder” (107). There is “the anticipation of the resulting whole —” (107), that, with the lineation’s interruption or eruption, suggests the poem, or nasturtium, is a vessel that embodies the event or crisis just before it is about to happen.
One of the richest poems in the book, “Reflections in a Golden Eye,” comments on the various tensions between description and reality, and considers, perhaps not surprisingly, the nature of translation. When reading much of the work in Endarkenment, one is reminded that all writing is translation. Dragomoshchenko asks whether the language we use actually captures experience, whether it can actually describe the objects we see and the emotions we have. In the second section of “Reflections,” he writes:
Translation — is a taming, transition
into possession of address, the itinerary a variable —
so this is the table? masonry? three fissures?
Let us suppose that everyone has a box
in which there would be something
that we call a “beetle”[.] (73)
Perhaps it is language itself, not writing, that is the translator. As Dragomoshchenko suggests, translation tames, it is a transition, and it is on a variable itinerary. Itineraries offer very distinct kinds of transition, and under any circumstance can be destabilizing.
Here, the poet isn’t commenting on the translation one experiences while reading Russian poems in English. Dragomoshchenko is more macroscopic. He doubts language’s aptitude for precision. The voice asking the straightforward question, “so this is a table?” is suspicious. But this voice is also willing to engage in the exercise: “Let us suppose that everyone has a box.” For Dragomoshchenko, it seems that language requires some sort of agreed-upon meaning. He isn’t so suspicious of language, however, that he can’t move within it. He clearly thinks language has power, otherwise why would he have written the poems he did? His work embodies the paradox of being a poet: seeing the power of language while also seeing through it.
From Lyn Hejinian’s perspective, at least as she describes in her foreword to Endarkenment, Dragomoshchenko’s exposure to various languages during his childhood in Ukraine laid a foundation for understanding “language’s habit of producing simultaneously convergent and divergent meanings” (ix). While Hejinian is primarily referring to language itself in her comments, it seems fair to apply her idea more broadly to Dragomoshchenko’s work. Throughout, he ably dissects structures of meaning, making it possible for readers to see where discrepancies exist.
Perhaps his ability to see what others may miss stems from one of his more private childhood experiences, looking through the holes in his grandmother’s fence. In Hejinian’s application of these details, related to her in a letter from Dragomoshchenko, she uses the language of the camera to characterize their significance:
These were the apertures through which he made his first conscious observations of the world, irregular circles of sensation. They were portals but they became over time, emblematic, too, of the aporias that puncture consciousness and that neither knowledge nor speculation can ever fill. (ix)
The word aperture fittingly describes Dragomoshchenko’s work. In a camera, the aperture isn’t what the viewer looks through; it’s the part of the camera that controls the amount of light that reaches the film. The poem, for Dragomoshchenko, is the exposed film. This is where readers experience his talent most directly, but that’s not his actual talent. Dragomoshchenko’s true gift is his understanding of how to adjust the aperture according to his subject. He knows when to take in small amounts of light and when to run the risk of overexposure, without burning up the frame.
Riding's 'Contemporaries and Snobs'
In writing on poetics, we often find a necessary equivocation. Turning over the pages of an old issue of Poetry, you might discover “The Meaning of Simplicity” by poet Yannis Ritsos. In its simplicity the final stanza of the short poem opens questions for the reader, revealing something unsayable and elusively poetic. The poem concludes:
Every single word is an exodus
for a meeting, cancelled many times,
it is a true word when it insists on the meeting.
We are left to wonder if we have met these words, yet we are not in doubt of their poetry: it is insistent; it meets us. Words reach us and reach beyond us, forging “meetings,” creating poetry, these “true words.” Translated from the Modern Greek by Rae Dalven in 1970, these lines appeared over forty years ago, and more than forty years after the publication of Laura Riding’s 1928 book entitled Contemporaries and Snobs, recently reissued by the University of Alabama Press. “The Meaning of Simplicity” should serve as an apt epigraph to this analysis of Riding’s dense book, with its chapters frustrated by her contemporaries’ dismissal of simplicity, haunted, and yet enamored — enraptured, even — by poetry’s potential to put forth “true words” that might give us the long-overdue, welcome, and necessary rendezvous.
Riding does not want poetry to tell us its knowledge, to get us to recognize it as if it were science. The elusiveness of knowing the truth of being — yes, that messy ontological stuff — is what Laura Riding is after in poetry. The efforts of modernists — exemplified by those she considers snobbish, learned poet-critics — to classify, categorize, and analyze poetry is the cancellation of that meeting Ritsos imagines. Riding bemoans any efforts to complicate poetry that interfere with the poet’s ability to create what she calls a “true poem.”
Defining poetry, on page one, as in some sense “the meaning at work in what has no meaning,” Riding argues that poetry must be “personal” — in conflict with the impersonal (1). Criticism, though not singularly bad or wrong, “develops a shame of the person” and gets us further and further away from the genius that is poetry. Riding concludes, “Critically conceived poetry at the present time is historical rather than poetic” (61). Riding is passionate about poetry as an elusive meaning-meaningless creation and yet deeply disappointed in it, time and time again. That meeting has been deferred over and over.
