Writing life: Plato, dialectic, story discussions, and fan fiction (Great Books discussion)
Jan. 1st, 2010 02:56 am![[personal profile]](http://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
duskpetersonDoug and I went to a Friday night lecture tonight (December 4) at my alma mater, St. John's College in Annapolis, that was entitled "Why Plato Wrote." Friday night is the only time of the week when lectures are held at St. John's; all of the classes are discussion classes, in which the students and tutors (i.e. instructors) talk about the Great Books that everyone has read. So of course, immediately after the lecture, the lecturers are forced to undergo a Q&A session with the students and tutors.
In the Q&A, the lecturer mentioned Plato's Phaedrus, in which Socrates talks about whether writing can be helpful. Socrates has, you will see, a generally poor opinion of writing.
o--o--o
Socrates. You know, Phaedrus, that's the strange thing about writing, which makes it truly analogous to painting. The painter's products stand before us as though they were alive: but if you question them, they maintain a most majestic silence. It is the same with written words: they seem to talk to you as though they were intelligent, but if you ask them anything about what they say, from a desire to be instructed, they go on telling you just the same thing for ever. And once a thing is put in writing, the composition, whatever, it may be, drifts all over the place, getting into the hands not only of those who understand it, but equally of those who have no business with it; it doesn't know how to address the right people, and not address the wrong. And when it is ill-treated and unfairly abused it always needs its parent to come to its help, being unable to defend or help itself.
o--o--o
For more along these lines, see Robin Hobb's rant against fan fiction writers. As various people pointed out at the time that Ms. Hobb published her rant, an author isn't necessarily the best interpreter of their own work. I think that's the great flaw in Socrates' argument in the Phaedrus: to assume that a good poet, in order to be of any worth, must also be good at analyzing their own writings. (Socrates makes the same mistake in Plato's Republic, assuming that any king worth his salt must also be a philosopher.)
Socrates addresses this question in a slightly different way in Plato's Apology:
o--o--o
I used to pick up what I thought were some of [the poets'] most perfect works and question [the poets] closely about the meaning of what they had written, in the hope of incidentally enlarging my own knowledge. Well, gentlemen, I hesitate to tell you the truth, but it must be told. It is hardly an exaggeration to say that any of the bystanders could have explained those poems better than their actual authors. So I soon made up my mind about the poets too. I decicided that it was not wisdom that enabled them to write their poetry, but a kind of instinct or inspiration, such as you find in seers and prophets who deliver all their sublime messages without knowing in the least what they mean.
o--o--o
Leaving aside the disagreeable fact that Socrates identifies "wisdom" here with "an ability to logically dissect a poem," I agree with him: a writer can't necessarily provide the best analysis of their own work. That's something Robin Hobb forgot when she declared her interpretation of her characters' actions to be superior to that of her readers' interpretations.
So what's the solution? In the Phaedrus, Socrates thinks he has one:
"If any of [the poets] has done his work with a knowledge of the truth [and] can defend his statements when challenged . . . he ought not to be designated by a name drawn from those writings, but by one that indicates his serious pursuit . . . 'lover of wisdom' [literally, philosopher]."
No, no, no! That's going back to the original mistake, of believing that the ability to analyze a poem is superior to the ability to create poetry, and that poets should therefore be encouraged to gain the ability to analyze their own writings. Socrates gets even more condescending in his next breath:
"On the other hand, one who has nothing to show of more value than the literary works on whose phrases he spends hours, twisting them this way and that, pasting them together and pulling them apart, will rightly, I suggest, be called a poet . . ."
*Sigh.* Well, what can you expect from the man who banned poets from his ideal republic?
Incidentally, the translator of the above passage, R. Hackforth, has this insightful comment to make: "Dionysius of Halicarnassus tells us that Plato continued throughout his life 'combing and curling' his dialogues [of Socrates], and that at his death a tablet was found with numerous variants of the opening sentence of the Republic . . . It is possible that the present sentence reflects the impatience of Plato the philosopher with Plato the meticulous literary artist."
Indeed. At any rate, I dispute strongly that the art of writing is lesser than the art of engaging in discussion about what one has written.
On the other hand, I think that Socrates is on the right track when he suggests that dialogue about literary works brings them to life. Which brings me to the topic of story discussions and fan fiction.
