Morgan

I’ve always loved the sound in a bar moments before last call. I love the sound of tension. You can hear it if you listen closely in those moments when the jukebox stops playing, the glasses stop clinking, and the people stop yapping. If you open your ears and try to shut down every other sense, that same dive takes on an almost ethereal quality; it’s almost like reading people’s minds. Tonight is full of back-story. I like watching the people who haven’t had quite enough to drink, the ones who have obviously had too much, the ones who are leaving with someone they shouldn’t be leaving with, the ones who are getting left behind… yes that one, I think I’ll talk to her next.

My name is Blue. I guess you could call me a sociopath; at least that’s what my wife told me last fall, just before she took my beloved daughter back to the east coast where she said she was going to raise her in the “proper” environment. I googled the word once. The definition didn’t really seem to fit. Glibness and superficial charm aren’t qualities that I would necessarily say I possess. I know people. I just do. I know people and I know how to get people to do what I want them to do. I wouldn’t say that makes me a sociopath. An observer of sorts, a people watcher, if you will… that’s what I am. And Blue isn’t the name I was given, that is just an alias.

She just sat there, forlorn. Her vodka-cranberry was sweating, the coaster beneath it soaking. I watched as she sucked it dry, I watched her stare at the melting ice. The Mexican guy she came with was playing darts in the corner with a thinner, blonder, younger version of her. Maybe he’s a sociopath… not me. I glanced cautiously in her direction, making sure I read her correctly the first time. She flashed me a quick smile as soon as she noticed me looking. She was prettier than she probably knew. She had problems with her weight, which was apparent. Her dishwater hair, although poorly maintained was long and thick. I liked this.

“Is someone sitting here?” I motioned toward the barstool between us.
The girl feigned standoffishness as she shook her head. I got up from where I was sitting and took my cognac to the spot next to her.

“Goose and cranberry,” I called out to the bartender, “I’ll have another one, too.”
I looked closely at her hands. She had bruises on her wrists and they looked as though they trailed right up her arms, but her sleeves were pulled past her elbows so I really couldn’t tell. When she noticed me looking, she tucked her hands beneath the bar and onto her lap. Her entire body shifted in the stool and the discomfort I felt dripping off of her aura a second ago intensified. I saw her glance toward the Mexican guy again. It was almost as if she was silently screaming for his attention, trying to get him to notice that a gentleman had just bought her a drink. Not a sociopath, a gentleman.

“Thank you,” the girl said quietly when the bartender brought the drinks over.

“What’s your name?” I asked. I didn’t care for a name. I just wanted to know how she planned on getting home later. She hesitated.

“Lucy.”

“Is that your boyfriend, Lucy?”

“No… we just met,” I could tell she was lying. There’s nothing I hate more than a liar. I looked more closely at her face; she wasn’t wearing any makeup and she looked older than she probably was. I gave her a little too much credit when I said she was prettier than she had assumed. She wasn’t very pretty at all. This girl was a liar and a cheat, quite possibly a floozy too. I noticed the shift in my mood and I sought to regain my placidity. My stare softened immediately.

“Well, Lucy, I’m Morgan. And it’s a pleasure to meet the most beautiful woman in the building tonight.

She blushed, “Hardly,” her body relaxed; she brought her hands back up to the bar and tightly gripped the bucket of goose. She took a long sip.

Careful this time not to let her look into my eyes, I reached up and brushed a strand of her stringy hair out of her face; she didn’t exactly shudder away with my touch. My eyes gave me away sometimes, especially after a few drinks. But this, this was too easy.

I read once that nervous people often had the desire to please people. I had that experience once too. Years ago, before I met my wife I frequented a coffee shop in New York’s East Village whose head barista was just about the most nervous little piece of flesh I had ever set my eyes on. She needed me, it seemed. And for months, I was the one to whom she could tell her secrets; her dad never loved her, her mother was a whore… such as she, and her boyfriend was sleeping with someone else. So she did too. I continued that affair for a while, until I caught her lying to me. She had told me that she was no longer sleeping with him, but she was. I could smell his stench all over her one night. She had been such a lying whore that I didn’t even think twice about what I did to her. Not that it would have mattered in the end, because I never could just let people go, I had to send them away.

