Writing is Woman's (or why theory makes my head hurt)

So, this is my attempt to think through, in a space that is nonthreatening in its informality, some of my ideas for the theory essay that is currently leaving me wordless and angsty.  I would like to claim (though my college friends would have to verify) that I've never struggled so much with an essay in my life.  That I've never been so utterly incapable of coherent thought, or worthwhile expression.  Maybe it's the pressure of trying to create something worthy of Oxford (whatever that means), or maybe it's the attempt to reflect on pure, unadulterated theory, without the grounding in literature and life.  Or maybe I'm just out of practice.  After all, other than two application essays and a few (short) creative writing pieces, I haven't written anything since graduating almost two years ago.

But I really want this OUT OF THE WAY.  Done with, so I can move on to better things.  Things like Icelandic literature and books on myth.

Here is what I do know:

It is an essay that will touch on the work of Cixous.  And Virginia Woolf.  And maybe Kristeva, Irigaray, and others.

It is an essay about women.  About women and their relationship to writing.  About women and the metaphor of writing the body.  Feminine ecriture, writing is woman's, and all that.

Toril Moi has an essay, written in 2008, that points out one of the main complications that seem to lie at the heart, not just of women and writing, but of feminism and theory in general.  There seems to be a tension, a conflict even, between political feminists and literary theorists (be they queer, postmodern, etc.)  Between those who need the signifier "woman" to retain it's meaning and significance, and those who wish to displace the binaries (and the signifiers) altogether.  In writing, this issue takes the form of dissonance: a political mandate to read and study the work of women writers vs. the theoretical conjecture that the author (and gendered subject) is dead.

Moi argues that the feminists and theorists have no real answers for each other, and generally escape conflict by avoiding the debate altogether.

But I think there's a way out of this seeming standstill, and always has been.  When Roland Barthes wrote about the death of the author, he was affirming, in many ways, what feminists already knew: that the patriarchal, masculine subject -- the mythic phallus, impenetrable and whole -- was an illusion.  A protection, as Peggy Kamuf puts it, between the boundlessness of an unlimited textual system and our own power to know.  And it was time, Barthes argued, for the myth to be put to death, and the text liberated from the constraints of the Author-God.

But this displacement of the omnipotent (male) Author, rather than erasing the political significance of women's writing (as so many feminists seem to fear) opens new doors to symbolically re-interpret the relationship between gender/sex and writing.

Virginia Woolf famously asserted, in her 1928 treatise on women and writing, that great writers are androgynous (and must not think of their sex).  She also asserted, somewhat contradictorily, that women must write as women, and not as men.

Taken on closer evaluation, these two statements prove to be related, for Woolf seems to imply that to write as a woman -- a real woman, and not the stagnate image created in the patriarchal conscious -- is to be androgynous: fluid, multiple, ever-shifting, changing, never coded, never closed.  It is, in short, to be all that phallogocentricism, in its obsession with stability, wholeness, and rigidity, is not.

Helene Cixous makes a similar argument, stating that woman has never lost her bisexuality.

As the repressed/oppressed/negated signifier in the binary man/woman, woman holds no commitment to the phallocentric order.  In fact, it is the very passion with which patriarchal discourse has attempted to obliterate her that provides the means for her to break free.  For the signifier "woman," subsumed/submerged/swallowed/annihilated by its partner "man," can never hold the weight of the real woman, with breath and blood, body and voice.  All woman has to do is show up -- write her body, her very self, into being -- for the existing discourse to crash and burn.

And since woman has no allegiance to the phallocentric ideal of unity and oneness (for, as Luce Irigaray so blatantly points out, woman's sexuality is not one, but two, and not two, but many), she is free to be nothing and everything; to return and start again from elsewhere; to never say exactly what she means.  Lacking a phallus to begin with, she is unfettered by the fear of castration.  She could never claim to posses the (one) truth, so she has no need to defend it.

And since woman is multiple, and writing is multiple, Cixous can make her claim -- bold and threatening -- that writing is woman's.

For it is time for a new metaphor, not the Father-Author and his text, but the mother-writer and the boundless Other that she births.  For, as Kamuf points out, the metaphor of the father is one of mediation and intentionality.  It is to stand removed, and to present a work whole and unblemished, as one conceived it to be.  The metaphor of motherhood, on the other hand, is one of illegitimacy, of borrowed names, and of deep, vulnerable, exposure.

It is the realm, not of the universal (masculine) truth, but of individual (feminine) experience.  The realm of the embodied text (and it is, somewhat ironically, embodiment and specificity [rather than universality] that allow individual voices to survive in all their multiplicity and contradiction).

