Blue Notes: From Joyce to Jarman

Cheryl Herr
University of Iowa

If we are to believe the biographers, much of Finnegans Wake was composed in a workroom where both Joyce's phonograph and his neighbors' carried sounds of Gershwin, Cab Calloway, "Mood Indigo," the "Vo-de-do-de-o Blues," Bessie Smith, and from 1925 onwards, the records of Louis Armstrong in that early period when he was backing Ma Rainey. As Ruth Bauerle has ably demonstrated in her excellent volume Picking up Airs, elaborating on information from Richard Ellmann and Brenda Maddox's biographies of the Joyces, during the 1920s and 30s Joyce had unexpectedly wide exposure to African-American music, to blues, swing, ragtime, spirituals, and early jazz, and he is said to have viewed his work on Finnegans Wake as like a "little Negro dance" performed in a Parisian club (Quoted in Bauerle 159). The blues tradition, construed partly as proto-jazz, rapidly became the primary metaphor in the Joycean lexicon for these several American genres, an absorption enhanced by the ready terminology of blueness for describing varieties of melancholy and synaesthesia. The historical connections to be probed here are many.

First in America and then across the water, an affiliation between Irishness and blackness was honed in the Afro-Hibernian crucible of the minstrel show where Paddy and Sambo interchanged roles, created a matrix of longing that encompassed both the Irish lament and the Delta blues ("Irish Mornings" 50-53). The interchange continues to this day as works by Paul Durcan, Van Morrison, Guy Clarke, and House of Pain amply demonstrate. But my purpose in this essay is not primarily to probe this crosscultural space, however compelling it is to explore the ways in which the cakewalk became the dehiscent structure of Joyce's "wakeswalks" (FW 455.5).

Rather, I want to meditate on the fact that in Joyce's writing the blues signal a recognition of sensory shifts accompanying modernization, the beginnings of technological change that Joyce imagined in their later body-invasive capacities. And I want to do so in order to speculate on the uses that American academics make of Joyce in American classrooms, where the relationship of the sensory-aesthetic-critical dimension and the socioeconomic-technological register is repeatedly mediated. For well or ill, the crucial and endless task of reinserting the sensory into the rationalized lifeworld remains historically emergent.

Surely one of the major educative aspects of Joyce's writing in Finnegans Wake is his coordinated representations of synaesthesia and of intermedia as they tutor us about evolving social relations--his insistent registering of the impact of rationalization on the senses and the individual's experience of somatic desires in a world that pervasively denies much that qualifies as need. For my purposes, bluesy expression--Joyce's "ragtimed revels" (FW 236.23)--draws attention to the space where capital captures both need and desire, through economic systems, through compelling and increasingly body-altering technologies. The blues form famously expresses both profound alienation from social organization and the sensory-somatic rhythms by which that alienation is modulated into something positive for the performer and her audience. In Finnegans Wake, the blues become a syn/coenasthesic vehicle for Joycean meditations on sensory deprivation, sensory loss, the alterity of individuals from socially sanctioned norms, and the possibilities for redemptive sensation.

The specificity of Joyce's knowledge of the blues in this register of social commentary is not hard to come by. Robert McAlmon, an American who in retrospect was astonishingly well tolerated by Joyce, wrote an almost forgotten poem that explored the blues idiom in some detail, and it is inconceivable that Joyce would have been unaware of McAlmon's effort given the attention that Joyce gave to his friend's fiction and the considerable time that they spent together, much of it in Parisian bars and clubs throughout the late twenties and thirties. McAlmon's poem, "North America: Continent of Conjecture," uses the blues form to ventriloquize for many of the migrant and dispossessed in America. Through a melancholic sense not of incompletion but rather of loss, America becomes an unfinished poem. McAlmon specifically and brutally rehearses America's commodification, America's displacement of native peoples, America's brutality. This "unfinished poem" grows from songlike interludes called "Historic Blues," "Aztec Blues," "Political Blues," "Steel-worker's Blues," "Law twisting blues," "Bootleg Town Blues," "Society and Advertising Blues," "They're gone or going blues," "Railwayman's Blues," "Cities Blues," "Machine Dance Blues," "Drunk Lumberjack Blues," "Face Lifted Blues," "Cult religion blues," and "Indian of the disenchanted desert blues." Most memorable for me is "Race Riot Blues"-- voiced by an African-American cabaret entertainer in Chicago who declares that he "ain't highbrow" but also isn't taking any shit from white folks anymore: "Yes man, I'm a dinge, if I sez it myself/ or lets a friend say it, and I got Irish blood,/ And I got you white trash's number, down cold./ And Chicago and Paris is just two places I can talk back . . . ."