Lucy was so obviously nervous that I could just about hear her heart pounding beside me. Her every breath caught in her throat and I could hear it over the barroom clatter. She tucked that same piece of hair behind her ear and shifted the barstool toward me slightly. Lucy’s nervousness made boring this entire event, but it was starting to fade… and I wanted to finish what I had started.

Our conversation unfolded more quickly than one would expect from perfect strangers in a dive bar in downtown Los Angeles; perhaps it was a combination of my people skills and her inherent discomfort with life. She grew up in the suburbs and moved to the city to pursue a career in the film industry. Naturally, I thought; this would be the city for that. Little did she know that Hollywood was looking for beauty, a trait that she obviously did not possess. Lucy finally admitted that the man with the younger woman was actually the father of her child.

“He doesn’t love me the way he seems to love other women. I mean, look at him,” Lucy narrowed her eyes at the couple playing darts in the corner, “What does that skank have to offer him? …I’m the mother of his child, for God’s sake!”

I smiled to myself knowing what that Mexican guy in the corner was up to. That inner smile, stayed hidden as I let my face take on a sympathetic, more nurturing gaze. I gently grabbed her hand and smoothed my fingers over a rough patch of her skin. His name is Antonio, and he’s the one who gave her the bruises.

“He was so sweet when we met. Then I had my son and things… things changed, y’know?” I listened to her as she told me the story, shaking my head at the appropriate times.

I matched her stories with some of my own. I used the story I normally used, and it just so happened to fit into Lucy’s scheme. I’m a movie producer and I can get her in… I know people, it seems. You see, I know people. I know people and I know what they want. So sitting in that bar… I got to know Lucy a little more. And she got to know a little bit about Morgan. That poor bitch… she had no idea about Blue.

“Do you need a ride home, Lucy?”

She glanced, once more, to the dartboards in the corner. And just like that, I had her. We finished our drinks and we were gone.

Martyrdom and Rhetoric: A Classical Approach

In trying to prove a cause, one’s rhetoric is arguably more critical than the cause itself. As Aristotle put it, more than 2,000 years ago, “The modes of persuasion are the only true constituents of the art [of rhetoric]: everything else is merely accessory. […] The arousing of prejudice, pity, anger, and similar emotions has nothing to do with the essential facts, but is merely a personal appeal to the man who is judging the case” (Aristotle 1). What this implies is that countless texts, films, and speeches have been used as a tool for spreading awareness about a particular issue, bringing to light the larger implications of certain human activities. Taking a look at one film in particular, we can get a better sense of how rhetoric can be used to move audiences into a more conscious state regarding a cause, and how simple the task of playing upon what Aristotle called the ethos, pathos, and logos—ethics, emotions, and logic, respectively—of humankind can be. Alan Parker, in his 2003 film, “The Life of David Gale” uses rhetoric and an appeal to the ethos, pathos, and logos of his audience to shed light on the social injustice of capital punishment. The film also contains elements of structuralism and feminism, which we will be looking at as well. More striking than the film itself are the underlying issues surrounding the screenplay; characters and plot become agents which shift the way the audience feels about the death penalty, or causes them to look at it through a new lens.

According to Joy Connolly, “[…] We are all individual subjects, isolated bundles of sensation, imagination, memory, and desire. What shapes us a subjects from without, and enables us to reach out to other citizens from within, is language, the spoken word” (Connolly 2). We could juxtapose this statement to one made by David Gale in the film. He states, “No one who looks through that glass sees a person, they see a crime. I’m not David Gale. I’m a murderer and a rapist, four days shy of his execution” (The Life of David Gale). Looking again at the issue at hand, capital punishment, and our emotional ties to the character David Gale, we see a different kind of crime here. Rather than reports of some nameless murder in the news, we now rest on the intimate relationship with the accused, allowing us to view his situation in a different light. This plays not only on Connolly’s aforementioned statement, but also on Aristotle’s idea of Pathos; establishing an emotional footing with David Gale first allows the audience to look beyond the fact that he is being accused of murder later.