Attempting to both eschew systematic definitions of poetry and knowledge and yet to better understand the definitions’ failures through an unraveling of them, Riding is insistent at the very least on poetry’s significance, even if that significance is impossible to grasp. According to Riding, the poetic intelligence is valuable precisely because it “is an accurate sensation of the unknown, an inspired comprehension of the unknowable” (5). In contrast to concrete intelligence, which “suffers from the illusion of knowledge,” Riding positions herself not unlike a Socrates, wiser for the knowledge of all that is unknown — and unknowable outside the poetic intelligence. Poetic truth is valued above all else.
Riding is unabashedly complicated in her own critique. One of the first things the reader of Contemporaries and Snobs may notice is Riding’s own intelligence, which is learned, vast, and sharp. Often deeply tongue-in-cheek, her saucy tone, meandering through the “shoulds” of critics only to then upend them as bombastic nonsense, is both playful and earnest at once. She is a critic bewailing criticism, a poet crying out for poetry, the smartest woman in the room rolling her eyes at all of us knowingly. One might forget that the book was written nearly a century ago.
The reader already familiar with Riding’s Anarchism Is Not Enough, which was reprinted in 2001, may wish to go deeper into Riding’s critique of T. S. Eliot and the modernist project in general, and its relation to history, literary and otherwise. But one will not come out of the reading of Contemporaries and Snobs with a eureka moment of clarity, announcing, “So this is where I grip the slippery mind of Laura Riding!” The wily Riding remains elusive, and yet with increasing clarity her intellectual project is illumined. This unknowable of poetry is its most essential quality.
Riding’s commitment to poetry energizes her fight against the authority of modernist poet-critics, her challenge to contemporaries who insist on contextualizing, and her dismissal of snobs fixed on historicizing. Riding is bold in her critiques, with allegiances to no one, and the impressive intellectual force of her analyses is invigorating even at their messiest. She is skeptical of the critic, and especially of criticism’s codification of poetry, that systematization which results in the removal of the “truth” from poetry. She attacks “the poet [who] keeps up his illusion of self-respect under a cloak of salvaged history and legend” (39). Riding has no patience for this illusion, these snobbisms. Her investigation of the relationships between poetry and society, the poet and the poet’s work, the critic, critical reception, and the art itself, reveals Riding as profoundly passionate about poetry’s importance, while the nature of that importance remains elliptical, even equivocal. This, it turns out, is precisely the point, and precisely the reason that we must resist precision of definitions, uniformity, and the seductions of criticism itself.
Riding, a confident critic herself, does not altogether dismiss criticism, but limits it to the responsibility of making sense of poetry and history, a fraught endeavor. As a critic, she draws the reader through her own sense-making of centuries of English poetry in the chapter “Poetry and the Literary Universe,” the first dense part of Contemporaries and Snobs. The overwhelming problematic she identifies in this history is not with critics per se, but with poets who write under the problematic influence of critical discourse. Work that asserts the importance of “the contemporary time-sense” — poetry in the thrall of what she calls the Zeitgeist — is for Riding anathema to true poetry. Poets who write asserting that the Zeitgeist is essential to writing poetry of significance are more important as recorders of history than as poets. These poets include the likes of Byron and Goethe, whose “poetry died as it was being written” (10). As an antidote to the imposition of doctrine by critical authorities, Riding calls for “a bold reinstatement of the person in poetry” (17). The poet, explains Riding, needs to return to the personal so as not to be swept away by the “concrete intelligence,” otherwise known as the Zeitgeist, rather than the “poetic intelligence” (18).
Since poetic intelligence is something that can’t be pinned down, it is not concrete. In order to express this, the poet must resist the lure of the Zeitgeist. Forcing “historical effort” on the poet, as prescribed by Riding’s contemporaries, hinders expression, hampers what Riding calls true poetry. Instead, it creates a “group poetic mind” (54) whose values are snobbish, imitative, and limiting. The poet-critics’ rapture with tradition inevitably leads to this problem, even as it struggles to distinguish itself from that tradition. Insisting that what we fight against is doomed to remain close, in relation by a destructive intimacy, Riding here, as in Anarchism Is Not Enough, calls for a kind of radical intellectual pacifism. Riding’s work argues against the critic’s insistence on absolutes or “first principles,” argues for resisting the attraction to assessments. Dangerously, through systematization and uniformity, poetry might fall in line with critics, making them able to apply standards and perform assessments of poetry’s art. Riding laments poets who fail to assert an expression of ineffable poetic truths to instead become cogs in the critical machinery of the Zeitgeist. The place of the critic is then a short imaginative leap from an intellectual fascist — not an untimely comparison in a book composed in Europe between two world wars. In Contemporaries and Snobs she writes: “Underneath the bustle and clutter of historical interpretations, underneath the disguise of a category — poetry can be free to be what it has always been, an entity which can lend itself to the absolute entirety of barbaric humanity or to the relative entirety of civilized personality, but which remains fundamentally independent and unaffected by historical changes; its purpose being not to express history, humanity or personality, but itself” (59). Riding stridently, even wishfully, asserts that poetry — such as the work of Gertrude Stein, her celebrated example here — might yet transcend the trap of an autocratic hegemony of rote sophistication if it can resist the temptations of the historical moment.