In Our Exagmination Round His Factification for Incamination of Work in Progress, a volume that defends Joyce as though he were a social issue, McAlmon hails the Joycean aesthetic as a "new beginning" after the devastations of the first world war. He sees this new start inhering in Joyce's associative logic of the subconscious, in a nonlinear imagism, in "a medium as free . . . as the dance at its best can be" (McAlmon 106, 107). He specifically suggests that we think of Finnegans Wake in terms of the drumming, dances, and gestures of African tribes.

There is an important logical link here: McAlmon notes Joyce's bouts with glaucoma, how the compromise of the visual enables both a heightened attention to the colors of twilight and to the melancholy affect of loss. The resulting description of Finnegans Wake sounds a lot like the blues, its mechanisms operating at the levels underneath what we perceive as intellectual meaning and aiming for an embodied, sensory expressiveness. And this is a specifically Celtic blues: Joyce's "Irish tenor prose" keeps up a "continual melancholy plaint of Celtic whimsy, fatalism, and the erratic shift of mood" (McAlmon 112).

Another source of specific Joycean valuation of the blues-jazz continuum was Samuel Beckett. In Nancy Cunard's famous Negro Anthology (1934), Robert Goffin's piece "The Best Negro Jazz Orchestras" was translated from the French, notably by Samuel Beckett. The presentation is ecstatic: "Oh you musicians of my life, prophets of my youth, splendid Negroes informed with fire, how shall I ever express my love for your saxophones writhing like orchids, your blazing trombones with their hairpin vents, your voices fragrant with all the breezes of home remembered and the breath of the bayous, your rhythm as inexorable as tom-toms beating in an African nostalgia!"

Goffin continues, "The first ambassador of syncopated music to visit Europe was Louis Armstrong. I went to London to hear this colossus.... His name is up everywhere in enormous letters, all the local musicians are in a ferment, the demented scales of his nostalgia are evoked in every conversation" (Goffin 291). The onstage Armstrong mesmerizes Goffin:

His face drips like a heavyweight's, steam rises from his lips; he holds his trumpet in a handkerchief, passes into a kind of excruciating catalepsy and emerges Armstrong the sky-scraper, rockets aloft into the stratosphere, blows like one possessed and foams at the mouth; the notes rise in a wauling and the whole right side of his neck swells as though it might burst . . . . . Soon he is lost in the rhythm, he is master of the rhythm, he is the rhythm, the force and energy of the music, so that the audience rises to its feet, sways and dances and laughs with Armstrong and tries to embrace him. (Goffin 292)

Sure enough, in the Wake we find many places in which even early references to Louis the Sun King and to heliotropism do double duty as Armstrong citations. Early on, Mutt ecstatically calls out for "Louee, louee!" (FW 16.33). Much later, a voice proclaims "Lou must wail to cool me airly!" (FW 360.13-14). Always aware of a ragtime, prebop tristesse, Issy frequently turns to a black-jazz dialect, the speech of a swinger, and at one crucial point this lingo coincides with a reference to a "sea-arm strongsround her" (FW 275.17-18). Nearby, Issy refers to "a jade louistone" (FW 276.F3) posing the elusive heliotrope as not only a colored stone but also a sound, a "louis-tone" unleashed by a triumphant "trumpadour" (FW 439.9). And when Yawn is "in a semiswoon . . . awailing" (FW 474.11) we hear "(hooh!) ... helpings of honeyfool swoothead (phew!) ... earpiercing dulcitude!" (FW 474.11-13). That sound is described as "having a sevenply sweat of night blues moist upon them. Feefee! phopho!! foorctha!!! aggala!!!! jeeshee!!!!! paloola!!!!!! ooridiminy!!!!!!!" (FW 474.24-475.2). These words, signifying fear in various languages and representing the sound of Wakean thunder (McHugh), double as trumpet blasts in an insistent crescendo, produced by the bluesy, sweating Armstrong--a virtual sensory fountain. To demonstrate this, one needs only to listen to the opening of "West End Blues," which never fails to reduce musicologists to raptures about paradigm shift (Schuller 115-18).