Looking at another scene in the movie, we can see rhetoric being used as an appeal to the logos of the viewer: that is, in an argumentative discourse, regarding the death penalty, between David Gale and the Governor of Texas. In his argument, Gale draws on logical appeal, providing stark facts and statistics to justify his opposition to capital punishment. In his address to the governor, he states, “Forty-Three people that you executed were represented by lawyers who were at one time disbarred or sanctioned” (The Life of David Gale). What this statement does is shed light on the inherent weakness of the judicial system, which is essentially the basis of his argument; the possibility of error in proving someone guilty of murder is intensified when we consider the weakness of the lawyers who represent those trials.

Looking now, beyond Aristotle’s tri-part model of rhetoric, we can use the previously mentioned movie clip to shed light on Plato’s Republic. As one of the earliest proponents of media censorship, Plato argues, “If we want our future guardians to believe that hating one another is the worst evil, they must not be told about the battles of giants or have them embroidered on robes, nor must they hear about the various other quarrels of gods and heroes with their kinsmen and friends” (Plato 17). Even now, we see relics of Plato’s political contributions in daily life, we see it here on the silver screen, as the debate between Gale and the Governor continues, and as Governor Hardin deflects Gale’s statement that the judicial system is flawed by making a statement to which he knows Gale cannot respond, “Name one innocent man that Texas has put to death during my tenure. […] Just give me a name, a man that you can prove was innocent, and I’ll call a moratorium” (The Life of David Gale). Not only does Governor Hardin fail to aknowledge the question, but he immediately changes the tone of the converstaion. This exchange between the two characters solidifies and makes modern Plato’s ancient discourse on censorship.

Shifting now to Aristotle’s Poetics, we can illuminate this film in another light. Looking at Aristotle’s description of tragedy, we find that the plight of David Gale engenders the fear, which Aristotle maintains is a chief constituent of a tragedy. He writes, “ […] the structure of a tragedy should be complex, not simple, and that it should represent actions capable of awakening fear and pity […]” (Aristotle 72). To understand what he means by fear, we must look at his discourse on rhetoric when he defines the conditions in which humans feel fear by saying, “If fear is associated with the expectation that something destructive will happen to us, plainly nobody will be afraid who believes nothing can happen to him; we shall not fear things that we believe cannot happen to us, nor people who we believe cannot inflict them upon us; nor shall we be afraid at times when we think ourselves safe from them. It follows therefore that fear is felt by those who believe something to be likely to happen to them, at the hands of particular persons, in a particular form, and at a particular time” (Aristotle 2). Taking both of these statements, we can make better sense of this film in terms of its tragic nature by looking at the similarities between what Aristotle deems “tragic” and what arouses fear in the viewer. Looking David Gale in terms of the American citizen, the college professor, the father, the husband, the colleague, and the friend, the audience finds a common ground with Gale upon which they can rest. This common ground makes it easy to identify with him, and as his life decays it instills in us the notion that everything he is going through could quite possibly happen to us, solidifying Aristotle’s claim that fear is felt by those who see it happening to them. But Aristotle also maintains that, “[…] change in fortune will be, not from misery to prosperity, but the reverse, from prosperity to misery, and it will be due, not to depravity, but to some great error of man [with a grand reputation]” (Aristotle 73). The demise of David Gale begins with his wife having an affair, continues with his being accused of rape, his loss of a job, his loss of a family, and his best friend being diagnosed with cancer. In every respect this film resembles Aristotle’s model of a tragedy until the very end. Upon the execution of David Gale, the story unravels further and we learn that upon having lost everything, Gale through the aid of a few other death penalty abolitionists, in fact, framed himself for the murder of a woman who actually committed suicide. His own execution was exactly what Gale was seeking; he wanted to preserve the last thing he had left, which was the cause for which he was fighting. One of the final lines from the film comes from a reporter who states, “The ultimate irony is that David Gale, a man who became an unwitting martyr, may achieve in death what he worked for, but could not accomplish in life” (The Life of David Gale). Earlier in the film, Gale stated, “You’re not here to save me, you’re here to save my son’s memory of me” (The Life of David Gale). This is exactly what happened; Gale did not want to be saved, he wanted the truth to come out after he was put to death. Not only does the ending of this film stand in contrast to Aristotle’s description of a tragedy, it seems to follow another model, in which the needs of every character are realized and reconciled.

