The Mechanics of Reading Hopscotch

June 26, 2011 § 1 Comment

Now reading: Hopscotch, by Julio Cortázar (trans. by Gregory Rabassa).

In his brief, iconic, and tricksy “Table of Instructions,” Cortázar suggests that there are “two books above all” to be read in Hopscotch: a normal, linear reading of the first 56 chapters, and a second reading which incorporates the later section of chapters “From Diverse Sides,” reading chapters in a non-linear sequence denoted at the end of each chapter (“hopscotching” around the book, so to speak).

Because I am a rather obsessive reader, I’ve chosen to follow both sets of instructions, first reading the linear novel, then going back and reading the second way.  (In fact, this seems to be the only way to read the entire text without “cheating” on the instructions, as one chapter is left out of the second sequence.)

“Instructions” is an interesting word here.  Hypertext, and other associated experimental literary forms, have come to be associated with a rebellion against the linearity of reading, and a way to democratize (at least partially) the relationship between author and reader.  That doesn’t seem to be Cortázar’s primary motivation in Hopscotch, since the non-linear path through the novel is prescribed (and remains a matter of reading the linear novel sequentially with “expendable” chapters mixed in); rather, it is a matter of form following content, the serious play of hopscotch in the novel reflected in the reader’s hops over its pages, attempting to move the “pebble” of understanding from one “square” to another.

There is also the matter of shaking readers out of ossified patterns of reading and being, and this, too, seems to be important to Cortázar.  Chapter 34 is an excellent example: it is read on two parallel tracks of alternating lines, with the text of a traditional, realist novel by Benito Pérez Galdós intertwined with the thoughts of its reader, Horacio Oliveira.  It’s a brilliant technique, with the reader finding a way into the text after some minutes (at least in my case) of trying to understand how to make sense of what seems a mess of garbled noise.  The reader then hops from line to line, experiencing the transfigured text through the eyes of an unsympathetic reader, who is reading it for clues about what made it interesting to its original owner, Horacio’s lover La Maga.

In this way, the chapter seems utterly new and refreshing while also reaching back to the earliest forms of what might be considered proto-hypertext, the glosses, commentaries, and cross-references of sacred texts in the Judeo-Christian tradition.  In this tradition, the interpretation often overwhelmed the text itself, arranged around the edge of the pages (as here), just as the text here is less important than Oliveira’s gloss upon it, and his attempt to understand La Maga and his life with her (although the read text’s status as a work of canonical Spanish literature remains fundamental).  The collapsing of traditional experiences of literary time and space  that is embodied in this chapter — one text is read, then another text is read to interpret that one, and one proceeds from one line to the next in linear fashion — is fundamental to Cortázar’s explorations of human experiences of time in the novel.

And of course, as one is reading this and other chapters of Hopscotch, other texts are evoked and echoed.  That the Hamlet and Ophelia are inescapable reference points for Horacio and La Maga, that Homer and Joyce are frequently brought to mind, and that Borges hovers like a patron saint deepens the reader’s sense of skipping across a complicated, playful pattern of texts.  But then there are echoes from the future, too: Roberto Bolaño’s Savage Detectives springs to mind, and the complicated play of networked texts, electronic literature.  That field would surely be important to Cortázar, as a response to the following rumination in the first chapter (chapter 73) of the hopscotched text:

How often I wonder whether this is only writing, in an age in which we run towards deception through infallible equations and conformity machines.  But to ask one’s self if we will know how to find the other side of habit or if it is better to let one’s self be borne along by its happy cybernetics, is that not literature again?

Multiple Odysseys and Our Medieval Culture

August 8, 2010 § Leave a comment

Just finished: The Lost Books of the Odyssey, by Zachary Mason.

Reading next: At Swim-Two-Birds, by Flann O’Brien.

There comes a moment, occasionally, when you’re reading along and suddenly, for no obvious reason, the rows of the Cosmic Slot Machine line up and some insight smashes into the front of your skull.  Oftentimes it turns out to be no great fundamental innovation, but the truth behind something that’s become a truism, or something you’ve always known but never understood.