Needless to say, the four "claymen" (FW 475.18) do not know what to make of this sound. "Wisha, is he boosed or what, alannah?" (FW 477.5) "Or his wind's from the wrong cut" (FW 477.6). "Or he's rehearsing somewan's funeral" (FW 477.9). We are told of "Yawn himself keeping time with his thripthongue, to ope his blurbeous lips he would, a let out classy, the way myrrh of the moor and molten moonmist would be melding mellifond indo his mouth" (FW 477.27-30). Those famous lips pick up a theme in Joyce's writing by which full labia sign the female, precisely the same trope used by, again, Beckett in describing Armstrong and his seductions. In fact, Beckett wrote a translation of Ernst Moerman's poem called "Louis Armstrong" (also in Cunard's Negro Anthology): "Armstrong let a roar out of him that he had the raw meat/ red wet flesh for Louis/ and he up and he sliced him two rumplips/ since when his trumpet bubbles/ their fust buss/ poppies burn on the black earth. . . . his she-notes they have more tentacles than the sea/ they woo me they close my eyes/ they suck me out of the world." And when the four try to domesticate the new music of the "poor armer in slingslang" (FW 486.14) it is not long until we read, "i loved that man who has africot lupps with the moonshane in his profile..." (FW 489.26-27).

So what have we Americans done with this and similar lines of reasoning about and reference to Joyce and his African-American contexts? Sheldon Brivic has recently argued in a chapter called "Afric Anna" for ALP's being a woman of color, and he concludes on a strong note of cultural relativism: "the West should take on the best relational qualities of women and the colonized, and postcolonial people should develop Western rationalism, as they tend to do while denouncing it" (Brivic 67). Similarly but with more of an edge, Craig Werner writes about teaching students Ulysses through (but without a model of influence) the African-American aesthetics of Langston Hughes, Toni Morrison, Ralph Ellison, Amiri Baraka. Werner is after "speculative comparative discussions" in which "Students can be encouraged to view Bloom as bluesman, Joyce as jazz soloist. The possibilities are endless once students develop a shared vocabulary . . ." (Newman 239). Influenced by Antonio Benitez-Rojo, Werner claims that the point of African-inspired "polyrhythmic discourse is not to destroy or replace binary discourses but to understand them as part of a larger structure in which other voices sound freely" (Werner xxi) -- again introducing the note of cultural relativism that most often inflects Joycean work in this area.

In a contrasting register is a 1995 book by Donald Theall called Beyond the Word: Reconstructing Sense in the Joyce Era of Technology, Culture, and Communication (1995). What Theall adds to our study of Joyce is a concentration on the then-future of the sensing apparatus. Theall is interested in how media machines and their discourses have become part of the human role of creating society. He traces the modernist-symbolist concern with coenaesthesia and synaesthesia to the more recent flowering of "hypertext, cyberspace, and virtual reality" (Theall xiv). The ongoing, collective creation of virtual reality by writers, filmmakers, and engineers privileges Joyce's later fiction (according to Theall) as sites in which these integrations are probed and shaped at their inception. Theall thus explores Finnegans Wake as a book "designed to be read with the simultaneous involvement of ear and eye" (Theall 12), not randomly but specifically in response to the machinic elements in the work. In Theall's view, Joyce's writing thus becomes almost pure celebration, a functionalist affirmation of the "inherent creativity of humankind" (Theall 20). The text that Theall presents is self-enabling, increasingly emancipatory. In giving us radio, poetry, TV, music, and many other explicit and implicit forms in constant cross-traversal, Joyce pointed the way toward our brave new world.

I take a different tack from Brivic, Werner, and Theall. For me, Finnegans Wake dramatizes a dialectic between phenomenology and technology, between the immediacies of "flesh"-ly embodiment and the impact of the machine age, if you will, on all aspects of that flesh-of-the-world. The Wake is suspended between these two poles (which always interact) at a mid-century apocalyptic moment that continues to replay itself as a debate between embodiment and administered society, between phenomenology and marxism, conversation and dialectic, the drives and culture. Thus the body of the Wake is also a radio broadcast, a television show, a film, a blues performance, and together all of these socio-media sites sign a synaesthesic traversal of, through, and by media. But this interaction is not necessarily and only a redemptive development. In fact, the increasing engrossment of the senses by media forms and the splitting-off of the economic-administrative realm form the sensory-aesthetic significantly foreclose the power of any single text--even one as polyphonic as Finnegans Wake, from being, in and of itself, resistant. However polyvocal that text, however prescient of or malleable to our current virtualized reality, it is perhaps only in the motivated dialogue between texts that something like resistance, or more properly protest, can emerge.