To make for a more comprehensive assessment, we can try looking at this film beyond the filter of classical literary criticism. Taking the concept of structuralism into account, we see the deeper implications of “The Life of David Gale” and how they can apply to Ferdinand de Saussure’s model of semiology. In his “Course in General Linguistics,” he writes, “The linguistic sign unites, not a thing and a name, but a concept and a sound-image. The latter is not the material sound, a purely physical thing, but the psychological imprint of the sound, the impression that it makes on our senses” (Saussure 61). This idea is illustrated perfectly by the previously mentioned statement by Gale when he speaks of his son’s memory of him. Since we know, through Saussure’s work, that the sign is psychological we can understand the concept toward which David Gale is hinting. Gale wants to be proven innocent not just to support his cause, but also to make his son connect the word “father” to what he actually is, which is a loveing role model and caretaker. Otherwise, the only thing his son will see when he pictures the word father will be the psychological imprint of a rapist and a murderer.

Another example of this binary relationship between concept and sound-image can be found in two separate, but connected clips from the film. Early in the film, there is a scene in which Gale is putting his young son in bed. Here, his son requests pancakes, strawberries, maple syrup, whipped cream, and chocolate shavings for breakfast in the morning. Toward the end of the film, reporters who are covering his execution mention that as his final meal, Gale requested those exact things, which could be considered an allusion to Saussure’s notion that words are negative entities, unless they occur in the binary model; If Gale’s son had never requested that same breakfast earlier in the film, the request for that final meal would appear to be a request for just another meal. Saussure states, “The idea or phonic substance that a sign contains is of less importance than the other signs that surround it” (Saussure 70). He continues by saying, “[…] the pairing of a certain number of acoustical signs with as many cuts made from the mass of through that engenders a system of values; and this system serves as the effective link between the phonic and psychological elements within each sign” (Saussure 70). These ideas drive home the notion that is being illuminated by these parts from the film; audible are the phonemes that make up the words that are listed. However, what is more important is their psychological impact, which, for Gale, is homage; the last meal equals loyalty to his son.

Taking a step back, we look again at the classical model to shed light on one more concept, which is addressed in this screenplay. The film itself is shot as a series of flash backs, in which David Gale is retelling his story to journalist Bitsey Bloom, in a series of interviews. Before the first interview, Bitsey Bloom defends her position that she thinks David Gale is guilty by arguing, “Three different courts found him guilty” (The Life of David Gale). Later in the film, after speaking with Gale on three different occasions, that same reporter argues, “He didn’t do it” (The Life of David Gale). This shift in attitude from a person who, at first, was grounded in her belief illuminates another consequence of rhetoric, as Joy Connolly outlined in her discourse on the state of speech. She maintains, “Concerned as they are with interlocution, rhetorical texts shed light on the process by which language connects human beings within the community and effects change in the world. Eloquence is power: the power to convey ideas and information, to persuade, and to bring pleasure […]” (Connolly 2). Taking this statement, and juxtaposing it with the breakdown of Bitsey’s belief system, regarding Gale, allows us to see just how true the power of rhetoric actually is.

In addition to the rhetoric that addresses the issue of capital punishment, there is also an element in the film that illuminates the concept of feminism; if we look briefly, we can see how the film helps to break down the feminist paradigm, through Kate Winslet’s character, Bitsey Bloom. Sandra Gilbert and Susan Gubar, in their essay “Madwoman in the Attic” revisit this notion of the archetypal female character, and in speaking about one version of common female character, the woman in the shape of a monster, they contend, “[…] they incarnate male dread of women and, specifically, male scorn of female creativity, such characters have drastically affected the self-images of women writers, negatively reinforcing those messages of submissiveness […]” (Gilbert 820). Looking again at the character, Bitsey Bloom, we find no traces of the aforementioned female archetype. And although there is a male intern at Bitsey’s side throughout the film, Bitsey’s character can be considered strong enough to stand on its own.