As Woolf writes in Three Guineas, "As a woman, I have no country.  As a woman I want no country."  To be a woman is to be an exile, separate from the patriarchal structures of culture and power that have defined so much of our discourse and rhetoric -- our very tools for understanding the world.  But as Kristeva states, all writing must come from a place of exile, for only then can we be set free from the bonds of the common sense.  Or in the words of Cixous, we must trade places with the moon to gain a new perspective.

Luckily for women -- especially women who desire to write -- we already live on the moon, so writing with a new voice, untainted by the Law of the Father and the rules of a phallogocentric economy, isn't hard at all.

All we need is the courage to find our voice in the first place.

Cooking French in England

I am in the midst of eating freshly made ratatouille with a giant loaf of French bread.  I'm not sure why this fact is so exciting.  It just is.

Okay, so that's a lie.  I do know why it's exciting, the truth is just a bit embarrassing.

It's the first time I've ever made myself a real meal.  Like a "follow the recipe" type meal.  I make killer pasta all the time, but I'm usually cheating with ready-made sauce.  And while I can also make great quesadillas, pita bread pizzas, and other food involving the oven and melted cheese, I wouldn't consider any of those a "real" meal (even though making ratatouille is probably just as easy).

Now don't get me wrong, I have made food in my life -- just usually with the help of others, for others.  It never made a lot of sense to make something just for myself.  It takes time and effort, and I can't eat it all anyway.

But I watched an episode of Castle last night (give me a break, I had a migraine), and there they were in the kitchen, cutting up their bright and beautiful vegetables in front of a roaring fire, and I realized that I want that. The time and space in my life to glory over food preparation.  To make things delicious and beautiful, the way my mother does.

I didn't put any plans into action -- because the truth is that I don't have the time or space right now -- but then I had a good day today.  I woke up, and got up (don't make me tell you what a massive achievement this is for me), and spent the day in the library.  And while I didn't get a huge amount actually written, it was a step in the right direction, and I did write some.  I signed up for meals (including breakfast) tomorrow, and in the afternoon I met with Professor Paul Fiddes to talk about Charles Williams, and Dr. Lynn Robson to talk about my dissertation.  And while I didn't make any new discoveries (I always knew I was falling back on my "images of Eve" option), it's still nice to know that a final decision has been made.  And I can't wait to start reading.  So much so, that I actually feel motivated to get this theory essay OUT OF THE WAY.  Let's hope that holds true tomorrow (or when I come back from seeing my MSt lovelies tonight).

All that to say, I got out of my last meeting, and had a sudden, irrepressible urge to make myself something real.  So I did.  I went to the store, bought an eggplant, courgette, onion, tomatoes, and freshly baked baguette, and came home and did some cooking.

And now, since the hot water is finally back on, I'm going to go take a shower.

Christmas Trees and Old Icelandic

Back at Oxford I am.  After a glorious Christmas with family (though missing the gametrekkers).  A live Christmas tree (with glowing shells), the glory of the Pacific coastline, crackling fires, cookies and goodies galore, and, most wondrous of all, the bright warmth of family -- grandmothers, brothers, parents.  How I love them all.

And then New Year's in Minnesota with lots of cousins, aunts, uncles, and the hardest puzzle I've ever encountered.

All while reading Icelandic sagas and NOT writing my theory essay.

But now I am back.  In an empty room and an empty apartment, with jet-lag, lovely memories, and the need to get back to work.  Hard work, and really fast.  I have Icelandic history to read (lots of it), Sagas to plot out (a necessity, since there are so many names I can't keep track of what happens from chapter to chapter, much less book to book), dissertations to plan (along with people to meet with), and, most dreaded of all, a theory essay to write (with all the reading that goes with it).  So I probably won't get around to writing that PhD/DPhil proposal and applying to programs.  But oh well.  I think I need another year anyway.  To read and think and really know what I'm planning.

But if the essay ever gets written, and a decision on a dissertation topic and adviser is ever made, then I'll have to admit that I'm excited about what comes next.  About getting back to literature.  About building arguments from the texts of stories.  About learning about Iceland.  Though this year is making me wish, SO strongly, that I had more/stronger languages.  Norse, Old English, Middle English, French, and yes, a better reading knowledge of Arabic.  What I wouldn't give to float effortlessly through Medieval (and modern) texts that now I'm not allowed to touch, or must access through mediation.

And these sagas burn with tales of betrayal and revenge.  Friendships destroyed.  Blood-ties honored.  Loyalty torn.  And in the middle the women hover, egging on their husbands, brothers, uncles, to blood-lust and manhood, often at the cost of their own happiness and their men's lives.