Everyone who talks about the blues observes what Amiri Baraka does in Blues People (here presented through Werner's summation), that the blues stanza

encodes the call-and-response dynamic common to slave spirituals, modern gospel music, and work songs. The significance of this form lies in its ability to connect individual and communal experience. In the early forms, the leader of the congregation or work group would sing a line, which would be repeated by the members of the group, who should be understood as collaborators rather than an 'audience' in the Euro-American sense. Given the validation of the response, the leader then comments on the issue or experience raised in the initial call. Since many of the 'call' lines are grounded in the communal experiences expressed in earlier songs, the call-and-response dynamic validates the individual, who is able to articulate his or her experience in communally valid forms even in a world at best indifferent and at worst openly hostile to such efforts. Transformed into the individual AAB form of the blues, the call-and-response dynamic both encodes the possibility of communal-individual contact . . . and emphasizes an intensely alienated experience of reality. This profound feeling of exclusion juxtaposed with the sense of a lost former world where things had not yet fallen apart marks the crossroads where the blues and modernism meet in the Afro-American tradition. (Werner 207).

As a teacher of Joyce, then, I want to add voices to the melange not so much in the service of socalled multicultural education but rather to keep the focus on socially and historically situated individuals in conversation across time, in the service of an ecology of embodiment that persistently questions the administrative. This is, in fact, how Joyce uses the blues.

In this cross-historical dialogue, it is important that specific questions are asked, specific answers given, and the measure of difference between one time and the next calculated, not only in terms of the individual body's frailty but also in relation to the work offered by that body to generations past and present. It is in this specific, Levinasian gesture of offering that the ricorso finds meaning and purpose in history, the only place large enough for systems to be endrun and the predictable to be transformed. It is the offering of one historical period's hand to that of another, the dialogue of individuals-in-collectivity across time, that makes something possible beyond an undecidable polyphony, a rich but undirected set of meanings and transcodings, an ever-proliferating mediatization of the body. The epiphanies that Joyce cherished and that ineluctably modulated from the tawdry to the sublime become, when hooked together rhizomically, the passing of implied protest from hand to hand, voice to voice, era to era. These moments can be coordinated dialectically amidst media difference, across the phenomenological "flesh," and along tangential rhizomes. Such a methodology suggests that even literary historians might want to replace an anxiety of influence model of literary relations with a politicized (but more than multicultural) model.

That said, Finnegans Wake immerses the reader in sensory engineering in order to demonstrate precisely the need for an-other in extricating ourselves. If the Wake is taken on board as an inquiry into vision-under-erasure in the midst of these ontological and techno-concerns -- all set within a context of market-economic stress -- we can reach toward a comparative analysis of Joyce and the blues, of Irish and African-American aesthetics as they simultaneously address issues of embodiment, of the synaesthesis/ coenaesthesis created by and against techno-capital.

In many ways, it is Lucia Joyce who poses the important questions: in a graphic sense, Lucia-as-Issy sounds the blue notes within the Wake, particularly in the nightlessons, where we read of "Indiana Blues on the violens" (FW 285.F6). And ultimately the Lucian light caresses all of the characters and modes of being in the text. Partly because Lucia is blue (sad), blue (risque), and a fan of the blues, the textual Issy evokes this logical progression within the narrative. Outside the text, Lucia is also a charm against Joyce's visual failure, Lucia went into the dark in a variety of creative ways, not only through catatonia but also in painting her room black and in inking her face (Maddox 311, 301). A minstrel moment or a self-effacement? An alignment with African-American culture or a violent effort to appropriate the other? Or simply replicating the use to which her father put her when he named her for a saint dedicated to vision? In any event, she becomes an inappropriated vehicle for his desire and also the fall-guy when her father's vision fails, her famous "squint" or strabismus an intimate embodiment of the paternal malady. She tries to get outside that set of interests, but Joyce's voracity, his endless capacity to assimilate the everyday, leaves her no possibility of escape into wild being. In defense, he turns his heroine (whether young or old) "black," lets every voice have its say in what might be a nurturing relativism and multiculturalism or might be an effort eternally to encompass the daughter's desire for the sustenance of his own.