Looking again at our model, we see that in general, the cause itself is not nearly as effective as the discourse used to promote it. Borrowing from Aristotle, we could say that, “Rhetoric is the counterpart of dialect” (Aristotle 1). What we argue sometimes needs to be combined with what we practice, and there are times when we must practice it indefinitely. In the end, when all other discourse has failed in arguing a case, it is true martyrdom that prevails. Sometimes the tool of rhetoric includes dying for a cause, as it was in the case of David Gale. To quote two different characters from the film, “Almost martyrs don’t count” (The Life of David Gale).



Works Cited
Aristotle. “Poetics.” Classical Literary Criticism. Trans. T.S. Dorsch and Penelope Murray. London: Penguin Books, 2004. 57-97.
Aristotle. “The Art of Rhetoric.” Trans. Hugh Lawson-Tancred. London: Penguin Books, 1992.
Connolly, Joy. “The State of Speech: Rhetoric and Political Thought in Ancient Rome.” Princeton University Press. Princeton, NJ, 2007.
Crewell, Dustin, Melissa Draper, and Colin Mitchell. "The Art of Rhetoric: Ethos, Logos, and Pathos." Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute (RPI) :: Architecture, Business, Engineering, IT, Humanities, Science. Web. 18 Aug. 2009. http://www.rpi.edu/dept/llc/webclass/web/project1/group4/index.html.
Gilbert, Sandra and Gubar, Susan. “Literary Theory: An Anthology.” Eds. Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan. Blackwell Publishing. Maldon, Ma, 2004. (812-824).
Plato. “Republic.” Classical Literary Criticism. Trans. T.S. Dorsch and Penelope Murray. London: Penguin Books, 2004. (15-56).
Saussure, Ferdinand de. "Literary Theory: An Anthology." Eds. Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan. Blackwell Publishing. Maldon, Ma, 2004. (59-71).
The Life of David Gale. Dir. Alan Parker. Perf. Kevin Spacey and Kate Winslet. Universal, 2003. DVD.

Derrida and "The Scientist"

Postmodernism’s departure from scientific thought, and its immersion in the subjective are illuminated through a host of different texts. Looking at the lyrics from the Coldplay song “The Scientist” we could specifically address one of the major tenets of postmodernism: the theory of differance. The song draws out the idea that a love has been lost, questions have risen, but none of them have been answered. To make sense of the chain of events within the song, we would first have to deconstruct the notion of love. In an attempt to deconstruct the concept, we would ultimately chase the word back to its origin, or into infinity. Jacques Derrida, in his essay Differance, asserts that a final deconstruction of the concept is impossible when he states, “In the end, it is a strategy without finality” (Derrida 282).

Derrida also maintains, “Within a language, within the system of language, there are only differences” (Derrida 286). A major implication of this statement would be that nothing is ever finalized in terms of words, phrases, or communication. One word yields a definition, from which an infinite web of definitions can be extracted. Chris Martin’s struggle in the song suggests that he thinks there is some sort of unanswered truth to his experience, in which science and theory have evaded him. He writes, “Questions of science, science and progress do not speak as loud as my heart.” What this suggests is similar to what Derrida is saying in his discourse when he states, “Every concept is necessarily and essentially inscribed in a chain or a system, within which it refers to another and to other concepts, by the systematic play of differences” (Derrida 285). Chris Martin’s confusion regarding his situation makes sense when we look at it in terms of Derrida’s theory; we can only begin to make sense of what something is after we have figured out what it is not. What Derrida is saying is that Chris Martin may never find the answer to his questions.

This song brings to light the larger implications of this Derridean concept. Looking at the word love, in the postmodern and subjective sense, we find that Chris Martin’s struggles mean everything and nothing at all. The word “love” is so big that its chain of signification will never be broken. Therefore, Chris Martin’s last phrase, “Running in circles, chasing our tails, coming back as we are,” illuminates the issue that Derrida points toward when he says “[…] it designates the unity of chance and necessity in and endless calculus” (Derrida 282).

Ultimately, we are not comforted by science, nor are we comforted by postmodern logic. At least in terms of matters of the heart, as we have seen though the struggles of Chris Martin, these things are painful to dissect.