Contemporaries and Snobs is complex, smart, and decidedly scolding in tone. It qualifies as a rant, a rant of the most polished and impressive sort. Unraveling the thread of Contemporaries and Snobs is challenging work, but worth the effort for readers interested in the concerns that matter to Riding. She rails against the poet who writes in the thrall of the Zeitgeist, and as a critic she is buoyant and blistering at turns, celebrating poetry and critical of its withering under the burden of criticism itself. Riding wants writers to seize their critical contempt and fling the sense of duty to the historical moment out the window, get rid of the snobbisms and sentiments that collide to dilute the poetic mind. The poet must be “free from the time-sense” (59). Riding does not tell us what this resultant poetry would look like, because it is never formulaic, systematic, or uniform. She criticizes her contemporary poetry for being “mechanistic” (38). Riding makes the significance of poetry itself feel important, although categorizing it at all is an exercise in futility. Riding champions what cannot be captured, the truth that exists outside the proscribed limits of language, of time, of the Zeitgeist.
“Criticism can only have authority over the poem if the poet’s mind was from the start not sufficiently clear, sufficiently free of criticism; if it obeyed an existing, that is, a past order of reality, rather than a present order of reality, that is, the order of the things which do not yet exist” (23). The past reality might be consistent with the poetic, in that the poetic might have transcended the time-sense. Riding asserts quandaries without really giving us a means to unravel them, yet the density of thought in which she situates her puzzles gives the ideas their significance. We pluck some wisdom from her erudition, querulousness, and insights, ponder them in our own time, on our own terms, through our own circuits or at our own ever-sprawling limits. The sprawling nature of her own thicket is what allows the reader’s mind to spread, to build and create, escaping the perils of didacticism that Riding would have derailed.
Earnestly seeking poetry, Riding tells us, “the pure poem is arrived at by subtracting the poem from itself.” How, we might ask, does this happen? “Only its limits remain, its points of origin and of communication.” The poem is its own shell, its own impossibility of achieving itself. “The rest is a time and space necessity between them, the place, presumably, which the poetic mind leaves to be filled in by the contemporary mind” (23). Riding calls to mind Anne Carson, who writes in Eros, the Bittersweet: “The words we read and the words we write never say exactly what we mean.” And yet, the desirous reach persists in Carson, even as in Riding the dedication to that true poetry remains. “In any act of thinking,” Carson insists, “the mind must reach across this space between known and unknown, linking one to the other but also keeping visible their difference. It is an erotic space” (171). For all its querulousness, Riding’s urgency is in a desire for some more intense poetic knowing. Riding’s intellectual rigor is always on the side of poetry, of the life of the mind that escapes explicability.
2. The final chapter of Contemporaries and Snobs is dedicated to a discussion of Edgar Allan Poe, giving another opportunity to critique the critics, to challenge the celebration of this American writer, with Eliot as a selected illustration of critical snobbery.
3. Riding’s writing is informed by a mind deeply involved in its materials. She had, after all, cowritten A Survey of Modernist Poetry (with Robert Graves) the previous year, in 1927, and had been active as a poet and critic for several years.
4. It is not surprising that Riding later went on to create her famous projects A Dictionary of Related Meanings in the 1930s and Rational Meaning: A New Foundation for the Definition of Words, published in 1974. These projects both attempt to limit our meanings of words to get not at a clearer understanding of vocabulary, but at a more accurate understanding of all that is impossible to contain in language, no matter how malleable we might try to make it.
5. As a strong critic of the men dominating the discourse of her time — and the entire twentieth century during which she lived — Riding treats the work of Edith Sitwell with as much attention as that of William Wordsworth, and rather more than Alexander Pope (30–31). Her analysis assumes a reader familiar with the literary history on which she is commenting, a reader familiar with Dryden and Pope and Milton, who might appreciate her identifying “the amazing critical banalities of Wordsworth” without explication.
A review of ‘Writing Surfaces: Selected Fiction of John Riddell’
Writing Surfaces: Selected Fiction of John Riddell presents a sampling of the Canadian poet’s work from 1969 through 1994. Though some of Riddell’s works can be found online, including at UbuWeb, most of his work is difficult to find in print. Writing Surfaces is a concise and accessible introduction to Riddell’s writings, one which hopefully will serve to raise Riddell’s profile among a new generation of readers.
Riddell began publishing work in the 1960s and was a contemporary of — and often cohort with — bpNichol and Steve McCaffery. Like much of the work of Nichol and McCaffery, Riddell’s work probes the interaction between language’s material embodiment and semantic function, the representation of this interaction in and through media, and the effects of this interaction on composition itself. Riddell’s poetics come out of the concrete poetry tradition, refracted through his experiments with the process of composition and through his highly ludic sensibility.
Characteristic of Riddell’s works presented in this collection is the emphasis on fissures, joints, and seams. Most easily recognizable are the visual seams, such as the drawn lines separating and joining text and non-text in “à deux,” the rigid boundaries between neighboring texts/spaces in “letters” and more generally, the boundaries between the legible and the illegible in many of the works in the book. But one also finds thematic seams: juxtapositions of sense and nonsense, fiction and documentary, abstraction and particularity. And Riddell employs seams on the verbal level, perhaps the most literal and obvious example being the word “we” in the poem “we,” which acts as interstitial mortar in the alphabetical series of verbs out of which the poem is built.