The reason I spend so much time encouraging story discussions and fan fiction about my stories - I realized tonight - is precisely because I graduated from a college that honors discussion as playing a central role in keeping books alive. When a reader posts a piece of Eternal Dungeon fan fiction, or when readers at my blog discuss my stories amongst each other (with me keeping out of the way as much as possible, because "any of the bystanders could have explained those poems better than their actual authors") . . . that is when my stories become, in Phaedrus's words, "living speech."
Any thoughts, folks?
In the Q&A, the lecturer mentioned Plato's Phaedrus, in which Socrates talks about whether writing can be helpful. Socrates has, you will see, a generally poor opinion of writing.
Socrates. You know, Phaedrus, that's the strange thing about writing, which makes it truly analogous to painting. The painter's products stand before us as though they were alive: but if you question them, they maintain a most majestic silence. It is the same with written words: they seem to talk to you as though they were intelligent, but if you ask them anything about what they say, from a desire to be instructed, they go on telling you just the same thing for ever. And once a thing is put in writing, the composition, whatever, it may be, drifts all over the place, getting into the hands not only of those who understand it, but equally of those who have no business with it; it doesn't know how to address the right people, and not address the wrong. And when it is ill-treated and unfairly abused it always needs its parent to come to its help, being unable to defend or help itself.
For more along these lines, see Robin Hobb's rant against fan fiction writers. As various people pointed out at the time that Ms. Hobb published her rant, an author isn't necessarily the best interpreter of their own work. I think that's the great flaw in Socrates' argument in the Phaedrus: to assume that a good poet, in order to be of any worth, must also be good at analyzing their own writings. (Socrates makes the same mistake in Plato's Republic, assuming that any king worth his salt must also be a philosopher.)
Socrates addresses this question in a slightly different way in Plato's Apology:
I used to pick up what I thought were some of [the poets'] most perfect works and question [the poets] closely about the meaning of what they had written, in the hope of incidentally enlarging my own knowledge. Well, gentlemen, I hesitate to tell you the truth, but it must be told. It is hardly an exaggeration to say that any of the bystanders could have explained those poems better than their actual authors. So I soon made up my mind about the poets too. I decicided that it was not wisdom that enabled them to write their poetry, but a kind of instinct or inspiration, such as you find in seers and prophets who deliver all their sublime messages without knowing in the least what they mean.
Leaving aside the disagreeable fact that Socrates identifies "wisdom" here with "an ability to logically dissect a poem," I agree with him: a writer can't necessarily provide the best analysis of their own work. That's something Robin Hobb forgot when she declared her interpretation of her characters' actions to be superior to that of her readers' interpretations.
So what's the solution? In the Phaedrus, Socrates thinks he has one:
"If any of [the poets] has done his work with a knowledge of the truth [and] can defend his statements when challenged . . . he ought not to be designated by a name drawn from those writings, but by one that indicates his serious pursuit . . . 'lover of wisdom' [literally, philosopher]."
No, no, no! That's going back to the original mistake, of believing that the ability to analyze a poem is superior to the ability to create poetry, and that poets should therefore be encouraged to gain the ability to analyze their own writings. Socrates gets even more condescending in his next breath:
"On the other hand, one who has nothing to show of more value than the literary works on whose phrases he spends hours, twisting them this way and that, pasting them together and pulling them apart, will rightly, I suggest, be called a poet . . ."
*Sigh.* Well, what can you expect from the man who banned poets from his ideal republic?
Incidentally, the translator of the above passage, R. Hackforth, has this insightful comment to make: "Dionysius of Halicarnassus tells us that Plato continued throughout his life 'combing and curling' his dialogues [of Socrates], and that at his death a tablet was found with numerous variants of the opening sentence of the Republic . . . It is possible that the present sentence reflects the impatience of Plato the philosopher with Plato the meticulous literary artist."
Indeed. At any rate, I dispute strongly that the art of writing is lesser than the art of engaging in discussion about what one has written.
On the other hand, I think that Socrates is on the right track when he suggests that dialogue about literary works brings them to life. Which brings me to the topic of story discussions and fan fiction.
The reason I spend so much time encouraging story discussions and fan fiction about my stories - I realized tonight - is precisely because I graduated from a college that honors discussion as playing a central role in keeping books alive. When a reader posts a piece of Eternal Dungeon fan fiction, or when readers at my blog discuss my stories amongst each other (with me keeping out of the way as much as possible, because "any of the bystanders could have explained those poems better than their actual authors") . . . that is when my stories become, in Phaedrus's words, "living speech."
Any thoughts, folks?
Poets in the Republic