Works Cited
Derrida, Jacques. "Literary Theory: An Anthology." Eds. Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan. Blackwell Publishing. Maldon, Ma, 2004. (278-299).
Martin, Chris. “The Scientist.” Lyrics. A Rush of Blood to the Head. Parlophone, 2002.

For the Love of Money

For the Love of Money

The relationship between the bourgeoisie and the proletariat, as it is illustrated by Karl Marx in The Communist Manifesto, is evident in the social strata among us, even today. Taking a look at a clip from the 1992 film Glengarry and Glen Ross, we find a striking example of how these social classes are interrelated and how this interrelationship creates a cycle of man versus men, in which the bourgeois class is the victor, and the proletarian is the mule.

Alec Baldwin acts as the head of a real estate company, and in his address to the salespeople of Mitch and Murray he drives home the notion that money is paramount. He simultaneously manages to dehumanize his workers by making statements which undermine the significance of any value or worth that they have placed on anything else in their lives: i.e. a family. He also makes references to himself as the kind of car he drives, the watch he is wearing, and how much money he made in a year; he juxtaposes this idea that he is a fancy watch and a BMW with the idea that the man to whom he is speaking is nothing more than a Hyundai. This issue falls in line with the argument made by Marx in The German Ideology when he asserts “[…] the class which is the ruling material force of society, is at the same time the ruling intellectual force” (Marx 656). What this statement proves is that monetary power equals power indefinitely. Without money, or material possessions, people are of no good whatever, unless they create revenue for those in power. Furthermore, with money and intellect at the fingertips of others, people like the salesmen in this clip are left with no defense, and no other option but to do as they are told.

This fact is also evident in the exchange between Baldwin’s character and the employee who tries to pour his cup of coffee. The man is told, “That coffee is for closers only.” Taking the aforementioned statement from Marx, we see that the dynamics of the relationship between the two men points toward not only an inequality on the monetary plane, but on the plane of authority as well; the man with the coffee pot is subject to ridicule in areas other than just the work arena. The salesman is forced to obey his boss as a child would obey his mother.

The salespeople in this clip are without defense or a plan for an immediate revolt. “In those branches of industry in which hardly any period of apprenticeship is required and where the mere bodily existence of the worker suffices, the cost necessary for his production is almost confined to the commodities necessary for keeping him alive and capable of working” (Marx 660). This statement illuminates an issue which helps to keep the common worker at bay. With no area of expertise to speak of, the salesmen in the film are forced work in line with the demands of the employer, for they are expendable and they know it. The exchange between Alec Baldwin’s character and the salespeople for Mitch and Murray are comparable to any exchange one could imagine between those with money and those without money.

“Labor power […] is a commodity, neither more nor less than sugar” (Marx 659). The workers in this film are forced to reconcile their lack of power within the company by taking an immediate action step toward improving upon the value of their own labor power i.e. become better salespeople. On the larger scale, this clip serves as a model for anyone who fits the proletarian schema. “If you can’t beat them, join them.” And, in this case, “If you can’t be them, work harder to please them.”


Works cited

Marx, Karl. The Communist Manifesto. Chicago: Gateway Editions, 1985
Marx, Karl. "Literary Theory: An Anthology." Eds. Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan. Blackwell Publishing. Maldon, Ma, 2004. (653-664).

Defamiliarization with Gentileschi

Painting:
Gentileschi, Artemisia
"Judith and Maidservant with the Head of Holofernes"
c. 1625

Two women, hovering in a dimly lit room, seem to be hiding something as they peer out of a red curtain. They are dressed in rags similar to the garb worn by servants in the 17th Century. There is a tendancy to feel frightened... for they seem to be up to mischief. The plump woman who stands above the smaller woman is holding a sword, as if to threaten the other. The positioning of the ladies, coupled with their sizes leads to the notion that the larger woman is in a position of authority over the other. There seems to be a conflict within a conflict as we look again at the painting. The two women in the dark room are obviously covering their tracks from people who are not depicted. Looking more closely, we notice the dynamics of what we actually see in the painting; the crouched woman seems to be dominated into taking actions that she doesn't necessarily feel comfortable taking. The sword near the crouched woman's neck, as well as the look on her face are prime indicators of this fact.