In “a note on form” introducing his book Criss-Cross: A Textbook of Modern Composition, Riddell couches his practice in terms of a wider poetic syncretism:
a synthesis may not be desired / is certainly not effected
by displaying both schools under the same roof still
when brot together the prospect of marriage does not
seem as remote as may have been supposed
By the term “schools” in the quotation above, Riddell is referring to what he characterizes as traditional and avant-garde approaches to composition. Many of the pieces in Writing Surfaces are exercises in combinations of traditional genres with nontraditional/avant/experimental structures and processes. “Pope Leo, El ELoPE: A Tragedy in Four Letters,” one of Riddell’s more well-known works, is a story told in comic book form using text composed only with the letters “e,” “l,” “o,” and “p.” Another story, “à deux,” is a story of relationships (including perhaps one between two characters named Mark and Katherine) which is disrupted, blotched, and framed by stains and doodles on the page:
Some of the marks are reminiscent of rings left by a wet glass, of spills, and of smudges, a simulation of the way the accidents of life shape memory and perception, and consequently, narrative. Another example is “5 ways,” which is also a story of relationships involving multiple couples. The text is printed in long linear fragments of a few lines (sometimes just a single line) that are positioned facing in various directions on the page. The amount of these fragments per page increases through the piece, and the lines increasingly overlap so that the visual interference builds. The reader is forced to try and disentangle the text and piece together the narrative, echoing the storyline of characters trying to understand their own feelings and make sense of their relationships.
Riddell’s “writing surface” is a heterogeneous one. His model of the poem is a set of language attached to a set of nonlinguistic elements, gathered and held together, producing interior borders that the reader is meant to cross and recross, effecting seams, affecting reading. Riddell’s joining of linguistic to nonlinguistic elements can be read as the contemporaneous reverse of the visual art world’s strategy to incorporate language, which had gathered steam in the 1960s. Riddell recognizes and revels in the fact that language is not a closed system but is part of wider cultural activity. His poems play along with the boundaries between writing and other visual phenomena. In “Pope Leo,” words and line drawings intertwine in and through cartoon panels, drawn characters, and text torqued by and through the lines of the frames. In both “surveys” (excerpted below) and “glass,” bits of language occupy space alongside drops of ink (or is it paint?).
In “morox,” a text in a barred-spiral shape (but in a predominately prose-like format in terms of line vis-à-vis margin) spread across five panels, language fades into and out of various forms of illegibility (words turn from the lexical to the nonlexical, type blurs into blackness, letters break free from the bonds holding them to words and float about the page).
Given the prevalence of boundaries and joints, it’s not surprising that the central figure operating throughout Writing Surfaces is the interface. An interface is a threshold permitting a multilateral (often simply bilateral) exchange of information, the seam for negotiation between different assemblages (and often different media). Here interfaces even make appearances in the subject matter of the poems. For example, the window, the architectural interface between the interior and the exterior, dominates the cartoon poem, “Pope Leo,” dotting the facades behind which the action takes place and echoing the panel frames of the cartoon layout. “Criss-Cross” is a narrative constructed out of interfaces: Riddell presents a series of concrete-poetic reproductions of the encounters with language throughout a day in the life of a fictional everyman, Jim. Verbal units within “Criss-Cross” include the face of a clock, the label on a vitamin bottle, and a subway token. Lyrics to the Kinks’ song, “Well Respected Man,” serve as the “text-track” to the piece, running like a film soundtrack along the right side of the page, both accentuating the filmic surfaceness of the page and reinforcing the narrative thread. By taking the language encountered in the world, removing the graphic pizzazz and contextual flavor, and mapping it onto a two-dimensional page in simple courier type — that is, by changing media — Riddell demonstrates the banality of the message and emphasizes the monotony of the working life of the character, Jim.
derek beaulieu and Lori Emerson, the editors of Writing Surfaces, describe Riddell’s writing in their introduction as a study in the “writing of writing” (2) — writing taking writing itself as the subject. And their selection emphasizes this aspect of Riddell. For example, a high percentage of the lexicon in the poem “we” is language related: “we demur we denote we deny.” “Criss-Cross” is a piece of writing about how the writing we encounter is presented to us in our everyday experience, estranged both by its translation into a different typography and 2-D space and by its situation within a narrative framework. The pieces “watching” and “in take” both offer ironic takes on the notion of “close reading,” employing xerography and the photocopier’s zoom function. “Watching” (excerpted below) is perhaps the more interesting of the two, a series of snapshots zooming out from a text, so that the letters which at first are mere black figures on a white space come to situate themselves within a text that has to do with television.
The piece emulates the experience both of the camera and of the TV viewer on the other side of the interface; the poem is a gesture in which watching and reading are joined in a continuum. Riddell writes with the interface as model of writing, then: the poems often resemble APIs, or application program interfaces, a type of writing about writing (namely writing about the code that a person, the programmer, wants to interact with). His writing, focusing mostly on writing as a visual phenomenon, is often a demonstration of how writing and reading are both forms of the overwriting of the perceiving subject.
Ultimately what Riddell reminds us about writing (and the flipside of the interface, reading) is that they are not independent from other, traditionally “non-writing” activities, whether it’s watching, gesturing, or drawing. While Riddell’s writing is by no means the only to make these points, it is Riddell’s playfulness and craft, on evidence in Writing Surfaces, that make the experience more than just an intellectual exercise.
1. John Riddell, Criss-Cross: A Textbook of Modern Composition (Toronto: Coach House Press, 1977), 7–8. Reissued by ubu editions, 2013.