In this light, Finnegans Wake itself is an act of warding off blindness, just as it is also an embodiment of visual failure. The blues have that same paradoxical logic, founded in a conversational mode where mimicry becomes rescue and depressive affect transmutes to pleasure. Hence, premiere musicologist Alan Lomax asserts that the blues is a form designed to keep the practitioner from succumbing to melancholy. Because of our shared anomie, migratory rootlessness, and pervasive sense of being mere units in market-defined culture rather than freely sensing agents, Lomax defines the twentieth-century as a blues epoch. Lomax underwrites Ralph Ellison's assertion adds that the blues demonstrate "an impulse to keep the painful details and episodes of a brutal experience alive in one's achieving consciousness, to finger its jagged grain, and to transcend it, not by the consolation of philosophy but by squeezing from it a near-tragic, near-comic lyricism" (quoted in Werner xxi)). In claiming the power to exorcise the demons of life, the blues assert this libidinal resistance. Sharing this tactic, Joyce's writing can be viewed within an ongoing macrocultural conversation in which Joyce's mood indigo sets up a line of flight toward other works of multisensation.

At the same time, the body becomes ever more fully caught up in information networks that are both technologized and in the service of the state apparatus. The machining of the body and the somatization of the body politic yield to sensory alienation and sensory acuity at the same time. We can't go on, we'll go on.

Which brings me to Derek Jarman. It is critically important that when Jarman was diagnosed with AIDS, he intensified his interest in pure color, not only in his volume Chroma (written 1993, pub. 1995) but also in the monochromatic film Blue (1993). Representing both his encroaching blindness and the hues of things seen within that loss, Jarman eloquently guides us through one turn in the twentieth-century's aesthetic conversation on disease, social oppression, and the possibilities for a resistant phenomenology. Like Joyce, Jarman is trying to cope aesthetically with approaching blindness. Like Joyce, Jarman is fascinated by color and its valences.

In particular, Jarman appreciates the magical associations of color, and notes that "Edward II had a room entirely decorated in red, to ward off the scarlet fever" (Chroma 39). Lapis lazuli, he adds, was said to have a "jovial power against Saturn's black bile" (Chroma 106). Throughout his chromatic meditations, Jarman thus plays with defense, healing, protest, power, and a linked-up, always risque blueness. This sensuous, sexy, sad, and angry deployment of colors takes up where Jarman's life as an artist began: from childhood, he tells us, he "escaped . . . into the cinema, where colour was better than the real thing" (Chroma 3). Jarman's comments on rainbow iridescence support that fascination with color: "Opaline pearl/ moonstone bright/ petrol on puddles/ and shimmering bubbles/ Mother of Pearl is my delight" (Chroma 146). Similarly, Joyce refers to "that filmacoulored featured at the Mothrapurl skrene" (FW 443.34-35) a film that turns out to be the text of the Wake, starring "ma reinebelle" (FW 527.30), the iridescent and carnal, costumed Ma Rainey. Placing these artists in conversation, I am reminded of John Brenkman's emphasis on how the body offers sites that are never wholly dominated and of marxism's discovery that domination is possible because of all that it renders invisible. By this logic, Jarman and Joyce take us into the body to recover some of what the blues actually dramatizes, the blinding, numbing, desensitizing organization by capital of interhuman relations at their most intimate--and the multisensory channels that may be still available to us, if not for resistance at least for protest and negotiation.

For the record, the specificity of the historical link between Joyce and Jarman cannot be doubted. Joyce's exposure to film in the Paris of the 1920s and 30s introduced him to the extensive practice at that time of tinting black and white film blue in order to signify night or dark moods. Jarman similarly explains his own choice of monochrome: "Blue is darkness made visible." The Wake responds, "It darkles, (tinct, tint) all this our funnaminal world" (FW 244.3), and later calls the whole thing "A bluedye sacrifice" (FW 305.F1). As Vivian Sobchack reminds us, the emergent experience of cinema is nothing if not a technology of phenomenological perception. Again, the Wake answers, "Still we know how Day the Dyer works, in dims and deeps and dusks and darks" (FW 226.12-13); in the same Joycean paragraph, we turn back to the now filmic zone of African-American music in an oblique reference to The Jazz Singer (the first talkie, dated 1927): "Mammy was, Mimmy is, Minuscoline's to be" (FW 226.14-15).