Furthermore, the contrast of light and dark in the painting lends itself to the sense of danger. The two women in the painting do not appear overtly dangerous, although it is obvious that they have commited a crime and are now trying desperately to avoid being caught. A crime of passion maybe? To some degree, have not we all been guilty at one time or another in our lives?

The candle burning in front of the plump woman's face is an ominous clue which causes us to look at other indications that there is foul-play taking place. Symbols from the artist (i.e. the red curtain, and the fearful looks on each woman's face) are further indications of the tension between, first, the two women, and also between the two women and the outside.

Ferdinand de Saussure, in his "Course in General Linguistics" makes a compelling argument regarding semiology, the study of signs and the laws that govern them (Saussure 60). He states that a linguistic sign unites a concept with the impression it makes on our senses (Saussure 61). When we approach the painting again, as humans natrually do, we look to the body language and facial expressions of the women depicted as signs to aid in extracting some meaning from the painting itself. The smaller woman, who is crouched beneath the other has a seeminly apprehensive look on her face. In addition to the look on her face is her body language; she continues to hide something as she looks up from what she is doing, possibly because she is being rushed. According to Saussure, the body language and the facial expressions signifiers and what we get from that when we assess the painting are the signified.

We know that both parts of the sign are psychological (Saussure 59). Keeping this in mind, we can give ourselves freedom in exploring the image in a unique way; one that makes the most sense to us, as individuals.


Works Cited

Saussure, Ferdinand de. "Literary Theory: An Anthology." Eds. Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan. Blackwell Publishing. Maldon, Ma, 2004. (59-71).

Acid is a Gift From God

“Drinking out of Cups” is a representative animation of a monologue that was recorded during the latter stage of one man’s trip on acid after he locked himself in a closet for hours. Looking to elements of classical literary criticism, we can shed light on this piece, in terms of the Platonic concept of the muse. Plato maintains, "[...] the only thing each individual poet is able to compose well is what the Muse has stirred him to do" (Plato 6). Taking this argument into account, we would need to consider some source of inspiration. According to Plato, every aspect of this video, right down to the man locked in the closet is divinely inspired. He states, "[...] god takes away their reason and uses them as servants, as he uses prophets and divine seers, so that we who hear them may know that it is not these people, whose reason has left them, who are uttering such valuable words, but that it is god himself who speaks and addresses us through them" (plato 6). This statement illuminates the issue which is brought to light through this clip; through acid, this man was able to send the message of God to the audience.

Accodring to Plato, art and poetry are three times removed from the source of what inspired it. In his "Ion" he writes, "[...] your spectator is the last of the rings which [...] derived their power from each other [...]. The middle one is you, the rhapsode and actor, and the poet himself is the first. Throught all these, the god draws the souls of men wherever he wants, making the power of one depend upon the other" (plato 7). What this alludes to is that what we see in the clip came from the twice-removed rhapsode, who is essentially an actor conveying the message of the poet, who is still not the source of the inspiration. The random words uttered by the man are the product of a seemingly profound experience with psychotropic drugs. But according to Plato, the Muse is the source of the inspiration. God, if you will, is what drives this piece. So, would it be a stretch to say that, since the random utterances of the rhapsode are a result of a deep acid trip, that acid is a gift from God? According to Plato, the answer is no. He writes, "[...] for it is not skill that makes them utter these fine things, but a divine force; since if they knew how to speak well about one topic through skill, they would be able to speak about all the others, too" (Plato 6).

Looking again at the significance of this masterpiece in terms of classical literary theory we invariably find that there exists some intangible source of inspiration. This God, or God-like muse, inspires the poets whose works are recited through means of a rhapsode. After its passage through each filter, works like “Drinking out of Cups” are copies of the original, and as close as we—the audience—will ever get to the source.

Works Cited
Classical Literary Criticism. Trans. T.S. Dorsch and Penelope Murray. London: Penguin Books, 2004.
Clip: Dan Deacon and Liam Lynch: Drinking out of Cups
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=skCV2L0c6K0