A review of Eleni Sikelianos’s ‘You Animal Machine (The Golden Greek)’
And I then came to Karthage. This is, truly, a blinding opportunity. And it will fall, but the book, in the severing action of its detailing, will not:
Now I have to get back and find each body part at each lost place and stitch it back. The first place was a well, and when I realized the word in Greek, το μάτι [sounds a little like “mother”], was an eye letting the water not fall but see into the middle of the earth, I knew my way. [bracketed insertion mine]
And truly Eleni Sikelianos tends her portions; truly she keeps to her arrivals. Truly she paints her Gestalt, paints it in her favorite sand-dripped, her favorite gemstone-cracking colors. Yes, it is truly and industriously she charts a human history in You Animal Machine (The Golden Greek). In eloquent form, she has many targets, and many names for them. At her most painfully precise she names “a net of family giftings” and recalls the shirt that Nessus bore and a great hero wore, and what we know about that burning. Her gift to the reader is, equally, tormenting at close quarters, as well as being magnificent.
Yes, this going back is a difficult facing. This research is, or becomes by virtue of Sikelianos’s bravest candor, a trick you play and a trick that your history, your subject’s history, will likely play in turn. It is marvelous, and always, always exhorts with menace and the countering mechanics that may appeal to the reader. Beyond that (if possible), it is a body of writing, truly, and searching-where, for the body surely, hers, her mother’s, her grandmother’s (“It [the where of the telling] bumps into all the body’s soft clocks”). It is truly a toughening (restated), this memoir that may read as if “[s]craping the silver nitrate backing.” After extreme fashion it duly and rigorously tests the turns of memory with regard to how-to, pictured and punctured in the wound.
What is a body, then?
I’d say it’s free.
Yes, a difficult remembering is how it stands as the many elegant ramifications, bristling in brilliance, become possible. It is thus understandable that the writing (with poetry) from and about memory should seek its travails, and keep seeking them. It is also not surprising that it should not quite attach to where it starts. Say that it starts in the desert, closely defined (very closely); it also starts with the grandmother, who symbolizes a woman’s quintessential plight, and who is “Elaine Marko, sultry exotic.” Of many aliases and many twists and turns in many places, she is heir to Victorville and eye-popping “dance delineator” of the halls of burlesque, for putting food on the table. That the granddaughter so admires her story is also part of the writing where it starts.
And surely this is not coincidental. Surely “The Golden Greek” (as in the promo-flash of the soon-to-appear “MELAINE”) is the holding place to be searched out, and never to be so, and yet so to be. Surely something must click and compel. There is memory, with “its sharpening knives” to realize the danger. There is knowledge of matters pressing and personal, to ward off trouble, if barely. There is this unflinching pursuit, so close to the bone, so metaphysical, as is all “iridescing.” Going further there is one’s always homewards regard, which can only angle at achievement, as if through space. It is not all one, it seems. The coordinates, however confidently named, will never be established except in great anguish. They shine like stars among us, but from a distant and pained and ever-not-escaping point of attention, so that having a “spotlight,” say, or four or five, well-placed, may serve for starters. So indeed a cropped and wholly patterned searching it is, a bright and crucial questioning, that brings the crisscross to the finding: “How can a memory travel to its event, kiss it, and shoot back to the present?”
Reading this book will be a putting to, so to speak. Reading this scorching disquisition into a fragmented, or (better) partial, past, reading this creative unraveling all the while so splendidly put to its lyrical paces, will be to go to another place, to clean up and grow up. It is possibly, or possibly ranks as, “another future.” In the event, defragmentation happens where the beautiful is sordid, as having such details as its means (“If you’re on a train, the windows won’t shut; you’ll need a bandana to cover your mouth. Endless grit in the nose and teeth. Blackened particles and splotches of red bleeding into sand.”); where the beautiful is replete with fates, challenges, and courage; and where it becomes a “tale of the toughest, hardest-assed woman to ever eat wood and bite nails on the face of the earth: Malena the Cat Lady, Woman-with-the-Bullets-over-Her-Breast, the Leopard Girl, Marko, my grandmother, the Golden Greek.”
You could also say that the beautiful is like being flayed alive. A shoring against it, however, will succeed where the lowlife’s estimation is marginal (see the Greek rembetes; see the refugees hoveling, around others having a last glorious time, “on the hillsides that form a ring around Athens,” famous Greek city, circa 1922; see familiar story); but rather, to pause for correction, is where
[t]he outskirts (rejecta) make their own centers, and in this center the Leopard Girl and the dwarf named Paul Roese embraced each other and collapsed.
Correcting for winds, then, for the signs and stigmas and petty salvations, is part of where it starts, and reaches and resumes. A part, moreover, of these retracings that are not retractions are certain essentialist themes. This may or may not surprise. What will count here is a decidedly magical presence, that of dwarves in our world. What will save us here is not to differentiate but to recognize a useful potency. Thus the dwarf who is the fourth of five of the Golden Greek’s husbands will illustrate essence, what that can mean. Thus a past event serves as topos, and the turning and turning as Sikelianos depicts it, the torn scrumming through the lists, even, as she invests it, will reveal this essence to be itself a kind of space. Indeed what being becomes, what it is and what it does in turn, a being one of many perhaps and often unaccountably, will disclose a beaming and assured centrality. It will become a kind or a brand of one, and be found, and be a coming forward not in a form of difference, though it is approached differently (cf. “middle of the earth”); not as a freak show’s presaging, though that is one of its guiding spirits.