And I find it interesting that these stories, of heathen faith and legendary courage, black magic and violent deeds, are mediated through a Christian era.  The old gods, it seems, may be rejected but they are never doubted.  Thangbrand, King Olaf's missionary to Iceland, tells the people, not that Thor is an illusion, but that without God's will he would never have lived in the first place.  And the gospel is spread with both "fair words and dire punishments" (The Saga of the People of Laxardal).  God proves himself (for, indeed, the God of the Icelanders is certainly male) with heathen miracles and proofs of power.  The ministry of incarnation amongst a culture bound to the heroic code?  Who's to say?  For isn't this the same God that once ordered the butchering of men, women, and children, proving to surrounding nations that the God of Israel was strong?

But there are hints of another way.  Hauskuld, who declares that even if it were true that his foster brothers have been treacherous, he would still "far rather suffer death at their hands than work them any harm" (Njal's Saga).  Or Njal himself, the seeker of peaceful restitution, who refuses to shed blood and thinks of the new religion, when it comes, that here at last is a way to God.

Autumn in Oxford

Today feels exquisitely like fall.  The sunlight filtering through the crisp coolness of autumn mist, and the city's austere beauty beginning to soften with the glimmer of Christmas lights and lighthearted holiday shoppers.  Add in a toffee nut latte, and the only thing missing is space at a coffee shop to actually sit and study.

But alas, the influx of tourists and shoppers means that back to college I must go, and sit in the dark basement room of the MCR to do my reading.  We'll see how long I last.  

Punk Rock

I went to a play this past Wednesday, almost a week ago now.  The Oxford Playhouse was running a special offer: a night of free theatre to those under 26, so I took them up on it.  I was not overly impressed.

The set was gorgeous.  Desks in the center of a library, with shelves reaching up into the recesses of a cavernous, Oxford-like dome.

But from the first line, the acting was off.  Not horribly so, but the lines were rushed, mechanic.  Spewed at a desperate pace.  And I'm still a little unsure why.  I mean, I understand why the actors were struggling to connect (when you're trying to jump on a cue without leaving pause for a breath, it's hard to make thought process believable), but I'm not sure why the objective was crazed-pace dialog.  I thought perhaps it was a significant aspect of the characters' personalities, but the manic energy wasn't upheld with enough consistency to be believable.

And though the actors warmed up as the night progressed, they never truly recovered from the beginning's recitation.  Because the audience failed to see the thoughts behind the lines during those first crucial moments, it was impossible to get a true read on the characters and their objectives.  Almost no one is stable in this play, so each mood shift requires more, not less, intentionality from the actors.  Otherwise it seems that all we're watching is a loosely sequential series of random actions, dialog, and tragedy.

And while this seems to be a play aiming to frighten with ambiguity -- with the questions it leaves unanswered -- I in no way believe the goal to be leaving the audience uninterested in answers that were never there to begin with.

There were also some issues with blocking, the milder of which I can forgive, but you can't hold a gun within reach of a boy twice your size, recite a monologue, and expect me to believe that he wouldn't have tackled you senseless.  He thinks he's going to die, for crying out loud.

Having said all that, there were some fantastic supporting roles, including one chap who looked (and acted) exactly like Jude Law in Wilde.

C.S. Lewis's godson and I

I just spent an hour and a half listening to Laurence Harwood remember his godfather, C.S. Lewis.  His father, Cecil Harwood, was one of Lewis's best friends, walking companions, and debate partners: a man C.S. Lewis literally rolled on the floor with, choked by laughter.  For those of you who've read Surprised by Joy, Cecil is the friend described as a Horatio in an age of Hamlets.

Laurence shared his personal correspondences with Lewis.  Showed us the pictures his godfather had drawn in the margins.  Pictures of Magdalen (the place "like a castle" where Lewis lived), bears and angels from That Hideous Strength, Lewis in baggy trousers that made him "look like a sailor," and the brown bunny he'd been watching from his window.

Talked of his memories of Lewis's visits to his family's home.  The boom of his voice in the mornings; the sound of his bellyflops in the pond. Shared letters written to his mother on the topic of love (and being a good godfather), to his father when his mother grew sick with cancer, to himself when he failed his Christ Church exams.

And always, always, that sense of someone wholly present.  His childlike joy.  Throwing himself onto the floor to play games with Laurence and his siblings, not patronizingly, but for the sheer delight of knowing what children were enjoying, and enjoying it himself.  The ability to be all things to all people, even children.

And, may I say, Tolkien's reputation as a walker may have been unjustly tarnished.  According to Cecil, on walking tours, Lewis's enjoyment of nature vied only with one thing: his enjoyment of conversation, most of which he carried on himself.  So much for his reputation as a "serious" walker. =)

morning on the river

Walking to the river this morning, alone and in the dark, was like stepping into some primordial past.  The stars blazing above Christ Church, only to be blotted out by the trees growing dense and dark on either side of the path.  And the river itself, rising out of a rolling mist that shrouded bank and distance in the mysterious grey of pre-morning light.