That happened for me as I was reading the fifth story, “Agamemnon and the Word,” in Zachary Mason’s book, an assemblage of fictional “concise variations” on the “crystallized,” canonical version of the Odyssey, said variations supposedly recovered from manuscripts, urns, and other sources and duly translated.  Something about reading these fragments — and especially this fifth, about a knowledge-hungry Agamemnon asking Odysseus and his other “sages” to give him the world’s knowledge in a book, a sentence, a single word — written by a computer scientist, with their artifice of scholarly footnotes linking the variations to the canonical text, made me think that the book could be emblematic of — perhaps is consciously about — our culture’s shift back toward the varietal, the local, the fragmentary, away from the canonical, the universal, the definitive.

Much later, near the end, comes “Record of a Game,” a story begun with a footnote stating that “Though written in credible Homeric Greek, the contents of this chapter cannot be dated much before the early Middle Ages,” and telling us that much of the “papyrus” is damaged, leaving sections of the text up to “conjecture.”  It’s one of my favorites in the book, reading the Iliad and Odyssey as instructional texts for a game of military tactics similar to chess, wildly corrupted and elaborated through years of use and elaboration.

All of this reminded me of Jeanette Winterson saying that “we might be going into a cultural dark ages.”  (You can find the quote here, in an interview with Bill Moyers, though I think she’d said it before then, as well.)  And in my profession, we’re constantly worrying about the creation of a historical dark age through the loss of digital information, the difficulty of capturing and preserving that information (though we seem to finally be turning a corner on that issue, as a profession).  Winterson’s worried about people no longer interested in culture, no longer reading, and whether that absence of market will mean the end of literature and other high art forms.  Archivists are worried about the loss of the historical record.

When Mason writes in his brief preface that “the Homeric material was formless, fluid, its elements shuffled into new narratives like cards in a deck,” he is almost certainly closer to the truth than the idea that one can find a definitive text of a definitive Odyssey, by a definitive Homer.  There were surely many different versions of the Odyssey, as many different versions as there were storytellers, almost all of them lost now.  And yet we — civilization, in general, especially the kind that gets called “Western” — have been engaged, for 600 years or so now, in the systematic canonization of information: putting down authoritative versions of events between covers, over the airwaves, and into the public record of newspapers and legal documents.  This is what scholars, journalists, culture workers of all stripes, have been engaged to do.  But what Mason’s book reminds me of is connection of the pre-Homeric tales of the adventures of a trickster lost on his way back home from war — of that fabled “oral culture” — to the wired world’s increasing proliferation of versions of narratives, “memes,” apocrypha, images real and doctored, commentary, flame wars, propaganda, misinformation.  Crowdsourcing: the creation of large-scale narrative through local knowledge and aggregated data.  Is it possible to see the Internet, again, as some hoped it would be, as a colossal hearth across which storytellers toss the tales they’ve heard, and listeners choose the ones they like best to pass along in their own ways?  Are we in a medieval age of multiplicity, rather than scarcity, of knowledge?

This seems one of the many possible ways to understand Mason’s reasons for reworking one of Western civ’s most fundamental texts, at this late stage in its history, after myriad other reworkings.  The irony, of course, is that Mason wrote a book, and certainly no one can blame him for that: it’s what writers still tend to do, after all.  Not only did he write a book, he published it first with a small press, Starcherone Books, after which the book was picked up and repackaged by Farrar, Straus and Giroux: it’s worked its way up the chain of respectability and wide distribution.  Again, still the logical move to make.  But like a number of other things I’ve read lately, I can’t help but think that the work would be improved, structurally and thematically, by turning away from mainstream publication, and producing it as an online text: a work of electronic literature, not an “e-book” or print book in digital form.  A work inherently unstable, a hypertext in which the reader chooses the order in which to read the narratives, or the narratives are provided in random order.  But one does not get paid (or gets paid very little) for e-lit: there is no market.  Its practitioners, by and large, give content away.  Winterson’s dark age looming, again.

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