Being thusly by all accounts centered in a paradoxical reading, of a privileging of contraries, of houses falling and “shards of dirty mirror” not touching, and of shimmering abundance, of fecundity in the desert, is a challenge that the reader, after the rebound, may not be up to. The experience may prove outlandish. In truth, it is for and by those only who have “brushed mass death.” It may be thus, in truth, for any of us, and may become too familiar in the being told. The charge borne is a heavy one, with knowledge and thrills (and sheer ills) in wait.
One wants to write of avatars while revealing a patch of skin between stretchyarn and bloomers. One wants to write, robustly, about being watched, how that goes down. One wants to write about ascension, about towers and not tombs (apparent tombs), and not always about those hoochie-coochies and a few filthy towels thrown in where the child sleeps backstage. One wants to write, in all sorts of ways, what it is to be a wife:
A wife is a woman and a woman is a wife unless she’s a femme. If she’s a
mujer, she’s a woman or a wife. If she’s butch. André Breton says:
Ma femme à la taille de loutre entre les dents du tigre
Mother midnight, wife this child.
To repeat, “Mother midnight, wife this child.” The reader, if he chooses, may want to ponder these many reversely sphinx-like answers to these many questions.
So then. To recount. Memories are not frightening though tending that way, but they are surprisingly violent, and not exactly Proustian. Where the Proustian atavism takes is in the species forms, and the star of the series that is You Animal Machine is the Feral Child, in numerous emanations, “[w]alk[ing] on all fours, … dumb, … covered with hair.” One has been invited to consider all things Greek, and that includes Aristotle. Further, the task of understanding the stories, of oneself and others, proves fruitful because the subjects, then and now, can be cleverly described as “walking libraries.” (“They met in a bookstore.”) From such intuitions flow multiple inclusions. The mention of that guy Averroës, for example, pushes links both to extended Mediterranean influences, not lost in the transfer to new homes and new worlds, and to Sikelianos’s family progression, that extraordinarily varied coming up and contending as it is infinitely (as by her) resourced and secured (even where the sources are scant). It is not so much that everything figures (“What card is missing? Taraka (Arabic), ‘to leave, abandon, omit, leave behind’”) as that the daughter’s realizations are so expressly promoted to finishing the dance, for it exhilarates strangely, this precocious patterning as of “[a]toms flying out to space, no longer trapped between life and after-life.”
From the essentialist concerns come all manner of richness and, it goes without saying, great textual appeal, such that the fascination that takes hold in Sikelianos’s writing, equally as with the subjects of her writing, lies in how it plays out in kinds. It figures to become a question-and-answer consideration beyond all questions and all answers. (It asks us, at the outset, to find “the key that turns the lock of the poison dress.”) So what is it? Is it, upon consideration, confessional? Is it of scholarly material? Is it of origins? Is it fodder for goats (she claims it is not)? Is it primarily philosophical in its searching out the truth? Is it innovative and inventive, again in its searching out the truth? Is it any or all of these essentials?
Is it “speculation” and therefore proof that searching out the truth is not enough? Is it of a documentary tracing, a “crackling” variation thereof? Is it new-informational, with body-machine replacing language-machine? Is it instead elegiac in the main of its turning, for that a truly sad passing into Leopard Girl and jaguar kin, and clutching and clasping and totemic affirming and symbolic acting and affirming and affirming of the mysteries (“pulling poppies, pulling corn-flowers”) and determination and desire and grit (plenty of it), and all of their aftereffects quanto pro tanto, enclose the author’s feelings to the end? Is it, then, träumerisch? Is it even, or does it amount to, a strong-armed, and often arm’s-length, panoply of various kinds of lists? Thusly is it informed aggressively to the posing of many tanked and tattered questions, and not without some well- and materially-weighted appeals to the gods? Is it in its many breathtaking turnings graspingly confessional (as mentioned), and vastly, introspectively brave and truthful? Of many questions, is it not a tinctured and tortuously living quest? Does it not progress, the magic underneath, wrong side or right side but still magic? If so, does it find its way inconclusively, or largely so, or barely missing, as in all the best expectations, in the end?
And finally it is, and so what is, this game that the reader, if she chooses, will find all-possible?
Ps. L’élan de vie dont nous parlons consiste, en somme, dans une exigence de création. Il ne peut créer absolument, parce qu’il rencontre devant lui la matière, c’est-à-dire le mouvement inverse du sien. Mais il se saisit de cette matière, qui est la nécessité même, et il tend à y introduire la plus grande somme possible d’indétermination et de liberté.
For a few months in 2014, the Los Angeles County Museum of Art presented a small exhibition of photographs by John Divola titled As Far As I Could Get. The exhibit encompassed one square room presenting prints from four different photographic series. In the title series, As Far As I Could Get, Divola has placed his camera on a tripod and set the shutter on a ten-second timer. As he starts the exposure’s countdown, he runs off into the distance marked by the camera’s gaze. At ten seconds, the camera takes its exposure, revealing how far Divola was able to run and the landscape that surrounds him. Each photograph in the series exhibits a different location, a different landscape, and a different time of day.
Over these same months, I read two books: No, Wait. Yep. Definitely Still Hate Myself by Robert Fitterman and Corporate Relations by Jena Osman. Fitterman’s book is culled from postings expressing loneliness found on various online forums. Each excision of language is stitched into a continuous stream of single consciousness. Each post’s “I” overlaps, is undifferentiated from the previous and the next.
