The Centre Cannot Hold

By no stretch of the imagination can I say with confidence that I understand Derrida’s piece completely; however, I think I understand where he is going. The first half seems to set up structuralism as a theory which focuses on finding central concept and expanding outward in search of a pattern. Derrida points out that “The center is not the center.” Rather, the center of a concept belongs to the structure of the concept and cannot be its locus. In place of structuralism, Derrida points to the birth of a new idea where the critic searches for the non center of the piece instead of the unrealistic center; the critic is unconcerned with tracing a pattern from a deduced starting point. I must ask, because I cannot resist adding to his imagery: “And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, /Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?”

On the other hand, I had difficulty in placing Foucault into what Derrida seemed to be addressing. Perhaps I’m broadcasting my ignorance and shouldn’t be making this attempt, but Foucault’s example regarding power sure appears to fit the mold of structuralism. He begins by searching for a pattern connecting power and economics; this search leads him to find a relation between power and force. His analysis results in a conclusion of two answers: “the oppression schema…, and domination – repression or war.” He ends with the idea that the research model he used to come to this conclusion my be “insufficient,” but I fail to see him promoting a theory beyond the search for pattern based on an assumed locus as Derrida seems to be against.

Structuralism as the Biggest Chicken

Ok, I’m going to make a far-out (yet concise) statement here; kick me with pleasure.

With our recent background in ancient literary criticism, it seems almost unbelievable that this explosion of theories have all taken place in the last five or six decades. Perhaps the reason for this was the limited number of critics participating in the dialogue, or small number of dissident writers whose works have survived. Regardless of the reason, the explosion of theory is our problem, not the ancients.

My far-flung idea has to do with the order in which Barry presents his introduction to theory. Based on his treatment of Structuralism, it seems as though the other theories are going to be subordinate. The Marxist, linguistic, and feminist criticisms all concern themselves with “repeated motifs” specific to their theory. These repeated motifs can then be compared and contrasted to prior examples in order to make critical statements about a work. New historicism will alter this idea slightly because it does not rest on one specified area of interest, i.e., feminism is concerned with issues of gender studies, while Marxism is concerned with economic cause and effect. New historicism, instead, establishes history as the largest “chicken” in the hierarchy.

This is my guess based on the reading and my limited knowledge of the history of theory. I hope it is neither to obviously the truth or so far out that Doug will strike me in class.

Kicking a Dead Orator in the Eloquence

I feel a little guilty kicking a dead orator here, but I am going to pick up our previous class discussion, which I believe is also continued in the reading. It seems that a significant part of the transformation of rhetoric from the ancients to 16th Century, and the 16th to 17th Century has to do with the definition of eloquence. I will concede that my attack of Quintilian was incomplete; he didn’t state that a good speaker must be a good man; he said that an “orator” must be a good man. It was a perfect speaker that Quintilian was focused upon, and this orator possessed eloquence, which Conley tells us the humanists saw as “the harmonious union of wisdom and style whose aim was to guide men toward civic virtue” (109). While this idea is noble, it is impractical for humans in the same way that chivalry is impractical for the battlefield.

Keeping this analogy in mind, I find it interesting that Conley points to rhetoric as the bloodless alternative to physical warfare because it lessened the need for actual war and provided the educated with an ideal, much like Quintilian’s “orator,” of “philosopher and statesman” (112). The Renaissance’s revival of this perceived idealization allowed the elite to model their political structure on the hallowed ancients and provide an avenue for them to be “esteemed because they advocated a code of civic duty, gave education a genuine relevance to political life, and were themselves accomplished speakers” (113). The focus of the humanist take on Cicero, Aristotle, and Quintilian can be summed up for the early humanists by Salutati: “The good is to be more highly valued than the merely true, virtue preferred over knowledge, the will over intellect, and thus rhetoric over philosophy and eloquence over wisdom” (114).

The real shift does not occur until Trebizond, who Conley clearly doesn’t like. Trebizond completely cuts Quintilian, and his work, as Conley tells us, is “devoid of the requirement that the orator be a good man, in the moral sense. Rhetoric was rather, a pragmatic political art indifferent to morality” (115). High five, Trebizond. By the way, this was not a new concept. Augustine wrote in the 4th and 5th Century that rhetoric can be used effectively for either good or evil (Matsen 361). From this point, eloquence becomes a matter of style, and although Erasmus states that “the end of education was a development of eloquent persons of character,” there is no mention regarding the orator’s ability being influenced by his morality. The rest of the section has little more to add to this point until the coming of the 17th Century.
Here the focus becomes “affect” or emotional appeal of persuasion. Where Quintilian said the end of rhetoric is "‘the moving of men’s minds’" (153), Caussin, Keckermann, and Vossius say the end is "‘the moving of the heart’" (158). Bacon says the same thing, if more eloquently (pun intended): rhetoric is used “to affect the imagination ‘to excite the appetite or will'” (164). This finally brings me to my point regarding Quintilian and eloquence from last week; the end of rhetoric has always been “the means by which any unspecified motive may be accomplished in the persuasion of an audience by an eloquent speaker who is able to ‘move souls’” (179).

For Quintilian and his ilk, the requirement of a good man was simply a lever to move the emotions of the audience, an idealized ethos, and even if I am wrong, and Quintilian, the philosopher-statesman, truly believed in the requirement of the good, the actual speakers of his day did not; they simply didn’t need to.

Can the Devil Live in a Good Speaker?

While the question of what makes up the style of rhetoric is a major part of these passages, I don’t think it is the part the class will wish to discuss. It appears that the other major question being observed in these passages: “Who is the best orator.” To answer this question, Cicero, Philodemus, and Quintilian provide several examples for our examination.

Conley states that Cicero saw a good speaker as also being a ‘good man;” however, he does not go so far as to point out that good speaker must be a good man. In Cicero’s Brutus, Brutus and Crassus debate the qualities of the speaker. Here Cicero clearly identifies the best orator as one who “instruct[s] his listener, give[s] him pleasure, [and] stir[s] his emotions.” There is no mention throughout the rest of piece regarding the “innate” goodness of the speaker, only his effectiveness. The piece goes on to discuss the Attic speakers, and concludes, once again, that the best speakers inspire and connect with the listeners. I also had difficulty finding any direct reference to the necessary “goodness” of the speaker in De Inventione or De Partitone Oratoria.

Philodemus picks up the discussion in his On Rhetoric. Philodemus is clear that the best speaker is NOT necessarily the best man. He states that “it is plain to all that many are capable rhetors, but bad morally.” He goes on to point out that “It would be well if the statesmen studied philosophy in order that he might be more actively good;” Philodemus would like the speaker to be a good man, but makes it clear that this is optional.

For Quintilian there can be no orator with a “good man.” Quintilian begins his reasoning with the statement that “vileness and virtue cannot jointly inhabit in the selfsame heart…and secondly, if intelligence is to be concentrated on such a vast subject as eloquence it must be free from all other discretion.” Quintilian does not seem to believe that an evil man is able to focus on begin eloquent while maintaining evil aims. Quintilian does at one point go so far as to concede that a “bad man has been discovered who is endowed with the highest eloquence.” Quintilian, however, simply states that “I shall none the less deny he is an orator. He continues, at length, to point out the “delusion that eloquence can be combined with vice.”