Following last week’s post, I need to say this: if on the one hand we can speak of the pride of the work-well-done, we could also speak, on the other hand, of a nostalgia that comes with the state-before-work.
Source: Life Hacker |
When we see
our text in printed form, we often experience the regret of not having put it
into the right words. Going over a draft and making changes to it is not, as we
would be tempted to say, an effect of some cult of perfection. At the end of
the day, there are texts of one draft and paintings of one layer. The need to
repaint is not always felt with an urge. The sense of that ‘perfect version’ is
often secured from the first dab of paint.
No, I don't
think it's the dream of a perfect outcome that drives us to a redeployment of
our creative resources. It is rather the acknowledgment of the complexity of
possibilities that stood at the foundation of the finished text.
Returning, again and again
With a text,
we have only accomplished one of the many possibilities that existed before the
same text was even dreamed of. We have completed one of the possible journeys.
We have given voice to one set of embodiments.
In essence,
every single draft is just as good as any other. But what matters is the moment
when, often unconsciously, one stumbles upon the truth that the universe of
possibilities is greater, ever more complex than a single text. That moment
matters because in it one rediscovers the fact of the-state-before-the-beginning.
And, along with it, the pleasure of what Mircea Eliade called ‘the eternal
return’: the blissful reiteration of a golden age of perfections, now lost but
still capable of being re-enacted.
One's
displeasure with the current state of a given text (its draft) marks this
necessity of the return to where the text has not yet come into being. What is
being challenged on this occasion is the origin: the sense that all that
matters is what has followed after the beginning. This happens as if there were
no other ways of gauging the depths of a text than by reference to its
initiation. But there is more to be found in the constituency of a text, in its
morphology. Its very history too needs to be regarded, with all benevolence,
from a perspective that relativizes its inception.
Source: Sadie's Sketchbook |
Semiotics
From the
perspective of a sign theory, the apparition of a text is equivalent to the
rise of a sign. What we read when we read a text is truly a sign. But signs, as
we know, are arbitrary. They depend on the whim of the agent signifier and on
the possibilities enabled by the system of signification in which it appears.
Take these things out and you're left with a pre-sign: a sign not yet created
but found in a state of pregnant potentialities. Note the plural. There is no
such thing as one possibility when we speak of a text; the reader-response
theories of the twentieth century have taught us this much. But the fact that
an infinite number of readings can create an infinite number of texts is only a
reflection of the same game of potentialities existent in the text/sign in the
first place.
It often
happens to me that I read a story, a novel, an essay, and I find within the
text places where I would have done it otherwise. This is where I find the draftness of texts, their capacity to be
different from their actual form. And here I may say I am better situated,
because I can see the phenomenon not in my own text (where I may be said to be
biased by a personal urge to do better) but in the text of another. In a text
of someone else's making I do not perceive a deficit of the agent (the author
in flesh and blood) but a deficit of the process of textual formation, which
depends on arbitrary signs and external rules.
I return
upon a given text because of this fundamental deficit of signification. The
signs I am using are not likely to describe the Real, which resists the power
of signs and which continues to live outside of the said signification. Forever
and ever.
The fact
that we have a science of signs doesn't change in the least the terms of the
problem. Like all sciences, semiotics is not prescriptive but descriptive. It
does not tell us how signification is to be done, but describes existent acts
of signification, i.e. it tells us about how signification has taken place. Biology too cannot possibly tell about the making
of Life, but dwells happily among lives,
among specimens of the phenomenon Life. In other words, it describes them; it
never gives recipes.
A triad of dissatisfactions
I would call
this perpetual return upon the point before the origin of a text 'the drive towards
drafting.' It comes, as I said earlier, as a regret: the sorrow, if you like,
of not finding the right words. This regret highlights the imperfection of the
written text and, at the same time, issues out a warrant against all future
forms of writing. I write knowing that the most probable outcome is a
dissatisfaction that will have to be fixed, a dissatisfaction that will have to
be 'worked out.'
Source: V&A |
Displeased,
distraught, disenchanted. These are the three stages of dissatisfaction that
come with the production of a text. First, one experiences a loss of pleasure:
the text is incomplete, it requires further input, further work, further
effort; if it promises anything, that can only be the expenditure of one's
energies. Second, one lives to be distraught by the text. There is a panic in
every text: the realization that one has to deal with the problem, that there's
no way one can leave it the way it is, that one must proceed with further
drafting in order to shape the perfectly imperfectible text. And then, at the
last stage of this triad of dissatisfactions, one grows disenchanted with the
text. This last stage is attained when the author decides that the current
version is the final version. Commonly thought to be the glorious moment of a
text's completion, the final version is final only by way of an abrupt
decision. The writer decides, at a whim, that he/she can't go any longer. They
may be tired, they may be sick. There is a nauseating impression one gets from
toiling repeatedly the same field only to get out of it the same crop of frustration.
And so a finish line has to be sought. Published texts are precisely that:
instantiations of the finish line – a line that's always arbitrarily drawn,
since at the end of the day, there's no established number of drafts a text
must go through before the author makes the decision. Any draft is,
potentially, the last draft. Any ending is, let’s be honest, the perfect one.
But the doubt – the awareness that this could have ended differently…