Fitterman’s text begins:
I’ll just start: no matter what I do I never
seem to be satisfied,
The world spins around me and I feel like
I’m looking in from outside.
I go get a donut, I sit in my favorite part
of the park, but that’s not
The point: the point is that I feel socially
awkward and seem to have
Trouble making friends, which makes me very
sad and lonely indeed. (1)
The book itself does not announce the appropriated nature of the text. As is common with Ugly Duckling Presse books, there is no description on the back cover. There is no afterword, bio, or author’s note. On its face, without knowing the details of the book’s composition, these words are all Fitterman’s words.
The sentences are recognizable outpourings of depressed emotions. Though one might be tempted to say that the utterances are uniformly clichés, most incorporate odd, singular moments that differentiate them as specific, individual utterances. Going to get a donut, finishing a rereading of Frankenstein, or mentioning a little brother named Christopher. The images and statements proliferate, mimicking each other, seeming to be completely recognizable, but in their constant twisting avoid replicating an exact phrase verbatim. Fitterman places before us language that is simultaneously singular and repetitive.
Of the four images on display from As Far As I Could Get, the one I find myself drawn to is “(R02F06).” In this image, Divola is captured running into a scrubby desert. It appears to be dusk, though it is difficult to determine due to the cloud cover. The figure in the photograph appears to have run about the same distance in this photograph as in the others. But I notice something different. Perhaps due to the camera settings or the diffuse lighting, as I approach the 60” x 40” print, my ability to discern the self in the photograph becomes more and more difficult. Divola’s body, which seems so distinct when standing a few feet from the canvas, dissolves into hazy pixilation. I become unsure — is that Divola I’m looking at, or is this just a blotch of something else that has appeared in the camera’s viewfinder? As I approach the limits of where the docent allows me to stand, I watch Divola’s self disappear into the desert landscape.
As Fitterman’s litany of depression and self-loathing continues, it becomes a neverending loop of negativity. The feelings are endless and intense. At various intervals in the single-section book, there are stanza breaks. For a moment, there is a pause of feeling, an instantaneous gap. And then the stream of emotion begins again, renewed, as if it never stopped at all. The language of raw emotions is left alone and untethered on the page:
So, it’s not like I’m a total introvert or I’m afraid
of living. I don’t have agoraphobia
Or anything like that, but I am still SO FUCKING
LONELY, I COULD JUST DIE! (26)
On the one hand, extreme emotional outbursts like this one can be amusing. As the speaker has been totally removed, and the language represented in this litany, I assume that it is not a sincere statement. The statement is pure hyperbole, exhibited in the traditional way of overreacting on the Internet: IN ALL CAPS.
But this response is in reality actually very sad. There likely is an actual person at the other end of this communication, someone who does feel these feelings and is reaching out for some form of language that can express them with true transparency.
Fitterman’s act of appropriation reveals that what becomes transparent is not language but rather the body, the person, the self that was speaking. In seeking statements that represent a pure emotion and assumedly leave little language-residue on the act of communication, the speakers find only themselves effaced. Anyone can say these words, and Fitterman proves this by saying them all together at the same time. The multiple “I”s become a single I — an I that clearly exists and thus does not exist at all. As the I emphasizes its selfness again and again throughout the book, it recedes further and further from view. The I becomes a word in language. And it is the words themselves that are left alone and self-loathing on the page:
[...] It has gotten so bad that I’ve just
turned off completely from
The world: unable to make contact with anyone
with any substance. (33)
What we are left with is the concrete artifact of language, the lone survivor. And so we are forced to read.
Near the end of Fitterman’s book, the I turns its attention to the you:
[...] I’m totally imagining who this “you” might be;
I guess one could say it’s a fantasy because I’m not really talking to
anyone, I’m not really relating to anyone, and it’s not
Like I’m going out and meeting anyone, so when I’m saying “you,”
I really don’t know who I am addressing. (69)
I wonder why Divola titled his series As Far As I Could Get rather than As Far As I Got? As I look deeper into the pixilated form of Divola in “(R02F06),” I realize that I’m also wondering how far I myself would be able to run in ten seconds. How fast is Divola? Am I faster? The title of the series exhibits the slipperiness of the I, how quickly it shifts from Divola’s perspective to my own. Is that as far as I, myself, could get?
Like Fitterman’s book, Osman’s Corporate Relations looks to a specific body (and use) of language as a source text. In Osman’s case, that body is a series of Supreme Court cases relating to the issue of corporate personhood. The first section is a series of redactions and poetic responses to Supreme Court cases related to the First Amendment. The poem derived from Citizens United v. Federal Election Commission begins:
a narrowly tailored remedy to that interest
to use the words of one Justice, that is ventriloquist speak
I would say that it is more like surrogate speech
Justice Ginsburg: who is the “you”? (23)
The form in which Osman presents her language selections makes the origin point of these words diffuse. Whose words are the first three lines? Are they from a single source, or two, or three? Who is the “I” in the third line? Who is the “one Justice” referenced in the second? The second line also brings to mind the legal use of repurposing language — how the language of previous decisions becomes a “surrogate speech” both informing and indicating the direction of the present decision, how a court decision becomes material in the compost to promulgate future decisions.