Recurring to the film-dying practice of the twenties, Jarman appropriates the blue eye-examination afterimage as a paradoxically minimalist and intermediated artform. Like Joyce, he allows images, sigla from "within" the sensory apparatus to emerge on that retroscreen of encroaching blindness, for what the "irismaimed" Joyce was able to see in sleep was the light arising, ghostly and phosphorescent, within the eye itself (Bishop 227). Blue is thus a film without cuts, without montage, without any of the visual atttractions that we have come to understand as intrinsic to cinema. It reminds us that, as John Brenkman notes, it is always "necessary to recover the root of Marx's problematic, which is subjectivity, that is, human sensuous activity" (Brenkman 28).

That said, Jarman defines the action of his film around his endless trips to the hospital to save his sight.

I am back at St Mary's to have my eyes looked at the by the specialist. The place is the same, but there is new staff. How relieved I am not to have the operation this morning to have a tap put in my chest. I must try and cheer up H.B. as he has had a hell of a fortnight. In the waiting room a little grey man over the way is fretting as he has to get to Sussex. He says, 'I am going blind, I cannot read any longer. A little later he picks up a newspaper, struggles with it for a moment and throws it back on the table. My stinging eye-drops have stopped me reading, so I write this in a haze of belladonna. The little grey man's face has fallen into tragedy. He looks like Jean Cocteau without the poet's refined arrogance. The room is full of men and women squinting into the dark in different states of illness. Some barely able to walk, distress and anger on every face and then a terrible resignation. (script for Blue)

That same distress surfaces when he is on the verge of becoming a medical cyborg: "The nurse explains the implant. You mix the drugs and drip yourself once a day. The drugs are kept in a small fridge they give you. Can you imagine travelling around with that? The metal implant will set the bomb detector off in airports, and I can just see myself travelling to Berlin with a fridge under my arm" (script for Blue). By the end of the work, the image of the drip provides an ALP-like moment, even to the sound of the sea in the background. Here ALP reappears--at least for a Joycean--not as Afric Anna but as AIDS patient: "The drip ticks out the seconds, the source of a stream along which the minutes flow, to join the river of hours, the sea of years and the timeless ocean" (script for Blue).

Jarman systematically erases the everyday except as aural phenomena and invokes the strengths of the radio age when what was heard was powerfully visualized. For Jarman, blueness signifies at once the apparent somatic freedom of the past, an archaeology of sound, the mark on the body of mortality, and the unlikelihood of transcendence. In its minimalism, Blue turns the senseless into positive affect and locates a zone that is unappropriated because it remains uncategorizable. All of this aesthetic activity responds precisely to Joyce's dramatization of the decreasing range afforded to the senses in the twentieth century.

So it is that at the end of Finnegans Wake, dawn approaches as ALP sings the blues. Quick as a flash, she transforms into Marlene Dietrich in Blue Angel (a film that we know Joyce saw and loved). The daylight has become a false dawn, the projection space of a cinema paradiso. Now the film unshapeshifts into Jarman's monochromatic Blue to teach us our intersubjective implication in the mediations of being that history traumatizes. In the retrospective arrangement of this reading, Jarman's film draws its will from the blues, from Lucia's struggle for autonomy, from the cinemascope and technicolor of the Wake. The whole process of constituting meaning comes about as a form of consubstantial, reversible montage that ironically acts as a guarantee of--to think phenomenologically--a certain wished-for primordiality. That zone or state of being constitutes the whole even beyond the specific meanings inculculated by the camera apparatus, by the conditions of production, by the situation of viewing, and by the intrapsychic mechanisms that frame our perceptual possibilities. Joyce tutors us toward a certain end, but we can, of course, now go further in specifying what we want from culture, which desires to take on board as our own. And part of the challenge of being an American Joycean today is making those choices in relation to Joyce's overbearing narcissism, his assimilative rhetorical power, and a tepid cultural relativism that coordinates precisely with current cuts to higher education and the technocratizing of the university system.

Notably, Levinas reinforces this phenomenological act of choice. His position, as dramatically voiced by John Wild, is that "We do not need to know the other person (or thing) as he is in himself, and we shall never know him apart from acting with him. But unless we desire this, and go on trying, we shall never escape from the subjectivism of our systems and the objects that they bring before us to categorize and manipulate" (Wild 18). To the problematic of induced sensory deprivation, the Blues provide a remedy, one that neither Joyce nor Jarman could wholly access and yet one to which they declare their interaffiliation. Together they ask us to consider whether art will be just a song at twilight or a form of signifying "A way a lone a last a loved a long" a line of flight?

Works Cited

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