The puff of breath, the sting of frozen fingers, red with cold, as the sun rose over frost covered docks, and the white geese preened themselves on the ice-covered shore.  And in the fields of Christ Church meadow, the deer could be seen bounding between the lumbering cows, frost-covered in their crystallized pasture, as the spires of Oxford rose behind them, gleaming gold in the early morning light.  

And that, I suppose, is why students rise early from warm beds, and walk through deserted streets, weaving through trucks unloading merchandise on Cornmarket, to row in the dark on the river Isis.

College Lodgings

Some pictures of my Oxford space, taken when I first arrived.  I've since decorated (and rearranged) my room, so this was just first impression documentation.  Hopefully you're properly impressed.

interesting wood designs in the ceiling

oh the beauty of bare bulbs . . . 

miniature table, perfect for afternoon tea and biscuits

the original room setup, currently reversed

the kitchen with the baby windows
(but free washing, and bright overhead) 

 our incredibly disgusting table, that no amount of scrubbing
will clean (we're investing in a table cloth)

 the narrow hallway

and last but not least, the bathroom
(which I'm sure you all really wanted to picture)

a jot (regarding radical feminism and queer theory)

Warning: forthcoming moment of intense geekiness.  All those not interested in feminist theory, this is your chance to run away.

So, I just read a transcription of a talk given by one of our Women's Studies conveners (at the London Feminist Network's "Feminar"), addressing the difference between radical feminism and queer theory's use of the term "gender."  Fascinating.

But I'm not sure I agree.

Cameron and Scanlon's critique seems to ground radical feminism firmly within a dialog of rights.  Liberation from an oppressive system is the goal (and a very worthy one, I might add), and it is achieved through clear political objective.

That I have no problem with.

However, I'm wary of letting utilitarian objectivity (for so it almost seems) discredit queer theory's potential to disrupt established binaries, and thereby enact social transformation.  For, by defining gender as the system of power relationships existing between men and women, radical feminism has tied it inseparably to a binary that queer theory seeks to displace.  If they succeed (which I would argue they often do) in undermining the concepts of an essential sex, a true gender, or a coherent sexuality, do they not thereby create a world in which the male/female binary is rendered absurd?  If the binaries undergirding oppression and inequality (male/female, white/black, etc.) are demonstrated to be, not only unstable, but entirely fantastical, must not the entire system collapse?

It seems to me that binaries cannot survive in a world that has, not two, but (as Virginia Woolf once pled for) an infinity, of genders.

But perhaps I am being simplistic.

Roast duckling, missing tortoises, and the beauty that age and money can buy

Well, I walked into Balliol for the first time ever today, and it is almost too beautiful for words.  Regent's Park is quite pretty, and the red ivy is lovely, but there is a breathtaking grandeur to the rich old colleges (and in this case a luscious beauty) that is really incomparable.  I wish I had taken my camera.

I was there for a meeting of the Oxford Walking Club, which I am now a member of.  More than that, I spent 130 quid towards weekend trips this coming term.  It seems a bit extravagant, both in money and time, but when I really think through my priorities, experiencing England is near the top.  And consistently hearing how almost impossible distinctions/firsts really are (an impossibility that I'm required to attain in order to remain for a DPhil) has served to convince me, not that I should spend all my hours in the library, but that I should take full advantage of this year, as it's quite possibly all I will get.

Part of that "taking full advantage" involves joining the Regent's Park novice rowing team, which I've done (along with two other MSt students).  We haven't actually been out on the river yet, but tomorrow morning we head out bright and early (6:30) for a crash course on staying afloat.  And tonight, after shoveling down dinner, we have to pass a swimming test, fully clothed, to prove that we won't drown in the event of a capsize.

In other news, I have yet to meet Emmanuella, the 90-year-old tortoise, but I keep a lookout every time I walk through the quad (apparently she likes to sun herself on warm days).

Also, I would like to commend the Regent's Park caterers as being truly excellent.  While I know it seems a bit decadent to complain about George Fox's cuisine, when there was food in such abundance, I have to say that it is a joy to have truly delicious food at every meal.  For formal hall (which takes place every Friday evening) we had roast duck in a delectable sauce, the name of which I cannot remember.  We also bowed every time we entered or left the room, and looked very serious in our official robes.  The only downside was being informed that one rule of formal hall is not to discuss the portraits hanging on the walls, which, of course, made me look at them for the first time.  Which then led me to realize that only one of the myriad of official looking scholars was a woman (who did not happen to look very official, or very scholarly, and was hidden away in a far corner).

I could go on, but alas, dinner beckons.  As they say on this side of the pond, cheers.