The Supreme Court stands, symbolically at least, as a single entity. In our ideal imagination, each ruling presents a singular voice. In reality, of course, this is not the case. There is the ostensible single “winner” based on the court’s vote. But then the voices begin to split and diverge. There are opinions that limit, determine, and muddle the straightforward vote. The opinions themselves are typically divided into majority and dissenting opinions. Language from previous decisions is used to justify and determine the current decision at hand.
So who is the you? Or, who are the selves that become embodied in the series of cases Osman’s poetics investigate?
In No Medium, Craig Dworkin studies works of art in which what we typically think of as content has been removed, leaving behind only the framework, or isolated medium, of the pieces. Pieces such as Aram Saroyan’s ream of typing paper and Nick Thurston’s erasure of Maurice Blanchot’s The Space of Literature. Dworkin argues in his readings of these blanked texts that one can never totally isolate medium from content — that, instead, everything is inscribed and everything is, indeed, content. Or that in these acts of erasure, the medium reveals itself as content.
Rather than excising the medium from the content, Osman excises the content of these court cases from their medium. Isolating the language of these cases does not distance the language from its source. Instead, the language of the court is revealed for examination. Dworkin claims “[t]he point then is not so much the play of presence and absence that has animated studies of inscription, but rather the recursive realization that every signifier is also itself a sign” (9). Osman’s use of these cases shows that this is equally true for books drilling down into the language, discarding the original form. In “Hale v. Henkel” in the section on Fourth Amendment rights:
I shall have to respectfully decline to answer
I shall give the same answer to that
I shall repeat the answer as given before
The same answer to that question
I give the same answer to that question
I must decline to answer for the reason stated
I just wish to state that I have declined to answer the questions, with the utmost respect (31)
These supposed answers are pulled entirely out of context, decoupled from the question or questions that triggered them. The result presents a Bartleby-like litany of non-answering answers. The case itself centers around whether a subpoena to produce corporate documents constituted unreasonable search and seizure in violation of Fourth-Amendment protections for the corporation. The amendment protects explicitly “[t]he right of the people to be secure.” In this piece of language, Osman both emphasizes and effaces the bodies of the people speaking. There is an obvious communication occurring, but it is one in which the language produced is more important than the people producing it. When the persons themselves can become so easily lost, is it any wonder that the corporation, a bodiless entity like the courts, receives the writ of protection?
In a prose note at the end of “Santa Clara v. Southern Pacific Railroad,” Osman quotes from Justice Hugo Black’s dissent in 1938’s Connecticut General Life Insurance Company v. Johnson:
… of the cases in this Court in which the Fourteenth Amendment was applied during the first fifty years after its adoption, less than one-half of 1 per cent invoked it in protection of the negro race, and more than 50 per cent asked that its benefits be extended to corporations.
The language of the courts is layered in its own history, dug out and retrenched for explicit purposes. One wants to speak of intent. One wants to speak of legitimate parameters. One wants to appeal to a common sense. But who do we appeal to and what do we appeal with? The body of the courts, the body of language, the body of our bodies.
Interspersed within the poems addressing specific court cases on corporations are other poems that explore the changing way in which the body and the self are conceived in a capitalist economy. “Mechanized Eccentric” presents the myth of John Henry:
a man holding a hammer
a man competing with a steam drill
a man striking fire
hammer ring hammer ring
hammer my fool self to death (43)
In this retelling, John Henry is not named — his name is stripped away, leaving only the empty language vessel of “a man.” And as Henry is emptied of his individual self, the man becomes indistinguishable from the machine he’s competing against: “in order to do the work in the quickest time, / at what cutting speed shall I run my machine?” (43). Is this the steam drill or is this the man? The body is no longer spoken of as flesh and blood, life and family, desires and dreams. Instead, it is reduced to “the pulling power and the speed and feed changes” that “enable the machine to finish its product” (43).
“Industrial Palace” ends Osman’s collection, completing the transition from machine as a metaphor for the body to the actuality of the body as a cog within a corporate structure. Beginning with “the body is a factory / in the workshop of the head,” the body becomes many: “a group of persons are authorized to act as one / a group of persons combine in one body” (71). The barrier between the body as a sovereign single unit and the group as a sovereign single unit becomes blurred in the rhetoric of the corporation. Lungs are the “pulley and wheel” carrying oxygen, “the liver is a chemical plant,” and in this conception, the corporation can become “a group of persons who can speak with one mind” (72).
As I finish editing this essay, the Supreme Court’s decision in Burwell v. Hobby Lobby has been handed down, determining that a body that is a privately held corporation holds religious rights and its resultant constitutional protections. I find myself interspersing editing this essay with reading articles on the decision. I look up the full name of the case: Sylvia Burwell, Secretary of Health and Human Services, et al., Petitioners v. Hobby Lobby Stores, Inc., Mardel, Inc., David Green, Barbara Green, Steve Green, Mart Green, and Darsee Lett; Conestoga Wood Specialties Corporation, et al., Petitioners v. Sylvia Burwell, Secretary of Health and Human Services, et al. I read an article that includes an anecdote about the Green family, which holds the controlling majority of Hobby Lobby, praying around a table at their company’s Oklahoma City headquarters. David Green — founder, CEO, and father — “thanked the family for remaining in unison” during the case’s long winding through the justice system. There is no mention of Conestoga, the second company attached to the case.
Or, as Osman concludes: “look at the body: it moves” (72).